by T. C. Edge
"We make...for the heart...of the camp," I call out. "Dom...will be...there..."
Marcus nods a single time, setting his chocolate eyes ahead. We skip over the fallen, rushing through the lines at the northern side of the base. The sounds of battle grow clearer, flashing lights filling the skies. The heart of the camp glows, multi-coloured, the rains lit red, blue, and silver. I scan the dead and a pattern emerges - it was the Fringe militia tasked with defending the base. Many of them, hundreds of them, lie scattered among the tents, cut down with ease as Avon and his black-armoured followers rushed through.
The fighting soon comes upon us, past a few tents ahead. I see Olympian soldiers thrashing through, cutting down simple militiamen with ease as they make for the centre of the camp. We rush up behind them, taking out several before they realise we're there. I draw my scimitars and let them feed, their edges splashing red.
The centre of the camp appears, my eyes laser focused, staring at the royal marquee. My heart leaps as I see silver armour gleaming, catching the firelight of torches nearby. Max, as loyal a protector as there ever could be, stands upon the threshold of the tent, firing wildly, using his tremendous telekinetic powers to fling coming soldiers here and there.
I pace onwards, just as another body comes flying overhead. It surges from another angle, limbs buckled and broken. I round a corner and see the culprit; one of General Decimus's enormous Brute bodyguards, crashing through the coming enemy soldiers, scattering them like pins.
I see the other, already fallen, a knife protruding from a gap in his armour, embedded in his neck. I turn again to the royal marquee, set to rush across the clearing towards it. Once more, Marcus holds me back, grabbing at my shoulder, pulling me away as a barrage of bullets peppers our position. We flip backwards together, and I flash my eyes on the source. There, a half dozen soldiers rush through into the camp's core.
They are lead by Herald Avon.
They turn immediately towards the second Brute guard, firing as they advance on him. His armour is thick, bullets clanging as they hit. He draws a gun of his own, taking it from his back. It pumps loudly with high velocity blasts, sweeping across the soldiers as they press his way.
One gets hit, square in the chest, knocking him back and right through another tent. His body crashes into it, taking out the wooden supports.
I refuse to delay further, rushing now into the clearing. Marcus comes with me, firing upon the enemy as we dash to Max's position. His eyes take us in, leaping wide. With a swish of the arm, another enemy goes flying, tossed thirty metres into the sea of red tents beyond.
"Dom!" I call out. "Where is Dom!"
Max gestures behind him and into the tent. I rush past, Marcus stopping to stand guard. Inside, I find Dom, standing at the rear, a servant hastily strapping him up into his fine, silver battle armour. To my relief, Burns is there too, Adryan also with him, all of them safe.
"What the hell are you doing!" I shout, rushing towards my husband-to-be. "You're not thinking of going out there!"
"I was," he says to me, remarkably calm. "I am not so useless as you think, Kira."
I rush into his arms, the servant stepping back. The tent is well protected, its canopies bullet and fire-proof. The entrance, really, is the only way in. And that is why Max stands there, defending it with his life.
"I'm here now," I say, breathing out the words, pulling away from Dom's abbreviated embrace. "Marcus is here too. You're safe." I look to Burns and Adryan, sitting anxiously to one side. "You're safe," I repeat, just for them.
I take no more time with them, turning immediately, rushing back for the opening. Outside, Max has drawn cover, pulling it from the debris nearby. He fires from there, as Marcus does the same. Beyond, across the clearing, the final Brute guard of General Decimus looks like he's set to fall.
"Is the General in his tent?" I call out, dropping in beside the others.
Max nods.
"We must get to him," I say. "We must keep him safe."
I scan as I speak, trying to ascertain numbers. There are plenty of bodies now, mostly around the entrances to the clearing between the many tents. A few of our own troops remain, a couple of the surviving Stalkers here, the odd Neoroman or Havenite City Guard too. They fight alone, attacking from cover here and there, occasionally dashing out if they see an opportunity to strike.
