Cresul waved a dismissive hand. “I would not worry on that account anymore, colonel. We will not be seeking them out any longer. We shall see that they come to the exact location of our choosing, on our terms and to our advantage. They will then have no choice but to fight and die. And when they do their country will have no choice but to bow to our will.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” huffed Colonel Hickson.
Cresul’s smile broadened, while at the same time turned savage. “All in due time, Colonel Hickson. I’ve not let you down yet, so I do not see why you would choose to doubt me still at this junction. Everything is going according to plan, almost to the point of perfection if I do say so myself. And I will not have you promote dissension because your feathers are ruffled, is that clear?”
Whatever retort Colonel Hickson had on his tongue was stifled by silence and the growing color in his face. Cresul knew what this was all about. Peeling through Hickson’s posturing was in no way difficult. This really had nothing to do with his restlessness or the readiness of the troops. This whole tirade was solely based on Cresul’s choice of field commander for the final confrontation.
Cresul turned in his seat to address that field commander now. “A lot will be riding on this. I trust you will not disappoint me with failure or make me regret my choice of leadership.”
Rhoneck Ashener nodded to his commanding officer, his eyes revealing his enthusiasm to prove himself fully. He looked at Cresul, confidently, his features ever the haunting reminder of his slain father. “I am more than ready, general. I’ve drilled with the men long enough to be comfortable with them and they with me, and I have faith in their ability. When the time comes, we’ll end this war once and for all.”
Colonel Hickson scoffed at this. His mustache, now slightly longer and defined than previous years, flared as he sneered. “So, we shall see won’t we.” Hickson was not about to hide his mistrust or ill favor. “I am concerned that you will show mercy or hesitation where none should be offered.”
At this, from behind General Cresul, Janzen Wollace smiled. He knew Frederick didn’t know when to quit. If this continued, Janzen would have the chance to smash someone else’s face through a table.
Rhoneck, however, was unfazed by this as he looked fearlessly at the Thorne colonel. “I say think whatever the hell you like. I am where I need to be, as are you. And where I have shown commitment and loyalty you have only offered disdain or ass-kissing, depending on the mood that dictates you.” Rhoneck shot a hand up to further take control of the situation. “And now you are addressing a superior officer, so I suggest you calm yourself and treat me as such this instant, soldier.”
Janzen watched on as Colonel Hickson calmed himself. Rhoneck had quickly and easily diffused the situation. Well, god damn it all. Just my luck, thought Janzen dismally.
Looking upon the calming colonel a moment longer, Rhoneck reached across the table, swiping the lit cigarette within the lips of Major Gregory Winston before placing it between his own. Taking a long drag, he continued, blowing the fumes in Hickson’s direction with true indifference. “I could give a damn how any of you feel about me personally. I have proven my loyalty for Thorne, the country I have chosen over my own. And when the time comes, I will do my part and then some. Just make sure you do the same and victory will assuredly be ours.”
Rhoneck was satisfied with the silence that met him. And Cresul was pleased with him for taking charge of the situation. Winston fetched another cigarette, taking his time lighting it as he eyed the son of Alderich. Finally, Rhoneck motioned to Cresul, indicating that the little altercation was at an end.
Cresul stood, straightening his uniform and flawless demeanor. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it? I think it is time our heads returned to the matters before us, and to the true glory that crushes these insignificant and petty squabbles. I expect you all to see Major Winston for final intelligence details pertaining to the battle. Ready yourself once again for glory.” Taking an edge to his grin, General Cresul readied himself for reverence. “Soon we will again stand on the ashes of another Vallance town and claim the absolute victory that is rightfully ours. Vallance will be no more, and no one will be left to oppose us.”
Behind him Janzen’s smile returned.
-7-
Circumstances being what they were, Serra Landring had passed on acquiring a second night in a row entailing a soft bed and warm bath. Instead, her time had been spent administering medicines, bandaging wounds, and easing the suffering of a group of men from the town of Rucker. Some she had soothed, others she had cleaned while many she had helped feed. She knew personally that each of them had been lucky to come out of the ordeal with their lives.
