by Dan Bilodeau
Dal stopped rocking Soren and got to his feet. He strode toward the soldiers, his heart beating quickly.
“Oh, looky here boys, a mad Ibernian sop,” one of the soliders said and chortled. “What you gonna do, farmer boy, throw a turnip at me?”
Dal increased his pace and went into a full sprint. “No, I’m going to kill you all!” he screamed. The archer nocked another arrow as Dal’s world turned to flame. Time stopped for Dal as he felt an intense heat coming from his body. He yelled, his body racked with pain. The archer fired. As the arrow sped toward him, Dal felt himself slightly weighed down by something. His vision was blurred, and all he saw was his goal – the Andal soldiers. This is it. I’m coming, Soren.
Time resumed for Dalziel.
The arrow bounced off his chest. He had just enough time to see the horrified look on the soldiers’ faces as he crashed into them. Or rather crashed through them.
Where the soldiers had been, there was now a smoking crater. Their bodies were burned and charred and the smell of seared flesh was everywhere. What in the name of Dio…am I dead? He couldn’t feel the ground. He looked down. He was hovering above it.
If this wasn’t enough, he was also wearing armor that shimmered blood-red in the sunlight, covering his whole body save for his head. It appeared to be made of metal, but it felt lighter than anything he was familiar with, and there were runes and other strange markings covering the breastplate. He wore gauntlets that connected to the rest of his armor. “What the…?” he said as an arrow ricocheted off the ground next to his feet and another flew by his head.
A phalanx of Andal soldiers was coming toward him, and archers were firing arrows as fast as they could nock them. Dal raised his right hand and said “No,” in a controlled rage. He felt something within him surge, and a fireball the size of a watermelon sped toward the soldiers. Some dived out of the way, but half of them were pulverized before they could make a move.
The archers were the lucky ones, as the fireball dissolved before it reached them. Still, their shock made their arrows go wide. “Kill that...that thing!” the magistrate yelled.
Arrows began bouncing off Dal’s armor. One grazed his cheek, and Dal felt a warm liquid running down his face. He hovered closer to the soldiers and raised both hands. Try to kill me, will you! His mind now raged with abandon. Sheets of flame left Dal’s fingertips, engulfing the rest of the Andals, who screamed and ran in circles trying to put out the fires.
Dal heard yelling and the ground shook as an army of soldiers appeared. Run, a voice in Dal’s head urged. He obeyed, except he flew.
Dal wasn’t sure how he did it, but the next thing he knew he was above the town and flying toward his farm. How is this possible? Flapping behind him was a set of wings. Large red branches connected them to his back. He wasn’t sure what material the wings were made of, only that they were dark green and formed an upside down “V” that was curved.
I must be dreaming, there’s no way I’m flying. I’m going to wake up any second now. But if he was dreaming, why did it feel so real? Why was the wind in his face so strong that his eyes watered? For the time being he would accept this alternate world and enjoy it while it lasted.
The sun beat down on him as he surveyed the area he’d just left. The town square looked like it held a gathering of ants. He didn’t know why, but he began to head toward the spot in Benbroke woods where he had found Hadrian telling his stories. He brushed against the treetops, feeling the pine needles tickling his arms. Just then he thought about Soren and said, “Please let me wake up now, Dio, I’m sorry for daydreaming. Let this nightmare end and I’ll never think about flying again. Just let me hear Soren harassing me. Dio, please.” Fear gripped him, and he plummeted toward the ground.
He tried to gain control, but his wings refused to work. Dal crashed through the treetops, grazing limbs as he fell. “No, this can’t be,” he said as he continued to freefall, and then he lost consciousness.
FIVE
This, Wulf reflected, was perfection. Staring at the gleaming suit, he felt the urge to put it on. Contoured to fit the shape of a man’s body, the arms, chest, and legs gleamed from a metallic finish and were held together by a fabric so dense it couldn’t be ripped by bare hands. The head and face protection reminded Wulf of a diver’s headgear he had seen while fishing as a boy. A dark glass plate covered the entire front, while the rest of it was made of a lightweight but strong alloy.
