Chapter LXXXVII

Beginning to walk forward, his eyes scanning the field, trying to find the best place for his initial attack.

It’s a decision that must be made carefully, as it might be his only chance to act. The goal here is to instill fear, to frighten the attackers into retreating without engaging in a dangerous and pointless fight. Injuring or killing someone now would be counterproductive to that goal—he can’t risk sparking a desperate battle.

From his experience in this world, a single well-placed fireball should be enough. The best target seems to be the rocky hillside near the front line between the caravan defenders and the bandits.

Close enough for them to feel the heat, but far enough to avoid hurting anyone.

His thoughts are interrupted when he realizes the mule is slowly moving ahead of him, shifting from its position in the rear to the vanguard, where it will act as a tank, shielding him from any attack.

The undead mule is well-suited for the job. It’s a creature that can’t die and weighs more than half a ton. Who could possibly get past it to reach him?

Unfortunately, the creature itself is also a risk. It’s a clear sign he’s a necromancer. His biggest stroke of luck is that it looks like a normal mule, and no one pays it enough attention to realize the truth. But in the middle of a fight? Who knows what might be revealed?

Still, finding the mule’s corpse and deciding to reanimate it was his best decision so far—something he has confirmed many times due to its immense usefulness. Losing it would be unacceptable, and being exposed might force that loss.

But maybe everything will go as planned. All he can do is hope.

Further down the hill, the two children in front seem to have noticed his arrival. Behind them, two other figures are taken down by their pursuers, who also begin to turn their attention to him.

“Help!!” cries one of the children. He assumes it’s the smaller, closer one, as the older child is pushing it forward.

“Run! Get away!!” shouts another, more adolescent voice. That he presumes it’s an older girl.

They keep running, full of youthful energy, which likely allowed them to try such a foolish idea as escaping during an attack. But youth or not, they’re clearly losing steam and slowing down.

Their pursuers, although slower and weighed down with gear, have age and experience on their side. They pace themselves well and will eventually catch up... or would have, if he weren’t here.

The children will pass the mule long before the three chasing them can catch up to them. Smiling slightly, he thinks to himself: “Three idiots versus my mule! Good luck.”

As the children keep wasting energy shouting, he takes a closer look at the weapons the bandits are carrying and mutters to himself: “No point in taking chances.”

“Ortan’s Shield,” he declares, concentrating on the spell, briefly imagining himself clicking a mouse in front of a computer screen—a moment of strange normalcy.

This defensive boost brings him a calm he didn’t realize he needed, letting him breathe a little easier. To then decide to wait before acting, wanting the children to reach safety first.

That should give them more protection. Though he doubts the defenders of the caravan would appreciate the delay. But they seem to be holding well for now.

Finally, while he was thinking, the first child reached the mule’s side, still screaming for help. Behind him, he hears Grumpy and Blondie starting to shout too. “Come, come!”

Surrounded by yelling, he can’t help but think, frustrated, “How the hell do I end up in these messes?”

Not that it matters now—the moment of the show has arrived. Raising his right hand toward his chosen target and focusing on the spell, he exclaims, “Draco’s Flames.”

Heat flows through his body to his outstretched hand, where a fireball forms. For then, with a thought, he lets it fly toward its target.

As the fireball shoots out, the younger child runs past him without even noticing. The older girl, who was still yelling for him to run, stops in shock as she sees the fireball leaving his hand.

“Run! Ge—” But the words die as she stares, mouth agape.

Even the pursuers, still some distance away, notice the fireball and halt their charge to see where it goes.

No one else on the battlefield seems to have noticed yet—a situation he knows won’t last long.

The fireball hits its target and explodes in flames, quickly growing in size and making it clear to all: a mage has entered the fight. Or so he hopes.

The girl in front of him gasps, “Gods!!”

Then a hand appears from behind, startling him. It grabs the girl’s arm, scaring her too. But it’s just Grumpy, saying sternly, “Come on, kid. You don’t want to stay here.”

She resists for a moment, but Grumpy is stronger and pulls her along. Looking past him, she must see the younger child safe with Blondie and stops resisting.

He thinks to himself that Grumpy is doing a good job. The children and the two wimps should fall back—they won’t help much in a fight.

Quickly, his attention shifts to something more important: the three bandits who had been chasing the children. They seem wise enough to realize he’s out of their league.

He nearly laughs. They don’t even know about the undead mule they’d have to get through to reach him.

