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Rangers of the Frostscape
Monsters and Marksmen

Monsters and Marksmen

The J’halan Quarter of Cheranol was an overlapping stairway of slipshod-construction shacks, assembled from wood scraps and occasional iceware sheets. The shelf of the small mining town was exposed to the nearby tundras, and the wind whipped past relentlessly, breaching in through the crack in the wall of the small meditation room Amal Remire sat in.

His fists were closed calmly against each other, over his crossed legs, his eyes turned inward as he gently inhaled the steely, cold air. The drafty room, no bigger than a closet, had been offered to him as a courtesy by a miner named Klethan Stuyr, one of his loyal followers, upon his arrival from the J’halaga border.

He’d declined his father’s nepotistic efforts to house him within the family’s temple up the hill. Besides a sense of nepotism, Amal knew that the reasons for the offer could range from shame of his son’s conduct, to the need to indoctrinate him on how to appease their Halen masters.

Rather than feeling homesick, being deprived of the comforts of home felt right - it reminded him that here was a place with work to be done. Older generations of J’halans might use rooms like these for prayer to Mhira, the most commonly-accepted goddess of The Egg. To Amal, a meditation room was simply a room for task-oriented focus. His was not a generation that believed in prayer to effect change.

The door opened briefly, prompting a surge of wind, as his host, Klethan, returned. The interruption did little to his concentration—a twig in his river of thought.

“Boss,” called Klethan, his voice bearing a distinct Imperial accent to his Elman. “I’m only stopping in briefly on lunch break. Asked my coworkers to cover for me if anyone asks.”

The miner hadn’t hung up his simple cloth coat on entering the small abode, and still wore his mining attire—overalls and a reinforced wood-leather hat.

“You have news,” remarked Amal calmly.

“A man I know at the train station came in to tell me about an arrival. The capital's sent in some additional patrol to reinforce the local garrison.”

More soldiers. Certain doors in his mind closed, but as he pondered the development, others opened.

“How many?” asked Amal.

“Only three or so. Seemed odd for it to be so few—they were taking a passenger train rather than one of their troop transport cars.”

“Was anyone else on the train?”

Klethan shrugged. “The foreman came back from some personal errand. Can’t imagine they were together.”

Amal relaxed his hands, resting them on his knees, considering the options.

“We still have a Hellpox outbreak.” he stated, plainly. “And they send us soldiers. I suppose one way or another, dead klyskins will always be a good thing to them.”

Klethan’s face wrinkled in frustration. “He also said one of those soldiers was J’halan. That was a surprise...to think that one of our own would-”

“Forget him, Klethan,” said Amal. “That there are cowards betraying our cause should be no surprise. Save your anger.”

“Surely, something like this is enough to convince your father, or at least his more stubborn holdouts?” said Klethan, anger giving way in his voice. “The empire will only respond to us with violence, even when we try to act without it—that much is clear. They have to accept that fact.”

“It is more than enough evidence for the calm—for the logically-minded,” said Amal. “My father and his ilk are just too afraid to accept that evidence. He needs to be shown that fear can also be a reason to fight.”

Amal rose to his feet—causing Klethan to take a step back and bow to him. It wasn’t an act of reverence he’d taught.

“You can lock up—I’ll be heading out too,” said Amal. “I need to check on a few things. I think we have our opportunity.”

Garrot, Bran, and Sarei had scarcely been in Cheranol for a half hour before they felt they had seen all there was to see of the town.

Views of vast treelines and snowy mountains were a welcome sight to them—though, one they had gotten all too used to during their long cross-Imperial train ride. Nevertheless, the snow-covered log roofs, the small cottages with smoke rising from each chimney, and the well-worn marks of aged, hardy construction, all provided a cozy atmosphere.

It was easy to remember Cheranol’s status as a mining town even when far from the mine—as they traveled to the Sheriff’s office, they saw a minecart track connecting their arriving railyard through the town to the mines, leading out to the more industrial, sooty sheds at the back of the town where the klysten mine’s entrance lay.

