by Neven Iliev
With such reliable walking cover in front of them, New Whitehall’s adventurer conscripts would surely make the invaders pay for every step they took.
*Tok tok tok*
A rapping on the door pulled Underwood’s attention away from the foggy vista and fragrant tea. He emptied the rest of his cup and placed it back on its serving tray. It occurred to him that he should really commend his adjutant on their brewing skills. It was the last idle thought he had before seating himself at his desk. The officer’s mind then turned towards his responsibilities for the day, starting with this visitor.
“Enter,” he called out.
The door opened to reveal an elven woman wearing a dark green military uniform identical to the one Silus wore except for the shoulder patches stamped with a ‘II’ rather than a ‘III.’ She looked to be in her mid-to-late twenties with lime green hair and mismatched blue and green eyes. Her figure described in two words would be ‘unfortunately flat.’ She also suffered from a condition informally referred to as ‘resting bitch face.’
“Good morning, Primus Underwood,” she said with a salute.
“Good morning, Primus Underwood,” he returned the gesture.
Cecilia Underwood was an elf born to a different branch of the distinguished elvish family. She and Silus were second cousins, but the two had never met until the 3rd Legion sent reinforcements to New Whitehall about a week ago. They hadn’t exactly gotten off on the best foot, either. Silus’ pride was injured upon the sight of someone so much younger sharing the same military rank. Furthermore, she had a peculiar accent atypical for the Republic, so the man treated her coldly and with suspicion.
Such pitiful differences were quickly put aside, however, as there was still a war to win. Besides, even if they were equals in military rank, their duties were much too different to draw any kind of direct comparison between their abilities. Silus helped with unit assignments and intelligence gathering, whereas Cecilia’s duties involved analyzing said intelligence and providing strategic counsel to the Legate of the 2nd Legion.
“To what do I owe this visit?” the man asked.
“I believe your ‘package’ is here.”
Cecilia motioned towards someone standing in the hallway, and a Legionnaire carrying a large wooden box entered the room. Following the female officer’s instructions, he carefully placed it on the desk, saluted, then closed the door on his way out. The clearly unamused woman remained at the foot of the desk, her arms crossed.
“Is there a problem, Cecilia?”
“That’s putting it mildly, Silus. When I first heard about the ‘contact’ you made at Fort Yimin, I thought it was some kind of twisted practical joke. Seeing this ‘delivery’ for myself makes it difficult for me to think of it as anything but.”
Silus sighed and leaned back in his chair.
“Can’t blame you for your skepticism. I had much the same reaction when he first made contact with me. Well, at least your first interaction with him was through a box instead of a severed head.”
The woman raised her thin eyebrows and cocked her head meaningfully towards the wooden container in question.
“… He put someone’s head in there, didn’t he?”
Cecilia nodded and Silus sighed yet again.
“Alright, let’s get this over with.”
The elf stood from his seat and strode over to the package. He grabbed the box’s lid and lifted it in one smooth motion. Just as his colleague implied, there was indeed a human head in there. Unfortunately, she neglected to mention that it had only half of its face left since the lower jaw was torn off, making it a slightly grislier sight than expected. At the very least, the Sandman had the decency to drain the remaining blood out of it this time around, though the stench of death was hardly appreciated. Even so, Silus wasn’t exactly the squeamish type. As a Rogue in service to the Republic’s Foreign Intelligence Bureau – or FIB for short – his past duties often involved getting his hands dirty. One could even argue doing this was still very much in his job description, albeit in a slightly more figurative sense.
However, while this was hardly the first severed head he had seen, something seemed familiar about it. Even with the lower jaw missing, he couldn’t help but feel like he’d seen this man before. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it until he read the note glued to the lid’s underside.
INVOICE
From: Sandman Assassinations Inc.
To: Primus Silus Underwood, 3rd Republic Legion, New Whitehall City Hall
Invoice #000006
For services rendered:
Imperial soldiers x 13 – 100 GP
Imperial documents x 12 – 400 GP
Charlton family signet ring x 1 – 1,200 GP
VIP night service x 1 – 2,500 GP
Next-day delivery – 300 GP
Subtotal: 10,500 GP
Boxing tax: 5%
Total: 11,025 GP
We appreciate your patronage and look forward to doing business with you again in due course.
“No…” he muttered as he glanced between the invoice and the black-haired head on his desk. “No. No no no! NO! They dragged him into this? Why?!”
“What’s wrong, Silus?”
Cecilia’s cousin addressed her concern by pointing at the boxed head with a quivering lip.
“This… This is… I- I thought I was imagining it at first, but…”
“Spit it out already!”
“That’s J.C. in there!”
“… Who?”
“Jonas Charlton! The Jonas Charlton!”
“Again, who?”
“Oh, I’m not surprised you don’t know him,” he said in a sarcastic tone. “It’s not like he’s the greatest Bard of our time or anything!”
“First of all, don’t get smart with me,” she warned him. “Secondly, why should we care about some dead Bard?”
“No, sorry, you’re right.” the upset man backed off. “That’s the natural reaction, isn’t it?”
There was a brief moment of silence while Silus reigned in his anger.
