Corone War: A Scarlet Mystery

[Christina Bredith]

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“Where… did you get this?”

Several pairs of eyes were locked on the twisted black piece of wood and metal that Christina Bredith had slammed down on the table before them. Each regarded it differently: some eyes spoke of awe, while others regarded it as they would a coiled snake, and one even made a brief holy sign and muttered a prayer. A number of other members of the Underwood Watch had now crowded around to see what the Deputy had brought. The room, a smallish meeting chamber in the back of the Peaceful Promenade in Underwood, seemed a lot smaller with all of them crowded around.

“I think we all know the answer to that question,” she retorted, taking a step back and crossing her arms beneath her breasts. Her scarlet long coat fit her curvy form as well as if it had been made just for her, and the fine golden thread that decorated the arms and hemlines could almost have been taken from the shimmering head of hair that spilled around her shoulders. Argent eyes regarded the Marshals with smug amusement, but at least one of them was having none of it.

“Where?” Marshal Stormcrow repeated, his voice as hard as iron. He may have lost his leg in the Razing of Underwood, but that was all he had lost. The eyes that bored into her seemed dull, but they were sharp and hard, and with his muscular frame and close-cut hair, he had a menacing appearance that she would sooner not stand against.

Her visage weakened just a trifle. There was no holding back what Edward Stormcrow wanted to hear, even if it was just for the formality of actually saying it. “It came from a Scarlet Brigadier,” she admitted at last. Some of the Marshals stiffened. This was not the first time a Brigadier had been killed by a Ranger, but it was the first time one of their weapons had actually been recovered and returned. And she was hardly on par with Letho Ravenheart, who had killed the only other recorded Brigadier so far.

“You killed it?” Major Jahaad asked, and she tried not to take offense at his tone. To be honest, she hadn’t quite believed it at first, either.

“I had help,” she clarified, bringing down one hand to rest on her hip. “Maybe you’ve heard of the King of Thieves?”

“Such friends you keep! You are quite the social butterfly, Deputy!” an elven Marshal joked, and as he laughed, his tight golden braids swayed softly around him. He seemed to be the only Marshal amused at what she had brought them, but then, Tenniel Lisosian could have laughed at the prospect of his own death—and in fact, he often did.

“If you came here to brag,” Stormcrow cut in darkly, “then I’m afraid we have no time to listen.”

“Marshal, you wound me!” she said, shaking her head and holding out her arms in protest. “Fighting that thing was hardly something I wish to remember, let alone brag about. But I think that certain members of our company can already see why I brought this here.”

Her gaze came to regard another of the elves sitting at the table, off to one side and flanked by another pair. These three were slender and unusually fair, even compared with Tenniel, which told a keen observer that they were Raiaeran-born and Raiaeran-raised, unused to the sunnier climate of Corone. He was a Bladesinger—they all were—come to Corone to assist the Rangers in exchange for the return of some precious Raiaeran artifacts with which the Imperial government had illegally absconded. The elf in the center of that group, one Lenwë Miriel, was regarding the twisted black half-glaive with particular concentration and discomfort.

“This is a thing of evil,” he said at last, knowing that he was now the center of attention, despite not having taken his eyes off the object since it was placed on the table. “The thing that held it…” He shivered slightly.

“Not human, was it?” Christina said, turning to face the Bladesinger. “This Scarlet Brigadier. We call them wraiths, but they really are, aren’t they?”

The elf was stock-still for a long time, but eventually he nodded. “I think you are right. I cannot see much, but… no, I do not think the beast that held this weapon was human.”

“If you can tell that much…” Christina let the sentence hang, her question pleading itself in the dead silence. She knew Lenwë knew what she wanted him to do from the way his spine stiffened. If he could tell that much just from looking at the thing, how much could he tell if he actually used his song magic? The other Marshals, and indeed all the members of the Underwood Watch, now regarded the Bladesinger with rapture.

“I know what you ask,” he said, facing Christina with serenity that surprised her, “but I do not know if I can.”

“If you can find out anything about these monsters,” Marshal Stormcrow said, leaning over the table and sensing what was being implied, “I’m asking you to please try.” His voice was still hard, but it too had softened, perhaps as close to pleading as he would ever get.

Lenwë nodded at last. He reached out and touched the half-glaive gingerly, as if expecting it to vanish in a puff of smoke—or to strike out and bite him. Immediately a shudder ripped through his slender form, and his companions took hold of him, whispering things in elvish too quietly for Christina to understand. The elf nodded at last and began to whisper himself, and over time Christina realized that he was singing. Quietly, as if a lullaby to a sleeping dragon. Tell me your secrets, he seemed to say, but for the love of the star-gods, do not wake up.

Suddenly, Lenwë’s body stiffened again, and his companions flinched away as if his skin had become suddenly hot or cold. He grew pale, so it was probably the latter, and when he opened his eyes only the whites showed. His mouth opened and he began to speak, but the words were in elvish. Christina could understand dribs and drabs of it, but it took a few moments before one of his companions, a short and surprisingly stout elf named Elessar Carnesîr, translated.

“‘I see a place of madness. It hides in the shadow of mountains like dragon’s teeth biting at the sky. It was once a place of great pain and suffering, and has been made a lair of even greater evil by those who now dwell within. Though it hides beside the core of the evil that fills this land, it is darker by far.’”

“Well what does that mean?” Christina blurted into the following silence. A note of exasperation licked at her voice.

“The ‘mountains like dragon’s teeth’ must be the Jagged Mountains,” someone in the Watch offered. Those impassable mountains were located just to the north of Radasanth and covered the entire northern and much of the eastern coast of the island. Christina had never heard of anything being built there, but it certainly would narrow down their search if true.

“The rest of it makes me think of a place of torture.” Edward was drumming his fingers on the table and his gray eyes bespoke deep thought. In this, most of the Marshals were at a loss—before the war, they had primarily been responsible for their own territories, which they knew like the back of their hands but little outside of it. None gathered had been responsible for that part of the Radasanthia barony. In fact, there were no Marshals responsible for any part of the Jagged Mountains except its borders.

Suddenly, Major Jahaad slammed that palm down on the heavy oak table. The stack of papers before him trembled and began to slide forward. “Of course!” he exclaimed. Everyone turned to him with burning curiosity, and Edward’s eyes had a little more impatience than the rest. “There is an asylum that the government built decades ago, maybe over a century now, just inside the Jagged Mountains. It’s not very far in because the terrain is so difficult, but far enough to be out of sight and out of mind for the people of Radasanth.

“It’s where they took the mentally and criminally insane in half-hearted attempts at rehabilitation,” he continued. “The government had little involvement in what went on there, and a little under ten years ago they discovered that the people running it were using methods of rehabilitation that were much more akin to torture than medicine. They shut it down and it hasn’t been used since. It’s entirely possible that the Empire has… reappropriated it.”

“I beg your pardon,” Tenniel said at last, “but what exactly do we plan to do with this information? We’d need an army to destroy an entire nest of these things, and I don’t think we can just march one past the Imperial doorstep. Their welcoming parties have been so discourteous lately.”

“We still can’t waste the opportunity!” Christina said passionately. She took a step toward the Marshals’ table and held out her hands. “These beasts have to be destroyed, once and for all! If we ever want to reclaim Radasanth, how are we going to do it knowing that this ‘nest,’ as you put it, is right next door?”

“So you’re volunteering, then?” Stormcrow asked coolly, and his stare made Christina feel suddenly on the spot. She lowered her arms and considered that perhaps she hadn’t completely thought this through. Fighting just one of those monsters had been the most taxing experience of her life, and that was with Yari’s help. Taking out a den of them…?

“I am,” she said, surprising herself. “I’ll need help, but I’ll do it.” If they were stealthy about it, if they entered without being noticed, perhaps they could neutralize the source of the wraiths without attracting too much attention. That was the best case scenario. The worst case scenario did not bear thinking about.

