Called to Battle: Volume Two

by Steve Diamond, Matt Forbeck, Chris A. Jackson

  Saryev nodded, and I hoped he understood. “It’s not your fault, sir,” he said. “It was her choice.”

  “My obligation to my oaths is not something to be lightly dismissed,” I said. “It is only through atonement that I will be cleansed. I fear I have much to account for.”

  I looked at the Dragonspine Peaks surrounding us. The terrors of Cryx were at our backs and seemed to have broken off pursuit. Praise the Creator for that mercy. But Cygnaran lands stretched in front of us without welcome or respite. We were still far from home.

  I shoved my exhaustion aside and began walking. The other soldiers of the Protectorate took their places in our tiny column, and we continued our long march back to Imer.

  Week Eight

  We wandered now across the plains west of Fort Falk. To say we marched would imply a direction, which I was no longer sure we had. We had lost more of our band, including an Exemplar errant killed by infection from a wound no one even knew he had. Ordinarily such an injury would never have gone unnoticed, but we had reached the point where none among us was unscathed. We were all battered and filthy, our bodies as well as our weapons and armor increasingly ill-kept despite all efforts.

  Two of the Daughters had just returned from scouting to the west, shaking their heads. No water, no food. We could last a few more days like this, but not much beyond that.

  What should we do? I asked the Harbinger silently. It had been two full months, and still she looked nearly untouched by death. I promise I will bring you home, somehow. But please, if you can, give us some sign, some kind of guidance.

  A moment later, Caylan came sprinting from the direction of Fort Falk. The loss of most of her right arm to the soulhunters in the Thornwood had hardly slowed her, and I marveled at her toughness. This wasn’t the first time I’d been on an extended mission with Daughters of the Flame, and I knew how their zealotry fueled them. Still, seeing Caylan fulfilling her sworn duty in spite of such a grievous injury affected me deeply. Surely the Creator had plans for this one. As she caught her breath, she pointed back in the direction from which she’d come and said, “Cygnaran Patrol. Twelve in all. Rangers by the look of them.”

  “How far?” I asked.

  “Just over a mile. It’s going to be difficult avoiding them.”

  Avoiding them. Her words made something click in my mind. I looked at the distraught and fearful faces of the men and women around me. All this time I’d thought I was keeping them from breaking, but they were already broken. And I was keeping them that way.

  “How were they supplied?” I asked quietly. It would be a gamble, but we needed something to make us feel like soldiers again. I had to pull all of us back from the edge. Beyond that, we desperately needed supplies.

  Caylan blinked in confusion, then answered, “Full gear. Rifles, ammunition, bags, bed rolls.”

  “Food?” I asked. “Water?”

  The barest hint of a smile crept onto her lips. “Everything.”

  I gave a small smile to match hers. They had to believe what I was about to say, or we would never make it another week, much less the two months or more to Imer.

  “I don’t know if you feel the same,” I said, my voice growing louder, “but I am tired of running. I am tired of simply defending, of playing the coward. When we marched into the Thornwood, we did so with heads held high and our minds firmly fixed on the glory of the Creator. Now he tests us, and it is our duty to remain worthy no matter the trials he sends our way.” A few heads were nodding in agreement. That was good. “I made an oath to the Creator, but I will make it to all of you as well. I will bring the Harbinger home, no matter the cost. I will fight to my last mortal breath. I will walk until my feet are worn to the bones, until the sun burns away my flesh. The Harbinger deserves to be remembered and honored for her sacrifice.”

  They nodded again, and for the first time in two months a spark returned to their eyes.

  “A dozen Cygnaran rangers? This is nothing to trouble us. Indeed, it is a gift!” I needed them to feel the confidence that I did not. “If we are to bring the Harbinger home, we will need the supplies those rangers carry. We cannot underestimate them, even though there are only twelve. They haven’t been running for months like we have. They haven’t endured the losses and trials we have faced. But we will do what is needed to keep our oaths. We will prevail.”

