Sieges were always hell. Marcus had seen it before. Soldiers clustered in groups around campfires, sharing food and conversation. Most looked to be in good spirits, but they had only been here for a few days. When their food began to run out, and disease began to spread, this camp would begin to look very different.
Marcus made his way through the grounds, towards the red and gold flags that fluttered above the white tents, marking his destination. He passed row upon row of pitch tents—hundreds of them, placed meticulously to form an almost perfect grid. High Marshal Fastaar certainly liked his strict formations.
When word of Valla’s besiegement had reached the capitol, reinforcements had been hastily assembled and sent south to Valla. Enemy forces had seemingly appeared out of thin air, surrounding the city. Not a single Ilrian spy gave warning of the attack. All of Ilris’ resources had not even indicated that Antuza was amassing its forces. It was as if the legions of the empire had been displaced, out of time, directly onto Valla’s doorstep. And now that reinforcements were here, what could they do against a force so much greater than their own?
He arrived at his destination less than ten minutes later, peering inside to find his old companion and commanding officer Vincent Reld, along with his second, Sigmund Rowe. They were examining a large wooden table with a map of the region placed on it, little wooden pieces representing armies strewn about with no real order.
Colonel Reld was a formidable man, grizzled with age and war. His hair and beard were nearly all white, and his breastplate had seen better days, tarnished and scratched. A black patch covered his left eye and he had hairline white scars crisscrossing his cheeks. A heavy axe hung from his hip, and a burgundy cloak flowed from his shoulders. All in all, he embodied the cliche of a war veteran quite well.
“We’ll need to hit them harder next time, here, here, and here. If Fastaar lets us send a few extra companies tomorrow, we should be able to make more of an impact,” Vincent said, jabbing at locations on the map at key points around the city’s perimeter to accentuate his words.
His companion nodded. “I have my doubts. I expect he’ll drag this engagement out as long as he can. They don’t call him Fastaar the Patient for nothing, sir.”
“What we’re doing isn’t enough,” grumbled Vincent. He let his head sag in frustration, leaning on the table with both hands. “We’re attacking with barely a tenth of our troops. Minor skirmishes that accomplish nothing. Valla won’t be able to hold forever. The Antuzans know they have taken the upper hand. They aren’t nearly as disorganized as they were last time. Their siege equipment continues to batter the city while their troops keep us at bay. The longer we wait, the worse our odds look.”
He looked up and spotted Marcus standing near the entrance, and his eyes lit up with a fatherly glow. “Ah, Marcus! It’s been too long, my boy.” He crossed the span of the tent and captured Marcus in a bear hug.
My boy. I’m nearly forty, and he still thinks of me as my boy. He couldn’t help but smile just a little at that. “It’s good to see you too, Vince.”
Vincent pulled away and grasped his shoulders, eyeing Marcus up and down. “Look at you. A Captain in the Royal Military. Another decade or so and I expect you’ll be taking my place.”
Marcus laughed. The last time he saw Vincent, he’d still been a fresh recruit, and Vincent had been his captain. “Not so long as you’re still kicking. I’ve got a long way to go before I catch up to you.”
“And your hand!” Vincent exclaimed, Looking down at the metal prosthetic that took the place of Marcus’ left hand. “That brings back memories.”
“You’re not going to continue holding that over me, are you?” Marcus touched the metal with his good hand. He still remembered vividly. On the day his old Captain spoke of, Marcus’ mistakes had resulted in many of his friends’ deaths and the loss of his hand. His replacement served as a constant reminder.
Vincent sobered. “No, of course not, my boy. I didn’t bring you here simply to reminisce over old times, and certainly not to dig up painful memories. I’ve got a favor to ask you.” He walked back towards the table and beckoned for Marcus to follow.
Vincent pointed at the city labeled Valla on the map. At least ten wooden soldiers, painted black, were placed in a circle around the city. “The Antuzans have completely besieged Valla. Our best estimates put them at ten thousand, but they’ve spread themselves out to cover the land surrounding the city. Still, their investment is strong. They run consistent patrols between encampments. We’ve been able to engage them in several skirmishes so far, testing the waters. But I fear what we are doing isn’t enough. The Vallans are not prepared to hold out through an extended siege. They’re bound to run out of supplies soon enough. Fastaar bides his time, and while a slow burning front is beneficial on our side—especially as more reinforcements are being dispatched from Achenar—the city of Valla will starve long before we can help them at the rate we’re going.”
Marcus leaned on the table and surveyed the map. It showed the southeastern region of Ilris, the two major cities, Valla to the east and Cenna to the west, along with several fishing villages along the eastern coast. Far to the west, the Spine of Karna snaked north to south. He nodded. This information was not entirely new to him, but hearing it from Vincent confirmed that Fastaar had no intention of breaking the siege on his own. “I understand, Vince. But, what does that have to do with me?”