The enemy numbers are larger, but not by much, a few still arriving from the north. I see Avon to one side, calling out orders. His eyes flash over to our position, seeing that it's well defended. The main command tent, meanwhile, suddenly looks awfully vulnerable.
An explosion bursts, a fizzing projectile coming from nowhere and connecting with the side of the main marquee. The canopy ripples, but repels it, the fire not catching, but swirling into the soaking air. It draws the attention of the Brute bodyguard, the shockwave doing enough to knock him forward. He staggers a little, but it's all they need. Suddenly, striking like lightning, Herald Avon rushes from cover, flinging knives as he goes. His aim is stunning, each blade thrown perfectly through the thin, vulnerable slits between the bodyguard's armour.
One after another, they cut through, knocking the giant back off his feet. He hits the earth with a heavy thud, enough to shake the ground. I've seen enough people fall to know that this one isn't getting up.
The command tent, now, lies open, but for a couple of weaker soldiers firing from within. I ready myself to set off, but feel Max taking my wrist. He looks at me and shakes his head.
"Not you, Kira. Not you."
He prepares to stand to his feet, but he, too, is drawn down.
"Nor you, Commander," says Marcus, looking towards us both. "You both belong here, with the Emperor. Let me see to the General."
He doesn't wait for permission from Max, senior Commander to him though he is. He merely hurdles over our cover, rushing right for the command tent, bearing quickly down on the soldiers heading towards it. Max and I lend our aid, firing to try to protect him. He reaches a couple of soldiers and swiftly cuts them down. It's enough to draw the attentions of Herald Avon.
Once third in line to lead the Olympian forces, Avon now stands above them all. Through the soggy air, I see his face, chiselled, hateful, crafted of stone. He holds an expression similar to Perses, when he attacked Amber and I not long ago. It is the face of a man twisted, his mind not truly his own.
The men immediately fly into battle, forming into a vortex of clashing blades and flurrying fists. I watch on as several other Olympian soldiers make for the General's tent, firing as they go. One is shot down, dropping to the sandy mud, the storm making the grounds slippery underfoot. Two more rush inside, breaking through, hunting...
"I cannot stay, Max."
My words precede my leap, as I fly across the clearing, using the slick mud to slide as I near the main command tent. I sense a commotion inside as I enter, smell blood coming from within. I rush through the flaps and see death.
But the General has not been taken.
He stands, decked in battle armour, his bearded chin, coloured grey, brown and white, now splashed with a brand new hue. Blood soaks his face, a fine dagger gripped in his hand. Beneath his feet, dead soldiers lie. Ours. Theirs. Bundled into a heap.
"General Decimus," I say, looking at him in surprise. "I thought..."
"You thought I was a non-combatant, my Lady," he says, looking at me with this keen silver eyes. "Most of the time, that is true. But when I must fight, I do."
He takes a cloth from his armguard, and wipes his blade clean. Re-sheathing it, he steps to the side and takes up a rather more powerful weapon, a strong Neoroman rifle, silver, blade-like, but packing a powerful punch.
"I...I am sorry, General," I say. "For not telling you of my plan."
He looks at me, calm but stern, the latter something of a permanent fixture on his face. "There is no need to apologise, my Lady," he says in that growling voice of his. "The Emperor explained your plan to me once you'd left. I won't say I'm
happy about it, but I am self-aware enough to understand your reasoning. In the end, Kira, victory is all that matters. How it is achieved may be forgotten, in time."
"It wasn't me," I say. "We failed, General. It almost went horribly wrong."
"Oh?"
I nod and let out a wry smile. "Brie," I say. "And Zander. I think...I think he had this in hand all along."
Decimus's eyes widen, though his silver brows continue to slant. "A dead boy has changed our fortunes," he says. "Is that what you're telling me?'
"No," I say, shaking my head. "Zander isn't truly dead and gone." I think ahead, of what must be done. "At least, not yet."
