Audarik pyr Rigatus had begun questioning his life choices somewhere around the time the first man was set aflame, and questioned them more firmly once the rest of the poor fellow's squadron followed in short order.
Of course, he was in no position to turn in a resignation letter for his unit. Not that he would have, in any case, were such a thing even possible in the IVth Legion in the middle of a war. He hadn't struggled through years of study at the Imperial Academy of Valnain for that.
But this did seem excessive.
"Sir—quo Soranus—I think I would say the enemy is no more," Audarik managed. He unconsciously rested his hand on his legion-issued grimoire that hung at his side. The smoke was already beginning to darken the red of his mage's uniform. Just a little.
Sartauvoir quo Soranus, the aged Elezen pyromancer and last of the Landisian mage-knights, stood beside him on the hill, transfixed on the flames. Sartauvoir's red coat flapped in the heat-made wind. He held his hat on his head with his free hand and held his staff in the other.
"Eh?" Sartauvoir turned to Audarik, his reverie broken. The man must have been in his 60s, but his age did not diminish him, nor did it diminish the implicit menace in his voice at someone who would ruin his moment.
"Sir, I think these rebels are no longer, uh, in fighting shape." Audarik wasn't sure if he was overstepping his bounds as cohort optio, but damned if he was going to let himself stand around and undoubtedly get some kind of ailment from the smoke of so much burning flesh. He almost wished he could be with the others back at their makeshift camp, but Sartauvoir would have spent all day here if he had been.
"Are you questioning me, lad?" The centurio's eyes narrowed briefly. Before Audarik could stammer his contrition, Sartauvoir turned and resumed watching his handiwork.
Sartauvoir had adjusted his ancient, pointed hat—bedecked with gold cord, a handful of feathers, and what might have been parts of a small dragon's wing—so that the brim was slightly raised. All the better to give his good eye a clearer view of his work, Audarik thought.
He didn't actually know if Sartauvoir's other eye was blinded or not: traditional thaumaturges like Sartauvoir had the habit of wearing a blindfold over their right eye as tribute to practitioners of eld. He had heard it was the same across the sea, in places like Ul'dah.
Whatever the case, the old man had no trouble aiming his spells at the unfortunates who thought they were a match for him.
The flames continued to crackle and flare. Audarik wasn't sure how Sartauvoir had managed to get such a massive blaze going in what was essentially a large puddle of watery mud, but then again, Audarik hadn't been the one specifically recruited by Gabranth's father for his magickal abilities.
The large fire that blazed some three dozen fulms in front of them would have been irritatingly noisy to a Hyur or Elezen and quite loud to a Miqo'te. To a Viera like Audarik, it was perhaps a few decibels short of nearly unbearable.
He silently gave thanks he was lop-eared, and pulled his ears further down to the sides of his head. He was also glad he had no helmet to get in the way of doing so, though this was tempered with a degree of annoyance at the thought that a helmet would perhaps have dampened the noise. If only the Empire made versions of them suited for Viera, as they did for Miqo'te. He had once inquired about it, before Gabranth had taken the IVth down a different path, and had merely been told to 'look forward to it.' He had figured that was a no.
After a few moments, the enemy soldiers had stopped flailing and now lay motionless in the brown mud and black, soot-stained water puddles. Audarik thought back to his time at the Academy and tried to remember if this was more likely to be due to the effect of heat on their muscle function or just simple death by smoke inhalation. After a few moments more, he gave up on that mystery.
He wondered how he would get this oily smoke out of his ears and hair once this was over.
At last, Sartauvoir seemed to tire of the show he'd made—or perhaps, thanks to Audarik's continued presence, had simply remembered he had other duties to attend. He pulled the brim of his hat over his eye once more and turned toward Audarik.
"Optio, let us away. We still have much work to do. Check with pyr Potitus and see how our wounded are doing. And prepare the dead for retrieval." And then Sartauvoir was off, head held high, his stature befitting the knight he once had been.
He wasn't a bad centurio, not really, Audarik thought. At least not when he wasn't preoccupied watching Resistance fighters burn to death.
