"Denor, your father!" she gasped, and the way she said his name immediately revived him from his bleary state. Unfortunately, it also made him aware—just a tad slower than he might have hoped—that his father’s collapsed body was lying near the dead Trunian general.
Yeah, the Trunians weren’t going to be happy about this one. Armies tended to take a dim view about the natives killing their general, even one as particularly disliked as Stantych had been.
With great reluctance, he tore his gaze away from the body and went over to Ledo, who wasn’t moving.
"Hey Ledo," he said, the brightness in his voice not fooling anyone, least of all himself. He knelt beside him, hands checking for a pulse. After he had stopped poking the man’s nose and ears, he allowed Gella to check for signs of life instead.
"Hold still, Ledo. We’ll get you back to the village in one piece.”
With great care they got the man to his feet, and though he was technically conscious he had a bleary smile on his face and didn’t seem to be talking. A small part of Denor definitely preferred him this way, but for once he didn’t give voice to it.
“I thought he was going to kill you!” Gella cried at the vaguely-conscious former gunsmith. "Oh, Denor, you should have seen them fight, I was so scared!”
“We’d better take you back to the village,” Denor said, casting a wistful glance at Stantych’s prone form. The idea of hiding the Trunian’s body was appealing, and there was the small matter of not wanting to alert the garrison that Stantych had met with an untimely end. Regretfully, he shook his head. He wasn’t the best at the whole decision-making thing, but even he knew they had to return to the village first with Ledo, who was clinging to consciousness like the victim of a starship wreck to the last oxygenated room. A comparison that much like the previous chapter, definitely wasn’t foreboding in the slightest.
“The village will soon be in turmoil when the scouts find the body,” Gella said, her voice heavy with the memories of the Trunian search parties. "That villain killed Charan, who tried to stop him from taking me. He struck him down as if it was nothing, my poor sweet Charan." She shuddered at the memory, her teary eyes finding their way to Denor’s.
Denor wished he knew the right words to help, feeling a storm of emotions churn within him. “Our people won’t stand for such an outrage,” he said, a fire kindling in his voice. “Even if Charan is fine after, the revolt against the Trunians is coming, and we’re all going to be a part of it."
“Yes," Gella murmured, her voice tinged with regret. "It was wrong of me to let Stantych do what he did. I thought… I thought it might make you… I mean I thought it might make Charan jealous. I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter now that he’s dead," Denor said, completely ignoring the implication of Gella’s slip up. "He got what he deserved. Now let’s get Ledo back and spread the word about what happened. Then...”—he brandished his sword with a flourish and nearly dropped Ledo in the process—"the Trunians will feel the might of Denor Kara!" With that, supporting a groggy Ledo who was muttering ‘no’ under his breath from some unknown reason that he didn’t spare a thought to, they began the journey back to the village, where destiny, and a fair bit of chaos, awaited them.
***
“You saved me,” said Gella to Ledo, for roughly the fifty-seventh time, her eyes doing that shimmering thing that rescued maidens projected towards noble knights in fairy tales.
Ledo grunted, and that was all the energy he spared, he wasn’t the sort that was into saving damsels in distress.
Denor, who had never been fond of lengthy speeches, responded with a simple nod of approval. It wasn’t poetry, but it was far better than any words he’d mangle. Besides, Gella was smart. She’d understand what his nod meant, and if she didn’t, well, at least she wouldn’t be angry at him again for attempting to use words. Words and Denor had a tenuous alliance, where he was technically allowed to use them but probably shouldn’t.
“Almost there,” she added, which was never a good thing to say out loud. She was flashing a smile that would’ve been reassuring, if not for the fact that Denor suddenly felt that itch. The one that says, ‘Everything is about to go very wrong,’ like when you hear a noise in the dark and just know it’s not the wind.
He stopped so abruptly that Gella almost dropped Ledo, but Denor’s grip tightened, freezing her in place. “Something’s wrong,” he muttered, head tilted in that way people do when they’ve either smelled danger or forgotten where they left their credit chit.
