Henry rubbed his arms to keep the circulation going. The civilian clothes were not as warm as his uniform, but he was sacrificing come comfort for deniability. He’d kept the cap, however. One military-issue cap wasn't unusual. Even civilians scrounged for good winter clothing.
He had four men including himself, not ten, and one wasn’t exactly a volunteer. But he’d put them together well before he’d finally made the colonel guilty enough to give him permission. They were coming now, to yet another graveyard produced by the war. Some two years ago a number of men had been hastily buried here, several of them enemy dead. The Reachers avoided the place, which made it perfect for this clandestine meeting.
The shifter arrived first. He was tall and burly, and he wore leather armor studded with metal plates and rivets. It made not a squeak as he walked, no, loped into view. Standing upright, he might have been two or three inches over six feet, but the beast-man preferred hunching when he stood and moved. It kept his broad, wolf-like nose closer to the ground.
He called himself Dawn, notwithstanding that in Breland that was a woman’s name, and when he shifted he could track like the wolf that he resembled. He could also produce wickedly long and sharp teeth like a wolf. And like a wolf, he was loyal to those who were loyal to him.
Carl had saved Dawn’s life twice, and the beast man with his bulging muscles and reddish-brown body hair had sworn that he would find the Brelish human, wherever Aundairian or Karrnathi troops were holding him.
“Captain,” the shifter said, raising his head a bit, if not saluting.
“I’m just a soldier,” Henry said. “I’m not an officer, Dawn.”
“You a captain now,” Dawn grunted, absent-minded checking the hilts of the three swords that he wore, and the crossbows strapped to his legs. Dawn was not long on smooth words, but he wasn’t short on weapons.
Or brains, no matter how he talked. Dawn was cunning. Like a wolf.
The Halfling came with the gnome next. Dawn heard them before Henry did, but the old soldier had battlefield reflexes, so he heard the soft footfalls only a few seconds after the shifter. Of course light as Phillen’s feet were, if the Halfling had cared about being heard, they’d not have known he was there until his body parted the mist.
Phillen wore armor like Dawn’s, only a miniaturized version of it. The cocky Halfling had a shaved head and bright blue eyes, and the only visible weapon on his person was a sling. A sling he was very, very good at using, especially in conjunction with the several dozen magical stones he kept on his person.
Phillen’s sister, a baker, not a soldier, had been killed by a nervous Aundairan infantryman some twelve years ago. The Halfling had been mad for killing them ever since.
Right now he was grinning that wide, cocksure grin that he had, bouncing a key from one gloved palm to the other. The key was to the collar that was fastened around the neck of the fourth member of their expedition.
Manfred Oboken was the name that he’d been convicted under, although doubtless he’d used others. He’d been a small-time crook and a moderately talented illusionist who’d finally been caught by the Dark Lanterns. Manfred had thought that he’d been involved in a lead-as-gold scam, and had been horrified to find out that he’d been unwittingly assisting Cyran spies. He’d been even more horrified to find out that he’d been accused of treason and they were going to behead him.
They didn’t of course. They’d offered him a pardon if he spent ten years in the army instead of twenty at hard labor.
Manfred didn’t like army life any more than he liked the simple and itchy wool robe that he wore with his collar. But he’d used his illusion magic successfully on a number of occasions, and he would be very, very useful in hiding them in the Aundairan countryside.
Manfred’s black, glittering eyes locked on Henry, then on Dawn, then on Henry again. “You’re going to rescue that junior officer, Carl, aren’t you?” he asked.
“He’s not stupid, this wizard,” grinned Phillen. “No he’s not. So tell us, boss, what’s next?”
“Anita’s Ford,” Henry said.
“That’s seasonal,” Dawn grunted. “Summer only. Rest of the time the water’s too high and too cold.”
“Phantom’s Crossing,” Henry told him.
“That’s a myth,” frowned Phillen. “You sure you don’t want to steal a boat instead, boss?”
“Not a myth,” Manfred said suddenly. “But the key has been lost for over two score years.”
“I don’t have the key,” Henry told them. “But I know how to find the keymaster. Or at least I think I do. If we get there and it doesn’t work, we’ll try another way. But we can’t go the regular ways, they’re being watched. And the idea is to not fight the entire Aundairan army.”