Presently, Serra was looking after Ballor of the Grandstaff. It had taken a great deal of effort to get Esmie to leave his side. Ballor had been the worse off, but Serra knew that his life was much more personal for Esmie He was more than a fellow Ro’Nihn. He was a friend. Serra and Ashelia had pressed, even threatened, until they finally convinced Esmie to take a rest as she had been the longest without it. For now, Serra would stay at Ballor’s side.
With frustration, Serra distracted herself from the knowledge that Adaven Milestore was still unconcious. Serra knew that Adaven was no warrior and what he had endured and survived had taken its toll on the aging leader of Rucker. Serra prayed he would wake again soon while Sindara Preece remained by his side. All that was left for Adaven was rest and prayer. Everything else would be in the hands of fate.
Meticulously Serra finished cleaning Ballor's bloody, travel-worn face. What kept this man alive, what drive had fueled him, she couldn’t say. What she did know was that he had lost a great deal of blood, and his injuries would have killed a lesser man. Serra feared the Ro’Nihn was beyond any amount of healing. However, something made him hold on, something made him draw breath still at least for now.
Serra marveled at the sacrifice of both Adaven and Ballor. Adaven was a good man, and his people loved him. The leader of Rucker had relinquished his own safety to keep Thorne away from his town. In her mind and heart, he deserved none of this. His only wish had been for peace for his people. And Ballor had gone above and beyond the call of duty to honor the courage of an aging town leader.
Sighing, Serra touched Ballor’s head. “We have much to thank you for. You did a good thing out there bringing Adaven back to us.” She leaned forward, giving him a kiss on one of his rough cheeks. “Thank you.” Serra then turned away from Ballor to gather more supplies.
Serra made it no more than a step before Ballor’s eyes shot open as one of his hands found Serra’s wrist and gripped it. Serra almost jumped out of her skin, as there was strength still in his grasp. Serra turned back to see that Ballor was wide-eyed and breathing erratically. It looked as though death had snuck up on him and his body was giving it one last fight. However, in that moment Serra was preoccupied with the energy she felt coursing through her from Ballor's hand.
Serra couldn’t explain the sensation, but it rendered her breathless in an instant. Whether it was his spirit, his life force, or some Axiter technique she had yet heard of she couldn’t say. In that moment, a hundred different images swept through Serra’s body and mind. She saw Ballor and hints of his past. She witnessed cherished memories and the love he held for his clan and family. These things rushed upon her in a torrent of nostalgic endearment.
What flooded into Serra next were more recent events. She saw skirmishes fought by brave Axiter men and women. She saw the advancing hordes of Thorne nearly unchecked in their numbers. Then very quickly she saw what had brought Ballor to where he presently laid. Closing her eyes to escape the strength of the imagery only made it worse. Compounding the problem, Serra discovered she could not reopen them regardless of her efforts.
Serra saw Adaven surrounded by at least 12 men. She watched in horror as they beat him with their bare hands, taunting and laughing as they played their twisted game. She watched as Adaven fell to h
is knees, and still he did not beg for his life. A rifle muzzle was brought to his head. But before any shots could be fired, she witnessed the circle disrupted by Ballor.
Serra nearly cried out as the scenes of that fight played out in her thoughts. She felt Ballor’s rage as he took down soldier after soldier. She felt his pain as he took a sword slash to his side. Serra saw as he too was beaten to the ground and shot only to rise with renewed strength to bring down the rest of Adaven’s tormentors. Picking up Adaven, Ballor proceeded to escape into the forest and the approaching night. And somehow, he had endured it all to walk several days and bring Adaven to Rahn.
It was then that the flood of emotions had ceased. Catching her breath and composure, Serra could finally open her eyes again. She found Ballor still looking at her, intent and fighting for his last moments in life. She tried calling for help, though she could not remember if any sound left her throat. Her ears felt fuzzy as all that she could focus on, all that she could see and hear was the bed-ridden Ro’Nihn before her.
