As Denor marched home in the snow, falling on his face several times and getting into an amusing chase sequence involving the shaman’s severed head rolling off down a hill, it’s important to remember that other things were happening in the universe.
Yes, despite Tamet clearly having chosen the local village idiot as the focal point for the story, and the narrator happily charting his course with few or any deviations thus far, the general context of other things happening to other people needed to be addressed. Otherwise this epic retelling would degenerate into Denor blundering from place to place and understanding nothing.
Granted, providing this greater context would still result in our hero doing exactly that, but at least it gives the reader a bit of insight if nothing else.
So let’s regale you about that rumbling Denor had heard, and then spend some time with our favourite gunsmith again.
Don’t worry, Denor will be just fine in the meantime. For the most part. Perhaps.
***
The freighter heaved forward with all the enthusiasm of an elderly Aurox facing its morning bout of joint pain. The engines groaned under the added weight as it trudged over the snow-thickened roads into the Andronian lands and past complete idiots getting lost in swamps and forests and ravines. Inside, the sound of booted feet shuffling about echoed like an overenthusiastic drummer in a concert hall. Conditions could have been compared to sardines in a tin can, but at least the fish hadn’t been sealed alive.
Chief General Stantych Drenda’s army was a delightful hodgepodge: sleek Trunian sharpshooters mingling awkwardly with the burly Kilru, those rugged mercenaries from a similar snowy sector where sunlight was as rare as a smile from their champions. The Trunians regarded their heavily armored comrades with a curious blend of envy and disdain, knowing they could trust them in combat but wary of their presence otherwise.
"Six weeks of hopping from ship to ship, and still all we get is rations," grumbled a soldier, spitting into the grate at his feet with practiced disdain. He was wedged into the middle of the group, enduring the aromatic onslaught from both the engines and his fellow mercenaries.
A Trunian beside him snorted. "As if the likes of us would ever get more than rations. You know where the extras go," he replied in the exasperated tone of someone who'd been having this argument for six weeks straight and was thoroughly fed up. So important was this assault that they hadn’t even got out and stretched their legs at New Titania.
"And where is it these extra rations are going?" demanded the first Trunian. Their bickering had been a constant throughout the voyage, and while he longed to silence his companion, a duel would likely delay them, and the higher-ups would not be pleased.
The other man didn’t answer him, but nodded in the direction of their distinctly non-Trunian companions.
Bound together by their mutual hatred of a shared enemy and the miserable conditions aboard the freighter, they passed through the journey like so much ill-tempered cargo. The Kilru mercenaries, both pompous and intimidating, were perfect targets for the communal grumblings of those lower in the pecking order.
"They’ll stick close to the chief in case the battle turns," the Trunian replied. "Then run for it if the Andronians get the upper hand, assuming their bellies aren’t too full from eating all the good stuff."
Derisive laughter followed. The notion of a Trunian army of this size being bested by savage Andronians was preposterous. Almost as preposterous as the waddling retreat of an overstuffed Kilru detachment.
Their commanding officer, a scarred and scowling figure who communicated mostly through growls, was less amused. "Shut up, the lot of you. If this reaches one of the champions, he’ll kill us for sure."
"As if we couldn’t handle him," one Trunian replied, though the tremor in his voice somewhat undermined his bravado. Taking potshots at the Kilru was one thing, but facing one in a fight? No thank you, that’d be a quick way to come down with an unfortunate case of death.
Chief Stantych Drenda loathed everyone in his army with the fervor of a middle-aged office worker who had missed his morning coffee. Whatever misdeeds had landed him in these mountainous Outer Rim territories were unknown, but likely involved angering the wrong people or committing acts too terrible even for Trunian standards. Probably both. The malevolent look in Stantych's eyes suggested he had witnessed many horrors, most of which he had inflicted on others.
His true hatred, however, was reserved for the Andronians. They should have crumbled like all other races before the Trunian Empire, but up to this point had defied conquest and capture.
