Chapter 43

Clive stood inside the moldy old warehouse that served as his makeshift lab, the weight of the strange device heavy in his hands. The air was thick with the musty scent of decay, and the faint light from a single, sputtering oil lamp cast eerie shadows on the walls.

Outside, the night was alive with sounds: the chirping of crickets, the distant howl of a coyote, and the rustling of leaves as a light breeze passed through the sparse trees surrounding the encampment. The sky was a deep, velvety black, studded with stars that twinkled like distant promises.

Several guards slept in the corner of the warehouse, their forms barely distinguishable in the dim light. Their breaths came in deep, even rhythms, a stark contrast to the occasional dutiful steps of the sentries patrolling outside. The soft crunch of their boots on the gravel was a constant reminder of the vigilance needed in these uncertain times.

Clive fiddled with the strange device he'd found a few days ago, the battery finally seeming to be fully charged. He poked at the keys on the face of the device, the faint glow of its screen illuminating his focused expression. His fingers moved hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence as he navigated the unfamiliar interface.

Clive peered at the screen of the device, its backlit display casting a faint glow on his face as he tried to decipher the coded messages. "Hmmm, it has a full QWERTY keyboard, and, damn, but this looks like Java," he muttered to himself. He began pacing around the lab, the gravity of his discovery dawning on him. "The battery is like nothing I've ever seen. It must have been built after I got pulled into the Order field. And if it has a battery like that, then it must have some function that requires something so powerful. Were they really using Java to code things a century later?"

Clive walked to the bench, set the device down, and leaned on it, deep in thought. Then, unable to resist, he picked the device back up and keyed some lines of code into it. His eyes widened in shock. "No fucking way, it is Java... Shit, my Java is rusty..."

He started to focus on the screen again when a strange sound outside caught his ear—a gurgling, bubbling noise that he couldn't identify but that struck cold fear into his heart. He slipped the device into his pocket and stalked toward the door of the warehouse. Suddenly, a yell pierced the night.

"Bart, you fuckers! You killed him!" The scream was followed by the unmistakable sounds of roars, steel clashing on steel, and another pained scream.

The guards in the corner leaped to their feet, their sleep instantly forgotten. They scrambled to gather their weapons and armor, the clatter of metal ringing through the warehouse. One guard buckled his breastplate while another loaded a crossbow with frantic precision. Their faces were masks of grim determination, their movements fueled by adrenaline.

Hearthguard rushed to Clive, his expression fierce and urgent. "Get to the back, get that Order gun you got working, and stay fucking put."

The other guards rushed to the door, their faces set in grim determination. More screams echoed outside, each one sending a chill down Clive's spine. A blue light seemed to pulse and sway outside, casting eerie shadows through the cracks in the warehouse walls. The clashes of metal and another agonized scream followed, the sounds of a brutal struggle.

Hearthguard, alarmed at the sight of the blue light, snapped, "That's a Power Weapon! Get back, take positions!"

The guards retreated, taking defensive positions around the warehouse. Clive counted Hearthguard and six others. Two of the men snatched up more crossbows, their movements swift and practiced. Clive only had the vaguest idea of what Power Weapons were; his understanding extended to appreciating that they were high-tech, capable of operating where Order was low, and something even a Griidlord would fear when wielded by a common man.

Clive hissed to Hearthguard, "What's happening? Who's out there?"

Hearthguard snapped, "Hush, oddling. Whoever's out there, if they got a glow sword or something like it, then they've got resources."

Clive thought back to the secrecy involved in moving him out here, how eager Jarway had been to avoid the priests, and he remembered that the priests guarded precious relics. "Is it the priests?" he whispered.

Hearthguard, usually so stoic and cool, seemed to sweat, his face strained. "I sure fucking hope not."

The wait was excruciating. The men faced the doorway, their breaths held, crossbows aimed and ready. The flickering blue light outside danced ominously, casting long, wavering shadows on the walls. The air was thick with tension, every sound amplified in the silence that followed the initial chaos. The chirping of crickets seemed distant now, overwhelmed by the heavy anticipation hanging over the warehouse.

The faint blue light outside receded, casting the warehouse back into darkness. Clive, his voice barely above a whisper, asked, "Are they gone?"

Hearthguard spoke softly, his eyes still fixed on the doorway. "Hush, oddling. I don't think they came here just to assassinate Bart and Chuck."

The anticipation was thick, each man holding his breath, waiting for the next move. Suddenly, a glowing blue blade slashed through the steel wall to Clive's left with a screech of tearing metal. Panic erupted as another blue blade sliced through the wall to the right. Clive cowered back, eyes wide with terror, as Hearthguard urgently commanded his men, directing them to each point of attack.

The attackers swept in, three of them, wearing strange armor and cloaked in odd vestments of flowing cloth adorned with arcane symbols. Their presence was imposing and otherworldly. "Templars!" Hearthguard screamed, his voice filled with both recognition and dread.