  Would they believe my words and rally behind me? Or would they turn away, rejecting my impromptu plan? There was a moment of silence as my warriors looked at me and at each other. Then to my amazement and relief they eagerly set to readying their weapons, as if they had been snapped out of a daze. The Testament and the Avatar immediately began trudging toward the Cygnaran patrol. They alone hadn’t been in need of inspiration, but their unhesitating advance added weight to my paltry words.

  We fell upon the rangers more like a murderous mob than a disciplined formation of highly trained knights. They discharged their rifles as we hit them on their left flank. Their rounds found gaps in the armor of a knight and a bastion, felling them instantly, but the rest of us were able to close the distance easily.

  It was no easy battle. We were tired and weak from lack of water, food, and rest. Our strikes weren’t as fast or as deadly as they should have been. Several quarrels were wasted as the Exemplar errants misfired. Under other circumstances our performance might have been deemed disgraceful, but in our current condition it was better than I could have hoped for.

  In the end our numbers overwhelmed them. We had won. Menoth willing, we would live to fight another day. Paladin Saryev knelt by a fallen ranger and passed his hand over the dead man’s wide, staring eyes. We will do what is needed to keep our oaths, I had said. Those words now weighed heavy upon my heart. Who was to say that among these Cygnaran dead, none had been men of the faith? And what of their comrades, their families, those who had loved and relied on them in life?

  These rangers had simply been doing their duty, just as I was trying to do. I prayed for their souls along with those of my own fallen.

  Week Twelve

  I’d hoped to skirt around the Marchfells. Instead we were trudging through the swamp, lost among its noxious waters and rotting vegetation. Cygnaran patrols—larger than we could consider facing—had forced our path. Our remaining Daughters were scouting to help us avoid the most dangerous areas when possible; when one of them failed to return, all we could do was avoid that direction entirely.

  As usual I walked in the middle of the column, carrying my burden. All around us trees rose from the water, their branches drooping down to form eerie tunnels that led nowhere. With every step the spongy ground threatened to swallow our feet. Heavy armor wasn’t made for this environment, but we couldn’t afford to abandon it; we needed its protection more than we needed to ease our passage. Worst of all was the air itself, which reeked of rot. We felt as if we were trying to breathe water, and every lungful came with a swarm of tiny insects.

  And yet the men remained strong and resolute. I knew they were still deeply affected by the death of the Harbinger, but they had a measure of their confidence back.

  I had no such confidence. Every day I questioned both our purpose and my ability to lead us toward its fulfillment. We had walked for three months, fought and suffered, lived meagerly off the land, for the sake of the Harbinger and our faith. But were we deluding ourselves? I tried to recall the many words of hope and reassurance in the Canon of the True Law, but doubt was gaining the upper hand in my mind.

  At that moment, my armor felt as if it weighed more than the Avatar. My eyes began to burn, and I felt tears begin to slide down my cheeks. We were on a wide strip of mostly solid ground, and I broke from the column to gain a little separation from the others until I could regain my composure.

  “We’ll stop for a moment,” I said, fearing they would hear the hitch in my voice if I spoke too loudly. I leaned carefully against a small tree rooted in the moist soil, not committing my full weight to it until I was sure it would
hold. A weary knight had made that error just a few hours earlier, and he’d been lost to the murky waters before we even knew what had happened.

  I looked down once again at the woman in my arms. The miracle of her preserved state continued, a reminder I clung to more every day. Menoth’s hand was shielding her. Surely he wouldn’t intervene like this if he didn’t expect us to reach Imer. It was a thin hope I held to desperately.

  The Harbinger’s left arm hung limply, dangling as if she had simply fainted. The Testament appeared at my side and gently lifted her arm to rest it against my chest. It was the most human thing I had ever seen him do.

