Calris lay in the snow, pretty sure he was turning hypothermic, while he and Ban waited for the sentry to come past again. The rest of the Sixth were scattered around the ancient city, doing the same thing, preparing for a simultaneous strike on the Guild’s security.
They had made good time from the camp; the city was about eight kilometres away and, setting out just after last light, they had arrived shortly before midnight. After a short stakeout, they had identified three sentries on a patrol route, evenly spaced around the perimeter. They didn’t seem to swap out, so it was likely three different saps were tasked with security each night.
With this in mind, Calris had decided on a simultaneous capture of each sentry. It was a good plan, one that avoided anyone finding scenes of a struggle if they only took one man, but it was roughly forty minutes between sentries and Calris was bloody freezing. Still, by his reckoning, the next sentry was due past any minute.
As if on cue, Calris heard the crunch of boots in snow as the man came into view. He subconsciously hunkered lower into the snow as the light from the sentry’s torch washed over him, even though he knew he was unlikely to be spotted. He was in a divet he had carefully cut from the underside of a shrub, leaving the branches above him to conceal his presence while giving him a crawlspace in and out that wouldn’t make any sound.
Beyond that, it was also clear these sentries had no clue what they were doing. The moon was full, bathing the entire landscape in a white glow, but they still patrolled with torches held in front of their faces. The only thing they achieved was blinding themselves to anything outside the immediate ring of light the flames provided.
In the man’s defence, though, he was an assassin, not a soldier or guard. The Guild had a fearsome reputation for skilled fighters, but there was a lot more to soldiering than just fighting. Something the poor bastard was about to find out the hard way.
As the sentry passed him, Calris inched out from his hiding space. He had cleared the snow earlier so as to not crunch when he moved, and the silence at his flank indicated Ban had done the same. They came to their feet and crept after their quarry, feet making no sound as they carefully stepped. Heel to toe, outside in, silent as a mouse.
The assassin-turned-guard had no warning before Calris clamped a hand over his mouth and pressed the tip of his sword into the man’s back. Ban circled around to his front, axes out and ready.
“Good morning, sir. Do you have a moment to talk about our Lord and Saviour, High King Cael of the Pantheon?” Ban asked with a cruel grin.
The man mumbled something in reply, unintelligible thanks to Calris’ hand. He carefully removed it and pressed harder with his sword to compensate. The man gulped.
“Odd spot to run into missionaries,” he said, trying for bravado, but the tremor in his voice was clear.
“We’re all about bringing the Light of The Pantheon to the darkest reaches. Which leads me to ask, how many soon to be converts are in that their city?”
“I’m not telling you shit; you may as well kill me.”
“That’s surprisingly loyal for an assassin. Good on you,” Ban replied, clapping him on the shoulder and then punching him in the gut. He doubled over, gasping, but Calris pulled him back upright. The man groaned and shook his head.
“You have no idea who you’re messing with. If I ratted out the Guild, the things the Master would do to me…” he paused, and Calris felt a tremor run through the man’s body, “let’s just say, I’d be better off dead.”
Calris sighed and spun the assassin around to face him.
“I believe you, mate. And I feel for you, I really do, but unfortunately you’re in a bigger pickle than you realise right now.”
“Death or torture at the Master’s hands? That’s not a hard decision. It’s the choice between a torture rack or an eternity of peace in the afterlife.”
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“I never said death was on the cards,” Calris replied. “Tell me, how familiar are you with Aetheris mages?”
*
Calris and Ban had dragged the poor bastard, who they had named Kevin, to the rendezvous point a safe distance from the city. They were the last pair to arrive. Mouse and Badger were sitting with their captive, sharing a smoke and chatting amicably, while a deathly pale man sat between Viper and Sparrow, shaking uncontrollably.
“Morning all,” Calris said as he approached, shoving Kevin ahead of him.
“Don’t tell them anything, you bastards!” Kevin spat, before a sword pommel to the kidneys shut him up.
“How d’you all get on?” Calris asked, “you look like you’ve made a friend,” he said, gesturing to Mouse and Badger.