Audarik didn't salute, not here, where there might be snipers or mage-snipers waiting. He simply nodded, though Sartauvoir had already turned his back on him, and then set off.
Further down, behind the muddy ruin-strewn hill that had first provided cover against attack and then an observation point for Sartauvoir to enjoy his show, was a group of chirurgeons huddling over wounded conscripts.
Dyunbu pyr Potitus, the young grey-haired decurio for that unit of healers, was among them. He felt a pang of pity for the woman—this was the second time her unit had taken heavy casualties, and though she didn't show it, it must be taking a toll on her.
"Potitus," Audarik said, once he'd managed to trudge through the mud and rock, "how are the wounded? Should I task additional men to carry them?"
"No, we have enough for the moment." Dyunbu kept her eyes on her patient, an unfortunate hoplomachus, while she talked. "We should be ready to move within a few minutes' time."
She was working to mend what looked to be a fairly deep gash in the poor man's torso. Strips of his uniform had been cut from him as the healers worked, though he was covered in enough blood that Audarik couldn't say with confidence what was flesh and what was wound. He wasn't even really sure where Dyunbu's patient ended and her once-white gloved hands began, there was simply that much blood.
As he watched, strips of the man's flesh began to mend themselves together, eased into place by the movement of the healers' fingers. Dyunbu chanted an incantation and ran her index finger along the fresh seam where thaumaturgically-renewed skin met torn flesh. As she did so, the two merged seamlessly. Dyunbu shifted and with her free hand brought the tip of her staff to the man's stomach. The flow of fresh blood began to slow, then cease.
Audarik gave a curt acknowledgement, then turned and left. He made a mental note to ask Sartauvoir if their unit could spare any additional soldiers to help.
When Audarik next arrived at the small staging area they used for their war dead, he saw there were few bodies left, and those were being dragged onto, or thrown piecemeal into, a waiting gunship. Its insectile metal wings beat at the air like broad hammers and Audarik felt it was plain dangerous to even be near it while it hovered so close to the ground. Nevertheless, he checked in with the duplicarius overseeing the effort, and she assured him the work would be finished in short order.
That was good enough, Audarik thought.
As he walked away, he stepped on something. He picked it up and examined it. He was fairly confident it was some kind of body part, though he couldn't really tell what part of the body it had been. He handed it to the duplicarius, who thanked him and tossed it into the gunship's hold. He gave his acknowledgement and then turned and tried to remember where he'd been off to.
A minute or two of mud-trudging later, and he caught a glimpse of Sartauvoir in his ragged-looking field tent. Now, the old Elezen was relaying orders to a pair of legion signifiers. As Audarik approached, he saw a map laying on the table before them.
"—a maneuver unit to that hill," Sartauvoir said, "and you"—he looked to the other signifier—"get your squad's familiars up and ready to stymie the enemy's advance here. I want to see them burn." He pointed to somewhere else on the map.
Both signifiers nodded their understanding, then turned and left with such speed and simultaneity that Audarik momentarily wondered if it was out of duty or a desire to be somewhere other than with a pyromaniacal pyromancer.
"Pyr Rigatus," Sartauvoir said as Audarik approached, "we are moving shortly. I have received word the enemy has stolen an advance on us. They have fully pushed out of the Southern Entrenchment and now steadily gain ground in the eastern portions of Old Bozja. To say nothing of their latest probing incursion on our camp."
Sartauvoir pointed to a few circled portions on the map as he spoke, and those areas were not so far from their current position as Audarik would have liked. "Take your squad and set up position here"—Sartauvoir now pointed to some scribbles—"and hold them off should they try and push their luck. At least two bells would be preferable—not including, of course, the time it shall take for you to arrive there—though I would not be upset if you held out longer."
Audarik nodded, then hesitantly added "This sounds like a retreat, sir."
"Because it is, my lad. The Resistance has brought in foreign help. We are outnumbered, though they do not know it, and we are adjusting accordingly." Sartauvoir gave a thoughtful look toward the direction of the Castrum. "Outnumbered for now, at any rate. But that is all you require to know."