Gella mimicked him, though with far more grace. “I don’t hear anything,” she said, gazing around the area like she expected a Temrit invasion to appear behind a tree, possibly another vengeful sapling.
“Exactly,” Denor said. “We should hear something. The village… it’s never this quiet. Too quiet.”
This was of course another classic line that spelled utter doom. If anyone ever said ‘quiet’ and followed it up with ‘too quiet’ it was guaranteed that the universe would spawn something unsettling to subsequently break the quiet.
When they finally broke through the treeline and the village came into view, any hope that Gella’s cheery outlook was the correct one promptly died a swift and unpleasant death. The scene before them could’ve been ripped straight from one of those epic ballads—the kind where the bards never get to the ‘happily ever after’ part because everyone’s too busy bleeding out. Bodies were scattered across the ground which suggested that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong, and the air was thick with the unmistakable stench of blood and death. Nature’s clean-up crew—ravens and vultures and the odd wolf—were already hard at work, but they weren’t the only ones who’d stuck around.
There were Trunian corpses here too, lots of them. Unfortunately there were also two that most definitely weren’t corpses, and that posed a significant problem.
The bolt throwers, clearly as startled by Denor and Gella’s appearance as Denor was by theirs, stood among the carnage. “By the holiest Martos, holy lord of Trunia!” one of them yelped, attempting to ignite his palm with a sputtering bolt and deepening his voice for the follow up. “There’s still some alive!”
“Not for long,” muttered the other, definitely less prone to startling and using a professional tone that suggested he had some very definite ideas about how to remedy that. Without further preamble, they both let fly their bolts, and Denor had the sneaking suspicion they’d pegged him as the biggest problem of the three.
Except that the bolts didn’t go anywhere near him, they were aimed at Ledo. The Trunian’s had some strange device over one of their eyes, and text scrolling across the HUD.
Before Denor could do a thing, Gella decided to turn herself into an impromptu wall. Just as the bolts sizzled through the air, she let go of Ledo and leaped in front of him. There was a flash and she collapsed to the snowy floor.
“Stupid girl,” Ledo breathed as he followed her collapsing routine.
Denor scrambled towards her, completely ignoring his prone father getting shot at.
“Go claim your vengeance, Denor,” she whispered, smiling like someone who’d just won a game no one else knew they were playing. “Set our people free.” She crumpled to the ground, leaving Denor to gape at her as if his entire world had collapsed in front of his eyes. Given that the backdrop was the smouldering ruins of the last Andronian settlement, there was truth to that thought.
"No!" Denor bellowed, the word dragged from his throat in a raw scream. He dropped to his knees beside her, but her body didn’t stir. The world, inconveniently, didn’t care. More bolts sliced through the air, whizzing past him and narrowly missing Ledo’s body. Gella's final words echoed repeatedly in his head. He had to avenge her. He had to avenge his people.
“No!” Came a second shout from the village, as a body dislodged itself from a murder of crows and started to sprint at the startled Trunians.
Denor wasn’t listening though, he wasn’t thinking about anything save vengeance, and he had already broken into a stumbling sprint of his own, a murderous look of intent in his eyes.
Charan and Denor moved in unison, eyes locked on the two Trunian guards ahead. The guards stood tall, armored in dull, gray Andronian plating, raising their shields and preparing more bolts.
Denor was the first to strike. He raised his hand, fingers crackling with wild energy. With a flick of his wrist, a bolt of sizzling power shot forward, puncturing the shield and hitting the first guard square in the chest. The force of it sent the guard stumbling backward, his armor scorched, smoke rising from the point of impact. He collapsed, convulsing on the ground.
“Huh?” Denor asked his hand, coming to a standstill. The glove covering it tried to make a break for freedom to avoid his questioning gaze, but remained firmly stuck on his fingers.