Vincent gestured to Sigmund. He was a thick, stocky man. Bald, with a face like an anvil. “My second, Major Sigmund, is actually from Valla. Before he enlisted with the Crown, he worked as a city guard. He has brought some interesting information to light that I think we may be able to put to good use. Sig?”
Sigmund spoke, eyeing Marcus warily. “Are you sure he can be trusted, sir?” His voice was deep and gruff, and stood stiffly off to the side, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Of course we can trust him! I’ve known this man since he was barely old enough to enlist.” Vincent lowered his voice, speaking conspiratorially. “Look, Marcus, this little task I have for you isn’t exactly... on record, so to speak. Fastaar has a somewhat narrow view of how to get things done, and well, frankly, he doesn’t listen to much input from me or Marin.”
At this, Marcus hesitated. Working outside the bounds of official command was grounds for severe punishment. A court martial leading to dismissal from his division if he was lucky. Worse if he wasn’t. But he always trusted Vincent. And he had gone outside his superior’s command for him before. It had worked out—kind of—then. He glanced down at his mechanical hand. Would this really be any different?
He sighed. “Alright, you have my word. If you think whatever this is will help the people of Valla.”
Sigmund glanced at Vincent once more, who gave a nod of encouragement, and turned to the table. “When I was in the city guard, I heard rumors of a tunnel that smugglers used a few centuries ago to transport goods in and out of the city. They called it Tharin’s Passage.” He took one of the map markers and placed it on a spot due west of the city. “I don’t know the exact location, but from what I heard, the exit was somewhere west of the city. Ten miles or so of tunnels leading to a cave.”
Nodding eagerly, Vincent added, “It may seem like a long shot, but if we can send a small team to locate the passage and enter the city, we would be able to assist Valla’s situation from the inside. If we can initiate contact with Valla, then perhaps we can coerce Fastaar into a more committed assault.”
“If the passage is still operational, why haven’t they sent anyone through it to contact us?” Marcus asked.
“That’s the thing. It isn’t. The tunnels haven’t been in use for over a century,” said Sigmund. “All of the known exits were either deliberately destroyed or naturally caved in. The tunnels themselves still exist, but you’d have to find your own way in.”
Marcus was quiet for a moment, staring down at the small pieces on the table that represented the lives of thousands. Finally, he said, “I’ll do it.” He turned and met Vincent’s gaze. “Who else knows about this?”
“No one, yet. I’ll leave it to you to assemble your crew discreetly. That being said, Rykker Adarien, the engineer, and Viggo Daen, a field medic in my eighth company, will be coming with you.”
Marcus was taken aback. He didn’t know much about this Rykker fellow, only that he was a well-known artificer that worked with the military from time to time, selling them new ways of making war. He had never heard of anyone named Viggo. “With all due respect, sir, why them? Soldiers from my own company would be—”
Vincent raised a hand to cut him off. “I know your men are capable, my boy. But this mission requires not only the utmost discretion, but a very specific skill set. I’ve hand-selected these men for what they offer. By putting your faith in them, you’re putting your faith in me.”
Marcus rubbed his chin and began to pace the tent. It seemed like an odd group, but he decided that Vincent had his reasons. “So we sneak our way in, assess the situation, then get out? That simple, eh?”
“When you put it that way, sure. We’ll have a way to communicate with those we are trying to save.” Vincent gave a noncommittal shrug.
Marcus stopped pacing and faced his old friend. “Alright, where can I find Rykker?”
Watching his master work was always a calming experience. Or, at least, Sev thought it was. While he couldn’t grasp the human concept of emotion, something within his mind felt at ease while watching the artificer tinker with his inventions.
He watched as Rykker pried a plate off one of his floating engines. His master was young for a human, in his twenty-fifth year. He was thin, with dexterous hands for his delicate work. Normally he kept his face clean, but a dark shadow had begun to appear over the last few days.
The engine looked like a metallic rounded cube, hollow in the center with open holes on each face. Multiple fins protruded from either side of the main body, giving the device a vaguely fish-like appearance. Sev stood silently off to the side, waiting for instructions.
Without looking up, Rykker held out a hand, palm up. “Sev, pass me the needle-nosed pliers. I think I’ve found the issue. The propulsion construct was dislodged.”
Sev crossed to the tool chest, a heavy wooden box that, when opened, unfolded into multiple tiers of shelves lined with tools. He had to lean down to extract the tool Rykker had asked for. He made his way back over to the bench and placed the tool in his master’s open palm.
