by Andy Boot
It had taken only a day to set in stone the final arrangements. Only a few hours before, he had led the final briefing and despatched the military detachment. They had left the embassy in a variety of disguises, singly or in pairs. Beneath these workaday raiments had been their battle suits. Their rendezvous times had been synchronised. Deep within the basement of the embassy the Mage had sat, remote viewing the progress of the strike force. He had penetrated the walls of the Bethel Institute, and observed the long discussion between the cretinous bodyguard and the senile Mage.
They were groping towards what was happening around them, but the painful slowness with which they reasoned made Vixel wince. He would be putting them out of their misery. It was a kindness, in truth.
He watched as the strike force attained optimum positioning. It was time to begin the magical diversion.
Really, it had been too simple. He had hardly exerted himself. Which was why he was able to divert his attention to haranguing the extra guard he had been allotted, in case the raid backfired and the embassy came under attack.
It was a remote possibility for even the ultra-cautious Chief Minister to consider. To the Mage, it was ludicrous.
As he returned to directing his phantom diversion, to observing the progress of the strike force, it would only be fair to say that his mood bordered on something that could be called... well, nothing less than smug.
The warriors in the strike force had been specially chosen. As any transmissions via communication devices could have been monitored by Intel or surveillance tech, the Mage had insisted that only those warriors who had, at some point in their military careers, been through remote-thought Intel training could be considered eligible. His reason was clear. If they had a modicum of training, they would be able to synchronise their attack to his psychically delivered trigger signal.
Each of the strike force wore heavy work uniforms from different trades. They had appeared to be Bethelian workers who had been employed to work on the embassy building. As it was still partly under construction, and there was a steady stream of such workers throughout the day, it was easy for them to move unobserved. The heavy work clothes hid their weaponry well.
On leaving the embassy grounds, they had made their way to the designated points around the Institute by a variety of circuitous routes. To attempt to follow them would have left baffled any warrior security whose suspicions had been aroused.
Once in position, they awaited the signal. Until that moment, they remained in disguise. The streets of the capital were still busy, so it was easy for them to blend in with those at the end of their working day.
When the command came, each warrior knew that speed would be of the essence. They had to enter swiftly, hit hard, obtain the objective, and get out in a matter of moments. They could not allow the Bethel warrior security time enough to respond. Tracking by surveillance tech was not a problem: the Mage had assured them of this. Once they had their objective, he would switch his diversionary charms. His focus would be on blocking the energy flow of the tech, disrupting it to prevent tracking.
All they had to do was get in and get out.
When the signal came, it was a wash of images and sounds that flooded into the minds of each of the assigned warriors. They saw Simeon and Ramus-Bey by the pond, talking. They saw the ectoplasmic wisps that preceded the birth of the thought forms that would occupy any magical defences that had been set up, and they saw the location of each warrior as clearly as if they had been standing next to their fellows. Finally, deep in the mix, they heard one echoed word...
Go.
They divested themselves of their workers uniforms, revealing the camouflaged battle suits beneath. Working in pairs, they boosted themselves over the walls before anyone passing by had a chance to even register what was going on. In moments they were there and then gone. Their Intel training on low level magic gave them the ability to cast a weak charm that, whilst not making them invisible, confused the air around where they stood, leaving anyone who did catch sight of them unsure as to what, exactly, they had just witnessed. The discarded uniforms were all that remained to mark their passing.
Once over the wall, they were - ironically - in more secure territory. Just as the walls kept out the sounds of the city beyond, so too did they keep in the sounds of conflict.
Just as he found it simple to construct the thought creatures that now impeded Simeon as he attempted to marshal Ramus-Bey to safety, so too did Vixel find it a simple task to keep the trained minds of the strike force tuned in to images from around the grounds. Thus they could see each other's progress as they made their way, unerringly, to the Bethelian Mage, and could see the adepts and wizards doing battle with the thought creatures.
They had been briefed that the bodyguard known as Simeon 7 was a man of little combat experience, who had been picked by his own side to act as a stooge. His lack of ability would betray him, and make him easy to take out. So none of the warrior strike force were expecting what was about to happen.
As they converged and approached the Bethelian Mage, a team of three separated from the main body, and fanned out, laying down a criss-cross of blaster fire to prevent the bodyguard reaching the relative sanctuary of the castle. All the warriors were confident they could flush him out if he did attain cover, but to do so would necessitate time that they could not spare.
The covering fire achieved its aim. Simeon had to turn away from the castle and head for cover.
Inside their minds, the strike force could see the layout of the castle grounds. They knew where there was adequate cover for the man Simeon 7 to hide his charge and make a stand.
In truth, he had little in the way of choice. There was nowhere else except for this copse that offered anywhere near the same degree of cover. So even as he headed for the foliage, the strike force were anticipating his move.