"Understood," Audarik said. Then, he added, "would we be able to spare any additional help for pyr Potitus's efforts?"
Sartauvoir stared at him for a moment.
"Pyr Rigatus," Sartauvoir said finally, "do I look like someone who meddles in the affairs of others? She has her orders and her men tasked, and we have ours. If she lacks the competence to carry out Gabranth's will effectively, that is, unfortunately, on her."
Sartauvoir looked back down at his map and made a few more marks, but said nothing more.
Sartauvoir wasn't a bad centurio, Audarik reflected, but he was also pretty sure Sartauvoir wasn't a great centurio either. Still, it was leagues better than being assigned to someone like Albeleo the Maleficent, who hadn't earned his epithet by being an upstanding fellow.
In the safety of the tent, Audarik gave Sartauvoir a salute, then turned and headed out to collect the rest of his assigned squad, a tiny specialist group composed of a single hoplomachus and one other aquilifer.
Conveniently, they were not far from the command tent. Audarik had no trouble spotting them.
Mheiryo oen Potitus, the short, red-haired Miqo'te aquilifer who bore no relation to Dyunbu pyr Potitus, Fabineau quo Soranus's optio Llofii pyr Potitus, or any of the IVth's dozen other Miqo'te who shared the surname, was taking a field nap on a moldering Bozjan rug that she had pulled up next to a few crates.
Moldan oen Aeneas, the tall dark-skinned Hyuran hoplomachus of indeterminate origin, was nearby, sword, shield, and rucksack at his feet. He was drinking something steaming from a metal cup. It smelled like Dalmascan coffee.
Moldan looked up at Audarik's approach.
"We got our orders, then?" he asked, hopeful. "We're on the move?"
Mheiryo opened her eyes and rubbed her temples.
"Yeah. Centurio wants us in a blocking position east of here. The Resistance are moving too quickly for his taste," Audarik said. "We'll be buying time for our comrades to move back toward the Climb."
Moldan's expression turned grim. Mheiryo furrowed her brow.
"...The Alermuc Climb?" Mheiryo asked. She grabbed her black-and-red helmet from under her head, where she had been using it as what must have been the world's hardest pillow, and put it on. "The Alermuc Climb that's right at the foot of the Castrum?"
"Yes," Audarik said. "That Climb. I'm told we can look forward to reinforcements, at some point."
"Shite," Mheiryo said. "We just get out of that last battle by the skin of our teeth, and now we're on the retreat?"
"We," said Audarik with heavy emphasis, gesturing to himself and the two of them, "are moving east into the enemy lines."
Sometimes Audarik fantasized about a life where he had just enlisted and simply needed to follow orders rather than receive them, parse them, and then give them. But, of course, he had wanted the higher pay and better prospects for post-legion life. After all, what was twenty years of service to a Viera? That was, what, roughly equal to three or four years for a Hyur? And so here he was. At least Sartauvoir was an excellent teacher, when he deigned to share his wisdom with his lessers.
And these two weren't the worst company, either.
Mheiryo grunted, then stood and stretched. Moldan downed the rest of his drink, then put the cup, still dripping, into the rucksack that lay next to him. He fitted his sword and scabbard back to his belt, and put his shield on his back.
As they moved to leave, Audarik glanced back at the make-shift command tent.
Sartauvoir stepped out and began moving his staff in strange patterns. Audarik could hear the man incanting something, too. Soon, the old Elezen was wreathed in red and orange flame. He began to levitate, and then, walking through the air as if it were solid ground, was swiftly on his way to somewhere else on the battlefield. Audarik had always wondered how he did that.
He looked at Mheiryo, who shrugged.
"Better teach me that trick one day," she said, looking at her worn and muddied boots. "Beats sloggin' it through the muck."
"Wish he'd teach me how to turn into living fire," he replied. "Seen him do that trick once."
Mheiryo gave a thoughtful nod at that.