“I will accompany you.” Lenwë stood up rather shakily, shrugging off the protests of his companions. It was the first he had spoken since the vision of the asylum. “I must accompany you. If these monsters can be purified, then I will be able to help you.” His two companions immediately leapt up beside him.

“Where he goes, so shall I,” Elessar said with such cheer that Christina wondered whether he really understood the task ahead of them.

“If you think I’m leaving you two to go get yourselves killed, you’ve got another thing coming,” added their other companion, a hot-faced female Bladesinger named Alassë Oronar. Christina wasn't sure whether to be pleased or insulted that she wasn't included in the two that were going to get themselves killed.

Well, three Bladesingers would make for decent company on a trip like this, and they just might turn the odds enough to come out of the affair alive. She would still have preferred Yari’s company, but they had parted ways when they reached Concordia, and she had no time to waste searching for the Bandit Brotherhood now. The Bladesingers rounded the table and stood beside Christina, who was already gathering up the half-glaive and stuffing it in the makeshift sling over her back.

“Then I suppose it’s settled,” Stormcrow said at last, nodding his head at the group. “Good luck, and I hope the Thaynes are with you.” The group turned to leave the room, but they suddenly halted when a voice called out from somewhere within the mass of Underwood Watchmen.

“Just a moment, please!” the voice said, and Christina turned to scan the crowd. “I think you’ll still need some help getting into this place…”

[Rhelin]

Inside the meeting chamber tucked behind the Peaceful Promenade, Rhelin and several other brothers and sisters of the Underwood Watch listened and observed the brass tussle back and forth over the odd weapon that had been placed on display before them.

A mixture of grief and awe washed over the enlisted men and women, while the officers argued over what it meant. What it meant to the Watchmen was simple - a Scarlet Brigadier had been bested in battle, a noteworthy feat considering only one other had met the same fate.

“This is a thing of evil,” one of the Elven officers said, finally forcing the rest, “The thing that held it…” The way he trembled concerned the Watchmen that had crowded around the table, the Elven races were known to be highly attuned in the ways of magic and spirituality. If anyone knew what evil was from a mere touch it would be an Elf.

It was pure chance that Rhelin he gained entrance into the meeting hall, his friend and comrade, a Salvarian fellow named Jarrol had urged him to come along to see something that was sure to be exciting. Exciting wasn't the word. It had been a long day on patrol, yet once he realized what the meeting was for; the muscles that ached underneath the chain maille of his armor didn't seem like such a bother anymore. His tired and clouded mind quickly turned sharp and aware as he listened and watched intently, while unsettling news was laid out before all.

Rhelin knew evil when he saw it was well, seeing the twisted bodies of magically animated corpses come out of the shadows of tombs tended to make one more aware of the unnatural, and from what he had heard of the Scarlet Brigadiers, it wasn't hard to believe that they could be inhuman.

While the eyes of most of those in the room were transfixed on the Bladesinger while he delved into the greater possibilities of the origins of the Scarlets, Rhelin stared intently at the glaive. His mood turned dark, sour, and his dark skin turned dull and grey. He closed his hands - his palms were sweating.

He hardly paid attention to what the officers were squabbling about, it hardly seem to matter at that point. A bigger picture was beginning to form in Rhelin's mind, a glory beyond the small picture he had helped paint so far in Underwood, beyond the dusty streets and ungrateful citizenry.

While the Bladesinger wove visions of where the Scarlet Brigade resided, Rhelin crafted ideas, especially once the female officer began to propose an excursion into the underbelly of some half-remembered asylum.

Quite suddenly a heavy hand landed on Rhelin's shoulder, a violent lurch that brought him back to reality as he steadied himself, trying not to fall forward. He had forgotten that Jarrol stood beside him. "Sounds like a suicide mission, huh? Damned fools," he spoke in a hushed voice.

"Yes..." he could only fain interest in his friend's observations.”Suicide mission...none of them could even get in there..." he looked up at Jarrol, who stood easily head and shoulders above him. "Without the right help."

Jarroll's eyes lit up in a moment of realization, but before he could object to Rhelin's whim, he was well on his way to the forefront of the crowd, shouldering his way past juniors and non-commissioned officers alike.

"Just a moment, please!” The sinewy ebony man spoke up, his voice steady and determined. “I think you’ll still need some help getting into this place." He noticed all eyes fell upon him at that moment, even that of the female officer who had slain the previously unslayable - except that first one killed by some thief king, of course.

Before anyone could object or contain him, he rattled on. "I am Rhelin, Private in the service of Underwood Watch as you can see. However, in a previous profession I became very knowledgeable in the tactics and technicalities of breaching the unbreachable." He cleared his throat, speaking more bluntly; theatrics had always been a short-coming of his. "I can pick locks, disarm traps, I'm not bad with a sword...and best of all, I don't even require a hole to be buried in if I should fall."

[Christina Bredith]

The room fell silent in the wake of the small, dark man’s interruption, all eyes boring into him like dwarven chisels. He was not out of place to speak, not exactly, but it was rather uncommon to interrupt the Marshals, a Deputy-Marshal, and a group of Bladesingers. And even more unusual to do so when they were preparing to embark on a mission against the Scarlet Brigade! Not many people would volunteer themselves for such a suicide mission, which it might very well have been, if you really dug for the core of it.

But the silence was broken by the cheerful laughter of the Deputy whose mission had been interrupted in the first place. She held her sides as her high, crystalline laughter filled the air, warming the faces of many of those gathered. What a refreshing point of view, to make jokes in the face of certain death! Tenniel was clearly pleased, and why not? They were all quite likely to die anyway, so why not have a sense of humour about it? It would make a welcome contrast to the elves, Lenwë and Alassë in particular.

“I like the way you think, my friend,” she said, and began making her way over to him. The crowd allowed her access to the new volunteer. “What’s your name?”

“Rhelin, Deputy.”

“Well, Rhelin, welcome to the graveyard shift.” She put an arm around his shoulder as he said it, and began leading him toward the sombre-faced group of elves. His dark skin was as different from their fair as his sense of humour was from their lack thereof, and she, for one, would be glad to have him along.

Introductions were given as the group made its way through Underwood. The city bustled, but quietly—everyone had a job to do and went about it with diligent efficiency. Chit-chat would wait until the sun had set and the useful hours of the day had waned. But despite it all, there was a sense of hard-earned satisfaction in their faces and postures. The people of Underwood had been through a great deal at the hands of the Empire, and they had worked their skin raw and their joints achy to keep what they still had and build it back into something to be proud of. That feeling—because it was a feeling, permeating the very air they breathed—caused Christina to walk taller in the presence of her people. Not even the prospect of walking into a nest of Scarlet Brigadiers could bend her at that moment.

They were, as it therefore happened, the only group making idle conversation as they moved through the city, although that conversation almost entirely consisted of Christina talking and urging responses from those around her, with Rhelin picking up most of the silences. Lenwë was still apparently shaken by his reading of the glaive, and Alassë was not a particularly friendly woman at the best of times, though stout little Elessar wasn’t too bad. The people of Underwood parted as they passed by, dropping into curtseys or polite bows with uttered words of greeting or farewell before moving on to finish whatever task they had been about.

A checkpoint at the edge of the city stopped them briefly, but all five members of the group were known enough to avoid incident. One of the young men at the gate, barely even old enough to grow a beard though he was certainly trying his best, even nodded in salutation to Private Rhelin. Christina gave no indication of where exactly they were going, except to say north, and that the Marshals knew where they would be. No help would come for them if they failed, anyway; what would be the point of sending people to their dooms to save ones who had already met it of their own accord? There was therefore no need to darken the mood with members of the Watch wishing them the best of luck and telling them to please come back safely and won’t you please reconsider and are you sure there are enough of you?

Better to savour the mood while it lasted. Whatever outward appearance may have suggested, Christina was not oblivious to the exact nature of the horrors they would soon face.