Soon these people will be truly subjugated. Soon they will know their place. A whirring sound came from the suit, as if agreeing with him, and it was hard for Wulf not to see it as a living thing. After all, it possessed the deep magic the Andals had coveted since time immemorial. Wulf could hardly wait. No remote chance of more rebellions; no defiance of any type.
True, the Ibernian people were broken, but a colony of Druids was rumored to still exist in the north country. And while weaker than their ancestors, the Druids still posed a threat to the Empire. If they should attempt to spread their magic to the rest of the country…idle thoughts, Wulf decided. The people were forbidden to read, so there was little chance they’d discover their past. However, Ibernians had built a reputation on defying the odds--and oppressors. And the Andals were spread thin and substantially outnumbered by the inhabitants of Ibernia. What was worse, the Andals didn’t know the country very well, even after occupying it for 150 years. Ibernia had few roads, and the Andals, for all their ferocious behavior, were intimidated by the dark and feared what lurked in the forests.
Wulf was stationed in Dunster, the capital of Ibernia. Shipping soldiers from Andlar to muster them in Dunster for deployment throughout Ibernia took several weeks to facilitate effectively, and if a full-scale rebellion should break out in multiple locations, it would be hard to quell. Yet what Wulf and the Andal leaders feared most was a guerilla war, in which Ibernians sneak-attacked Andal garrisons and then melted back into the countryside.
The country was vast, and because so much of it was uncharted, Andal soldiers would become hopelessly lost searching for the rebels, only to be picked off one by one. And Andal soldiers dreaded even thinking about entering Ibernian forests. The men said that dark things lived in the woods, creatures that did not take kindly to anyone who was not a native Ibernian. Wulf had heard several tales of entire patrols wandering in the woods, never to be seen again. He personally thought these were senseless superstitions, but he understood the value of morale and took the attitude of his troops seriously.
One well-organized Ibernian rebellion had occurred ten years earlier. Historians called it the Battle of the Ford, but it was really a massacre, because Andal troops had learned through spies where the rebel leaders were stationing their men, and slaughtered them unmercifully.
Ibernians had thrown down their weapons and pleaded for their lives, only to be put to death by the cruelest of means. There was no room in Jethruism, the leading religion in Andlar, for clemency. Jethru, the God of Reality, protected only those who were strong and ambitious. Succeeding at any cost pleased Jethru immensely. Wulf often said that Jethru must be ecstatic to have him as an acolyte.
In truth, Wulf was a practical man. He wasn’t sure if Jethru was real or not, let alone the God of Reality, but the intoxicating power he felt when he invoked His spirit was irrefutable.
To have one’s will carried out with the flick of a wrist, to be able to order others to their deaths without fear of reprisal, that was real strength. And it never hurt to believe in a god whose goals were in line with his.
Wulf was powerfully built. He had a strong jaw and, like most Andals, black hair, which he kept closely cropped. He detested men who spent an exorbitant amount of time grooming themselves. Time was too important to waste, and anything simple and easy to maintain suited Wulf just fine.
Wulf was indeed an exceptional physical specimen, and he took great pains to keep it that way. How else was he assured of crushing an enemy in close-quarters combat? But the secret to beating an opponent
on the field was as much stamina as strength. The strongest man in the world would tire easily if he didn’t train properly. Then the man who was better conditioned could go in for the kill. Wulf missed the physical thrill of battle immensely, but his talents had been needed as a commander and not as a warrior on the ground. Still, he maintained an intense exercise regimen he seldom missed or varied.
Wulf turned his attention back to the suit, which he found more awe-inspiring each time he analyzed it. One of four types, it was the Pyro model, which meant it harnessed the element of fire. Splashers used water, Ares units used air, and Golem suits unleashed the earth element. Nothing had yet been devised to control the dominion of spirit, but that would come, Wulf had been told.
The suits were so new that they had been displayed in just a few Ibernian cities thus far. Each wearer of a particular model had been instructed to test it on the local population. Wulf was pleased with the reports he’d received, which provided glowing details of the weapon leaving a stunned citizenry full of great fear. Fear was a wonderful thing.