“Let’s go then,” growled Dawn. “It’s quite a walk.”
“I procured some mounts,” Henry said. “I don’t know if Manfred can ride, but –”
“I’ll tie him to the saddle,” grinned the Halfling.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Chapter 9 - part 11
“If you can’t tell me why you’re so pissed, can you at least tell me what we’re going to do about it?” the younger, red-haired Medani asked his second cousin.
“There are some things I don’t share with anyone,” Parnain told him. “Don’t take it personally. You’re my closest living kin in the House, you know far more than any other.” The two were sitting together in a second-story room, drinking tea and eating sandwiches while looking past heavy curtains to the street below them. A illusion spell had been cast on the front of the window, making it appear as if the curtains were drawn tight, and the room had been rented through a series of double blinds.
“We have six more changeling heads in that chest over there,” the younger half-elf said. “We were going to move on anyway, but then you go see a druid who gave you some intel and come back mad as Khyber’s whore-spawned goblins, demanding that we get to Aundair of all places by magical transportation, but we can’t use a teleporter. What’s going on?”
Parnain stirred his tea, and watched the street below. Some petty criminals had been impressed into doing public service, and they were raking pebbles and clay into the street in an attempt to even it out from the damage that the heavy rain did to it. From here he could count the sacks and guess their weight. It was a primitive way to do street maintenance. “So I wanted to leave before and now I really want to leave,” Parnain said. “What bothers you?”
“We don’t have a gig in Aundair, and they’ve got to be irritated that we butchered their agents here,” the red-haired Medani pointed out. “But we’re going there? What did this druid say to you?”
“This is the druid that saved us from a nasty ambush and let us trip up the gnome’s double-cross,” Parnain pointed out. “Let’s just say the druid has a nasty habit of unearthing facts that others prefer to stay buried.”
“He gave you a job in Aundair?” the red-haired Medani told his cousin. “Is that what this is about? And it’s a high enough target that you think that the Orien teleporters will be watched as a matter of course?”
Parnain sighed. “I’ve taught you too well it seems,” he said. “You can’t tell anyone about this,” he said, peering carefully at the younger half-elf.
“Parnain, you can trust me,” the red-haired Medani said, an affronted tone coming into his voice. He set down his tea cup and caressed Parnain’s hand. “What haven’t I given you? What haven’t I let you do? Who have I told?”
Parnain jerked his hand away like his cousin’s touch had burned him. “We don’t talk about that unless I bring it up first,” he hissed.
The red-haired Medani hung his head. “Sorry,” he muttered.
Parnain’s eyes coldly watched the younger half-elf, and a painful, awkward moment passed. The younger half-elf looked up, blushed, and then looked away, shamed that his mentor and lover was angry with him.
And when his attention was so diverted, Parnain’s fingers passed over the other half-elf’s teacup.
“Think nothing of it,” Parnain said after a while. “My temper got the better of me. How about we figure out another way upriver, then once we’re out of this town I’ll tell you everything?”
The other Medani grinned and took a big swallow of tea. “Thanks, Parnain, I’m sorry I – talked about what I will never talk about again. Okay?”
Parnain gave a half-smile.
The younger half-elf paused, his face wincing in pain.
Parnain’s half-smile evaporated as the younger half-elf then gasped, and dropped his tea cup.
“You made the mistake of thinking that because you were useful, because I enjoyed using you, that you were my friend,” Parnain told him. The blonde half-elf stood, cold eyes on the cousin that he had just poisoned, as the red-haired half-elf fell off of his chair and onto the floor. The younger man’s eyes rolled wildly as his tongue expanded, blocking his airflow, and his heart slowed.
The red-haired Medani was tough. It took him a good three minutes to die. He spent most of the time paralyzed by pain, crying wordlessly for mercy. He got none.
“There are some things I don’t share with anyone,” Parnain told him. “Don’t take it personally. You’re my closest living kin in the House, you know far more than any other.” The two were sitting together in a second-story room, drinking tea and eating sandwiches while looking past heavy curtains to the street below them. A illusion spell had been cast on the front of the window, making it appear as if the curtains were drawn tight, and the room had been rented through a series of double blinds.