“G’day!” their captive said cheerfully, giving a friendly wave. Mouse explained that Richard, his actual name not a nickname, originally hailed from the same town as she did. They had known each other as kids and had spent the last little while catching up while they waited for the others. The other captive, though…
“Viper, Sparrow, is your guy alright? He looks… pale.”
“That’s just the blood loss,” Sparrow replied.
“Uh huh…”
“P-please… help me,” the captive whispered before yelping and cowering when Viper smacked him.
“I see. Well, I think we should probably get back to camp before he carks it then.”
*
It turned out that Viper and Sparrow’s captive was already too far gone, and the marines left his corpse in a shallow grave a few kilometres out from the camp. It had been a terrible tragedy, but the upside of it was that his death shook Kevin up nicely. He was ready to talk before they handed him to Alincia.
Which was probably good news for him. He and Richard gave up the secrets to the city before Alincia had a chance to start the torture, much to her disappointment.
But it didn’t help the marines any.
They had brought most of the Guildsmen south of the Rift. Despite their numbers being culled by crackdowns in Salazaar and oddly, or so the prisoners thought, Emrinth, they still totalled a little over a hundred. Which meant they outnumbered the marines roughly three to one. Plus, they had confirmed that they had a troll in their employ, though how exactly that had happened, the captives couldn’t say. Add at least two mages and the fact they held the defensive terrain, and the odds were stacked against the Calandorians and their associates.
The captain and the squad leaders were conferring in the command tent, planning their assault with the information gleaned from the captives and Barbarus. Calris wasn’t sure whether he was surprised by that last little inject. On the one hand, they were out in the middle of absolutely nowhere, in a frozen wasteland. But on the other, the guy was fucking weird. Calris was under no illusions that he wasn’t a regular human. If he had been honest when he spoke with them; that he rubbed shoulders with royalty and had lived for thousands of years, then Calris wasn’t sure what he was, or what he was really capable of. He thought back to how easily Barbarus had demolished both him and Ban.
“I wish Barb was coming with us,” he muttered to Ban, who stood beside him in the icy wind outside the commander’s tent.
“That is an odd way to start a conversation, Cal.”
“Sorry, had a train of thought that went off-road a bit.”
“Fair enough.”
Silence settled over them again, both men absorbed in their own thoughts about the upcoming battle. They had been through some hairy scraps even before coming into possession of the Key, but even so, neither of them could see how this next battle was going to go well for them. Outnumbered, out muscled thanks to the troll, and probably outmatched in mage power as well. It was a suicide mission.
Unless Captain Erwell’s ace in the hole came through. There had been rumours throughout the camp that Erwell had sent a couple of messenger pigeons from the ship en route to the Wastes. It made sense that one pigeon would be sent back to the hierarchy in Calandor, but no one was sure where the second pigeon had gone. Scuttlebut said, depending on who you spoke to, that it went to a Tok Risim mercenary company, a squad of battlemages, or the Griffon Riders from the border. Of the three, the last seemed the most likely, though Calris desperately hoped it wasn’t the case. Griffon Riders were all arrogant pricks.
And as much as they incessantly harped on about their skill at arms, the fact was that their utility came largely from the terrain they operated in. Long pikes, bows and carnivorous winged mounts were excellent in the craggy cliffs and mountains, but less useful on open fields when the enemy carried crossbows.
Calris was hoping for the battlemage squad, personally, even though he was mostly sure such a thing didn’t exist. As if on cue, though, a messenger, sweating despite the cold, ran into the camp and sprinted straight into the command tent.
“What do you suppose this is, then?” Ban asked, taking a tentative step towards the tent.
“Not sure, but I doubt it’s good,” Calris replied as an alarm went up at the entrance to the camp. They sprinted to the perimeter, the rest of the Sixth falling in behind them as they went, and ground to a halt at the edge of the camp. Arrayed before them was an army of Emrinthian raiders. Calris and Ban stared in surprise before Calris thumped Ban on the back and laughed.
“Finally! Some regular soldiers to kill!”