“Per your instructions, any survivors of the battle were found and collected. Their wounds are being treated and they will be fully debriefed upon their recovery,”
“Continue to coordinate with our healers. They are to ensure that these individuals are recovered enough to endure interrogation. I want their information and their support, preferably in that order. Remind those involved that they are no good to us dead.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Are the Brood continuing to take prisoners underground?”
To his credit, the other man only allowed his revulsion to cost him a moment’s hesitation before answering. However, for his usual unflappable demeanor that faltering moment was telling, “Yes, Sir, we are getting reports that they are disappearing somewhere in the Wilds. We do not why there specifically yet--”
A high-pitched giggle broke the conversation. It quickly dissolved into nonsensical tittering.
“A vein, a vein of red and gray, built by the dead, kept by the dead and now the way home.”
Several pairs of eyes, almost unwillingly, turned to regard the speaker: a diminutive humanoid creature with pale violet skin. It possessed an androgynous beauty and an ageless veneer. Its eyes were completely indigo save for pupils so contracted they almost disappeared.
Captain Sul turned more slowly to observe the gibbering creature and gestured, “Please, continue.”
“The Plague, the Plague, The Plague, The Plague!” It stretched out its body and arched its spine until it was bent nearly double, “We can taste it, smell it, we can hear it! Here! There! Everywhere!” It quickly degenerated into babbling in a variety of languages that none, save Sul, understood.
“Thank you, Chirak,” Sul nodded once and turned his bandaged eyes back to regard his Pellinore, “It would appear that there is an entrance below ground to the Underwilds nearby. Assign sentinels to observe and began plans for a more permanent method of monitoring the location.”
“Yes, Sir. And what about the Taintbrood taking captives?”
A moment of consideration as Sul leaned back in his high-backed chair, tapping his finger lightly against his lip.
Chirak wrapped its arms around itself and began to rock back and forth. It looked up at Sul with those blank, dark eyes, “We can hear it singing, down, down, down, down.”
“I see,” Sul said under his breath, “Yes, that would make sense.”
“Sir?” Pellinore asked cautiously.
“Deploy a squad of commandos. Make sure they are accompanied by at least two of the Chalicemen. Their expertise in dealing with the Brood should keep our commandos from encountering the bulk of their forces. Their targets are anyone that has been captured alive by the Taintbrood and not yet transplanted underground.”
“Should we attempt a rescue?”
“Not unless it’s approved by one of the Chalicemen. They will be able to determine whether or not a captive has already been infected at range. I predict, however, that everyone captured by the Brood has already been corrupted past the point of aid.”
“May I ask why, Sir?”
“What reason would they have not to begin hastening their captive’s corruption?” Sul stated simply. “Our operation shall be solely focused on depriving the enemy of resources. Make certain that their equipment is optimized for combating the Brood…and ensure they have two vials of poison each.”
“Yes, Sir. I recommend that we have our forces step up production in our Daymorian mines for additional bloodsilver, if we are going to continue to engage the Taintbrood.”
“Recommendation noted, Lieutenant, and already acted upon. The order was sent to our before we arrived at Velasgate as well as orders to harvest more herbs for poisons and poultices.”
The elf nodded, “Well thought, Captain,” He placed his fist over his breast and bowed his head.
“Thank you,” Sul replied, nodding slightly. The elf stepped back to stand amongst his fellow officers once more.
“Nadja?”
A female dwarf with short gray hair and an exile’s brand marring the skin above her left eye stepped forward. “Bats just got back. This place is done for. The Brood will arrive by dawn at the latest.”
“Can they be delayed?”
The dwarf scratched her head and spat, “Sap the place all to blazes, yeah, by a few hours at least.”
“See to it.”
The dwarf woman bowed and exited the large tent.
“What news from within the village Torvalen itself?”
A nondescript human woman stepped forward. She had dark hair and was dressed like a peasant.