“We have six more changeling heads in that chest over there,” the younger half-elf said. “We were going to move on anyway, but then you go see a druid who gave you some intel and come back mad as Khyber’s whore-spawned goblins, demanding that we get to Aundair of all places by magical transportation, but we can’t use a teleporter. What’s going on?”
Parnain stirred his tea, and watched the street below. Some petty criminals had been impressed into doing public service, and they were raking pebbles and clay into the street in an attempt to even it out from the damage that the heavy rain did to it. From here he could count the sacks and guess their weight. It was a primitive way to do street maintenance. “So I wanted to leave before and now I really want to leave,” Parnain said. “What bothers you?”
“We don’t have a gig in Aundair, and they’ve got to be irritated that we butchered their agents here,” the red-haired Medani pointed out. “But we’re going there? What did this druid say to you?”
“This is the druid that saved us from a nasty ambush and let us trip up the gnome’s double-cross,” Parnain pointed out. “Let’s just say the druid has a nasty habit of unearthing facts that others prefer to stay buried.”
“He gave you a job in Aundair?” the red-haired Medani told his cousin. “Is that what this is about? And it’s a high enough target that you think that the Orien teleporters will be watched as a matter of course?”
Parnain sighed. “I’ve taught you too well it seems,” he said. “You can’t tell anyone about this,” he said, peering carefully at the younger half-elf.
“Parnain, you can trust me,” the red-haired Medani said, an affronted tone coming into his voice. He set down his tea cup and caressed Parnain’s hand. “What haven’t I given you? What haven’t I let you do? Who have I told?”
Parnain jerked his hand away like his cousin’s touch had burned him. “We don’t talk about that unless I bring it up first,” he hissed.
The red-haired Medani hung his head. “Sorry,” he muttered.
Parnain’s eyes coldly watched the younger half-elf, and a painful, awkward moment passed. The younger half-elf looked up, blushed, and then looked away, shamed that his mentor and lover was angry with him.
And when his attention was so diverted, Parnain’s fingers passed over the other half-elf’s teacup.
“Think nothing of it,” Parnain said after a while. “My temper got the better of me. How about we figure out another way upriver, then once we’re out of this town I’ll tell you everything?”
The other Medani grinned and took a big swallow of tea. “Thanks, Parnain, I’m sorry I – talked about what I will never talk about again. Okay?”
Parnain gave a half-smile.
The younger half-elf paused, his face wincing in pain.
Parnain’s half-smile evaporated as the younger half-elf then gasped, and dropped his tea cup.
“You made the mistake of thinking that because you were useful, because I enjoyed using you, that you were my friend,” Parnain told him. The blonde half-elf stood, cold eyes on the cousin that he had just poisoned, as the red-haired half-elf fell off of his chair and onto the floor. The younger man’s eyes rolled wildly as his tongue expanded, blocking his airflow, and his heart slowed.
The red-haired Medani was tough. It took him a good three minutes to die. He spent most of the time paralyzed by pain, crying wordlessly for mercy. He got none.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Chapter 9 – Part 10
“Our sixth serious insubordination in a week,” the major said, slapping the report down on the battered wooden table in the command tent. The table wasn’t the only piece of furniture that wasn’t the most luxurious. The Reachers had no intention of making the tent where their most senior officers met easily identifiable.
They were many miles from the border, and some serious money had been paid for the services of a certain notorious Medani hunter of changelings to limit the spying against them but still they took such precautions.
“It’s close to winter,” snarled a half-elf. She’d lived with shifters most of her life in a remote area of the Reaches, and their habits had rubbed off on her. “They need to return to their tribes, their people, to hunt, to provide. Aundair is bloodied, and our people need not stay here. So tempers are short.”
“They’re soldiers,” snorted a white-haired Warden of the Wood. A druid and a warrior, he carried a bastard sword on his hip. He held the hilt in one hand, and stroked a wolf with the other. “They ought to do what they are told. Begin flogging the insubordinate ones.”
“You sound Deneith,” grumbled another human. He’d jumped up in rank quickly over the past year, mostly due to not dying. It was commonly thought he’d been promoted past his competence. “Send them home and they’ll be back in spring to fight twice as hard. Try to hold them, and they’ll rebel. They cared not for Aundair’s demands, they’ll not care for ours.”
