by Jay Swanson
They swung up into the camp as the dry bed fanned out and the ground leveled. Each man had his gun forward, moving smoothly, silently. More green-clad soldiers began appearing from the rubble. Some were disoriented, others well enough prepared to fight. All of them died the same. Spurts of blood shot into the air among crippled screams as the soldiers' guns barked quietly in the carnage. Tallheart eventually caught up and joined them.
Keaton motioned for two men to watch the western hill for snipers as the rest swept the one they were on. They moved quickly, sparing no time as Tallheart took two men with him over a low lip to the first gun. The team operating the gun hadn't noticed their comrades' peril. They scarcely had time to recognize their own before they lay dying.
Keaton moved in the center of the line that swept the hill in a long arc. Sandbags and shallow trenches made up scattered defensive positions between the guns. Keaton motioned for his men to clear them out as he ran over to check on Tallheart. The dull cracks of rifles were echoed by piffs and paffs of sand and flesh as the major reached the gun. It was a tall, silvery thing that rotated on a set of hinges set on a platform the size of the truck that had carried him here. It looked ungainly, but menacingly powerful.
Tallheart was almost done rigging up a series of putty-based explosives. “This should give them a right show, sir. Let's hope it doesn't bring them all down on us.”
Like it would matter if it did. Keaton kept his pessimism to himself. “Just disable it, Tallheart. Something subtle but effective. We don't need to draw attention.”
“Aye, sir.” The disappointment in his voice seemed comical to Keaton. These boys had never been bloodied.
He ran towards the sandbags as Tallheart finished up. The squad had taken them easily enough and were waiting for him when he got there.
“Casualties?” he asked Rogers as he slid down into place.
“All theirs, sir.”
“I'm impressed.”
“You did say to pretend like we'd earned these uniforms, sir.”
Keaton nodded curtly. He didn't want them getting too pleased with themselves. Not yet. There were still at least two guns to blow. “Let's give you an opportunity to stop pretending then.” He motioned for three of them to move on to the left and up the next hill. He wanted the high ground if there was any to be had. He signaled for the rest to cover them.
Tallheart came running up as his first explosives cracked the air. The impact was underwhelming, leaving the barrel of the gun bent and frayed but doing little else.
“That was disappointing,” one of the men grunted.
“I thought you said you packed explosives, Smallfart,” leered another.
“They won't be shooting anything unless they want to eat their own shrapnel.”
“It'll be enough.” Keaton looked over the sandbags to check on the progress of the three he had sent ahead. They dropped among some shrubs and disappeared just below the ridge of the hill. He hoped they were good shots. “Let's move.”
They cleared the second gun much as they had the first. The fighting was clearly more intense just beyond it, towards the center of the line, and it served as a fantastic diversion. Tallheart rigged the gun to blow as the would-be Hunters cleared out a group of parked transports. The trucks were loosely guarded, and soon they were ready to continue on.
“They're going to notice quiet guns sooner or later,” Rogers said as Keaton studied his map.
“They already have,” Keaton said without looking up. “Take a look at the next hill.”
There were men moving over the ridge to reclaim the gun. He had already seen them coming. The question was what to do next. His men weren't ready for a proper fight, not against superior numbers behind enemy lines. He had to move them out or risk losing them all.
“We're going to Liscentia,” he said finally.
“What? Sir!” Rogers was clearly appalled. “We're to clear out these guns.”
“Well that's not happening any more, is it?” Keaton thrust the thick plastic map back into the soldier's hands. “We're about to lose all of our momentum, Rogers. As soon as we rock back on our heels we're dead men.”
“But si–”
“They won't see us coming if we shoot straight for the heart. Knock out the command post and what good are a few measly artillery guns? Take three men and gather as many Liscentian uniforms as you can. Be quick about it.”
He didn't wait to hear any further disagreements. He called for Tallheart as he ordered his men towards the farthest transports. “We're taking two of these,” he said to the demo man as they filed past. “I want the rest to blow when we do.”
“That sounds like more fun.” Tallheart must have been grinning behind his mask.
“And feel free to make it a nice, flashy explosion. The more distracting the better.”
“That's what I like to hear, sir.” Tallheart moved on without any further encouragement, taking another soldier with him to get the work done faster.
Keaton moved to join his men at the trucks. Rogers tried to complain one final time before being ordered into the back of one of the transports. Keaton swung into the front seat next to another masked soldier who was already shifting it into gear.
“You're the one they call Slim, aren't you?” It was hard enough to tell the men you knew apart in their armor, let alone total strangers with no markings.
“Aye, sir.”
“You almost look like that armor was meant to fit you.”
“Thank you sir.” The man released the braking mechanism as bullets began to ping the metal around them. “Let me just say it's an honor, sir, and I agree with your decision to move to the next objective. Whatever Rogers says.”
Keaton didn't need the approval of his subordinates, but it was nice to hear nonetheless. Tallheart ran past the driver's window, slapping the hood as he went. They were good to go. Slim, as they called him, waited until he heard the tailgate slam before backing up past the other trucks. He turned it around as quickly as the beast could manage, kicking up more dust than Keaton would have liked. They jerked to a halt as Slim ground the gears and made for the Fool's Gate.
