Chapter 3 - Crestfallen
“Oh for crying out loud, is that all you can fuckin’ do? Harder, you maggot!”
Oliver let out a cry, and drove his rifle forward, the bayonet piercing the hanging sack, withdrawing, and thrusting forward again, this time hitting deeper and with more power behind it. When the sack was left unrecognisable, the Instructor signalled his pleasure, and pushed Oliver square in the back.
“Onto the next phase, maggot!”
Clearing a low wall, Oliver sprinted across a field before dropping to the floor. A heartbeat later, Simon thudded next to him, and to his right, Peter followed. Peter Parkison Prenn, otherwise known as “3Penny”, fired off controlled rounds downrange, face scrunched up in concentration. Oliver looked down his own sights, and squeezed off his magazine. The instructor continued to hurl abuse, intensifying with every missed shot. Simon swore under his breath as his rifle jammed, and hurried to clear the obstruction. The sun illuminated the ground, sheening off puddles from last night. As his last bullet flew, Oliver scrambled to his feet and almost bumped into Yvonne, whose bayonet narrowly avoided his midriff.
“Watch it, Ollie!”
Apologising, he moved onto a climbing frame, slinging his rifle and jumping onto the monkey bars. Weighed down by damp clothes and his dangling weapon, every haul was an effort in itself, but he managed, and landed heftily, sending shockwaves from his knee up.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing Richard? Head under the water, now!” the Instructor screamed, while the unfortunate recipient attempted multiple times to enter a submerged tunnel, “Five seconds in, that’s all it is!”
Oliver slowed down, and put a reassuring hand on Richard’s shoulder.
“Come on man, you can do this, I’ll go in with you.”
Oliver took a deep breath, and entered the tunnel. At first, he was uncertain of if Richard had listened, but sure enough, he felt a thrashing behind him. He could not blame him, he himself had found great difficulty in tight spaces, and was one of the reasons why the factories had always appeared more appealing than the mines. Emerging from the murky depths, Oliver closely followed by a spluttering Richard ran high-kneed across the final stretch, and flopped onto the sand. Already there was Ingram and Kate, both whooping with joy. Both were fitness jocks, but good people, and Kate offered a coughing Richard a canteen of water. The latter declined, stating he had already had enough. Not a moment later, Simon, Yvonne and Peter joined them.
“Jaysus, Ollie, you’re looking like shit.” Peter brushed himself down.
“Not much of a looker yourself, 3Penny.” Simon cracked his back in several positions.
The Instructor marched over, a timepiece in hand.
“5th Squad, four minutes and 18 seconds, not bad, not bad at all by Regimental standards.” He grinned wickedly, “But fuckin’ terrible by my standards, I want you to shave off at least another minute, do the course again!”
{---}
The stars were rather straightforward today. A lone figure observed them, scribbling occasionally into a notebook. Content, he snapped it shut and walked back down the hill. The stars were not complex today, a most favourable sign. A squad of troopers jogged by, and snapped off salutes as the figure twirled his pencil. Wearing a crimson coat outlined by black trims, complete with high boots and peaked cap with the emblem of crossed bones, Imperial General Icarus Montesserat flicked his pencil once more, before snapping it clean in half. He discarded the remnants into a campfire surrounded by soldiers busy with their rifles, and entered his command tent. Inside, a collection of officers bowed, and waited for his response.
“The stars are rather boring today.” he took a seat, and stripped off his gloves. “But that’s good, very good.”
“Pardon, Sir?” an officer queried. Icarus chuckled.
“Nothing. So gentlemen, how did the attacks fare today?”
“Very good, Sir. We’ve destroyed 15 battalions, as expected they were inadequately prepared. Across the front, we’ve pushed them back, aside from one stubborn defensive position.”
“Oh, is that so?”
“An area known as Vuren Ridge. The slope protects the defenders from long range bombardment, so we attempted to use mortars. Both times, they sallied and eliminated our mortar teams. A ground assault was also thrown back, with moderate casualties.”
“Why not use air assets?”
“All nearby air squadrons are grounded, the enemy have strong AA emplacements and their own air force has proved to be small, but stalwart.”
“Is this true, Air Chief?”
“It is, Sir. Their models are older, but clearly their pilots are on average, more skilled.”
“I understand.” Icarus drummed his fingers. “If we do use air assets on Vuren Ridge, will a breakthrough be possible?”
“Very likely, Sir. They’d be unprepared for it. But like I said-”
“I want every plane up on that ridge tomorrow morning.”
“Sir, it’s-”
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“If we cannot break this puny force, how can we be prepared for their second line? You are aware of that, aren’t you?”
The Air Chief tugged at his collar.
“I wasn’t aware of a second line, Sir.”
Icarus looked at his staff.
“The Silverians are no fools. Yes, we’ve had the initial aspect of surprise, but they’ve been preparing for the worst since a long, long time ago.” Icarus drew three rudimentary circles around a map of Silveria. “Three lines of defence, gentlemen. We’re currently fighting the first. Behind it is a stronger, better front complete with bunkers, canals and artillery. And behind even that is an even stronger line, impenetrable to all but the most determined of assault.”