“Ridiculous coddling,” snapped the white-haired man.
“Morale is a weapon!” the half-elf woman spat out, gnashing her teeth.
“We need to do something,” the major said, sitting in a creaky chair. “Either let them go or attack across the border. They can’t sit and do nothing for long.”
“Weather won’t allow it,” muttered a half-orc druid. “More rain, more sleet. Hard to get across the river.”
“We let them go home, we have to pay them, and nobody knows what will turn up in that wagon,” sighed a man with an eye patch. He hardly talked at these meetings, and when he did, he worried over money or food. “We need someone to calculate what we’ll pay them if we disband for the winter, and if we have it.”
“The tension is becoming racial,” the major said. “Some of the shifters feel that the Deneith humans look down on them.”
“They don’t?” snorted a shifter woman holding a longbow.
“If we go across,” the half-elven woman said. “Will the blue coats go with us?”
The conversation stopped, and their eyes turned towards the provisional commander. He was young, and he was a druid of only middling power, but he was a tactical genius. As such he’d been raised in rank to general, and been given command over the growing army near Varna. It was now the largest single concentration of Reacher troops, more than triple the size of the next largest. Originally conceived as a blacking force, it was being rethought following surprise victories that blunted the Aundairian advance.
“Breland will defend our borders, but not advance,” the provisional commander told them. Several of the officers present cursed, and the half-elven woman spat. “Given that they’ve had incidents of our own going rogue and attacking them despite the current truce between our nations, I suspect that they’ve no desire to be caught between our forces and Aundair. Aundair isn’t ready to attack us, not yet. We hurt them, and they’re tied up with Thrane so badly that they can’t come again. So for now, between Aundair’s reluctance and Brelish bolstering, we are safe.”
“We send them home then?” the major asked. “Or we take the initiative and attack?”
“According to Brelish intelligence, Karrns have sent undead to bolster the border between us and Aundair,” the provisional commander said. He pursed his lips. “I see no reason to wait the time it will take to pass this matter onto the high command, let’s start letting them go. Do it in phases, not everyone at once. That way we can stay on top of the accounting –” He directed a wry grin at the man with the eye patch. “- and we can remobilize if we need to.”
“How do we organize it?” the white-haired Warden asked.
“I’d talk to the middle officers, get rid of the troublesome first,” the provisional commander said. “Then the hardship cases, the folk with the farthest to go, and kin to provide for. Keep Deneith, and keep the cavalry. In general go for about a sixth of our force in weekly spacings, keeping the last sixth through the winter.”
“A sixth is Deneith and our full-time force,” the major noted.
The provisional commander nodded. “Yes. Everyone goes home.”
They were many miles from the border, and some serious money had been paid for the services of a certain notorious Medani hunter of changelings to limit the spying against them but still they took such precautions.
“It’s close to winter,” snarled a half-elf. She’d lived with shifters most of her life in a remote area of the Reaches, and their habits had rubbed off on her. “They need to return to their tribes, their people, to hunt, to provide. Aundair is bloodied, and our people need not stay here. So tempers are short.”
“They’re soldiers,” snorted a white-haired Warden of the Wood. A druid and a warrior, he carried a bastard sword on his hip. He held the hilt in one hand, and stroked a wolf with the other. “They ought to do what they are told. Begin flogging the insubordinate ones.”
“You sound Deneith,” grumbled another human. He’d jumped up in rank quickly over the past year, mostly due to not dying. It was commonly thought he’d been promoted past his competence. “Send them home and they’ll be back in spring to fight twice as hard. Try to hold them, and they’ll rebel. They cared not for Aundair’s demands, they’ll not care for ours.”
“Ridiculous coddling,” snapped the white-haired man.
“Morale is a weapon!” the half-elf woman spat out, gnashing her teeth.
“We need to do something,” the major said, sitting in a creaky chair. “Either let them go or attack across the border. They can’t sit and do nothing for long.”
“Weather won’t allow it,” muttered a half-orc druid. “More rain, more sleet. Hard to get across the river.”