They often worked like this, in near silence. Their cadence became like clockwork, with Sev performing ancillary tasks to support Rykker as he tinkered. Sev relished in the work. Each step brought them closer to a result. An invention. He sometimes wondered if it was someone like Rykker who had created him. Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure if he would ever find out.
Rykker reached into the engine with the pliers, scrunching his face in concentration as he tried to reach something. After a few moments, there was a series of clicks. He sighed and pulled his hand from the engine. As he did the core began to glow with a red, fiery light. The device gave a low hum and lifted from the workbench, floating in mid-air.
“There we go! All better,” Rykker exclaimed. He set the pliers down on the bench and brushed his hands against his leather smock.
He watched with curiosity as the engine bobbed up and down. “You know, I still haven’t quite figured out how it’s powered. The construct generates some sort of force that affects certain metal objects, but for the life of me I can’t figure out how they did it.” Sev had heard this all before, but he knew that Rykker liked to talk through his thought process. Sometimes it led to new revelations.
The bell outside his tent chimed and a voice called from outside. “Hello, Rykker? This is Marcus Wyr, Captain of the third division.”
Rykker’s noise crinkled in distaste. Sev could understand why Rykker hated dealing with the lower-ranked soldiers. They always were too brutish for his taste. All they ever wanted from him were things that could shoot farther or hit harder. He eventually sighed. “Come in, I suppose.” The last bit he added too quietly to be heard from outside.
A stocky man entered the tent. He was wearing the standard-issue military plate, but there was a distinct lack of pauldrons or gauntlets. Instead, he favored a shirt underneath the chest plate that allowed his bare arms to be exposed, which rippled with underlying muscle. He carried no weapon, but Sev noticed that one of his hands had been replaced with a mechanical one made from dark metal.
The man gave a quick salute with his human hand. “Name’s Marcus. I’m here on behalf of Colonel Reld.” He gave uncertain looks at both the floating engine and Sev but otherwise did not comment. Word had passed through the camp of their existence, but Sev was unsure why he caused such discussion.
Rykker slumped in his chair, looking bored. “Do they have a need for me, finally? I’ve entreated them to employ my binoculars to some of the scouts, but I’ve heard nothing from them these past few days. I’m beginning to wonder why I came along in the first place.”
“I don’t know anything about that, but things have been rather... busy in the camp these past few days. What with the siege and all...” Marcus trailed off awkwardly. Sev was curious about this soldier. He didn’t seem as arrogant as the others Rykker had talked to. Despite his size, his movements were deliberate and almost graceful, and he seemed to choose his words more carefully than other soldiers he’d seen.
“Well? What are you here for?” Rykker folded his arms over his chest, looking expectantly at Marcus.
Marcus motioned with his hands as if searching for the right words. “You’ve been selected to take part in a mission.”
At this, Rykker perked up. “A mission? I’m a non-combatant.”
Marcus lowered his voice and stepped a little further away from the tent’s entrance, glancing briefly over his shoulder. “While that’s true, this assignment is... outside of official orders. It comes from Reld directly.”
Rykker raised his eyebrows at that. He sat a little straighter in his chair. “Is it? Now that is interesting. What exactly does it entail?”
While Rykker talked with the newcomer, Sev stood quietly by the back of the tent, waiting patiently. He was used to becoming a wallflower when Rykker interacted with others. If Sev spoke too much, they usually became uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure why. He tried to copy their human mannerisms as best he could. Rykker would tell him that it was hard for them to be comfortable around things they couldn’t understand.
″...sneaking into Valla without being detected,” Marcus was saying. “There’s supposedly a series of tunnels that smugglers used to carry goods in and out of the city. Our mission could be instrumental in the survival of Valla.”
Rykker removed his leather apron and was beginning to place his tools back into their respective places. “I’ll be honest with you, my friend. Being cooped up in this tent has been driving me mad. I can’t imagine why Reld would want me, but I have a feeling I won’t be missed here. When do we leave?”
“Nightfall. Best to make our way past Antuzan forces under the cover of darkness.” With that, Marcus turned to leave.
Rykker called after him. “I do have one condition, though. My companion travels with me. Don’t worry, though. He won’t be a liability. In fact, he’s quite good with a hammer.”
The man’s leg couldn’t be saved. Of that much, Viggo was certain. His wounds were too severe, and although he tried to stave off the infection, it continued to spread. The only course of action was to remove the source.
The soldier was young. Far too young to live the rest of his life like this. If he managed to survive the amputation. Even now, his breath rattled with the throes of impending death. The infection seemed to possess the man, a demon poised to consume its victim entirely. Viggo was surprised he was able to stay conscious.
The patient continued to recite the words to an old Caeteran prayer he had been repeating for the last ten minutes. “Balance for the heart, balance in the mind, balance brings death, and to dust shall I return.” His eyes were glazed over, staring obliquely at the ceiling of the tent.
