by T. C. Edge
He presses down on the button, and the crimson armour swiftly changes colour, darkening to a strange, lightless black. "It's very difficult to see," he says, "especially in low light conditions. It can be adjusted depending on the environment. Dark for when you want to sneak around. Bright red if you want to intimidate during battle." He steps over and hands me the armour. "I know it doesn't make much sense to wear it outside of the arena, but it's part of you now, Kira. You are the Red Warrior, and you inspire people more than I ever could, wandering around out there in the camp. Put it on, darling, and do it quick. Oh, and while you're at it," he adds, turning again to the trunk. "Don't forget these."
He bends down and draws out two familiar, curved, blades, the scimitar swords I always favoured when fighting in the Imperial Games. They appear as they always did, unchanged, only sharpened and housed in new, sleek sheaths. He hands them to me, kisses me on the cheek, and then steps back towards the exit.
"I'll be in the command tent with the General," he says. "Head to the south and find out what's going on. Report back when you're ready."
With that, he rushes off.
A couple of minutes later, I'm stepping out in my newly customised armour, fitted so sleekly, embellished and upgraded in several subtle ways. It feels lighter than before, yet more durable, the various components knitted together into a more streamlined suit.
I hurry quickly to the south, to find a number of soldiers gathering at the rearguard. There are gun placements here, though fewer than to the north, an attack not thought likely, or even possible, from this particular flank. I find Commander Hendricks already there, staring out towards the southern plains. Within the fading light, I can see several hundred wagons and carts rolling towards us, quickly covering the ground. Most of the people on them seem to be armed, some carrying Olympian rifles, others our own Havenite and Neoroman firearms we gave away, others still with more rudimentary local guns, hunting rifles and the like.
"They're from Hunter's Station," I say, staring at them as they come. I relax a little at the realisation. "Only the League's militia could possibly have that range of firearms. They must be coming to reinforce us."
Hendricks begins to nod. "Perhaps Alberta sent for additional aid to bolster the other camps," he says. "The lines are a little thin in places, and some Fringers have been trying to get through, as Secretary Burns said. She probably sent for reinforcements to better prevent that from happening."
They continue to rush up quickly, gathering at the rear of the base. The Neoroman soldiers on duty watch on carefully, manning the dugouts and gun placements here. They seem wary, but not overly concerned. But still, something feels off on the timing. It seems like a strange coincidence, for these Fringers to be arriving, just as that blanket of smog, supposedly concealing an Olympian assault force, sweeps towards the front of the base.
I take a grip of my handgun, fixed to my flank next to my scimitar blades, but don't pull it from its holster. A silence pervades the southern edge of the encampment as the convoy comes to a halt, and the Fringers step out. They move in a strange manner, no one speaking as they climb from their wagons and carts and begin coming our way.
Hendricks prepares to step forward to meet them, but I hold him back.
"Don't," I say, my voice tensing. "Something doesn't feel right."
He frowns at me. "What have you seen?" he asks.
I zoom in, scanning the faces of the men and women coming our way. Their expressions seem unusually placid and vacant. And their eyes...
"Oh my God," I whisper, noticing the rings of hazel around them. "They're not reinforcements, Glenn. They're going to attack..."
"Attack?" he says. "Why would they do that?"
"Their eyes," I say. "Look at their eyes."
He narrows his gaze and stares forward. I see the realisation wash across his face. "Brie," he says. "She's awakened them..."
My body tenses, turning rigid, suddenly afraid that she might be out there herself. My heart thumps at the thought, knowing how powerful and dangerous she's become. I squint, searching, and quickly try to seek out Zander, calling into my mind.
Are you there, Zander? Is...is she?!
I get no response, and have no chance to ask again.
Suddenly, as one, the Fingers begin rushing towards us, lifting their weapons and firing as they go. They take the Neoroman troops by surprise, a few of them hit before they can react. I pull my pistol and begin firing back on instinct, as Hendricks calls out for us to hold the line. Many of the incoming Fringers move with a strange, juddering motion, dashing quickly and then slowing, their bodies brimming and buzzing with energy.
Their powers, I think. They've just been awakened. They've had no time to learn to control them...
The Neoromans suddenly fly into action, the dugouts and fixed weapons positions firing back without mercy. I see swathes of the Fringers cut down, but many more, many hundreds more, continue to pile towards us. They come without fear or concern for their own mortality, a mass of figures, men and women, young and old, rushing towards in a strange, manic charge.
And just as they do so, I hear a sudden explosion of noise behind us, the northern side of the camp also under attack.
I twist around and see it - the fume has reached the base.
186
AMBER
I hurry quickly with Elian, mustering my reserves of energy as the rear, and front of the base, suddenly explode into a sudden violence.
"They looked like Fringers," Elian calls, as we pulse ourselves forward with the flame, our bodies wreathed in fiery shields. "From the rear. They looked like militia."
He's right. They did. Even from our position, off to the west of the base upon the shallow rise, it was obvious enough that the large convoy coming from the south was a Fringer population.
"Why the hell are they attacking!" I call out. "Don't they realise we're on the same side?"
