by F. C. Reed
Pure chaos erupted among friend and foe alike. Soldiers ran from the mighty beast to keep from being crushed underfoot, or covered in the fire acid. Another guttural roar of the beast, and an earthquaking footstep again gave them purpose.
“We must move,” Captain Ursin urged.
The tyterradon scanned the battlefield, drawing in scents and sniffing out prey.
The Crimson Bloodguard retreated in droves at the entry of the new and deadly threat while the Legion delighted in taking advantage of the chaos that rippled through the battlefield when the great tyterradon either took a step, or bellowed her roar, but they too feared the exceptional creature.
The tyterradon, however, did not discriminate against those crushed underfoot or burned under a mound of fire acid. She didn’t have to. Her sole purpose at that moment was to destroy. Summoned from the green hells, she was the vilest of evils, never to be convinced that she should be something otherwise. And so given to her fancy as she most pleased, the tyterradon simply crushed, kicked, burned, ate, threw, and stomped whom or whatever was within her reach. None would stand with her, and even fewer would stand against her, if it were even possible.
The sight of a tyterradon of this size on the battlefield was truly a rare thing, but the act of summoning creatures from the green hells’ darkest corners was more than common practice. As the tyterradon rampaged over and crushed both armies like herbs in a pestle, General Strann’s guard set at finding those responsible for tethering the monster-demon to their world.
With a shout, Commander General Strann ordered a swift tactical withdrawal of the remaining troops back to the hills over the nearest ridge. Acolytes and archers lined the ridge in fortified positions to keep the enemy army at bay. Just beyond the ridge was a hastily constructed assembly area and a small command tent. The rest of the Crimson Bloodguard ran across the plaza as the fire cannons still belched their balls of explosive magma.
Medicus teams worked through the ranks, making quick work of acid burns, broken bones, and missing limbs.
General Strann cursed under her breath at the beating they were taking, but having given away her most valued asset she could no longer turn the tides as easily. The timing of the attack seemed all too perfect. Too easy for the blighted soldiers; too difficult for her Bloodguard.
Less than half of the Crimson Bloodguard were still alive, and of those, only about half were still combat-capable. She steered her khydrid toward the command tent. Captain Ursin joined her.
“General, the scouts report that the Legion are everywhere. In response, I suggest the guard move into a defense of the watchgate.”
Strann nodded her approval. The week’s events still troubled her. She hopped from her khydrid and rushed over to join the rest of the commanders who had assembled in the rear staging area. They huddled around a table with a small map marked with the current position of the armies and their movements of troops as they retreated down the chasm towards the ridges.
“Report,” said General Strann.
Captain Ursin spoke up first. “It seems that the initial attack was more diversionary to allow necrotrancers to summon the tyterradon. We need to find the necrotrancers and take them out. Likely positions are in the clearings on the other side of the chasm.”
“Where are these spots? Point them out,” Strann said, gesturing down at the wrinkled brown paper map, covered in dirt and stains which could pass for blood. As Ursin did what he could to fill her in, she chastised herself for a wandering mind. Bastille would have to wait.
General Strann looked toward the emperor spyder - the taskmaster. Without a single word from her, he nodded in understanding. “I will send agents to find the necrotrancers under the cover of stealth. Three will ride through the enemy lines here,” he said as he pointed at the map. “It should be easy to penetrate the chaos and find the necrotrancers across the ridge and dispose of them quickly. The smaller the force, the easier this task will be.”
“Do it,” General Strann commanded.
The sky marshal grinned. “We are being slaughtered because of your lack of leadership. I hope, for your sake, that you know what you’re doing, and this goes as planned in your head. For if not, there will be many questions to answer.”
General Strann moved quickly away from the table, muttering under her breath, “I’m without a doubt that you will be the one asking them.”
The taskmaster gathered his small unit, three of his top stealth riders, and assigned Tech Commander Zainadine Muir as its lead. The team mounted the fox-like, double-tailed kyri, a quick mount better suited to their slight stature, much smaller than a standard khydrid longsteed. Their physiology complemented darkstalking as well.
Most of the taskmaster’s agents were of the Natai, an ancient race of beings, blue or gray skinned, petite, and agile. They also held the innate ability to slip between planes. They could only maintain this skill for a brief period without causing physical or mental injury. It gave the illusion that the Natai could bounce, or hop, or teleport from one place to another as they weaved in and out of the interspace between planes. Being between planes during their cloak sped up their movements, but only for several seconds. Darkstalking.
The group found the necrotrancers relatively quickly, just on the other side of the ridge. From the corner of her eye, Commander Muir spotted Bastille standing nearby watching the battle unfold as the tyterradon bellowed her roar and climbed her way into existence. The tyterradon was big. And if it were to clear the chasm and emerge on the other side, the forward watchgate would surely be decimated. At all costs, the necrotrancers had to be destroyed, and doing so would cut the tethering of the tyterradon. In order for the Legion to emerge from their hellish prisons on the green hells, the necrotrancers opened gateways, convenient for the armies to traverse the planes and through the aethersphere.