Outside, a rustle of air sweeps past the tent, the flaps fluttering wildly. I dash to the exit and look out, as Marcus and Avon continue to do battle, slipping and sliding around the clearing, now bereft of all but them.
More dead have accumulated, more taken out by Max and our remaining soldiers. Whoever might have been left have fled, it would seem. They have come to realise that this is not their day.
"Stay here, General Decimus," I say. "I will return to you shortly."
I move out into the light rain, gaps now appearing in the sky above. The glow of predawn has begun to flourish, warming the eastern plains. I step in, and see Max moving from the royal marquee too. Suddenly, Avon seems to notice he's alone, sliding to a stop in the centre of the clearing. He looks around, surrounded, eye wide and manic.
"It's over, Herald Avon," Marcus says to him calmly. "You know you cannot defeat us all."
His eyes hunt us, one after another. He looks strained, more ragged than Marcus. It appears as though the young Neoroman has usurped him, too slick, too skilful, even for a Herald of War.
"There is no reason for you to die, Herald Avon," Marcus goes on. "We have become friends, you and I. We can be so still."
"Friends," he spits. "Friends!"
The suggestion seems to ignite his ire, and he surges at Marcus once more. The young Neoroman sidesteps him, knocking him down as he passes. It happens so fast, so easily, Avon tripping into the mud, crashing face-first to the sopping, filthy earth. He tries to get up, but struggles in the grease. I look at him with pity. How terrible to be so entrenched in your beliefs, his mind wired to protect nothing but a lie.
"It is over, Avon," Marcus repeats. His eyes lift to Max, as the Imperial Guard Commander steps forward, and takes Avon into his telepathic grip. We gather, closing in, and from the tents, the leaders come.
It is Secretary Burns who steps in first, feet squelching in the soggy grit as he moves towards Avon. The Herald struggles wildly, though Max has him in a firm grasp. And just behind, Marcus waits, should be break free.
A moment passes as Burns looks into his fiery eyes. And then, he nods, steps back, and moves towards the royal tent.
"Bring him here to me, please Maximus," Burns says. "I think I can bring him round."
208
AMBER
I stand at the corner of the main square, staring out at the chaos. At the foot of the steps, the two Titans on guard lie dead, cut down by Ares and Perses as they charged into battle. I can't see them now, not from where I'm standing, not through the sea of figures ahead.
I'd find it a shame if I wasn't so distracted. I have yearned to see the two fight, side by side.
I have no time to think of them, however, as I draw up my shield and begin moving across the square. Though it's easy enough to make out the Neoroman troops, and the City Guards with their custom attire, detecting who might be a threat among the others isn't quite so easy.
Now, Olympians fight one another, Children of the Prime killing their own kin. And to my horror, I see that regular citizens are getting involved. The people of Olympus, whether of their own accord, of because of the programming in their minds, are stepping out of their homes to fight the invaders off.
They rush now, moving around in their varying outfits, colourful robes drenched through. These aren't soldiers. These aren't men and women trained to fight. They are, it would seem, the final card, the last option available to the Overseer and the Prime. A failsafe should the city come under attack, drawing thousands, even tens of thousands of Olympians out to fight.
It gives me more than pause, when the local people rush my way. They come with random weapons, some holding guns, others knives, more still with whatever they can lay their hands on, sharp or blunt it doesn't seem to matter. Their numbers are great, joining from all angles as if drawn right here, to the bottom of the hill.
I try to rush through them, igniting them by accident when they get too near. They seem to know I'm an enemy to them now, where once I was elevated above them. Knives come slashing at me, though do little to my shield. The more aggressive try to attack me physically, as though not caring for their own health. Any time they try, they catch fire, their robes burning around them as they rush off, passing the blaze to others.
I look on in horror, as a single panicking figure causes many others to catch alight. I draw my flame in as much as I can, though need it to protect me too. The other soldiers have no such compunction. They fight back, killing anyone who attacks them. I cannot blame them, horrifying though it is to see. I would never expect the Neoromans, or Havenites, to hold back when under such threat.