Moldan, who had not been paying attention to the centurio's performance, threw his bag over his shoulder and gave a thumbs up.
Soon enough they were off.
They had been walking for maybe half a bell when Moldan spoke up. His voice broke through the monotony of the group's own boot steps, and Audarik almost started at the sound.
"Think we'll go up against the lot of them?" he asked. "If we're on the backfoot, must be a good amount of rebels pushing up." He patted the sword that hung by his side. It was the ornate red sword of IVth Legion hoplomachi assigned to the Mage Detachment. Audarik couldn't help but wonder why they made those so big.
"Heard they got the Champion of Eorzea with 'em, too," added Mheiryo. "Bet whoever that is'll be right up on the frontlines, leadin' the charge. I've heard they're a hell of a fighter. Some type of fancy Eorzean Paladin. Y'know, them that take their oaths and get all sorts of magick from it. My sister told me 'bout them. Said her unit fought one of 'em back at Rabanastre during the uprising"—she whistled—"took two whole cohorts to put 'em down."
"Yeah, yeah—you already told us that whole tale." Moldan shook his head as he spoke. "Nah, I heard they're a mage. Real tough sort. Expert at summoning and thaumaturgy and gods-know-what-else." He looked at Audarik. "Think we'll stand a chance?"
"Hells if I know, they sound pretty damn tough," Audarik wanted to say. He and Mheiryo were very good mages, but he wasn't sure they were that good.
"We'll kill 'em dead no matter who they are," was what he actually said. Mheiryo and Moldan gave appreciative chuckles.
"Aye," said Mheiryo. "I'm sure this'll be a good one to tell my sister. Us, holdin' the line, against the odds and shite. Ain't gonna let her be the one to walk away with all the good war stories."
Even over the squelching of their boots in the muck, Audarik was pretty sure he heard Moldan sigh.
Perhaps another full bell had passed, by Audarik's reckoning, before Moldan broke the silence once more. By now, the mud was slowly giving way to broken stone brick and ruined blue-tiled walls. They had begun moving through the more intact parts of Old Bozja, where the force of Dalamud's impact had been attenuated by chance geography.
"Heard Eorzean fighters got the Beast King good," Moldan said. They now moved a bit quicker over proper roads, though they had to take care not to catch their boots in the cracks and pits that had only grown deeper with time. "Heard one of 'em whooped him in a one-on-one not far from here."
"Heard they knocked out Dyunbu's unit before that," Mheiryo said. "Got them on the run. Bet there's a lot of them comin'. Bet this'll be a hell of a fight." She sounded excited.
From the corner of his eye, Audarik could see her running her thumb along the spine of her grimoire.
"Easy, 'Mhei," Moldan said. "We'll see how it turns out, eh?"
"Oh, I know how it'll turn out. They'll regret messin' with the IVth!" Mheiryo replied. She kicked a chunk of stone that lay in her path. It bounced several fulms down a pothole, bits and pieces breaking off here and there with each impact.
By the time it slowed to a halt, there was almost nothing left.
They moved deeper into the ruined city.
Audarik was fairly short for a Viera, even a male, and felt like he had to move at double pace to maintain a respectable speed. Moldan strolled beside him, like a man on a walk in the park, and somewhere not far behind them was Mheiryo. Based on the sound of her footsteps, she had only nearly tripped twice so far on the broken streets.
It was not until another half-bell had passed that Audarik spotted a brief flash of movement, some unclear motion that passed between the ruins ahead. He gave a quick hand signal to the pair behind him. The group moved into cover behind a half-destroyed wall, partially consumed with the amber crystal that jutted up from so much of Bozja.
Audarik, silently cursing his lengthy ears, gestured to Moldan to take a look and see what it was. Moldan peeked out, then ducked back.
"Two," he said. "Armored, but not in Resistance uniforms. Eorzeans or some other adventurers. Think we can take them."
"Think they're an advance unit?" Mheiryo asked in a hushed whisper. Audarik wasn't really sure who she was asking, but it was Moldan who responded with a shrug.
