by T. C. Edge
Zander concurs with the estimate, and we begin making our way around the lake and towards the burnt woodlands beyond. Still, many stumps of trees are smouldering, and many pillars of smoke are billowing into the air. The fume is endless, yet thinner here, the fire having passed further south where it still rages strong.
The smoke, however, helps to warm the air. My previous journey down the river had ended with me quivering in the cold, desperately trying to grow warm in the early morning sun. Now, the shiver to my blood has all but left me, the burning world and family drama sufficient to cast away the biting chill.
The same will hopefully be true of Cromwell. Or else we’ll return to find our grandfather an icicle. On second thoughts, perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad…
We work our way towards the cliff on the eastern side of the lake, our clothes still sodden and caked in mud. We take a few moments to wash ourselves clean before venturing on, the mud only likely to weigh us down in a fight. It might only be minor, but slowing by an inch could be enough to get you killed out here. Best to take no chances.
More worrying is the fact that the journey down the river must have drained our energy quite significantly. I certainly feel it, now that the adrenaline is seeping away, and can only imagine that Zander’s stocks are being quickly depleted. He hasn’t slept for quite some time, and the exertions in the cold water will only have served to make matters worse.
As we prepare to enter the fuming woods, I take a moment to ensure he’s ready. It’s a rare turnaround for me to be asking such a thing of him. Usually, it’s the other way around.
“I’m fine, Brie,” he assures me. “I can go on for nights without rest if I have to.”
I have to take his word for it, yet the evidence suggests otherwise. I’ve found Zander to be quite grouchy on certain mornings when he’s had little rest. The cumulative effect of several nights without sleep would surely make him unbearable, and the resulting impact on his ability to fight would be severe.
Still, we have no choice. We cannot stop and rest, not even for a moment. Every second we delay, more lives will be lost. That thought alone is plenty to refuel our tanks.
So we move straight on, clothing cleaned of mud and grit and given a fresh coating of cool water. The woods right ahead, beneath the cliffs, once thick and tangled and replete with the murky green mist, have changed completely. They’re now fitted with stumps and glazed in black ash, the cover of the trees something we can hardly rely upon.
The woods here are peppered with marshlands too. The little clearings where the swamps were set between the trees are now nothing but pools of tar, the toxic water turned black. They are easy to see and avoid, and while we have little cover from the thickets, we are largely hidden amid the smoke.
And, mercifully, there are plenty of rock formations here too. These woodlands are quite different from those in which Rhoth and the Fangs dwell, over to the northwest of here. And far different from the forests up in the mountains, where the trees grow tall and are widely dispersed, and the air is thin and clean, an invigorating tonic compared to what lies below.
No, these lands are very different indeed. They are swamps, really, with ugly gatherings of trees in between. A network of bogs and mires and unpleasant glades, with stumps and trunks and burning boles littering the land. The rocks, too, are burnt black, set here and there amid the quagmire, the entire place little more than a nightmare. A vision of the world the Cure exist in, the world they leave behind.
Zander doesn’t know these lands quite so well. The Nameless stayed mostly to the north, though often found themselves heading west too. The south was considered a redundant land, a putrid place with little to offer them.
Yet my brother’s vast knowledge of the world around the city isn’t required, not this time. We are drawn only to the wailing, which grows louder with each step, moving from rock to rock and between what cover remains, always stopping and listening and looking for what lies ahead.
With the noise becoming so deafening, the sounds of the war, raging off in the city, grow silent to our ears. Our ability to communicate verbally is also drowned out, so we turn to our telepathic link to speak if we need to. Moving just ahead of me, leading the way, I hear Zander constantly telling me to stop, get low, be silent, his words clear in my mind, even over the din.
I follow each order with impeccable timing and efficiency, trusting my brother’s instincts. Here, in the wilds, we could stumble upon the enemy at any moment. We are quite aware that their army marched from the west, and quite aware too that the majority of their forces will now have entered the city.
But nevertheless, we need to be careful. They will no doubt have soldiers still here beyond the wall, and here in the south where one of their breaches was devised. For all we know, there could still be hundreds of them crawling these lands. And we can be certain that they’ll have some soldiers posted at the source of this racket. We just have to hope that their forces here are limited.
As we draw ever closer, the deafening scream becomes almost unbearable. It’s so high pitched it seems to cut right into my brain, my eardrums threatening to explode. We stop to consider some combat to the assault, and Zander improvises by ripping off some fabric from his gear and fashioning rudimentary earplugs.
We set them deep and find that it helps, before adding a coating of mud in order to further seal off the hole. The sense of relief is profound, though it will make it much harder to hear for the enemy. Then again, the shrieking is so loud that our capacity to do so is rather mute anyway, and given how we can communicate telepathically, we have some advantage.
With our ears now protected, and the wailing somewhat dulled, we move on once more. The smoke, still pouring from further south, continues to be spread towards the city, more obviously now as we grow near. What breeze there is drifts westwards, suggesting that the smoke should, if following the natural course of things, be heading to the west as well. The fact that it seems to be floating northward from here is indicting. There is someone here doing this. This isn’t natural at all.
