The remaining two days until the renewed raid on Black Barrow went by quite quickly. He spent most of the time cycled offline, hunting for a new job and catching up on chores. When online, he split his time between his own mediations, training with Jarred, and watching the massive logistical operation underway.

Regardless of the day's activity he logged back in to sleep. It seemed like the only way to secure a restful evening, free from the fitful torments that plagued him. It was something of concern for him, but so far it was working.

He'd deal with it later.

The Garnet estate was a bustle. Between what house blades they could free up from elsewhere and all the logistical needs expected, the gateyard was a veritable hive of activity. There were multiple pairs of portal stanchions set up at any given time, each topped with their coded pair of mismatched flags. He gathered that it was because left and right mattered in the portal process and the flags somehow described a matched set of four uprights. He did not, however, learn to read their markings.

Harding watched with fascination during his meal breaks as goods were brought in by both wagon and portal before being redirected back out via portal. Harding couldn't claim to understand half of what went on, but it seemed that quite a few of the items that came through were alchemical, medicinal, and even some explosive. Most bore a variety of maker's marks, though a few had House Garnet marks.

The work dwarfed the initial raid preparation. Harding couldn't imagine any scenario where this investment was not a significant and possibly house risking allocation of funds, even if one assumed a sizable portion was the Eights’ property. The duke did not seem a foolish man. An investment of this magnitude meant that more was probably at stake here then Harding understood. Certainly more than some random handful of seeds. They were expensive, but not this expensive. The very size of the expenditure added weight to the expedition.

More of the House Garnet staff came in with the steam of goods, including Marshal Dillon and Lieutenant Green. Marshal Dillon was a big man. He moved his mass with power and familiarity. Harding thought of him as a retired fighter who once was formidable, but now was out of shape. However, that was entirely speculation. It surprised Harding that the Marshal outranked the Knight-Commander. Lieutenant Green was Dillon's second. Green was less soldier and more accountant. He traveled with an ever present orbit of lower staff. Together they collectively managed all the necessities of maintaining several small, geographically separate military forces.

His big discovery was that the crypt could be seated into a gate just like a seed. Or, at least, it could be with a seed in it. It still wouldn't open for him again. Either way, it made keeping the crypt secret easier stowed away in his Heart. Luckily, it was either unlocked or just not possessive of his staff that he had left stored in that voidseed.

Besides the discovery, Harding had practiced spirit exercises with Jarred both days and they had even spent some time on basic combat. It was clear the sparring session was for Harding's benefit only and he appreciated it. Jarred stopped by after his dinner on the night before the raid. Harding bade entry to Jarred and chuckled at Jarred's exaggerated fall into an armchair.

"Thanks to my sister's insistence that Stocke comes with her, you are now part of the raid as my official retainer."

"What's that change?"

"Your status. You'll still have to operate the lift until we gain control of its mechanisms. Outside of that, you'll no longer be a hired guard and instead be considered part of the Garnet forces proper."

"That seems reasonable, I guess," Harding shrugged. He knew he would have to operate the lift, but not what his job would be otherwise. Which still wasn't clarified. He just really didn't want to sit in that lift shaft while everyone else adventured forward.

"It sucks is what it does," grumped the teen.

Harding raised a questioning eyebrow.

"The only reason your status is changing is because mother allows Jasika whatever she wants. Jasika wanted Stocke's status to change."

Harding watched Jarred, slumped in the chair and moody. "I do not understand the issue."

Jarred sighed, "If I was respected, I'd have my own retinue and not just get a retainer because Jasika got one. They're treating me like a child during our family's biggest venture in my lifetime." He sat up straight and looked at Harding, "And the only reason I'm getting you is because my instructors are terrible and they don't want to show public favoritism to my sister. Also, my father is grateful for your service, but he'd probably repay it in a different form."

"Ok, I understand that," commiserated Harding. "But… use the opportunity to show them your maturity and don't get caught up in what your little sister gets?"

"Big sister," muttered Jarred.

"What," asked an incredulous Harding.

"Yeah, by like four years, but she's got this growth condition… Doesn't matter, I'm supposed to inherit the title. Which means I need to be a man the house can follow and not the boy that they protect."

There wasn't much Harding could say to that so he remained silent and let Jarred brood.

Jarred chuckled suddenly through a slight smile. "She was pissed about it though."

Jarred's mood relented and Harding pushed him to talk about all the preparations that he had been helping with. Further cheered through the distraction, Jarred retired after a while and left Harding to face the long night.

The morning came with a sudden rush. He got up, rechecked his already packed backpack and went to the gateyard. There he munched on his breakfast, a semi-sweet meat filled flaky pastry, as he watched the hurried final efforts of the staff.

Harding had finished breakfast and was doing spirit breathing exercises when the Eights showed up. Aleister walked through the gates casually, as if it were no different than turning down any other street. With him were four others. Two were a pair of identical looking men, the first twins Harding had seen. They were lugging bags of gear over their muscled frames and moved with lethal confidence. The other two were women. The first seemed nondescript in every way except that she wore dress-like robes that flowed with her. The other was squat and had ruddy skin and auburn hair. She was thick in body and features, which she showed off in tight leathers that were clearly not intended to be armor.

When Aleister glanced at Harding, Harding waved. No official greeting party had assembled from the House so Aleister brought his troop over to Harding.

"You dropped a giant something in our laps, I'm not sure if I want to thank you or curse you," Aleister mused through a smile. He seemed much more awake than before.

"Why not wait until the coins are counted to decide," quipped Harding.

"Prudent. Pragmatic. Maybe there will be a spot for you after all this," the man teased.

Harding shrugged. "My life is like a river. No matter what I do, I end up with wet boots."

The non-descript woman laughed.

"That's why we build bridges," suggested Aleister. "Speaking of bridges, are you the greeting and orientation party?"

"Me? Ha. Nah, I'm just a hired porter."

"A porter arranged the biggest secret alliance in world history," laughed one of the twins.

"Looks like an Okkor aspirant to me," said the non-descript woman with a smooth, flowing voice that almost seemed supernatural to Harding.