To be afraid of something was to lack an understanding of it, and this was music to Wulf’s ears. To think, these peasants had the same magic right in front of them and didn’t have any idea it was readily available. This made Wulf smile, a pleasure he didn’t allow himself very often. So not only did fear keep the Ibernians in line, it served to maintain their ignorance of their history as well.
Most Andals believed that if they weren’t meant to conquer the world, Jethru wouldn’t have made them so numerous. He also wouldn’t have made Andlar such a mineral-poor country, forcing the Andals to take from their neighbors. This lack of natural resources was a prominent reason for subjugating the Ibernians, since their country was sitting on vast ore deposits the Andals needed. Coal, wood and precious gems were plentiful here. That was how Jethru willed it. The strong take from the weak.
Wulf knew his history well. Two hundred years ago the Andals had laid waste to the nation of Espara, which was southeast of Andlar. But the Andals had soon drained the country of its resources so completely that the Emperor had his army turn to the fertile nation of Ibernia next.
Like the Woads before them, the Andals targeted the fierce Druids first, and this made cutting down the Ibernian soldiers a relatively easy task. Initially, several Andal leaders had believed the so-called Seraphs would appear to destroy their army. However, these supposed Seraphs never showed up. Ibernian legends, it was determined, were no match for the power of abundant, trained warriors and steel weaponry. And although pockets of resistance flared up on occasion, these were rare, as the Ibernians of today were essentially a broken people.
These suits would certainly guarantee that the Andals would be able to proceed with enslaving the youth of Ibernia to work the mines to extract the minerals. If only the people knew what was really done with the boys who were conscripted. The Engineer of the Empire might not be a soldier with Wulf’s skills, but he certainly was a genius at coming up with innovative mining techniques that produced more ore for each hour worked than ever before. And when the Druids were completely eradicated, there would be absolutely no one to stop the Andals from sucking Ibernia dry. That would in turn lead to great wealth for Andlar, and the Emperor would proclaim Wulf’s monumental contribution to the country’s prosperity. He would be a national hero and forever idolized. Then, he would be held in higher regard than even the Engineer.
Although not a Druid himself, the Engineer had come to Andlar ten years earlier, and brought with him an enormous knowledge of magic. The Engineer quickly became the Emperor’s favorite. Wulf would never admit he was jealous of the Engineer, but his success had always eaten away at him. Now this would change. He could only build the suits; Wulf was the one who would conquer with them.
Since the suits had just been perfected, precious few were available for use. That would soon change, as the Engineer had recently set up a factory in Winzor, the Andlar capital. The current shipment of suits, however, had taken more than a month to reach his commanders in the field, something the Emperor would hear about from Wulf. He needed more suits, deployed much quicker, if he was to put the hammer down on these people, once and for all.
Mulbar was Wulf’s second in command. A tall, reed-like man, who appeared to be all bone, he entered the Weapons Room at Andlar Military Headquarters. Wulf had seen his Number Two wield a heavy sword to great effect many times. The man was lightning-quick with a blade, almost as fast as Wulf himself.
Mulbar was a good soldier, but he let his cruel nature rule him most of the time. Brutality was fine with Wulf, if a warrior didn’t let it overwhelm him and dictate his actions. The path to power was well defined for Wulf, and it ran through cold, calculating logic, not malice. He had learned to master his emotions a long time ago; specifically, when to constrain himself and when control was not necessary.
Mulbar asked Wulf, “Would you like to try on the suit now, sir?”
“No, I think I’ll wait until I can use its power.” He would gladly have put it on if Mulbar hadn’t asked him, but this was just Wulf’s way of never letting a subordinate be in control of his actions. He dismissed Mulbar and contemplated the scenes outside his office.
Dunster was on the east coast of Andlar, neither north nor south but right in the middle. Most of the buildings near the city’s main market area were several stories high, with Wulf's government building the tallest of all, and his office at the very top. He liked this because it meant he towered over the entire city.
