by T. C. Edge
"But, President Orlando, they are a supreme fighting force," says Commander Hendricks. "Why not utilise them?"
She doesn't provide answer for an extended moment. I can see her aversion to them in her eyes, the distrust she still has of them. I know she doesn't like using them unless in an absolute emergency.
"We have plenty of other soldiers to call upon for a job like this," she says. "The Stalkers will remain here, defending the city as is their remit. Colonel Hatcher, feel free to engage yourself, if that is your will. But your men remain here."
Her words are final, and not questioned. I find myself breaking the awkward silence that descends, looking up toward the form of Ares, shining in his armour, his left eye cut with a gruesome scar that runs vertically down his cheek. He still has vision in that eye, I've learned. The scar just provides him with a particularly grim and intimidating facade, particularly when added to his great width and height, standing all but seven feet tall if my estimations are correct.
"What about you, Commander Ares?" I find myself asking him, my voice lifting with an obvious tone of hope, if not pleading. "Will you help us?"
Everyone else looks to him, their expressions equally expectant. Even Colonel Hatcher, brutal and experienced fighter though he is, cannot help but look upon the great man with a measure of profound admiration and respect.
"I will do as this city requires of me, as Emperor Domitian ordered," he says, his great voice rumbling from within his thick chest. "We know a little of these Olympians back home. I would be interested to test myself against them."
"You...know about them?" I ask, raising my eyes.
"Little more than you do, Lady Brie," Ares says. "We have garnered a few details here and there over the years, while gathering gladiators and warriors from around the globe. Never once, however, have we obtained one of their own for the games, given their isolation and seclusion to the far north west of this continent. They city is said to be surrounded in fog, very hard to find, and bordered by a great expanse of land that they control, patrolling their vast borders with an iron rule." His eyes glint, temporarily shedding some of their darkness. "They are," he continues, slowly, "said to harbour some of the most formidable warriors in the world, their so-called Heralds of War. I would be interested in testing those titles for myself."
I smile, bristling with a strange excitement at the prospect, at having this man as an ally.
Thank God he's here, I think, staring up at him.
"So, you're in?" I ask.
"As I say. Whatever is required of me."
"And your men?"
"If you shall have it so," he says, deep voice causing the very air to tremble. "However, I will first need details of this plan. I will not risk the lives of my men unnecessarily. I told Emperor Domitian that I would protect this city with my life if it came to it, but I will not waste the lives of my men on a plot that is weakly thought out and uncertain." He looks around the room. "These are your lands, not theirs. You know them well, and know how to defend them. So, tell me...what do you have in mind?"
The room falls to a short silence. It is Secretary Burns, lead military figure, who answers first.
"As we have determined, their likely course will be through the woods once inhabited by the Bear-Skin tribe. We will be able to prepare an ambush there. Going on what the Fangs have seen and reported, it takes a large number of their soldiers, primarily Brutes and these so-called Forgers, to create new paths for them to travel. We have to assume that their main standing army will remain behind while this route is being forged. We can choose to attack either the forward party, which will likely be protected as it works through the woods, or assault the camp itself with a larger force of our own."
"Which will also be protected," adds Rycard, now Deputy Commander of the City Guard, and a close friend of mine to boot. "The camp itself will be under guard, with lookouts posted around this convoy you speak of. It will be in the open, we can assume, and against a much larger force."
"You're suggesting we attack in the woods?" asks Commander Hendricks.
"I am, sir," says Rycard respectful as ever. "Those woods are knotted and tangled as we've heard. We can create chaos, put the fear into them. Make the bastards think twice."
"And...when will they reach these woods?" asks Ares, turning his eyes around. They fall to me, and Burns in particular, both of us having looked into West's mind.
I also share a look with the Defence Secretary.
"Tonight," I say, getting the nod from Burns. "The Fangs engaged with the enemy last night. They were a day out from the old Bear-Skin forest at that point."
Everyone looks straight to the clock.
"That gives us little time to prepare," says Hendricks. "We have six or so hours until we start losing daylight. How long will it take to reach those woods?"
I feel a slight trepidation begin to rise inside me. "It depends," I say. "In vehicles, hours. Many hours."
"Too long," says Burns. "The only way of getting there in time will be by using Dashers and hybrids with Dasher speed. Commander Ares, how many of your men are suitably gifted?"
"Every one of them has superior speed," says the Neoroman immediately.
"And we have how many soldiers in the City Guard like that?" he asks, turning to Hendricks.
"Hundreds," says Hendricks. "I'm not sure on precise numbers. We have many in training still, not yet capable of such a fight."
"Then those with experience? We only want battle hardened fighters here."
"Two to three hundred, roughly."
"And we have the Nameless fighters and hybrids too," I say. "Those who chose not to fight with the City Guard specifically. We've got a couple hundred of those."
"Might I suggest we engage my Stalkers, in that case," comes in Colonel Hatcher. "I have a hundred supremely gifted killers at my disposal. President Orlando, they have been ordered to act only under your direction. Now might be a good time."