  “Can we do this?” I asked him, keeping my voice as low as possible. I wasn’t even sure he heard me until, after a pause, he nodded once. Before I could stop myself, the next question tumbled out. “Can I do this?”

  His brow furrowed above his mask as he stared back at me, and then he simply turned and walked away. I watched as he picked his way easily across the treacherous ground. It was as if he’d found my question unworthy. I realized that in his own strange way the Testament had just given me his answer. My lack of conviction was unworthy of a paladin, and the thought stoked the embers of my resolve.

  We of the Protectorate are accustomed to having enemies on all sides as well as those within our minds. From the day we are initiated into Menoth’s covenants, we are surrounded by peril. Some threats are mental, some physical, but the most dangerous are spiritual. We spend countless hours training our minds and bodies to overcome all these obstacles.

  Curing maladies of the spirit is a difficult thing, Rocamber once told me. More often than not the cause of the malady is the afflicted himself. In those cases, the Creator helps those who help themselves.

  So we are on our own? I had asked.

  Never, the senior paladin had said with a firm shake of his head. Sometimes the Lawgiver just wants to make sure we are placing ourselves fully in his hands.

  I glanced upward toward the sky beyond the obscuring canopy of the Marchfells. I hold your Voice in my arms, Lawbringer. I could not keep her alive, and for that I will be forever sorry. But please, give me the strength to bring her home. If it is your will, grant me the fortitude to lead these soldiers of the faith home.

  “Paladin Vilmon?”

  I blinked and turned to see Caylan standing at my side.

  “I think I’ve found a way through,” she said. “It will be difficult, but the ground is solid enough to support the Avatar.”

  “Very good, Daughter. Lead on.”

  The other soldiers followed as she moved onward through the marsh, and I cast another quick glance skyward. Thank you.

  Week Fourteen

  The clean water of the Black River south of the Marchfells was a welcome sight. We’d spent so much time walking through unfamiliar forests, mountains, and plains that seeing these familiar banks brought tears to the eyes of more than one of our party. Maybe the Creator did indeed intend for us to survive.

  None of us was in good shape, the exceptions being the Testament and the Avatar. Nothing seemed to bother them. The endurance of the Avatar in particular was a matter no one had spoken of openly but which I knew to be on the minds of many of us. How had its engine remained lit? Even this holy instrument of Menoth required coal, and the smoke pouring from its stacks confirmed its heartfire yet burned strong. We had no supply wagons, no way to refuel the machine. Every day I expected its fire to die out, forcing us to gather wood for its engine and water for its reservoir—yet it burned on. A miracle arguably even more remarkable than the Harbinger’s pristine body.

  The rest of us were sick and exhausted. The path had been clear, but it had been long. We had spent almost two weeks in the swamp, and our losses were adding up. Only four Daughters remained, as did three bastions, two errants, and ten knights. Both my paladins had survived the journey thus far, and I could not have been prouder. Of everyone, myself included, they had maintained the firmest grip on their discipline and dignity.

  The remaining Daughters scouted our trail and returned to confirm there were no enemies in sight. We had at least a few hours to stop and rest.

  I had my paladin brethren tie my cloak into a makeshift hammock between two small trees, and I gently laid the Harbinger’s body amid its folds. I walked down to the river and soaked a strip of cloth torn from my cloak. It wasn’t the cleanest water—nor was it the cleanest cloth, for that matter—but it would do. Inextricably tied to life itself, water was central to rituals of cleansing and purification. The dripping cloth in hand, I walked back to the Harbinger.

  My entire life I had seen Menoth’s hand in everything, but lately I had been ignoring the signs. I’d seen a warrior survive on a battlefield when everything around him for a mile was utterly destroyed. I’d seen a solitary man die, apparently at random, surrounded by a crowd of hundreds. These are mysteries known only to the Creator. It is in these moments that the conviction of our faith is truly measured. How will we stand when confronted by the seemingly impossible?