"And occasional study partner for Master Jarred, to whom I am temporary retainer," offered Harding offhandedly.

"But still not our greeter. Poor showing, that," muttered Aleister.

"I can… oh, here they come," Harding nodded to the entourage that was exiting the manor. It was duke and duchess with Jarred and Jasika in tow. Behind them followed Vestok, Bitterman and Green. And Stocke, looming behind Jasika.

Duke Garnet led the group straight to Aleister. "Good morning, Guildmaster Aleister. Welcome to my city estate. This is my wife, Duchess Constance, my son Jarred and daughter Jasika. You've met Knight-Commander Vestok, this is his aide Lieutenant Bitterman and the House Quartermaster Lieutenant Green."

"It is my great pleasure to meet such distinguished figures," Aleister politiced. "With me are the Blythe brothers, they are disreputable scoundrels both but worth three men a piece in a fight. The strong woman is, in fact, my second, Agnes Hope. And finally, the irresistible Runild Lockwood, who is here more because she wanted to be than because she is the head of our magisters."

Runild curtsied with a flourish, Agnes stood as a peer and the Blythe brothers were just oblivious to the whole thing. For his part, unaddressed, Harding just sat there watching.

"We are excited to have you with us in this," charmed the Duke. "Do you have any last minute questions before Lieutenant Bitterman goes over the first stage?"

"You said we should stage at the arena, but that we have to portal at least twice on this expedition. How is this going to work," questioned Aleister.

Green responded, "His Grace has focused on having the preeminent Portal Corps in the entire Empire. A portalist will return with one of your people to your arena and establish a portal to the staging area outside the city. We will have another portal from there to the staging area. From that staging area there is a short trip to the base camp. Due to the amount of traffic, we request that movement is only one way for now to avoid significant delays."

Aleister nodded as he followed along. He rolled his head over and requested, "Agnes, could you handle the arena portal and general cat herding?"

"I can," she drew out through a smile, "though, I should make you do it."

Bitterman let out a shrill whistle and yelled, "Spooner!"

A tall, thin man dressed entirely in black broke off from chatting with others and walked over. He moved with grace despite his size. He saluted the Duke, then asked "Lieutenant?"

"This lovely woman," Bitterman said as she gestured at Agnes, "Is Lady Hope. She is the second in command of our new partners and you will treat her as such by Imperial code. Go with her to their staging area and create your portal to the logistics camp."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"If you can manage without me, then, I'm going to take my new toy and go home," Agnes told Aleister, before walking away without an answer. She called over her shoulder, "Let's move, Spooner. You don't make money sucking air."

"Yes, Ma'am," he responded, hurriedly chasing after her.

"Lady," Aleister asked. "It's going to be months before I stop hearing about that."

"Are the rest of you ready to travel," asked the Duke.

"If they aren't they know better than to tell me now. Let's get going, I'm anxious to see what we are up against."

"Get us underway then, Lieutenant."

Bitterman saluted with a "Yes, Sir," and went to order the portal be opened from the group Spooner had been chatting with.

"Most of your guys are already there," asked Aleister.

"We've maintained a logistics camp and a camp inside the domain since we found it," confirmed Duke Garnet. "We have been running supplies constantly since the agreement."

A sudden wet pop announced the portal opening. The normal portal of nothingness stretched between the two portal stanchions in a crisp square.

"Huh. Haven't seen that before," commented Aleister. His head magister smiled mysteriously from his elbow.

"Goodbye my love, come home soon," affectioned Duchess Constance.

The duke gave her a soft, chaste kiss on the lips and again on the top of her head. "Always," he promised, eyes locked with hers. After a moment, he broke away and called out, "Ok kids, time to go a' conquering."

And with that the group sallied through the portal.

Harding expected to come out by the rock fissure again, but instead he found himself in front of massive, open gates. Several wagons sat empty, waiting for the next wave of goods. A gaggle of porters stood about waiting for their arrival. With them was Jones and a couple guards.

"Morning, Your Grace," greeted Jones cordially as he jogged over.

"And to you, Jones," returned Garnet, "Anything to report?"

Aleister popped through the portal, rapidly followed by his people.

"Think we got the last of the splinters, but they're slippery bastards," Jones reported with a scowl.

"Holy shit, it is Black Barrow," exclaimed Aleister.

The Duke looked over at him and smiled slyly, "I did tell you it was virgin."

Aleister was spinning slowly, taking in the sights. "Yeah, but this is… what, hundreds of years of accumulated treasure?"

"Presumably. It is occupied."

That roused Runild's interest further, "Occupied by what?"

The Duke looked to Aleister for permission before saying, "We don't know. Our scout had never seen these monster-types before."

"So world first on location, on monster type and on successful raid," one of the Blythe brothers surmised. "Cool," responded the other.

The Duke led the group through the massive doors and down the curving entryway. The Eights looked through the closed side passages at the four way intersection, each wing now blocked by its own portcullis. Harding felt like they were going to request exploration but they were quickly distracted by the opening into the grand yard.

It was lit with magical torch stands which created a glowing sea of soft light and shadow. The illumination revealed that the yard ran long with ramparts on either side. Light leaked out from over the walls, creating a luminous haze in the upper parts of the chamber. The floor had been cleared of the bones, but the sword was still buried in the wall indicating its deadly past. All of the House’s tents were missing, leaving the yard bare beyond the minimal lamps and a cluster of supplies in the middle.

"This isn't a monster den, it's an underground fortress," uttered Aleister in fascination.

"You can see why we are excited. Especially with the claims to this land being in question," the Duke

"How can no one own this land," asked a dubious Aleister.

Before Garnet could respond, Runild supplied, "On the death of Lord Friedmont, this barony was returned to the crown."

"Just so," agreed the duke, "Claim by occupation and investment would require royal consideration."

It's a land grab of a fortress and barony right next to the capital.

"What's with the sword," asked one of the Blythe brothers.

"We don't know. There were half a dozen or so giant skeletons in here and one was stuck to the wall with that. Jones, have we tried removing it," the duke asked.

