114. Evening aboard Pulvera’s main train line. Summer.
“Hello?” I said into the phone receiver.
“Dispatch here,” responded a woman. “What is y-”
“Senior Lieutenant Forlasita, Train 5, headed for Pulvera from Valdeno on the main line. No issues here, but I must reach Ostracia Ovirowa at 233 Lugosi Street. Keep it a secure line, that’s all.”
“Copy that. I’ll ensure this line is confidential. Please hold.”
The ride was smooth and quiet from here inside the officers’ caboose. No loud engine, and no clacking rails thanks to Tobaldo’s men. Just me and my thoughts. I looked out of the insulated booth’s windows and saw Aspera writing, sitting beside Solomon who’s sound asleep. Their shared love for books is something I find endearing.
Other roomettes had various Pulveran officers alongside a few Royaume and Brigantii officers. There’s a late night catering service going room to room with carts filled with varieties of snacks and even some meal options, along with teas and even a type of coffee imported from the southern continent by traders from Ischyrosian colonies. Summer also offers the widest varieties of fresh produce; our busy canneries are preserving that abundance for the other seasons.
The dispatcher got back to me. “Officer Forlasita? Thank you for waiting. You’re now live with your contact at 233 Lugosi street.”
A coarse yet squeaky voice came up. “Ostracia here. Good morning, you’ll have to speak up a bit louder.”
“Hey, it’s me. Did I wake you? Sorry for calling so early.”
“Oh hey! No, not at all. Are you guys headed back? How did the land redistribution go? I can hear you just fine, the new hearing aids work great, as do the new rechargeable batteries.”
“Are you doing alright over there?”
“Yeah, having my own place to live at, is a bit daunting but at least the neighborhood is nice.”
“How are things with the uh, pests?”
“Pests? There’s none here but the.. oh. A bit rough, but even doves cry when we push them far enough. Results are results.”
“Results are results. Follow the protocols. Keep it going.”
“Also, the redlight girls uncovered a massive resistance cell up in the northwestern forests. Arzo’s squadron confirmed it yesterday. Lots of logging operations and mountain activity. We don’t know how they’re transporting so many supplies. There may be other bases.”
After a brief pause, I replied.
“Okay. I’ll come check the trezotypes this afternoon. Can you tell Rumi to come pick us up at the south station by sunrise?”
“No problem, I think I see her apartment lights are still on from across the block. I’m about to head out with my bike anyway.”
Two officers bumped into each other past my booth. A female officer in an ornate blue dress uniform with gold trim, and a guy in his plain maroon field coat.
“Thanks, dear. Aspera and I will be waiting by the station.”
“What’s your problem?” said the man, shrugging.
“Keep your filthy Brigantii mitts off of me!” said the lady.
“Hah. Royaume trash? I’ll show you mitts.”
It seemed like these two were about to enter a scuffle.
“Ostracia? Thanks for taking the call, I have to go.”
She bade me farewell and hung up the phone.
I left the phonebooth and walked to the two belligerents as they continued their quarrel, raising their voices. I hastened my pace. The young Royaume woman leaned over to her crystal-hilted wand-saber, where she rested a palm over its handle. Intimidated, the other reached for his wheellock pistol and waist dagger. Oh, shit.
“What was that? A lame threat from one without polished education?” she said. “I’m surprised you can do more than march.”
“Polished education? You mean the kind of lessons that keep your mouth blabbering and your back exposed in battle? As if you mages are good at anything related to war.”
I wedged them apart. “Officers, please. Forgive us for not being able to accommodate you guys in separate cabooses, but it’d be nice if we kept things calm and quiet. People are sleeping.”
Then I pointed to my roomette where Solomon was still asleep against the window while Aspera was in shock, panicked even.
The two pushed their chests forward against my palms, as they gripped their weapons even tighter.
“Fool. You look like you’ve spent your life in the mud trying to survive. I’m sure strategy and honor is beyond you, and what you mercenary groups call a professional army, old man.”
“Good joke, coming from a pampered brat whose armies do nothing but cast spells and fire grapeshot on civilians all day; your Spell Brigade works better as fodder. Try a real fight sometime.”
They kept going. Louder, and louder. I didn’t know what to do.
