"Cancel the extraction. ODA-3423 is lost," Major Rook orders. She lowers her binoculars. Her face betrays none of the emotions she could have. She rotates her forearm and glances at her watch. "Call back the Apache. We need to rework our battle plan; how long will it take them to enter the defensive perimeter?"
'Seriously, not a word? Just: They are lost?' Daniel thinks. He stares at her for a long second before realizing she's talking to him. He fumbles with his tablet, estimating their pace on the drone's feed. The result baffles him. How can they move, as an army, so fast? They are sustaining an Olympian running speed. "At their current pace, they will be in the five-kilometer range in forty-five minutes. An hour and a half if they slow back down. The forest surrounding the fort will delay them, but it isn't wide enough to make a major impact."
Another artillery volley echoes from the rear lines of the fort, near the edge of the rift. Rook observes through her binoculars, remaining silent during the long thirty-second travel time. The shells detonate in the air, stopped by a shimmering force.
"Call off artillery," Rook orders. "We are wasting ammunition."
Daniel's captain relays her order to a lieutenant. He seems more concerned about the situation than she is. His left hand fiddles with a pen, spinning it between his fingers. He asks, "What is your plan, sir?"
Rook glances at him before returning her attention to the distant army. "Their… spell isn't omnidirectional. Once they are in range of our machine guns, we'll circle them with our IFVs. I want our mortars ready. Ensure every nest has as many rounds as possible. Move our artillery for direct firing."
"You want to wait for them to approach, sir?" the captain asks. He tames his voice after the first two words, avoiding sounding disapproving. His pen accelerates, gliding between his fingers with echoing clicks. "Wouldn't it be tactically sound to harass their approach with our Apaches? If we were to inflict enough losses on them, they would likely retreat. We could use the forest and guerrilla tactics to neutralize their remaining hierarchy."
"They saw countless men blown away by our guns, and yet they didn't slow down. Those aren't the cowering soldiers of our usual enemies. Their moral won't break because we kill some; it will only make them fight harder," Rook says. She seems so convinced of her words; how could she know for sure? "I won't risk our helicopters to another inhuman ability. And the forest won't be to our advantage. She will hunt our men down, and none of them will be able to stop her. We'll fight them on our territory with every weapon we have. Tell the Abrams their target will be the silver knight, the woman who killed our men."
"Captain Reynolds to tank commanders. Prepare for anti-infantry operations. Load HE rou–" Captain Reynolds stops himself as Rook motions for him to halt.
"Consider this an anti-tank mission," major Rook begins. "This woman threw off a Humvee and shrugged off fifty cal. Tell them to use sabot rounds."
"Captain Reynolds to tank commanders. Correction, disregard previous order to prepare HE rounds. Prepare M829 rounds for armored engagement. Your priority target will be the knight wearing silver. Acknowledge, over."
Her shield before her, Althea scans her surroundings repeatedly. She glances up at every rustle of the overhead tree branches. While the soldiers beside her are stressed, she feels like she's the only one to be terrified.
With the sun in their backs, the army exits the length of thin forest at the fort's outskirts. The remaining trees that once surrounded it vanished, replaced by an endless clearing of mud. Their trunks, debranched and debarked, are staked in tall triangular piles. Not even a stump is left in a five-kilometer arc around the fort, their work ending at the rift's edge.
'How long have they been here?' Althea ponders. The thought of them having people like her to achieve such a venture in a short time scares her. The enemies she killed were stronger than the average man but weak compared to her or even the average knight. If they have people on her level in addition to their artifacts, it would be a disaster.
Duke Felspar motions for the army to stop at the tree line. Marquis Vandris splits from him after a long conversation. He guides his horse through the ranks, dictating orders to the generals. They split slightly, forming three columns, each thirty thousand men strong. He shuffles the carts holding the Bards, spreading them across the groups.
As the sunlight dims, Althea sees a blue and violet shimmer on the fort's side. She moves through the army, the soldiers parting to let her pass. Beyond the southernmost ranks, she sees the strange light painting the entire south walls of the place. She finds a large rock behind the tree line and scales it to get a better view.
Reaching the rock's flat top, she finally sees the light source. A tear in reality stands beside the fort, granting a view onto a desert's night sky. Its hues become brighter as the sunlight yields, making more soldiers notice them. Small, sand-colored buildings surround the portal. Figures crawl in them, only their heads visible; their inner seems dug into the ground.
It has to be a last-minute illusion, a ploy to scare them. Their last living griffin flew back to camp to relay what happened to the messengers. Felspar wanted the king to know he may need to take action should they fail. In its absence, they weren't warned of this dreadful sight.
The tales have always seemed distant, abstract – stories meant to frighten or inspire children. The Orc invasion of centuries past was a calamity. It shattered a kingdom that once spanned the continent, splintering its people into the factions she knows today. Entire cities were razed, their names now only existing in stories. Indominable legions fell to their overwhelming ferocity. And now, before her, a tear in reality promises to unleash that nightmare once more.
