TBOTH: Pandora's Box

[2000AD]

Well, it all depends on who gets dropped off. New London, for instance, was founded by poets and authors, whereas Avalon was fortunate enough to get a mix of people with useful skills. But if my geography is right, Avalon should be the closest settlement to the Expanse, so any new arrivals could simply get assimilated into Avalon.

I was wondering about that. If we picked a really good spot near to the Expanse, how come none of the previous arrivals took it? How come they've all felt the urge to move further 'inland'?
Or maybe there's a more fantastical explanation ....

[Darth Yoshi]

My guess is that the other groups didn't want to deal with the Morlocks. Remember that they came from the east. If everyone had to start over with nothing, it would have been smarter to simply pack up and move rather than standing and facing the five thousand strong horde. Yeah, Antioch has to deal with werewolves, but there's no army of them.

[LadyTevar]

Maybe no one else was dropped in that particular spot of the Expanse?

[Knife]

The original intent was that the Morlocks claimed all the grasslands and the valley itself. The original story related the tale of the Watch clearing out the grasslands and discovering Morlock outposts upon the plains.

Anyway, I intended it to be that every hundred years a group gets dropped off in the expanse and they go through the valley and into the riverlands because of the Morlock presence in the grasslands and valley. It was only us who too stubern to leave.

[consequences]

So, when exactly did we get kidnapped, and what was the guideline on sidecar passengers? Because my posse would range from just wife, to wife plus four adult friends and baby, to just two adult friends, to nobody if military barracks are exempt, depending on the specific rules and timeline.

[Mark S]

So, when exactly did we get kidnapped, and what was the guideline on sidecar passengers? Because my posse would range from just wife, to wife plus four adult friends and baby, to just two adult friends, to nobody if military barracks are exempt, depending on the specific rules and timeline.

Well, I personally put the transfer at when my son was five months old, which was in August '06. That's a while after Knife actually wrote the first one but he never gave a date so we'll sweep that under the rug.

Knife originally indicated family and roommate sort of thing. I took that as anyone in your home at the time (so if someone was passed out at a party in the house of a SDnetter they didn't know, they were in it eyes deep) but didn't say anything definitive so there is room for interpretation in what 'I saw'. Lonestar had his transfer while he was awake before duty on a navy ship and only he crossed, so that would cap things and indicate to me that a whole barracks would not come along with you.

[Mark S]

Shorter and more of a foundation chapter, but enjoy.



Ghosts in the Darkness


People have always whispered about ghosts in the darkness here on Terra; glimpses of figures out in the twilight that they can not be sure they saw. Our lore is riddled with them. I would dare say that you can’t swing a dead cat in this town without hitting some old Original that has a story about eerie spectres and a sense of foreboding around our first camp fires. From Straha’s insistence on seeing phantom eyes catching the moon at night, to Muse and her ghostly lights on the grasslands, this world would seem to have no shortage of fodder for good old Halloween tales.

I thought it was all a bunch of bullshit. Hell, the silhouette of a young taun in tall grass can be mistaken for a person at the right angle. At best the stories kept the children from straying off at night. At worst they were the Night Watch perpetuating people’s fears to justify their existence. We had enough real trouble without having to make any up. This is what I thought before I had a story of my own.

Fanboy and I had become regular hunting partners and fast friends after the dragon. I suppose that kind of ordeal will do that. We owed each other our lives and felt a sense of responsibility toward each other. Besides, as the only two to make it back from the Black Pond Valley, and the only two trading in the pelts we brought with us, we were typically lumped together by people anyway. That, and the fact that we both could boast the closest shaves in the city (dragon fangs make the best razors this side of laser-sharpened titanium).

Anyway, that winter saw not only Avalon’s first Christmas, but also the tapping of the first barrels from Brewmasters Kuja and Cyran. The two of them, along with a dedicated team of others, had toiled in their spare time to perfect for us, to the delight of some and the dismay of others, Avalon’s very own array of spirits, ciders and ales. With its timely launch on New Years Eve, the success of their endeavours, soon to be affectionately known as Black Mage Brewers and Distillers, served to help brighten the season and distract from our woes. When the pair were allowed to focus fully on their art, it marked a milestone for us. We actually had time for pleasure.

Oddly enough, for all that I wanted to drink myself into oblivion in the previous years, now that I had the chance I didn’t have the stomach for it. Not that there was anything wrong with the product, not much anyway. The local fruit made excellent cider, if the ale was rather weak (but what could you expect, the brewers were American). They made up for it with a whiskey that could melt your insides though. It was joked that we already had a fuel waiting for when we could get an internal combustion engine running.

I partook, to be sure, but not to the degree of everyone celebrating around me. I guess it was just bringing out too much of the anger and depression I still had. Instead of staying among the rest of the people I kept finding myself back at the mounds with the dead.

Even with the progress we had made, I was still mired in feelings of hopelessness. That, and anger. Since the dragon, I had found myself filled with more and more bitterness and rage toward this planet that had pitted itself against us. I guess that’s why I spent most of my time out on the hunt and away from the city. I didn’t want to be reminded of what was at stake and wanted to sink a spear into anything that got in my way.

It was to the east that we travelled now, through the mountains at the Eastern Approach, as the Night Watch called it, and into the plains beyond. Herds of striders and nerf, as well as tauns were abundant there, as they still are, and were too much of a draw to stay away from. We soon came to know a number of different hunting parties quite well, as well as the regular Night Watch patrols. Here, in early summer, is where my ghost story occurs.

The early snows in the mountains had washed down by now and flooded the bogs to the far east, expanding them into the grasslands. Fanboy and I were following the mother tauns, hired to catch foals for the domestic herd once they had been weened, but it was taking longer than expected. Other hunters in the area kept the herd spooked by day and drove everything away with their drumming and singing at night. Too much fun camping with the Black Mage’s brew and not enough actual work was my thought.

After about two days of losing the herd in the night we decided to go and set things straight. It was a bunch of kids, as we suspected, the oldest barely passed his teens. Yes, we still did not think of them as men yet in those days. They were out more for a camping trip than serious hunting and had managed to acquire some alcohol in the process. Stupid. Never put it past a teenager. They knew better than to lose their wits out here in the wild.