Other officers from both factions started popping out of their roomettes from opposite sides of the caboose, with gruff gazes and condescending stares. Some even readied their muskets and wands.
“Both of you,” Solomon said as he stood up. “I think we should all go get a drink. It’s on me. Come, let’s go to the bar cabin and maybe have a slice or two of some Rokmuran pizza pies. I’m hungry. ”
“Please,” I said. “Solomon, you don’t have to..”
The two officers backed up and saluted. Some of the other officers saluted from a distance amidst their gossiping. His reputation was almost immaculate, and he kept composure despite having just awakened. I told him I’d be too busy today to drink. He reassured me and went off with the two.
“It’s really you isn’t it, sir? It’s been a while since we last fought together on Sarissa’s riverbanks.” said the Brigantian.
“Ah! I’m really trying not to squeal. I’ve been dying to meet you in person for ages. Please! You have to tell me about the daring push along 21 Easting. I also have a bunch of spells I’d love to show you!” said the young Royaumienne.
They walked off, and the others went back to the usual.
“What.. just happened?” Aspera asked.
I shrugged. “No clue, but I owe him one.”
Eventually, the train arrived at Pulvera’s southern station.
Buses, cargo trucks, and motorcycle taxis adorned the sidewalks as passengers arrived to and from the station platforms. Aspera and I got a filling bite to eat; Kuridono nuggets fried in lard with steamed beans and onions seasoned with pepper and MSG derived from seaweed cultures imported from the Serpent State. It was actually her pitch on what kind of street food we should make more commonly available here. It’s good, and inexpensive.
Rumi later arrived with the armored car.
“Acty’s here!” Aspera yelled.
“What..?” I asked.
We both stepped into the heavy steel doorways.
“That’s what Rumi named her ACT-3!”
Embarrassed, Rumi called her out. “Psst! You don’t have to tell her that. Good morning, senior lieutenant! Where to?”
“Take us to Solomon’s, he had me grab something new that he’s worked on lately. He’s heading further east with allied officers. It’s an inspiring book based on writings from Medino survivors.”
Acty’s new turbocharged engine revved up. Tobias’ engineers worked out the new engine system that used exhaust gases to drive a turbine, which forced more air into the cylinders.
It wasn’t too far from the station, maybe a 10 minute drive. The smell of horse excretions had finally been reduced to manageable levels as public transport and motor vehicles replaced most of the beasts of burden across Pulvera. Some families have also begun adopting Tobias’ cheap double-bike sedans and trucks.
Honestly? They all look so adorable on the streets. It’s even more entertaining when you hear Rumi muttering insults under her breath when she has to deal with new drivers.
“Hey, there’s really no need to hurry,” I said.
“Whose bright idea was it to give every grandma a car!?”
Her scathing comments were mostly directed towards other women who were probably much newer to driving; for the past while it was mostly a skill reserved for enlisted troops, which have mostly been men. This, combined with the generally slow speeds of vehicles here, pissed her off on a regular basis.
Still, our statistics showed that young male drivers were more likely to get into accidents, especially after we forced all vehicles to implement seatbelts. In fact, the amount of automotive related deaths spiked up after the seatbelt ordinance. It was like, crashing became less lethal, but more people died because a lot more people crashed.
Various degrees of driving licenses are offered under tests by the new Land Transportation Office, which Tobina is now the head of.
But enough of that, we’ve arrived at Solomon’s.
He has a small house, with a lush garden that he rarely trimmed. It seemed like another hobby of his to plant things in a way that’d grow healthily together even during the long periods he’s gone. He gave me his key and told me to grab the book by his bedside table. Aspera went with me to check out his bookshelves.
His bedroom was near the garden, and its walls were covered in bookshelves he built himself, but only half-filled. Most of his collection were reprints that he transplanted onto new hardbound covers, and some were original works by late authors. His bedside table wasn’t a normal one, it was a bookbinder’s desk with all sorts of tools. Awls, rulers, brushes, and threads were organized around one book – Memoirs and Memories of Medina.
I skimmed across it while Aspera gawked at all the other shelves, and opening everything she could.
“Could you not invade his privacy?” I scolded her.
