Another cold breeze sweeps across the hill—a soft gentle hiss overhead. Its comforting chill wraps around me with a pleasant calm. Had the day turned out differently, I might have paid more attention to it.
There is still the pressing matter of our overall mission, and its subsequent findings to consider, not to mention that sudden ambush. Not a moment goes by where I did not reflect on any of these three.
First contact is an ugly affair. We retaliated within reason, gave them the opportunity to peacefully lay down their... arms, and left the survivors in peace.
Still, there is some measure of guilt to be had. Two of the locals were killed. Even if it was in self-defence, I can safely assume there will be long term consequences.
Future operations and relations with this specific faction are bound to face some setbacks because of what we did. It is only a rumour, but everyone knew it was only a matter of time before the UN makes an official attempt at establishing relations with the indigenous.
The most we can do is explain the facts on our end, hand over all relevant footage, and hope the command staff understand our position. The rest is up to the researchers and officers to accept, hopefully.
It has been several hours since that battle, but everyone remains on high alert, committing to a rotating guard shift of four men every hour. There are no complaints against the suggestion when it was first proposed, especially after such a violent first impression by the locals.
The hill we currently occupy rises above the forest, giving both teams a clear vantage against anything that might present a threat—indigenous or otherwise.
"Sabre three, all quiet over here—nothing to report," a member of team Sabre announces over comms.
"Roger, next shift change is thirty minutes. Continue as planned," I reply.
After a few minutes of silence, Robert breaks the tension with a raised finger. "Still can't really get over it—the extra moon. Having two's just overkill," he says, referencing the celestial pair drifting across the night sky.
The two crescent moons are golden, but were different in that each of them reflected a different phase of their cycle—assuming orbital mechanics were analogous to our own. Of the two, the larger one looms as a thin crescent, a sliver of gold on the eastern sky. The smaller one is situated on the north almost as a full moon, also cast in that same ethereal golden hue.
Both allowed the presence of shadows, if only barely. An extra moon over the night sky makes for a novel sight, though I quickly dismiss the view after a brief moment of admiration. Out of all the newfound oddities of this world, it is still the existence of intelligent life that leaves me confounded.
"I'm more concerned about those locals. Thank God it's only a small squad, they almost got the drop on us," I admit, recalling their unexpected means of attack and defense.
The footage from that brief skirmish alone will no doubt be an anthropological boon for the researchers back home.
"Serves them right for messing with us," Robert answers with a scoff.
With the looming threat of another ambush still a distant possibility, the brief conversation did little to alleviate the tension.
The forest canopy stretches around us for miles on end. It is a silent, ominous fixture. And somewhere beneath that endless sprawl, there could be more of the locals and we would be none the wiser.
"We've got incoming air, it's one of ours." team Sabre's Lieutenant announces over comms.
"Almost two hours late," a member of his team interjects.
In the distance, a faint rumble slowly builds. The sound grows into a deep, rhythmic roar to fill the silence. I squint at the horizon, holding my assumptions at bay until a dark shape emerges over the vague horizon, partially silhouetted against the stars.
I turn around, spotting the two operatives currently on their shift at the northern base of the hill. "Have those guys pull back in five, it's almost here."
"Will do," James acknowledges and marches away.
After slinging my rifle around and gathering both teams together at the highest point of the hill, the pilot's voice registers over on comms. "This is Blue—Seven at Grid A15, exfil point two, approaching your position—have positive visual, standby," the pilot announces.
"Copy, we're at the top and standing by," Robert answers on our behalf.
"Davis, Greg, back to rear security. Stay close and keep eyes on our north. You two are last," Lieutenant Sullivan announces.
"Gotcha," one of his men answers and gestures at another beside him.
Soon both operatives break off and take a short bound, setting up a relatively close overwatch overlooking the hill's northern end.
"Looks like they sent a Valor," Douglas briefly remarks much to my surprise.
I turn around, spotting the vague silhouette racing across the sky on a direct heading towards us. Even with the visor's assistance and through squinted eyes, the aircraft's identity remains a mystery.
On the chance he is right, I have no complaints given the seating capacity of a Valor. Everyone will have seats for the return journey back to base.
"Good for us, more leg room," I say, keeping tabs on the approaching rotor wing.