As responsible adults we could do nothing else but confiscate the remainder of the booze - not overly much, mind you - and see that it could no longer be of harm... by drinking it ourselves... in front of them. It was purely in the interest of teaching them a lesson, of course, but they were in no position to stop us just the same. Fanboy told them it was payment for disrupting our hard work.

It was that night that I heard it; a sound like nothing to reach my ears before. A howling roar not like any animal I had come across in my life. It rolled angrily through the warm night air toward us from far to the east, in the swamplands, to be matched off to the north and south in equal measure. By now I had enough experience with unknown animals for this to put me on my guard.

It was a horrid, inhuman sound, guttural and full of malice, and each different location seemed to feed off the others, not stopping until we silenced the drums. It was enough to un-nerve even the most naive of the young men now found in our charge and put a damper on their seemingly indestructible boisterousness. They bed down for the night soon after, each edging closer to the fire, spears and bows gripped tightly in their hands. I would get no sleep that night, my eyes constantly fighting the dimming fire light to penetrate the gloom beyond.

Long into the night, when the moons begun to drop and the fire was low, I heard quiet rustling in the tall grass and saw shapes moving cautiously around our camp. From the ghostly paler of the boy set to the watch, I knew I was not imagining it. I prodded Fanboy with the butt of my spear to rouse him from his snoring and motioned for him to be wary. He knew my meaning in an instant and in the next we were on our feet, the still glowing embers at our backs.

As slowly as the icy sweat dripping from his face, the kid prodded each of his buddies in turn. With the amount of noise they made waking, I was not surprised that we saw or heard nothing further that night. Although, as the fire was brought back to life and a couple of the more excitable lads began to wave around torches, one of them swore he caught a glimpse of a person moving away through the grass.

These antics spooked Quatto, of course, and he pulled his stake from the ground and bolted, forcing everyone to spend the rest of the night chasing after him. If he were to hurt himself or be killed nearby, it would draw larger predators to our area. The ones we knew of. And they were bad enough.

It wasn’t until the sun had broken from the horizon that we all made our way back to camp. We found it turned completely upside down. Everything had been opened, or dumped, or strewn across the ground, though nothing was taken as far as we could tell. And that was the curious part. What animal would root through the camp like that without taking any of the food?

Somebody started talking about ghosts. Strange howls in the night, rustling in the darkness, a supposed shadowy figure in the shape of a person, and a ruined camp, and they conclude that it has to be ghosts. This place was turning us into morons. I thought it was much more likely that there were others out there acting like dicks and having some fun at our expense. I shook my head and let them live in their fantasy, bending my mind as to how I would catch our pranksters.

Fanboy and I spent that day ranging around the camp, looking for signs of others. We didn’t find any. No fires, no tracks, nothing left behind, not even any evidence of domesticated tauns, nothing in the area indicated human activity. I will admit that this was a little concerning, though we were still confident that we would eventually find someone from the city and they would be very much whole, solid and alive.

The next night we all waited quietly for the howls to begin again and the ghosts to arrive outside our camp. Nothing happened. Nothing came. One by one we fell asleep in our silent vigils and nothing happened. We woke to the camp as we had left it. This only made me more curious.

The next day brought some of the bravado back into the teens we had commandeered and we put them to work for us. It was long, hard work and we were not making our way back to camp until the sun was setting over the ridge line to the west separating us from the city. The pinks and purples bouncing off the scattered clouds seemed to mix with the blues and purples and dried greys of the land below to create a world of strange, mottled twilight.

Fanboy and I rode casually amid our newly acquired team as they walked, trailing a string of newly acquired tauns behind us (young tauns will follow any of their kind that is older). As my hunting partner gabbed to anyone and everyone in particular, I listened silently, scanning the surrounding plain now and then for predators. It was then that I saw them in the dimming light, cresting a rise we had passed not long ago, following our path. They appeared human to my eyes in the growing shadows but it was hard to tell, they kept low in the grass as if trying to stay hidden.

“And what’s with this shit about calling the council members ‘My Lord’ now,” he was saying when I caught his eye. “Who started that? Fuck that shit.”

I motioned my head subtly to indicate those on our trail. Without skipping a beat, he acknowledged.

“Yep. They’ve been back there since early sunset, haven’t they. Following. Looks like our pranksters have got their second wind.”

I nodded.

“Well, I’ll be damned if they pull their shit and all these tauns go free.” A mischievous gleam sparked in his eye, even if the words rang as serious. “What say you?”

I nodded, looking around at the others in thought.

Reaching a patch of tall grass, I dropped from my mount, gave the reigns to the boy closest and indicated for him to continue on. Putting a finger to my lips and widening my eyes, I backed into the grassy cover and disappeared. Taking my lead, Fanboy did the same.

The day had left us with only the meagre light of the waning moons to make up for it when our pursuers finally came upon our position. Sure that they would be some other band of rival teens, we were intent on watching them pass and taking up step behind them. That was when we started having problems.

We kept low and hidden as the group passed, listening for familiar voices. None of them spoke above the odd guttural grunt. I was disturbed yet again, as I was expecting hushed laughter and mindless chatter. We broke cover to try for a glimpse of their receding backs in the darkness but in vain. All that we could make out were hunched, human forms. I would later learn that compared to humans, those forms were as guttural as their voices.

Thinking that we had gotten the drop on our mysterious friends, we made our way stealthily down the path, hoping to catch up and eventually give them a proper greeting when the time was right. No matter our pace we could not find them. We reached the camp and still there was no sign, as if the setting sun and the darkened plain had been playing tricks on our senses the whole time. It seemed that maybe we did have ghosts after all. The two of us hung back to watch the camp for a while just in case.

We watched the boys go about the business of the camp, quite responsibly for once, from the shadows of the night, and when they were done, watched as they pulled out their drums and began the steady beat of days before. No one else arrived to cause trouble. As the beat hammered on like the constant turn of a great machine, we started to break cover only to be stopped dead. Around us a low snarl was growing along with the thrum of fists hitting hard dirt. In stunned amazement we looked left and right to find ourselves surrounded by beastly faces gleaming in the dancing light of the fire. Impossibly, miraculously we had hidden beside each other, neither noticing the other in the darkness. I was close enough that I could have touched one if I so dared.

