by Lucas Marcum
“The Fall”
A Novel of the Fae Wars
Lucas Marcum
and
J.F. Holmes
Prologue
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
November 2, 2017
Post – Invasion, 15 months.
Lord Ren’del T’Mar sat at the polished oak desk, pulled out a quill pen, and began to write. The elegant swirls and loops of his penmanship formed into words, and the words became language.
To the Honorable Hargrave of House Tavor, Lord Mayor of the Imperial Protectorate of New York, and Defender of the North,
My Lord,
I am writing to express my gratitude and sincere appreciation for your assistance in dealing with the rebels currently acting against Imperial authority to our west. The ten legions of Yrch you have graciously supplied us have quieted down the remaining insurgents and have managed to bring peace to the Iron Hills for the first time since we subjugated this world. With luck, I will be able to send your Yrch back to the Protectorate of New York by next spring, barring any additional assistance the Imperium requires.
Lord Balamore in the War Ministry in the Old World appears to be under the impression that the invasion forces alone are more than adequate for both the invasion and subsequent stabilization. He is of the firm belief that our civil services should be established by this time and is reluctant to send additional troops, El’dori or Yrch. His Honor seems not to understand the level of disruption these rebel humans and orcish deserters are capable of, or the extensive damage they are causing to both infrastructure and trade.
As an example, these human rebels in the Western Iron Hills—previously referred to by the locals as the Allegheny Mountains—are tenacious and creative. Last month, as I am sure you have heard, they ambushed and wiped out three companies of El’dori regulars. These are not Yrch or enslaved humans. These are the king’s own forces—well trained and battle-hardened elven soldiers—and they were ambushed and slaughtered outside of Union City. Perhaps the problem is not the humans, though, but some of the incompetent officers the War Ministry sends us, second sons looking to gain glory and favor. Brave enough to pacify a defeated enemy and earn their combat star but not brave enough to be at the forefront of the invasion.
Easy enough, he mused, to hide the real numbers of slain when they were merely Yrch slaves, ugly, brutish creatures born and bred for war. To lose more than seven score elven warriors, that was hard to explain. Thankfully their commander’s head had arrived by package, addressed directly to him and signed simply, “The Fianna”. Easy enough to place the blame on the dead elf, but the rebels who named themselves after the ancient Irish war bands were growing ever bolder.
We do not yet know how they penetrated the arcane shielding, either that of the battle magi, or the protective wards on our soldiers’ armor. Our senior mages and seers are attempting to devise how they accomplished this trickery so they may come up with countermeasures, but the vast quantities of unrefined iron in the hills makes scrying extremely difficult, and the dense forests make it difficult for dragonriders to locate them from the air.
Even more concerning is how the humans found out where the regulars would be. They seem to know very step we take, almost before we make it. They undoubtedly have spies everywhere, but even with the scrying crystals humming and house seers working around the clock, we cannot seem to ferret them out. In the meantime, we shall continue our efforts. The legions of Yrch will keep order, both in the countryside and here in the Protectorate of Philadelphia. Peace is the goal, and a tempting prize it is—when these people realize this war is indeed over.
If they ever did realize. He mentioned nothing about the striking dockyard workers, the troubles with the “Latin Kings” and other human gangs, drug addiction and desertion among his own Yrch and the thousand other problems that came with pacifying a city of more than a million humans. No, that would be an admission of weakness. All was well in Philadelphia proper.
It cannot be emphasized enough how grateful House T’Mar is to House Tavor for their assistance—indeed, for all your family’s sacrifices in this war. Your uncle was a nobleman in every sense of the word, and his loss is felt to this day. Ellarissa Tavor was a jewel among women; I shall visit her memorial at the Brooklyn Bridge someday soon, and her brother Koras’ subsequent death at the hands of the outlaw known as Kincaid only deepens the grief and anger we feel for your house. In light of this, we would like to present to you the estate here in the Protectorate known as ‘Longwood Gardens’. It is a beautiful ground with manicured gardens, many serene pathways, and exquisite statuary. It was once the palace of a notorious human, Lord, Pierre du Pont. He was a wealthy merchant and well known for his ruthless rise to power and massive wealth. It is fitting that his estate shall become part of the holdings of House Tavor.