Hearthguard rushed to engage an armored figure who wielded a normal steel sword, while the other two Templars brandished their glowing blue blades. The battle erupted in a flurry of violence. Crossbows fired, bolts whizzing through the air, but the Templars moved with unnatural speed and grace. One of the Templars deflected a bolt effortlessly with his glowing blade, which then sheared through the steel swords of the guards as if they were made of paper.

Clive watched in horror as four of the guards fell, their bodies crumpling to the ground, lifeless. The Templars advanced, their blue swords cutting through steel and flesh with terrifying ease. Hearthguard and the two remaining guards fought valiantly, their movements desperate and fierce. They retreated towards Clive, forming a protective line in front of him, their backs to him, defending him to the last.

The air was filled with the clash of metal and the hum of the Templars' energy blades. Hearthguard's face was set in a grim mask of determination, his sword clashing against the Templar's steel weapon. The two guards beside him fought with equal fervor, but the Templars were relentless, their blue blades weaving deadly arcs through the air.

The two remaining guards fought bravely, but their efforts were in vain. One was caught off guard by a Templar's swift strike, a blue blade slicing clean through his armor and sending him crashing to the ground. The second guard managed a few more desperate parries before a Templar's blade found its mark, severing his weapon and cutting deep into his side. He fell with a strangled cry, blood pooling beneath him.

Hearthguard fought with valiant skill, his sword clashing against the Templar's with a ferocity born of desperation. He managed to hold his own for a moment longer, but then the inevitable happened. A glowing blue sword sheared his steel blade into molten slag, rendering it useless. The Templar seized the opportunity, thrusting his blade through Hearthguard's chest.

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Clive watched in horror as Hearthguard was run through, stumbling back and crashing onto him. The impact knocked Clive to the ground, and he felt the warm, sticky blood seeping through his clothes. He looked up, his eyes wide with disbelief, as Hearthguard's dying face came into view. Blood frothed at Hearthguard's mouth, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

With a gurgling, disgusting sound, Hearthguard managed to moan, "Maria..." before his eyes glazed over, and his body went limp. Clive felt a wave of sadness and horror wash over him, the reality of the situation crashing down like a tidal wave.

The three Templars approached, their weapons raised, ready to finish what they had started. Clive was left cowering, his heart pounding in his chest, his mind racing with fear and despair. Just as the Templars closed in, a strange fluttering sound filled the air behind him. The Templars took a step back, clearly surprised, and maybe even afraid.

A familiar voice spoke from behind Clive. "Well, Clive, I told you that you'd want to be friends with me, but I didn't expect the point to be made so distinctly."

Clive glanced back, his eyes widening in shock as he saw Trident, the mysterious man who had tormented him. Trident's long cloak was cast back, revealing an arsenal of strange weapons and armor that Clive had only glimpsed before. The man's presence was imposing, his expression one of calm confidence as he faced the Templars.

Trident produced a glowing sword of his own, its blade humming with a fierce energy. In his other hand, an ethereal shield seemed to materialize, its surface pulsing with light as if woven from pure energy. He positioned himself between Clive and the three Templars, his stance both defensive and poised for attack.

Calmly but urgently, Trident said, "Clive, I don't know if I can take three of them, and I certainly don't think I can keep you alive if this goes on for a bit. I need you to run, just get out of here and get as far away as you can. I'll find you when this is finished."

Clive hesitated for a heartbeat, but the determined look in Trident's eyes spurred him into action. He readied himself to bolt as Trident advanced on the Templars.

The clash of power weapons was a sight to behold. Trident's glowing sword met the Templars' blue blades with a series of blinding flashes and thunderous clangs. His movements were fluid and precise, a masterful blend of offense and defense. He parried and struck with incredible speed, each swing of his sword countered by the shimmer of his energy shield deflecting blows.

Trident forced the Templars back with sheer skill and ferocity. He sidestepped a vicious slash from one Templar, his shield absorbing the impact, and countered with a swift strike that forced the attacker to retreat. Another Templar lunged at him from the side, but Trident spun, his sword arcing in a brilliant flash to block the attack while his shield intercepted a strike from the third.

The warehouse echoed with the sound of their battle, the air crackling with energy. Trident's swordsmanship was incredible, his blade dancing through the air as he kept all three Templars at bay. He used his shield to create openings, bashing one Templar in the chest and following up with a slash that left a glowing mark on their armor. The Templars fought back fiercely, but Trident's relentless assault prevented any of them from getting around him to Clive.

Clive watched, awestruck, as Trident continued to hold his ground. Each move was a calculated blend of attack and defense, his every motion executed with precision. The Templars pressed hard, their glowing swords slicing through the air, but Trident matched them stroke for stroke, his energy shield flickering as it absorbed the blows.

The moment came when an opportunity to escape presented itself. Clive saw a gap and, mustering his courage, sprinted for one of the doors the Templars had cut in the wall. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, the sounds of the fierce battle fading behind him.

As Clive dashed through the makeshift exit, he cast one last glance over his shoulder. Trident stood firm, his sword and shield a blur of light and motion as he held the Templars at bay.