I push on, conserving energy should I need it, trying to work around through a quieter route. I reach the edge of the square, moving south. Felina's apartment, I know, is a block or two back, with views of the streets and square below.
The rain has begun to ease up further, some light now cracking on the eastern horizon. It paints the city in a morbid glow, the dreadful violence growing clearer...
I'm hit again, from behind, several people attacking with knives. They spit sparks as they hit my shield, deflecting, their tips blunted as they melt away.
I look at those people, dressed in soaking robes, their eyes wild and aggressive. They come at me again, before suddenly being taken out by a small group of Olympian soldier, who nod at me as they rush past, their eyes blue, brown, green. But all with dashes of hazel light.
Brie's.
I turn back and continue, cowering almost, just wishing it would stop. I find a gap and allow myself to pulse, pushing on harder through the rain. Ahead, another group appears, speeding into the main square from a side-street. I slow, looking at them, and one face in particular. It is hateful like all the others, yet not because of any controls of the Prime.
No, his face was always like that. And I'd see it every month.
I step towards Collector Ceres, the man who largely set me on this path. My mind has gone back and forward about him, first hating him, then pitying him, and feeling regret for humiliating him.
And then I got back from the war to the south, and found out that it was he who had taken my parents. It was he who commanded for the soldiers to snatch them up, bring them for faith-realignment, brand them Defiant.
Their cheeks will be permanently scarred because of that man.
And now, finally, I will take my revenge.
I light my eyes, flare my body to intimidate, staring at him as I march forward. His odious face sees me coming, bursting with hatred and fear combined. He seems torn between his impulse to fight off the invaders, and flee from my impending wrath. In the end, his fear seems to break him, stepping back, trying to turn, struggling through the coming crowds.
He has nowhere to go, caught amid the throng. I stamp onward, eyes only for him. Some of the crowd attack me, but have no impact on my shield. Others draw away from my flames, their programming not as strong, their survival instincts more potent.
I don't deign to speak to Ceres as I near him. I don't take time to rub it in. There is no time for that. But I will see him dead.
I reach out as he struggles against the crowd, most now giving me space, unable to get near my heat. I hear Ceres scream as I take a grip of the back of his neck. His skin sizzles immediately, the scent strong, unpleasant.
I squeeze tight and thrust f
orward, forcing him to the floor. I feel my rage overcoming reason, turning me cruel. I hate the man, yes, but this isn't me. I draw back, blinking hard, as he whimpers on the wet stone, hands and knees planted to the floor.
I take the choice quickly, looking down at the man, his neck already badly scorched. He will die sooner or later out here. Much as I have always despised him, I will not make him suffer.
I draw the fires to my palm and shoot, aiming right at the back of his head. It is hot enough, I know, to kill him instantly. His body will burn for a while, a gruesome sight to see, but he will not be living.
Already, he is gone.
The crowd now grow more fearful of me, some of them drawing back. I wonder how it works - are those who live closer to the hill more affected? Is the protective impulse stronger, in those who have looked upon the Prime more often, even from afar down here in the square?
Whatever the case, some now draw back, their lives perhaps saved by my presence here. I see others looking off away, into the square. I turn and look too.
There, two fires glow, appearing from the southern streets and rushing up the hill amidst a contingent of Neoroman troops.
I squint to see them, but already know.
Both Elian, and my grandmother, have come.
They seem to see me too, and begin rushing over towards me. Side by side they come, the former Chosen Fire-Blood, and the young man who went on to assume the role. I find my lips turning up at the thought, and see them smiling in return.
But as they come, a crack rips at the sky, and a great wind flows down upon us. The Neoroman troops, with Elian and grandma ahead of them, suddenly scatter under the force of the gale. I turn my eyes up and see a figure floating above us, his arm swirling wildly, drawing a great tornado to the sky. It grips them, men dragged into its core, spinning wildly as they're thrown out around the open square.