He loosed some fire at them. It was nothing more than they had expected. It was easy to deflect.
Once ensconced in cover, they expected him to make a stand. He would naturally assume they were out to eliminate the Mage, and so would be prepared to give his life to preserve the other. But the bodyguard had other ideas. From the relative safety of the copse he laid down fire and sought to divide the strike force, tearing up the turf between them, and forcing them to split up and go wide.
Could it be that they had underestimated his intelligence?
The grounds of the castle were now almost in darkness. The moons overhead were obscured by a bank of cloud, and little ambient light from the city penetrated the gloom. Deep within the copse, the bodyguard kept the Mage close to him, and it was hard for the approaching warriors to see the two men, even with the aid of night vision tech.
This confusion was deliberate. It became clear to them that the bodyguard had realised that their aim was to capture rather than kill the Mage, and that they could not take him out and risk hitting Ramus-Bey. While he, on the other hand, having driven them apart, could concentrate his fire on specific targets with no such concerns.
Their only hope for a swift resolution would be to circle the copse as best as possible, closing as a clutched fist on the target within. But in order to do this they would have to eschew blaster fire. The copse was small, but not so small as to make it easy to contain their target. There was room enough for manoeuvre, and so they could not risk hitting the Mage, nor each other.
Meanwhile, the bodyguard was able to place a few shots from relative safety. One or two to judge his target distances, then a third with deliberate aim. Obviously, without night vision aids and a blaster with only limited power, he had to be cautious. But his aim was good: within a few shots, two of the eight man party were hit. One was dead, the other incapacitated, rolling in the undergrowth squealing from the open wound that had once been his face.
As they penetrated the copse, the strike force of six found that things were not as simple as they would have hoped. To Simeon, it had seemed nothing more than a clump of hanging trees, offering scant
cover. But hanging trees were an unknown species in Varn, and their very alieness caused problems for the enemy. The thick, twisted roots that Simeon stepped so nimbly over caught at their feet. The branches covered in heavy leaves dripping down like static water almost to the turf, obscured their path. The limpid limbs were awkward to shift, made noises that gave them away. Conversely, Simeon, used to their weight, moved easily amongst them, dragging the Mage in his wake.
Within the obscured dark of the copse, it was difficult for the strike force to know which of the shapes and sounds were the enemy, and which were themselves. A question partly answered when a brilliant energy blast took out another of their number.
Five left standing. They had to obtain the objective and clear the wounded and dead. Fast.
So tight were they now that Simeon could no longer risk blaster fire for fear of giving away his position. Five to one: the odds favoured only one side.
And yet, despite this, the five members of the strike force had a creeping sense of unease about their position.
Despite the odds Simeon chose to attack. He had little option but to try and take them out one by one; yet in so doing he would, of necessity, give away his own position. It was a no-win situation.
He circled one of the Varn warriors, who stood silently, balanced on the balls of his feet, poised to respond to the slightest sound. Simeon did not give him that chance. Close enough to make out the darkened shape of the warrior, yet not close enough for the man to feel his presence, Simeon stooped and snatched at the sparse grasses that grew in the shade of the hanging trees. He scooped a handful of small stones, and deftly threw them to the left of the Varn warrior.
The warrior followed the direction of the sound as the stones hit branch and tree. When he looked away, Simeon hit him from behind, taking him down with a blow to the small of his back that paralysed him with pain, allowing the bodyguard just enough time to land a second, disabling blow before the screaming nerve endings in the Varn warrior's spine calmed and allowed him to react.
What Simeon could not know was that the remote magical link with Vixel also tied the strike force together. When their man went down, they knew exactly where to find the bodyguard.
Before Simeon was on his feet, the remaining four men converged. It was swift and brutal. Blows rained on him, crippling limbs. The breath was driven from him by a savage kick beneath the ribs, and darkness fell with a combat boot to the temple.
The strike force would happily have extracted reparation for their fellows by killing him, but were stayed by a command that sounded in their minds.
Leave him.
They did not question the voice. There was much to be done, and quickly.
Locating the Mage was easy. They found him cowering beneath a hanging tree, a frightened old man; terrified beyond the capacity for any kind of rational thought.
A slight figure, he acquiesced from fear when one of the strike force hoisted him onto his shoulder as though he was nothing.
The downed warrior was briskly revived. Still dazed, he assisted in the recovery of the two wounded, and one dead.
Carrying their burdens, the remaining strike force members made their way through the thought creatures and the whirling vortices of charm-clash until they hit the appointed spot. They were just within the boundaries of the Institute. Looking around, one of the warriors took an explosive charge from his battle suit and laid it at the base of the wall. It seemed, at first glance, to be a measure of desperation.