“Sorry.. this place just looks so cool!”
The book had pictures of families, common folk, some of the now-wiped-out nobles in the city’s reeling northern district. There’s rare pictures of the grand palace there, some of which were taken by Aspera herself when we went there. A picture of the original Kuridono steaks, and the story of the late chef who pioneered it.
“Woah, check this out! It’s covered in dust.”
“I told you to stop that you little-”
A dusty, worn out, black book with red trims. Familiar.
“I found it under his bed!” she said.
“Give me that, and go back to the car.”
It must’ve fallen off the shelves at some point, looking decades old at least. Solomon’s not a messy person so it’s unlikely for..
A sketch of Seylas de Solleret.
His father? No. This is a diary, dating from countless decades ago; its first entries were from before I even left Rokmuro! I continued scouring the first pages, and found a sketch of a much younger me.
“A pretty half-elf in armor too big for her gave me a fruit today. It’s the first time I tried an apple! Delicious, but mother slapped it out of my hands. She always called it food for the poor after that.”
I kept reading. It’s Skippio’s diary. He remembered me but I don’t remember him at all. What the fuck.
“Mother died. I almost did.”
The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
He should’ve.
“The two captains following father around got into a fight the other day. The elf was always kind to me, but now he’s gone. Father won’t tell me where he went. I think they’re the parents of that half-elf I met last season. I tried to ask what her name was, but they would never tell me.”
I kept going through more pages and saw how his father remarried an outwardly sweet yet closely abusive stepmother. This led to Skip’s ascent as the leader of Seylas’ warband. His adventures as a mercenary warlord was vast, with lots of sketches related to the various companies he absorbed into his army. Skippio’s writing changed with every victory; pride written into every line.
“Ma’am!” shouted Rumi from outside. I grabbed the diary and ran down. “Ma’am. It’s been over an hour, are you alright over there?”
I stuffed the diary into my bag, and left Solomon’s key where he told me to leave it. On top of the lamp beside the front door. We went on with our day, or at least I tried to. I couldn’t get my mind off of the diary. Eventually I got through the day and kept reading in my office-home at the Redoubt.
Picking up where I left off, I then saw Pulvera at its infancy. Two sketches were made, one from the northern gate, and the other was a crudely-drawn aerial view. Apparently Eschaton drew it and labeled it after using possession magic on a bird to scour our positions from above. Cheeky bastard.
And then, a whole page was torn off, with a few burn marks here and there, along with fingerprints of blood.
Then the next several pages were cold, calculated descriptions of what happened in that battle, and every countermeasure he could think of in hindsight, and a backup countermeasure for that too.
He was obsessed. About us, and trying to defeat us.
Next pages were filled with accurate descriptions of adjacent states, and his plans for leveraging them against Pulvera. Plans here, plans there, all quite meticulous.
Until he fell in love, and got married. The diary took a short hiatus, in terms of dates. But he lost his beloved wife as his son Solomon was born. He wrote and promised he wouldn’t be an absent, horrible parent like the ones he grew up with.
Solomon de Solleret.
Not Solomon Pomeroy.
I feel like an idiot. For fuck’s sake, that wasn’t his real name.
“Hellooo, do you want cookies and milk?” asked Aspera, who knocked on my door like she normally does before going to bed in the other room. I was about to open the door, but just leaned on it instead.
“I’m not hungry, sorry. You should go to sleep soon.”
“Okay, jeez. Goodnight!”
“Goodnight.”
I continued reading.
He left a crumpled note between the pages, a seemingly throwaway piece of parchment. A bit of blood stained the piece, dark red fingerprints littered the edges of the worn sheet.
“Sweet child of mine; Solomon, dare I not make it out of this next battle, I wish for you to take over and command as you see fit. Everything I’ve built up and everything your grandfather gave up, should be yours. Our legacy surpasses generations and empires.
My regrets however, are not yours to carry. Don’t try. You’re brighter than Bestatzo’s Band, and dear Salome would be proud. She was the light in my world and as brilliant as you. I wished she had a chance to be more of a mother in your life. And if you’re reading this, I wish I had more time to be your father in my life. Dare I say I tried.”