Soon, the endless expanse of Concordia sprawled before them like a great sea, a sea of trees extending in every direction further than they eye could see, and then further still. Trees as old as the island itself watched them as they passed underneath their boughs, and in the wind rustling through their branches, she thought she heard whispers of good fortunes and safe returns. The birds sang their farewells, too, and Christina was struck with the immediate and brief notion that maybe that was the last time she would ever hear the birds of Concordia singing. The elves seemed to notice it, too; if their expressions could have darkened, they did. The idea of dying in a tomb filled with evil did not sit well with the children of the forest, as if it could have with anyone.

Rhelin’s expression, at least, had not changed, and Christina was reminded once again of why she was glad to have brought him along. This cheered her up enough to clap her hands firmly and exclaim, “Well then, let’s play a game, shall we? I spy with my little eye something that is… green!”

When Alassë asked with unenthused exasperation whether it was a tree, Christina snorted with laughter and nodded her head, prompting the fair-haired elf to roll her eyes. But they picked up the game nevertheless, Alassë spying a cardinal on a branch several hundred meters out, and Christina nearly calling it unfair, because how could a human’s eyes match an elf’s? And then Elessar joked that she should have chosen a different game to play with a group of elves, and the whole group had a nice laugh.

These moments were important, she knew, as each member strained in turn to guess what the others were seeing deep within the thick branches of Concordia’s innumerable trees. If they were marching into the greatest danger any of them had yet faced, then Christina wanted to do it with a smile on her lips and a laugh in her voice.

That, at least, the Empire could never steal.

[Yari Rafanas]

Far from the cardinals and the laughter, deep into the lush woods of the forest, veteran members of the Bandit Brotherhood gathered in a small clearing surrounding a solitary white rock. The bright stone, eroded into the shape of a chair large enough to seat a giant, provided a convenient centerpiece and a unique landmark for the collection of thieves to use as a meeting grounds. The grassy nook it was located in remained secluded and private, just out of reach from any Imperial spies or Ranger scouts that may patrol Concordia's vast expanse.

Among the gathered bandits was an young akashiman conman known throughout Underwood as the Swindler. He acted mainly as an informant and liaison, but had done little throughout the war to smooth the relationships between their criminal family and the rebels. He ran a frustrated hand over his slicked black hair and voiced his concerns to their leader atop the stone.

“Why? Why do you have to get involved?”

Yari Rafanas, the King of Thieves, remained silent for a moment, glancing over his gathered friends and then back at the Swindler with a look of mild amusement. They were all looking to him with blank stares and concern, as he had just spent the last few moments telling them he was going to go 'cut off the Crimson Hand of the Empire.' The Brotherhood was not unfamiliar with their leader's over-dramatic explanations and lust for glory, but their concerns were still evident.

“If I don't go to them, they're going to come here, and then we'll all be sorry. You know I can't let them do that.” Yari took a step down from the stone 'chair' and approached the Swindler, placing an armored hand on his shoulder in an attempt to reassure the flustered and worried thief. The scruffy king grinned wide, “Besides, I've saved the forest once, why not all of Corone?”

The Swindler and other gathered thieves chuckled, “So this is just another chance to show off, eh chief? This Christina of yours must have been quite the catch to get you to play “Ranger Boy Yari.”

Rafanas shoved his brother away and laughed with the others. He gave a dismissive wave to those gathered and the group slowly dispersed into the forest. The Swindler collected himself and called out to the disappearing King of Thieves, “Just don't die on us, Yari!”

To which the king replied, “Didn't stop me last time.”

~*~

Christina's band was approaching its twenty-seventh (or had it been twenty eight?) round of their guessing game and Alassë had long since tired of it. She abstained from further participation and opted to take the lead as the troop made its way closer and closer to the edges of Concordia. As both an elf and one of the Ranger's best scouts she felt that it was her duty to stay alert while the others focused on morale. It was an attentiveness that paid off when suddenly she felt a very troubling and dark presence closing in at an impossible rate. Her elven eyes scanned the road ahead, observing nothing, but in only a few brief seconds later, their path was cut-off.

A cloaked individual appeared before them, adorned in the darkest of leathers, worn at the edges but riddled with expensive prevalida studs that created the illusion of the night sky wrapped around the man's form. The shadows of the forest and the hood shielded the man's face and intent, but not his weapons. Beneath the folds of his cloak rested a small collection of knives of varying length and quality, still sheathed but uncomfortably presented to the lead elf before him. However, it was not the short blades that first caught Alassë's eyes—it was the twisted and dark edges of a glaive strapped to the man's side. Its design was almost a perfect reflection of the weapon that Christina had presented to the Marshals, only this half of the glaive appeared to have been cleaned and cared for. The shattered and splintered end of the glaive's staff had been cut down to an appropriate handle length, and a thin ribbon of scarlet fabric was tied to its end.

Alassë crouched low and her sword hand went to her hip at the sight of the black metal, gripping her own short sword and revealing an inch of the cool elven steel.

“Wait Alassë!” Christina shouted in concern as she ran to the elf's aid. The bladesinger's caution and weariness ignored her Deputy's command and fully unsheathed her weapon, pointing it outward towards their sudden guest. “There's no need for that.”

“Well, not yet anyway!” joked the intruder as he pulled back his hood and revealed a scruffy face, wild hair, and a playful grin—a trademark smirk belonging to none other than the King of Thieves. “But we'll probably need it later, though hopefully not for me”

Alassë steadied her hand and raised an eyebrow in Christina's direction, “And I assume this ruffian is...”

“Yari Rafanas,” Christina shared with a smile, happy to see the bandit would not leave the matter of the Brigadiers be.

“Here to lend you my heart and my spear, Deputy,” the thief gave a sarcastic bow, winking towards the blonde Ranger. “May I offer you an escort from my forest?”

Christina chuckled in response, “To Radasanth, your majesty.”

[Les Misérables]

Major Erich Stonecutter lived up to his surname in physique and demeanour. Morning sun warmed his tent, strong enough to give the heavy canvas and leather walls a dingy glow. The pallet he awoke upon each day for the past six months was hard, but his back was harder - a series of knots and bumps like the trunk of an aged oak. Stonecutter stood up like a righted statue. The CAF standard-issue tent was scaled for an average Coronian man, so Stonecutter’s head nearly touched the ceiling, and his shoulders brushed the walls as he changed his smallclothes, tossing the nightsweated cottons into a wicker bin for his squire to see to. Fresh sweat beaded on his brow and across his yardarm shoulders as he donned trousers and tabard and followed with his armor. A combination of chainmail and halfplate, it protected him from neck to shins. The golden House Crest painted across his shoulder plates signified rank, and the fact his armour was delyn and not steel meant even the Rangers’ finest arrows never found his flesh. For Erich Stonecutter was a man of unique abilities and training, an asset known by name to the Viceroys.

Emien Harthworth - Master General of the Corone Armed Forces and Viceroy of the Empire - never appointed leaders carelessly. He had chosen Stonecutter to run the main defensive encampment between Radasanth and Concordia. Clasping his glassy black helm against a hip protector with one gauntleted hand, Major Stonecutter stooped and thrust through the battened flap of his tent.

Imperial banners fluttered in a tentative morning breeze. Stonecutter passed beneath them, wetting his lips as he made for the fatty smells wafting from the culinary tents. The song of smithies hammering steel breastplates trilled above the lower clang of their apprentices touching up iron horseshoes. A soldier twenty years Stonecutter’s senior stopped mending saddlestraps long enough to salute the mountainous man in delyn armour. Head and neck taller than any of the ten thousand under his command, Stonecutter could see Concordia’s fringe as he strode toward the sizzle of sausage and the burble of spelt-porridge vats. Left hand on the block pommel of his bastard sword, right still supporting the helm, he paused long enough to feel the sun warm his tanned face and head through brown stubbly scalp. Opening flint coloured eyes and lifting his left gauntlet to make a visor, he gazed across the open stretch of muddied earth that served as the camp’s parade ground, over rows of barracks tents and horselines, and into the depths of what his men had taken to calling the Dark Forest. At such a distance he could not make out individual branches, so they appeared only as a brown blur against a golden backdrop. The forest had been quiet for almost a week. Knowing the calm could not last, Stonecutter turned to enter the mess tent and break his nightly fast. Commoners in the nation’s capital might be going hungry, but fighting men - especially those in command - needed nutrition.