The second guard barely had time to react before Charan unleashed his own attack. His hand glowed with a more controlled light, and his glove was distinctly more cooperative too. Energy coalescing into a spear-like shape, and he hefted it like a fisherman preparing to spear a carp. He hurled it with precision, and it pierced the guard’s shielding. The impact knocked the air from his lungs as he was driven into the snow. He struggled for a moment, eyes wide with shock, before his body went limp.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Charan did not say ‘huh’ or stare at his hand, because in an unsurprising revelation it turned out that he was much more competent than Denor.
In the space of a heartbeat, the two guards lay defeated, the air around them still humming with the residual crackle of energies as they dissipated. Charan glanced at Denor, who blinked as if coming out of a trance.
“I’m so sorry Charan,” Denor wailed. “We were too late for Ledo and Gella!”
Charan walked over, his face screwed up in unimaginable pain and anger as he surveyed the bodies.
“I’ve failed you! I’ve failed everyone!” Denor continued to moan, sinking to his knees.
“Er… Denor,” Charan attempted to interrupt.
“I should have been faster! I should have been stronger! I was stupid, oh so stupid!”
“Denor!” Charan bellowed with urgency.
Denor looked up from his shaking hands with no small degree of puzzlement. “Hello?”
“They’re still alive!”
***
Some time later, the four of them found refuge in the clearing, the same one where Ledo had expended the last of his fighting energy and where General Stantych had given his last anything. The Trunian’s head was still attached, for the moment, but Denor had plans for that. With the grim focus of a boy preparing for his second decapitation in recent times, he separated Drenda’s head from the rest of him. It wasn’t easy—his training sword wasn’t exactly a cleaver—but Denor insisted on taking the head.
With Charan’s help, Ledo had gained some semblance of energy and consciousness, but by no means was he in any fighting condition. He had explained several times to his son that he had thrown the last semblance of power into a shield to block the Trunian bolts. Denor kept sawing at the former general’s neck while praising Tamet and not understanding what had happened, so the subject was quickly dropped.
Nobody asked about Tycho, as they knew what the answer would be.
Our hero was just admiring his grotesque new souvenir when a voice cut through the clearing. "Nice trophy you’ve got there. Whose head is it?"
Denor spun around, Stantych’s head in one hand and his sword in the other, looking for all the world like some nightmarish circus act. The newcomer stood casually at the edge of the clearing, glowing with an ominous golden light and clearly unconcerned about seeing a sawed-off head.
“The head belonged to General Stantych," Denor growled, "the so-called general of the Trunians. I intend to attack their outpost and plant this head where the Trunian flag flies.”
This caused all three of his companions to look at him with concern, as this was the first they were hearing of this plan too.
“Stantych’s head? By Tamet!” said the wiry stranger, a man who looked as though he could arm-wrestle a bear for fun and then send it home with a limp. He gave the severed head a glance with the admiration and weariness of someone who’d seen far too many heads in his time, attached and otherwise. “You’d best follow me, then. Apparently some trader got word out that the home planet was under occupation, and we’ve got a few mercs in our service that will happily gut the opposition for credits.”
Denor raised his sword, the sort of movement that suggested if this conversation took the wrong turn, someone was going to get acquainted with the ground very quickly and very personally. “I don’t trust you.”
What was most curious about the whole exchange was that everyone had delegated the role of leadership to Denor. He didn’t know how to feel about that, but ran with it anyway.
The other Andronian, who was clearly well-versed in the ancient art of ‘let’s not argue with the man holding a sharp object,’ gave a wise nod. “You have no reason to, but we do have shelter. If you’d rather chance your arm against the cold night and the Gurruks then be my guest.”
“Denor…” Charan murmured.
“Fine, okay. Take us to your shelter, we’ll figure things out from there.”
***
They reached the shelter—a ramshackle building that looked to have been hastily thrown up, possibly by a constructor with indigestion.