At least his child got to read this. My sweet kids never got any of mine, at least I don’t think so. I doubt the God I stopped believing in long ago, would have allowed my letters to hurt them any further.
I always burnt all of my letters to nobody.
A fragment of pain accosts me when I think about that part of my life, and I’ve had enough pain already. Enough.
Then came a sketch of my revolver, or at least parts of it. The ones that Medino locals found near the Hirene river delta. Skippio apparently saw me use it on the wall, and noted how others didn’t think much more of it other than a novelty. He had a few basic guns made after he forced an ‘enslaved freak of an alchemist’ named Viraj Lugosi to try recreating the black powder found in the gun.
The bastards tortured him until he got close.
I’m so sorry, Lugosi. Fuck. I don’t even recall his first name. It’s like I barely got to know him at all, and now it’s far too late.
I took a break, left my room and got some ice cubes from the crude fridge, pouring some whisky. I drank a few shots and continued reading up in one of the bastion towers with my darkvision, under the moonlight combined with the reflection from Bestatzo’s Band – what Ischyrosian astronomers named the ring above Mondo.
I skipped the medical experiments they did to Lugosi, who they described as “living dead.”
He later noted how our forces were defeated through multiple first-hand accounts, and listed multiple countermeasures. He even thought of hiding grapeshot cannons in foliage to deal with flanking forces, which is what he later did to me on the day they attacked again. It was something he learned fighting against black and red dragons, where he’d use fusiliers to bait the dragons down to where the big guns could shoot it down with pre-aimed shots.
He served under Lord Stromberg for a while, until the last few pages describing his son’s discontent with his form of leadership. Solomon had turned 24 cycles old and led a cavalry unit after spending ages training.
“My son’s cavalry company lost a dozen men to a black dragon. It was their fault, as dragoons they’re meant to fire and run! But no. Half his men, the naive fools, charged with lances too soon and were reduced to ash. I couldn’t apologize for mistakes I didn’t make.”
That was the last entry by Skippio, written a few cycles before he attacked us with cannons and musket fire. The next page had a different handwriting, and had dark red ink instead of black; written in blood, listing the names of the 12 dragoons lost that day.
I don’t know what to do. I need more liquor.
…
115. Winter in the northwest, south of Royaume.
I powered on my new portable radio.
“Arzo, do you read?” I spoke as I clung atop a tree.
“Copy that, Forlasita.”
“What do you see from there?”
A wave of static came through on the primitive radio.
“I see uh, lots of movement. Confirmed resistance personnel bringing supplies down from Montovila. Hundreds of men and women using horse wagons towards a tunnel entrance, possibly an abandoned mine. Taking trezotypes, will drop them at the designated point in 5. I don’t think they’ve noticed me.”
Arzo reports directly to me, from his recon aircraft. He has advanced optics from his plane and can take sophisticated photos from various angles. The dawn is clear, and our forces have moved up.
Specifically, Solomon’s forces. They’ve been briefed that the mission they’re to undertake today might cost them a cycle or two, and possibly their life if they don’t make it. 80% of his troops backed out almost just as expected, leaving a much smaller force. We were expecting a 90% back out rate. Those who backed out were absorbed into other brigades.
“Command, I can confirm that all forces are in position. Dropping recon package.” Arzo reported in.
His plane was coming from the south, and I could see a small dot fast approaching. It landed a few dozen meters away from my position. I rappelled down to get it. Designed to be our first working guided bomb, it was electronically guided by wire. The payload this time, was updated maps and enemy positions.
“Task force Anvil, do you read?” I called in.
A brief pause.
“Copy. We read you, command. Anvil Alpha here. Forward teams are ready to engage.” Solomon said over the radio.
I climbed back up the tree to use the optics I installed there.
“Proceed, but take note of the camouflaged observation posts on the northern ridge and the eastern pass. Reports confirm only one person mans each post, possibly changing guards in three hours.”
“This’ll be over in one. Anvil 1 and 2 are moving in.”
Both posts were sniped with suppressed weapons, and large numbers of camouflaged troops began working their way up to the tunnel entrance. Some gunfire could be heard as a few returned fire.
Another voice came in. “Anvil 1 here! We’re moving in.”