“Major Stonecutter, sir!” The officer’s facial expression stayed neutral, but his mood turned toxic as the familiar voice of his Quartermaster caught him a step shy of satiating the rumble in his belly. Stonecutter turned sharply in a jangle of chainmail and faced salutes from two of his subordinates. Corporal Miller, the young yellow haired soldier assigned to the quartermaster, wore his uniform with pride and looked embarrassed to be interrupting his commanding officer at such an early hour. Rightly so. The quartermaster, on the unfortunate side of things, was a civilian assigned to Stonecutter’s force by Viceroy Athenry Sergio. Stonecutter detested the ratlike man and believed the island nation’s leadership would be better off without their weakest third. Removing a gauntlet so he could scratch the stubble on his chin and brush a palm across his scalp, Stonecutter wondered if Sergio had somehow gotten wind of his dissent and assigned the civilian to watch him specifically. It would not have surprised the Major to learn that his new quartermaster’s primary task was to drive him mad.

“Sir,” repeated the reedy civilian, a pale-faced ginger named Alec Cartwright. “Forgive me but I must request a short audience, there are several pressing matters which demand your attention.” The Quartermaster clutched a leather scrip against his chest and rifled through it absent-mindedly with inkstained fingers. Cartwright was not a naturally thin man, quite average sized overall, but a life of inactivity had awarded him a potbelly and feeble-looking limbs. Seeing the sickly shaped man in his silken finery was nearly enough to put Stonecutter off his appetite.

“Make it quick.” the Major snapped, baring an inch of blue broadsword then slamming it down in the scabbard. The prevaldia blade had come with the position, and it reminded Stonecutter that every moment he spent discussing grain allocations meant one less
rebel he got to behead. Stonecutter continued thinking about chopping off heads as Quartermaster Cartwright nodded his in appreciation.

“Thank you, sir. In order of immediate importance, as always...” the orange haired man cleared his throat as those feeble, translucent fingers found the document he wanted and pulled it halfway out of the scrip. A gesture not unlike Stonecutter baring his swordblade, it reassured him of facts he’d already memorized. “The gatehouse consumes all foodstuffs three times faster than any other unit of the same size.” Cartwright re-did the clasp on his scrip and dropped it so it swung from its shoulder strap, ticking items off a mental list with his fingers. “However, there have been no reports of skirmishes, or even rebel sightings, along the fringe for three days. In the past week, our patrols picked up only two small parties attempting to cross the Niyema, mercenaries looking for work. We recruited them, of course, eleven more to the 2nd banner of foot...” Cartwright waved a fragile palm dismissively “but that’s irrelevant. I believe the sudden lack of raids by the rebels can mean only two things... either they are amassing their forces for a larger assault, or they have learned to bypass our patrols.”

Major Stonecutter snorted like a stallion with snoutfull of hay. “It couldn’t be they finally learned their lesson proper?” Corporal Miller chuckled at the rhetorical question, and then resumed standing stoically at attention. Stonecutter shook his head and hung his helmet on his sword hilt, folding both gauntlets behind his belt, mind still on his morning meal. “Double the patrols along the banks, and the scouts on each crossing. If any of those woodland savages get across the river, they better be corpses. The men are getting restless anyways.”

“Excellent, sir.” Cartwright’s eyes flickered as if making a mental note. As Stonecutter again tried to follow his nose and rumbling stomach, the civilian’s aggravating voice called him back. “Sir, there’s still the matter of the gatehouse’s supply consumption, which is--”

“Enough about the bloody supplies!” Stonecutter’s explosion was like that of an Aleraran firearm. Barely above a whisper, his voice nearly knocked Cartwright off balance. “Send whoever’s been sitting in the gatehouse on patrol to the north - that should sharpen their wits. And stick the Second Banner of Foot in the gatehouse. New recruits never eat more than they’re told - and if they do, set ‘em digging latrines!” Major Erich Stonecutter’s plated boot left a furrow in the dead ground where he turned on his heel. Chain-armor clattering, the young officer charged into the mess tent, leaving a bemused Corporal and a fretful Quartermaster beneath gathering clouds.

[Les Misérables]

The day had passed, and night crept through Concordia in its wake. Corporal Miller stood with his left boot on a tree stump that had been part of the great forest’s fringe two months earlier. Major Stonecutter had initiated the idea of clear cutting the first twenty yards of Concordia’s northern border. The lumber had gone to good use trading with the Northlands, and the desert continent of Fallien where finding a tree was as hard as finding a foreigner. The cutting had made covert assaults on the CAF encampment nearly impossible. Miller admired Stonecutter’s confidence and military mind, which had also demanded the construction of wooden longhouses from the last of the Concordian lumber. The outbuilding, which the soldiers called the gatehouse, was a rudimentary construction ripe with arrow slits, one of three that spanned the mighty forest's northern frontier. Ten men, each armed with an Akashiman repeater, stayed on cyclical watch night and day.

Standing with his back to the gatehouse’s southern entrance, Miller watched the forest impassively. He had played in her shadowy depths as a boy, nearly broken his leg in a swampy deadfall one summer. He had visited Underwood on his sixteenth Nameday, long before the Razing, long before all of Corone had gone to hell in a haversack. Miller felt no fear of Concordia, unlike many of the city dwelling soldiers who could lose their way two paces off a trail. More than anything Miller respected the magic and danger of the great forest. Even as a youth he’d looked up to the Rangers like demigods; men, women, and elves who seemed incapable of exhaustion or defeat. Deadly archers all. Thinking about his enemies - for they were the enemies of the Empire, not boyhood heroes - made Miller check his armor and the well-oiled mechanism of the repeating crossbow cradled against his right shoulder. His brown Coronian eyes scanned the unnaturally abrupt forest wall, twenty paces away. Nothing moved except branches brushed by the wind. An angry voice escalated inside the gatehouse, drowning out the chorus of crickets in the loam.

“--and I don’t bloody care how bloody long it’s been since any of you had proper meal... you eat according to rations, or you’ll be patrolling the Jagged slopes like the last bleeding lot!” Alec Cartwright’s yell broke at the end like a schoolboy’s. Miller chuckled to himself and removed a gauntlet long enough to reach beneath his helm and scratch at his salt and pepper hair. He was an observational man by nature, which had kept him in the military’s lower ranks despite his aptitude. Not a man of action like Stonecutter, or as shrewdly analytical as Cartwright. But he did notice a remarkable number of similarities between the orange-haired quartermaster and the mountainous Major. Both seemed in a constant bad humor, as if consumed by inner fires that gouted out on a daily basis. Stonecutter slaked his wrath by cracking heads of any citizens short on their taxes, or routing and slaying rebels deep in their own forest. Cartwright on the other hand, found soldiers to scream at.

Corporal Miller cracked his neck and cast his eyes up to the darkening cloudy sky as the gatehouse door opened and slammed shut. Quartermaster Cartwright stomped five paces toward the forest then turned and stomped back, face matching his hair. The leather scrip was still clutched to his sparrow-chest, but several crinkled papers peaked out at unruly angles.

“The nerve of those peons, those guppies!” the silk-clad man stormed, “no respect for their betters!” Cartwright tripped over a stump concealed by the long grass and stumbled three zig-zagging paces before Miller caught him, barely a handspan from barrelling into the gatehouse. Rather than release the quartermaster, Miller tightened his grip, twisting the yellow silken blazer so it cut off the little pest’s airway.

