by Jay Swanson
Keaton looked from man to man. Which one was tasked with putting an end to him? Or were all of them in on it. Those with their masks undone grinned at him. Excited. Exultant. Ready for a fight. None of them seemed any wiser to the plans of their superiors. They all looked ready to win a war.
“What are you standing there for, Major? You've got history to make. Winning a war in an afternoon will look impressive on your list of accomplishments, don't you think?”
Major Anders Keaton didn't bother responding. What list of accomplishments? He hefted his rifle on his shoulder and made for the front of the truck. Rogers, if that was really his name, was at his elbow in a flash.
“We're heading due south of this point, sir.” He produced a map printed on a thick plastic that kept it from floundering in the wind. “You can see our lines drawn up over these three hills. Better called dunes, as it were, sir. But we chose this area because there's healthy plant growth throughout. It should provide enough cover for us to make our way to the enemy lines without being seen.”
“And their lines?” Hunters weren't made for this kind of work. Though he supposed there was a first time for everything.
“They're drawn up on these hills here,” Rogers said as he pointed at a series of red dashed lines on the map. “The front is a few miles long. Their artillery is pounding us from behind those.”
They slowed as they made it to the top of the ridge they had parked behind. The noise grew exponentially as the firefight below came into view. Keaton crouched at the edge of the embankment and surveyed the scene. The lines were as clear to him in reality as they were on the map. Elandrian soldiers in carbon gray were spreading out along what looked like a long, wide, shallow valley. On the other side of the valley, troops in forest green spread out to match the movements of their enemies. It seemed suicidally ludicrous to Keaton.
Things looked veritably gridlocked. Pushes made by either side were thrown back contemptuously by overwhelming amounts of gunfire. Keaton's mouth twisted as he took it all in. He looked back at the map Rogers was holding.
“Sir,” the soldier was saying. “We should make for the draw down there. It's where they figure we have our best shot of penetrating their line undetected.”
But the draw he was talking about was flooded with enemy troops on the other side. He could tell simply by their movements on the far embankment. They weren't blind to the threat.
“What about that creek bed down there?” Anders pointed.
“Sir?” Rogers looked to where the major pointed before studying his map again. “It's not on here, sir.”
“Look.” He pointed again. “There's a good chance it wasn't there before, Rogers. Desert streams come and go faster than dunes.”
“But sir, it's running parallel to the battle lines.”
“But it's deep, and it juts between the hills to the west over there.” He pointed to the right. “If we can stay low and move quickly, there's a chance we can make it through on their flank. The fighting is less intense there, which bodes well.”
“Sir, we've been ordered to penetrate the center of their lin–”
“We've been ordered to wipe out their artillery and command center. Objectives and methods are very different things. How far from the city are we now?”
“Three miles from the nearest point.”
“So beyond those hills we should find mostly arid farmlands, correct?”
“Yes sir, bu–”
“Look, Rogers. I don't know you, and I don't know if you've ever been in a fight. But we're being thrown into a mission that reeks of suicide. If I'm gonna die, I'm gonna do it on my own terms. And that means at least attempting to successfully complete my mission.” He paused as he looked at the men he had been assigned. He put on his helmet and lowered the broad, figure-eight visor over his eyes as he continued.
“I don't know any of you, for that matter. But if you want to survive this, you're going to keep your heads low and move fast. At least pretend you earned the uniforms you're wearing. Khrone's Hunters are called ghosts for a reason, so don't get me killed, and I'll lead you as best I can.”
And with that he threw his legs over the edge and slid down the steep embankment. He didn't bother to see if they followed him or not. He didn't care. If he was to be sacrificed, he would at least make a proper show of it.
The low desert bushes did grow thick here. It was a fleeting comfort, however, as stray bullets still snapped and cracked by. He moved close to the ground, sliding as much as he was able. The booming of the distant artillery was audible to him now. He wasn't sure how he hadn't noticed it before.
The creek bed came up faster than he imagined. His heart raced now as he saw corpses scattered between the long ripples in the dunes. The sand took on a deeper, darker color in the valley north of Liscentia as it absorbed the life of the downed soldiers. Guns were firing all around him now. He dropped into the dry creek, moving forward ten paces before stopping to see if his men were with him.
They were a bit slower. Hunters they were not, but they stuck with him well enough. He smiled as he clasped the leather mask around his face. He was made for this, at least. He was a bit stiff from being cooped up in a cell for a few weeks, and he could feel the drag as he ran. But he was still in good shape. He had never been in a full-fledged battle, but he was starting to think he would fit right in. It beat sitting in a dank, cold cell with nothing to do but stare at the darkness. There should be a comm unit in his mask, unless the uniforms were as fake as their contents.
“If you can hear me,” he said as he ran crouched, “Try to keep your heads down. Bullets pass through skulls a lot easier than they do stones. And there are plenty flying through here.”
He could run crouching almost as quickly as he could straight up. At least he kept a decent pace. He wasn't liable to try and sprint like this. But he made good time, clearing the half-mile to where the creek turned left before he'd really had to think about it.