"Briefly, Your Grace. But it was quickly determined that the work was more useful elsewhere. It's too large to be a viable weapon. Moving the tent city and supplies into the side chambers has kept us busy."

Garnet nodded in unspoken agreement before addressing the Eights, "Guildmaster Aleister, you can have your people set up in the main hall. Just make sure to leave a cart wide path around the edges. The way down is at the other end."

Aleister gazed down the yard and then looked at his muscle, "Boys, go back to the gates and get Agnes on the camp setup when she arrives."

One grunted and they both turned and walked off.

Aleister grinned with excitement, "Let's see what we are looking at, you said there were some complications."

The duke took the group to the lift and explained the lack of controls and multiple obstacles to Aleister.

"Sounds annoying until we get a foothold. Runild," Aleister said, looking to her, "This is your task, start figuring a way past this. I'll be with the duke if you need something. And please, don't aggro something."

Runild started to object, but he held his hands up. "Shit happens, I know. I'm saying try not to. You open that last gate? We've no clue what happens up here. I'd rather not wipe while we are putting together tents. I'm sure you'll manage the issue just fine," asserted Aleister.

Then he turned to the duke, ignoring the look Runild was giving him. "What does she need from your team on this?"

"Harding, work with Madame Lockwood. Jones, you'll coordinate with Lady Hope when she arrives," declared the Duke. "The rest of us may retire to the command tent to oversee the work."

He stood there a moment.

"Ah, Jones, where is the command tent," he asked with chagrin.

"Follow me, Your Grace."

And off the group went, leaving Harding alone with Runild. They stood in the dimly lit lift lobby, her watching him and waiting. When Harding didn't make any move to take the lead, but instead waited on her, she harrumphed.

Tentatively, she led to the lift and stepped on it. A little hop on it as if to test its stability, as though it were required. It didn't give in the slightest. She wandered over to the hole and looked down, using some kind of pocket sized light emitting wand of a completely different design than the Garnets. Then she sniffed the air coming up from below, turned to Harding and he felt her awareness blast over him like a momentary windstorm.

Was that Spirit Domination?

"Ok, monk," she crooned. Something about her attention made Harding unsettled. "Let's see what I've got to work with. Your aura is weird, off spectrum. Since you've almost mastered Aura Concealment, I've got big expectations." She winked. Or maybe it was a blink. Harding wasn't sure, his brain was still lost at Aura Concealment.

"Aura what," he asked reflexively and cringed. After a moment he added, "Also, I'm not a Brother, just an unseeded Aspirant."

"And yet you end up here and they are not," she puzzled.

He answered with a question, "Uh, I took a job listing for a day porter?"

She laughed humorlessly. "And you're what I've got to beat an unknown, locked raid door in the next hour? Dammit Aleister…"

It turned out Harding was all Runild needed to beat it in principle. After making him show her how to drive the lift, she just laughed and told him he was in charge of that. It was clear to Harding that she had decided it was menial and beneath her. Then she had him lower the lift to the barred barrier and put a chess piece on the lift. Specifically, it was the black bishop. He had no idea if that mattered.

Runild smiled at him. "Ok Naught-monk, don't touch that. Don't even get near it. I'll be back."

And with that, she casually dove through the hole head first. He winced but heard no collision. Shortly after, light streamed and pulsed beneath him, projecting from the hole and minute cracks in the lift floor. And just as suddenly, it all went dark below. Harding looked down the shaft, but could see nothing.

"What're you looking for, Naught-monk," asked an amused Runild from behind him.

Harding jumped in surprise and nearly fell down the hole himself. Pretending like he hadn't panicked, he calmly inquired, "What was that light show?"

"Oh, just testing how ‘anti-magic’ those gates are."

"And?"

"Very."

"So?"

"I got a couple of ideas, but they require some stuff," she informed him. Then she pointed up and arched an eyebrow.

"Yeah, yeah. Hold on."

Harding decided to experiment with the lift. He slammed the whole mechanism with a forced effort of spirit. It bucked and he backed off before he could damage the drives. He hadn't kept the feed of spirit even in his exertion.

Runild sniggered.

The second attempt was smoother and the lift shot up with greater speed. Whether it was the sudden speed or anticipation of more bucking, Runild braced herself when it accelerated. Harding grinned at that dispute feeling like he was having his spirit body pulled out of him.

Small wins.

When the lift hit the stop hard he was launched slightly into the air. Landing the small hop, he struggled to look casual. She just smiled at him and asked quietly, "You always in a rush?"

As she walked away, Harding called after her, "I'll be here when you go get back with your stuff."

She muttered something as she sauntered off, but her utterance was too quiet to make out. Harding was grateful for her casual pace as he doubled over sucking air. Hands out to steady himself, he lowered himself to the lift floor and sat there, back against the wall. Something about Runild tweaked his insides.

That one is dangerous.

When he was sure he wasn't going to die, he looked inward and saw he was almost completely empty of energy. Harding decided to never do that again. The cost of spirit was about the same over the distance, but the perceived exertion was far greater.

Actually, it might actually be good training…

It was nearly an hour before Runild came back. When she did, it was with a middle-aged man wearing dark brown leather clothing, Aleister and two porters carrying the portal stanchions that House Garnet used. They set them up just beside the lift tunnel. Harding felt the leather-clad man activate the first portal, but it had nowhere near the energy of a normal portal. The man then turned and said something to Aleister and Runild, before taking the remaining stanchions from the porter and having them disappear in his hands.

Some kind of spatial inventory? Oh, they're magic too.

Runild Lockwood then led them to the lift, swaying slightly as she moved. Aleister stopped before the lift as the Runild boarded with the leather man. "If those controls aren't where we think they'll be, get out of there," Aleister insisted.

"I'll be fine," Runild reassured him.

"I'm serious. I don't want to rush into a major delay."

"This is what I do."

"I know," he grumbled.

Harding was unsure if they were talking about the same thing or speaking past each other. Even in the dim light her wide eyes gleamed with excitement. "Basement level, Naught-monk, we are going shopping," she enthused, her speech sibilant.

