Chapter 185: It's a Trap
It's a Trap
Several things took place at once. A rope came flying through the air, coiled itself around Kerra's ankle where she did not wear any gold, and dragged her backwards and away from the rest of the group. As soon as any distance had been created, a wall of earth rose straight up to block the entire street, separating Kerra from the others and preventing them from going back.
"Kill them, the boy first!"
Martel stared at where Kerra had stood. As he turned towards the voice, recognising it as Tibert's, he barely noticed the arrow that came flying straight against his face. He did not have time to react, the deadly projectile already whistling through the air. As he looked his fate in the face, the scarf around his neck glowed. The arrow managed to scratch his cheek but nothing more, and it fell to the ground. The shimmer of the cloth faded away – the magic was spent.
Understanding that other arrows were sure to follow, Martel scrambled to take cover. The place of the ambush was well chosen; the houses stood directly next to each other, leaving no alley in between where he might escape. The wall raised behind them had turned the street into a dead end, emphasis on dead. No other choice, Martel jumped through a window to get inside the nearest building, still carrying his staff with its magelight.
A trap within the trap. A warrior waited for him inside, dressed in a dark surcoat and well-armed. All his clothing had golden threads throughout, creating the outline of a knife upon his chest. In his hand, he carried an actual short sword and a shield in the other.
Reacting on instinct, Martel shot out a ray of fire from the palm of his hand. As soon as the flames reached the man, they vanished into air, killed by the gold he wore. With a grin, he quickly advanced on Martel.
Staff in hand, the novice tried to protect himself. With ease, the Night Knife used his shield to smash Martel's weapon aside, leaving an opening. He thrust his sword forward for a killing blow. Desperate, Martel summoned his shield just in time. The blade failed to reach him, stopped by the invisible force of his magic.
It bought him a moment, but nothing more. And he could not hope to defeat this man in actual combat. He thought about what had just happened to Kerra, attacked where she lacked protection. Taking inspiration, Martel extended his hand down towards the warrior's boots and released another stream of fire. This time, he connected. Pouring his magic into the attack, he made sure the heat was more than enough to ignite leather. Screaming, his feet on fire, the man dropped his weapons and ran away.
Catching his breath, Martel threw the sword and shield out of the window, just in case the warrior returned. That accomplished, he looked outside to see one of his companions lying on the ground, filled with arrows. Wolfram, Sigrid, and the last of Kerra's guards were all engaged in battle. Some were Tibert's men, others were Night Knives. Fighting so closely, Martel could not unleash any magic on them without hurting his own people.
But he could do something about the archer, as an arrow flew into Wolfram's shield. From inside the building, he had limited visibility to locate the man, but he looked at the possible angles from where the arrow might have been shot. Focused on that direction, he let his magic flow out to search the area. He sensed the bodies of the combatants out on the street, all of them fiery flashes of heat. Further ahead, twenty paces or so, he sensed another. Looking in the direction, he spotted a shape moving in and out of the shadows. contemporary romance
The archer looked to be another Night Knife, probably also protected by gold, which limited Martel's possibilities. Though he could not hit the man with his ray of fire across such distance anyway, not without risking one of his companions stepping in front of the flames.
But, while the archer might be protected against magic, his weapon would not be. Martel remembered what he had done in the fight against the Broken Blades. The distance made it hard, especially with all the other sources of heat in between, not to mention the noise and dreadful smell of blood in the air. He closed his eyes, letting his magic feel the bowstring, made warm by friction and the fingertips of the archer. It took only a little magic to increase that warmth until it caught on fire.
Martel could not tell the archer's expression upon seeing his weapon made useless, but his reaction became clear as he moved into combat, drawing a short sword.
On the street, Wolfram and Sigrid held their own. The other guard had died, caught by an ambush from a Night Knife emerging from within the building opposite where Martel hid. But Kerra had chosen her remaining companions well. Wolfram seemed impregnable as if he were a mageknight, engaging several enemies at once. As for Sigrid, she dodged constantly out of danger, always gone before a strike could land.
Rocks flew through the air. The very stones of the cobbled street were being raised up and hurled against Kerra's embattled band, though with little success. Either the amount of gold on the battlefield slowed down the rocks to limit the impact, or they caused as much difficulty to the attackers as the defenders.
Martel knew the source of these improvised projectiles. The only other person in the fight who would not wear any gold, as it would only inhibit their magic. Wolfram and Sigrid had no chance at engaging this enemy, probably the most dangerous on the field.
In a morbid twist of fate, the Night Knives engaged in close combat protected Martel's companions; if Wolfram and Sigrid killed their current opponents, it would only make them an easier target for hostile magic afterwards. Gold protected against direct attacks, but as Martel had both seen and shown, a skilled spellcaster could find ways around that.
There was only one thing to do. Martel had to fight the enemy mage.
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