For a galaxy-spanning empire, this was like failing to torch the single remaining horsefly that insistently kept biting you after burning to cinders the entire woods it had buzzed about in. Sure, you had your victory, but you were still getting stung and it really rankled the completionist in you.
Stantych’s original mission had been to seize a small settlement beyond the mountains. Repeated failures, stemming from underestimating the Andronians' fighting prowess, had forced him to retreat, swallow his pride, and gather enough reinforcements to obliterate every Andronian from existence. You know, the subtle approach that all military tacticians approve of. He had heard rumours of an even higher General from the capital taking over should he fail, and knew this was his last chance.
The reinforcements had endured a lengthy journey, with only a brief respite at New Titania to break the chill. Finally, they had closed the gap between the two species. Snowy forests and icy peaks impeded their progress, fog clinging to the mountains like a damp scarf, obscuring their vision and thwarting their advance.
"Urgh, I hate this weather," muttered a particularly inventive conversationalist, his breath steaming in the chill air. "Why haul ourselves up here with a freighter? What's the point when a drop ship could do the job?"
Their commander grunted, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep and ominous. "If you were a few years older and had a few more battles under your belt, you'd know what these cunning creatures can do. They'd hunt our boys down like rabbits, and wouldn’t stop until we were driven to the darkest fringes of this frozen hell. They'd shoot down your precious drop ship with their perimeter defenses before you had time to blink."
A thick silence settled over them, but the questions weren’t done yet. "These forests look deserted. Maybe a cold snap did them in?" said the man in hope more than expectation, stubbornly sticking to his weather-based repertoire.
"Oh no, you can't see them," the commander replied, his voice resonating with the kind of certainty that comes from long experience. "But they're out there, watching. Whether you see them or not, they'll spot you and put a bolt in your head when the time is right."
“I hear we’re going to their most dangerous villages,” replied one of the other soldiers.
“No doubt teeming with savages that can tear your armor to pieces,” muttered yet another within Grenal’s earshot. “Why couldn’t we have gone to Pleasance in Kilru Minor instead?
One of the Kilru champions looked up from admiring his gun, deigning to show brief interest at this mention of his home system.
“Why, what’s there?” the first man asked
“Savages,” the Kilru interjected, “but not as many.”
Grenal Zapal cast a wary eye at the enormous Trunian flag, always borne aloft by a standard-bearer who looked like he derived immense satisfaction from carrying a piece of synthetic fiber larger than most bedsheets. The great red serpent on its pristine green canvas was supposed to inspire pride and resolute determination, and if nothing else, it certainly gave the impression that they were here for more than just a scenic tour. Let the Andronians come. Soon, they would feel the bite of this superior Trunian fighting force—or so the propaganda claimed.
Grenal’s hand tightened around the grip of his blaster rifle, imagining the satisfying thrum of the trigger, the brilliant flash, and the subsequent transformation of enemies into smoldering heaps of regret. Let them crawl out of their hiding places; he would relish their screams for mercy as he reduced them to cinders. That was what a true bloodthirsty soldier was supposed to think, right? Yet, deep down, even as he entertained these thoughts, Grenal knew they were just bravado. He was a rookie to war, alien planets, and conflict in general. The past few weeks had been a harsh lesson in the gap between heroic battle tales and the gritty, uncomfortable reality of army life. His cousin Hadros had warned him, but Grenal hadn’t had much choice, having been drafted into this conflict against his will.
His heart leapt into his throat as the freighter shuddered to a halt.
“Want some liquid courage?” one of the soldiers asked him.
“Dawn has just broken,” Gernal pointed out.
The bloodshot eyes of the soldier stared back at him as he shrugged and took a swig. “Yeah, but I haven’t slept in days.”
The commander bellowed orders, breaking up the conversation and any further chances at witty repartee, and the grunts exited the vehicle in an orderly fashion, forging their way across a stream that the distinctly non-amphibious freighter couldn’t handle. Trunian scouts darted ahead, their heightened senses on high alert, securing the perimeter to avoid an ambush.