  As I looked down on the Harbinger, I let myself be reminded how glorious Menoth truly is. Her body still looked like that of a woman at rest. If not for the overly pale skin and the gaping wound I knew lay beneath the wrappings on her chest, I would struggle to believe she was dead. No trace of corruption could be seen upon her, just a few stains of dirt from our travels.

  I started with her exposed skin, cleaning it as I would a child’s. I did not regret the life I chose; I was called to be a paladin, and for the skills Menoth bestowed on me I will ever be grateful. But there are moments—usually in the silent times when the Creator’s quiet miracles show themselves—when I ponder the path not taken. If I’d married, if I’d had a daughter, would that child look like a younger version of the peaceful form that lay in my cloak?

  Next I removed the wrappings and worked at the area around the fatal wound, cleaning both the armor and the ragged edges of skin. I made another trip to the river and returned to clean the rest of her armor. Though not the pure, brilliant white it was before, the freshly scrubbed armor made me feel better. Small, familiar noises drifted to my ears, and I realized the others were following my lead, doing their best to bring their own equipment back to presentable condition.

  Though our gear still bore obvious signs of our long journey, the simple act of cleaning it lifted our spirits. I felt once more like I was truly part of the Protectorate for the first time in over three months. We were comforted, and I imagined I could feel the Creator’s approval.

  Preparation. All we do is seen by Menoth’s judging eye. When he commands our souls to Urcaen, we go. But until then, preparation keeps us alive. It keeps us ready for whatever challenges are put in our way. I didn’t know what challenges lay ahead of us, but I knew we had a better chance to survive them now than we had just a day ago.

  I prayed we would not be found lacking.

  Week Sixteen

  I once heard Grand Exemplar Kreoss say the enemies of the faith—of which there were many—preferred to strike when it seemed all was well. It had been a warning against complacency.

  We were passing familiar landmarks within the Bloodstone Marches as we angled southeast to cross the last stretch of wastes before Imer. We had seen the looming form of Tower Judgment amid the hills to the south, and it was my decision not to alter our course to seek succor there. Though we would have found allies and respite, it would still have been a delay—and I found I could not veer from the straightest path to Imer. The Testament and the Avatar seemed to be in silent agreement as they walked resolutely ahead.

  Every step sent up a small puff of red sand. The baking sun and dry air were a welcome change from the Marchfells. It may have been a wasteland, but it was a familiar wasteland. The Daughters judged us to be mere weeks from home. Henna shared this news with a smile on her face, and I saw her words invigorate the rest of my warriors.

  That was when I knew something was coming. I didn’t see anything. I didn’t hear or smell
anything. My unease was a prompting from the Creator, of that I had no doubt.

  “Form defensive lines,” I commanded in a voice as strong and sure as steel. As I spoke, a feeling of peace washed over me. Yes, this was right. “Expect contact from the south, between us and Imer.”

  “What comes, Paladin Vilmon?” Raye asked, already adjusting the straps on his shield. Menoth help me, if the Protectorate had an army of faithful men like him, we’d never fail. “Cygnar? Cryx?”

  I shook my head and tried to listen. The sounds that drifted toward us from the south were strange. I peered into the swirling dust in the distance. “I can’t see anything out there,” I said, “but whoever they are, I expect they’ll send such numbers as to overwhelm a force the size of ours in an instant.”

  The dust finally cleared, and several knights gasped in dismay. “Creator help us,” one muttered.

  Skorne.

  All the bravado and confidence my men had gained over the last few weeks vanished like a drop of water on the desert sands.

  The skorne’s crimson armor glinted in the sun below their sharp, angular faces. The skorne regarded us with intense stares. Even at that distance I could see they were judging us as foes. We knew precious little about this people, but what we did know was enough to make me respect their capabilities. They were warriors, through and through, and the only thing they seemed to believe in was violence. Additionally, they looked fresh, and we were far from it. I well understood how badly outclassed we were.