“That wasn’t a rhetorical question, by the way,” Cecilia spoke up. “Why is this Jonas Charlton so important?”
“Right. If you’re asking that, then you haven’t seen him- haven’t heard him. The man’s angelic voice floats such melodious and heavenly tunes that he could make even heartless demons weep. The sun rises every day just to hear his melodies. We’re talking about a man that could make thousands of people dance in joy just by banging a pair of rocks together.”
Cecilia took a few discrete steps away from Silus as he raved about the deceased performer.
“And yet here he is. On my desk. Dead as a doornail.”
He hung his head and leaned heavily against the wall, seemingly exhausted.
“Have I mentioned how much I fucking hate this war?” he mumbled to someone who wasn’t there.
After calming down and finding someone to take care of the late Bard’s remains, the two Underwoods began sorting through the box’s other contents. Although Charlton’s head was definitely the most prominent object, it wasn’t the only thing in the package. There were a couple of brown paper packages bound together by string, supposedly the Imperial documents mentioned in the grim invoice. At the bottom of the box was the promised signet ring representing the noble title bestowed upon him by the Emperor in recognition of his exquisite talents.
Boxxy had been rather reluctant to part with that particular piece of jewelry. Not only was it sufficiently shiny, but it also appealed to its rapidly developing collector’s spirit. However, it judged that proving the identity of the head’s owner was more important. That sacrifice wouldn’t have been necessary if Drea hadn’t eaten half of his face. Jonas Charlton was so popular that one in three people could easily identify him solely by his ridiculously handsome features. Even Boxxy had heard of him through Rowana, though the monster never expected to find him anywhere near the front lines. After all, Bards were artists, not fighters
.
Silus shared that opinion, which was why he wasted no time in poring through the captured documents alongside Cecilia. Unfortunately, they learned next to nothing about the Empire’s plan for the attack on New Whitehall. Cecilia’s team would probably glean something by comparing the scribbled-on map to the rest of the information they had gathered, but this was the extent of those documents’ value. The most important piece of intelligence was the Sandman’s report, which outlined the results of his mission and the steps he took to achieve them.
The mercenary was given three key objectives for last night’s covert operation. The first was to infiltrate the enemy stronghold by any means necessary. The hood-for-hire clearly accomplished this given the apparent legitimacy of the pilfered documents. He refused to divulge exactly how he had penetrated that perimeter other than noting it was done via ‘covert aerial insertion.’ That was enough for Silus, though. The Sandman claimed he could do it and delivered on his word, which was all the elf needed to know.
The mission’s second objective was to discover the means through which the Empire had mobilized so rapidly and, if possible, eliminate the cause. This was where Jonas Charlton entered the picture. According to information gathered from interrogated Imperial foot soldiers, the Bard in question was actually an Ultimate Skill user, which was a surprise to Silus. The elf didn’t doubt the talented singer would reach the peak of his craft eventually, but had no idea that he had already done so. Silus imagined it must have been a very recent development, so news of it hadn’t crossed the border quite yet. After all, Jonas Charlton had been far too much of a showoff to keep quiet about becoming the youngest Level 100 Bard in recorded history.
His Ultimate Skill was something called the Song That Never Ends. It was a powerful tune that gave anyone and everyone within earshot nearly limitless stamina while also preventing and curing hangovers. That secondary effect implied the ability was best utilized for celebratory purposes, but its military applications were plainly obvious. The Skill reportedly had a few downsides. First, unlike a certain dwarf’s Tempest of Rage, it bestowed its effects upon all targets within range regardless of allegiance. The other drawbacks were that it had no effect on the user and that performing it was extremely exhausting. Barring occasional bathroom and snack breaks, a Level 100 Bard could easily perform non-stop for seventy hours straight. However, Charlton hadn’t been able to maintain the Song That Never Ends for more than a fifth of that before he slipped into an exhausted coma.
That certainly explained how and why the Empire covered so much ground in so little time. The Bard’s energizing performances were spaced out in such a way that the soldiers needed no sleep and barely any rest. The only one that needed such things were Charlton himself, but the grunts kept working even without the Song. Even if they were pushed to the point of collapsing from exhaustion during ‘off-hours,’ they would fully recover after only a few minutes of the tune. The only negative side effects were the accumulated mental strain of working so many consecutive hours and the increased consumption of food and drink. The party-like atmosphere the Sandman encountered was the result of the invading officers’ attempts to alleviate those issues. This information confirmed that the Bard’s Rank Up and his joining the war effort were very recent developments.
Silus’ initial outrage over the prodigal singer’s untimely demise had all but evaporated by the time he reached that part of the report. The grieving fan inside him gave way to the cold, pragmatic logic of an officer in the military. Indeed, though it was regrettable and unfortunate, the prodigal singer’s untimely demise was necessary. The Sandman deserved no blame for it, either. He flawlessly carried out the duty given to him and eliminated an enemy of the Republic, which was undeniably a good thing. If any fault was found in the tragic series of events, it rested with the impatient fool that placed Charlton in that camp. Whether it was the Bard, the Emperor, or someone else entirely was unclear, but one thing was certain.