Icarus took a seat again. “The Hoffen, Pristy and Grentel lines. So let me say again, I want Vuren Ridge, and I want it by tomorrow afternoon. Now, I’m in a mood for wine, anyone else?”
{---}
The Council was in uproar. The Head of State, the sturdy and hard-working Halsworth, repeatedly called for order, whilst Alfred; the current Head of Justice, who should’ve kept the room in order in the first place, titerred and joined in the chaos, screaming obscenities at the Head of Treasury, the disgruntled Rafael. They had been debating the need for yet another reorganisation of the Council, and it had suddenly broken down into a war of words and gestures. In the corner stood the reporter Artori and her assistant Tristan, relishing in the scoop they had uncovered, and hastily scribbling away in their notepads. Words turned into objects, as they were flung around the room. Pencils, erasers and even a typewriter found themselves flying from one side of the room to the other. Halsworth turned a deep shade of red, and collected herself.
She walked down from her podium, and left the room, unnoticed by the rest of the council. 5 minutes later, she returned, with the entirety of the Guard Regiment, all 120 men in their burnished armor, herself at the front of the column. The Council room grew still. Keysman Derek stopped himself from punching Ronion any further, and Kenya slowly released his chokehold on Lord Ray. Satisfied, Halsworth remounted her podium in silence, whilst her secretary sniffed and handed her a sheaf of paperwork and a cup of lukewarm tea.
‘Finished?’ she asked.
The Keysmen shuffled back to their positions, straightening ties, hair and suits, leaving behind a scene of destruction. Halsworth cleared her throat, and continued with her proceedings. All she should think of was,
‘I hate this bloody place.’
{---}
Halsworth ushered out the last of the Keysmen, it was late and she yearned for her bed already. The Royal Guard continued to stand stock still around the room, and sighing she dismissed them.
‘But keep the Council Guard on standby. I didn’t expect you to bring the whole regiment today.’
‘Better to be safe, M’am, there’s been riots and bomb explosions in the past.’
‘I’m sure, Lieutenant, that if there was a bomb in this room, none of us would be here to discuss the validity of an entire regiment to defend these babbling fools. But thank you anyway.’
The Guard bowed, and barked orders to his men, who filed out in neat lines. She sighed, and tucked the rest of her paperwork under her arm. Her secretary snored in his seat, and awoken by the sudden escape of the Guards, he groggily stood.
‘Coffee, M’am?’
Halsworth smiled, ‘You look like you need it more, Joe, you’re dismissed.’
She took a final look around the hall, it’s curved domes and lime washed walls, reflecting the beauty of the Silveria in one room, whereas in its core stood the corrupt politicians and strife of the population. Turning to leave, she was startled by the sight of William Wilkeshire. The Keysman was as immaculately turned out as ever, wearing his trademark green coat and tophat, a stopwatch hanging from his breast. His cold eyes turned to Halsworth, who smiled coldly in response.
‘Keysman Wilkeshire, how nice to see you.’
‘Likewise’, he granted a twitch from the corners of his mouth, and bowed.
‘Did you need something, Keysman?’
‘No, not particularly, just a conversation, if the Head is, of course, not busy.’
Halsworth was in fact, busy with the idea of bed, but she graciously spread an arm.
‘Do lead the way, Wilkeshire.’
They left the room, firmly locking the door, and walked down the avenue, the moonlight rippling in shafts of lights from the slit windows.
‘So, Statesman, I trust you have been well?’ Wilkeshire withdrew a walking stick, which periodically clattered against the marble floor.
‘Yes, Wilkeshire, though it has been tiring recently, with this reorganisation business and all.’
‘I do say, it seems like quite a tedious role on your part.’
‘And then there’s the war, of course, it’s hugely unpopular, grinding us into debt and so far, I don’t see any victories on the front.’
Wilkeshire stopped, and smiled loosely.
‘You’re disgruntled with the Kingdom and it’s affairs?’
Halsworth shook her head vigorously.
‘No, no, of course not. The Nation is-’
‘There’s no need for that, Statesman. We all know what you truly think.’
Halsworth stopped in her tracks, turning to face Wilkeshire. She knew that the man was an intensely loyal subject of the Kingdom, one who held power and most importantly, knew secrets. He also happened to be the head of a certain intelligence agency. Silence stretched out before he chuckled softly and began walking again.
‘This is, wouldn’t you say, a most opportune moment for a change in the affairs of the Kingdom? The King’s away on the front with his Generals and most of his army, the Council is in disarray, and the enemy approach on a daily basis. This is a most prime moment.’
‘I know what you’re doing, Wilkeshire, and I suggest you stop. I’m retiring to my chambers.’
The Head of State left Wilkeshire behind, who smirked and walked the opposite way.
‘Oh Halsworth, nothing escapes my ears.”