“We let them go home, we have to pay them, and nobody knows what will turn up in that wagon,” sighed a man with an eye patch. He hardly talked at these meetings, and when he did, he worried over money or food. “We need someone to calculate what we’ll pay them if we disband for the winter, and if we have it.”
“The tension is becoming racial,” the major said. “Some of the shifters feel that the Deneith humans look down on them.”
“They don’t?” snorted a shifter woman holding a longbow.
“If we go across,” the half-elven woman said. “Will the blue coats go with us?”
The conversation stopped, and their eyes turned towards the provisional commander. He was young, and he was a druid of only middling power, but he was a tactical genius. As such he’d been raised in rank to general, and been given command over the growing army near Varna. It was now the largest single concentration of Reacher troops, more than triple the size of the next largest. Originally conceived as a blacking force, it was being rethought following surprise victories that blunted the Aundairian advance.
“Breland will defend our borders, but not advance,” the provisional commander told them. Several of the officers present cursed, and the half-elven woman spat. “Given that they’ve had incidents of our own going rogue and attacking them despite the current truce between our nations, I suspect that they’ve no desire to be caught between our forces and Aundair. Aundair isn’t ready to attack us, not yet. We hurt them, and they’re tied up with Thrane so badly that they can’t come again. So for now, between Aundair’s reluctance and Brelish bolstering, we are safe.”
“We send them home then?” the major asked. “Or we take the initiative and attack?”
“According to Brelish intelligence, Karrns have sent undead to bolster the border between us and Aundair,” the provisional commander said. He pursed his lips. “I see no reason to wait the time it will take to pass this matter onto the high command, let’s start letting them go. Do it in phases, not everyone at once. That way we can stay on top of the accounting –” He directed a wry grin at the man with the eye patch. “- and we can remobilize if we need to.”
“How do we organize it?” the white-haired Warden asked.
“I’d talk to the middle officers, get rid of the troublesome first,” the provisional commander said. “Then the hardship cases, the folk with the farthest to go, and kin to provide for. Keep Deneith, and keep the cavalry. In general go for about a sixth of our force in weekly spacings, keeping the last sixth through the winter.”
“A sixth is Deneith and our full-time force,” the major noted.
The provisional commander nodded. “Yes. Everyone goes home.”
Chapter 9 – Part 9
“Hold steady now, steady,” Van Deers d’Kundarak said, eyeing the crack in the warforged’s leg as he applied the adhesive. The elderly dwarf used a thick magnifying monocle, attached to his head by a worn piece of leather tugged around his wool cap. He eyed the warforged’s limb to make sure that not a dab of the substance was wasted.
“This unit, Saul, follows your direction, Master Artificer,” the warforged responded with a deep bass tone. Of the three in the camp, he was the only one with adamantine plating, so it was ironic that he had been injured when excavating the gully that the accounting wagon was hidden in.
“I keep telling you to just call me Van, I’ve no official rank,” the bemused dwarf said with a smile. “Ah! That ought to do it.” He paused, watching the air dry the exposed sealant in second. “Flex the leg a bit, would you please?” The warforged obeyed. “Splendid!”
“Thank you Van,” Saul told him. “May this – may I return to my duties?”
“You are quite welcome, Saul, quite welcome,” Van Deers said. “And yes, you can go back to guarding the wagon with John and Davv.”
The warforged called Saul nodded, and turned to walk the few yards to the wagon. Van Deers sighed, removed his monocle, and rubbed his mostly bald head through the cold weather cap. The damp was hurting his bones. He’d left Mror because he was tired of this weather.
And because he was tired of the ghosts.
Van Deers tucked his monocle and its strap into a pouch, and pulled on some gloves as he encircled the wagon. John was at its front, so he soon saw Davv at its back. The warforged, sleepless creatures that they were, always had two of the three on the outside and one on the inside.
“Good morning, Davv,” the dwarf said with forced cheer as he walked up to the basket on the peg. The coals had long banked, and even a warforged felt this sort of cold.
“Good morning, squad leader,” Davv said in a quiet voice. Davv was always quiet. His composite plating was black-coated mithril, and it had been silenced when Davv was first acquired by the Eldeen army. Van Deers had enhanced that silence, and as a result Davv always saw the dwarven artificer as another commando, despite any evidence to the contrary.