I saw them through my scope, entering the main structure. Dozens of troops, some led by shieldbearers with revolvers, followed by those armed with bolt-action rifles. The rebels had breech loaders.
The firefight intensified; cackles of gunfire popped as more and more enemies went down around the compound. More openings on the mountain opened, and our troops began getting suppressed as birds began flying out. Wait, birds? And why’s there so much gunfire?
As soon as the last crows left and circled the sky around the compound, a kind of machinery spun up and sprayed lead shot by the hundreds down the new holes. It doesn’t seem like regular gunfire, but I can’t see quite clearly from here. They look like disks and they’re awfully quiet save for the echo of machinery.
They shouldn’t have those.
“HEY THIS IS ANVIL 2! WE’RE GETTING SHREDDED OUT HERE! OUR GUYS ARE FALLING BACK!”
“Copy. This is Anvil Alpha. Pull back for now. Where’s Anvil 1?”
A few bloodied soldiers emerged from the tunnel entrance, but they weren’t ours. I zoomed in further, and saw an old man with an eyepatch dragging someone out seemingly after having sustained a gunshot himself. It’s Skippio. Intel was right. And he’s got wolfhoods backing him up with magic shielding.
He put a bullet into the head of the Pulveran radioman, after taking the wired phone off his pack. He fidgeted with it a bit.
“Hey. Talk to me.”
“Anvil Alpha here, what happened to Anvil 1?”
“Skippio de Solleret. Dragonslayer. Name yourself.”
A long pause. The strange machinery that ran their silent machineguns lulled. I contemplated having a word with him myself.
“Solomon. Brigadier Solomon Pomeroy.”
“Huh, you stuck with your mother’s surname?”
“Yeah. Nice to see you again.” Solomon said, bitterly.
“And what, now you’re going to kill your own father?”
“...”
“I know what you’re all here for. Tell you what. We won’t kill all of you, if you leave and let us leave. It’s a good deal.”
“Not happening. What happened to Anvil 1?”
“Did you hear your grandfather passed away last week? You were on the will, I wasn’t. That’s a fortune waiting for you, son.”
“..I have my orders, and I’ll follow them regardless.”
“Son, you know I’ve never lied to you. And I won’t start now.”
“Anvil 2, regroup with Anvil 3 and 4 by the next assault.”
“Forgive me, Solomon, but today your friends are going to die because of your leadership. Just like the last time. Your call. Forgive me for having just put a bullet into the head of this uh, Corporal Himmel, with the strange device. He was already bleeding out.”
“YOU FUCKER! I’LL KILL YOU!” screamed Solomon.
The circling crows began their descent, diving onto survivors from Anvil 2, seemingly exploding upon impact. That’s, just like the kamikaze drones I had to deal with. What in the h-
“I know what your mission is. You’ll find out why I’m doing what I do, soon enough. Your first squad still has survivors.”
Over a dozen stragglers from Anvil 2 were struck. All down. I magnified my tree-mounted optics even further. Some of the other teams began firing at the mages by the tunnel entrance, but the quiet machineguns kept our squads pinned as shielding magic seemed to be redirecting our shots into missing. This operation was going to pure shit real quick. I had to speak up.
“Senior Lieutenant Forlasita here. Skippio, is it?”
“Ah, we finally get to speak. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“And I’ve heard enough about you. That bastard Eschaton is with you, right? Tell your son what you want to tell him before we send you crashing through every layer of hell. 30 seconds.”
“Well, I knew I didn’t have much time left anyway. But I already made my peace with Mondo; I hope he gets to do the same, even after you chew him up and spit him out. And by the way, I sent the letter that poisoned your wretched mother. Kantax deserved it.”
Huh? Memories of Kantax from throughout the ages began pouring through my mind, culminating in the horrid state she was in as she awaited death. I shook my head, now wasn’t the time. I began to choke up, I wanted to tell him off – but I knew that’s what he wanted.
“What? I.. have no clue what you’re talking about, Skip.” I said back. “You’ve got me mistaken for someone else; I’ve never heard.. of a Kantax.”
“...”
“15 seconds. Solomon, anything to say back?”
“...”
“Goodbye, so-” Skippio said, as his chatter was cut short.