“Serra Landring,” croaked Ballor with a fading voice as each syllable struggled from the cracks of his lips. But Serra heard him well. Ballor’s hand shook upon her wrist, but he refused to let go of her or life. He pulled Serra closer as his body began to fade. It wasn’t long now. “Serra Landring. You must know . . . you must know . . . what I have seen.”
Serra stiffened. She knew that Ballor had reached his end. Serra sensed his pain fading as she felt for this man. “Ballor.” She wanted to say something to him, for him, but it was he that spoke now.
Ballor fought for his breath, this warrior from the southern regions of Axiter. He fought against death in those moments, just as he fought every Thorne soldier who had crossed his path and his land. “You must know . . . you must . . . you must . . . see." Serra faltered to her knees. In that instant, she came face to face with Ballor. One more breath found its way to his lungs and now there would be no more.
In that final breath, with his dying embers, Ballor spoke one more sentence before he knew only peace. Upon finishing the last word his head slumped upon his pillow as all fight cascaded from his limbs like dew escaping down a blade of grass. “I have seen . . . him.” With no more fight left, Ballor of the Grandstaff passed from the world.
At that moment Serra had been freed from his grip, falling backwards upon the floor, Serra tasted the last surge of the Ro'Nihn’s vitality. She saw visions, faint ones that traversed through her subconscious like haze and fog. But as her head met the cold infirmary floor, the last vision of Ballor collected her and brought her back to clarity. It had been strong, honest, and sure. And it had been powerful enough to send Serra herself into unconsciousness.
She saw what Ballor had wanted her to see; the dying moment that he either meant as warning or revelation. Instantly, images of some nameless bank of the Lorne River filled her mind. Starting at the water, the view slowly and painfully etched away from the bank. Soon there was a small, shoddy makeshift tent and the remnants of a smoldering fire. And then all surrounding details faded as the most important aspect of this vision flooded her.
Serra watched on as a single face within her mind stared back at her defiantly, lovingly. She saw youthful features and the jubilant soul she loved more than anything in the world. In that instant, it had filled Serra with remorse, compounded with compassion and the strength to search and find the truth. As Serra’s eyes closed, she had already made vows and promises that she fully intended to keep, even if it meant her own death.
In that instant, Serra held to that final vision.
And that vision had been young Norryn Ashener.
-8-
Sergeant Josaph J. Pearce found himself once again waiting for entrance into the office of Captain Nicolas Porter. Much like his first visit, he had no idea what was in store for him. Josaph waited patiently, bleeding off his nervous energy by reflecting on his time at Fort Mire. For the most part, the last five years had been good to him, and on this he placed his gratitude.
Five years had also taught Josaph much. By keeping his mouth shut, he not only had survived, but had also flourished. Given the opportunity, Josaph had proven his worth and for that he was awarded a higher rank, prestige, and control of a platoon of soldiers. In any other instance, he would have been honored at the notion. But knowing the truth Josaph possessed now, the progression soured his stomach. For him, it was not a about accolades and solely about survival.
Josaph was always torn these days. He was fond of his comrades, even if they were increasingly more misguided with each passing day. Josaph could not blame them or the people of his nation for the increasing amount of misinformation they received about their enemy. The truth had set him free and at the same time imprisoned him in a lie. Every day was another day with a knowledge he was forced to hide. For his own safety and the safety of his loved ones, Josaph kept his trap shut.
Josaph had been given leave every now and then. When the chance was there, he took it and spent every waking hour with Elisha, the love of his life. Nevertheless, the visits were far and between and fueled his aching to be with her. He, like the other soldiers, were told it was a sacrifice they all endured for their country. His country. Most days Josaph didn’t know what his country was anymore.
Josaph’s thoughts remained on the war that they were winning. The word of General Nathaniel Cresul reached far and wide, and his popularity with the troops had shimmered at the fall of Bannar and somehow only grew in five years. Countless stories made their way to Fort Mire, giving morale boosts to the troops with every win. Slowly at first, and then with the speed of a torrid fire the name of Cresul was raised up close to the name of Thedron Ralick, an event near godhood in the eyes of many. As happy as he should have felt, Josaph could neither shake the empty feeling within him nor the overwhelming urge to believe that General Cresul had to have been a maniacal monster.