He drove the platform down at his normal pace until he came to a stop at the barrier.

"Naught," she said softly and when Harding looked she trapped his gaze and held it. "I'm going down now. Either I'll return back," she said as she crouched and placed down the Black Bishop again, "or the gates will open. If the gates open, drive down to the next stop as fast as you can and wait. I might need a lift."

"Ok," Harding asked as much as agreed.

"We are going to drop through the hole here Norman, the bars are thick and flat, just lower yourself down," she instructed.

Harding watched them slip over the edge and then walked to the cutout to watch them work. Runild took out a folded clutch of paper with a small metal weight on the end. She dropped the weighted flight and grabbed onto Norman's arm. "I hate this…," Norman muttered.

"How can a portal mage hate teleports?"

"I'm not a teleport mage, I'm a…"

And they were gone.

A few moments later, Harding saw a light pop on in the darkness below and watched it orientate towards the gate side. The light went off again and all was dark.

Harding tried to not tense thinking about the possibility of having to drive the lift down and rescue them in combat. Which meant whatever they were fighting might get in the lift with them. Escape at that point really seemed unlikely.

A soft, indirect light came on below with barely enough energy to even see the outlines of the walls. Harding saw charcoal shadows of movement against the pitch black. Barely perceptible hints of movement in the faint glimmer of hidden lights built his anticipation.

It was about twenty seconds later then the lift barrier started to screech open. Centuries of rest had let the metals create a bond that the drive mechanisms were slowly tearing apart. Another sound followed, a slow and rhythmic thumping. Muted lights flashed below creating a flickering strobe that never quite made it to being an actual light source. As soon as the barrier opened fully, the cutout mechanics retreated and Harding raced the lift down.

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Just as he was about to reach the bottom, a great pressure in the ambient rocked him. It was a tidal wave of energy, a sudden tsunami flowing away from him creating a negative pressure of spirit. It was like they had pulled the plug from the bottom of a spirit basin, the dense spirit above crashed down the shaft onto him. The lift shaft turned into a waterfall of power. Harding could do nothing but endure. Even his teeth ached in it. A visible source of light, even less intense than the flashes but constant came into being.

He limped the lift to a rest once the pressure equalized. The clamor of running boots, metal on metal and voices mutedly filled the air. Harding found himself looking at the back of the portal. They had set up the stanchions in the exit way and he was locked behind it. From the other side came distant sounds of battle. Thuds, yells and screams, though muted, washed over him. Trapped in the stone shaft, the experience was eerie. He was left behind in the dark with the reverberating clamor of death and the struggle to survive.

Harding wasn't sure what would happen if he passed through the portal. Would he get spit out above into the wall, would he merge with people traveling through, or would he just pass through as if nothing was there? It seemed an unnecessary risk and there was nothing he could do once on the other side. He was just a young man with a stick and some robes. He sat down on the lift and focused on refilling his spirit from the cascading ambient. As he did so, he listened for the end of the fight.

Harding's primary job was emergency lift use and he wanted to be ready to do his job. He certainly was not avoiding the fight.

Not at all.

A loud crash came from behind the portal screen and the sounds shifted, seemingly yet even more distant. He could hear no footfalls on the other side, at least not over the muffled noise of the larger fight.

Harding tested the edge of the portal along the wall with his staff. He assumed that someone traveling through would naturally stick to the middle. It came back whole. Emboldened by his test and chafing at his continued isolation, Harding took the gamble and stepped through the back of the portal along the edge of the wall.

Emerging on the other side, Harding learned two things quickly. The first being that only one side of this type of portal was active. He had passed through without issue. The second was that an open portal ate light and sound. He physically felt the wall of lights and sounds hit him as he exited the other side. It was so much more intense on this side he felt disorientated. Stone rooms and tunnels didn't make for a quiet encounter.

Neither did fiftyish spell-throwing suits of armor in combat.

The raid was fanned out and wrapped around a single metallic humanoid being. It was simple in design, yet gracile with subtle curves. Made of a matte silver substance, it stood about fifteen feet tall. In one hand it held a long spear which it jabbed towards its targets with cold precision. On the other hand was an immense, curved shield that protected half of its body from ankle to shoulder. Above its shoulders rose thin but expansive wings of shining copper which it held together, folded behind itself.

Simple metal weapons found little purchase against it. Elemental attacks were largely ignored. It acted as if it were invulnerable and intent on systematically destroying the invaders one at a time. Harding would have felt despair, but heaped on the other side of the room was its dead twin.

A fallen, metal corpse.

There were human corpses too, and several too injured to continue to fight. Without his own magic or an appropriate weapon, Harding couldn't see how to help. In all honesty, he lacked the skill to employ those even if he had them. While he stood there searching for a way to help he saw movement in the air and ducked instinctively.

It hadn't been anywhere near him, but no one was looking.

Searching for something in the air, he found that there were several orb-like items the size of a fist darting through the dim overhead space on unmoving copper wings. Flashes of spell light reflected on their shiny surface. They darted about, attempting to evade attacks that arced through the air. While their surface was smooth and monochromatic, Harding watched as a round iris of red started to glow in one's front.

"Cleave," boomed an amplified female voice.

Agnes?

The fighters close to that metallic monster backed up, except three who stood their ground. They were spaced out, left like boulders revealed by a receding tide. The metal giant had planted his shield edge hard against the ground and dropped to one knee behind it. The stance rendered him to be all but invulnerable. The two fighters on the edges pushed in tight to work around the shield. Harding watched the thing sweep its spearhead across its front arc before reversing the attack and coming back to the initial pose. Twice more it did this, mechanical and exact.

What is this, some kind of golem?

Distracted by the large monster’s movements, Harding lost track of the flying orbs until they started shooting blue energy fields at seemingly random targets. The orbs were unsynchronized, so while their rate of fire was slow the threat was constant and overlapping. Their attacks started as a wide spray of light five yards across then retracted to focus on an individual within the collapsing cone of illumination. Almost all were evaded, once their attack was released they did not change their target nor did they move. But their attacks sowed further chaos in the crowd who were already struggling with the fight. With so many raiders penned into the chamber, movement of the raiders caused collisions and panic.

