Incantation and Blades: Cantrips part 1 (A story I wrote out of boredom)

Here’s something I wrote to ease the pain I called sembreakboredomitis.

Usually, the presence of a battle mage would’ve been enough to know which way the tide would turn in every battle-

Usually.

The problem with their sword-spell tandem was that they’ve had as much experience in open battle as a barbarian has had with reading the spellbooks in the War Wizards’ Guild Library-made worse since they were unprepared for an ambush like this since they don’t look quite unlike merchants nor do they look like rich adventurers nor did they hold any item whose price was worth noting.

The bandits closed in on them, driving them to the edge of a river with nowhere to go. Almost any amateur wanderer would’ve lost hope if held in such a position as that they were in and run away like a bunch of Calimport’s resident pickpockets placed in front of a rampaging tarrasque-

Almost any amateur wanderer.

Orphen however had not lost heart and enacted a stone skin enchantment he memorized by heart on himself as was the practice of every mage before going to battle, declaring that surrender would be the last thing to cross his mind in that encounter. He summoned his spellbook with a thought, sending it floating in front of him accompanied by nothing more than a puff of grey smoke with the pages flying to his desired spell, his hand at his wand ready to call forth a volley of magic missiles on however rushes to them first.

He tried to see what his companion made of this situation out of the corner of his eye and was satisfied when saw that both of them came to the same decision and were determined to get out of that predicament with their packs fuller than when they set out of the city. His mind buzzing with incantations, he hardly heard the sigh at his side as he set his hand glowing with a lightning bolt spell, ready to be released at any given time.

<->

His eyes seemed to have taken a life of their own as they went all over what was to be the battleground in which they would fight. The area showed the characteristics of a typical riverbed, full of gravel courtesy of the rushing water behind him and his partner, highly flammable trees surrounded the area-they can use that to their advantage later, knowing what wizards can do even without blades or projectiles-giving the place a bit of shade at one side and sunlight at the other. The remnants of their campsite were scattered all over at one side with the fire of still burning with the charred remains of what was to be their lunch. He was glad to see that the bandits haven’t bothered going over their things yet and his bow, which he strung earlier that day and he forgot to unstrung, was left untouched underneath the jumble of cloth that was once their tent.

He let his eyes wander over the faces of the rogues who wore a smile so strange probably due to the fact that they have not had any victims in the past few days that he almost let out a laughter which would’ve been out of place in light of the otherwise serious atmosphere.

He quietly hooked his toe under a stone and dropped his hands calmly to his belt, his wrists hooking over the pommels of his prized blades, making him seem relaxed and comfortable yet hiding his advantage wherein he was kept in touch of his weapons, ready to draw and strike.

His plan was to bluff the bandits into thinking that they were willing to negotiate and that the last thing that would cross their minds would be to enter a battle that they would inevitably lose. The moment the negotiation begins though, he would explode into motion at the nearest rogue while Orphen casts spell after spell on them.

He played his plan over and over in his head for as much as time would let him and was to turn to his friend to tell him to hold of any incantations when he heard the unmistakable sounds of spellcasting.

He let out a resigned sigh, sending the rock he hooked his foot under flying to a surprised rogue and diving forward in a roll that launched him to the bandit in front of him, opening the bloody dance with a double thrust low.

Szordrin had always wondered why he traveled with someone who’s as aggressive as a hungry wererat.

<->

Though everything that was soon to unfold was theoretical, the possibility of failure never crossed his mind. Every single move must be calculated. Everything must be taken into account. Nothing should go amiss. The timing of his spells was crucial. His incantations should weave perfectly with every thrust of Szordrin’s blades. Their lives were at stake here. Every step they made must be synchronized to the dance they had always expected but had always hoped never to begin.

<->

Putting off the inevitable dusk that was their life, they must be prepared for every contingency. One must always keep in mind that every single dance step in their little show was always subject to change. The field was prepared for them so improvisation would be their only key for survival.

He could feel it deep in his bones. He was sure that everyone could feel the tension building. Every muscle in his body was tensed, ready to explode on the next one who presents himself as the next a sharpening stone for his swords.

Patience really played a big part in every battle. Patience and observation has had always been the key in every war. Unfortunately, the smallest twitch of a muscle that betrayed the poor bandit was the last movement it’s body did voluntarily. The blades punctured through the padded armor and sliced through the skin and bones-the smallest twitch of a muscle; the silent scream for death.

What do you guys think? Any comments?