She remains stern of eye and expression as she regards him. "I have made my position clear, Colonel," she says. "The Stalkers will remain here."
Hatcher shakes his head lightly, letting out the smallest of exasperated sighs, but doesn't question the order.
"That should be plenty," says Burns, resuming overall control. "We will only need a hundred, maybe two. This is a smash and grab operation, ladies and gentlemen. It isn't an all out battle with all we've got. We will do well with smaller numbers of highly effective fighters. A mix of ours and, if you're willing, Commander Ares, your Neoromans. We know these lands, these woods. This is a fight that is stacked in our favour."
His words are inspiring, glueing together our purpose.
"And the ambush itself?" asks Ares. "If they're smart, they will have sentries on duty, watching for enemies. It would be wise for them to create a wide perimeter to provide warning if there is trouble. They will need to be silenced if we are to be effective. That will be difficult if they have those capable of advanced detection."
"Burn them down," I find myself whispering.
The eyes of the room draw back to me, my mind working up a plan.
"Burn the woods?" asks Burns.
I begin nodding. "Those woods are dry and closely packed," I say, thinking quickly. "Fire will spread fast and cause disarray. It'll scatter and confuse them, and the smoke will render their Hawks, Sniffers, and Bats less effective."
"We have incendiaries," says Rycard, nodding along, his remaining left eye - his other was lost back during the war - glinting with a new intensity. "We can set them apart at intervals, have them all go off at the same time. The woods are large enough that we'll be able to determine the exact route of the enemy, laying a trap before they get there."
"And they're undetectable," I say. "They emit no smell that a Sniffer would trace. If we hide them well, they shouldn't be discovered until it's too late."
The energy in the room grows excited, everyone appearing to be in on the plan. And, well, there's little scope now even if
they're not. We don't have much time. We have to act immediately.
"Any objections?" asks Burns, looking around. "Further thoughts?"
No one says a word.
"Excellent," he continues. "Then we shall gather our forces. Choose only the most effective Dashers, ideally hybrids. Commander Ares, how many of your warriors might you be willing to deploy?"
The Neoroman considers it a second, scratching his wide, dimpled chin. "I will be happy to use half," he says. "The other half will remain here should the battle go ill."
We all know that Ares has a contingent of one hundred men with him, every one of them a fine, hugely gifted Neoroman warrior, a number of them former gladiators, and even champions, of the Imperial Games.
Burns smiles. "That would be most helpful," he says. "Might I ask for one thing, however?"
Ares nods.
"It would be best if they shed your traditional armour and robes. They are effective, I know, but perhaps too conspicuous for a fight like this."
"That isn't a problem, Secretary Burns," Ares says.
"And what about the fire itself?" asks Hatcher, still brooding a little bit over the non-usage of his Stalkers. "If is spreads among the enemy, it may well engulf us too. We will require suitable protection."
"And we'll have it," says Burns. "We have been developing new combat armour that has fire-proof qualities. They will be worn as a precaution. When the incendiaries go off, releasing the inferno, we will be at a safe distance, away from its primary charge." He looks again to Ares. "It might also be useful to have one of your Wind Elementals stationed among each unit of troops," he suggests. "They will be able to redirect the course of the fire as it closes in, diverting it from our men if required."
Ares nods. "I was thinking something similar, Secretary Burns."
"Good, thank you, Ares. Your presence here is most heartening to us all."
Ares dips his muscular neck in response.
"Now, if there's nothing else, then we must get moving immediately," concludes Burns. "I will coordinate from the City Guard HQ. Each of you, gather your men and get them prepared. We have no further time to waste."
With that, the room disbands, the various commanders hurrying off to gather their men, Hendricks, Hatcher, and Ares all supremely gifted Dashers, among many other things.
Rycard, being just a Hawk - or, really, half-Hawk as he calls himself, lingers behind with Burns.
"Sir, what do you want from me?" he asks, standing to attention.
"Ah, Deputy Winchester," Burns says. "Please head down and aid in the gathering of men, armour and weapons. See that they're suitably outfitted and have enough incendiary devices."
"Yes, sir," says Rycard, rushing off.
Burns then looks to me, though glances first at President Orlando, as if needing her consent to allow her dear granddaughter to join the fun. Well, those days have passed now. I know she worries about me, but the fact is, this is my role now. I've been on enough missions to have grown hardened by it all. Like Zander before me, a part of me even yearns for these fights.
"Brie, well...do what you do best," he says. "Wreak havoc out there. This is a fine opportunity to test your new powers."
I manage a defiant, wicked grin at that, though hear my grandmother's voice off to the side.
"Be careful, Brie," she says. "Don't overstretch yourself. These powers of yours are still developing. Always be mindful of that."
"Of course, grandma," I say. "I am in control."
She smiles and moves towards me, drawing me into a hug. "Be safe, darling," she says. "Try to stay near to Ares if you can."
I nod and slip away, my eyes falling upon Adryan only briefly. I can see his concern, the strained nature of his eyes and expression. It's always the case when I go out to fight. Now, perhaps, he'll be more worried than ever.