"They could be from the northern border towns," Elian pants, shouting over the din. "They're still loyal to Olympus..."
I try to figure it out, but can't. Ahead, the western side of the camp comes quickly into view as we rush into the sea of tents, soldiers pouring one way or the other down the streets between them. To the northern side, the swamp of fog has reached the forward gun positions, engulfing them in a thick, soupy fume. The sounds of battle on both sides are intense, the camp assaulted from the front and rear.
"Which way?" I call out. "Where do we go?"
"I...I don't know," Elian says, his eyebrows cast low. "I...I must get to the Secretary. I must make sure he's safe."
"Elian, he's fine. He'll be in the command centre. We can do so much more elsewhere."
"I made a promise, Amber," he retorts. "I have to stand by it."
I grab his arm, stopping him as we run. I know this isn't just about his duty to Burns. He still doesn't want to have to engage. He doesn't want to kill his people.
"You have to make a choice, Elian," I say, speaking firmly and with a resounding passion. "Right here, right now. I know you don't want to fight your own people, and nor do I, but we have chosen our side, and have to commit. We head south, and I have to kill Fringers. We head north, and you have to kill Olympians. One way or another, we're doing something terrible, something we'll always hate ourselves for. But we must, Elian. We must."
I stare at him, working hard to break down his facade, make him see the terrible truth.
"I just...I don't know..."
"She's right," comes a rumble of thunder, emanating from a towering figure approaching from the side. From a darkened alley between the tents, the black-wreathed figure of Perses strides, moving with power and grace toward us. "Amber is right, Elian," he says, looking down at the young Fire-Blood. "We must all make the choice now. It is a curse we have to bear, but one that is necessary."
"And you, Perses," Elian says, his eyes lighting bright amid the gloom. "You're willing to kill now, are you? To kill those you have fought with, those you've led?"
"I have straddled that line now for many days," he responds. "I was forced to cross it during the battle at the fort. I didn't want to have to do so again." He looks Elian deep in the eye. "But I must now," he says, his voice deeper than the din. "I have to do my part, terrible as it is. If you wish to help, then so must you. Make a choice, Elian, and do so quickly. I head north to fight with Ares. If I can help drive them off, we may yet save many lives."
He rests his hand on Elian's shoulder, looks at me with a fond expression, and then disappears into the camp, heading for the north.
"We should follow him," I say, watching him go. "The threat is in the north. The Fringers won't take much to be overcome."
Elian nods slowly, and takes a defeated breath. "I guess you're both right," he says. "I guess there really is no choice." He looks up at me, and lets the fires spiral more strongly around him. "We go north," he agrees, turning to look in the direction Perses went. "We join our flame, and fight together."
Despite the peril, despite the horrible circumstances, I find myself smiling. And together, we forge the bond that strengthens us both, let our fires coil and merge. And with our powers combined, we surge northwards, ready to add our might to the fray.
187
KIRA
My blade sinks deep, spilling Fringer blood.
It's an ugly feeling, watching the blood flow and the eyes go dead. Those eyes ringed in hazel, detached and glazed over. As I commit the killing blow, that murky quality fades away, the eyes clearing during the man's final moments. He looks at me, wondering where he is, not knowing what's happening. I know immediately that his mind is not his own. I know that he, and all of these people, are under orders from another.
Oh...Brie, I think, my heart going cold. What have you done. What have they made you do...
Another group of Fringers hurry towards me, as I fight among the tents at the south of the base. They move in such unwieldy fashion, stumbling along, knocking into things as they try to control their speed. One tumbles over, knocking another down. A second pair rush at me, their speed suddenly taking flight. All it does is expedite their deaths, my dual blades cutting and slicing where it counts, easily working through their simple clothes and basic armour.
I perform the usual ballet, not even thinking of how strong my ankle feels, how effective Silvius's work has been. All I can think of is how easy it all is, how untrained and ineffective these militiamen and women are in these close-quarter conditions. Elsewhere, in the more open spaces, their numbers might just count for something. But not here, in this alley between the tents. Here, I duck and weave, dancing among the dead, as I pile them up around my feet, killing all those whom Brie has turned.
I feel empty as I work, the joy and thrill of battle absent. It's too easy for that, too dark and dreadful. How did Brie get there, I wonder to myself, as I cut another poor Fringer down. No one has left the city, but this can only be her doing. It's the reason I couldn't contact Zander before, I realise. Because she wasn't in the city at all. She was north, in Hunter's Station, committing this terrible deed...
The thought is an awful one, yet brings with it a chink of light, a single ray within the dark, brooding skies. Maybe, I think, I can still communicate with Zander after all. Maybe he isn't yet finished in all this...
My ears prick up, trying to listen to what's happening in the north. I have no idea what's going on there, no idea what's happening beyond this tight alley in which I've found myself. I can only assume that the assault there is more violent, that a stronger Olympian army has been sent out to deal a fatal blow.
I should make my way there, I think. In the north is where it counts.