Sir Faewin, his bow in hand, joins her in silence. He stares at it for an eternity, his jaw hanging. "Is this what I think it is?" he murmurs.
"I don't believe it," Althea stammers. She places her right hand over her heart and closes her eyes. 'Radiant lord of Light, could it be? Is it happening again? Has the scourge that brought the Orcs come back?'
Light Ether forms from her own, filling her heart. The air grows still, a soft hum resonating, silencing every other noise. Light fills her sight, and she's taken into a vision.
She stands on the walls of Kingsreach, the sight of mountains, lakes, and forests known to her. Behind her, she hears the activity of the city – merchants bargaining, guards patrolling, and children playing.
A flash of light blinds her. As it recedes, she sees nature turned to crushed, torn, blown-off remnants. She turns to see the city gone, replaced by a smoldering crater. Shadows of men litter the rare shards of standing wall, their hands shielding their eyes.
"I am sorry that this sacrifice befalls you," a deep voice says from behind her. It rolls like thunder. A hand seizes her shoulder, its overwhelming strength keeping her from shaking. She tries to turn her head, but her body refuses. "Without a Herald, I cannot act in your world. Only you and the men who will sacrifice themselves for the good of your world can prevent this tragedy."
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"Then make me your Herald," Althea mutters. The words escaped her before she remembered the implications. The fate of all heralds is a dark one. Every story she heard and read of them, may they be of Seraphel or the other gods, is one of tragedy.
"I simply cannot," Seraphel says. She feels his strength wavering, his grasp on her shoulder leaving her more room to move. "I have chosen my Herald. And even if he wasn't, I could not, for no Herald can be born of your world."
The sky breaks. Cracks of deep crimson bleed it as if it were a dome of glass. Seraphel's presence grows small. A larger sentiment of something watching her takes its place.
"I acted too much in your favor," Seraphel's says. He lets go of her shoulder. "Forgive me for the sacrifice I am willing to make. I show this to you not to confirm your fear but to give you a chance to understand. You have been a faithful servant, Althea; one I would welcome by my side."
The vision ends, throwing her back onto the battlefield. The light Ether she summoned vanishes, leaving her empty and weak. She breathes in, drawing in Ether from the surrounding threads.
Duke Felspar raises his crackling blade high, his voice booming with power as it echoes across the army. "Men of Valoria! Before us stands horror, a force that would reduce us to shreds. These forbidden powers cannot be left in the hands of those who would see our end!"
"I will not lie to you; many of us will not see another day. Perhaps my words frighten you, but I will not deceive those who protect our kingdom." The duke pauses, lowering his sword to point it toward the distant fort. "If we would abandon this quest, it is our children, our wives, and our loved ones who would pay the price. Only we stand between those we swore to protect and this cabal! We will not allow this scourge to take one more step into our kingdom!"
"Long before our time, our ancestors sacrificed themselves to see us freed of Orc dominion. Today we ensure our descendants the same freedom!" the duke roars. Not knowing about the portal, it is odd for him to bring them up. Althea notices that Sir Faewin stands near the duke; he knows. Then why not tell them the truth he promises? Does he think it would be too much? That his army would flee this place? "Mankind's fate is decided here and now!"
Althea descends from her perch. Her heart feels heavy as she steps back into the army. She weaves through soldiers who clutch their weapons with trembling hands, their faces pale. Her gaze falls on duke Felspar, the Ether trembling under the weight of his voice.
She catches Sir Faewin's eye as she moves through the ranks. He's tense, but only someone who knows him could tell. She looks at all the soldiers – the vast sea of men and women of whom little will remain.
'Leaders must be able to do what others won't dare,' Althea remembers from the knights' codes. She thinks of her family, of her mother's embrace, of her father's devotion to their people, of her brother's hope to march in her steps. 'Accept the weight of ordering what will hunt you at night. This is the burden we must carry in exchange for peace.'
She steps forward, joining the army's forefront. Althea's breaths deepen as the weight of her choice settles in. Seraphel's vision leaves her shaken, but the threat and her duty to protect the kingdom steady her. She doesn't say a word; she fears that her voice may reveal the dread her helmet hides. She stabs her sword into the ground, her gaze on the distant fort.
The duke glances to the side from where marquis Vandris nods back. He spins his horse to face the enemy. The Bards resume their tune, drowning them in a blood-rushing boost of characteristics. The duke lowers his sword and bellows. "Charge!"
The ogres move first, entering the clearing with thundering steps. The army follows, splitting into three groups. While the central one charges forward, the others circle the clearing to attack the fort on the sides. Althea runs beside Felspar, at the helm of the central formation.