“We’re hungry,” said Denor’s stomach on the behalf of the whole exhausted group.
“Long journey, tough road,” Ledo muttered, then sank back down between Charan and Gella.
Denor squinted at the approaching group exiting the shelter, they were clearly Andronians like he was, but they had the look of men that could pull heads off without much effort.
“We know of Ledo,” called out their guide, “gift him some of your energy, he will be useful.”
Two of the mercs approached, and grasped Ledo’s forearms like they were giving him a particularly vigorous handshake.
“Denor!” boomed his father, Ledo, whose restored voice could give a mountain an inferiority complex. “I was having the strangest dream!” His grin spread so wide, it was in danger of falling off his face, and was so uncharacteristic that both Denor and Charan took a step back. “Isn’t that Stantych’s head?” he asked, staring at the second decapitated head that Denor had wandered about with. “Praise be to Tamet! Well, isn’t that a sight! Stantych, himself! That’ll brighten up even the dullest day!”
“Does he not remember what happened?” Gella whispered to her future husband, who gave her a shrug in response and was promptly punched in the arm for not giving voice to a response.
“Brave work, lad,” their guide said, more for the merc’s ears than the boy’s. “If you plan on taking back this planet, that will send the right message to the Trunians.”
Denor looked at his beaming (and still oddly dazed) father. “Can I, Ledo?”
Ledo seemed to snap out of his reverie, and his face hardened. "I said when the day came that you could join us, boy. Not all my choices have been pearls of wisdom, much as I’d like to claim otherwise. I hope this choice is different."
Denor gave a nod, sensing this was important but not adding anything. "We come for vengeance, for all those who have died at the hands of the Trunian dogs."
It sounded like the right thing to say, and the mercenaries nodded along as if he had told them their garden looked nice.
Their guide chimed in. “Agreed, lad. It’s the Trunians who’ll be doing the dying. Since they have chosen to butcher the innocent and violate the rules of their own occupation, we’ll make sure their bill’s paid in full." He stepped forward, still glowing golden and flanked by the hulking mercenaries. "Take us back to the village, boy, and I swear by all that’s left in me, you’ll have your vengeance soon enough."
Denor stood a little straighter, his spine as firm as the ground under his boots. "With my father, Charan, and Gella, I’d have headed straight to outpost whether you lot tagged along or not. But if you’re feeling brave—or foolish—you’re welcome to come. Just know this: the Trunians are fortified with energy shields. They won’t fall easily."
“Let’s take care of the village first, we’ll deal with the outpost after,” one of the mercs interjected.
“Only if you promise to help with the outpost!” Denor declared, not realising he was in no position to barter with these men.
The merc looked askance at the guide, and the guide nodded.
“Hurrah! We’re going to destroy the Trunians!” Offered still bizarrely-afflicted Ledo.
“Death’s on the itinerary, then,” the guide simply said, "onward," like the whole affair was a bit of a hike.
“What’s your name?” Charan asked the guide as they began marching back to the village.
The guide smiled. “They’ll figure it out soon enough.”
So onward they went.
***
Denor crouched—or rather, fumbled—on a ridge of jagged stone, the sort of perch no sensible person would choose unless they were determined to look dramatic. He was squinting, trying to catch a glimpse of the mercs below in the half-buried village. His breath fogged in the frigid air, and his cloak flapped about ineffectively, as though mocking the very concept of keeping him warm.
The village was a sad affair, charred buildings sticking out of the snow like rotten teeth, the sort of place that screamed ‘doom’ or at least ‘bad investment.’ Denor, of course, missed most of the finer details because he was too busy trying trying not to fall off the ridge the mercs had told him to stay on with his friends. The scent of burnt wood and blood wafted up on the wind, but Denor was too preoccupied with the icy breeze slipping down his back to notice.
Thankfully both Gella and Charan were still with him, one to keep an eye on the still-grinning Ledo and the other placed on Denor duty, keeping a hand on the boy’s shoulder so he didn’t go tumbling off the edge.