So far so good. Now for the hard part. He slowed as the creek shot to the south. From here he could clearly see the layers of stone that had forced the water to change directions. It left a fairly large area cleared of sand, like a bulbous joint in a scrawny elbow. He kept his back to the southern embankment, and waited for his new squad to catch up.
They were straggling a bit now, but not too much. He had to give them credit. Quick movements like this were something to get used to. At least none of them looked like they were thinking of bolting.
He made motions to watch the banks for prying eyes. He didn't trust the comm units when he couldn't yell into them. He slid around the edge and into the dry pool, there was a good section of curved embankment before he would get a clean view of what lay ahead. The fighting was far less fierce here, and as things intensified to the east, he hoped more men would be pulled towards the center of the line.
He drew his shoulder up with the last corner. This breath was harder to draw than most. He forced it into his lungs anyways, and sighed it silently out. Then he looked carefully around the bend. There was a barricade about one hundred yards away. It looked like it had been hastily thrown together, but the sheer walls of the dry bed made it a veritable death trap. Not the kind of place one wanted to get caught.
“Tallheart,” he hissed as he lowered himself back behind cover. “To me, quickly.”
“Sir,” came the crackled response in his left ear.
Tallheart, who wasn't exceptionally large, appeared on his right within moments.
“You have any ranged explosives?”
“Aye, sir.” Tallheart swung his pack around and produced a short, broad-nosed weapon that looked like a rifle-turned-cannon.
“What's the range of that thing?”
“Two hundred yards, easy.”
“Perfect. There's a barricade about one hundred yards down the creek bed. When we get half-way there I want you to knock it apart for us.”
“Cake, sir.”
“The rest of you, on me.”
“Arms,” he whispered. Canvas straps scraped leather and metal clacked on plastic as his order was obeyed and rifles were unwrapped. “When we get to the other side of that barrier, don't stop for anything. Clear the area as we come up then sweep the eastern hill and secure the first gun. We'll work our way through the rest from there.” He took one last breath. “Shoot anything that moves.”
And with that he was off. He stayed low, hoping his men were smart enough to do likewise.
Ninety yards. He wanted to sprint, to get out of this miniature ravine, but he had to keep his cool.
Eighty yards. Let the explosions be the surprise.
Seventy yards. He would follow hot on their heels.
Sixty yards. Let's win a damned war.
Fifty yards. The barrier evaporated in a concussion that sent debris flying in every direction.
Forty yards. Keaton righted himself and sprinted hard. His legs churned as he flew towards his death with zeal.
Thirty yards. Dark green soldiers appeared, confusion written in their scattered movements.
Twenty yards. More concussions followed as Tallheart cleared the surrounding area with precision. Looks like someone knows what they're doing after all.
Ten yards. Keaton almost jumped as he cut through the dust cloud like a gust of wind. His rifle was in his hands as he slowed and appeared on the other side in ghostly silence.
Major Anders Keaton flipped his rifle's setting to burst-fire. Let's leave our bloody mark, then.
TWENTY-FIVE
RAIN HELD HER HANDS OVER THE FRESH WOUND IN ARDIN'S CHEST. She pressed as hard as she dared, trying to stem the tide of the thick red heat that worked its way through her fingers. She clenched her eyes as she prayed. How can this be possible? He can't die... he won't.
But she wasn't so certain any more. Cid joined her, but he wasn't watching Ardin. He had the Cleaver in his hands, standing between the madness unfolding in the temple and the boy he had sworn to protect. She could swear the blade was glowing blue ever so faintly.
She wept then. Not for Ardin, not even for her men, but for her hopes. For the dreams that were being swept away as her enemy won his victory. They were doomed. Every last one of them. And the oracles, the prophecies... whatever they wanted to call them. They were all proving to be lies. With the death of Ardin came that of her faith. And faith was all she had left.
“Your Highness.” She could hear Cid speaking over his shoulder. “We need to leave this place.”
She didn't care to hear him. Even if she believed her men capable of betraying her, she was losing her ability to care. When Cid had reappeared after so long, she had dared believe. Dared to revive her hopes. Someone was coming; someone had come. Someone would free them from the Demon's grip. Someone would dislodge him permanently from their world.
“Now!” Cid's voice was lost to her in the chorus of her own torment.
When she had seen Ardin heal himself, a window opened even deeper into those prophecies than she had ever understood. She saw the salvation promised. And then he had unleashed himself only a day before. Thrown himself completely at her enemies to save her. He almost gave his life in the process.
And now is it to be all for naught? For nothing? “Is this all you brought me here for?” She yelled into the night. “Is this what you would have us believe when all there is in the end is failure and death?”
And then her ears popped and she was thrown to the ground. A violent thrumming noise like the release of an arrow from the string followed the change of pressure in the room. Everything grew quiet as the fighting died down instantly. The men gasped as they were thrown off balance.
Rain rolled onto her back, attempting to keep from rolling too much over Ardin's broken body. To her shock and surprise, she found herself staring at a floating figure who must have been at least eight feet tall. His ethereal wings emanated a white glow scarcely tinged with blue as they stretched to fill the hall of the tiny temple. Thickly armored arms crossed his ornately decorated chest as his broad hood and low, pointed face mask hid his face from view. Everything about him spoke weight and power, and yet he floated as lightly as a dream.