Clive ran blindly through the night, the darkness swallowing him as he fled the warehouse. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his feet pounded against the uneven ground of the oil field. The sounds of battle faded behind him, replaced by the eerie stillness of the night. He felt a chill settle over him, and the noise of insects filled the air, a constant background hum that heightened his sense of isolation.

He realized only then that he still held the Order pistol. He had never used it, and the weight of it in his hand now felt like a reminder of his uselessness. He tightened his grip on the weapon and kept running, driven by the primal urge to survive.

The chill of the night air bit into his skin, and the sounds of the night seemed amplified in his heightened state of fear. Suddenly, the distant murmur of men's voices and the clopping of horses' hooves reached his ears. Clive slowed, ducking behind the rusted frame of an old oil well. He peered out cautiously, his heart racing.

Before him, a cluster of men were loading barrels onto wagons. Their movements were hurried but practiced, and they spoke in low, urgent tones. Among them stood a Griidlord, his imposing figure unmistakable. The realization struck Clive like a blow: this strange scene could only mean one thing. These men were selling oil to smugglers, and the Griidlord was complicit, present to facilitate the rapid movement of the oil with his Foofield.

Clive's eyes widened as he took in the scene. There must have been at least thirty wagons arrayed before him, each laden with barrels. Men scurried around, disguising the cargo with straw and tarps, their faces shadowed in the dim light of lanterns. The Griidlord stood to one side, his armored presence a silent threat.

Clive's thoughts darted back to Trident, the mysterious warrior who had so skillfully taken on the three Templars. He recalled the fluidity of Trident's movements, the way he parried and struck with such precision. For a moment, hope had surged within Clive, a belief that they might survive this ordeal. But then, his mind shifted to the grim reality he had witnessed: the Templars had dispatched the guards with terrifying ease, their blue blades cutting through steel and flesh without hesitation.

A shiver ran down Clive's spine as he imagined the Templars overpowering Trident. The vision of Trident, despite his skill, falling to their relentless assault was too vivid. The possibility that the Templars might be stalking him in the night, their glowing swords lighting up the darkness as they hunted him down, filled him with a cold dread.

An idea began to form in Clive's mind. He knew he had to move, to find a way out before it was too late. The cover afforded by the oil field offered a slim chance of escape. Steeling himself, he began to move quietly, every sense on high alert. He slipped from shadow to shadow, the tall, rusting structures of the oil field providing sporadic cover. He kept his breathing shallow, his steps light and deliberate, the Order pistol held tightly in his hand.

Clive edged closer to the tarp-covered wagons, each step calculated to avoid making any noise that might draw attention. He could hear the low murmur of the men loading barrels, the occasional clink of metal, and the rustling of straw as they worked to disguise their cargo. The Griidlord's presence loomed, a silent sentinel overseeing the operation.

As he moved, Clive's heart pounded in his chest. He was painfully aware of how exposed he was, how one misstep could mean his end. But he forced himself to stay focused, inching ever closer to the nearest wagon. The tarp fluttered slightly in the night breeze, offering a potential hiding spot.

In the dim light, everything appeared as shades of grey. Clive couldn't make out the specific colors of the Griidlord’s armor, only the imposing figure standing commandingly among the men. Then, a helmeted voice boomed through its speakers, loud, commanding, and perhaps a little bored. It was a female voice.

"All right, get your shit together and we'll get out of here!"

Knowing it was now or never, Clive felt a surge of adrenaline. Soon the Foofield would be activated, and the convoy would be streaking across the landscape. He gathered his courage and dashed low toward the nearest cart, his movements a mix of desperation and clumsy determination. He couldn't believe his luck as he clambered into the cart, each movement feeling loud and obvious to his ears, yet somehow he remained undetected.

Clive clambered awkwardly under the tarp, every rustle of the fabric sounding like thunder to his hypersensitive nerves. He pressed himself against the barrels, the rough straw scratching his skin and the pungent smells of oil and earth filling his nostrils. He suppressed the urge to hyperventilate, forcing his breathing to remain slow and quiet.

Wedging himself between the barrels, Clive felt the cool metal pressing against his back. The space was tight, confining, but it offered concealment. He adjusted his position slightly, trying to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible. His heart pounded in his chest, and he strained to listen to the sounds outside, every muscle in his body tense and ready to react.

As he lay there, hidden beneath the tarp, Clive's thoughts raced.

The sound of the Griidlord's voice cut through the night, loud and clearly uninterested. "All right, let's get going."

The cart started to rumble and roll, the wheels creaking under the weight of the barrels. Clive felt a strange sensation as the Foofield enveloped the convoy, a brief moment of disorientation followed by an odd stillness. Then everything felt normal again, the cart rolling along like any other. But when Clive dared to peer out from under the tarp, he saw the scenery blurring past at an impossible speed, even though the cart itself seemed to be moving normally.

Heart pounding, Clive tucked himself back into the space between the barrels, trying to make sense of his situation. The Templars couldn't get to him now, but the madness of what he had done started to sink in. He had no idea where the wagon was going, no idea what the smugglers might do to him if they found him, and no idea how he could get back to Denver.

Most heartbreaking of all, he had no idea how he could get back to Aerilyn.