The larger Kilru followed easily, their home planet's climate being similarly unwelcoming. They made crossing the river seem like a dignified procession rather than the wet, chilly slog it actually was. Grenal noticed that while the scouts covered the mercenaries, they had no intention of offering the same courtesy to the other troops slogging through the water. Chief Stantych and his entourage hung back, letting the troops advance first, just in case the scouts had missed something.
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“Cowards,” Grenal muttered under his breath. “The natives have frightened him.”
A brisk boot to the rear from the commanding officer sent him staggering forward, clutching his behind and unleashing a colorful stream of curses. "Consider that your final warning. Slander the Chief one more time, and I'll ventilate you myself and let the river do the rest."
Grenal stared at the body of water, then back at his commanding officer, then down at his gun, then back at the torrent of water.
“Think harder, soldier,” the commanding officer muttered, turning his back to the man and strafing off into the rapids as if the water didn’t effect him.
The army had almost completed its delicate dance across the stream by now. No signs of an ambush—unless you counted the occasional disgruntled fish—and the water wasn’t nearly deep enough to drown anyone but the most determinedly short individual. These sorts never made the ranks in the first place, as the Trunians had standards to uphold for the good of the Empire and all that.
Grenal clutched his weapon high above his head, a gesture more for luck than practicality, an old wives' tale turned military superstition. His boots crunched through the gravelly bed of the stream as he daydreamed about marching through fields strewn with Andronian skulls. He'd be hugging the portable heater tonight, practically painting a bullseye for any Andronian sniper with a grudge, or worse, nursing frostbite and missing a toe or two. Stimulants might stave off the chill, but they did nothing for its frostbitten aftermath.
"Welcome to our new Trunian dominion!" Chief Stantych's voice boomed, rolling across the landscape like an avalanche of unwarranted confidence. "Andronian forces may be lurking, but their blood will stain these riverbanks before the week is through."
Stantych's voice carried a certainty that Grenal couldn't quite muster. The chief could bellow loud enough to deafen, but sheer volume didn’t guarantee victory. Grenal's cousin had once told him that making noise was easy; it was action that counted on the battlefield. Was Stantych a doer, or just a blowhard leading them all to doom? The chief had an obsession with wiping out every last native, which, while typically laudable in a Trunian leader, might be a strategic weakness when your opponent was so good at hiding.
"The savages will be crushed under our might!" Stantych roared.
"If they're so easy to beat, why are we the fifth company you've led out here?" Grenal muttered under his breath, ensuring he wasn’t overheard this time. Ending up as fish food wasn't on his agenda.
“We’re going to die,” Grenal stated to the soldier beside him.
The man shrugged with surprising indifference. “We’re all going to die at some point.”
“I meant soon,” he reiterated.
“So did I.”
With the chief’s booming proclamation over, the Trunians began their ascent up the mountainside, deeper into Andronian territory. The commander alone had tasted Andronian combat first-hand and took the threat seriously. He knew that so long as none of the other forces had done something unspeakable to rile up the savages, they would be just fine.
As they descended the final slope, weapons at the ready, the burnt out remnants of the village stared back at them accusingly, complete with a Trunian flag fluttering in the breeze and covered in blood.
“Yeah, okay, the remaining Andronians are probably going to be angry about this.”
***
Time passed by, but the overtaking move was illegal so the story didn’t elaborate further on it.
The clash at what was once the ruins of a village that had now been transformed into a ramshackle outpost was shaping up to be one of those legendary skirmishes. The sort destined to be whispered about in taverns for years to come, especially by those wishing it had never happened. Grenal cast a wary eye toward the endless expanse of forest that hugged the makeshift camp like an overprotective mother. A dirt road wound its way north, a tempting but ultimately disregarded route for the Trunian army. General Stantych, in all his Imperious glory, preferred to dig in his heels and dare the Andronians to test their mettle against his troops now that he could forge a base camp out of the remnants of this village. After all, why go hunting for them when they would inevitably come to him?