“You were right, sir,” She reported in a thick Nevaraakese accent, “There were reports of a young red-haired woman in the Inn. They’re tracking the mages that were in the company of that…” The woman’s nose wrinkled in disgust before her professional demeanor fell back into place. “...before the battle. But she and some of her companions have been helping the innkeeper brew poultices to fortify the wounded. Flat refused to move out until the villagers could clear out on their own.”
A faint smile crossed the Captain’s lips, “Of course she did.”
“Shall I send word to retrieve her?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. They will make their way to us in good time." Captain Sul nodded his approval, “Well done, Scout Mischa. Report back to your unit,” The woman hesitated and Sul arched one eyebrow, “Something further?”
“There is,” She began hesitantly, “a child.”
“Explain.”
“His mother was slain. Goodwife Livia, she was a friend.”
“And you wish to honor your friend’s memory by adopting her orphan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I cannot guarantee the boy’s safety.”
“Yes sir, but respectfully, who amongst us can guarantee the safety of anyone?”
Sul pursed his lips then nodded, “Very well, I’m sure one of our knights is in need of a page. His well-being then is your responsibility. I assume you understand the gravitas of that?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” The woman handed him a bound scroll, snapped a crisp salute and departed.
Captain Sul turned his attention to the remainder of his officers. “Break camp and prepare to depart. I should like the majority of our forces to be gone before the Brood arrive.”
“Yes, Sir,” The assembled men and women saluted and departed.
“Captain!” An out-of-breath runner panted, “Our sentries in the Wilds are under attack!”
Sul held up his hand, halting the order that almost issued from Pellinore's lips, “Send for Ravenna and Narl-Shu.”
“Captain--” Pellinore looked taken aback.
“Let’s see what we have,” Sul slipped a ring on his finger and waved it over a map. A low hum filled the air as he removed the bindings from his eyes. His glass eyes gleamed eerily, flickering lights dancing within them as he stared at the map.
“Interesting,” He peered at the map. A small grouping of bluish light shifted over the map, bringing a faint smile to Sul’s lips, “Very well,” He nodded, satisfied, and replaced the bindings around his eyes. A pair of people approached at a brisk pace. The woman was tall, copper-skinned, with streaks of grey through her dark hair. She sported brightly colored tattoos all over her body and gold amulets draped over her throat, rings on every finger. As she swept in, she was preceded by the scent of tea.
The man was squat with short hair, dark robes with a crowned skull emblazoned upon it, and a severe expression. He smelled strongly of cinnamon and pitch.
The dark-skinned woman bowed, “Saludo, Mi Capitan.”
Sul tilted his head, “Lady Ravenna.”
“Let’s make it quick…” the other man barked.
Sul arched an eyebrow at the other man.
“…Sir,” he finished sullenly.
“Narl-Shu.”
The other man stiffened, “Grand Master Narl-Shu,” he corrected haughtily.
“Sir…” Lady
Ravenna leaned in and whispered to the Captain just loud enough for everyone else to hear, “…if you prefer, I can summon one of the Sanguinaries to assist instead?” she cast a look at her counterpart, “Blood is a much more reliable source of power than scavenging the spirits of the dead.”
“Treacherous snake!” Narl-Shu spat…and then nearly jumped out of his skin as the woman hissed at him, contorting her body into an accurate approximation of serpentine fury.
Sul suppressed a smile as Narl-Shu’s expression slid into outrage and he opened his mouth to protest. The Captain held up a hand, “Peace, Narl-Shu, now is not the time. Your services are required.”
“Well, obviously!” The squat man eyed the woman with extreme distrust, making signs of protection over his chest with trembling fingers.
Ravenna rolled her eyes at the other man and shook her head, “How may I be of service, Capitan?”
Sul lightly touched the ring upon his finger and whispered something, focusing…
Panic. Short of breath. Sweating through my armor. Riders. Heavy Armor. Barding upon pale horses with dark manes. Right behind us. The scout’s thoughts came to him clearly.