The presence of the Caeteran religion in an Ilrian war camp struck Viggo as pleasantly ironic. He wanted to tell the man: Your gods won’t save you, they abandoned us long ago. But he knew that his personal distaste for the religion wouldn’t help.
He reached into his pack and retrieved a distillation of dewblood. Carefully, he emptied a few drops of the dark purple liquid into the man’s partially opened lips as he spoke. “Here, this is a powerful sedative. It should ease your pain, at least.” He wished he could do more. Regardless of the soldier’s personal beliefs, he didn’t deserve this.
He sighed and stood to leave. The harsh reality was that there would be many more like this one in the coming months. War was always good at that. Good for business, he supposed. That was a morbid thought, even for him.
He turned to go, and almost sneaked a swig from his flask when he was surprised to find a soldier waiting for him. He had broad shoulders, and his arms were exposed, revealing muscled arms. He found it odd that the man seemed to carry no weapon of any kind, although he did have a prosthetic hand made from some kind of metal. He gave a hasty salute, and Viggo returned the gesture, albeit with sloppier form.
“Viggo, right?” After Viggo nodded, the man continued. “I’m Captain Marcus Wyr. On behalf of Colonel Reld, I’ve come to recruit you to an assignment.”
Viggo hoisted his pack over his shoulder. An assignment? This wasn’t strange at all. Take the medic who should be treating the wounded into the field, away from his patients. Yet his curiosity got the better of him. “What kind of assignment?”
“A small team is going to infiltrate the Valla through a long-forgotten smuggling route to establish contact with the city. Reld specifically requested you. What we’re doing could help save—”
Viggo raised a hand. “While that sounds utterly insane and fascinating, I’m doing what I can right here. The longer this siege continues, the more I’ll be needed here.” He walked over to the next patient cot and set his pack down. This one wasn’t quite as bad off. An arrow protruded from the soldier’s side.
Marcus trailed behind him, pleading. “I’m afraid I must insist. Reld requested you specifically. I don’t know why, but he insisted it be you. For what it’s worth, what we’re doing could save many Vallan lives.”
Viggo focused on his work. He began to treat the area around the arrow with a salve. “I just don’t know what I could possibly do that is more valuable than what I am doing now.”
“I don’t know, but Reld seems to believe you’re instrumental in our mission’s success. I trust his word. If you want to save Valla, come with us.” Marcus sighed. “You want to stay here and help. I understand that. But if you could do even more, if you could save thousands, would you?”
That gave Viggo pause. What if he could do more? He stared down at the arrow protruding from the man’s side. He saved as many as he could, but sometimes the best he could do was ease their pain. Why had a colonel requested him specifically? He was sure he’d never even met Reld personally. Something felt strange about it. It tickled the back of his mind. He supposed that Trin and the other medics would manage without him. “Alright, what exactly do I have to do?”
The fire had begun to die down, and the red-hot embers glowed dimly as dusk gave way to night. Vincent stared down at the embers intently, as if he might glean a deeper meaning from them. Perhaps they could tell him at what point his life had gone so astray. He turned the paper over and over in his hands absentmindedly. It was a fancy, thick parchment, with a pleasant texture. The sort of paper you’d find in a Lord Governor’s manor.
The words that were written on the paper had been etched into his memory. They contained the secrets of his life, laid bare on to the page. Some of those secrets had never escaped even his own lips. They were a threat. They said: I know you. I know who you are. I have power over you. Not in so many words, but he knew the implication.
The most important contents of the note were what followed. The details of his plan to enter Valla through the tunnels. Except that he had received the note before he had even thought of the plan.
In fact, it was the moment his second had informed him of the tunnel, the letter unbeknownst to Major Rowe, that he realized the terrifying truth of the letter he had received. It instructed—no, commanded him to send the individuals known as Rykker Adarien, Marcus Wyr, and Viggo Daen, constituents in the Royal Ilrian Military, to carry out the mission. The letter gave no explanation beyond the simple fact that the fate of all Valmere lay in the hands of the three. How could he have refused?
He didn’t think he believed in destiny, or a higher power, or any such Caeteran nonsense. But someone, or something, had sent him this letter. An impossible message. The reality of it frightened him. The best thing for it was to carry out the task. Now that he had done so, he could move on.
A war was brewing for the second time in two decades, threatening to destroy his country. He couldn’t be bothered with worrying about the fate of the entire world. Though, something had changed after receiving the letter. It felt as if everything around him looked strange, as if cast in a slightly different light. He couldn’t quite understand why, yet.
Vincent crumpled the paper in his hands and tossed it into the dying fire. He watched as the flames grew and licked at the edges. Eventually the paper blackened and crumpled until it was nothing more than ash. Ash and words.