From early morning to late at night, axes cleaved wood, hammers drove nails, pickaxes smote stone, and felled trees echoed through Cape Gythmel. Through sun, rain, and the occasional bizarre snow flurries lasting mere heartbeats, the Krey and A’uri labored to ready the defenses. Logs were dragged from the woods and stripped, cut to build structures, carved to erect traps, and cleaved to construct defenses. Xenomene’s favorite was honing sharp ends in spears, burying the blunt ends in the ground for a charging horde to impale themselves. Drumstick asked her why and she replied that blood was pretty. He gave a nervous titter and shuffled off, steering clear of her for more than a week.

Lord Yeates visited them every day, sometimes to bring supplies or just to chat, giving advice when asked. From overhearing him talk with Raven and the Mind, Xenomene deduced he was a retired kernoyl of Grand Royal Army, a veteran of the Wizard’s War, and a feared combat tactician proficient in hand combat. During his last campaign, he had been hit so many times with arrows and blades that his clothing fell off in tattered chunks, but not one blade lacerated his flesh, nor an arrow pierced his armor. With an idle chuckle, he confirmed he still had his cloak from the engagement, framed in his house with rips and all. Some whispered his story, claiming he was touched by the gods. Xeno’s typical response would be to smirk, but the fact he wasn’t injured gave her pause, considering the possibility.

Lem supplied canvas for tents, oats, flour, beans, salted meats, and fresh vegetables. He also provided tools: hammers, nails, rope, shovels, saws, chisel, and more. Each day, the Black Tide slaved away, repairing old establishments and creating new defenses and buildings. They Krey were still at work when a portal opened at the north end of town. Hammers stopped driving nails. Saws ceased in mid-stroke. The eyes of the Krey turned to the invading blue mass, a sea of soldiers spilling out of the opening. Tools dropped to the ground with muted thuds, forgotten. Hands itched to draw steel.

The soldiers poured out in droves, more bodies than the Krey were accustomed to seeing at once. More portals opened in the distance, further away from the small town. Xenomene felt decisively naked without her armor. After spending so long in her armor, force marching to the Cape, it had become a part of her.

Collectively, a feeling of claustrophobia crawled up the Black Tide’s spine. Xenomene sensed the slight tingling sensation as the Mind cast his hold over the group. She could hear their collective breathing through the meld, and though some stood more than one hundred meters apart, their breathing synchronized, slowed. Calm washed through the meld. Xeno narrowed her eyes against the suns’ glare as horses with officers riding atop emerged. Wagons rolled through, the clanging of plate and mail ringing into the once peaceful settlement.

To the left of the portal, another three opened as more bodies, horses, and wagons crawled through the blue, circular opening. Soon, the sounds became thunderous as the number of soldiers multiplied, doubling every few moments. When the last had come through, the portals closed, the bright blue luminance died away, leaving the Krey’s eyes scrambling to adjust.

The officer whom Xeno could only assume was in charge trotted towards the Krey with one officer trailing behind him, clearly the subordinate. Raven, Xeno, and the Mind stepped forward to greet him. Xeno glanced up to his black slits for eyes, his pointy mustache turning gray with an accompanying and equally pointy beard, the sides of his face shaved clean.

If any man is to be the poster child for the aristocrat class, he fits the bill, the sour thought manifested.

He lifted his right hand to show he held no weapons. “Greetings, I am Kernoyl Runsel of House Korlin, this is my second, Kaptyn Dillon of House Tyku.” The kernoyl gave a weak smile, unsure of how to proceed with the Krey. Chances were, he never fought in the Wizard’s War, so dealing with Krey in the mix was a novelty. After a moment of hesitation, he snapped his fingers and held his hand towards his subordinate who produced a scroll with the Royal seal. “These are my orders as well as yours. I am taking charge of the fortifications of Cape Gythmel,” he asserted, his voice clear and strident. His eyes surveyed the less-than-a-week progress the Krey had made. “You haven’t done much, have you?” he chuckled.

“There are only twelve of us,” the Do-don pointed out.

The kernoyl sighed, “Very well, I am also here to take charge of your squad.”

“Like hell, you will!” Xenomene snapped.

The kernoyl leaned forward in his saddle looking at Xeno before lifting his hand up. Behind him, archers drew back on their long bows, arrows knocked. He looked at Xeno, “I have but to drop my hand and a volley of arrows would make you into a sewing cushion,” he smiled gaily.

“You would lose your hand before it fell,” Xenomene warned.