Clearly these were not ghosts but flesh and blood. It was also clear however, that they were not human, not by our standard anyway. Some throwback perhaps, with thicker, broader features, larger incisors and eyes that caught the light more like a wolf than a man. No, these things were as much human as this planet was Earth.

The chorus of growls and pounding grew around us, their eyes intent on our camp, until my hand was unconsciously dropping to my old stone knife, expecting the beast-men to attack at any moment. They seemed as though they would too, until the boys caught wind of their foul voices and grabbed their spears , dropping into deathly silence. The creatures around us calmed almost instantly, seeming to become more curious than menacing. They held this stance for what seemed like an eternity and we held it with them, and then, as inexplicably, as mysteriously as they had appeared, they backed silently into the shifting grasses and were gone.

The next day we made for the city as fast as we could manage.

Another return to the city. With thankfully no casualties, and without any rotting cargo to deposit on the steps of the Hall, we took our time upon this arrival, unloading our string of young animals and cleaning the wilderness from ourselves. They boys were eager to tell our tale, and sped off to their homes, but Fanboy and I knew there was no point in rushing.

“Nobody’s going to believe this,” he said.

I shrugged and patted his back. It was true though. Our story would sound like any of the other ghost stories people brought back to the city. People would be curious about our time in the wilds as usual though, and there would be parents wanting to know the truth of their children’s fantastic claims, so we would tell our tale none the less. This time though, the now ‘Lords’ of Avalon would have to take a seat around the fire with everyone else.

Then, as it is now, the best spot in front of the great fireplace in the Hall was reserved for the storyteller. That night Fanboy managed to wrestle the place away from Stravo and spun our yarn. He relayed he details of our encounter with all the grim-faced tension of any of the best haunted tales. And as I stood to the side listening thoughtfully, I thought of Cody Lake and new that this could not just be catalogued away while these creatures’ hateful eyes were on us in the night.

“So you’re saying there are other people out there that aren’t contacting us? You’re saying this was a man?” Innerbrat spoke the words but I could tell that all were thinking them. She had recently been thrust into the position of head of the University after old Prof. Green had died of the flu and was still adjusting. I don’t think she had slept much in a while.

I saw those creatures in my mind, heard their far off howls. When I spoke, my voice, unused in so long, was as harsh as their’s. It drew all eyes toward me and more than one jaw toward the floor.

“There IS something out there... on the plains, watching us... and it ain’t no man.”

As the room broke into discussion Fanboy turned and slapped me hard across the shoulder.

“Really, Dude?” he asked, pulling me aside. “Really? I’m trying to do my thing here and you steal my thunder like that? I’m trying to be taken seriously and you say shit like that? You haven’t spoken in what? Years? And you pick now? And the first things out of your mouth are lines from a movie?! If you would have finished that quote I would have decked you.”

[Darth Yoshi]

Ooh, looks like the Morlocks have made their appearance.

[Knife]

This is doing a really amazing job of filling in the build up to the battle. GJ.

[Mark S]

Boot to the Head


The face of the creature, so close to me, haunted my dreams like the ghost it was supposed to be. I could not shake it and soon became obsessed with finding them again. Fanboy had no use for this, no fortune in it he said, but he was spooked by the obvious sentience of the beasts I think. At any rate, I ranged alone on Quatto all summer and through fall, out on the eastern prairie, and not a one did I encounter. The land is big though, and I am only one person.

If I had known then what I do now, I would have made straight for the defiant islands of trees in the great sea of grass, but I did not. Indeed, Quatto preferred to steer clear of them and I did not think twice about the matter in my aimlessness. I had nothing to go on but a general location and the memory of rage howled on the wind.

Night Watch patrols had increased in the area over the summer, I noticed, and I found myself becoming aware of their movement and they of mine. I would camp with them on occasion, those men and women in black, and share any fresh kills I had if they were in need. I was given the same courtesy, of course, and their regular appearances and standard inquiries about what I had seen since the last meeting became a comfort to me.

I should have gone back to the city, but I could not. I had to find those creatures. I had to know what they were and what their intentions were. Why did they watch the camp? Why did they just leave? I couldn’t shake the image of the targs walking through our camp unhindered.

Before I knew it the year was coming to a close and I had accomplished nothing with it beyond bow and spear practice. Even then, I still wasn’t that good a shot. I had met the latest patrol briefly, near the edge of the marshes, but we were heading in opposite directions and did not spare much time. They were getting ready to make camp and I had taken to riding late into the night in my searches, so I did not join them. It was Dargo’s patrol anyway, and I was tired of him trying to recruit me like he did everyone.

That terrible night, alone on the plain, I finally caught another look at the beast-men I had searched so long for. I survived the event once again but I would not forgive myself for it.

It was a rare clear night for winter and from Quatto’s back , with the moonlight washing over the cold landscape, I could see the light of the patrol’s fire off in the distance. I wheeled the animal toward them in hopes of catching... something... watching them, but did not get five paces before he began to rear and buck. Fight the cursed beast all I could, I was thrown to the ground, my head hitting hard on an unforgiving rock below. My world quickly faded as I lost consciousness.

When I woke, it was to the sound of rustling, as of wind flowing over wheat, though I found it strange that I could not feel it on my face. I opened my eyes slowly to find the sound actually made by a forest of dark legs trooping past me. I was surrounded by them! I was completely defenceless and they passed me by as if un-noticed. Only one, near the end of the group, stopped to peer down at me and sniff curiously. Even it though, quickly turned to catch up with its brethren.

I tried to sit and promptly lost consciousness again. I did not wake then until battered by the light of day.

Had it been a dream? Another nightmare in a long line since that first encounter? I wish it had.

Smoke still rose from the direction of the patrol and, having no other ideas, I began stumbling my way in that direction in hopes of getting someone to look at my head. There would be no help found there. Two dead in the camp, another not far off, along with his taun. All around lay the dead of the beast-men with them, exposed in the light for all to see. I couldn’t process it. I fumbled around in a daze and passed out yet again. I’ll blame it on a concussion.