They met briefly with a Deputy that had been alerted by Lieutenant Kendall prior to their arrival—there, the three were granted an old disused storehouse, to be used as their lodgings within the town. Cheranol was small enough not to have anything in the vein of inns. When the three of them had first arrived, they’d been overeager to stretch their legs—but in less than an hour, their interest waned and hunger had caught up to them. They decided to reconvene at the sole local establishment recommended to them by the Deputy.

The Canary Elevator was easily picked out from the unremarkable town square, even without its loosely painted yellow sign, which depicted a canary descending a mineshaft. Its prominence within the square had clearly been a forefront intention of the town’s planners. Inside, a few older patrons were loosely scattered among the bar seats, with a commendable selection of ciders and various tempting fermentations bottled behind the bar.

Before Bran could introduce them, Sarei had slid out the pieces of Garrot’s shattered dagger onto the bar, and equipped herself with a dramatically despondent face.

“Can you believe my luck?” she sighed. “They say icesmiths are dying for work, and here I am trying to be a patron of the arts when I get some Melting Salesman pawning this off on me.”

The barkeep, a middle-aged and well-built man, looked her up and down—as did Bran. He was partially awestruck she had held onto the ice shards so long in the slim chance of a free drink. Garrot took a step back, deciding to remain complicit in Sarei’s sudden inheritance of his sob story.

“My condolences, out-of-towner,” the owner said, with some dishonesty. “Now can you get those ice shards off my clean bar? Most people start with ‘Hello’.”

“O-Oh...” Sarei scooped the pieces up. “Sorry. Wanted you to see that before it melted, in case it got me a round out of sympathy. Foreman Tallow says you guys hate cheaters like that.”

“...Pot calling the kettle black?” came a remark from one of the bar’s other patrons.

“Excuse me?” blared Sarei.

The barkeep chuckled, swiping over the dampened bar with his towel. “He’s just saying the Foreman’s a few marks behind on his tab, and not for being unable to cover it, either.”

“Like the owner said,” interrupted Bran. “Why don’t we backtrack to ‘Hello’ before my enforcer starts racking up her own tab...?”

Sarei shrank back, her mock despondence traded for genuine anguish as she surrendered the possibility of a free drink—the best-tasting kind. Bran extended a welcoming hand to the barkeep.

“Mr. Evans, is it? Sergeant Sternen. We might be seeing a fair bit of each other—we're a relief patrol assigned to the village. If there’s any trouble, we’ll be on hand.”

Evans shook Bran’s hand, wordlessly—but his gaze was elsewhere.

“Trouble?” said the other patron, beginning to exhibit a few signs of inebriation. “Might’ve brought it in with you, you know. May have to watch yourself...”

Bran eyed the gentleman as he sauntered towards the door for the restrooms.

“What did he mean by that...?” he asked.

Evans waved it off. “He just tries to rile people up when he’s had a few. Give me a moment and I’ll get you some clean glasses.”

Evans walked out through the kitchen door, while Bran reached out a hand to stop him.

“We’re not-” he started, fruitlessly. Sarei had already slid onto one of the chairs. “Garrot, is drinking against your religion? It might just be how locals make acquaintance.”

Garrot shrugged. “I’m not as devout towards Mhira as a lot of people—and I think even the pastors can drink once a month. Normally, I just don’t like the taste.”

Sarei glanced about.

“Sarge...? Hathorne...? Where did everyone go?” she said, in a hushed voice.

Observing the silence, the three of them realized that they were currently the only occupants of the bar’s main room. Their position felt exposed from all angles, in direct view of the front door.

Garrot was still relatively at ease, taking in the sights of the bar. Bran and Sarei, however, were suspicious of the sudden egress. Bran fingered the holster on his pistol. Sarei's lance had been with the equipment bags they’d dropped off, so any confrontation might be on the Sergeant.

Their attention was called to movement coming from the bar’s entrance. Bran momentarily shifted his eyes to his peripherals in the case of some type of distraction against the barkeep, but when the door opened, his attention was drawn entirely to the looming figure that was shambling into the threshold.

Some barely humanoid figure had hauled itself across the lip of the door, and now shuddered along the floor towards them. Bran’s breath had frozen.