Five more minutes and the helicopter is positioned directly above us, its rotors funneling a potent downdraft at the landing zone, stirring the grass into a violent flurry.
Its outline looms overhead, vaguely plastered against the backdrop of stars—just good enough to render identification. Douglas is right in his assumption.
"Valor incoming, stand clear," someone yells over the violent rustle, also reaching the same conclusion.
Descending the last few meters, the approaching Valor makes landfall with a resounding thud. Lieutenant Sullivan steps forward and pulls open the side door, then stands aside to usher both teams into the cabin.
"Come on. First in, now!" he hollers to the nearest man.
The operative in question readily complies and steps in without delay.
"One!" he remarks and takes a sharp turn towards the rear, disappearing from sight.
"Two," Robert adds with a more reserved tone, his voice barely registering over the rotor's constant whir.
The rest follow in quick succession, their steps ringing against the cabin's metal flooring as each man yells out his number. Everyone is more than happy to end the deployment on a quiet note. Tactical lights glazed overhead to paint the cabin in a red, ominous hue after everyone is seated.
"We're on board, get us out," I announce on behalf of both teams.
With a slow tilt, the ground swiftly disappears beneath into a faded, black mist. I pull the door shut and engage the lock after a final glance outside.
Douglas sits across me and renders a swift nod before speaking. "Any chance we might escape a debrief tonight?" he asks.
I fold my arms and return a frown. "Don't think so. That skirmish is a first for the garrison, they'll want a full rundown on our stint."
Douglas sighs and removes his helmet to reveal an agitated look. "Thought so."
"Goes without saying, we're the only ones to survive first contact with indig' forces," James pauses, voice growing heavy with annoyance, "they'll probably start hammering questions the moment we land."
"One of the things I don't like about deployment Rift-side," Lieutenant Sullivan interjects, breaching the topic with a bitter tone, "lots of idiots up top—at least with the science division. A week before this, they had us run escort for another expedition to the southern coast."
"Plenty of ruins down under—hundreds of years old," a member of his team adds, "Told them it was too dangerous, that some of the structures are compromised. They didn't listen. Then the ceiling collapsed near where we planned to set up shop. It might have been a complete wipe if I hadn't insisted on making camp closer to the entrance."
Stolen story; please report.
"Sounds tough," James comments with a chuckle.
"Some of them have mellowed out, but yeah. You should expect this kind of stuff in the long term," the operative continues before shifting the conversation to lighter topics.
Only a few actively participated, with the rest keeping to themselves. Just thought of another encounter with the locals, under any situation, puts me on edge. There is no guarantee of safety when we still know so little about them and their motives.
With the general disconnect between realities on the ground and the command staff, I can assume that the supposed plan to establish official relations with the locals will go ahead regardless of our findings.
At the very least, I hope the command team is willing to hear us out, to give both teams an outlet to address their findings and concerns. There is still so much to consider before the next encounter.
A brief flash of that woman's face comes to mind. Her expression, that tangible aura of fear—so human. She looked just like us—they looked so much like us. But the resemblance is uncanny—white hair, purple eyes, and God knows what else.
If only there was no language barrier in our way, maybe then we could have found some sort of common ground, find out why they attacked right in that moment. There had to be a reason, no matter how baseless it was.
I have plenty of questions and speculations but entertaining them is mostly pointless at this time.
From then on, it is only the constant hum of engines that fills my thoughts. I lean back, taking in the calm ambiance, and finally give myself the space to relax.
===Field Command Post, Sachana Encampment===
These tidings are only worsening. Entire cadres have gone silent, snuffed without so much a hint as to their fate. Another is now declared missing—presumed slain. And it has only been three hours since my return.
There is no respite, or sense of ease to be felt even in the bosom of the town's inner sprawl. Homes are barred and windows shuttered. It was a sight colder than the winds that sometimes billow through the streets. It has been days since a child's laughter echoed here.
"All nine Captains have left that tent, and not one is without a frown," a soft, weary voice murmurs, "Majesty forgive me for saying this, but I fear that our forces across the river have perished."
I give no answer to my fellow Pathfinder, instead glancing back to the Mending wards. There are many bodies laid outside in plain view, and most are recent—no more than a day old. Just a glimpse of the vile sight casts a dark shroud over my thoughts.