Coming too this time, it was to total and excruciating pain. The cold night air had caused my muscles to seize completely, racking me back to consciousness with one wave of wrenching spasms after another. Not to be out done, the pounding in my head had subsided little since the day before. It throbbed so terribly. I thought that I had lost my vision. As it turned out, the morning frost had only frozen my eyelids shut. A fact that the small scavengers pulling at my clothes would soon remedy if I didn’t act, I’m sure.

A bite to the arm sent me bolting upright, hollering in surprise and pain, and then hollering again as my muscles and head punished me for it. The crowd of tiny vermin scattered but stopped not far away, making sure I was really going to stay alive, I suppose. I did my best to convince them but that only amounted to flailing and trying to stand, two things that were not coming easily.

When the world finally started to come back into focus I was hit with the facts that I was alone without supplies, missing my mount, and I did not even know how long I had been unconscious. The holes that had been gnawed through my clothes would indicate at least some time, but the fact that I, myself, was not seriously gnawed upon would put a limit to it.

Then the events that had brought me here came screaming back. God, what had happened? Who drew first blood? If the Watchmen, why? If the beast-men, why had they not killed me as well? Why was I alive and the others dead?

They were all dead, I thought to myself, not remembering that I had only seen three of the four Watchmen of the patrol. God, they were all dead! Did I stay with the bodies, amid the gruesome display around me? Protect them from the carrion eaters that had already started their work and potentially be caught by the monstrous brethren of those fallen against them? Or should I make hast for the city with word of the attack? How could I leave these men to be dragged away and devoured by this horrible world?

The point was moot. My yelling had attracted the attention of others already surveying the carnage. They were from the city, thankfully, and checked my wounds amid their obvious surprise at my appearance. I know that I knew them but can not for the life of me remember now who they were, but they did not question me beyond when I had come across the scene and whether I had seen where the creatures had gone. Instead, they insisted that in my condition I must return with them. I was in no position or state to argue.

Half way home, Quatto found us and fell into step with the other tauns as if nothing had happened. Just when I thought I had gotten rid of him. His greeting to me was a bite on the arm as I tried to mount him. Prick.

A cold rain followed us back to the city, adding to the quiet, sombre ride. With three men bundled, their black cloaks becoming death shrouds, and one enemy carried in tow, no one was in much mood to talk. For miles, the pattering rain provided our only chatter.

Here and there I did manage to pick up what had happened, more or less. According to Talon, the last survivor of his group, they had been ambushed in the night. No warning. No provocation. No attempt at communication. No quarter given. He had no explanation. He alone was not heading for the mounds with his fellows.

I also learned that, somewhere out on the plains, Christmas had come and gone. Three more dead. Merry Christmas. Say hello to my family, boys.

All that trip I kept my silence, eyes fixed on the creature tossed rudely onto the litter in front of me. I was finally getting a proper look at them. In the grey light of that wet day, the mystery beast was finally revealed to me.

So much like us, yet so different. Human in figure, this ogre was, but larger and more broad, with powerful-looking five-fingered hands and feet. Its head and face, though carrying all of our features, barring any facial hair, belied a thick skull and more animal nature. The slack jaw and dead eyes looking back at me were a mere shadow of what I had seen in the night so long ago. The most telling feature of the beast, and the one I could never make out in the night, was the grey-blue paler of its skin. In the open light, like this, there could be no mistaking this creature for one of us.

If they have a name for themselves I do not know it, but they are called many different things by many different people. They are Morlocks to us and it is a name as suiting as any.

Back in the city I now had little to do but brood. I had found my monsters and they seemed to have proven just that. And once again, people were dead while I still lived. My compunction to find the Morlocks was now replaced with a renewed bout of survivor’s guilt. Ever the loyal friend, Fanboy tried to pull me out of it, away from the mounds, but that was something not easily done.

“I’d say we should go out there and give them some back, if you feel so strongly about it,” he commented one afternoon after finding me in the council chamber, watching the proceedings. “But they closed the eastern plains off to civilian traffic. I suppose the boys in black are taking care of things.”

I turned my head to look him straight in the eyes. “Than I guess I’ll have to join up.”

He paused, as if trying to find words. “Well I guess it beats sitting around with your dick in your hand, feeling sorry about being alive.”

I gave that one a non-committal shrug and a nod.

We sat quietly for a moment, listening to the debate rage on before us before he spoke again. “I don’t know if I can come with you on this one, Bro. Fighting our way out of shit is one thing. Going looking for it is entirely different.”

I nodded slowly, not taking my eyes from the councilors. Fanboy got up and left. He didn’t talk about it again for the rest of the week.

And that, dear Readers, is how I came to join the Night Watch; survivor’s guilt. No good reason to join, but there it is none the less. I wouldn’t have thought about it otherwise but it was as good a place to be to me at the time anyway.

The next Monday I woke before the cold winter’s dawn and fell in line with six others. To my surprise, one of them was Fanboy. He must have been giving this a lot more thought than I had given him credit for. At any rate, he gave no word of reasoning or explanation, only a nod of hello, a smile and a raised eyebrow. Probably felt he still needed to watch my back. I’d take it.

Lining up this way had developed into the method of volunteering over the years, though things are much more official now, I’m sure. Those that had wished to join the Night Watch would line up together to the side of the company currently in the yard preparing for drills. Seeing this extra group, the company captain would send for the command staff at the Hall, who would arrive when and if they so chose. Volunteers were expected to wait, silently and in line. One Watchman I served with bemoaned the fact that an emergency occurred the day he lined up and he stood there for a day and a night.

The fact that he didn’t just leave and come back is the reason I will not mention his name, but apparently he did not think that was an acceptable option. While it isn’t strictly forbidden, it certainly looks better if you don’t. A day and a half though? Yeesh.

Anyway, the command staff will troop down to the captain and then they will all proceed to look unimpressed at the lot before them, not saying a word. Now that this overview has occurred, they continue the process by telling all those that are too young to go home before their mothers find out. Those remaining are then sized up individually and either accepted or rejected with simple, straightforward and brutally honest reasons. No one that I know of has ever been rejected without obvious cause.