What had unwelcomingly ushered itself into the uncrowded room was an unwordly, unseemly, unnatural man, whose mangled mandibles managed a manifestation of monstrosity that was mealy, unclean, morose, and pretty darn ugly. Its teeth seemed to stretch well below where a human’s mouth should go, with eyelids thrust open as though by clenched nerves, presenting a ghastly, bloodshot appearance. Its arms and fingers jutted out in unnatural directions, its muscles spasming every few seconds. Its clothes were ripped and ill-fitting, exposing burn marks amid skin stretched to unnatural limits.

Bran was frantically fumbling with the latch on his holster, refusing to take his eyes off the creature for fear of it lunging at them. Sarei was similarly transfixed.

“What the f-...what the fu-” she exclaimed.

“Oh my goodness...!” came Garrot’s voice, from next to him. "Sir, are you all right...? What happened to you?”

Garrot stood from his position at the bar, and walked calmly in the direction of the monstrosity, placing a hand on its hunched shoulder to examine it. Its eyes swiveled, absorbing his appearance and mannerisms.

“Garrot-!!” hissed Bran. A click signaled that he was considering readying a shot.

A small, silent light flashed behind them. “A...camera?” thought Garrot, once he realized it hadn’t been a gunshot.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The monster relaxed its arms, revealing the hunch and spasms to be an entirely falsified motion. It appeared to be staring at Garrot in incredulity and disappointment. From behind them was a hushed burst of laughter.

“Hahaha! Sorry, Trev!” called the bartender. He had returned at the bar, and was fiddling with the bulb of a large personal camera. “I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to get a better shot than that.”

“’Shirrr, are you all right?’” came a slurred voice, mocking Garrot’s polite mannerism. Bran took a moment to realize it was coming from the twisted mouth of the creature in front of him. “Eithea’ someone al’eady told him, or...that HASH to be a neww...one.”

“That’s...that’s a mask? Some kind of costume?” asked Sarei.

She was still catatonic on the barstool. The unnatural motions of the gaping mouth before them were like no mask they’d ever seen, and even after relaxing its posture the creature didn’t look entirely human.

“Noo masshk. Jus’ what yew can wook layk aftah too mutch klithen ladyyyeshun.”

“I’m sorry—what you look like after…too much...what?” asked Garrot, straining past not only the slurred mouth motions but his understanding of Imperial.

“Klysten radiation,” came a raspy elderly voice.

From outside the door, a white-bearded, snowskin Legionnaire had been leaning on his musket with amusement. He hiked up the weapon and trotted inside, clasping an arm around the monster Evans had called Trevor.

“Trevor here’s a senior at the Cheranol Mining Co. He’s one of the lucky ones, when it comes to radiation poisoning. This was back when safety standards around klysten ore mining existed, but only as a ‘recommendation’. Now, Trevor's an assistant training instructor for the mine—teaches the rules around shielding equipment. And thanks to his ugly mug, people pay a lot of attention.”

Bran reexamined the corpselike husk standing before him—reevaluating whether the old man could be telling the truth about his humanity.

Yellow klysten rocks naturally gave off heat for something close to a year after being mined, but with it came imperceptible degrees of harmful radiation that made the substance dangerous to handle. Most vehicles, home appliances, and other tools were engineered to shield their users from their radiation, while making use of the heat for steam generation and venting off excess into the air when not in use. The Inquisitors and army even had special clothing for handling damaged vehicles and machines, so as not to expose anyone to the raw klysten.

If Trevor had survived direct exposure for more than a few minutes, he really was one of the lucky ones—when it came to radiation poisoning, the unlucky ones were dead.

The old man behind Trevor peered around at Bran and Sarei’s astonished faces, and noted the gold button sewn onto Bran’s uniform, extending an open palm to him.

“Sergeant Sternen? PFC Emil Petterson, Specialist Marksman Division. I’m your fourth, Sergeant.”

Bran tentatively shook Emil’s hand. He still wasn’t quite commanding enough to demand salutes from his subordinates.

“That thing was-...is human?” he asked.