The two figures came into sight below them now— the Andronian mercenaries, all business and no nonsense, the sort of professionals who might take out insurance on their own grimaces. There was no sign of the golden-glowing guide, but anyone that alliterative couldn’t be too far away. They claimed to be Iron, which, Denor vaguely recalled, was bad news for anyone trying to stab them. Denor had offered to join them, but was soon talked about of it by everyone, even the golden man. He wasn’t good at stabbing. Or strategy. Or really much at all, so it was probably for the best.
The last of the Copper-ranked Trunian invaders were holed up in the wreckage below, no doubt shaking in their boots—although, Denor reflected, if they were smart enough to wear boots appropriate for this weather, they were already ahead of him. The Andronian mercenaries moved with the kind of efficiency that left no room for error, which was a shame because Denor had brought plenty of error with him should they have needed any.
One of the Iron mercenaries, a tall fellow with a spear that seemed to have far too many sharp bits, strode forward. With an expert flick of the wrist, an energy-based copy of the spear shot out and—predictably—a Trunian staggered out of the ruins, clutching his side. There was a brief, pitiful cry, and then, with the sort of inevitability that follows Denor’s peripheral involvement in anything of late, the Trunian hit the ground, dead.
The stockier mercenary—who had the bearing of a man who did not need to stretch before a fight—stood near the remains of the village pumping station, scanning the shadows. Denor squinted, trying to see what the mercenary saw. There was something in the ruins, something moving. Probably the last Trunian, hiding in a very unoriginal way. The mercenary unsheathed his sword, its menacing ring slicing through the icy air with all the grace and none of the subtlety. "Last one," he called, as if this were some casual sporting event and not an execution.
Denor shifted uncomfortably. His instincts, which had snuck up on him of late without introducing themselves, insisted that something was wrong. The tall mercenary stepped over a patch of snow, completely oblivious to the trap below. Denor, in a flash of brilliance—or perhaps just an accidental stroke of luck—realized what was about to happen. But before he could shout a warning (not that it would have been a particularly helpful warning), the ground exploded.
It wasn’t enough to kill the mercenary, but it sent him flying with a rather strange whooshing noise. His shielding sputtered, and his spear clattered uselessly to the ground. Denor winced. “Could’ve happened to anyone,” he muttered, though it definitely would have been him if he had been permitted to join in.
The stocky mercenary cursed and rushed to his comrade’s side. Meanwhile, the last Trunian, eyes wild and desperate, leaped from the shadows with a blade in hand. This was Denor’s moment. He could feel it. This was the time to act, to show his worth, to prove—
He slipped.
Not a dramatic leap from the ridge, no. More like an ungainly tumble, the sort that involved several undignified flails and a muffled yelp. But gravity was on his side, and before anyone could make sense of the sudden blur of limbs crashing toward the battlefield, Denor landed—sort of—behind the Trunian.
The invader hesitated, more from confusion than anything else, and Denor, realizing that this was the only advantage he was likely to get, swung his fist. Miraculously, it connected. The Trunian collapsed, very much dead. Denor stared at his hand, a bit surprised at his own success.
The two Iron mercenaries glanced up, their expressions a mix of shock and bewilderment. Denor, sensing that things could only go downhill from here, did the only sensible thing: he shrugged.
The village’s main street had turned a rather unpleasant shade of crimson, Trunian blood painting it like the world's angriest mural. Denor’s heart, curiously, felt lighter for it—these fallen souls weren’t his people, and there was something oddly satisfying about knowing that.
The golden man emerged from a nearby building and offered the boy a slow clap. He looked awfully familiar, but Denor was too focused on his hand and the dead Trunian to figure out why.
Speaking of which, thanks to his heroics the only Trunians left in the village were the ones who had taken up new jobs as decorative street art.
Now they had to perform the same painting on the outpost’s walls.