On the day of my particular line we waited through three spear drills before Jegs and Wilson had finished their morning dumps or whatever it was that they were doing. Captain Knife’s company was at home that week and he met them and spoke casually before turning to us. I remember the Commander being completely neutral as he reviewed, not saying a word even when Edi, one of Knife’s sergeants, made a crack about the two ‘dragonslayers’ being in the line.

In fact, he never said anything at all the whole time he was before us. He simply walked up and down, taking our measure, and then nodded to the captain. After a salute he and Wilson turned and were gone. At the time I didn’t know what to think. I guess I had been expecting more from him. Things weren’t over though.

“Well boys,” Knife addressed his lance leaders, Lonestar, Wilkens and Edi, looking unimpressed. “What do you think?”

“Meh. Take ‘em or leave ‘em.” Lonestar seemed distracted and not interested in this particular game.

“I don’t know, Boss,” Edi chimed in, crossing his arms. “Looks like a pretty sorry bunch. Half are too old and the other half too weak to carry a pack. And what the hell’s this, Fanboy? You tired of telling stories and want to start actually living them?!” He pointed at me. “He can’t even talk! Get rid of the lot of ‘em.”

“Nah,” Wilkens replied. “He can talk. He just doesn’t.”

I had known Wilkens casually in the early days. Our wives had been friends. The other men were just names and faces passed in the crowd.

At the attention given, Knife walked slowly up to stand in front of me. We locked eyes for a moment, as if he were drilling into my thoughts, before he spoke.

“Well I know you can ride,” he stated matter-of-factly. “And I know you can handle a spear and a bow...”

“Barely,” I heard Fanboy mutter from the side.

“... I can always use those skills. But I also know that you’re pretty good at trying to get yourself killed. That I don’t need. That just ends up taking other people along with you. Are you trying to join because you’re looking for the Morlocks to do what everything else hasn’t?”

I looked at him unflinchingly but could not spit out an answer as I battled in my mind the trues reasons for being there. Did I really want to join at all? Was he right? I had no doubt that I was going to die in this service but was it the reason I was there?

“The Watch can change all that in him, Cap.” Again, Wilkens stepped to my aid. In more hushed tones he said, “We need able men.”

“Hold your tongue.” The captain didn’t take his eyes from mine when he silenced his subordinate. To me he continued. “If you can’t answer the question than I’m going to have to ask you to stand down from the other volunteers.”

I didn’t move.

He started to turn dismissively. “You can go back to hunting dragons or whatever the hell it is they say you do.”

“No.” My answer was firm and deliberate. It turned him back to me.

“Well?”

“I’ve seen them... what they’ve done for no reason. I’m just here to do my part.”

“Alright than.” He nodded once. “That I can use.” Turning to everyone, he continued. “Welcome to the Night Watch Gentlemen. Fall in with my company for drills for the rest of the morning. This afternoon we’ll get you fitted and squared away.”

As the eight of us moved to fall in with Knife’s company and try to keep up as best we could, Wilkens held me back for a moment.

“I did that for my wife and yours,” he said. “Don’t make me regret it.” He walked off, not expecting me to answer.

That afternoon we were issued our general gear, a wooden sword and spear, ill-fitting armour that was apparently the smithy’s first attempt, and the red tunics that we were to wear throughout our training period. Our measurements were taken for properly made armour and the black garb of the Watch, but only amidst much joking about how we would be turning tail and running before it was ever needed. I took it all in stride. I had years of experience now quietly taking orders and not much to be afraid of. I didn’t think this would be much different than any other job. I was wrong.

When I joined the Night Watch I was in the best shape of my life. Terra had done that much for me. I will tell you, that training ran me ragged. The captain and his men became like bulls at the sight of those red shirts. While the others rested, we continued to drill or run or ride or whatever it was we were doing. I suppose we had not earned our rest yet.

For those wishing to join the Night Watch now, I’m sure things may have become more sophisticated, but this is what I went through at the time. From the moment we donned our training tunics and armour we were referred to only as ‘Red Shirt’. Volunteering for the Watch does not automatically make one a Watchman. As Red Shirts we were tossed into the company currently drilling - there weren’t enough volunteers for a training platoon in those days, though the explosion of recruits soon after changed that - and expected to shut up and learn. The first day it was spear formation drills, as I said before, and then riding formation in the afternoon. The next day we ran in full gear all day, camped at night, and then ran all the next day back. After that was archery, mounted and otherwise, swordplay and hand-to-hand combat. Friday was more general drilling and practice, Saturday we had war games in the field. Sunday, everyone else got the day off and we Red Shirts continued to practice. Throughout it all, the seasoned veterans gave help and advise and explained theory to complement that of those instructing.

The next week we did it all over again with the next company on drills, and again the next week after that. We trained with each of the three companies; Knife’s, Coyote’s, and Perinquus’. I could tell you a few stories about training but they’re probably more boring than to a reader than they are to those that lived them, so I won’t bother. They mostly revolve around not having enough time for anything anyway. Red Shirts are not given the luxury of spare anything, let alone moments. That would mean that we were not worked hard enough to fall asleep right away. No one was willing to let that happen.

Besides general hard work and comradery among the other new recruits though, I do have one memory of that time worth sharing - mainly because of pride. It was the fourth and final week of training, back with Knife’s company, during sword practice. The week had been particularly hard, with the Red Shirts pitted against the rest of the company in single and group combat. I was bruised and tired and feeling singled out. I still spoke little then, only when required, and the Watchmen had been making a point of finding reason to force me to do so. This session with the sword was particularly contrived.

I was called to the front, wooden blade at the ready, shield on arm, by Keevan who, though not in the Watch, was Avalon’s defacto swordmaster. He simply knew the most. As a result, he was also the instructor when not at the forge.

“Simple,” he said with a wicked smile. “This is your last week. Let’s see what you’ve got. Hold them off as long as you can.” He turned to the rest. “Don’t let up until he cries, ‘Hold.’”

Yes. That was how they were going to play.

First one, then another, came at me and I defended myself silently, taking on the challenge. As the melee continues and I did not yield, the attacks became more aggressive and with more painful intent. Those against me were now aiming to hear me cry out as strikes that landed hit harder and harder. It only made me more determined not to give in.