“And what rank is it that ye hold in the Corone Armed Forces, Mister Cartwright?” Miller asked pointedly. He kept his face neutral, although inwardly he laughed at the way Cartwright squirmed, eyes bulging from the pressure. They almost popped out of his head, like a carrot-topped praying mantis. Miller had no need to let out rage like his “betters”. While other children had beaten eatch other senseless with fencing sticks or wailed to their parents, Miller had studied the wisdom of the warriors of their Akashiman neighbours. And like the ancient proverb suggested, rather than holding onto the problem till it exploded, he let go. The quartermaster sputtered and collapsed to one knee, releasing his precious folder with one hand so he could massage the line his fancy jacket had left on his throat. “If ye don’t find a better way to deal with your squabbles soon, one of those guppies will gut yeh while yeh sleep.” Miller adjusted his longsword and checked the safety catch on his repeater, resuming his vigil of Concordia.

Quartermaster Cartwright took his time standing up, settling his blazer and equally garish crimson trousers, and re-organised the scrip so it closed happily over its documents. The last rays of red sunlight cast their shadows on the log wall, and then as he watched, faded to darkness. Cartwright felt a chill run up his neck that he couldn’t attribute to the whispering wind.

“I apologise, Corporal,” he said smoothly, although the words tasted like soot. “it is, of course, an important part of your assignment to keep my understanding of the troops... current.” Securing the last clasp on his scrip, Cartwright glanced at Miller and saw a ghost of a smirk on the larger man’s lips. The clouds drank daylight, and Cartwright found himself wishing for a torch, although to spark a light so close to the forest would put a bullseye on his back.

“What’s eatin' yeh, Quartermaster?” Cartwright frowned. The Corporal was giving his title entirely too much emphasis. Making a mental note to discuss his getting a new retainer, or perhaps two, with Stonecutter, the ginger haired man sighed.

“A notice came by courier owl last night... I’m to expect a message in person this evening from a personal agent to the Viceroys. So I’m sure you can understand my desire to return to the camp with all speed--”

“No need for that, quartermaster.” A voice like rusted chains breaking cut Cartwright’s warble from the darkness.

Corporal Miller snapped his crossbow up to first firing position and swept it across the lifeless forest, heart pounding. Cartwright reacted like a scalded barn cat, hissing and spitting and nearly collapsing against the gatehouse. Miller squinted into the night, seeing nothing. Where had that voice come from? He glanced to the southwest corner of the log building, pivoted and looked to the east. Saw nothing. “Rouse the men,” Miller began, but his jaw locked open in mid sentence. From the corner of the gatehouse, a patch of shadow larger than a man was eating air around it, expanding into a tangible wall of black.

“No.” The cracked, rumbling voice spoke the single word command like hammer striking anvil. Cartwright squeaked, caught with his hand halfway to the door, then resumed hugging his folder with more vigor than ever. Miller clicked the selector on his crossbow to its fastest rate of fire and peered down the stock, willing himself to see anything in the supernatural darkness.

“Who’s there?” he called in the same calm voice he’d used on Cartwright. There was nothing calm about the adrenaline burning in his veins, or the cold sweat on his scalp. “Identify yourself, in the name of the Empire!”

A low chuckle resonated from the shadow void, and a tall slim figure encased in a scarlet cloak flowed out, as if emerging from a portal. “Must the Hand of the Viceroys identify itself?” The lurching voice, like a death rattle each time, came from beneath an unmarked scarlet full face mask. How could the creature see from beneath that thing? Did it have, or need eyes? Miller lowered his weapon and his eyes, studying the Scarlet Brigadier as he did so. It was tall, nearly as tall as Major Stonecutter, but the voluminous cloak kept the shape of the body beneath a mystery. That cloak hung unnaturally still even when wind tugged at the grass, as if it had come from another world. But the mask never stopped moving. It swelled then slackened, silver moonlight mingling with its shadow aura to make shifting shapes where its face should have been, where there was only scarlet fabric. A mask that never looked quite the same, but always looked lethal. Miller felt stuck, torn between the desire to run inside and alert his comrades, and the urge to unsheathe his sword and take the thing’s head himself. He might not have feared the Rangers or their forest, but no sane man in Corone could think of the Wraith of the Scarlet Brigade without glancing nervously over his shoulder.

“My Lord Brigadier,” Cartwright said, finally finding his tongue and kneeling before the cloaked apparition. The quartermaster glared at Miller until he performed an awkward standing bow, unwilling to kneel before any man - or being. “We are at your service, of course,” Cartwright swooned, “whatever the Empire demands of us, we shall obey.” Miller stared into the depths of Concordia to hide his nausea at the civilian’s oily tone. The wraith had caught him by surprise, certainly, but with each passing moment the feeling of fear waned. He had heard the Scarlet Brigadiers could wither a man with a mere look, that to face them was to face absolute terror. Well, Cartwright’s behavior seemed in line with that. Perhaps the rumors were all started by pansies.

“This encampment is not living up to its potential, Quartermaster. Corporal.” If dead leaves and rotted trees could talk, they would have sounded like the wraith. It indicated each of them with a nod. “You will see to it an extra patrol is assigned to our sector of the mountains. And you will have a raiding party prepared to accompany me to the heart of the forest. Choose only excellent marksmen with an intimate knowledge of Concordia, they must face Rangers in combat and win.” The shadows behind the scarlet figure writhed and boiled, and it glided backwards into their midst, vanishing rapidly from sight.

“Hold on just a--” Miller said.
“Shut up!” Cartwright hissed. The shadows had hardened like an ornate piece of iron pulled from the forge and doused in a barrel. The men could make out only the outline of its cloak, catch only the faintest tint of red, like a bloodstain on the horizon.

“Do not question the Hand of the Viceroys, for it is the hand of death, and death finds those who would turn against the Empire.” The voice was steel, steel etched with plague and poison, but cold and cutting nonetheless. A single arm emerged from the layers of cloak and shadow, a dark gnarled hand from which black claws grew like a panther’s. “Tomorrow, at this time and place.” And then the shadows swirled, the hand disappeared, and the night was natural and quiet again. Low laughter emanated from inside the gatehouse, trailing out the arrow slits. Hadn’t the other soldiers seen the hideous creature? Heard its nightmare voice?

The stock of Miller's crossbow thumped into his shoulder as he sprinted, his armor jangling, to the corner of the longhouse where the wraith had stood. Peering around the fresh-smelling log walls, he saw nothing but the glow of the encampments bonfires on the horizon. Miller’s stubbled face folded into a frown as he realised he could not see into the gatehouse from his position. Coincidence?

“We’ll b-b-be returning to the command tent now, Corporal,” Alec Cartwright managed, even paler than usual. Miller’s frown deepened, remembering that the apparition’s instructions had implied he would be a member of the mission into Concordia.

*

Releasing the ball of shadows he’d clutched around himself like a protective blanket, Phyr Sa’resh reached through the heavy scarlet cloak and tugged the sifan mask off his face. His view of the cyper grove he stood in sharpened, showing wispy strands everywhere. Breathing through his crooked nose, the drow used his lone hand to swat a few spider webs out of his path, then stumped between the slim tree trunks until he found an Akashiman Ranger. The barrel-chested man was leaning against a young oak and idly waxing his longbow string as he gazed through the forest fringe at the Empire outbuilding.

“Did you hear all of that?” Phyr asked his comrade, using a perfect Coronian accent, more precisely one native to a dialect from farm country north of Jadet. The Akashiman had most likely grown up hearing that same accent from traders and neighbours alike. The drow wiped sweat from his scarred face and re-tied his long silver hair, peeling the cobweb-like locks back from his azure skin.

“Every word,” said Kiro Ryochi, shouldering his longbow and standing up straight so he was only a head shorter than the drow. “They’ll want you in the Tantalum Troupe before long. You could perform before the Queen of Scara Brae, with talent like that.”

The ten rebel fighters concealed throughout the treetops chuckled at their Captain’s joke.