Sul returned to the present and nodded grimly, “Witchhammers.”
Officers exchanged alarmed looks as Sul picked up quill and parchment. He wrote quickly and handed it to Ravenna.
“Deliver this to the scouts. You’ll find them being pursued by Witchhammers near Velasgate, in the Wilds.”
The woman bowed her head, “As you say, Capitan,” she turned to face the short man standing next to her, “Well?”
Narl-Shu glared at her, “Fine, you old witch!” He snarled, relenting. He brought his hands together and spun them. A swirling green orb of light formed. Within that sphere were millions of tiny motes of light in the shape of skulls. They wailed and shrieked as the ball of light became a spinning blur. With a flourish, he released the orb and it cascaded over the woman.
She flinched as the glow washed over her in waves, “Mierda, I hate this part. Like needles and pins!”
The glow faded and Narl-Shu exhaled hard, “Right. I’m leaving, I need a drink,” he stormed off.
“Narl-Shu.”
The man stopped at the Captain’s tone, a bead of cold sweat running down the back of his neck.
“Remember who you are. Remember where you are. And remember who it is you serve.”
Slowly, Narl-Shu turned and met the other man’s veiled gaze. There was a beat and then the man bowed deeply at the waist, “Forgive me, my Captain, I forget myself.”
The Captain held the other man’s gaze through the bindings a long moment then he nodded, “Dismissed.” Narl-Shu saluted and hurried away. The Captain turned his attention to Ravenna, “Well?”
Ravenna moved her hands, they blurred, leaving a trail of afterimages in the air. Her entire body vibrated as she blurred to face Sul opening her mouth to speak,
“Verywell,miCapitan,iamreadytoleavebyyourcommand!”
Sul took a moment to process the accelerated speech and wordlessly handed over the scroll to her. Her hand blurred out and snatched it from him, nearly tearing it. She spun and dashed forward, leaped into the air. There was a burst of black smoke and a large raven flew away in a blur.
“Will the orders reach them in time?” Pellinore asked the Captain.
“I would not have dispatched them if I believed otherwise,” Sul assured his subordinate. Pellinore seemed to be struggling with something, “Speak freely,” the Captain said softly.
“Sir, you know I would never presume to question your orders—“
“Peace, Lieutenant, I have no interest in unthinking slaves. Demons, the walking dead, and golems would suffice if I did,” Sul turned to face the other man. “What I require are quick, creative minds who can think, reason, and most of all, believe,” Sul’s tone became something sharper, more intense, “We are at war, Pellinore. We cannot afford the luxury of having minds so limited that they cannot expand or adapt to change. Blind obedience and mindless subservience are what the Imperium, their Witchhammers, and the emperor holding their collective leash prefer. Never be afraid to ask questions. It is the only way to gain understanding,” He turned to face the horizon beyond the tent entrance, “Perhaps if the church had not forgotten that, its destruction would not be necessary.”
“Yes, Sir.” Pellinore nodded, “What commands did you issue to the scouts?”
Sul gestured at the map, “I instructed them to split up and dismount and then proceed southwest on foot as quickly as possible while keeping in sight of the Witchhammers.”
Pellinore frowned at the map, “Sir, southwest leads directly into the bogs. There’s nothing but marshland. Won’t they be run down?”
“We shall see,” He moved to the far side of the tent and took down a book, “Tell me, Lieutenant…what do you know of history?”
“Ah, very little human history, Sir,” Pellinore said, looking surprised at the sudden shift of topic, “I’ve never really had the time.”
“Consider generating both time and interest,” Sul lightly caressed the cover of the book and gently opened it. He ran his fingers down the page for a moment and presented it to Pellinore.
“’History of the Orders’ circa the reign of kings during the Second Epoch,” He handed the book to him, “Have you heard of the orders of old? The ones that predate the Daymorian Empire and the Sundering?”
“No Sir, I can’t say I have,” Pellinore replied.