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“As well as your head,” Raven added.

“The arrows would never reach us,” the Mind interjected.

A bead of sweat trickled from his brow either due to the heat or his predicament. “You wouldn’t survive,” he growled.

“How many men did you bring with you, Kernoyl Korlin?” the Do-don queried.

“What you see are my soldiers, five thousand strong from the Ralloc,” he boasted.

“You know what I see?” Xeno spoke up. “I see five thousand dead bodies.” A gust of wind blew Xenomene’s dark red hair in her eyes and she brushed it away. The kernoyl sighed and eyed his archers before waving them off.

“Have it your way,” the officer said. He stared at their tents. “You will need to move your camp further out. I don’t want you mixing with my soldiers, they are wary enough of you. To have you in their midst would make them jittery, fights would ensue, and your bloodlust would kill my men before the war even starts.”

“A wise choice, Kernoyl,” the Mind’s cultured voice soothed before the two Krey could protest. “We’ll move at once.” The pair were wise enough to keep silent, letting the Mind’s more educated tongue speak for them. He didn’t fight the bloodlust, he controlled it and them. The kernoyl turned his horse and retreated quickly; the kaptyn waited a moment, smiling an apology at them, and he too, turned and left. Once out of range, Raven rounded on the Mind.

“What in the Underworld do you think you are doing, allowing him to dictate to us? You forget your place, Mind!”

“I am doing our mandate,” the battlemage reminded him. “Whether we like it or not, we do fall under the command of the Grand Royal Army, even if they are pompous. It is you who forgets. He was by far in the right when he told us to fall under his command. We are too far removed from Ralloc for too long to remember our oaths, whom we serve, and those who command us. Since Xenomene lacks the ability to think before speaking, I seized the opportunity to smooth tensions between our factions.”

Raven scowled, but said nothing; Xeno knew the Mind was right. “You heard the man,” the Do-don quipped to Xenomene. “Move our camp back.”

“Me?” she scoffed.

“Yes, for your lack of thinking before speaking.”

In her ire, Xenomene had the camp torn down and moved back an additional two hundred meters within a half hour. By then, the army had fanned out and began setting up their tents. When it became obvious they would need to move again, she gave the order to pull up tent stakes. By then, Lord Yeates had arrived and offered them the use of his land to the east of town.

“Are you sure, my lord?” the Mind prodded.

“Oh yes, it’s a field for planting crops but I didn’t this year. I was too tired and getting up there in years, not as young as I once was.”

“As you say,” the Mind responded.

Xenomene gave the order to move again. This time, they skirted to the north, and set up camp in the Lord Yeates’ field. As Praema began to set, the kaptyn returned on his horse.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he said by way of greeting. “I was ordered to inform you that your help with fortifications is no longer required.”

“It was expected,” Raven muttered.

“Also, unofficially, I would like to apologize for our less than courteous arrival. The kernoyl has never been one with manners.”

“Don’t make excuses for him,” Bitcher called out. “It’s not your fault that cunt has a broadsword so far down his throat he shits steel.”

The Do-don gave Bitcher a withering glance before turning back to the kaptyn, cocking his head to his side. He pointed to the saddle. “Are you using your riding crop, Kaptyn?”

The officer frowned and then glanced down, checking if he had one. He smiled, abashed. “It is decoration, I’ve never used it.”

“But it works?”

“Yes.”

“May I use it?” Raven dared. Kaptyn Tyku gave him a doubtful expression but shrugged, tossing it to him. The Do-don turned it over in his hands before lobbing it to Xeno, who maliciously smiled.

“Bitcher?”

Raven nodded. “Bitcher. Haze him.”

Xenomene’s smile spread as she tested the durability in her hands. She left in a storm and descended upon Bitcher like a tidal wave before rushing him off to an obscured location. Screaming threats and rude comments ripped through the air. “I will make you cry like a little bitch,” and “we’ll get dirt up your foul gash,” and “the pain won’t stop until I orgasm, you cock-less fuck!”

“Bitch! That fucking hurts! You wouldn’t be such a bitch if you would listen to me and don’t cinch your tit-strap so tight!”

Raven choked on a cough as the screaming faded. “And I must apologize for the rudeness of my man.”

The kaptyn chuckled. “Gods and Homugons, I miss the old days.” He turned his horse and left.

Bitcher’s screams didn’t end until well into the night.

Much to Xeno’s dismay, no matter how much she punished him, she never reached her orgasm.