[Christina Bredith]

At its northern border, the overwhelming thickness of Concordia’s sea of trees ended as abruptly as a wall, looming over the windswept plains of green grass growing over low hills that flowed as far ahead as the eyes could follow. Imperial swine, Christina thought as the transition from forest to grassland jarred her—that was the result of clear cutting by soldiers near the borders. There were too many of them for the Rangers to drive off entirely, and the oafs seemed to be under the preconception that cutting down the forest would make their opponents easier to root out when really it just meant that much smaller an area to defend.

The plains rose rather abruptly just beyond the tree line to form the Comb Mountains, tall but easily passable, with gentle grassy slopes rolling up and then down toward the Niema River. Just beyond to the northwest, two or three days of easy riding, lay Radasanth itself, now a citadel of blackness at the heart of an oppressive empire. That, however, was not their target.

Turning her eyes to her right, Christina saw the oppressive peaks of the Jagged Mountains staring down at them from the northeast. Those bleak teeth of rock oppressed the horizon to the far north as well, obscuring almost the sky itself. No man had yet found the way to cross the Jagged Mountains, not that there was much reason to bother, but certain inroads existed between the peaks, suitable for very little, secluded and in difficult terrain as they were.

Alassë caught Christina’s attention and nodded to the northwest. An Imperial watchtower could be seen in the distance, rising over one of the tops of the Comb Mountains to watch the tree line. Outriders had noted the camp and its expansion for months, but it was no threat to them now. The fires were lit at the tower’s peak, which would blind the men inside to whatever happened in the darkness outside, and besides, the men of the CAF were weak-eyed, dough-bellied layabouts who had never really been trained for scouting. That was what the Rangers were for in the first place, and with the Rangers on the opposite side of the war, avoiding Imperial patrols was as easy as smuggling honey past a bear with no nose.

The group had come up in the very northern part of the forest, between the road that led to Underwood and that which drove into neutral Akashima. Christina would have liked to avoid the roads entirely, but there was simply no way to do so from Concordia. The road between Radasanth and the Akashiman capital was lightly patrolled, however, the Queen taking personal offense to Imperial soldiers straying too close to Akashiman borders when she had declared no interest in taking sides. That meant the Rangers would have to keep clear of the borders as well, but a small party of outriders moving north would attract little notice in the dead of night.

“How are we for time?” Christina asked, looking at the elves. They glanced up at the moon and nodded at her.

“We should come up right between patrols at this rate,” Alassë pointed out. Rebel riders made a regular job of scouting the lands north of the forest, and the Imperial patrol schedules were well known to the Rangers now. It gave Christina great pleasure to imagine the frustration that must have caused the Imperial camps—if they were showing no signs of rebel incursions toward the north, it was because the Rangers could slip between their patrols like minnows through a loose net.

Christina nodded and spurred her chestnut mare toward the line of the Jagged Mountains. They crossed the Akashiman highroad without incident, missing the border by at least a safe mile, and the point where the Comb Mountains met the Jagged proved no obstacle to them. The moon was moving quickly across the sky, but the small group made good time. Occasionally Alassë and Yari would press on ahead to scout the way and ensure they were not caught unawares by an unexpected patrol, but each time they returned with exactly the news the group expected: nothing to report.

A few hours later, as the moon was beginning to kiss the ocean to their distant west, the group came up on a delta in the Niema River: two branches flowing out of the Jagged Mountains joined together here to form the main body of the river itself, draining west toward the sea. They would have to cross this and then the pass into the mountains would be just ahead. If they moved quickly, they could make it by sunrise, and hopefully be safely in and towards the asylum before the next patrol came by.

They had just reached the northern shores of the river, crossing at a shallow ford near the delta, when the three elves stopped their horses in unison and Lenwë threw up a closed fist to halt their march. Christina watched the elves’ pointed ears twitch like those of three cats, and then she heard it too: horses. Distant, but not distant enough, and growing closer quickly. “There!” she said in a loud whisper, pointing to a generous copse feeding from the fertile delta. The group moved their horses into the shade of the trees and waited.

“I thought you had their patrols down to a tee,” Yari said with a raised brow. His tone set Alassë on edge, and she fixed him with a sharp glare.

“We do,” she hissed, and when Elessar corrected that they did, she transferred the glare to him. “They must have stepped up their patrols since our outriders last came this way.” Probably to cure their unfortunate lack of rebel prisoners, Christina thought.

As expected, the soldiers were moving toward the very pass they had come here for, so there was no hope of waiting for them to pass by and carrying on, not unless they wanted to wait until the patrol doubled back. By then the sun would be high in the sky, and they could not risk another patrol coming to replace the first at that very time when the cover of darkness would not be on their side. That meant picking off the riders from afar was probably their best choice, and pressing on.

But there was no chance to decide. An animal suddenly leapt through the underbrush somewhere to Christina’s right, and one of the horses—Rhelin’s, she thought—reared up and screamed. They were fine animals but not trained for war, and thus they lacked the steady composure of the imperial destriers. Even before the soldiers turned their heads, Christina knew they had been given away. Before the group was even spotted, one of the imperials began galloping back toward the camp to report the incursion. He was dead before he could ride ten meters, an arrow from Lenwë’s bow blossoming in his throat in iron gray and blood red.

Then the Rangers surged forward, blade and bow drawn, to take advantage of the brief momentum afforded to them. “Scream, Rosebite!” Christina shouted, pointing her sword; a blast of blue energy screamed across the field, parting the grass with its boom. Her hope had been to take one of the soldiers off his mount, but at this distance and on horseback as she was, the shot went wide and took one of his horse’s legs out from under it. The damage did not look too serious and she hoped the poor animal would live, but at least there was one more soldier who would not be riding back to call for reinforcements.

Half a dozen remained, and the Rangers would not give them the chance to report back. The two forces met in a crash of steel and iron and horseflesh, and Christina knew—and regretted—that they must leave no survivors.

Raising her sword on high, she fought.

[Brother in Arms]

Hey, guys. Thanks for giving me a chance and taking me on board. It's great to work with such veteran writers.

Amateurs, Randall thought as he observed the Ranger sortie reveal their position and proceed to make a bloody mess out of their encounter with the Imperial patrol. He had expected this band of the bold to remain undiscovered during their passage through Radasanthia, especially considering there were elves amidst their ranks, elves that heeded from the oh so graceful land of Raiaera no less. If half the stories of these prissy pointy-eared bards were true, they should’ve been able to stalk the patrol and pick off its members one by one. Or at least set up a decent enough ambush, for gods’ sakes. As it stood, Randall wasn’t terribly impressed with the trio of bladesingers. They sure made a pretty picture, riding under the moonlight with their shiny hair and pale skin, but there were no dames to swoon in the dead of night. Guess elves have their bludgeoners as well.

Randall himself was reasonably safe and undetected for the time being, just as he intended, and just as he had been for the last week he had spent on the north side of the Comb Mountains. He had constructed his camouflage suit when he first arrived here, working on it diligently for two days straight, appropriating it for the scenery of the Radasanthia barony. It made his cloak look like a fine carpet of lush grass and dewy mahogany, with a sporadic straw of wild barley and patches of milkweed extending farther than others. If spread over the grass, it still looked very much like a patch of fake grass, but at a distance and especially in the middle of the night... Randall was as good as invisible, even to the legendary perception of the elves.

In all truth, he had expected to be able to follow Christina and her squad a bit deeper into the Empire-controlled territory without opposition. They maybe were amateurs, but they moved under the cover of the night and they were being reasonably careful, sending outriders regularly and keeping as close to the Akashima border as possible. Randall even hoped, unreasonably though it might’ve been, that he would be able to creep in close enough to find out the purpose of their venture into the land controlled by their hated enemy. Not that it ultimately mattered, as he had to break cover sooner or later and try to join this motley crew. Their road, if not necessarily the ultimate goal, coincided with his own and it was only a matter of time before the diverged paths met up. The key was making a good initial impression, Randall mused, and was there a better time for it than in a middle of a battle?