“Sergeant!” hissed Garrot. “Don’t call him a thing! Of course he’s human!”

Trevor laughed—or, at least, it sounded like a laugh.

“It’sh fine, cabeman. I'm pwetty bad—aulways haff thesh owd clothes awound jusht to shcare out-of-townahs.”

Trevor gestured to his torn clothes. Admittedly, they had contributed to the grotesque appearance that had frightened them. The tall monstrosity lumbered past Garrot to the bar.

“Hey, Ebans! Got my ushul?”

Evans nodded to Trevor. “Bishops’ Wing, Trev? Doc said core cider ain’t good for you, you know.”

“Ahh, doc doesn’ haff ta’know. Aaii ain’t goin’to lib tah a hunded layk Emil.”

Emil leaned past Bran, raising a fist at Trevor.

“Oh, fuck you, Trevor!” he yelled. “Still - I did ask him to dress up in those rags, you can put that cider on me.”

“No, don’t worry,” Evans replied, as he poured out a mug of frothing core cider. “Letting Trevor spook the newcomers is just a local tradition. It’s on the house. But that picture of the klsykin guy trying to help him—like he’s a frostbite victim? That’s gonna be an interesting addition to the wall if we develop it.”

“I, um...” said Garrot meekly. He felt like he should be embarrassed of his reaction to the old miner.

“Evans?” called Emil. “My colleagues and I are grabbing a table.”

As they moved to follow Emil’s indication, Garrot noticed Bran’s stillness.

“You all right?” he asked.

Bran shook his head in dismissal.

“I don’t think they knew I was armed before pulling that prank. If you hadn’t been in the way…I probably came all too close to shooting that poor guy. Dammit…”

“Which makes me glad that thing is in your hands and not someone else’s,” concluded Garrot.

Once seated, the Rangers each received their choice of drinks—Garrot sticking to simple blackbark while each of the others elected to try the local cider variations.

“It was pretty weird getting sealed orders marked Top Secret for me alone,” said Emil. “Even the Duty Sergeant only got the loose particulars. So—you must be Sergeant Sternen. The lady here is...Adamel?”

“Oh, please don’t call me a lady.” remarked Sarei.

“And that must make...huh.” Emil grunted with apparent dissatisfaction, looking at Garrot. “You’re one of...eh.”

“What is it?” asked Garrot.

“Nothing. ‘Hathorne’ sounded like a native name. Didn’t really expect...” he muttered. “Anyway. As for our C.O., the Lieutenant. He wants us to call him Nest?”

Bran deposited his drink. “From what I gather, Private, Nest is worried that the Shaded Paw will make themselves scarce if they know that the Steel Legion is looking for information about them. We can’t ask questions too directly, but we do have an Elman translator, and we have plenty of time.”

“Plenty of time?” asked Emil. “I haven’t heard particulars, but there are rumors that Breaker Company will move on the Dark Spawn in the next few weeks.”

Sarei drummed her fingers in disappointment. “From what I gather, we might miss that deployment entirely. Months of my Lancer Division training are going to go to waste.”

Emil chuckled at her. “Lancer Division? Well, now I don’t feel like a relic anymore. Suppose the benefit of Marksman Division is that we don’t just kill the opposition, we live to see the next war.”

Sarei sipped at her cider, the ire dripping off from her neutral, uncaring expression. “Dark Spawn offensive is going to be entirely urban warfare. Good luck lining up your musket sights in alleyways and dark buildings.”

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it, girl.” snarled Emil.

“The next person to add to an inter-division rivalry gets banned from this establishment for as long as we’re stationed here,” said Bran in furrowed resolution. “I will gladly inform the owner.”

Taking a moment to ensure his air of command would be recognized for once, Bran took a moment to ensure they were the only ones within earshot, and continued.

“As Miss Adamel has pointed out, this entire investigation is disconnected from the Dark Spawn offensive. As of yet, we have no reason to suspect the Shaded Paw are working with them—if anything, indications are that even they consider the Dark Spawn to be a violent extremist movement. Still, we’re to be the ears of this town to determine just how far this group is willing to go.