A cyan cone started to collapse into its death ray over Harding's head. Looking to see what it could be targeting in the back of the raid, Harding noticed a small woman in a off-white, load-bearing vest over tan robes. She had kneeled by a sprawled casualty to administer aid with her back turned to the fight. Harding shouted, but the noise in the chamber drowned out anything not magically amplified. He sprinted towards her knowing he wasn't fast enough. Harding helplessly watched as the beam collapsed onto her back and pulsed.

She slumped over bloodlessly.

Harding opened his spirit senses to see if she still lived and felt her spirit body dissolving like heat radiation. He slid to a stop on his knees, wrapping his arms around her. There was no blood nor any physical wounds. Yet her life force was rapidly unraveling. Unsure of what to do, he wrapped her in his own spirit body and tried to constrict it around her. Instead of drawing, he pushed against her to force her spirit back in and feed it. He held his impromptu spirit tourniquet tight, letting nothing escape.

He held on struggling to not breathe in her spirit, but her spirit body wasn't whole. It wasn't resolidifying and he didn't know if it was even possible to reconstruct a spirit. Even without the remaining spirit leaking out the coherence of her being came undone.

How do you put back together a person who has lost the magic of life?

The man she had been slumped over shifted and began to groan in deep agony. Harding couldn't save both. He probably couldn't save either. Spirit was his focus but he just wasn't skilled enough to repair her. He rolled her aside gently and focused on the man beneath.

Both of the guy's legs were nearly severed, bone showing from a deep slash that had been inches from being completely through him. Strangely, it cut both legs on the inside above the knees. The dead medic had applied tourniquets and been in the process of further treatment. An unslung bandolier of color-coded vials last on the ground next to her satchel, the apartment tools of her skill.

It looks like a box of crayons.

Harding had no idea what to do for him, but she had been trying something so there must be more to do. He looked down at the man who was staring up at him wide eyed, "What do I do?"

"Green stuff," he groaned.

Several empty vials were strewn about the body. The dead healer had a metal vial still clutched in her hands. Pulling it free, Harding found the cap to be green. While hurriedly inspecting the cap, he noticed his patient had passed out again. A quick check of his spirit indicated he still lived, so Harding dumped half the vial into the guy's mouth.

The man came too, spewing the fluid everywhere. "Fuck," he growled, spitting. "Not in the mouth."

Oh.

His patient's eyes rolled as he fought against the weight of unconsciousness. The legs were still leaking a bit and looked terrible, but at least they weren't spurting out blood. Harding opened another green vial and poured it out along the length of the two wounds.

"What next," he asked the grimacing casualty, noticing how his irises were almost black. The guy's chest kept moving as he gasped for air and Harding noticed some vomit at the corner of his mouth.

"Drink yellow," he hissed through gritted teeth. He gasped and exhaled. "Then… red and bandage."

Harding searched through the healer's bandolier. Despite the gaps of missing vials, it was arranged in spectral order. He pulled a yellow vial and uncapped it. Assuming he wasn't supposed to drink it, Harding slowly decanted it into the man's mouth. Most went in, leaving yellow-orange stains down the corner of his mouth from what didn’t.

Harding found and pulled a red vial. There were several reds of different shades, so he picked the most primary red having to choose something. When he unscrewed the top he was assaulted by a miasmic cloud of odor. He recoiled at the stench. Looking down he found that his patient had once again passed out.

Drink or apply?

Harding made the decision and poured it on the wounds. He looked through the dead medic's satchel. In it he found various tins, also color coded, a couple pairs of shears held in sewn in loops, a few more tourniquets and a thick stack of bandages. Harding pulled out a bandage and tried to wrap the leg. He was careful going under, fearing he would tear off the bottom half. Unsure, he just pressed the two halves together lightly and wrapped it. It was a terrible job, but it was tight and it would keep more contaminants out.

At the end of the bandage was a row of long tabs. He then pressed the tab end to the bandage and nothing happened. He looked for a peel off but there was none. Nor was there any hook and loop. Nothing he could see to fix it to the baggage beneath it. He even tried keying them but that was worthless. He let go, rummaged through the smaller pockets of her bag and found some safety pins stuck in a swatch. Tightening the bandage again, he pinned it closed. Then he repeated the process with the other leg.

Probably made it worse…

Harding sighed and absently noted the cyan light bathing him.

His eyes widened and he threw himself to the side from his knees. Looking back he saw the beam narrowing on his patient. Before he could do anything more from his sprawled position on the ground, one of the orbs fired and ended the man's life.

Are you kidding me!

Angry, he took the medic bandolier and satchel and got up.

"Rage," shouted the raid voice, but he didn't even look. Harding could only stare at the now dead soldier. His first patient blankly stared at the ceiling. One of the orbs darted by and turned sideways in an aerial slide, its glowing eye watching him. His spirit rose up in a wrathful seething. He wanted vengeance. He stretched out his spirit body to engulf and destroy the vile thing.

Indifferent to his malice, it flew away.

Wouldn't have done anything anyway.

Harding felt impotent.

He felt rage.

And then he felt an amazingly strong gust of wind.

Debris flew past him leaving stinging, shallow cuts. Everything was flying, from bits of metal and cloth to the grotesquery of pieces of severed flesh. He watched it pass in seemingly slow motion as he lost his footing. Harding momentarily became debris himself before crashing to his back and sliding a short ways. The wind ceased and he lay there dazed.

Gotta keep moving!

Harding got up sorely and looked around as he gingerly rubbed the back of his head. His eyes locked in a new body laying on the ground near him and he started to move towards it without thought.

"Down!"

Harding looked up and saw the whole raid drop to the ground as the giant wings rose up and began to beat, filling the entire space behind it. The great wind came once more, debris picked up and came flying at Harding. He dropped to the ground, catching himself on hand and knees before slipping to his chest.

When the air blast ceased he watched the raid jump up and surge forward. They had, essentially, completed a synchronized burpee before going back to their business of killing.