Once this war was over, Silus would take some of those vacation days he had coming and get to the bottom of it all.
The shady mercenary’s report finished with details surrounding his third and final objective. Namely, the gathering of any and all information regarding the status and movements of the invading army, especially the three VIPs purportedly attached to it. The previous section revealed that the number of noteworthy individuals deployed to New Whitehall had actually been four, at least until the Sandman had… corrected that miscalculation.
The first person of interest he was told to look out for was one Bernard Samson. Although not quite Level 100, the young man was still a significant threat. He was the Hero of the Hammer, chosen by Teresa herself. As the mortal representative of the Goddess of Truth and Justice, Samson wielded a fearsome power called Judgment From Above. When invoked, this Hero Skill turned the user’s conviction into a burst of power capable of smiting down even the greatest of evils. The more malicious and corrupt the target, the more effective the ability was.
As with all powerful Skills, this one had a certain fault. Namely, that ‘good’ and ‘evil’ were rather subjective. For example, a merchant had every right to demand justice should someone steal from him, but a thief would feel vindicated in his unlawful actions if they allowed his otherwise innocent family to survive. The world was not black and white, but various shades of gray that constantly shifted in accordance with one’s point of view. Therefore, if the Hero of the Hammer did not honestly believe he was doing the right thing, his trump card would waver as well.
Unfortunately, there was no chance of that happening in this war. The Empire repeatedly and systematically blamed the Republic for the Calamity of Monotal, which happened to be the Hero’s hometown. Young Samson would no doubt want to exact vengeance upon the villains that reduced so many of his loved ones to ash and dust. Furthermore, Republic spies reported he was in frequent contact with members and associates of the Gilded Hand. The FIB knew just how ruthless Spymaster Edward Allen and his organization were. They undoubtedly did everything in their power to further twist and taint the Hero’s broken heart just to turn him into a weapon against the Republic.
The Sandman’s report somewhat confirmed those speculations. It revealed the tragic Hero had received substantial favor in the form of a heavily enchanted suit of armor. The mercenary stated that capturing the equipment had proven too risky, as had attacking Samson himself. He was only able to sabotage the Hero by destroying his gifted gear. As usual, the report was woefully lacking in terms of the author’s means and methods. Though Silus understood that a man in the Sandman’s position would hesitate to reveal his secrets, he couldn’t help but grow steadily frustrated with the systematic ambiguity. No matter how effective, an unknown asset was both inherently dangerous and difficult to utilize.
Moving on, the enigmatic Warlock confirmed the status of the second VIP on the Republic’s watch list. The angelic Monk that had identified herself as Zone during the siege of Fort Yimin had indeed been reassigned to the eastern front. Though she hadn’t been present at the camp, the Sandman pointed to one of the personal correspondences included in the package, the one addressed to ‘J.J.’ Looking at the seemingly innocent letter again, Cecilia confirmed that it might have been written in a code that she would have her people try to crack.
The third and final VIP the Republic had expected in the east was a total unknown. The FIB had intercepted some information about the individual’s movements, but nothing regarding their identity or abilities. The only thing they were certain of was that he would be part of the assault on New Whitehall. Thankfully, the Sandman included a suspiciously detailed sketch of the mystery VIP depicting a human male in his late forties with some severe scarring on his bald head. His equipment suggested he was a magic user, but there was no information about his Job or Levels. However, the palm-print insignia on his robes clearly marked him as an agent of the Gilded Hand. This worried Silus, as it was unusual for that organization to flaunt their power so brazenly.
Then again, perhaps it wasn’t all that strange considering their suspected involvement with Bernard Samson. Whatever the case, if that was another of the Spymaster’s hand-picked cadre of elites, then he was sure to be extremely troublesome.
Another point of worry was how the Sandman had acquired this visual record even though the target was supposedly absent from the Imperial camp last night.
“Used mind magic to harvest relevant information from the minds of suspected eyewitnesses,” he quoted the report. “Fuck. I knew he was a Warlock, but he should have been a Demonologist, not an Oppressor.”
The latter was the unofficial term for Warlocks that specialized in Skills and Spells capable of tapping into others’ thoughts, feelings, and memories. Additionally, this path typically delved into the gruesome realm of blood magic, which was used primarily to inflict debilitating afflictions that sapped the victim’s vitality while bolstering the Warlock’s. With these two sinister schools of magic at their disposal, an Oppressor would mentally and physically cripple their enemies, rendering them unable to resist whatever cruel fate awaited.
Given the Sandman’s vicious behavior, Silus could scarcely imagine what sort of torture the subjects of his ‘information harvesting’ had been subjected to.
“You’re reading too much into it,” Cecilia dismissed his concerns. “There’s demons that can do that stuff too, you know. And maybe some rituals, or magic items.”
In reality, Boxxy simply used its Broken Reflection to slurp up some dead guys’ brains, but it couldn’t admit that while maintaining its secondary Facade.
“… You’re right. I shouldn’t dwell on it,” Silus purged his unpleasant thoughts. “What about the Empire’s Spymaster? He seems to be rather involved in this one. Anything on his movements?”