A young private soon brought him from his thoughts as he approached. Stopping in front of Josaph, he saluted sharp and briskly. He was still wet behind the ears and overly enthusiastic, much like Josaph must have looked when he made his way to the fort five years prior. Josaph stood and returned the salute. “Captain Porter will see you now, sir.”
“Thank you, private,” said Josaph as the young man turned and left. Josaph watched him go, remembering the days when he too was that idealistically naive. Once all he wanted to do was to serve his country and make his family proud. Now all that he longed for was to be home and away from anything that had to do with this war. And it had all started the day that an enemy he had been trained to kill saved his life from soldiers who also served Thorne.
As he entered Captain Porter’s office, Josaph realized that it was much like it had been when he first saw it five years ago, save for more booze and cigars. Even Captain Porter was the same, though he carried more graying hairs as souvenirs. Josaph still remembered his first meeting with Captain Porter and the day he never thought he would live to see through. Now Josaph played ball with military protocol to survive and each day he loathed Porter that much more.
Looking up, Captain Porter offered a practiced and casual smile. “Ah, Sergeant Pierce, welcome back. I trust your leave was a pleasant one. You look refreshed.”
After our first encounter, if you think for a second that I believe anything that comes out of that trap you call a mouth then you are gravely mistaken. The day you give two damns about my well-being is the day I pin a target on my ass and prance through Vallance with just my helmet, rifle, and birthday suit. Through his bitter thoughts, Josaph painted a sincere smile on his face. “Things on the home front are fine, sir. Leave was very good for me, thank you for asking.”
Captain Porter nodded absently. “Good to hear, Pierce, good to hear. Sometimes it is good to be reminded of why we carry on this fight.”
And sometimes it is good to be reminded of why we want to get out of it too, thought Josaph. “I couldn’t agree more, sir.”
The captain evaluated Josap
h for a span of seconds before replying. “You’ve come a long way since the day I met you, sergeant. It’s nice to see that you have a good head on those shoulders after all.”
Josaph nodded emphatically. Anything to survive this fort and get back home, jackass. That’s all I want. “Thank you again, sir. I’m here for my country.”
From his reclining position, Captain Porter swung his chair around so that he was facing Josaph completely from across the desk. His mood suddenly shifted, though tt wasn’t the fury Josaph had encountered in the past. “I am glad to hear you say that, sergeant, for I have asked you here today out of necessity. There is work to be done, and I think you are just the man for the job.”
Josaph took on a concerned, attentive appearance. “What did you have in mind, sir?”
Captain Porter reached to his left and grabbed a parchment of papers. Incessantly, he chewed at the half-burned cigar in his mouth. Glancing over the first page, he returned his attention back to Josaph. “Have you heard anything about the Flood, son?”
I’m not your god damn son. “Just a few vague tall tales, sir, nothing substantial. It’s slowly becoming an urban legend around the fort,” offered Josaph.
Porter stood and put his back to Josaph, giving in to the desire to look out from his office window. “Oh, I assure you, he’s no fable, soldier. The Flood is real, deadly real, and he has been a bane around these parts for far too long. High command has finally taken notice and feel that this little eye sore for our military needs to be snuffed out.” Porter then took another drag from his stogie before blowing the fumes across his office. “Personally, I couldn’t tell you what the hell the Flood is. You can never know if it comes from Vallance. But his deeds are real enough.” Porter turned around and put the papers in front of Josaph. “So far we have seen over 500 military casualties in the last four years and those were just the ones we could link to the Flood. You name it, he has done it: Arson, ambush, terrorism, theft and it is nearly all military losses. Reports state he has little mercy or regard toward soldiers and is dubbed “the Flood” because of the trail of blood he has left in his wake.
Echoes of Ashener Page 7