"You've got to be joking," muttered Harding, still prone. Did he really want to do this?

Only a couple yards from him lay another injured soldier, so he rapidly crawled to her. He looked her over, noting she was coherent. She had a compound fracture in her right arm near the wrist and her right knee sat at a weird angle.

"I don't know what to do," he confessed as she worked through a purposeful breathing technique.

"It's fine," she panted softly, "all over soon."

"I don't think you're going to die."

She stopped her breathing while turning her head to him slightly, seeing him for the first time.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I drive the elevator."

"BURN IT!" thundered the raid voice.

Her breathing pattern faltered and she shook her head, teeth bared, "The fight."

"What about it?"

"It will be over soon."

Oh. That makes more sense.

"You want a yellow?"

"You got a spare? Yeah."

Harding decanted a yellow vial into her mouth and she just laid her head back on the stone floor and stared at the ceiling.

"Attack it, mage," she whispered, urging.

Harding confessed, "I don't have magic."

"Then get down," she hissed.

Harding looked up and saw the golem’s wings sweep back before rotating unnaturally and firing metallic feathers from them like a volley of arrows. They penetrated shields, sheared armor and found bloody purchases in tissue. Screams rose but the raid's attacks continued at a frantic pace. The now bare wings appeared were little more than long thin arms. Those arms rotated the other direction and revealed spear-like ends before stabbing forward.

Harding dove over his patient and waited to be impaled. A moment later though he heard a loud crash and then a long, mournful wail. It was so loud that the metal armor of his injured soldier hummed with it, the dust lifting from the floor into the air. And then it stopped.

The metal giant was dead.

In the sudden quiet all that could be heard was the pain escaping the wounded's lips. "You gonna buy me dinner first," she hissed from below him. Harding looked down confused and realized he was laying on top of his patient. He got back up to his knees next to her. As he did it dawned on him that any attack would have gone right through him anyways, his instinctive gesture more likely to cause further harm than grant any protection. Thankfully, she seemed more amused than mad.

That painkiller must work fast.

"When they come through to triage, just give them the supplies. They'll take care of me," she suggested softly. It was the truth of it, he couldn't fix her.

Harding stood up and tried to gauge the raid's situation. About a fifth of the still standing members were moving through the wounded, sorting them by healing priority. Another fifth had encircled those in the most dire need and were treating them. Still others were layering spells in the area while the medics worked to save lives. It was a concerted fusion of physical, magical and alchemical heading efforts.

The unwounded and least wounded healed themselves from their own supplies and consumed little morsels of food that looked a lot like candy bars. There were enough of them doing it that Harding felt sure it was a guild supply. Many of these stood watch at the entrances in case something wandered towards the raid. It seemed like no matter what your role was in a fight, you learned to triage after.

Harding looked for familiar faces. A few House Garnet blades were clearly visible, but eventually he found Vostek and Bitterman holding council with Aleister. Jarred stood a step behind them with Jasika, her golden armor spattered with gore. The duke was conspicuously missing. Unable to help with anything, Harding wandered over to see how Jarred was faring. As he got closer, he could hear the officers.

Aleister seemed grumpy, "That was a brutal shitshow, but we made it through. I really hope this is a front heavy dungeon."

"And we considered trying this with twenty," Bitterman shook her head.

Harding stepped up next to Jarred, who noticed him from the corner of his eye and gave a little nod of recognition. "You alright," Jarred asked.

"Yeah. You?"

"Minor cuts. I'll be ok."

"What's the process for determining operational strength," Vostek asked Aleister.

Harding noticed a little blood on Jarred's arm and scores in the armor around the shoulder. Harding hesitated before asking, "The duke?"

Aleister, absently testing his left forearm, responded to Vostek, "The Triage team will report. Then we will know how long of a rest we will need. Could you start the supplies flowing down?"

Vestok sent Bitterman towards the portal with the faintest of nods.

"Injured," Jarred replied softly, "but he'll be alright. Jasika is wearing part of Stocke though, I'm worried about her. I think Stocke is more family to her than I am."

"Have we seen any additional defenses," Vestok inquired as he glanced towards one of the hallways.

Harding looked Jasika over again, her golden armor was half painted crimson with gore. She just stood there, helmet still on, not engaging in anything. There were fresh scores on the plates barely visible under the splatter, but otherwise it seemed ok.

An Eight ran up to Aleister and reported, "Sixty percent in one hour. Nearly ninety percent in three."

They turned to run and off at his nod, but Harding intercepted them. "I got these supplies but I'm not good with them… who should I give them to?"

"Keep 'em and use 'em," the medic replied. "We need hands more than supplies."

"Ok, but, ah, what do I use if it's not worth a green vial," Harding asked. The minor injury stuff was something he could do to help.

"They've got screw caps for a reason. Half a vial. Less than that, use the light green ointment. Look it's simple, darker the color, more potent. Green heals, yellow does pain, red is infection, purple is mental effects. Beyond that and you're probably out of your depth. Look in your bag’s pockets."

"Got it. Oh, how do I use the tabs on the bandages?"

"Get them wet, even blood will work."

"What about like bones sticking out?"

"Don't. That kind of thing requires real knowledge."

Harding paused, remembering that medic he had tried to save. There wasn't a way to put an alchemy on a spirit body that he knew of, but he had to ask. "What about spirit? I'm a Spiritualist but I couldn't do anything about those drone deathrays."

The man’s face flashed with anger for a second, and then went neutral again. "Nothing, insta-kill, worse than death, very first pull too. Was bullshit. I gotta go. Good luck." The medic ran off leaving Harding realizing the guy had more important things to do than give him a tutorial.

Worse than death?

Harding watched the man go into action while he bit the inside of his lip in thought. The woman who had died healing had been doing so during a fight and he was fairly certain none of the Eights on the raid were seedless. If he could be a medic, it would give him something to do that was useful that didn't require magical items he didn't have. With the raid healing itself, he had time to prepare.