The tech commander rode directly into the circle of six necrotrancers. She jumped from her kyri, crashing into the closest one. Plunging her serrated steel glove blades into the necrotrancer’s chest, he instantly dissipated into a whiff of black, ashy smoke. From a distance, another roar erupted from the tyterradon, but it was not a roar of supremacy or one to evoke a sense of terror. It was a roar that sounded like pain.
She quickly stood and turned herself against the next nearest necrotrancer. With her left glove blade, she struck again, holding the blades in place under the necrotrancer’s ribs. With her right, she struck at his neck and, as before, the necrotrancer dissipated, and another roar shook the area. Her two companions had all but done the same with the remaining necrotrancers, who offered no resistance at all.
Commander Muir turned just in time to see Bastille make eye contact with her. He was a giant man in gleaming black armor, his stature much larger than any other man she had ever seen. His hair was white and short, cropped on the sides. There was also a coldness to him. She saw no rage, and he also said nothing to her, which amplified her fear of him.
When they locked eyes, she stood with every intention of engaging him, knowing full well it would be a harrowing feat if she were to even hit or wound him. But given the opportunity, she would take it. Instead, he turned and rode away. The Legion, those who could, collapsed their front lines, turning to follow their general.
Meanwhile, the tyterradon roared and screamed and whipped her tail around, flattening anything in her way. She was determined to exist outside of the green hells. Her actions and movements and roaring appeared desperate. But without the necrotrancers bonding her to the plane, she had no choice.
Slowly, as if sinking into quicksand surrounded by a ring of green and black fire, the tyterradon sank back down into the green hells, far, far against her own will. She clawed angrily at the ground, searching for a purchase, but to no avail.
General Strann breathed a sigh of relief as she watched the earth swallow whole the tyterradon and felt the first waves of a battle that she claimed victory over. As she stood watching from the assembly area, the sky marshal whispered a co
ngratulatory statement into her ear and walked away. She clenched her jaw at the comment, but said nothing. With her job done, she set her task to retrieving what was left of the Bloodguard and returning to the Reach.
General Strann watched as her captain galloped off down the hill shouting orders. The Crimson Bloodguard soon lined themselves in neat rows and columns, their armor tattered and beaten, but not their spirits. It was time for her to lead her soldiers home, and their travel would surely be sweet for the air of victory that surrounded them in the overbearingly humid twilight. They left behind them a battlefield consecrated with the blood of friend and foe alike. They carried with them, victory. The sun set over the western skies, as it always did.
Upon return to the Reach, she retreated to her personal quarters and left orders not to be disturbed except by the primus. She reflected on the battle and bathed in the comfort of still having the ability to fulfill her duties, but the past and what was to come weakened her resolve. It plagued her even now, after a lifetime of servitude to protecting the nation-state, to see so many die by her command. She lowered her head to write.
The grass lining the dirt road is littered with mangled and twisted, bloody heaps of flesh and metal throughout the night—and into the day. The faces of the corpses are forever fixed into visions of horror, their mouths slung into masks of silent screams. In most parts of the dusty road itself lay the bodies of soldiers. Friends and enemies. All a part of the aethersphere. Their flesh dangle from bone, torn to various stages of unrecognizability. Around them, crimson pools slowly seep into the surroundings to form small pockets of red mud. The blood of these brave warriors is that which makes the grass grow green.
Once the battle is complete, and the victors stand as so, the dirt road holds now nothing living. Even we as the triumphant, are seen as aggressive demons who promise the deliverance of failure to our foes’ goals and wishes at each and every attempt. The afternoon gale kicks the stench of burned flesh into our nostrils as motley shadows dance over the lifeless corpses in the dirt road like demonic sprites celebrating their collection of newly claimed souls. Those shadows belong to us, the victors. May you, the maker, forgive us.
She closed the personal log and placed it back on her shelf.
General Strann knew she still had the most difficult of talks with the council of the five. Of the entire Crimson Bloodguard there were over three hundred wounded and over five hundred killed. As was customary after a large conflict, she rehearsed her after action report in her head. The report also chronicled those who proved themselves to be heroes, and those who would not return to the battlefield.
A soft knock at the door broke through her meditation and momentarily she eased from the emotions surrounding her command. “Come in,” she said. Upon seeing the primus, she stood.
He looked haggard and beaten. “I’ve read your after action report. I read it a dozen times over,” he said.
General Strann searched his face for scorn, distrust, or disappointment. She saw none of those, but recognized the register about his face as sorrowful and pitying.
“I know this battle has affected you in many unseen ways, given the circumstances. Before you report, we should talk,” the primus said.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
“General Strann,” the primus began. “It is my understanding that the watchgate was in danger of being attacked by an army led by the Iron General Bastille. Is this true?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“And how did you fare?”
“We were beset on all sides by a sizable force of enemy combatants, to include creepers, legionnaires, fire ravens, and a class four tyterradon. We succeeded. As difficult as the battle was, that was our task and the Crimson Bloodguard was ready to give their lives. Eight hundred thirty-two of the Bloodguard are wounded, missing, or killed in action.”