Between Christina’s fearless charge and the elven finesse, the patrolmen of the Empire were getting genuinely decimated. Caught with their pants down and their backs to their enemies, they lost half their numbers by the time they gathered enough bearings to realize what was going on. The other half got caught in a horseback melee in which they never stood a chance, and before long only two Imperial soldiers remained. With the blood of their comrades soaking the Corone soil and their dying screams filling the night, their minds did a simple calculation and came up with a conclusion that they stood a better chance making a run for it than facing this clandestine enemy. The duo broke away from the conflict and spurred their horses in a wild gallop towards the Niema, disregarding the fact that it was nighttime and their horses had no road to follow. One of them paid the price almost immediately, the steed beneath him stumbling after its leg hit a hidden ditch and broke like a twig. The animal and man crashed and rolled on the grass, and if the man wasn’t dead from the tumble, the oncoming Rangers were bound to be the end of him.

The second man was lucky enough to reach the shallows of the river, but there was no salvation for him. For even as he slowed his advance down in order to ford the river, what looked like a mound of grass at the bank of the river rose like some ancient swamp monster, the moon behind it as large as a cart wheel. There was a thrum of a bowstring amidst the frantic sounds of splashing water. The patrolman paused for a moment in mid motion, then took the final dive of his life. No sooner than he fell off his horse, another arrow same whistling from the darkness, missing him by inches and hitting the horse in the neck. The brave beast neighed and trashed in the water, the current slowly taking it downstream with the corpse of its rider.

The Rangers were upon the camouflaged figure in seconds, bows drawn, swords blooded and ready for more flesh.

“You seemed to miss one, elf,” Randall croaked, unmoving. The moon was half-dipped in the sea behind his back, but it still cast enough silvery light to leave only the shadowy outline of his figure visible. The elven eyes were sharp enough to pierce the darkness, but even they were only able to see the stranger’s eyes, the rest of his face covered in dark fabric. “Got the horse good, though.”

“It is deceptively hard to account for both the wind and a talking mound of grass with a bow,” Alassë responded. Randall snorted a short laugh, but none of the others seemed to appreciate the joke, not even the elven woman who said it. Christina moved her horse past the rest of her companions, pulling on its reins only when it seemed almost about to bump into the figure below. Randall held his ground without as much as a twitch, only the grass on his camo suit swaying in the light breeze, even when she shoved the tip of her sword into his face.

“Identify yourself!” she insisted, the frown on her face stark despite the encroaching darkness that seemed to pull closer around them with every inch the moon lost to the horizon.

“Easy, no need for more fireworks,” Randall said, his voice so hoarse it was almost unnatural. He spread his arms with deliberate slowness, his smirk invisible in the night. “Gods know they could have seen them in Radasanth by now.”

“Who are you? And what are you doing here, on our trail?” the blonde insisted, as fierce as her reputation claimed her to be. Her sword moved even closer to Randall’s neck.

“I am Randall... Audrin. A Ranger,” the figure said, it’s free hand making a motion towards the inside of his cloak. He could hear the collective intake of breath and stiffening of sword and bowhands when he did so and paused. “Relax. Papers.” His gloved hand produced a rolled up parchment with a sealed red ribbon wrapped around it. He pushed the Rosebite gently with his composite bow in order to get close enough to hand the scroll to the leader of the group.

“Courtesy of Marshal Wolfbane,” Randall said, taking several casual steps away from Christina. “Said I should assist any troops heading this way. You seem to qualify. Already you seem a couple bodies short.”

[Les Misérables]

The inside of the Gatehouse looked much like the outside. Bare wooden walls, the bark still on in some places. Four stools surrounding a round table, all constructed of sturdy limbs and thinly sliced trunks and thick iron nails. A couple shoddy shelves erected from the same oak and trakym that made up the walls. The meagre rations they had held - a sack each of oats and spelt, one of dried apples, a leather pouch packed with jerky, and five wineskins - were being stuffed into haversacks by Phyr's men.

He spoke with Ryochi as the ten rebels who had conned the CAF's recruiting officers doffed their steel uniforms, wrapping each item in a strip of wool and packing them with the food. The other ten - the ones wearing dark cloaks who had waited with Ryochi in the forest while he compounded the con - were manning the arrow slits and yawning door. Most of them clutched repeating crossbows, deftly checking the mechanisms before staring into the night, alert and watchful.

"Why don't we join ourselves with the exalted Ranger Bredith and her elves?" Ryochi was asking. His slender, tanned Akashiman face was smooth except over one eyebrow, a cocked quizzical expression. He had put his faith in Phyr's ingenuity every bit as much as the other twenty under their command, but Ryochi was the only Ranger. The rest were a mixture of Watchmen and other useful folk Phyr had chosen himself from the city of Underwood. Though they were all expert archers and knew which ends of their weapons to grip, none of them shared the Akashiman's experience and cunning, and only one knew more of Corone's mountains and forests than he.

"Surely as one large group we'd make a stronger force, and a stealthier one at that." Ryochi was stroking his chin stubble as he answered his own question. The rebels who had impersonated CAF recruits donned dark cloaks to match those of their brothers and ended standing in a broken line, semi at attention, heavy padded haversacks slung on their shoulders. Ready to move. Phyr held up his one hand, all swollen knuckles and gnarled fingers, interrupting Ryochi.

"You have done well," Phyr said, using a different accent than when he spoke with Ryochi, still in their common tongue. "Ama'leh smiles on your bravery and deed, as they help bring peace and justice to all Corone." Some nodded their heads in agreement or prayer, others scuffed their feet on the bare ground and shifted packs upon their shoulders. Phyr did not concern himself overmuch with whether or not they liked him bringing deities into the conflict. The Underwood drawl was Phyr's absolute favourite brand of Tradespeak, and the names of their Thaynes sounded especially beautiful, sweet and savoury on the tongue all at once. "Jacob will return you to Underwood's walls, that you may rest and seek rest and nourishment. Jake?"

The only lad of of Ryochi's ten who had not claimed a repeater - an elf-human bastard named Jacob Narmolanya - turned from staring north toward the fires of the CAF's camp. He slackened off the string of his recurve bow and pointed southerly with his arrow, a delyn broadhead with a bodkin forged to punch through platemail and tear flesh when removed.

"Easier to make the doorway back in the forest, where we came in." Jake said, eyes hard as emeralds. He had risen tidally through the ranks of Underwood's Watch less because of his mastery of bow and sword and more for acting twice his age and being comfortable giving orders. "With me," Jake said, then touched the crest on his cloak and re-strung his arrow. Ten men in identical cloaks followed him, carrying heavy bundles. All of them wore the Tree-and-blades of Underwood on their left breast, but only Jake had an enchanted quill concealed beneath his. With one flick of that bloody feather, he'll have them back home. With time enough to quaff a mug of ale before returning and we'd be none the wiser. Phyr thought as their footsteps faded into the cricket sound.

That left only Ryochi and Phyr and nine of their ten in the Gatehouse. The ancient drow wrinkled his forehead as the Akashiman Ranger rephrased his earlier question.

Why don't we join with Christina Bredith's party? Phyr trusted everyone in that longhouse with his life, but some secrets came from lives past, worlds away, and must be guarded. No, he decided, I cannot tell him, at least not yet. But he owed Ryochi an answer, even if it was false. After all, it was Kiro Ryochi who had come to him on the front lines with fresh fighters and word of Bredith's mission into the mountains. Kiro Ryochi who had agreed to help lead a rearguard of sorts for the wraith-hunting fellowship, a shadow band of rebels ready to provide a sortie if necessary. But he is a Ranger, in brotherhood with her. The truth must wait.

Phyr's left ear quivered, hearing the soft bootsteps of Narmolanya's return. He didn't stop for a drink after all. The ancient drow smiled and flicked his head, rousing his damp silver-grey mane.