Still, I had really only been concentrating on defence, not wanting to cause my fellows any real pain. Not that they shared the sentiment, though. See, I had taken a couple different martial arts over the course of my life, even handled a sword briefly, and had actually been called a natural once upon a time, but I had never used the skill. I had never been in a real fight in my life and had always thought that I didn’t have it in me. The idea of ramming my fist - or anything else - into someone’s face never sat well with me. At that moment it all changed.

Attacked by two now, a wooden sword made it through my defences to slam heavily into my side. The crowd cheered at the impact and jeering calls came for me to give in. Perhaps they were not jeers. Perhaps I was being beaten so badly they were begging me to stop. I did not. Instead, the pain and the stress and the pressure and the noise all came together to snap something inside me. The defensive was not working for me. Now I just wanted to hurt someone.

All the training I had ever received, all the practice, all the stored muscle memory, everything clicked and, with a snarl, I went to the business of hurting as many of my comrades-in-arms as I could. I can not say that I lost control. I will not use that as an excuse. I simply gave in to what needed to be done. I would not submit and neither would they. They were trying to force me, so I would force them.

Out of nowhere I dropped to one knee, below the shield of the man in front of me, and slashed my weapon across his shins. Predictably, the second brought his sword down on my head but my shield was there to block in time before the hit. Taking another arm numbing bash to the shield, I sprang up at him, clashing us together and knocking him from his feet. Spinning, I was quickly back after the first, smacking the flat of my wooden blade into his head before he could rise.

“Another,” Keevan called, and on he came, giving the others time to recover.

I charged that one with eyes filled with fury, attacking, keeping him off balance. Seeing the others back on their feet, I spun and returned my sword to them, not giving any time to coordinate. At this point my assault was random, my only concern keeping my enemy re-acting instead of acting.

“Another!”

Now it was four to one and I felt like a dog herding sheep. Only these sheep it seemed were trying to kill me. I did my best to keep from being surrounded but that is a hard task in a crowd like that.

“All you have to do is say the word,” I heard over the din of combat. It made me all the angrier.

I battled and battled like a mad man, thrusting, blocking, parrying, twisting my body, sweeping out legs, but in the end, numbers won out over determination and a blow to the back of the head knocked me out of the fight. I did not utter the word ‘hold’ though, and frankly, I’m impressed I lasted as long as I did. The whole thing probably only lasted about five minutes, but hell, I felt like frickin’ Batman out there! And I’m not talking about the guy that sells vegetables in the square either.

That Sunday our training tunics were removed and we new volunteers donned for the first time the armour and black of the Night Watch. I do not know if this chainmail and leather that would protect me in times to come was newly minted to my measurements, or if I was merely a fit with someone who could no longer use their’s, but it hung well upon me. It certainly didn’t bite at my joints and dig into my sides like the set I was used to. The heavy cloak and the rest of the attire I knew were made for me, however. I could tell. Nothing on this planet had ever fit me better.

There was celebration and ceremony that day and into the night. The goings on of the celebration are not fit for reading about beyond the ledgers of the Black Mages and I will not speak of the ceremony. Those who wish to know it will have to become Watchmen themselves. Suffice it to say, we were bestowed our responsibilities and we were welcomed as Watchmen.

There is one point I will touch on, however. My sword. Much of our society’s wealth in iron, so rare to us, was used in the early days, I used to think squandered, on the steel of the weapons of the Night Watch. I will at least tell you about mine.

There are many weapons at the disposal of each man and woman of the Watch. Weapons that are carried on each person during all patrols and marches. Each one has a purpose. One can not be used to the exclusion of the others. Without all, we would be a lesser force. Spears, tipped in bronze for the majority of us in those days, to expand our reach, to act as javelin and lance. Bows, with arrowheads of steel and bronze, to fly at our targets from great distance. Even daggers of steel we carried, though I still held my blade of stone as well, for utility and last defence. Our main weapon, however, that which had set the Night Watch apart from hunters such as myself, is the sword.

In many ways our swords are as much a part of the Night Watch as the Watchmen themselves. They are forged with skill, named as if entities unto themselves, and maintained with care. They bare the marks of battles won and lost and stand testament to their owners even after they are gone. When passed on, from wielder to wielder, they carry the stories of the Night Watch as much as any book such as this. We all know the history of our blades. It is grievous not to.

Some even say that the weapons grow through time to carry a life of their own. They say that a piece of the soul of all who bear it, starting from the forger on, is left behind to give it power. It is a nice fancy but nothing more. Superstition creeping over our reason like so many tangling vines, I say. Yet, here I am waxing poetic about a sword.

I was presented with mine that day long ago, surrounded by the men and women of the Night Watch. Encircled, like each new recruit had been before me, I took my place to stand ready to receive the weapon. From whom, I did not know. A couple of the others had been given newly forged blades by their creator, Keevan, but the rest had taken up those of the fallen. Friends of those Watchmen to give their lives had seen to their swords’ continuation to the next soldier. Loki, Hellscream, Delorus, Mercy, and Silvertongue; mighty weapons all, would serve their new masters as aptly as they did their old.

I was somewhat surprised when it was Keevan to carry forth the steel package, wrapped in my vary cloak, as is the custom, to bestow on me. Fold by fold, me carefully let the black fabric fall open until the shining blade inside was revealed. I smiled. The sword itself was not unlike any of the others that gave their strength to our city; functional, adorned with only the most meagre of flourishes, but it was mine and in my years of uncaring, it actually made me proud to accept it.

I took up the offered weapon from its bed, swathed in black as if I were the first to touch it, and held it aloft for all to see. My presenter eyed his handiwork and nodded as he passed off my cloak, as if passing final judgement on its balance and fitness in my grasp. I brought the blade before me, meeting it for the first time and waiting for the formal introduction.

“God knows you don’t like to talk,” the swordmaster said with a slight chuckle. “From now on you can let this do the talking for you.” More formally, he went on, “May ‘Metatron’ protect you well, so that you may protect our city and it in turn you and yours.”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at the name. I knew it from a piece of fiction that gave it to an angel that acted as the voice of God. If that was what he referenced, I thought it was kind of a dumb inside joke. Eventually it would turn out to be quite prophetic.