They were off at speed, bullets whizzing past but posing little threat. Keaton watched in the mirror as the green soldiers took cover among what must have been twenty or so parked trucks. Some were getting in as if to make chase. They never got the chance, as a wave of explosions rocked the motionless convoy.
The large fuel tanks on each truck erupted, sending the liquid burning into the air as it ignited and rolled into the sky. Keaton smiled. That would stir up some confusion. He only hoped it drew their own forces into the fight as well. He didn't need an entire army chasing him down without support.
The two trucks sped towards Liscentia like beggars to a feast. After about a mile, when he was certain they weren't yet being followed, he ordered Slim to stop the truck. The second truck slowed and stopped with them behind a low hill. They couldn't yet see the walls of Liscentia, but there was no sense taking unnecessary risks.
“Find a uniform that fits,” he yelled to both trucks as he ran to the back of his own. “I want you all covered in green before we get to the city.”
The green pants and jackets of the enemy soldiers slid on easily enough over the tight-fitting armor of the Hunters. Keaton smiled.
“Get those helmets off, too. You're all injured Liscentians, so play the part.”
“Do we get to go whoring when we get to the city?” someone quipped.
“Don't play the part too well,” Anders said with a smile.
“Sir,” came a nervous voice.
“What?” Keaton turned. It was Tallheart.
“As much as I hate to admit it, I don't think my explosions are what's keeping them from following.”
“What are you talking about?” Keaton asked, but all Tallheart did was point the way they had come.
Keaton turned, walking back towards the battle. He squinted as he finished doing up the brass buttons that ran down
the left breast of his green jacket. The dust from their flight obscured his vision, but he was able to make out movement. A lot of movement.
He called for field glasses, and was quickly handed a pair. He focused them in, until he realized what he was looking at.
“Oh God,” he said as he lowered the glasses. “We have to get back. Those things will tear them all to shreds.”
“What things, sir?” The voice was accentuated by the clicking of light metal springs and locking mechanisms.
Keaton turned to see Rogers pointing his sidearm at his head.
“Looks like I might lose control at any point here, sir.” His finger was already squeezing the trigger. “So I'm gonna have to pull the plug on this now.”
TWENTY-SIX
FOR A CREATURE TO WHOM THE CREATOR SAW FIT TO GIVE NO WINGS, FLYING WAS A RARE EXPERIENCE. For the Shadow King's part, upon experiencing that which he was never intended to, he wished the ability had been given him. In spite of being carried, it was possibly the most freeing experience of his existence. He relished every minute.
The Truan Empire had been utterly laid waste. From the air, it looked as though they were passing over a foreign planet. The ground was comprised of a dazzling array of the shades of gray. The hills looked like hedgehogs, all gray and black and covered in the lifeless spines that had once been trees. The rivers still flowed, though they were slow. Lazy. Bogged down with ash.
The Titans hadn't lied. They were saving him weeks of travel. Potentially months, had he been forced to go on foot and avoid detection. What was amazing to him was how the things never seemed to tire. They had been flying for over two days and hadn't so much as stopped to sleep. The Shadow King himself had never needed sleep until he had taken on Silvers as a host. Now it came as a grudging necessity, but one he could do without for extensive amounts of time if he had to.
And somehow sleeping among the clouds and stars seemed fitting. But the gentle pleasure of drifting to sleep was rocked by the horrors of his dreams. Nothing showed itself to him, but he was haunted by ghosts and hunted by guilt. Terror even gripped him at times. Shapeless. Mists and colors. Lights and darkness. He woke sweating more than once.
If the Titan carrying him noticed, it never said anything. It just flew into the west. Always into the west.
On the third morning, as the aches in his arms began to truly gnaw at him, green appeared on the horizon. It grew steadily as the sun stretched its fingers towards the dark border of land and sky. As they descended he could see the mountains grow in the distance. Reality came swirling up with the ground; it was time.
“I'll leave you here, then.” The Titan dropped him as he might a dead fish. Neither of them so much as touched the ground. “The high road is north by a mile. I believe you know the way.”
“How heavily is it guarded?” The Shadow King asked as the Titans began to fly off.
“Beware Renault's Chaplains. The rest should give you little trouble.” And they were gone. Always together. He wondered if they had ever lost sight of one another since the day they lost their brother to the Cleaver.
The Shadow King had once fought alongside Renault's Chaplains, even if it was only in one battle. They were fierce, deeply religious men who expressed their calling in defending the realm. If they were still the same white-armored, banner toting rogue knights he remembered, he would do well to listen to the Titan's advice. Who knew what kinds of tricks they had been taught to deal with the Shadow should they return?
He started walking north, angling west through the hills as he sought the high road. It was one of the main highways in the Western Kingdom, named for the heights it reached as it approached Islenda. The thought of the Chaplaincy brought back a lot of memories. He couldn't help but think of the last time he had fought with them, their heavy white plate armor splattered red with blood. Most of them used warhammers, some even bore axes. Everything they carried was bleached heavily until it shone a dull white. Save their red banners.
They had told him the flitting cloth represented the blood they owed. For the sins they had committed. For those they had yet to commit.