“I don't believe the Creator to be a liar,” he said to Rain as casually as if she had asked him directly. “But I'm afraid I'm beginning to see how you humans might misinterpret his intentions.”
Behind him, the bloodied remnants of her troop scattered and scurried to the edges of the room. The heavenly figure's glow managed to illuminate many of them still.
“Cid.” It turned to the Old Guardsman standing off to the side. “It has been a long time.”
The old man managed little more than a nod. He seemed as flustered as the rest.
“As for you, young Renault.” An armored hand pointed gently in her direction. “I need you to get off our young friend there. I am afraid his wounds are grievous enough without your trampling him.”
“He isn't healing,” she heard herself blather. “Cid says he always heals! Doesn't he, Cid? Tell him!”
“Dear child.” The voice was surprisingly soft for the menacing presence it was attached to. What she could see of his ornate leather armor was inlaid with golden runes and images of roaring lions. All of it was overlain with plates of gilded steel. It was polished like a mirror. The leather-bound hilts of two swords jutted out at angles between his shoulders and his head. Their pommels looked to be formed in gold after roaring lions as well. “His power to heal has left him.”
“It... it has?” She couldn't help but stutter at the statement.
“You have been visited by a particularly undesirable guest.” He turned, effortless in his motions as he alighted on the stone tile. His wings folded loosely behind him. The cloak that flowed from his shoulders rippled as he walked towards the fire pit. There he stopped and knelt, reaching to the bottom of the shallow recess. When he stood, he held between his fingers what looked like a shard of obsidian. He walked back to Rain where he knelt next to Ardin. “This is what such guests leave in their wake, though I fear he may yet remain closer than you know.”
The interior of the stone glowed red faintly as he held it up to her. It was strangely beautiful, mesmerizing in its slow pulse. And then he stood and threw it through one of the gaping holes in the ceiling.
He stared after it a moment as if to watch it go. “A device of the Relequim, designed to repel the Atmosphere upon which the power of the Magi relies. It was not strong, but it was sufficient.” The being turned to look at her again. “He will heal now.”
And he did. Ardin's eyes fluttered open and grew sharp again as Rain watched. And then he closed them. A white mist formed gently around his body as the cuts and scratches closed up. She gasped as broken ribs jerked back into place. Suddenly he took a deep breath, his back arching as a smile crossed his face. And then he sat up.
He stretched for a moment before the awareness of being watched dawned on him. He looked from face to face until he rested on the winged warrior before him.
“Tristram?”
“The same.” The voice resonated in the hall with a veiled power.
“What are you doing here?” He seemed familiar with the being.
“My brothers would have me believe that I am interfering.”
“I was getting the feeling that was all you did,” Ardin smiled as he stretched some more.
“I would keep it from becoming a habit. However you seem to be bent on preventing me from attaining that goal.” The being knelt near Ardin, causing Rain to scoot back subconsciously. “Are you well?”
“Well enough... I think someone stabbed me.” He sounded hurt by the memory.
“Worse things are coming, Ardin. The foundations of this world are shaking. You must head west if we are to keep them from crumbling completely.”
The back of Rain's neck sprouted goosebumps at the words. But Ardin seemed unfazed.
&nb
sp; “Why? We were planning on heading west after we do some reconaissan–”
“I doubt very much that this party to whom you have attached yourself will be of much use after tonight. Whatever has passed, they are no longer fit. In any case, let me save you unnecessary exposure to the enemy and his territory. The Relequim is amassing his army to the north of here. He plans to take it east over the sea and strike a deathblow to your people while the West is on its heels. Where once he failed, he is determined to succeed.”
“But the cliffs... the defenses. They're still intact.”
“It will not matter if there is no one left to man them, Ardin. But that is not your concern. You must move west and stop the Relequim from returning. You must at the very least buy time so that his plans may not bear fruit in his intended season.”
“Stop the what? Wha... why can't you do it yoursel–”
“While I am not sworn away from interfering with your path, Ardin Vitalis, I am sworn never to cross that bridge. Not so long as the seal remains intact am I or my brothers allowed on the nameless mountain.”
Cid stepped in, his tongue rediscovered. “You spoke of the defenses, the cliffs. How could they stand unmanned against an invasion? They're designed–”
“To require a minimal garrison, indeed. But it will hardly matter if those meant to garrison them do not live to fulfill their duty.”
MAJOR ANDERS KEATON MOVED STEADILY AHEAD. There had been a small camp here, the river bed appeared to have been an equipment cache. It looked like little more than scattered debris now. A soldier lurched drunkenly from an overturned baggage pile. He stumbled, disoriented from the explosions. His ears were bleeding. Keaton's gun made a quiet pap pap and the man fell dead.
He was surrounded by his men now, scanning every angle, advancing as a unit. They had a level of precision to their movements. Perhaps they had tactical training of some sort. Maybe they hadn't been intended to fail after all. That notion brought its own host of worries.