"Answer me this first, Ryochi," he said as Jake poked his dirty-blond head in the door and the others filed outside. "They are mounted and we afoot. How then should we join them?" Kiro shrugged expansively, a broad gesture that made his shoulder armour rattle and his cloak swoosh. "Like this," Phyr led the Ranger out the door just as Jake produced a golden-brown eagle feather. It took but a moment: he sketched the outline of a two-tiered gateway with short slashes of the quill's tip, and suddenly the doorway materialised and Jake slipped the twin portals opened and crept through in a crouch, bow bent. Ready.

"Ama'leh's tears in a cuspidor," Ryochi cursed. The watchmen poured through the hole in reality, following the green eyed half elf.

[Christina Bredith]

“Any troops heading this way?” Christina asked, slamming Rosebite back into its scabbard with more venom that the sword deserved. “And I suppose you were just hiding by that riverbank for a few days just in case.” No, there was very little of this that didn’t reek of suspicion. She could not truly believe Randall had just happened to be hiding out here and they simply stumbled across him; it was hardly a valuable place for spying, unless you wanted to play Count The Soldiers as the patrols moved in and out of the pass. There could have been no good reason for a fellow Ranger to stalk after them—better, and far less suspicious, to just announce yourself—but they had no way of knowing for sure if he had been, and she had no time to waste throwing around empty accusations.

What was less suspicious, however, was the man’s paperwork from Marshal Wolfbane. She had never heard of the man herself, but there were a great many Marshals she had never met, and with the war on more were made every day. Everything else about it seemed to be in order. She rolled the parchment tightly and handed it back to Randall. “Well, you may regret rousing yourself before tomorrow is up. Come on, then.”

Christina swung down from her mare and made her way toward the rest of their companions. Randall had been right about one thing: their group was already thinner than it had been before the battle started. Rhelin had taken an arrow to the chest and was breathing shallowly; the wound bled wetly, but with the arrow still impaled through the flesh, it was better than it might have been. Elessar was tending to him, singing a verse of song magic while he reached to break off the arrow head and remove the thing.

Even more worrisome was their second casualty: the Bandit King himself had sustained a nasty injury during the fighting. Somehow his horse had fallen on him, crushing one of his legs beneath it. As Christina rushed to his side, she noted the snapped shaft of an arrow near the horse’s shoulder and pieced the rest of the story together: his mount must have taken an arrow during the initial charge and collapsed. The poor thing was bleeding heavily and rolling its eyes back and forth in fright. From the weight of it she doubted Yari would be able to walk for some time. It was amazing that he was still conscious.

“Alassë!” she called, but the elf woman was already on her way, and together they struggled to lift the horse just enough for Yari to slide out. He fell back heavily on the dewy grass and panted, though if truth be told he sounded no worse for the wear than if he had just gone for a heavy run. The leg, however, was nastily done, twisted the wrong way at the knee, and any skin Christina could see was as bruised as a piece of old fruit. Elessar made his way over to them, Rhelin leaning against him as they walked, and though he refrained from comment with professional tact, the expression on his face when he first saw the wound told her that Yari would no longer be helping them win this battle.

“Damned soldiers!” she muttered. “Damned horses.” But her anger subsided almost instantly at that; the horses could be blamed but little for their part in this. The Rangers lacked the capability to train real warhorses, and their breeding left much wanting as well, so they were ever prone to distraction and startling. It had been a risk to hide in that copse of trees, and now they had seen why.

Lenwë was returning to the scene now, leading two of the imperial coursers toward them. There had been six, to start; she could see three of them on the ground, either wounded or dead, and the last must have run off during the fighting. That was unfortunate—a riderless warhorse would bring suspicion, but at least there was no guarantee who would find it, if anyone; there was still some time before dawn, and the mountain wolves might do for it if they were hungry enough to chase it down, though an imperial warhorse would make no easy prey. Even if the imperials caught it first, it would be some time before they realized who it belonged to and where it had been sent. Still, best to be away from here as soon as possible.

“How are you feeling?” she asked Yari as Elessar helped him to his feet.

“Like I’ve just been sat on by a horse,” he responded, and his chuckle turned into a cough as the pain racked him. He leaned heavily on the plump elf, and Christina took his other arm over her shoulder. Alassë had already taken Rhelin and was leading him over to the coursers. His own bay had run off after throwing its rider; she could see it making its way south along the mountains, already on the other side of the river. It would be in Akashima within hours, but there was little enough reason for concern there.

Elessar declared that neither Rhelin nor Yari was in any shape to ride alone, so it was decided that the bandit would ride with Elessar, and the watchman with Alassë. When Christina urged that they press on nevertheless, the healer asked whether they shouldn’t abandon back to camp and leave the mission for another day.

Christina shook her head, but it was Yari who answered. “This is the only chance we’ll get, now. Once the imperials realize one of their patrols hasn’t returned, they’ll scour the area for answers and then double or triple the patrols, or post a permanent guard. We’ll never get near here again.” It was unfortunate, but true; the two wounded would be dead weight. They would have needed to leave someone outside to watch for patrols and guard the horses anyway, but Yari and Rhelin wouldn’t suit for that now, so she’d need to leave at least one person more behind to watch them all. Randall was a tempting choice, but she didn’t trust him near enough to leave him out of her sight with two wounded allies and all their horses.

Taking a large wood knife from one of their packs, Christina put Yari’s poor sorrel out of his agony—she had to close her eyes to do it, but it was quick—while Alassë did the same for the imperial horses. Christina asked the elves to bury the dead, which they did efficiently through whispered magic. A dead man deserved at least that much, and at least they would not be stumbled across so easily, not unless someone came looking for them. The elves remained with their horses, particularly Elessar and Alassë: their well-bred Raiaeran whites were unrivaled by even the coursers and would carry them and their wounded swiftly to safety if they were ambushed again. Randall was given the blood bay courser to ride, while Lenwë led the other, a dapple, alongside his own horse.

Grass gave way to gravel and rock as they moved into the pass. It was well that the imperial patrol had taken them just outside, though: only the oppressive cliffs of the Jagged Mountains rose on either side of them, and nothing else existed in the pass at all, not so much as a boulder to hide behind. They would have been caught with their pants down, as it were, if they had been found here. Christina subconsciously urged her chestnut forward at the thought, and the other horses followed.

The pass was short and dark, and blessedly the moon was near overhead right now, or else the high mountains would have blocked even that light from them. They could not risk torches, however, as the light would give them away to any sentries and the night blindness could have been more dangerous than the darkness itself. They went only as quickly as their horses could safely manage, to avoid the risk of breaking a horse’s leg. She thanked the gods that the footing here was more solid than she might have expected.

By the time the moon was setting and dawn was rising behind the mountains directly ahead of them, they came upon the asylum. It should have been a pretty scene, the sky and mountains bathed in pink light as they were, but the way the shadows fell on the building made it ominous instead. Not a single light shone within, at least not that could be seen through the visible windows, most of which were broken. The entire building was dilapidated from apparent disuse, with hardy mountain vinery creeping up the crumbling walls and helping to throw chunks of brick down onto the ground below, while the droppings of all sorts of mountain birds decorated the roof as well as the statues of the Thaynes that Christina supposed protected the inmates. Worn down by weather and time as they were, they now looked more like shapeless demons, cast down from the heavens by the shit of mountain wildlife.

When they dismounted, Christina was prepared to leave both Elessar and Alassë behind to guard, but the former insisted that it would not be necessary. “How are you going to watch over six horses and two wounded men?” she asked. “What if another patrol comes?” In response he merely began to sing and led the horses and their wounded charges off to one side of the asylum. Before they had even reached the spot, the whole lot of them had vanished entirely from view, and she could not even hear the snorting of the uneasy horses. That trick I have to learn, she thought, and shook her head.

By her side now were the two elves and their new companion, Randall Audrin. A smaller group than she would have liked to lead into this nest of vipers, but it would have to suffice. She laid a hand gently on the hilt of her sword and led the three of them toward the lifeless house of the damned. “Let’s get this party started,” she said. “Our hosts must not be kept waiting.”