But perhaps not. As it exploded, the detonation disrupting the recording sensors on the surveillance equipment still operating, a holoship appeared within the grounds, unmasking itself. It was unpiloted, guided remotely by another part of the Varn Mage's magical intellect. The strike force, using the cover of noise, smoke and debris left in the wake of the detonation, embarked with their precious cargo, and the holoship masked itself again before lifting them over the wall, regardless of the gaping hole left by the explosive charge.
Eyewitness and surveillance Intel would elicit only this: that there was an explosion at the wall; that the enemy were standing on one side before the disruption, and on neither side when it had cleared.
All would be confusion. Which was just as Vixel had planned.
With the strike force free, he lowered the magical attack as swiftly as he had brought it into play. The counter-charms of the Bethel wizards and adepts, now having nothing to fight, dissipated; leaving many confused and exhausted.
An uncanny silence descended over the grounds of the Institute. As if requested by the Gods. The clouds obscuring the moons of Inan now parted, the pale light of the twin orbs illuminating the carnage below.
The wildlife had gone to ground, that which survived the battle. The bloodied remains of much of the fauna now littered the grounds. Explosive magical energies had taken chunks from the castle building itself: the interior was visible through gaping holes, while the area around the large double doors was now littered with broken stone. The grounds were scored by the marks of battle, turf and soil ripped up and scorched. Foliage lay in smoking ruins.
And in the middle of it all, unconscious and alone, lay Simeon 7.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Year Zero - Period Two
It did not take Simeon long to regain consciousness. He was aware first of the pain, rising from a throb to a scream. It seemed to run the length of his body in a continuous loop, as though using him for a running track. Opening his eyes required a strong nerve. Even the pale light of the moons made his head explode in a myriad of colours. But after the sixth attempt, things began to settle into shapes that he was eventually able to distinguish.
It was when his brain began to register once more his sense of smell that the true import of the situation hit him. The air was thick with the scent of charred flesh, warm blood, stone dust, and the sweet smell of burnt wood and grass.
He slowly stood. He hardly recognised the grounds around him. In the distance he could make out wizards and adepts moving slowly amongst the wreckage.
Where was Ramus-Bey?
He looked around hurriedly, but it made his head spin.
He cautiously began to move across to where the majority of the academy magicians were clustered. They seemed to be moving just as slowly as he, which gave him some obscure comfort.
Najwin, a junior adept - noticeable because he was so tall and gangly - detached from the main body and drifted towards the warrior. He, too, seemed stunned by what had occurred.
"What..." croaked Simeon as the young adept came within hearing.
"Something... everything," the adept replied, his voice seeming to come from a thousand light anums away.
Simeon heard no more. The effort of staying upright was too much. Blackness crept in around him before he had the chance to do anything else.
When he awoke again, he was in a cell. A small, stone room in the lowest depths of the military buildings. It was equipped with a bed, toilet and a surveillance transmitter.
Mindful of what had happened before, Simeon pulled himself up and swung his legs so that he was seated on the edge of the bed. His cuts and abrasions had been dressed, and he was wearing a black shift. It was cold in the stone depths. He felt nauseous. His muscles were stiff, and one leg felt like it wouldn't move too quickly under any circumstances. His mouth felt like a sewer, and his head throbbed. But, all things considered, he'd felt worse.
The question was: how long had he been unconscious this time? Long enough to be brought here, to be cleaned up, but beyond that?
He looked up at the transmitter.
"Well, I'm conscious. Let's get on with it..."
He knew why he was here. Ramus-Bey was either dead or missing. He was the bodyguard, and he was still here. There had to be an investigation. Although he was less than pleased at being treated in such a manner when he had fought against overwhelming odds. It was as though he were a part of the plot, rather than one of the victims. An innocent bystander.
No. Pe
rhaps not. What if he was considered to be in league with whoever had mounted the attack? Whether it was internal, or directed by another nation state, the fact that he was alive could be considered a sign of collusion. His duty was to lay down his life for his Mage. Although why he had been left alive after being struck down...
Trying to think so much, so soon after regaining consciousness, was making him feel even more nauseous than before.
He could hear footsteps in the corridor. Two sets. They stopped before his door, and the lock mechanism whirred. Two warriors in black formals stood before him.
"Questioning," one of them said. His voice was hostile.
Simeon tried to stand. He still felt slow, cumbersome. It wasn't good enough for the warriors, who jerked him to his feet. They half walked, half dragged him from the cell and down the corridor.
Simeon swallowed hard, preventing the vomit that the sudden movement had stirred. He had a sinking feeling in his stomach that had little to do with his physical state. The attitude of these two suggested that he had already been tried in his absence, and found wanting.
If that was the case, nothing he could say would make any difference.
They flung him into an elevator. This time he couldn't stop the vomit. They looked at him as though he were less than dirt. He wanted to ask them why they were acting like this, but from their expressions and the way they carried themselves, he knew that the first words he uttered would be no more than a signal for them to beat him.
Best to stay quiet, see where this was going.