Harding went back to Jarred. "I know you say you're fine, but if we got hours before the next fight let's make sure." He gave the satchel strung over his shoulder a strum, "I got this bag of healing supplies and I'm slightly better than clueless on their use."

Jarred laughed, "Fine, but taking it off can break cuts open and if there's swelling it might not go back on."

"You think you are that swollen?"

"Nah. Just pitching in on the communal effort of educating you."

*Maybe I should pull that armor off faster…"

"I concede," chuckled Jarred and began removing his upper armor right there near the officer's conference. Harding glanced around and realized the whole place was a makeshift trauma ward. Almost everyone injured was stripped down in some fashion. He turned his attention to Jarred, looking for wounds to treat.

Free of the plates, Jarred slowly peeled off of the padded armor beneath. He winced slightly as minor cuts tore open from having their clots separated. There were a couple red lines over his shoulder, but only one of the two had broken the skin. Jarred's arm though was freshly bleeding, it wasn't that bad but it made Harding wonder if they used sutures.

Taking a bandage he cleaned the wound and then retrieved a tin with a light green top from the satchel pocket. Opening it released a pungent odor that reminded him vaguely of wet garden dirt and herbs. Lacking technical knowledge, he just smeared on a layer thick enough to seal over the cut on Jared's shoulder.

Jarred did his best not to wince as coated the cut. Chuckling, Harding teased, "Does it sting?"

"Nah," lied Jarred through clenched teeth.

While Harding smeared more over the red mark, Jarred examined the small cuts in his padded armor. Their edges were stained in blood. With a smile he barbed Harding, "If I had a real squire, I could get that stitched up."

"Yeah, well I was kidnapped. You get what you pay for," Harding replied jokingly.

Jarred went still. "About that, I didn't ask for- Vestok… Dad, he just… I feel really bad about it, though I understand why he made that choice," he admitted in a soft voice.

Harding scoffed, "It's ok. The only thing that it changed was me missing my magic classes. And my combat training. And being with my friends. Oh, and going to the arena to watch the fights."

"That's what I mean- wait, you go to arena fights?"

"Yeah. My friend's sister is like a champion in them."

"Dad won't let me," Jarred sighed.

"Hate to break it to your dad, but the Eights are part owners of the biggest arena in Gremuth."

"They are?"

"Yep. After all this we should get them to comp us a suite. We’ll call it political training to strengthen your new alliance. We get a nice spread, some friends, a couple of their people can join us to make it official..."

Harding continued the inane chatter while he examined Jarred's arm. Unsure where the use case for potion over ointment began, Harding decided a visible depth would be his gauge until otherwise educated. He dabbed away the fresh blood gently with the soiled bandage and poured a third of the potion on it. He wrapped it with a fresh bandage and came once more to the challenge of fixing the end tabs. Cleaned and wrapped there wasn't blood to activate the adhesive tabs.

A little frustrated, Harding leaned in and licked the tabs like a postage stamp before pressing them down. They didn't stick. Grumbling, he collected saliva and drooled on them with much more fluid. This time the bandage stuck.

"That's kinda gross."

"I don't know what I'm doing, they said it needed to be wet."

"What's wrong with the water in that skin?"

"Get hit again and I'll piss on it… No dying on me."

Jarred's look of horror made Harding laugh loud enough to disturb those nearby. "Seriously, no dying," Harding reiterated sternly. Jarred just nodded, but Harding felt there was understanding.

Harding looked around and saw that Jasika was still standing there, alone and unmoving. He sighed, "I really hate to point this out because I don't want to die horribly, but your sister is still just standing there with Stocke all over her. She could be injured and your dad's not around to take care of her."

"You're right," confirmed Jarred as he eyed her with concern. Harding collected together his healer's kit while Jarred stepped close to Jasika. In truth she was only a few paces away, but Jarred closed the distance to be gentle as she still stood there ignoring everything.

Harding didn't really want to pry.

He wondered what to do with the dirty bandages. Harding surveyed the room in hopes of guidance. In the background the Eights were crawling over the dead metal giant, presumably looking for loot. Despite trying not to be in their conversation, he could hear Jarred clearly.

"Hey Jasika," Jarred softly prodded from next to her. "Jasika. Sis. Jassie."

The last got her to look at him. Instead of venomous, her voice sounded small coming out of her closed face shield, "What?"

"I'm checking on you. You ok? You're bloody and just standing there."

"I'm fine."

"Let me see."

"Go away." She attempted to push him and gasped in pain. Her pain sounded strange to Harding, alien to his concept of her. She was invincible, relentless and elitist. Pain didn't fit his concept of her any more than weakness.

Jarred firmly asserted, "I'm not going away until you're healed. I'm your little brother and I will take care of you."

Meanwhile, everywhere he looked the combatants were aiding or recovering amid a sea of discarded gear. The porters were bringing down crates through the portal, some of which had already been stripped bare. The Eights had descended on their supplies like locusts post-fight. One of these crates caught his eye where it had been abandoned in a small pile of emptied logistical containers. He moved over to it and pushed on it to test its sturdiness. Satisfied, he grabbed it and went back to the Garnets. He set it down behind Jasika as a seat before taking a step back.

"You will," Jarred was saying firmly.

"I will not," she retorted, nearly in tears.

"Jasika. This is part of adventuring. This is part of leading the men. It's something that must be done. There isn't room for being proper when we are in the field," he reasoned. "Mom does it," he added softly as if that trumped all logical arguments.

She glared daggers at him, "I'm a Lady."

Jarred nodded, "And you are also a warrior, just like mom. Taking your armor off in public is ok in the field."

"But..."

"Warriors do what is required for the House and for their companions. If you want to be one, which you are amazing at, you need to accept the same realities they do."

She stood in silence a moment before relenting, "I will, but stand in front of me. Close."

Jarred hid his smile, "I will this time. But sit down, Harding got you a seat so you don't fall."

"I don't want your mutt near me," she fumed quietly.

"He's the only medic we are getting unless your arm is falling off. I don't care what you think about him. He saved my life and he has saved others of the House," Jarred chastised.