However reasonable it is to grieve over the deaths of my companions, they are but a flicker in this ever-growing tide of conflict—no more of note than the hundreds already slain in these past few days.
"Our Lord General is more invested in the counterattack than what I had to report," I intone, still bitter upon his quick disregard over my tidings—justified it may be.
"I share your grievances. He also regarded my own with little interest, even though we sighted a new swell of Yhunian troops to our South."
"His motives are in question are they not?" I remark, gauging the sorcerer's expression for signs of disapproval.
A flicker of surprise crosses the man's face. "A bold statement, and a dangerous one to flaunt," he says, looking around for prying ears before continuing.
"Perhaps, but save your ire. Leave your findings to our Lord Captain. If these soldiers are as you say, then trust that he shall look into it."
"He will, but only at first light," I sigh. If only they battled these soldiers as I did, maybe then they would listen with all due haste.
A heavy pause settle over the air. I cast a solemn gaze back to the tent, wondering if the Lord General would even find the time to look into my warnings and prepare an apt response. A deep horn bellows in the distance and cuts aside the speculation—like a blade through wheat.
"Last muster," the man says.
We swiftly assemble onto the town's plaza and see the rest of our kin in formation—one battle-cadre for each row. Everyone is silent, and kneels before the Lord Captain. There he stands, sheathed in the Kingdom's decorum. The Cohort's imperial sigil sits upon his chest, caught in the moons' ethereal glow—a soft golden sheen.
"Honour and Fealty," the Pathfinder beside me quietly whispers, and marches to the front to join four others in his row.
"Honour and fealty," I reply with equal subtlety.
The man's cadre is still full strength, unlike my own, and a few others. Some rows are incomplete, four sorcerers or less, and two are left empty. The 5th and 9th were slain to the last. In their place, stands a black banner, all but confirming these musings.
I swallow the bitterness and join the third row, bending the knee to await the sermons or instructions of the Cohort's esteemed Lord Captain.
He steps forward, gaze cast over the assembled ranks. His voice booms with an aura of certainty and steel, compelling me to listen closely, to regard his words as nothing less than an unshakable truth.
"We stand upon the outbreak of a war none of us expected, yet here we are—the finest scouts of the Eastern Territorial Army," the Lord Captain proclaims, his voice bolder with each word, "in twenty days, the enemy has bloodied our ranks—slain two battle-cadres to the last with their insipid tactics."
I risk a glance up to see one of his servants procure a scroll from behind his back. The Lord Captain takes it and unfurls the parchment, appraising its contents with a growing frown.
"By decree of our Lord General, expect more perilous assignments in the coming days. You will be asked to venture deeper into enemy lands, to undertake deeds that you may look back upon with distaste. You will survey the might of their troops, sow chaos as you deem fit, and slay those who fuel the war effort—soldiers, Marshalls, sappers, provisioners, even their healers. There will be no exceptions," he continues.
The grim decree has been given, and I accept it with all my heart. This is a theater in which mercy and compassion must be stifled. It is one of the first things to be instilled before even learning to evoke a simple flame.
"Cadre leaders shall receive their assignments at first muster. You shall have full rights to procure the necessary provisions. The quartermasters have been informed.
"Everyone but the third battle-cadre is dismissed. Prepare well, and may her Majesty's grace be with you all. Honour and fealty," the Lord Captain concludes.
"Honour and fealty," the Cohort echoes in a reverent hymn of voices.
Sorcerers around me rise and depart in silence whilst I remain in place. All but three remain to endure the Lord Captain's piercing glare.
Sephra turns to me, her voice simmering with a hint of fear.
"Is this absolution?" She whispers, still cradling the notion that our decision to return would be perceived as dereliction to duty.
I placate her fears with a simple truth. "No, it is beyond that."
"Now, as for you three," the Captain intones again after waving his servants aside.
His searing gaze is tangible and domineering. A rush of concern tides over me—though it is unfounded.
I remain in place, awaiting his musings in dutiful silence, as did my two companions. It is now only us, and him. The plaza is cloaked in shadow, but a few scattered torches blazed through the emptiness to frame the Lord Captain's armoured visage in a silvery sheen.