The sunrise left a warm glow over everything, until a massive explosion hit the mountainface as if another sun had emerged for a moment. I felt the tree shake, reverberating the forces left across such a distance. Now that’s what our guided bombs look like when fully packed with high explosives. The remaining crows in the sky all dropped at the same time which should mean the one controlling them had perished, if the psychic tomes I read are to be trusted. This time, we better make sure Eschaton is dead. He knew too much.
“Anvil Alpha here,” Solomon said, sniffling. “Good riddance.”
“Hey, don’t stop now. Gather your wounded and proceed with phase two. We’ll send aid for all the wounded this afternoon, and the rest of your supplies next week. Prepare a full report by tomorrow. The Chief’ll probably want to hear the results.”
“Most of the rebels aren’t holding their ground, and running. Anvil 3 and 4 are securing the perimeter. Proceeding.”
“Good job. See you when this is all over.”
“Will send the report soon. See you. Anvil Alpha, out.”
Phase 2 of the plan is that Solomon takes control of the resistance. I wasn’t sure if I could trust him but this would have been a good test for that, and a quick way to get intel on all the rebel cells across Pulvera. They were using young Kosmikos Burrowers, some kind of ancient giant worms, with Eschaton’s magic to channel their control and direct them through softer ground to make tunnels.
I packed up the tree-mounted optics and rappelled down the tree with my gear. Rumi was by Acty, our now-camouflaged armored car, covered in the local foliage. She stood outside and turned to me after shutting the door.
“Ma’am! Behind you!”
I turned around and found the muzzle of a gun pointed straight at me from a meter or so away. I met the glint of three pairs of eyes; the wind must’ve rustled the leaves enough to cover their noise.
Bang.
The tinnitus in my ears rang worse, and I think I broke a rib or two. That must’ve been a shotgun of some sort. I found myself looking into the morning sky with the ring beaming across. Rumi began firing back at the assailants. I ran my right hand over my chest; the gambeson flak jacket had stopped most if not all of the projectiles.
I felt sick, but I had to get up, or we're both dead.
Seemed like I was down for a few seconds at most, but apparently it’s been dozens. Rumi was by the other side of the armored car, breathing heavily after having shot two of them – a man and woman armed with single-shot shotguns with bayonets. I pulled out my revolver and crawled around to the other side, where I saw her along with the remaining foe.
“Ahck! Please, stop! No more!” said the man who had shot me.
Rumi was covered in blood; and not just hers. A blood-covered Pulveran utility shovel was thrown aside as she pulled out the guy’s own bayonet from his chest. She had just finished cleaving into this poor soul before gutting him with his own blade. She spat two of his fingers out as she fell back, slumping onto the side of Acty with heavy breaths. The man had no strength left, and she barely did either.
“My, my mother, forgive me but this is it,” he said, choking as he faced the sky like I did moments ago. “Please, stop. No more, you have made a mess of my body. Please leave me alone here to die.”
I got up and aimed my pistol at his head.
“Please, no you don’t have to do this, I’m sorry please-”
Bang, bang, bang. Motherfucker shot me, and hurt Rumi.
“NO! Why’d you shoot him?!” she yelled to me.
I gave her a look of confusion, as if she hadn’t just shredded his vitals. I limped over to her and checked for injuries. She seemed to hold back tears, before embracing me and thanking every deity that I was still alive. She squeezed me so tightly that my cracked ribs seared up an even sharper pain. She had few cuts and bruises here and there, nothing I couldn’t fix while she drove us back to safety.
“Standard protocol,” I said. “He was going to die anyway. I’ll get the radio, you get the car started. Let’s head back. I owe you one.”
Solomon’s report detailed the large number of adolescent child soldiers in the resistance, as well as their varied reasons for fighting. Ranging between economic disparity and exploitation, to a suppression of local customs and traditions. I’ll admit we have a problem with both, but not in public. A lot of the younger adversaries were descendants of either Pulveran losses or those in opposition to us. Even the Montovila orphanage, as with many other orphanages, brought some new recruits through a loophole I hadn’t seen in the system before.
I promised Solomon that they’d be taken care of when the conflict was over, and possibly sooner if he could find a way to send them over for rehabilitation.
It wouldn’t happen.