She just stood there, a little armored figure staring up at her brother. A tiny bulwark against her brother's unrelenting reasoning. He continued, "Dad likes him. And you're too ladylike to say stuff like that when he's right there, trying to help you. As nobility we have to do whatever it takes. There is no room for your pretentious behavior when there is House blood spilt."

Her shoulders slumped and she practically fell backwards onto the crate. Jarred immediately started with the sequence of buckles to remove the armor. His hands were deft and practiced as he undid straps. He muttered, "Good thing this is my old armor."

"Ah! Sweet Abathala's Grace, you need not keep bringing that up in public," she protested.

"Why? I won the Young Lords Tournament in it. It's great armor and better than what I'm wearing now," he informed her, smiling as he went. He may be the younger brother, but he was playing the role of the big brother in that moment.

Harding wondered what her problem was with removing the armor. He was well aware the women of House Garnet saw him as a cur, but changing armor in public seemed something any soldier had to do. Jarred got off the last of her upper armor and looked up at Harding. "Wet bandage please. Use water, it's for her."

Jarred began loosening buckles and pulling off armor. Harding wet a bandage with his waterskin and handed it to Jarred who used it to clean up the undercoat. It was most definitely rent, where the outer armor had only appeared to have a minor penetration.

"We need to take the coat off Jasika. It looks like it went deeper than we thought. This coat is really wet," Jarred informed her with a wince. Harding watched the concern on Jarred's face and understood it was worse than his scratch.

"No."

"Jasika…"

"No."

Harding interrupted as gently as he could, "What if we move you to the lift and go up a bit, that's as good as a tent?"

Jasika turned her face up to her brother, "I don't want him looking at me."

Jarred looked to Harding, unsure what to do.

"Ok. What if we move you back through the portal to the tents? I'll give my supplies to Jarred and he can do it?"

Jasika was silent and sat there turned away from him with her shoulders slumped.

Harding continued, "I'll put all your armor in the crate and bring it up. Jarred will have you all healed up, cleaned up, and ready to fight before they advance."

She sighed and looked to her brother, "Acceptable, if you can do it."

Harding handed the bag and bandolier to Jarred. "You know how this stuff works right?"

"Not a clue, these are guild made."

This stuff isn't standard then.

Harding ran through it as he understood it, "Light green is for small cuts and what I used on your shoulder. Green vial you pour in the bigger wounds, don't drink it. Red preps for bandage and kills infections I think. Yellow is a pain killer, a full vial might be too much for her to handle though."

He definitely didn't want to say because she was too small, but the potions logically had to have side effects and they seemed extremely potent.

"Wish you could just do it," Jarred lamented. He took on a serious expression and warned Jasika, "If it's really deep though, I'm getting a real healer."

Harding started collecting the bloody golden armor into the crate while Jarred supported his sister back through the portal. Once Harding had gathered the armor into the crate, he caught sight of Bitterman with Aleister. Harding approached with the crate in his arms. Aleister was speaking to the lieutenant, "... to risk scouting it. We've got people at both ramps, in case something wanders up. There's no point rushing a fight when we don't know the domain. One of those things gets pulled accidentally and we would easily lose at least half of us."

As he was speaking, Bitterman's gaze fell on Harding. When Aleister finished, she asked Harding, "Why do you have Maid Jasika's armor?"

"Maid Jasika was hurt. We aren't sure how bad. Jarred took her up to the camp through the portal. I'm going to take this up to her. Where can Jarred find the duke?"

"The last I was told, he's up in the command tent. Start there."

"Great. Thanks," Harding turned to go.

"You're not going to clean her armor are you," Bitterman called at him.

Harding looked back. "What, oh, maybe? Should I not?"

"You've got no idea how to actually do it."

"I- yeah, you're right. Thanks Bitterman," Harding said and ran off.

"That's Lieutenant Bitterman to you," she yelled. Harding was sure she was just being friendly. Pretty sure. Probably.

Harding walked the crate across the chamber and up through the portal. Only then did he realize that he had no idea how to find the camp. He knew the Eights had taken the yard with the Garnets in the both side chambers. But he didn't know to which side chamber Jarred and Jasika had gone. Luckily the stream of porters, though nearly finished, still had a few people going streaming by.

"How do I get to the command tent," he asked a porter. The man gave him directions around the Eights tent city and to what was apparently the north side. There a hidden double door was open and Harding went through. Inside were rooms and he quickly found that the back ones had been repurposed. The command tent was no longer actually a tent, but instead a series of rooms.

Harding nodded to a guard he recognized and told him, "I've got some of Lady Jasika's armor that needs to be delivered, where should I put it?"

"Three down the right hall, left side. "

Harding thanked him and walked down the hall. He set the crate down next to her door and sat in the hall to wait.

It was nearly twenty minutes before Jarred came out and closed the door.

"She's insufferable, it's like bathing a feral cat."

Jarred looked at the armor, stuck his head inside and yelled something. The result was a large crash as something metal stuck the wall. He pulled his head out and closed the door. With stately airs he informed, "She appreciates the offer, but wishes to do it herself."

Harding smiled and Jarred couldn't hold back his grin.

"You're dad's up here but I don't know anything else."

"I should check on him. Here's your healer's kit back," Jared told him, handing over the gear.

"I feel so useless in these fights."

"Dead people are less useful."

"True. Still-"

"You got a magic staff you never use."

"Yeah, it just seems so useless against giant robots."

"Giant what?"

"Don't sweat it, I'm just saying I don't know how to use it."

"You key it man, pretty much everything operates on keying of some sort."

Harding chuckled, "Yeah, I know that. But then what do I do with it?"

"Smack things with it! We covered this in training, you need to overcome your fear. You've done fine once you're in a fight." He paused, "I need to go to check on dad."

Alone again, Harding just sat there and went through his supplies, figuring out what he was missing. At least that was his intent, he woke up from a brief unintentional nap to the door opening.

"Why are you in front of my room," Jasika complained. Harding thought it might have been anger in her voice, but it came out more like a whine.

"I was doing inventory before I… nevermind, apologies Maid Jasika," he offered, hopped up and left without looking back.