So, he keeps walking at the same pace, showing he has nothing to fear. While hoping they get the memo, and simply run away.

Luckily, the three glance at each other, murmur things he can’t hear, and begin to retreat toward their friends.

“Excellent,” he says to himself, seeing that his plan might just work.

Or so he thought—until he looked back toward the combat line.

“Idiots!” he exclaims, unable to contain himself.

The good news: they’ve stopped attacking the caravan members, halting the fight. But that’s only because the fools are forming a defensive line to hold back the defenders. While making another line in preparation for a possible attack by him.

Ridiculous. How could anyone think that formation will protect them from his fireballs? With just two, he could incinerate the whole tightly packed group— a great formation against melee attackers, but an easy target for a mage with long-range magic.

Slowing slightly in frustration, he rubs his face. “What the hell are these morons thinking?”

Then it hits him: maybe the rest of the bandits didn’t see him cast the fireball. Perhaps the three who retreated will explain it to them when they rejoin the group. Seems reasonable, right!?

He continues forward, planning to cast another fireball near the defensive line—this time closer to the cliffside. Hopefully, that’ll scare them into fleeing up the opposite hill. It should be a good escape route, despite not permitting pack animals to cross it; a group of people on foot shouldn't have many problems.

As he approaches slowly and steadily, waiting for the three to rejoin their group, something that doesn’t take long.

When they do, he casts the another fireball as he planned, hoping to confirm to the bandits that he’s a threat they can’t handle.

But to his shock and frustration, the fools close ranks even tighter.

“What the hell! You want to see if I can wipe out the... sixteen of you with one single fireball?” he mutters, confused.

“What are they thinking?” he asks, stopping far enough away that they can’t hear, much less answer.

They’re all at a standstill: the bandits grouped together, staring him down, the caravan defenders blocked behind them, and he, undecided on what to do next.

He could end it all by granting their wish and dropping a fireball on them. But that feels too much like cold-blooded murder—they’re defenseless, and they seem to have captives, at the very least, the ones they got when they were trying to escape.

So he waits, staring at this pathetic scene, unsure of what to do.

But the bandits make a decision on their own. And not the wise one to flee.

But to loose a volley of arrows at him and the mule, then charge.

For a few seconds, he just stares, stunned. He barely notices the arrows hitting his arm and chest— after all, Ortan’s Shield renders them harmless.

To be fair, they couldn’t have known he was protected by a defensive spell. In another case, this action might have won them this fight.

However, he now has to deal with this attack. The mule can’t realistically stop them all. That leaves him with only one choice—as he won’t risk finding out if they can overpower Ortan’s Shield in close combat.

He raises his hand to cast the fireball that will end the fight and kill many, some even innocent.

But just as he’s about to speak the words, a new shout rings out.

Looking carefully, he sees the caravan defenders charging from the rear, throwing the bandits into chaos.

He takes the opportunity to cast another fireball to the previous place, hoping it will trigger the rout he wants—or at least add to the confusion.

When that doesn’t work, at the moment, they must be too focused on the battle.

So, he switches tactics and casts his invisibility spell, Moon's Shadow. The shocked faces of the few bandits approaching him when he vanishes are hilarious. Even better is when one of them gets kicked by the mule for getting too close.

Not that he watches for long—using the chaos, he moves invisibly to disrupt the bandits, tripping one, pushing another into another's swing, giving the caravan fighters a slight edge. Though limited— for every time he acts, the spell ends and must be recast.

Either way, the fight ends quickly. The caravan fighters were smart to strike while the bandits were distracted.

In the end, it’s a complete victory. While watching the wounded around him, he hears a voice: “Lord mage, you have our thanks.”

Turning, he sees a large, burly man with a bloody arm while holding an also bloody sword, bowing slightly. Beside him stands a blonde girl holding a small axe, seemingly unused.

He focuses on the man’s bleeding arm, finishing his earlier thought: “This will wipe out my potion reserves.”

Judging by their concerned faces, he assumes his irritation showed and tries to reassure them quickly. “No problem!”

Though it doesn’t seem to help much. He wonders if he sounded too harsh, and tries to be as friendly as possible—when a new voice shouts, “Oh gods! What is that?!”

A shocked guard is pointing at a mule—more specifically, his undead mule, now with a large arrow lodged in its head in a way no normal animal could survive.

He can only sigh in frustration and say, “Of course.”