At any rate, I was now in the service of Avalon, on the vanguard of many more to soon follow. It was the eve of dark things to come. Not right away. Not yet. Twilight still held. But they would come.


* * *

[CmdrWilkens]

Awesome chapter, simply awesome chapter (and not just because I'm in it)

[Knife]

Awesome chapter, simply awesome chapter (and not just because I'm in it)

I said shoooosh!

[CmdrWilkens]

Awesome chapter, simply awesome chapter (and not just because I'm in it)

I said shoooosh!

Yeah but then a couple weeks after this scene you bow before the awesomeness that was my unit's one sided smash-fest.

[Knife]

Meh, I was more worried about post traumatic stress after such a scene.

[Mark S]

Awesome chapter, simply awesome chapter (and not just because I'm in it)

Thanks. I was wondering how well I would be able to portray a boot camp like experience. I obviously could have delved into it more deeply but I thought it would be too mundane. From the 'how to spot a fake soldier' thread I read a bit of, I figured one or two stories would be sufficient.

[CmdrWilkens]

Awesome chapter, simply awesome chapter (and not just because I'm in it)

Thanks. I was wondering how well I would be able to portray a boot camp like experience. I obviously could have delved into it more deeply but I thought it would be too mundane. From the 'how to spot a fake soldier' thread I read a bit of, I figured one or two stories would be sufficient.

No I think you got it dead on. The thing that really shines through is how truthful it is that Boot Camp is special to those who experience it and its really hard to relate anything specific to those who haven't been through it. The training itself makes for mundane stories and its hard to use single instances to convey the stress of a truly effective training program. I think you went the correct route and gave us a story that was important to how your character experienced it which advances the character's development while being very true to the nature of boot camp (especially the sort that Rob W would set up).

Honestly I think its the reason why this story is as great as it is because it remains focused on the central character moreso than either BoTH1 or 2. Since we already have the overarching framework of events this serves as a companion piece by being much more about the individual struggle of life on Terra. Whereas Knife and Lonestar's stories are largely about the events yours is about the characters (or in this case character). I think it provides a very worthwhile balance to the narrative as a whole.

[Mark S]

No I think you got it dead on. The thing that really shines through is how truthful it is that Boot Camp is special to those who experience it and its really hard to relate anything specific to those who haven't been through it. The training itself makes for mundane stories and its hard to use single instances to convey the stress of a truly effective training program. I think you went the correct route and gave us a story that was important to how your character experienced it which advances the character's development while being very true to the nature of boot camp (especially the sort that Rob W would set up).

Honestly I think its the reason why this story is as great as it is because it remains focused on the central character moreso than either BoTH1 or 2. Since we already have the overarching framework of events this serves as a companion piece by being much more about the individual struggle of life on Terra. Whereas Knife and Lonestar's stories are largely about the events yours is about the characters (or in this case character). I think it provides a very worthwhile balance to the narrative as a whole.

Well that's what I've been going for anyway... I've always thought that while Knife's was more romanticized and Lonestar's was more epic, I wanted this to be a 'from the trenches' look.

Oh, and you're going to have to let me know any thoughts on what your command style would be.

[Mark S]

Sarge


So I was now a Watchman, armed and armoured and ready to smite down all blue devils that dared stand before me and my ‘trusty’ steed. Yes, Quatto was in the service with me as well. They wouldn’t let me trade up, though I was the one who had to take the flak for his behaviour.

Interestingly enough, I was posted under Sergeant Wilkens, in Bravo Company ( Captain Knife’s), third Lance. It’s not always the case that you are assigned to the company that you first line up for. Somehow, I think I was put with him because he had spoken for me, as much as that was. It suited me fine.

The Daggers, our lance was called, with the Bayonets and the Razors under Knife as well. Under Coyote were the Wolves, the Jackals and the Hounds. Perinquus had the Skulls, the Wraiths and the Reapers. Ours was the best though. I know everyone says that, but the Daggers truly were. Despite any troubles you may have heard about, I wouldn’t have transferred for the world.

But that’s someone else’s story. I’ll get on with mine.

There wasn’t really much smiting to be done. Not for me. Not to begin with anyway. The company was on watch duty my first week and I was assigned to guarding the grain stores from animals. Next was general street patrol. Exciting stuff. They weren’t kidding with the name. I did a LOT of watching and not much else.

Even when out ranging, I didn’t lay eyes on another Morlock for quite a while. First I was sent south, along the desert, and saw nothing of interest beyond red plants that seemed to lash out at, and absorb the blood of, passing animals, myself included. Then it was into the mountains to the north and the forests to the west. No battles there, though I did shoot enough targs to exhaust my supply of arrows and bring back a good bundle of hides. Boots are about the only thing they’re good for, if you ask me. When my unit was finally assigned to an eastern ride I was beginning to think I would never see a Morlock again.

We did see them though, and in increasing frequency. At the time, it seemed to me that they were patrolling the area the same as we were. We would run across them here and there on the plains and they would always become very aggressive and attack. Still, I never once got a chance to draw my sword in combat. We were mounted and they weren’t, so we could typically run them down with spears or drive them off with bows. Even when ambushed, my unit was lucky enough to suffer little more than broken bones. I suppose Quatto’s skittish ear and nose helped see to that.

There were four of us that rode together typically; myself, Singular Quartet, who had joined shortly before I had, Ford Prefect, and Corporal Butch. Butch had been part of the Night Watch from the beginning and career army before that. His name was actually Brian Mansfield but that was quickly changed by all to Butch Manly. If it didn’t have to do with the military, sports or women, he didn’t talk about it. He was loud and opinionated and generally angry about something, and broke people into two categories; those who were pussies and those who weren’t. He was good at what he did though, and led our unit well until he died.

Wilkens, above him, on the other hand, was quite different. Patient, calm and observant; I don’t think I ever heard him raise his voice in anger. Even on the field he seemed to take everything and everyone in stride, never losing his cool. Believe me, we tested him. I know I did. But the Sergeant saved my life more than once just the same, a lot of our lives. Part of the job, I suppose.