He paused for a moment, thinking of the politics in the message. The Hargrave was a title, not a name, a keeper of the house until a new head of the family could be chosen, something that could only be done by the King himself. Of course the King would be advised by the Council, and usually their choice was his, but … Lord Jotre was only a cousin of Tavan, not in direct line of succession. That line had ended though five months before, with the death of Tavan’s son Koras at the hands of rebellious humans and his daughter Ellarissa in the initial invasion. Politics, always politics. Well, at least they had all fallen in battle, instead of by the poison of a rival house.
When it pleases your lordship, you should bring the Lady Yeania down to the Protectorate of Philadelphia. While not the crystalline skyline of New York, it has its own subtle charms. I do know my Lady T’Mar would greatly enjoy some company. These past few months have been hard on her, as her courtiers have not yet arrived from the estates back home.
Time grows short, and my duties beckon. As you are well aware, minding the King’s Protectorates is a challenging task, and each day ever more matters cry for my attention. Stay vigilant, my old friend.
For the Glory of the Empire.
Lord Ren’del
Ren’del T’Mar,
Lord of House T’Mar,
First Lord Mayor of the Protectorate of Philadelphia
Defender of the Middlerealm.
Setting the pen down, he folded the letter into an envelope and pressed a sealing stone to the paper. After a few seconds, the arcane mark bearing his house seal appeared on the parchment. Satisfied, he pressed a button on his desk and waited. After a moment a light tap came at the door.
“My lord?” A young human woman in business attire with brown eyes and her dark hair neatly pulled back into a ponytail, entered and bowed low.
“Ah, Miss Acevedo!” Lord T’Mar held out the letter. “Please send this via dragonrider to the House Tavor in New York. Priority for the Hargrave of House Tavor himself.”
Bobbing her head in deference her head she said politely, “Yes, my lord.” She took the envelope, looked at the seal, and said, “If I may, my lord, I’ll send the rider on Balagruth. It will be seen as a gesture of great respect to send such a mighty beast bearing your message.” She smiled slightly. “It will also serve as a subtle reminder of the power of your house.”
Ren’del smiled at her fondly. “You are a clever girl, Olivia. You know our ways as if you’d been born to them.” He looked intently at her for a long moment, then added, “Someday, if you keep this up, you may rise to become a majordomo of this house. Would you like that?” He regarded the young woman for a moment. “It would be a rare privilege for a human to rise so far in our ranks.”
Olivia bobbed her head and replied gravely. “Nothing would give me greater honor, my lord.” She bowed and added, “If you’ll excuse me. I must ge
t this to the riders.” When he waved his hands she slipped out.
With a paternal smile, the elf watched her leave, then turned to the Philadelphia skyline outlined in his office windows. Savoring the view, he drank in the majesty of the skyscrapers and the low, sturdy buildings that surrounded the city center. After a moment, he shook his head, pulled out a pen, and returned to his work.
-1-
“Welcome to the Gap”
Central Pennsylvania
August 16, 2015
Fifteen Months Earlier
There was blood under his nails, Zach O’Malley noted absently as he stared at his hands. There was also a large cut on the back of his right hand, and what looked like a burn on his left palm. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten it. The jolt of the five-ton truck coming to a stop startled him into looking up. A skinny soldier in mismatched camouflage patterns was opening the rear of the truck. Several steps away, a stout staff sergeant with a large gut overhanging his belt had his hands on his hips, shouting in a loud, practiced voice that cut through the noise of dozens of idling diesel engines.
“Everyone out! Squad leaders, get your troops to the assembly area! Unit commanders and first sergeants, follow me for a briefing!” The fat NCO glanced at his watch, then apprehensively at the still dark sky.