Sul’s expression became scornful, “Unsurprising, as the majority of its history has been suppressed by the Imperium. Too many ‘inconvenient truths’ for their liking.”
“I see.” Pellinore answered.
Sul’s expression lightened. “Before their submission to the Church of the Imperium, the Witchhammers were a force for good. Motivated men and women of all races and creeds who saw the need for change in the world and set about effecting that change,” Sul scoffed. “I find it a supreme irony that those that were heralded as heroes in their age had their legacy erased by the very institution that they fought to protect. The majority of the Witchhammers became part of the Imperium once the lines of kings were broken and the dragons and dwarves were both driven out of Daymore,” He paused and waited.
Pellinore shook his head, “I’m sorry, Sir, I’m not familiar with that either.”
“You should be. Perhaps I will loan you a few tomes from my library.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“With the rise of the Hierophant Emperor, the Witchhammers became the military arm of the Imperium. The Order of the Justicars followed soon after.”
“The…’Justicars’, Sir?”
“A poorly-kept secret amongst the Imperium; a sect of Witchhammers considered to be the pinnacle of their order; all-knowing, all-seeing, and incorruptible,” Sul shook his head, “Much like the Witchhammers, it fails both in principle and in execution,”
“Sir—“
“But what does this have to do with the current situation?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Consider: it is the unfortunate nature of most collectives, especially religious or military organizations, to stagnate over the years. New ideas are ignored or suppressed in favor of the safety of the tried and true traditions. They cannot adapt to a changing world and so they work to inhibit that change by whatever means possible.”
“Why, Sir?”
“Fear,” Sul answered coldly, “Fear of losing their power, their place, their privilege. They fear the unknown,” his tone became colder still, “And what they fear, they hate and seek to destroy. And so, they fight tooth and claw against any form of change or progress, regardless of the cost to the rest of the world. They are weak and they are cowardly.”
“And in regards to the current situation?”
“Strategy, Lieutenant, and an unwillingness to deviate from that which has already been established. In this instance, the strategy of the Witchhammers to travel in full plate mail, complete with Dolo
r Coursers, into battle.”
“Dolor Coursers, Sir?”
“Horses from Eastern Daymore. They are considered the preferred breed of their cavalry. Those who descend from the survivors of the Witches War in the east make up a significant portion of the Witchhammer Order’s command structure. They bring with them their history, their lineage.”
“And their horses!” Pellinore said as something clicked.
“Just so.”
The officer frowned, “But Sir, I don’t understand. Why are their horses important?”
“Patience, Lieutenant. You will see.”
An hour later, a cheer rose up from the camp and Pellinore nearly jumped.
“You asked why their choice in horses mattered, Lieutenant?” Sul asked, a hint of sardonic humor in his voice.
Pellinore scanned the crowd and his jaw fell open.
“Because they are heavy,” Sul finished.
A procession of chained Witchhammers, coated in mud and detritus from head to toe, appeared, led by the jubilant scouts. The Witchhammers raged and spat and hurled insults at their captors as they were dragged towards the command tent, many of them coughing violently. One vomited up a great deal of dirty water and mud.
Barding, plate mail, horses…and it slowly dawned on Pellinore. He spun on his commander, “You had our forces lead them into the swamp…” he turned to face the bound Witchhammers again, “…and they sank.”
“Adapt or die, Lieutenant,” Sul said with a predatory smile, “There can be no alternative. Now, shall we welcome our guests?”
Chapter 2
Negotiations
“Fear, not love, for love is too rare a thing, is the most powerful emotion known to man. Fear is an infection that cripples both armies and nations. Fear of that which is not familiar is what drives a heart to hate. Fear of lack is what drives a man to greed. Fear of irrelevance is what drives a man to arrogance. Fear is your ally. The frightened adversary is the beaten adversary.” - A passage from ‘Victor Vinguardis’ (Way of Victory) translated from Daymorian. Author unknown. Currently banned by the Church of Imperius
Phoenix Rising Page 2