Grenal peered into the dense, needle-laden forest, searching for anything that wasn't just another indistinguishable tree. Beside him, his watch partner Linon—whose nerves were about as sturdy as wet cardboard—murmured a prayer to Martos, their notoriously inattentive deity. "Blast them with bolts, Grenal," Linon said, his voice quivering. "The Andronians could be hiding an entire legion in there, and we'd never know until they were upon us, shrieking like banshees on a stim rush."
Grenal’s grip tightened on his blaster as he cast another anxious glance towards the foliage. The Trunians had marched north, but those crafty Andronians could ambush from any direction—probably all at once, just for kicks. There was no telling how many of them were left, as their power signatures evaded the scanners, much to the audible fury of Stantych. Grenal had learned several new curses that morning.
A sharp, chattering noise erupted from the forest, making Linon's heart leap into his throat. "What was that?" the boy demanded, his voice rising a notch higher than he would have liked.
"A bird," replied Grenal with the nonchalance of a man who'd accepted the inevitable and was growing increasingly annoyed at his partner jumping at the slightest provocation.
"What kind of bird?" Linon pressed. "I've never heard a bird sound like that."
"Who can say?" Grenal shrugged. "These parts are full of strange birds—birds with no sense to live somewhere warmer and sunnier. If I could fly away from the cold you wouldn’t see me sticking around here."
Linon clearly wasn't comforted. "They have other things too," he muttered darkly.
Grenal waved a dismissive hand, and noticed it was shaking slightly. It must have been from the cold. Yes, the cold. "While the Andronians are no match for us, if this conquest were easy, General Stantych wouldn’t have bothered bringing an army. He could have strolled in alone, and the creatures would have fled at the sight of him."
Linon snorted. "Stantych thinks he could single-handedly scare off the barbarians." He glanced around for the ever-present Sergeant Odont.
Seeing no sign of him, Grenal added, "We all have our delusions. For instance, half the time I think you actually make sense."
Linon stuck out his tongue, the epitome of mature military decorum. Before any further profound observations could be made, the unsettling bird call came again. Linon squinted fervently at the trees, his neuroses on full display. "I still don't think that's a natural bird."
"Then where are the Andronian hordes?" Grenal asked, raising an eyebrow.
Linon jumped at the mention of hordes, then settled down into a shrug. "I don’t know, but we’ll find out soon enough."
***
In the depths of the forest, Ledo and moved with a silent grace that defied the laws of nature. Not a twig snapped beneath his boots, not a branch swayed in his wake. He was a phantom, a whisper in the realm of the trickster Tamet, and he wasn’t alone in planning mischief. The woods were alive with the Andronian hordes, all ghosting through the trees toward the blissfully unaware Trunian camp.
From behind a particularly robust spruce, Ledo emitted a bird call. This was a signal to his comrades, who were similarly hidden among the foliage, lying in wait. One of the Andronians answered, a faint trill of readiness. The Trunians, resplendent in their gaudy armor, carried on with their routines, blissfully unaware of the incoming dose of death. A few of the sharper soldiers glanced up, momentarily puzzled by the unfamiliar sounds, but curiosity, after all, is a distant cousin to alarm. Too distant to save them.
Ledo, despite being the focus of the narrative, allowed himself a silent chuckle, the kind that rarely bodes well for the chuckled-at. The Trunians were about to get an unambiguous message, one that even they, in their infinite density, couldn't misunderstand. Tightening his grip on his energy axe, anticipation curled through him like an Aurox catching the first whiff of fresh meat. Soon. Very soon.
The forest, ever a cooperative ally in these matters, echoed with more bird calls. These were signals that the Andronians were ready, that the scouts and guards had been silently and efficiently removed from the equation. Ledo's smile was grim. The men in the clearing were in for an extremely unwelcome surprise.
Nearby, a man produced a electric space trumpet and blew a note so discordant it could have made a Trunian space trumpeter cry with envy. It wasn't meant to be melodious—merely audible across the clearing. And audible it was.