Explosions blast furious winds upon them. The Mages shield blocked spells coming from the fort, digging deep gashes into the ground. The air above echoes with a deafening thrum mingling with high-pitched whines. Beasts of metal rise from the fort, blades like great swords spinning above them like a twisted training puppet.
Archers tense their bows, aiming at various heights. They breathe in deeply, drawing in Ether. The air around them cools, disturbing the light as it descends and spreads across the ground. They shoot between the army and the fort, their arrows releasing fog on impact. The formations rush into it, vanishing from sight.
Cracks of thunder echo from the forest, riding along flashes of light. Explosions erupt among the soldiers, scattering armor and limbs. The Mages struggle to extend their spells to the side, leaving them exposed from above and behind.
The flying beasts of metal overshoot the formations, turning on themselves and descending to almost ground level. Imposing catalysts under their noses burst with flashes of fire. More death comes at them, hitting the back lanes, where their Bards and Mages are located. Cylinders under their short wings unleash screaming bolts. They detonate on impact, blasting away hundreds.
The air above screams. Countless projectiles fall on them, each bringing another explosion that takes dozens of lives. Soldiers fall under the force, their armor, weapons, and limbs torn from them. Then, the first horror she heard comes – thousands of hammers striking metal in a furious cacophony.
The Mages fallen, dozens of needles strike her armor. Felspar's horse falls to the ground, bringing the duke down with him. The ogres charge through, their own armor impermeable to the magic. Many others do not share their protection; they fall as they are hit in the legs, arms, chest, or head.
Althea exits the fog at the castle's feet, followed by scattered, wounded forces. Air leaves Althea's lungs as pain sears her chest. The impact spins her to the side; a soldier behind her expands into a ring of flesh and bones. She touches her side with her gauntleted hand, reaching deeper than she should. Blood covers her silver armor, flowing from her.
Exiting the fog, Leofric protects her from the fort, his tower shield hiding her entire frame. Hundreds of spells ricochet from his shield, lighting their surroundings with sparks. He commands, "Heal yourself!"
'Radiant lord of light, grant me power to mend my torn flesh. So I may endure to bring the enemies of humanity to their end.' Another blow strikes her leg, bringing her to one knee as it shatters her femur. It pierced through Leofric's shield, tearing apart the side of his tassets. Light Ether refuses to come to her. 'If it is to be my last day, I'll see that it is theirs as well. I will suffer so the world may live in peace. Grant me power to protect those we shelter from these horrors.'
Another blow strikes her chest, piercing through Leofric's stomach. She feels her Ether leaving her, her heart struck by the attack. Althea falls to her back, the taste of blood filling her mouth. She claws at the dirt below her, trying to get back up, but her arms fail her.
The world turns gray; its sounds vanish, replaced by total silence. Althea's pains recede, and she stands back up, only to see her surroundings stopped. Every soldier, every beast of metal, and every spell and arrow hang motionless. The smoke of explosions lingers like frozen water. Althea's gaze sweeps over the carnage. Men and women lie on the ground, terror and pain etched in them like sculptures. Flying projectiles trailing tails of fire hurl towards the ogres.
A glint of light stings her eyes, and she looks down at it to see herself lying in the mud, a hole in her chest. A cold shiver traverses her. Her hands tremble as she reaches for her body, only for them to pass through. Figures made of green smoke appear from the corpses of the dead soldiers, filling the clearing.
The air shimmers as a figure materializes before her. A woman steps towards Althea, her face hidden behind a white, plain mask. A veil-like dress flows around her, shimmering in and out of existence at its edges. She touches Althea's face, the contact electrifying Althea's skin.
"So much potential," the woman says, her voice soft. She turns Althea towards the sea of green, phantomatic figures. "Your god sacrificed you for me to cross to your world. This will not be in vain; I vow it."
Seraphel's voice comes back to Althea. 'Only you and the men who will sacrifice themselves for the good of your world can prevent this tragedy. You have been a faithful servant, Althea; one I would welcome by my side.'
Althea knows this woman; she saw statues to her liking, statues of the goddess of death. There will be no greater calling for her, no place by Seraphel's side. He gave them to her. Were the Oracles aware of this fate? Did they lie in his name to see them to their end? Why grant her a second oath if she was to die days later?
Kaliathra stares in the distance, and she stops moving; it is how Althea's visions were often described to her. The goddess comes back to her senses and glances at the distant Mount Cinder. Kaliathra speaks in a language unknown to Althea; each word shakes her, sending ripples through the ground.
"What happens now? What torments await us?" Althea asks, scared by her religious teachings. She knows that in being refused by Seraphel's realm, she will be tortured for each of her faults in Kaliathra's domain.
"They will know rest and peace," Kaliathra says. Cracks of deep crimson, the like of Althea's vision, break the sky. "But I am afraid you'll not share their fate. It pains me to ask this of you, but you still have a role to play, one too important for me to take your soul."