"Tell me more about this foe you faced," he states, arms folded in front.
I quickly answer, voice measured against his demands. "What else do you wish to know?"
His eyes narrow, though not in ire. "What you explained prior with our Lord General and his circle is brief, and only delved into their appearance and weapons," he pauses, and running a thoughtful finger beneath his chin.
"Even then, none of what you told bore a likeness to anything our enemies would employ. Whatever you remember from that skirmish, no matter how trivial, I want it written and sketched. Recent sightings amongst the guards warrant it."
I perk up at that troubling revelation. "How so?"
The Lord Captain looks me in the eye. "There are odd accounts from soldiers whilst on vigil—strange objects lurking in the skies. These are always accompanied with a faint buzz. They most often appear at night, and their origins are yet known."
"Esteemed Captain," Sephra lifts her gaze, "I have spent time in the mending wards, and I believe the two prisoners, which we know hold no ties to our enemy, may hold the answer."
"So I've heard from the Arch-mender herself, but what makes you believe so?" The Captain challenges her with an iron gaze.
"Their trinkets," she swiftly answers, "many are inert, though a few are shaped in a peculiar manner, and are small enough to fit in one's hand. I stole a few moments to study them in person after helping to mend our wounded."
"Four limbs, splayed out from a central black-carapaced body," Sephra describes, "they end in thin blades which turned with the slightest touch. Dare I say, its form is shaped precisely by its purpose."
"Automatons then?" Oswin concludes with a gasp.
Sephra nods. "It seems as such, though I cannot boast with full certainty."
"Noted," the Lord Captain says. "I expect the report and sketches tomorrow. Your cadre shall be excused from future ventures until then. Make it well, for I will be submitting it to Lord General Thellius as part of my reports."
"As you decree," I answer, offering a salute.
A respite from the harsh elements is always welcome. Though a passing thought still looms overhead.
"And what of the captives?" I ask.
He remains silent, and just when it seems an answer will elude me, he sighs. "The inquisition has no choice but to have them be mind-probed," he explains, voice without a shred of guilt.
I grimace at the thought. Mind-probes. Only a heartless wretch would master such a vile art. Whilst effective at plucking secrets from the most stubborn of victims, it often leaves their minds shattered. Most cities have outlawed the practice of such foul magic, and for good reason.
"They would be fortunate to retain their sanity," I say, shuddering at the mere thought of enduring such abhorrent violation. Whatever allegiance they possess, they do not deserve such treatment.
The Lord Captain stands unfazed, as though the plights of those captives are without value. I rise to my feet with the weight of his decree heavy on my shoulders. The bitter cold is of little concern compared to the simmering turmoil within.
I stifle the urge to speak against his will, knowing it would be akin to a tide crashing against an unyielding cliff. In the end, I let it go. This is beyond my stature.
"We shall have those reports ready at first light."
The Lord Captain nods. "See that you do. You three are dismissed." He then marches away, offering no further pleasantries as he makes for the town's interior.
I sigh, feeling the weight on my shoulders lift. Tomorrow will be a day without sweat and toil, though the notion did little to quell my worries.
"Do we have enough charcoal for twenty pages?"
"We do, unless the Lord Captain means to have us recount that battle separately," Oswin answers, his gaze lifting for a brief glance.
Sephra pats her satchel. "I shall describe the fatal wounds they inflicted on our fallen in full—it is still fresh," she offers, tone woeful as her spirit.
There is no further business left, and so we retreat to the barracks, where most of our kin had already fallen to slumber. It was once a house of worship—a chapel in service to the Goddess. Now it is ours, claimed in the name of necessity.
Once freed from the heft of our armour, we lingered amidst the dim, hallowed expanse of the church. Faded mosaics clung to decrepit stone walls, no longer faithful to the visage they once presented, corraded by time's relentless ebb. Soldiers and sorcerers alike slept beneath the ruined decay, and I am soon to join them.
For me, peace is just a distant mirage. We were once a proud five, now reduced to three humbled survivors. We settle into our cots without offering words of solace to each other. The two would be right to despite me. I would have done the same.
Sleep eludes me, but come it did. The throbbing doubt, that incessant guilt, are finally silenced.
===End===