I begin cutting my way forward, using my pistol any time I find some range, firing with my customary accuracy as the enemy rush past. Beyond the tents ahead, I can still see them moving inwards, many of them breaking through our lines. Our numbers here were just too few, insufficient to hold back the sudden charge. Fearlessness can be a fine attribute in such a situation, and they came rushing without any caring for their mortality at all.
I reach the end of the alley, and search the streets between the tents. The dead are littered everywhere, hundreds of Fringers already falling. The Neoromans lie among them, several dozen lost. Others continue to fight, some holding static positions and shooting from cover, others dashing around and cutting down the untrained enemy as I have been doing.
Another contingent of militia come my way, a small group rushing northwards and firing randomly as they go. I pounce off to the side, rolling behind a few supply crates, and begin firing at them from cover. I drop two immediately, as two others dash onwards, ignoring me as they head north. Only one remains, standing still in a small, open clearing surrounded by a grouping of tents.
I fire at him, but find him speeding off away at staggering speed. He doesn't do so like the others, all awkward and uncontrolled. He zips like he was born for it, moving behind the cover of a tent, and temporarily disappearing from my sight.
I narrow my focus and turn to my hearing. Footsteps tap around me, moving quickly to my side and behind.
He's trying to flank me...
The thought comes just in time, as I spin around and see him dashing at me from the tents behind. He draws a sleek pistol from his side, flicking off a jacket as he does so. Beneath it, I see black armour, dotted and likely bulletproof against weaker firearms and glancing shots. He raises the pistol and fires immediately, as I jump backwards like a startled cat, leaping the supply crates and dropping down on the other side.
Bullets crack into the wood. I duck low and wait for him to come around, listening again for his footsteps. They scurry and then suddenly go silent. I hold my breathing for a second, and sniff the air, searching for his scent. I can't pick it out amid the rush and bustle.
I reach for the ground, blink my eyes shut, and activate the sight. My senses combine into one, bringing up a three dimensional image of the nearby camp. And within that image, I sense him, moving off silently behind the tents nearby, trying to spring a trap once more.
He launches just too late, and I roll backward as he fires upon my position, springing again from the shadows. I lift my gun and fire back, but he's quick enough to dodge, ducking forwards this time and not falling into a retreat. He comes right at me instead, his face a picture of controlled rage, eyes cold and deadened, much like the Fringers he came with.
But this man is no Fringer, I know. Only elite soldiers and assassins are able to fight like this.
I quickly thrust my pistol back to its holster as he nears me, drawing out my dual scimitar swords. They slide from their sheaths, dripping blood. I dread to think how many people I've killed with them. Some who deserved it, many who didn't. I'll be happy to add this assassin to the list.
He's upon me in a flash, drawing a long blade of his own, moving like a predator, sleek and prowling. I watch his every movement closely, analysing, searching for weakness. It is one of my great strengths, to observe and adapt, something I put to good use when I fought in the great arena. And here, now, isn't too dissimilar, the two of us doing battle in that open space amid the tents.
His blade flashes at me, stabbing from distance, as I skip backward and away. He isn't an overly tall man, but has a good reach and thrust. I dance back and left, my footwork holding up so far. My left ankle appears to be in good working order, yet I know I must be careful. It isn't at full strength, no matter how it feels. Nothing too fancy, Kira, I tell myself. Just get this done, and move to the next target.
My inner dialogue re-centres my focus. I continue to evade his attacks, working out his speed, the length of his thrust, the timing of his movements. I do it all without attacking with any force, only jabbing half-heartedly to give myself a chance to find an opening. After a minute, I sense a little frustration creeping in, his attacks becoming less precise, more erratic. There's a growing desperation in his eyes, as though he wants to get this done as quickly as possible.
An a
ssassin, I think again, wondering if that's his purpose here. And if so, who exactly is his target?
The thought forces my hand, wondering if there might be others like him. They might have sent a number of them in with the Fringers, their job to slip through the lines, move through the camp while it's emptied. With the majority of our soldiers heading to fight on the northern side, that would leave the centre vulnerable.
The command tent, I think. Is that where he's trying to get?
I redouble my efforts now, not willing to wait any longer. As he comes in for another strike, I suddenly make my move, pouncing upon him with a springing leap, slashing at his neck with my dual blades.
He seems to see it, just in time, leaning back, ducking away. One blade misses completely. The other strikes him only a glancing blow, connecting with his skin above his armour. The steel draws blood, but doesn't slice deep. It is a surface wound only, but enough to give him pause.
I don't let the opportunity wane. As he reaches to his neck to investigate the wound, I speed in again, slashing with more ferocity. I build my pace to a point in which he cannot compete, my arms moving with a wild and violent control, cutting low and then high, stabbing and thrusting and slashing across his frame.
He dodges and ducks, using his blade to defend himself, but there's only so much he can do before I wear him down. I see a slight change in his expression as I begin to break through his defences, seeking out the finishing blow. A thrust gets through, though his armour is strong, managing to hold back the main force of my blade. Only the tip pierces into his chest, stabbing perhaps an inch or so deep, not enough to reach the target of his heart.
He grunts in pain and draws back. I see his eyes scanning, seeking an escape. They stop down one street between the tents.