O’Malley clambered out of the truck and looked around for a moment, confused. A voice at his elbow caught his attention. “Sir.” O’Malley looked around, startled. “Captain O’Malley. Right here, sir.”
Focusing his eyes on the petite sergeant at his elbow, he replied, “Yeah?”
“It’s Sergeant Acevedo, sir.” The young woman’s face had a large smudge of soot on the left side and her normally tidy hair had fallen out of its regulation bun, he noticed. “Sir, who do you want to take the troops?”
“I’m sorry?” O’Malley replied, confused.
The sergeant looked worried as she answered, “To the assembly point.”
“Have First Sergeant Harris detail someone, then come with me. We have to go to the…thing.” He gestured vaguely at the fat sergeant who was speaking with a wide-eyed lieutenant.
“Sir…” Acevedo hesitated, then replied gently, “First Sergeant Harris didn’t make it.”
“Oh.” O’Malley remembered now. “Right.” The first sergeant had been burned as they’d retreated. No, not retreated—as they ran. O’Malley shook his head and focused on the young soldier. “Who’s the senior NCO?”
Acevedo lifted her hands helplessly. “Me, I think. Sergeant Keen is here, but something’s wrong with him. We can’t wake him up.”
“Is he hurt?” O’Malley replied.
“No, they hit him with a beam or something, and he just collapsed. Not a mark on him, but his eyes are blank, and we can’t get him to respond. He’s still breathing, though.” She shook her head. “So, that leaves me and a bunch of specialists.”
Unfastening the chinstrap on his helmet, O’Malley replied, “Pick the most responsible and put them in charge. Get the company to the assembly area.” He let his eyes wander over the ragged lines of soldiers forming. There weren’t more than a couple dozen left. Removing his helmet, he asked, “How many do we have?”
In a quiet tone, Acevedo replied, “Thirty-six left on their feet. We also have another fifteen wounded or incapacitated.”
“My god.” O’Malley felt his stomach drop. “That’s all? Where are the rest?”
Acevedo shook her head. “They never made the rally point, sir.” Her voice was barely audible over the sound of engines.
The burly sergeant bellowed, “Get these people moving, GAWDAMIT!”
Acevedo took a couple steps and grabbed a tall specialist standing nearby. “Ewart. You’re in charge. Get them to the assembly area. The captain and I are going to the briefing.”
The usually cheerful young man nodded somberly and replied, “Yes, Sergeant.”
Acevedo gave his equipment harness a shake. “Hey. Keep them focused and keep them busy. Shake down equipment and get a by name roster. When that’s done, find something else. Buddy them up and keep your phone on you.” She shook his equipment vest again, staring intently up into his face. “Got it?”
“Yes, Sergeant.” The young man took a few steps in front of the ragged formation and called out, “Bravo Company, on me!” The soldiers began to assemble dazedly in front of the young man.
Acevedo turned back to O’Malley. “Ok, sir. What’s next?”
“Where are Lieutenants Wieland, Harris, and Taupe?” O’Malley asked, the fog in his head clearing now that the petite sergeant was helping him focus.
“Wieland never made the rendezvous point, Harris was burned covering our retreat, and Taupe is alive for now, but probably won’t be much longer.”
“What happened to her?” O’Malley asked.
“Burns, just like everyone else.” Acevedo wiped her nose with her sleeve, smudging her pretty face even further. “She probably won’t make it.”
O’Malley looked down at his boots for a moment, then back up. “Ok. Platoon sergeants?”
“Just me.” A flight of Blackhawks roared overhead, momentarily drowning out the noises of the engines and shouting soldiers.
“LET’S MOVE, PEOPLE! THE COLONEL’S BRIEFING IN 10!” The sergeant’s roar broke into their conversation. The man turned and walked rapidly down the road behind him, which was lit only by a line of dim chem lights interspersed with the occasional red-lensed flashlight. The young captain and the sergeant followed behind. As they walked, they were joined by a stunned looking major wearing a dirt- and blood-stained uniform with blood dripping from his ears. He was being gently led by a second lieutenant. The young man murmured to the major as the officer wobbled unsteadily. They ignored O’Malley and Acevedo. Several others followed, all staff sergeants and junior officers. The wounded major was the highest rank O’Malley had seen, aside from himself.