“That said, while admittedly, Private Hathorne and I have known each other from before this assignment, it seems we’ve gathered from several different divisions. So, seeing as we’re going to be working together, and it’s proceeding past noon as it is, why don’t we introduce ourselves over lunch?”

The topic of food always being one of agreement, Bran called to the tavern owner for an order to be placed. Before long, they were sampling some of the meaty dishes recommended to them by Emil through his time there—hot, aromatic platters of stew-like broth they referred to as Hearthland Plates. Once they’d warmed their stomachs, Bran gestured for Sarei to continue with introductions.

“Sarei Adamel, Lancer Division. In spite of my appearance, I grew up in Halehearth, not Solsend. Made a few attempts to help with familial obligations way down there, before eventually deciding I would rather be shoving ice spearheads up people’s butts. Got a commendation for the Legion, and ended up getting a fast track through basic.”

She glanced at Garrot, signaling his turn. He instead took it as an offer for questions.

“So your family is still Solsendian? Do you still visit them?”

“Nnnope,” replied Sarei resolutely.

Emil nodded to Garrot. “What about you, kid?”

“I've been living in Halehearth for about...eight years? I joined the army in ‘17, not in time to join the war with the Elmans.”

Emil nodded. “You were lucky, then. Kid like you might not have lasted out there.”

Garrot took the comment in stride. He may have been right.

“Br-...I mean, the Sergeant and I met in basic, and we’ve both sort of bounced between patrol posts at various parts of the Hearthland. But so far, neither of us have seen active duty. The biggest responsibility I’ve had has been this assignment—the Sergeant was only promoted a day or two before we left.”

“So they’re promoting without active duty already,” said Emil. “Wonder how desperate this makes them for that ‘Dark Spawn offensive’ - or if all their bright minds had their brains blown out by the Elmans before the war ended.”

Bran pondered the comment, curious. “How about you go next, old man?”

Emil exhaled towards the ceiling, his face hard to read behind his scraggly beard. “Gladly. Might be the only one of us four with combat experience, then. Served in both wars with the Elman Kingdom. Nest wanted to call this little party the Rangers - and I think that makes me the original. Some 40 years back, Rangers were the ones using longbows from the hilltops when those muskets of yours were still clumsy bombs in a tube. Over time, muskets got more accurate. Those of us that could shoot, shot, and became Marskman Division. Others, well...”

He waved his pipe in a vague motion.

“A lot of this country’s out of work. Old icesmiths, unlucky farmers. I guess the old Rangers would be no different.”

Bran gave a low whistle.

“Not to smash my own horn, but...I’m a little surprised Nest didn’t make you our officer.”

“Yeah, that’s quite the record!” said Garrot. “You’re...still a private? After all that service?”

“I was a Specialist-Major. I retired. Then, well...things happened.”

“What...things?”

Emil recrossed his legs, wincing at the best way to reply.

“My son, Richard, sort of fell in with the wrong noblemen. Made some enemies he didn’t mean to. The guy he pissed off was Legion, said the only way he could set himself right was for a family member to enlist.”

Garrot could see Emil’s fists tightening on his armrest. The Legion officer he was talking about obviously wasn’t someone he'd restrain a punch against.

“Rich tries to be a good dad, but he’s a damn coward. Wouldn’t have lasted through basic. I’m pretty sure what his recruiter wanted was my grandson, Gilliam; ‘spite the boy being barely enlistment age. But Gilliam was a smart kid, headed to college and all, and I was gonna be damned ‘fore I let nobility set my grandson’s career choices. N’...over the years, my wife had passed on, so I figured, fuck it. I’ve already got one foot in, may as well bite this bullet too for my kid. He felt guilty as sin for it, but I just said he needed to promise to take care of Gilliam, and we’d be square.”

Emil picked up his fork and pawed at the remains of his meal.

“Talked for a bit about taking up post of Major again, but I didn’t want it. Just wanted to sit in a watchtower with my old musket, take the odd potshot at night vermin. Kept up with that for a few months. And then I get this strange mailing about meeting up with you lot. So here we are.”

Sarei nodded towards the rifle. “You a good shot with that thing, old man?”