“Too cold and wet,” Van Deers said, laying his hand above the basket. It was made of iron mesh, and with the proper infusion the coals fired up, generating enough heat to keep the warforged from being damaged by the cold. “There, that should hold for another four hours.”
“You are considerate, squad leader,” Davv said.
“I try, anyway,” Van Deers beamed. “You’re a good fellow Davv, and I like you and the others a lot.”
“Why do you call us these names?” Davv asked suddenly. His voice was as flat as usual, and his eyes unreadable, but something in his stance said it was important.
“Well, er, that is…” Van Deers trailed off. “You are entitled to names, and you didn’t object to my naming you, I mean to call you by numbers, when you are valued, er, well…”
“I do not object to having a name,” Davv said. “Nor do I object to the squad leader who repaired us on the battlefield being the one to choose the name. I just wondered why these three names.”
“They – they meant something to me,” Van Deers said. His eyes were misting with tears. “I have to go.”
The warforged called Davv watched the dwarf go, its face impassive. If it was aware that it had accidentally upset the artificer, it didn’t show it.
It had a job to do. An important one. The records of which soldier would be paid what were stored in the wagon. Without them, the soldiers could not be paid.
And soldiers, particularly the independent-minded ones in the Reaches, would not take kindly to not being paid.
“This unit, Saul, follows your direction, Master Artificer,” the warforged responded with a deep bass tone. Of the three in the camp, he was the only one with adamantine plating, so it was ironic that he had been injured when excavating the gully that the accounting wagon was hidden in.
“I keep telling you to just call me Van, I’ve no official rank,” the bemused dwarf said with a smile. “Ah! That ought to do it.” He paused, watching the air dry the exposed sealant in second. “Flex the leg a bit, would you please?” The warforged obeyed. “Splendid!”
“Thank you Van,” Saul told him. “May this – may I return to my duties?”
“You are quite welcome, Saul, quite welcome,” Van Deers said. “And yes, you can go back to guarding the wagon with John and Davv.”
The warforged called Saul nodded, and turned to walk the few yards to the wagon. Van Deers sighed, removed his monocle, and rubbed his mostly bald head through the cold weather cap. The damp was hurting his bones. He’d left Mror because he was tired of this weather.
And because he was tired of the ghosts.
Van Deers tucked his monocle and its strap into a pouch, and pulled on some gloves as he encircled the wagon. John was at its front, so he soon saw Davv at its back. The warforged, sleepless creatures that they were, always had two of the three on the outside and one on the inside.
“Good morning, Davv,” the dwarf said with forced cheer as he walked up to the basket on the peg. The coals had long banked, and even a warforged felt this sort of cold.
“Good morning, squad leader,” Davv said in a quiet voice. Davv was always quiet. His composite plating was black-coated mithril, and it had been silenced when Davv was first acquired by the Eldeen army. Van Deers had enhanced that silence, and as a result Davv always saw the dwarven artificer as another commando, despite any evidence to the contrary.
“Too cold and wet,” Van Deers said, laying his hand above the basket. It was made of iron mesh, and with the proper infusion the coals fired up, generating enough heat to keep the warforged from being damaged by the cold. “There, that should hold for another four hours.”
“You are considerate, squad leader,” Davv said.
“I try, anyway,” Van Deers beamed. “You’re a good fellow Davv, and I like you and the others a lot.”
“Why do you call us these names?” Davv asked suddenly. His voice was as flat as usual, and his eyes unreadable, but something in his stance said it was important.
“Well, er, that is…” Van Deers trailed off. “You are entitled to names, and you didn’t object to my naming you, I mean to call you by numbers, when you are valued, er, well…”
“I do not object to having a name,” Davv said. “Nor do I object to the squad leader who repaired us on the battlefield being the one to choose the name. I just wondered why these three names.”
“They – they meant something to me,” Van Deers said. His eyes were misting with tears. “I have to go.”
The warforged called Davv watched the dwarf go, its face impassive. If it was aware that it had accidentally upset the artificer, it didn’t show it.
It had a job to do. An important one. The records of which soldier would be paid what were stored in the wagon. Without them, the soldiers could not be paid.
