Chapter Ninety-Nine
Playing Soldier
The night deepened as the sun curled further around Draendica, casting its light faraway to more fortunate places of the world. Darkness descended and clouds rolled across the void, blocking out the stars, and fogging the moon’s light.
In the shadow-thick space between the keep and the Arena, a large platoon of Legacies stood in quaking silence as they listened to the insects chirping. Every one of them was armoured in steel or studded, leather armour, and in the dull light of far-set braziers, the array of soldiers flickered with crimson.
At its head stood Jack standing silently. By his side, Sidney was head to toe in her armour, newly painted black. She looked closer to a wraith than a person.
Michael stood in the first line of the vanguard. He was wearing armour for the first time in his life. At his hip a shortsword was strapped, and he had a full quiver on his back. If their plan went well, he wouldn’t need any of it. He couldn’t tell if luck had been on his side or not recently. On the one hand, he wasn’t dead. On the other, he wondered how many people considered themselves lucky when they’d been shot, betrayed, and thrown headlong into a war.
At Michael’s side stood Lain. She glanced at the young archer and watched him flex his hands as he took slow breaths. In terms of command, Lain was next in line after Sidney, so should everything go about as badly as possible, she was expected to take up the mantle. And while she’d hoped for the chance to prove herself, she trembled at the thought of that chance arriving the way it might.
Jack looked to the moon through the clouds and cast his gaze high to the ballistae upon the roof of the keep. In his hands was his dull, dirty and scraped-up helmet. He stared into the empty visor-slit wondering if he should’ve polished it that night, instead of hoping he’d have the chance in the morning. Jack waved to the signallers above and sighed, pulling on the sacred helm.
“Alright, it’s time. Everyone, remember the plan. Our job is to engage Nikereus’ array only so they are drawn from the scene. Do not maintain the engagement after the initial attack. Stay low and quiet until we’re in position. Lives depend on it,” he said, looking over the hundred and fifty or so troops. “Follow me.”
*****
On the opposite side of the valley, lying in the high hills looking down upon Nikereus’ vast army was a long herd of Legacies.
Each leading their own unit, Oliver, Nichole, Rose, Karmine, Nydol, and Magnus lay in the shadows, watching the dark army as it moved in set patterns through the night.
Nikereus’ force had assembled three major tents and a dozen or so minor open-aired structures, all spread throughout the wide assembly of creatures.
The Sabotage Teams’ targets were the smaller, outdoor caches of weapons, where the Obthraie stored their armaments before fighting. As they got into position, some hours before, they’d curiously seen Nikereus’ puppets slowly stow the jagged swords, knives, and spears away, before allowing them to huddle into their ordered rows for rest.
Nichole had been lying in the grass, staring at the encampment for the length of their time in the hills. She’d wondered why on Draendica Nikereus honoured the small element of their culture. Why such a small feat of respect was offered when the monarch worked them like puppets in every other way. She’d spent the night thinking about it. And she’d come only to one uncomfortable conclusion. That there was no such things as pure evil. Just dedicated, unrelenting malice and moments of sporadic and unpredictable morality. She decided, after much thought, that it was worse. Pure evil, at least, would be unavoidable. This, if it deserved so simple a name, was the deliberate, slow march of hatred. Nichole had seen it before. In church. In government. In people. She’d spent much of her life hoping to never see it in magic. But, there it was.
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Nichole tapped Oliver on his shoulder and whispered, “That’s the signal,” pointing to the roof of the keep, where Flinn stood by his roof-corner-ballista and waved a single torch rhythmically back and forth. “Jack’s getting in position. Pass it on.”
They passed the information down the line and each leader then filled in their squads as quietly as they could.
Oliver turned to his smaller team, only Syon and Royston, both saboteurs he was going to be concealing. “McKennedy’s moving in. Get ready.”
Royston took several sharp breaths before shaking his head aggressively and crawling up beside Oliver. “Remind me, just once more, why we are going in there before the massive distraction force?”
Royston was half-Crekaen and half-Ringlish, which earned him a heavy dose of coloniser’s paranoia, as well as an inherent level of privileged laziness which he failed to pass off as slick indifference.
Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose as the other leaders shushed the crop-picker, and Syon shuffled up beside him.
“If they go in first, Nikereus’ army will arm up and we lose our chance to maim them. If we go first, we can destroy their weapons, then they have to expend a lot of strength conjuring those weapons again when the distraction force arrives. And anyway, our job is to give everyone a small advantage now, but the Acquisition Teams are more important, and they need to distraction to do their jobs. We don’t. Besides, you ever fought an Obthraie?” she asked plainly.
Royston shook his head.
“Trust me when I say that they use all six arms and fight as well as any three Iron Suits. You’ll want them at half-strength, too.”
“Sweet Rii and God Almighty, forget I asked. Just lead and I’ll follow,” he laughed in exasperation.
They sat in silence for some time and it was a heavy quiet. No birds were chirping in the hills, as most had gone silent when the Soiltorn arrived. No insects sang and even the breezes which were common in the highlands of Bawdion seemed shied away.
Rose brushed a wad of grass away as it nuzzled her. Every time she got nervous, her innate Arcancy called to the vegetation and it seemed to want to encourage her. That was how she chose to think about it, anyway, and she often times wondered if it would be more funny or terrifying to take a stressful nap in a field, just to see what had happened by the time she woke up.
“What did we decide our ‘go’ signal would be, Nicky?” Rose asked.
“The Jack’s crew will signal Flinn when they’re in place, who will signal us with two waving torches.”
Rose nodded, taking a shaky breath. She looked around the group of them and smiled to herself, ever-so-slightly. Simply seeing all those with her, even those such as Royston, however much they bickered or complained, gave a small glimmer of something in her stomach. She didn’t want to call it ‘hope’ or ‘confidence’ in case she scared the feeling away, but knowing it existed fanned the flame within her.
“Look alive, people,” mumbled Nydol on the far end of the row, gripping her long, ornate spear, deeply etched in Driftiken sea-runes as she nodded to the stronghold.
Atop the keep, Flinn waved two torches in a criss-cross motion five long times and the six units of Legacies all silently arose and said small ‘good lucks’ and ‘good byes’.
Those from the cavern company looked meaningfully at one another before Oliver shook his head and said, “I’ll see you all soon. Be safe.”
Rose, Nichole, and even Magnus replied, “You too,” before they each made their way down the hill toward the array of over ten thousand sleeping enemies.
Oliver beckoned his soldiers after him and took off into the night, approaching the right-most weapons’ cache and the battalion which dozed around it. He tried not the think about it as they inched toward the array, however, it was still a couple hundred paces downhill and his mind began to wander. The task ahead was the most dangerous thing he’d attempted with his Blood Magic. He’d never tried to hold the concealment of himself and two others Legacies before. He avoided Arcancy practice, as did most Legacies. But for them it was about just the fear of darkening their soul. For him, Arcancy was a unique pain, and every time it burned within him, he was back in Leverest, wading through the marshlands, feeling the murky water bubble as that creature rose in the horrid water behind him.
Oliver knew it was no time to be distracted and took both Legacies by the hand. Like a broken dam, his Arcancy flushed through the trio, and they each vanished into the night with a plume of ashen smoke.
The game was set, and the pieces moving.