As they walked, O’Malley looked at his wrist. Where his watch had been there was only a bruise and a scab. Apparently, he’d lost it during the night.
“What time is it?” he asked. A low rumble and the high-pitched, distinctive whine of tank engines grew louder from the darkness ahead of them. “And where are we?”
“It’s 0440, sir, and I think we’re at Indiantown Gap, but…” Acevedo paused as the first tanks turned the corner and came into sight. Their massive, armored bulk was poorly illuminated from the chemlights on the road, but even in the dark, the two could see that the tops of the turrets and main decks were packed with wounded men, clinging onto every available space. A third tank came into sight at the corner. The tank’s turret was pointing back and to the left, and the gun barrel was sticking out at an unusual angle. The side of the tank was blackened and scorched, with tiny lumps and distortions where the composite armor had begun to melt under the tremendous heat of the flames.
The small group of officers and NCOs watched in silence as they walked, following the now distant back of the fat sergeant. Behind the tanks came a double column of soldiers, walking slowly, being herded by a few exhausted looking sergeants. As they drew closer, O’Malley could see the numb expressions on their faces and the vacant, exhausted eyes. Their uniforms were torn and filthy, and several were missing weapons or helmets. There was no talking, jokes, or laughter. Occasionally, one of them would stumble, only to be helped back up by his comrades without a word. The column of soldiers stretched far back into the darkness, and still there was no sound but the crunching of their boots on the gravel, the distant thump of helicopters, and the whine of the turbines from the now receding tanks.
Under her breath, Acevedo muttered something in Spanish. O’Malley watched the exhausted, defeated troops and wondered if that was what he looked like.
“INSIDE! FILL FRONT TO BACK. BRIEFING IN TWO MINUTES!” The leather-lunged sergeant bellowed, gesturing them towards a run-down theater.
As Acevedo and O’Malley entered the room, they saw a chubby blonde woman in civi
lian clothing standing behind a table with a faded banner that read ‘56th Stryker Brigade—Family Readiness Group’. She handed them a Styrofoam cup and gave them a weary smile. Spying the blood on O’Malley’s hands, she pointed to a door behind them. “Bathroom there, captain. Wash your hands.” There was calm, motherly authority in her voice.
O’Malley nodded numbly, handed his cup to Acevedo, and entered the bathroom. Inside was a staff sergeant sitting on the floor next to a pool of vomit, his arms wrapped around his knees, weeping uncontrollably. A young lieutenant knelt next to him, looking on helplessly. O’Malley regarded them for a moment, then stepped around them and went to the sink. Turning on the hot water, he scrubbed his hands, slowly at first, then then with increasing vigor until he was scrubbing furiously, trying to get every speck of blood off them.
Suddenly, he stopped and looked up, startled. Looking back at him from the mirror was a face he didn’t recognize—his own. He was gaunt and pale, with three days of unshaven stubble. There was a large smear of dried blood on his forehead, and the left side of his face was bruised. The man in the mirror’s eyes held the same stunned, haunted look as the soldiers outside.
Breaking away from the apparition in the mirror, he wiped his face with a damp paper towel, then threw it away. Again stepping over the soldiers on the floor, he exited the bathroom. Sergeant Acevedo was waiting for him and handed him his cup. She’d somehow found time to wash her face and put her hair back into its bun. She led him to two seats near the rear of the half-full theater. Below them sat an empty stage with a single podium, a microphone, and a projector screen that displayed the symbol of the Pennsylvania National Guard.
O’Malley took a sip from the cup in his hand and was surprised when it wasn’t coffee but chicken soup. Suddenly ravenous, he drank it as fast as he could. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He was startled when Acevedo nudged him and gestured at the stage.