Emil raised his chin, balancing offense and pride at the question. “I did say I was Marksmen Division, sweetie. Some circles, that’s all I need to say. I was popping heads off Elmans at 400 yards before you kids learned to suck your mom’s titties.”

“How did...What do you feel?” asked Garrot, uncertainly. “Taking a life like that?”

Emil turned his head slowly towards Garrot. He’d become acutely aware of the slight reluctance the old man had in making eye contact with him.

“Well...it hurts, sometimes. It really does. But, then they enhanced the muskets with leather shoulder pads, and now the recoil is much more manageable. Could shoot all day, given the ammo.”

“No, but I meant-”

Garrot caught himself midway. Idioms and jokes were sometimes the harder part of the language for him to interpret.

“You don’t think about the life you’re taking? The...people, friends, family, they might have known?”

Emil’s mouth widened into a smile beneath his beard. He shrugged.

“Nah. I just think about the friends and family of the idiots following them. See, the division always taught us to save our shots for the officers—like Sergeant Sternen here.”

Emil flicked a finger “gun” at Bran’s head.

“One shot, pop, and some dozen or more men are more likely to retreat or surrender than they are to pick a field promotion and lead a new charge. I saw plenty of engagements where officers on both sides were more than happy to inspire their whole damn squad into some kind of pointless fucking meat grinder. So for my own part: Conscience secured. I’m keeping more jarheads out of the fire.”

Garrot couldn’t help but feel impressed at his insight.

“Take one life to save a dozen, huh?” he said, stroking his chin.

Sarei sipped at her mug. “Sounds like one of those toboggan problems.”

“Come again? Toboggan-?” asked Bran.

“Toboggan problems? Ah, I guess it's only my family that called them that,” she explained. “In Halehearth it’s the Sled Problem. You’re standing on a hill when you see a runaway sled loaded with cargo that’s going to plow through a crowd of five people, and likely kill them. You barely have enough time to kick the sled out of the way, but if you do, it’ll go another way and hit one poor sap on its new path.”

“This is a puzzle of some kind?” asked Garrot. “Like a trick question?”

“No - more like a philosophical question. No hidden meanings to it—just your own morality.”

"Kick the sled,” said Emil. His eyes were closed, and he’d shown no signs of active listening. “One dead man is better than five.”

“Might matter to me who’s at the bottom,” said Sarei. “For some people? I’d jump on the sled myself and ride it straight at them.”

“What if you stood in the sled’s way to stop it?” asked Garrot.

“It’d probably run you over and keep going,” said Bran.

“...Oh.”

“Well, in the meantime, don’t leave your cargo sleds on the top of a hill.” joked Emil. “And on the note of cargo, might be time to get you three settled into our new sleeping quarters.”

As Bran got up to pay for the meal, Garrot made a detour towards the looming figure of Trevor, who was midway into a second mug.

“Hi, Trevor. Is that a good brand?”

“’Ai, cabemun. Vhis? It’s Bithop’s Wiung. Bittuh, but the betht thtuff if ye got da stomik faw it layk me. Ifh yer’not a haawd drinkaa, vey got a wightew gwape wine vhat mai wayf layks.”

Garrot struggled a bit to interpret him, motioning for him to slow down a few times. When he’d caught the full statement, he raised his eyebrows.

“You have a wife?”

“Dooon’ worre—sheeeain' freek layk mee.”

Trevor reached into his torn clothes and fished a small, worn photograph from his wallet. Within was a happy-looking family posing in front of a photographer’s sheet—his wife really did seem stunning. Remarkably, though Garrot could see other photos in the wallet from prior to his radiation, he happily preferred showing one that included his current face in it.

“She must be quite a person to stand by you! Well, we’re going to be going now. At some point, maybe you could tell me a little more about the town. And...if you could, maybe you could call me ‘Garrot’ instead of...’caveman’?”

Trevor chuckled, giving Garrot a pat on the back. “Aii don’ mean nuffing by it. Yew know dat, wight?”

Garrot flashed him a smile. “Yeah, I do. See you around, Trevor.”