With cries that guaranteed future ear damage, the Andronians erupted from their cover, hurtling towards their foes. Ledo swung his axe—an axe that most men would wield with both hands—with the effortless strength of one who could cleave mountains, using only one. His other hand held a crackling bolt at the ready, to fend off any long-range counterattacks from the unfortunate souls who dared attempt to pierce the glowing orb of his shielding.
When the Andronians burst forth from the forest, the Trunians met them with their own cries, albeit tinged with a flavor of horror. But they did not scatter like leaves before a gale, which was mildly disappointing. Had they fled, their destruction would have been as easy as chopping firewood, but they had the advantage of a makeshift wall and enough weaponry to level a city. These soldiers may not have been seasoned warriors, but they were fully ready to defend their position. The Trunians, screaming, loosed their blaster bolts even as the cries echoed away. The giant Kilru, ever practical, reinforced their numbers and formed defensive lines, ready to protect their comrades. From within the cobbled together durasteel palisade, a roar of military activity sounded, attempting to rouse a semblance of order.
Before the defenders could fully array themselves, the Andronian wave poured over the walls. A Trunian soldier lunged at Ledo, who, with the ease of a gunsmith hammering a particularly soft barrel, knocked the blaster aside with his bolt hand and brought his axe down, cleaving the gun apart. The Trunian, cursing, attempted to charge a bolt, but Ledo’s next blow split his skull down to his teeth. Blood spurted, hot and sticky, onto Ledo's face. With a triumphant roar, he marched on, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake.
Okay, so he might have missed this a little.
It could have been a casual day of weapon crafting for all the difference he made. One by one, the Trunians fell before him, their armor and shielding offering as much protection from his axe as a particularly flimsy gauze. Ledo's energised weapon sliced through anything that stood in his path.
Pausing to catch his breath, he glanced down and noticed cuts on his forearm and leg. He hadn’t felt them penetrate the shielding, and even then, they were of little concern. He shrugged; they wouldn't hinder him. The Andronians were a force of nature, and to stop would mean giving the disciplined Trunians a chance to regroup.
Forward, always forward. Ledo plunged back into the fray. A bolt exploded on the surface of his shielding, halting his advance briefly. If that had been any more powerful it would have been his face absorbing the impact.
The Trunian, pale and desperate from expending the last of his power, dropped his shaking hands and begged, “Mercy! Please don’t kill me!”
“Mercy?” Ledo laughed, a sound devoid of warmth. In this context, surrounded by the remains of his former village, it was a foreign concept. The axe fell. The man slumped, lifeless. Ledo kicked the corpse aside. "Like the mercy you showed our village? I think not."
Ledo hacked and slashed his way towards one of the gates in the palisade, each swing of his axe a punctuation mark in a sentence of inevitable conquest. The Andronians, lacking a general but overflowing with a shared, fierce determination, surged forward. If they could breach the gate amidst this chaos, victory would be within their blood-soaked grasp.
Even a clutch of the more stalwart of the invaders ahead started to waver, a few succumbing to the primal instinct of flight, their legs betraying their brains' insistence that retreat offered no sanctuary. But the majority, like the stubborn weeds in a garden, stood their ground, more out of fear of their own leaders. Reinforcements poured from the camp, a tidal wave of space glue rushing to plug the gaps in their crumbling defense. The Andronians, as relentless as a cat with the scent of expensive tuna, knew this was their moment to strike and reclaim what was left of their territory.
In the crimson chaos of battle and radiating embodied energy, Ledo cared little for the hearts and minds of his opponents. More foes before him simply meant more men to be consumed by his power. He dispatched another with a perfunctory efficiency that suggested he might be thinking of what to cook for dinner later. Only a handful of obstinate men stood between him and the General’s abode, subtly placed smack in the center of the fort. With his countrymen flanking him, he charged, a whirlwind of death and devastation.
By Tamet, he really had missed this!