From the lake, we must have covered several hundred metres. They must be close, and yet we haven’t seen a soul so far. The smog, thinner here, presents enough detail for our Hawk eyes to see a decent way ahead. It’s only a matter of time before they spot what we’re here for.
The ground continues to fluctuate, its shape never constant. We avoid the pools of black poison, and the creatures that dwell within. Yet our worries of the Shadows of the outerlands, and the beasts that lurk in the wilds, are absent at this time. Most will no doubt have abandoned these places, the burning woods scaring them away, destroying the lands they hunt. They will uproot and seek more bountiful pastures, returning perhaps when the wailing is done, and the smoke is gone, and the lands are littered with the dead upon which to feast.
Soon enough, a great buffet may be laid down for them, attracting all beasts from far and wide. But not yet. Now, they hold to the distant shadows, biding their time, ready to scavenge what they can from the wreckage of the world.
We pay them no mind, and focus only on the threat ahead. Working down a slope into a little valley, a cluster of rocks and a clearing beyond finally shows us the light. Through the mist, shapes appear. Not those of tree stumps and rocks, but the unmistakable forms of men, and the straight lines of structures that suggest they’ve fashioned a camp.
We stop at the rocks, and look each other right in the eye.
That’s it, I hear my brother say in my mind. We’ve found it.
He orders for me to stay back as he, very gently now, creeps around to the side of the rocks and sends his gaze beyond. I watch him as he scans through the burnt down trees and smog, his hazel eyes intense as they work up a picture of what we’re facing.
As he does so, I hear him speaking to me in my head. He doesn’t need to turn back to me to do so. He merely commentates mentally on what he’s seeing, updating me in real time via our telepathic link.
A small forc
e, he says. I see…five soldiers. Perhaps more within the tents. There are two of them. A soldier standing guard outside each one. Three other soldiers watching the flanks. None are looking this way.
How big are the tents? I ask.
Not large. About a dozen square metres. One a bit bigger than the other. Perhaps holding supplies.
And the machine?
I…I see it, yes. Other side of the camp. Oh…more soldiers there. Three more I think, hard to see in the fog. It’s quite large, square shape, metal. It looks…vulnerable. Like a grenade would do the job.
He scans a little more, looking left and right beyond the camp for possible entry points, before withdrawing and returning to me.
Now, making eye contact, we resume our discussion.
We need to work around the other side, he informs me. Get closer to the sonic machine. It’ll be shielding our movements, just like it did theirs. They won’t hear us coming, Brie. We’ll make their own machine work against them.
And eights soldiers, you say? I ask.
That’s all I saw.
What about the wind-manipulator? Someone’s sending this smoke into the city, Zander. We need to destroy them too.
We will, comes his voice in my mind, firm and unbending. We may learn more on the eastern side of the camp. Follow me. We need to backtrack a bit, then go around.
We head off again, stepping away and keeping low, before working further to the south and then moving east. The source of the noise, now known, is kept at the right distance, guiding us as we curve around through the marshlands and make for the other side.
The journey takes another ten or so minutes, precious moments that we don’t want to waste and yet cannot hurry. In order to be safe, we probably move further from the camp than we need to, yet it’s the right call to do so given the stakes.
Working closer again, we find more rocks behind which to hide, this time on the eastern flank of the little base. It is clearly only minor, the vast majority of the Cure’s army now within the city. Yet it’s big enough of a challenge to make us extremely careful. So far, we’ve seen eight soldiers, but there are likely to be more. And if we’re not careful, and they spot us before we can strike, we’ll surely be overrun.
Once again, Zander scans ahead, his eyesight better than mine, and his mind for strategy too. He informs me that the machine is set to the side, largely unprotected. The three soldiers there appear unconcerned by the noise, all of them with protective blockers on their ears. They don’t seem to sense a threat. This may just be our chance.
Before we act, however, I find my attention turning north. Just to the front of the camp, I see the dust and smoke moving in an odd way. It seems to swirl in all directions, only just visible now from this closer vantage.
Zander, I say, getting his attention.
He looks upon it too from the side of the rocks, and turns to me with a glint in his eyes.
You were right, Brie, he says. You were right all along…
It’s him. There’s someone there keeping the city in the shroud. Kill him. Destroy the machine. Wipe out the lot of this vermin.
And maybe, just maybe…turn the battle in our favour.
We quickly form a plan to do just that. We will use our speed, and the cover of the noise and the smoke to make our move. We’ll act before they know what’s hit them, and disable as many of them as possible with our grenades. We’ll disorient them, turning their advantage against them, and will free the city from their grip.
At least, that’s the plan…
257
My role is clearly defined, and pretty darn important.
As Zander slips away from the rocks, moving off to the south and then to the west, I crouch, hidden out of sight, awaiting the instruction to attack.