“No one deserves to wear naught but white,” their old commander had said the day before he died. “None can claim such purity.” So the leather collars around their necks were red. As was the thin mail they wore just under their heavy breastplates. Many had subtle devices inscribed on their shields or in the plate they wore. If it wasn't for the vastly arrayed styles and makes of their armor, they would have been impossible to tell apart. They appeared inhumanly massive on their gilded mounts.
The Shadow King wouldn't stick to the high road for long. He was glad that the Demon's advance had come so far, it made for a short trip by foot. He simply needed to get through the pass they called Albentine, it would take him to the broad vale that housed Islenda at its westernmost point. He would break north long before that, however. If he stuck to the shadows of the mountains, he should be able to get to the pass to the nameless mountain unseen. Then he would storm the town of Ilthuln to free the Relequim. But first he would have to break the Guardians of the Tomb.
That was when the real trouble would begin.
TRISTRAM HAD LEFT AS QUICKLY AS HE HAD COME. He seems to like doing that, Ardin reflected. He sat on a low broken wall just outside of the temple as Rain's men cleaned up their mess. They were taut as catgut, and it left Ardin unsettled. More than that. The events of the night troubled him deeply.
Whatever that stone had been, some sort of MARD by the sound of it, there had been more to it than simple Atmospheric repulsion. It had brought a madness with it, one that had almost cost them everything. But with Branston killed in the fighting, he hoped that they were in the clear.
“Wish I could heal up as quickly as you,” Shill said as he sat down next to Ardin on the wall.
Ardin didn't respond. He didn't really feel like talking to anyone, even if Shill had saved his life.
“So we're going to head west then,” the old man continued. He grunted every time he moved, the bandages around his chest barely permitting him to do so. Drops of blood were ever on his lips. “I can't believe it...”
“West is the way we were always going to head, isn't it?”
“Not that, boy, no. The Brethren. I can't believe we were visited by one. It was... noteworthy to say the least.”
“He's all flash and dash, Tristram.” Ardin's choices were obvious, though few. He needed to head to Islenda as quickly as possible. Whatever was going to happen, he was going to be there. The sky began to change hue as the sun threatened its advance.
Cid came over and stood behind them silently. “I need to talk to my lad, there, Shill. If'n ya don't mind.”
“Of course.” Shill stood tenderly, testing his weight before hobbling back towards the little temple. “Glad you're still with us, Ardin.”
“Right bastard, that Branston. Knew there was somethin' wrong with 'im from the get go.” Cid took Shill's vacated seat.
Ardin waited in silence until Shill was well away. He never broke his stare from the horizon. “I have to do this alone, Cid.”
“What are you talking about, lad?”
“I have to go to Islenda. Alone. Today.”
“Lad, it's a long ride from here, and dangerous.”
“It'll be longer with this bunch. Half of them are injured now.” He looked Cid in the eyes. “Shill can't even stand up straight. And the fact remains that I can't trust any of them. Not after tonight.”
“They'll never let you through Albentine alone, lad. They've built some mighty defenses up there. Tall towers with gates betwixt 'em. You'll ne'er make it through.”
Ardin looked off at the warming horizon again, mouth compressing into a frown as he worked it through. “I'll take Rain, then. We need her to raise the alarm in the West in any case.”
“And you mean to leave me behind?” Cid was indignant.
“Those people we left behind, the slaves. They won't ever make it to the Western Kingd
om in time. A unit can't move faster than it's slowest member, right? Their slowest members are old women with bent legs, Cid. They need to be found, and redirected.”
“To where, lad?” Cid had never seen Ardin so certain of anything. Something had changed in him.
“Take them back to the coast. Pray that Donovan comes like you asked.”
“Paul? Aye, I pray that most hours of the day. But should we be caught...”
“Drive south to where we landed. Hopefully the Demon is too focused on his invasion to spare any forces to chase you.”
“You don't know the Demon, do you lad? His sole mind is destruction. Once it was to rule, but no more. He won't let us walk away so easy.”
“Then hope he doesn't know where you are.” Ardin hopped off the wall and faced the old man. “You can't come with me on this one, Cid.”
“Why not?” The old man exploded. “How can you be so bloody certain?”
“I'm different, Cid. I'm not wholly human any more, try as I might to deny that fact... I was made for the task at hand.” He was struggling to remember. “Something Tristram said... or the Greater Being. They're one and the same though, aren't they? It's confusing.”
He sighed. “I can't have vengeance, and I can't bring back the people I love. But I can stand in the gap, Cid. I can do that for these people, but I have to do it alone. And even if I didn't, those people need you more than I do. They practically worship you, Cid. If you were to lead them, they would follow. If you were to rally their protectors, they would be safe.”
“Lad, I swore to protect the Magi. To protect you...”
Ardin put a hand on the old man's massive shoulder. “What good is it saving my life if the rest of the world burns around us, Cid?” He smiled. “I promise to find you when I've done what the Greater Being has bid me do. I will.”
“Aye,” Cid said grudgingly, a twinge of sadness in his throat. “But can you promise not to die? That's really the promise I'd like to hear.”