Before Audarik could give the go-ahead, he heard a mechanical beeping sound. Several, in fact. Moldan and Mheiryo heard it as well. Mheiryo pressed herself against the wall until even her tail was flat against it, and chanced a look for herself.
"A couple avengers and some slashers are on 'em," she said. "I wanna get a stab at 'em before the warmachina steal our fun." She kept her eyes on what must have been a fight. Audarik couldn't see it, but he was sure she must have been grinning.
He looked out at the scene, and soon felt Moldan moving in beside him, undoubtedly trying to get a view of the unfolding battle.
One of the adventurers, a male-looking Lalafall wielding a staff, took a punch from the avenger and went flying. Audarik was impressed at the distance. The other, a female Viera with a spear, took down the warmachina with a well-placed stab between its armored plates, then dodged a swipe from one of the nearby slashers. A handful more began to close in around her.
Audarik gave Mheiryo's shoulder a firm punch, then, when she turned to him, motioned for her to get her grimoire out and start summoning a familiar. She obliged and began the lengthy process of incanting, moving her fingers in arcane patterns as she whispered.
Slowly, the air around her began to shimmer, a colorless distortion that slowly solidified into a vaguely green serpentine shape. A Stormborne Zirnitra began the process of coalescing from the book's aether, supplemented by Mheiryo's own.
At the same time, Moldan dropped his rucksack. He eased his shield off his back and drew his sword from its scabbard. He readied it, though he remained behind the wall awaiting Audarik's signal.
Meanwhile, the Lalafell had picked himself up again from the wall he had been hurled into. He grabbed his staff from where he had dropped it beside him on impact, then began making motions that Audarik could not quite make out. A moment later the Lalafell flung a sizable fireball at one of the slashers. It connected, and the warmachina went up in flames. A second slasher, unnoticed by the Lalafell, had closed the distance. It lashed out with a metal claw and he stumbled backward, wacking at it with his staff as he moved.
The Viera had put down a second warmachina and was working at a third, her spear a blur as she blocked, stabbed, parried, stabbed again.
Audarik had no doubt that, left to their own devices, the pair would eventually succeed in destroying the creations and report back their success at establishing a Resistance foothold here. He also had no doubt that he would rather contend with two adventurers than a dozen or more.
He pulled his grimoire and began moving his hands and fingers in practiced patterns, pulling the aether from the book's ink and inscribed magickal geometries. Slowly, with much effort, another form began taking shape in the air next to him as he worked to bring a Flameborne Zirnitra into existence.
By now, Mheiryo's Zirnitra had fully formed. It was solid now, a green and mean-looking serpent that towered over all of them. Audarik was thankful he hadn't been assigned a mere signifier, whose elementals would not be nearly as tough (or look half as impressive).
Mheiryo didn't need to wait for an order: they had all fought together for the better part of a year and knew how these things went. As soon as the Zirnitra came into being, Mheiryo made a motion with her free hand.
The Zirnitra obeyed the silent command and flew toward the Viera, who by now had destroyed all but one of the slashers.
No sooner did the Viera turn the final slasher into debris than the Zirnitra loosed a nasty-looking gust that knocked her off her feet. It also blew a sizable amount of dust into the air, obscuring her. From beside him, Audarik could sense Mheiryo closing her eyes in frustration.
Still, if the dust was good for one thing, it was making it difficult for the mage to throw more spells against them. As Audarik put the finishing touches on his incantation and made the last few gestures necessary to solidify the fiery aether, he spotted the Lalafell running off to the side, coughing all the while. Good, he thought. Two experienced aquilifers, two Zirnitra, and one hoplomachus against one spearwoman and a coughing Lalafell.
This was shaping up to be a very unfair fight in their favor—the best kind to have on a battlefield.
Another gust from the Stormborne and he saw the Viera go flying up into the air, out of the dust cloud, before falling back down and landing on something hazy that may have been a pile of rubble.
He gave a sympathetic wince. Then he sicced his newly-formed Flameborne Zirnitra on her.