He disappears almost immediately into the mist, once more moving beyond the sight of our enemy and retracing the route we’ve just taken. Within minutes, he’ll be back on the western side of the camp. It won’t take him ten to return. He knows just where he’s going now, and will get there as quick as he can.
I brace myself as I prepare to spring, my pulse rifle across my lap, a set of three grenades ready to be launched. In my head, I hear my brother’s updates, informing me of where he is. Before I know it, he’s telling me he’s moving back for the rocks on the western edge at the bottom of the slope, the clearing just beyond and the camp within it.
OK, one more time, I hear him say. When I say so, slip as close as you can and toss your grenades at the sonic machine. Roll them low, and keep out of sight. I’ll do the same here, and just as they go off, we attack. Got it?
Got it, I say. When you’re ready, brother.
I draw a long breath and steady my breathing. My heart-rate steadies too, pumping loudly in my ears. I shift to the side of the rocks and shoulder my rifle, gathering up the three grenades.
And then I hear him.
OK. GO! NOW! he says.
I act without hesitation or even minor delay, because I know he won’t. Staying as low as possible, I plant one leg in front of the other, moving between stumps of trees and within the thick smoke that hovers close to the ground. The soldiers ahead, all three of them, meander about casually near the sonic machine, which grows in clarity as I get near. I look upon it, but don’t understand it. To me, it’s just some box emitting the most awful of sounds. I care little for how it was made or what from. All I care about is that it can be destroyed.
Pressing as close as I dare, I begin arming the three grenades, flipping the switch on each. The first, I roll through the mush, making sure there’s no pool of toxic water nearby for it to disappear into. It doesn’t, but swiftly glides towards the sonic machine, bobbling near as I set the other two on their paths.
One, I roll a little further from the machine, over to the north where the soldiers wander. It works towards their feet, seemingly unnoticed, close enough to tear one to shreds and perhaps maim or even kill the others. I’ll find out momentarily.
The final grenade isn’t rolled, but thrown with more force. I have to shift a little to toss it far enough, hurling it with all my might high through the air and into the swirling mist ahead where I know the wind-manipulator to be. As it begins its journey, high over the camp and as yet unseen, the first goes off, its fuse complete.
Right ahead, perhaps twenty metres away, I feel the punch of burning air press me backwards. The explosion is violent and sudden, and joined within the blink of an eye by another, not far away on the other side of the camp. Then another, my second grenade, fills the air with yet another boom a split second later, right before the three soldiers can act. And another of Zander’s, targeting the tents and soldiers to the western side, follows.
They all pop, one after another, as I tumble into the mire with the force of the detonation. It’s more powerful than I thought, the blast radius larger. Boom, boom, boom, they go. For several seconds, our coordinated assault fills the space ahead in fire and black smoke, and then my final grenade rips through the northern edge of the base too.
It takes me a moment to regain my faculties to the point where I realise that the wailing has stopped. As the ringing of the explosions filters from my blocked ears, and the vibrations leave my body, I note that my first grenade did its job well. And my second, by the sight of the blood and errant limbs that scatter the ground ahead, did so too.
Beyond that, I can’t tell.
I call out for my brother in my head.
Zander! Are you OK?! What now?
His response is immediate, and frenetic.
Now we fight, sister! We send them all to hell!
His voice is wild and buoyant in my mind, and through the mist I see the blue energy boiling at the tip of his gun. It builds and builds and then bellows forth, spreading for what remains of the camp ahead. The entire place is now lit in fire, and with the wailing noise gone, I hear a different sort of screaming reach my ears, muffled through my rudimentary plugs.
The source is as clear as th
at of the sonic machine. Several men rush about, their clothing wreathed in fire, searching for some pool of acid water into which to fall. I see the blue energy of my brother’s pulse rifle cut one of them down, and then another, oblivious to his presence, sees his torment quickly ended.
A third, however, isn’t so lucky. He’s unfortunate enough to stumble upon a bog, and while dropping in puts out the flame, it certainly doesn’t offer much relief. Instead of fire, his flesh is quickly burned by the toxic water, so potent in these parts, and he continues to scream and thrash until the pain becomes too much and he passes out, plunging into the mire.
I hear my brother calling again for me to enter, and realise that there are more soldiers to deal with. Those not killed in the blasts or the fire, or cut down by Zander’s rifle, quickly realise what’s going on, emerging from burning tents and trying to gather their wits.
Swinging my own rifle from my shoulder, I rush up from the earth and spit fire their way. My gun spews in a beautiful shade of blue like Zander’s, and from both sides, the camp is assaulted. Trapped in a snare, and disorientated as we hoped they’d be, the soldiers rush wildly and don’t work as one. Not knowing just where the threat is coming from until it’s too late, they stumble into our net, and pay the most precious price of all.
I begin moving forward, and see that the smoke is beginning to clear. It’s enough to be noticeable, and the direction of its travel has changed too. No longer does it resist the wind, moving north rather than west. Now, it flows as it should, the breeze taking it with it as it gently glides off to the west.
All I can think is that we must have got him. The wind-manipulator must be dead.
I’m wrong.