Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 8

Farren sat bolt upright so fast her head spun.

Around her, the dormitory was pitch dark and outside, the night was filled with the clacking of boots and several voices shouting; from the chaos it was hard to discern what had really happened.

"Did someone blow up the kitchen or what?" said a half-asleep Klo from below.

"I'm right here," said Farren, and somehow, that seemed to answer the question.

For a moment Farren sat in the dark, trapped in an abyss of clamour, before she leaned over the side of her bed to light a candle. Heavy footsteps sounded in the dark as others in the dorm began to leave their beds to go investigate. Amongst their hushed tones the word Firemount was tossed back and forth a few times.

Before Farren could place the lit candle onto the high shelf, Klo kicked off her blankets and jumped out of the lower bunk; the movement so sudden her head collided with Farren's hand, sending the candle spinning from her hands and onto the bedclothes.

A shriek left her as Farren swatted it away, along with it went all the contents on the shelf--the unopened package and all--which flew in admirable arcs and wedged themselves in the gap between the wall and headboard.

Although she managed to avoid setting herself and the bed on fire, a number of her possessions were now stuck in the narrow gap between the bunk bed and the wall, which would be rather hard to retrieve.

"Slow down, damn you!" said Farren, trying to pull on her cloak.

"No time, come on," said Klo, dragging her out the door before she could wiggle her way into the cloak, and stepped outside.

Black-clad soldiers bustled about, their crimson eyes luminous in the dark.

Patrollers and night archers --vampires from Valston city who served in the Midaelian army --were in charge of the camp during the night. They had their own commander, light and heavy infantry collectively known as patrollers, and vampire bowmen called night archers.

The explosion earlier was not in the camp, it turned out. Rather, it was down at the village.

"Active Firemount, to the south east!" declared a night archer from the top of the watchtower.

"Yeah, figured as much," muttered Klo beside Farren, her hand coming to rest on the pommel of her broadsword.

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There were many reasons for one to fear the Drisians.

The biggest, in truth, would be their direct involvement in the Great War. It had left its traces lingering all over Stormvale like dried blood, the law of restriction of magic was its purest form, for it sprung from a place of fear for all things sorcerous.

But that was what only scholars and historians would say.

The Firemounts were what the common folk dreaded, those devastating siege weapons that would wreck their homes and sear their flesh.

And the very presence of a Firemount tonight confirmed that the attackers were none other than Drisian soldiers. They couldn't have been looters or bandits, Farren was certain. Common thugs don't go lugging around weapons like that.

On all sides, dust flew as squads filed out of the barracks, their sergeants in the lead. Once again it was time for them to defend Kinallen. Heavy chains and gears creaked and groaned as they raised the wooden gates.

Farren barely had time to go fetch her axe. Hastily she donned her armour; chainmail and sturdy leather doublet with the blue cloak of their uniform thrown over the shoulders. She strapped on her spiked helm.