But outside the city, Wulf lived in the barracks with his men, preferring the company of soldiers to the civil servants whom he placed at the level of the insects that infested his building in the spring of each year. Soldiers didn’t have time for politics or patronizing to get ahead, not like the sycophants here. He admired this about the military, and often thought of the day he would reign over his country and could throw all of the paper pushers out on the street, where they belonged.
He opened the window, and a fresh breeze from the sea came in. He heard the distant calling of gulls. He had loved the sea ever since he was a boy. He supposed it reminded him of home and of his father, who had done his part to subjugate Ibernians. A cold and rigid man, Wulf’s father had made childhood difficult. He rarely let Wulf play with other boys, and kept him on a rigorous schedule of study, hard work, and martial arts training. Wulf hadn’t understood that his father was teaching him habits which would ultimately take him to the top, and he hated him for it. But perseverance and patience were required to advance in Andlar--as well as ruthlessness--and in time Wulf grew to respect his father.
Wulf’s father had brought great honor to the Dagmar name, both as a soldier and a commander in the Andlar military, but his greatest achievement involved the passing of the Patriarchal Act, thirty years previously. Through his urging, a law was instituted that required a numbering system, through arm tattoos, for every Ibernian living in a city. Wulf hoped to expand this to the farmers, as this would provide a means to keep track of every Ibernian in the country.
A vicarious logic was attached to Wulf’s wanting to implement this, for which he took great pride. While marching through a rural area, his father and his troops were ambushed and killed by a band of rogue Druids. Wulf was barely a teenager at the time, but as soon as he learned what had happened, he enlisted in the Andal Military Academy, a school for upper-class boys interested in devoting their lives to serve and protect the Andal Empire.
Soon these Ibernians would learn the futility of worshiping this Dio god of theirs. Soon they would bow before another--Wulf Dagmar. Yes, he liked the sound of that. Very much so.
SIX
Here Hadrian was, standing in the marketplace, doing his best to appear nonexistent, then soldiers were running everywhere, trying to extinguish fires. The government building had a large hole in its side from Dal’s fireball, and smoke billowed from it. The courthouse was also damaged, with one of its four pillars burned to a crisp. What poor farmer is
going to have to fix that? It looked as though a series of great fireworks had gone awry in the middle of Quork.
Hadrian would have found the chaos funny if not for the fallen form of Soren in the distance, as well as his unconscious mother not far from him, who was lying on the ground with Deidre holding her head. He went to the mother and shook her gently. She opened her eyes and coughed.
“What, what in the name of Dio happened?” she asked,
“Please get up, I need you to stand,” Hadrian said.
“I had the worst dream. What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry ma’am, it wasn’t a dream.”
“That means…oh, no, please, no.” Her eyes widened.
She stood up and frantically searched with her eyes. Hadrian sighed and pointed.
She saw her dead son lying on the ground and rushed over, racked with pain. She bent down and cradled his body. “My sweet, sweet boy,” she said as she sobbed. Hadrian put his hand on her shoulder, gently weaving spirit into her to calm her nerves.
“We have to leave here and bury him right away,” he said.
“He didn’t deserve this,” she said and sniffled.
“No one does. Especially not this brave lad. Let us take him back to your farm and honor him.”
“Where is Dalziel? Where is my other son?”
“He’s mourning in the woods. He will meet us at the farm,” Hadrian lied. There was no use overloading her with information about things she wouldn’t understand.
Hadrian examined the boy. His face was peaceful, as though he were asleep. Poor lad. Hadrian knew it was his fault. He had filled the boy’s head with the stories; he was the one who had stoked the flames of dissent among these children. Hadrian had taught this boy his country’s proud history, and now Soren had paid for it with his life.
He considered: Were they really better off knowing? The answer was that they had to be told, so the question was truly irrelevant. History was all the Ibernians had left, and since it couldn’t be read, his orations provided the only option left. Inside that proud yet tragic history of his country lay the key for their salvation. Hadrian was sure of it. But was it worth it? How high must the body count grow? He dismissed the thought quickly, as this was his duty, no matter the lives lost along the way. Hadrian’s eyes grew misty and he wiped them with his sleeve. But the boy had been too young for this. Yet war had a particular way of not caring about the innocents. And especially them, it often seemed.