And soldiers, particularly the independent-minded ones in the Reaches, would not take kindly to not being paid.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Chapter 9 – Part 8
“Geddup!” Young Red heard. He snarled in his sleep, twisting deeper into his thin blanket, trying vainly to shelter himself from the cold morning. Let the human find him well-dug, he would not come out! Young Red had been in a wonderful dream. He’d been back in the Deep Wood, hunting with his pack, shifting his teeth long to catch a fat rabbit.
The reality of where he was wasn’t exactly something he wanted to wake to.
“GEDDUP!” bellowed the sergeant. Cold water hit Young Red as the human dumped it on his head, and wakefulness rushed into the young shifter like an avalanche.
His body hair bristled and lengthened as he rolled out of the blanket, hissing and snarling, his teeth growing long. The others in his tent may have been tempted to laugh, but they held their tongues. He’d kill them all if he had to!
The human sergeant stood there grinning, not even drawing his sword as he let the empty bucket clang on the floor. “You’re late for your shift, again,” the man said.
Young Red screamed, hurling himself forward, ready to bite them man’s neck out. The human didn’t flinch.
Pain, scraping, falling backwards. The magical, invisible armor had been conjured about the man. Young Red had slammed full force into a shield that he could neither see nor smell, and now he lay on the ground, stars in his vision, shivering in the cold.
“Do it again and you’ll be at a court-martial,” the human sergeant said calmly. Four months back when the sergeant had come to command their unit, he’d told them that there was the way that they’d known before, and there was the Deneith way, and they’d better do things the Deneith way.
“No difference between you and Aundair!” snarled Young Red, feeling the swelling on his bruised face begin. A few others in the tent hissed at this insult, but the sergeant remained unmoved.
“You have three minutes to be at post,” the sergeant said. “Understand?”
Young Red didn’t answer, but he didn’t snarl either. For now, the sergeant had the power. For now.
The sergeant must have seen something that satisfied him, so he turned and left. Once he was gone, Young Red howled at the others, but they would not meet his gaze, would not give him the satisfaction of a fight.
With twenty seconds let, he’d gotten into a somewhat drier uniform, and headed to guard the pile of barrels filled with lamp oil.
Boring duty, guarding huge stacks of barrels. It wasn’t like they were going anywhere.
As he took his post, he began to fantasize about biting the sergeant in all of his veins.
The reality of where he was wasn’t exactly something he wanted to wake to.
“GEDDUP!” bellowed the sergeant. Cold water hit Young Red as the human dumped it on his head, and wakefulness rushed into the young shifter like an avalanche.
His body hair bristled and lengthened as he rolled out of the blanket, hissing and snarling, his teeth growing long. The others in his tent may have been tempted to laugh, but they held their tongues. He’d kill them all if he had to!
The human sergeant stood there grinning, not even drawing his sword as he let the empty bucket clang on the floor. “You’re late for your shift, again,” the man said.
Young Red screamed, hurling himself forward, ready to bite them man’s neck out. The human didn’t flinch.
Pain, scraping, falling backwards. The magical, invisible armor had been conjured about the man. Young Red had slammed full force into a shield that he could neither see nor smell, and now he lay on the ground, stars in his vision, shivering in the cold.
“Do it again and you’ll be at a court-martial,” the human sergeant said calmly. Four months back when the sergeant had come to command their unit, he’d told them that there was the way that they’d known before, and there was the Deneith way, and they’d better do things the Deneith way.
“No difference between you and Aundair!” snarled Young Red, feeling the swelling on his bruised face begin. A few others in the tent hissed at this insult, but the sergeant remained unmoved.
“You have three minutes to be at post,” the sergeant said. “Understand?”
Young Red didn’t answer, but he didn’t snarl either. For now, the sergeant had the power. For now.
The sergeant must have seen something that satisfied him, so he turned and left. Once he was gone, Young Red howled at the others, but they would not meet his gaze, would not give him the satisfaction of a fight.
With twenty seconds let, he’d gotten into a somewhat drier uniform, and headed to guard the pile of barrels filled with lamp oil.
Boring duty, guarding huge stacks of barrels. It wasn’t like they were going anywhere.
As he took his post, he began to fantasize about biting the sergeant in all of his veins.
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