And, as ever, we don't say goodbye or good luck. We just...avoid it. It is the elephant in the room, looming in the corner. But no one ever looks its way.
With that, I step from the room, feeling strong, resilient, grateful for all my recent endurance training.
Because tonight, I know, I'm going to need it.
9
Brie
I stand in the darkest knots of the forest, even my Hawk-eyes struggling to penetrate the shroud here. Away in the distance, though muffled by the trees and the fog and the long span of space, I can hear the faint noise of work.
Of trees being ripped from the earth.
Of a path being carved where one should never exist.
Of soldiers marching about, trampling through these woods once lived in by the Bear-Skins, reforging them as if they're their own.
I have travelled through here before, several times now, working through the tight, claustrophobic spaces, watching out for the Shadows of the Outerlands, and the great bears and beasts that roam these lands. Oh, I know these woods like the back of my hand, gaining knowledge of areas I haven't trodden by searching the minds of those who have.
I have a picture of it all now, vast and expansive. A map, now, added to by the locations of the incendiary devices hidden among the brush and trees. Waiting, just waiting to be set off as soon as the enemy step into our trap.
I haven't been close enough to them yet to catch a glimpse, but can sense a force of hundreds in the forest right now. It's hard to determine just who they are, besides the great Brutes and Forgers crafting their way through the forest. We have to assume that they have heavy protection with them too, that several of their leaders, perhaps even these Heralds of War, may be among them.
That sends a shiver of alarm down my spine, imagining just what they'll be capable of. Do they have any men to match Ares? Anyone, even, to better him?
The thought is concerning, though the presence of Ares, as well as Colonel Hatcher, and to a lesser extent, Commander Hendricks, is comforting. The Neoroman soldiers, I know, are formidable, and some of our City Guard soldiers and grizzled Nameless hybrids and warriors could be a fine match for more.
Our overall troop here numbers a little under two hundred, all grouped into smaller units and spaced out around a large perimeter. I find myself with my own troop under my charge, a mixture of Dashers from the City Guard, hybrids from the Nameless, and several Neoroman soldiers all of whom are hybrids too.
The most prominent among them, and one of the senior leaders under Ares's command, is a young captain called Marcus, blessed with the traditional dark, curly hair of his people, the tanned olive skin and warm brown eyes that gives him a particularly exotic feel. Along with his accent, it's a combination that has made him a popular figure around the city, along with the rest of his men. They have, in fact, become mini celebrities now, the people ever intrigued to find out more about these foreign warriors from a fabled city so far away.
I've spent some time with Marcus over the last few weeks, the captain often coming along whenever I've ventured out to mete out justice upon any of the marauding gangs of bandits who roam the nearby lands. He's a hybrid, like the rest of his brothers, and a former champion of the Imperial Games, like Ares and Kira herself. He won it, apparently, five years ago, and has since risen in prominence through the Imperial Guard, becoming one of its senior and most gifted figures.
And, well, doesn't he know it. With an easy smile, relaxed manner, and bucketloads of confidence, he's quite different from many of the other Neoromans, Ares included, who are often serious and stern, not completely without warmth, necessarily, but certainly hardened by war and their experience of it.
Leading our little group alongside me, Captain Marcus now lifts a grin, his chocolate eyes glowing vibrantly with a brewing excitement. It's another thing I've learned about him and his people; they are truly born for war, and take great pleasure in it. Each and every one of them seems to relish the battle, the idea of testing themselves and, if it came down to it, dying an honourable death in service of their nation and people.
It is, frankly, a godsend that they are here right now.
"You know the plan, Marcus," I return.
"I forgot," he says. "Wait for the signal and then attack?"
"Yes," I say flatly. "As has been said many times already."
He grins, ever playful. "Right. Just making absolutely sure."
My eyes narrow, flicking off to the left of our position. I can't quite see them from here, but know that Ares's unit is off through the woods in that direction. Hatcher leads another, on the other side, with Hendricks doing the same. We have an additional four led by some of the other higher profile leaders in the army, our two hundred or so soldiers split up into groups of about twenty five each, all ready to close in when the time comes.
I turn my eyes down to my watch. Not long now.
Another few minutes pass, Marcus growing ever more inpatient as we continue to wait. It's the first time, actually, that I've seen him out of his silver armour and red robes. He certainly suits the black-green combat armour that he's now adorning just as well.
"This is the difference," he whispers, "between actual war and fighting in the arena. There's no waiting around when you're on the sand. You step out, face your opponent, and then fight. I miss the structure sometimes," he sighs.
I find myself engaging with him this time, my interest in all things Neorome, and the Imperial Games especially, drawing my attention.
"Who did you have to beat to become Champion?" I ask. "In the final bout, I mean. Was it a straight one-on-one fight?"
"Two-on-one," he returns, eyes turning nostalgic. "Couple of fighters taken from over to the east, somewhere in old Asia. They were twins, came as a duo, allowed to fight like that to spice things up."