Off in the distance, next to another spike of crystalized aether, the Viera's Lalafell companion looked to have stemmed his coughing somewhat. As Audarik watched, the fellow looked at the Stormborne, then at the Flameborne that was quickly moving to join the fray. Then back at the Stormborne. After a moment's hesitation, during which he evidently reconsidered his choices in life, he unceremoniously fled in the opposite direction.
The Viera rolled herself off the pile of rubble. She took a swipe at the Stormborne with the tip of her spear, and the aetheric creature moved back just a little, enough to dodge. Then, with surprising speed, she turned and began running in the same direction as her erstwhile comrade.
The two Zirnitra followed in pursuit, and Audarik lost sight of them.
"Should we give chase?" Mheiryo asked. She looked like she was ready to charge forward, her status as a rather vulnerable caster notwithstanding. Moldan looked just as eager, which was always a sign of trouble.
Audarik simply shook his head. "No, let 'em run. We don't have the numbers to pursue. And they probably think we're at least a company. No sense in dispelling that notion." He turned to Mheiryo. "Recall the summons before they bring more trouble back with them."
Even without looking, he could feel Moldan's shoulders drop.
"What a way to end a fight," Moldan said in disbelief. He slid his sword back into its scabbard. "We're ceding ground to these types? Didn't even get a swing in."
Audarik moved his hands in practiced glyphic gestures, uttering the incantations as he did so. Gradually, he felt the flow of aether that made up the Zirnitra return to him. Beside him, Mheiryo did the same.
Though he couldn't physically see when the summon had dissipated, he sensed his aether had returned in full. He closed his grimoire with a satisfying thud, and returned it to his belt.
The three took up position among the ruined walls once more. By now, the sun had begun setting, though it was still warm for the moment.
"Bet there's more coming?" Mheiryo asked. She still sounded eager for a fight. "Bet I could take out at least a dozen."
Audarik shrugged. "Sartauvoir wants us to hold for at least two bells. If there's more, we'll find out."
Even as he spoke, he was sure there would be no more action for the night. They had trudged several bells for what had ended up being a two or three minute fight, most of which they hadn't even participated in. He sensed that Mheiryo and Moldan had reached similar conclusions.
Mheiryo took a seat on the ground, back against the ruined wall they were using as cover. Audarik kept a look out for any more fighters, but, after a few minutes, he figured they were in the clear. At least for now.
He kneeled back down, and then took a seat next to her.
He had expected more protests from Moldan, perhaps accompanied by some well-chosen curses that they had wasted so much of their time on this little adventure, but to his surprise the man was quiet. Audarik looked over, and saw it was because he was too busy opening his rucksack and rummaging through its undoubtedly messy contents.
After another minute, it seemed Moldan had found what he was looking for. He triumphantly withdrew his metal cup from the sack and set it on the ground beside him. Then he grabbed two more, as well as a small metal can that sloshed with something liquid.
It took Audarik a moment to process what it was.
"Coffee?" Moldan offered. "Got some pre-ground stuff from Valnain here. Enough for three. Got a small fire aether crystal here, too, if you want it hot. "
Mheiryo looked at him in disbelief.
"Shite," she said, "'course I'll take some. You want some, too?"
She looked at Audarik.
He figured there was a symmetry to it: beginning the day watching his commanding officer ignite an inferno, ending it with a respectably warm coffee. As often as he was brought to question his choice to join the IVth, it was moments like these that made it all worth it. To have comrades, brothers and sisters with whom he could trudge through mud, witness horrors and absurdities, and then, when the dust had settled and they still lived, share drinks together.
Sartauvoir, the Resistance, even the retreat—those problems seemed so far away at the moment. Best to let the moment drag out, for as long as it would.
"Yeah," he said. "Why not."
It was calm, now. There were no shouts, nor the patters of boots on stone. The warmachina, whose ceruleum fuel had by now completely drained out, lay ruined some distance away. The sun hung in the air among the sparse clouds, and in its waning orange light the walls around them cast long shadows.
Moldan poured the cups, and they sat there, the three of them, amidst the rubble and the dust and the quiet.