“And what was your course of action following the immediate threat?” the primus asked.
“I ordered the charge, and so they did. The acolyte major and his forces engaged the fire ravens as they approached, keeping them well at bay. The Crimson Bloodguard itself engaged the Legion’s vanguard head on.” She gathered herself. “General Bastille was present. I engaged him.”
“Was Bastille captured or killed?” asked the primus.
“No. As I was preparing to make a decisive blow, the tyterradon appeared and sowed chaos among the entire battle. It proved very difficult to keep the press forward. And given the size and type of tyterradon, I ordered a retreat.”
“Vote of no confidence!” the sky marshal bellowed. “This is exactly why you should step down. We are not here to retreat. We are here to fight. We are here to repel. We are here to protect. At any time the Legion bears its fangs, no one in this hall is expecting you to turn your tail and slink away like a whipped dog.”
“And no one in this hall,” General Strann replied while cinching down on the fury in her own voice, “is expecting us to die a meaningless death.”
“Your purpose, your sworn duty, is to defend the gates at all cost. Even if that cost is your own life. This I believe you don’t understand,” the sky marshal said.
“Oh, I understand it very well, sky marshal. And for what it’s worth, I appreciate your aerial support, but I take no responsibility away from myself over the outcome of this battle.”
“Well, I question your ability to do so. Are you to order a retreat and run from every single threat you encounter?”
“Every threat? No. Of course not. But from a class four tyterradon?” General Strann snapped. “You’re gods-be-damned right I will. What sense does it make for the entire guard to burn away at a tyterradon’s fire-acid breath? No weapons can penetrate the armor plating it has. And we have nothing that can withstand molten fire laced with acid.”
“You cannot expect me to believe that the commanding officer of the—
“Stop talking. Both of you,” the primus interrupted. “This is not an inquiry. This is not a chance to point fingers and place blame.” He shot a glance and the sky marshal, who tried her best to compose herself. “Now General Strann, please continue.”
“As the tyterradon presented herself, we gave an order to withdraw.”
“Cowardly, at best,” Sky Marshal Sesanji muttered.
General Strann eyed the sky marshal, tempted to challenge her again, but thought better of it. She would deal with the sky marshal in her own way, and on her own terms, but later. She started again. “As the tyterradon presented herself, we fell back to the other side of the chasm to figure on our next moves. We were not prepared to face a class four tyterradon, and if we were, we still could not stand against a tyterradon of that power and size. We have fought back many class twos, and a class three only twice, but never a four.”
Sky Marshal Sesanji barked a laugh. “Two. Three. Four. What’s the difference beyond size, really? You should have been able to destroy it, surely, with the might of the mighty Crimson Bloodguard. Did you fail at that too?”
General Strann shot her a hard look. “Engaging a class four tyterradon is suicide. On the first class three, I lost forty percent of my soldiers in a matter of minutes. I don’t waste soldiers on battle tactics that double as insanity to prove my own worth.”
“If they die, then they’ve done their duty.”
“Perhaps according to your battle philosophy, Sky Marshal. Not mine. Instead of ordering meaningless death, I decided to target the summoners that called the Legion forth, with a special attention to those who were tethering the tyterradon to this plane from the green hells. Sever the bonds, and you sever the beast. The taskmaster designated a small scout party to infiltrate enemy lines, find the necrotrancers, and dispatch them. And that is what happened. The tyterradon was de-summoned after only a brief time, leading me to believe that the necrotrancers and the tyterradon were nothing more than a diversion. Once the Iron General realized the tyterradon was off the board, he and his army retreated. It was far too easy to be sound tactics.” General Strann
glared at the sky marshal, expecting her to say something.
The primus cleared his throat. “General, I want you to understand that what you say next will be very decisive in future campaigns.” He fixed his eyes on her. “The Iron General Bastille was present at the battle. He is a traitor and an enemy of the nation-state. Do you agree with this?”
“I do,” General Strann nodded, and it was clear what came next. Any time she faced Bastille, she expected to be questioned about the outcome.
“He is all those things, including a worthy adversary,” the primus continued, “but having had the opportunity to subdue, capture, or kill him, you did not succeed. How do you explain this?”
“My second, Captain Ursin and I toppled Bastille. And as I moved to strike a crippling blow while he was disoriented, the tyterradon attacked.”
“How very convenient,” snarled the sky marshal. “At some point, Commander General, you will admit to this council that your loyalties are divided. How many times have we heard this explanation, or something similar? We’ve heard that you could not take the shot. We’ve heard he escaped without so much as a trace. We’ve heard that you could not engage him while he was in striking range. And on, and on, and on. It sounds to me that the Commander General Ryna Nysnvor Strann is compromised when confronted by the Iron General Bastille. A traitor. A heretic. A demon. And she, being this plane’s greatest commander, which is suspect and debatable, cannot seem to rid us of him,” Sky Marshal Sesanji pointed. “I put before you, her abilities and her fitness to command this army, given the broken and shaky loyalty I’ve just described, coupled with countless questionable past performances.”