The Morlocks were causing a stir with everyone. Every time I turned around it seemed, the Watch was swelled further with more young faces who looked at their futures and thought that if they weren’t manning the walls they would probably have to build them. All work projects seemed to be suspended in favour of the towers and walls around the city mesa. My poor, admittedly crude, aqueduct was left hanging in the valley in the mean time. The University building expansion was left half complete.

With our numbers growing as they were, here and there discord among the Watchmen couldn’t help but follow. Competition began and rivalries grew. Most were friendly and any that became more were usually worked out under the control of the sparring ring. Disciplined as people tried to be, fighting did occur though, from time to time.

I hate to admit it, but I was part of one such event and it grew to much more than it should have. It was with the Watchman called Crown, one of the Daggers as well, not even from a different Lance, let alone Company. He had never been overly friendly with me when I joined. He was fine and happy with anyone else but only barely civil with me. Until it all came out, I could never figure out what the problem was. I never really cared though, until the night of the fight. You can’t be friends with everyone, you know?

A bunch of us were drinking out by the eastern wall, playing music and throwing a ball around, that sort of thing. We had all had a few too many I think and I guess Crown was finally ready to vent what he had against me.

I remember the boys were jabbering away about one thing or another, swapping Morlock stories, as I rested my back against the wall and watched the young bucks trying to compete for what female attention there was. Butch had just finished going on about hitting one ‘big fucker’ between the eyes with one shot. It was more like one shot after three tries... and to the back of the head, but who am I to ruin a good story. Quartet turned to me and tried to draw me in.

“So Mark,” he started. “What’s this I hear from the Hounds about them finding you after an attack?”

Someone else, Consequences, one of our defacto medics, snorted. “Yeah. He was by The Massacre, from what I hear. When they found him, he looked like frozen shit beaten with a stick. But he was alive.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Luckiest fucking asshole in the city.”

“Toughest fucking asshole in the city!” Butch didn’t know what the hell he was talking about but I was one of his, so he had my back.

I raised my mug to him and gave an exaggerated nod of solidarity. Who am I to ruin a good story.

“He’s not going to tell you,” Ford cut in before I could or not. “It’d take too many words. He’s got a daily maximum or something. Annoying as hell, if you ask me.”

“Yeah,” Consequences agreed. “What’s with the vow of silence?”

At about that time Fanboy was strolling past on his patrol. Quartet spotted him and called out. “Hey Fanboy!” he bellowed somewhat drunkenly. I’ll spare how many times he repeated himself. “Fanboy, you and Marky here are pals, right? What’s the ‘no talking’ thing about? He trying to be a saint?

“Yeah,” my old friend replied without skipping a beat. “Saint Shithead, maybe.”

Good old Fanboy. That actually stuck for a while. He didn’t even pause for the laughter, just went back to the conversation with his patrol partner and was gone.”

“That’s not the story I want to hear.” As innocent as they are to see in print now, these words seemed to stop the merriment in its tracks. It wasn’t so much that they were said, but the seriousness and intensity of how they were said. When we turned, Crown’s eyes were fixed on me from over his ale like they were tethered. “I want to hear about the dragon.”

I looked at him blankly. He wasn’t the first to try and get that tale out of me. I wasn’t ready then though. “Talk to Fanboy,” I returned dismissively, motioning with my chin in the direction the man had left.

This, of course, elicited a chorus of slurred calls to Fanboy from the gathered crowd. Everyone loved that story and by now it was only a matter of whether we would be shooting lightning from our asses or getting the beast drunk and tricking it into eating itself.

“No. You tell me.” He got shakily to his feet and came over to stand above me, fists clenching. “Tuxedo was my friend. I want to know what really happened to him.”

I rose and he automatically fell into a ready position, obviously thinking I was going to attack. It was what he was hoping for, I suppose. There had obviously been a storm of misplaced vengeance welling in him for some time and I was the one it was to be focussed on. Any reason to be able to let loose was a good one.

I looked at him with contempt.

“Tell me what happened out there! Six men go out, two come back with all the spoils. One tells a story impossible to believe, the other doesn’t say anything at all. You know what that looks like to me?”

“Are you calling my friend a murderer?” I believe they were SQ’s words.

Whose ever they were, that’s what it sounded like to me. My fist shot out and I punched Crown in the face faster than he could react. He may have been ready to fight but he sure as hell wasn’t expecting that. Not so soon. He should have been, saying shit like that. Not here.

The man I was back on Earth would never have done that. I would have been insulted, incensed, and defended my name, but never would have lashed out. I was no longer the man I was back on Earth though. That anger I had talked about before had taken root, been refined by the Morlocks and honed by the Watch training. Violence came so much easier now. He wanted an excuse to let loose? Well so did I. And I felt I had a lot more reason to do so.

Crown flung himself at me with abandon but was caught mid way by the throng of people that had instantly appeared, separating the two of us. We never took our eyes from each other, but as our stares became blocked by one body or another, I vaguely became aware of a vise grip on my right wrist. That in turn brought to my attention the fact that my own grasp was around the hilt of Metatron. Inches of the gleaming steel were revealed, stopped dead. I hadn’t even been consciously aware of it. I have never sobered faster.

I looked over dumbly into the face of my sergeant. He still held firmly, as if keeping hold of the last piece of that man I once was.

“You want to keep that where it is.” Wilkens’ calm statement was as unrelenting as his grip.

I could say nothing as my hand, now red from unknowingly straining against his, went loose. I relaxed somewhat but prepared for the worst. I had been about to draw on one of my own. Instinctively, mind you, but for the poorest of reasons. My ass would be in the fire, even if the blade’s tip had never seen light.

“Are you alright?” Wilkens now turned to Crown. Getting a nod, he added, “You deserved that, you know.”

He had obviously been there for the whole exchange. With the Daggers' numbers pushing close to thirty strong, I thought that he was too bogged down in paperwork to get to these things.

“Both of you come with me,” he ordered. We could do nothing but follow dutifully behind to an empty office in the military wing of the Great Hall. I am certain everyone else followed at a distance.

“Two men of my own Lance fighting like a couple of schoolyard punks.” The words hung heavy with disappointment. “Am I not hard enough on you? Are things so easy that you think you can do this?”

“No, Sergeant,” Crown and I intoned together.

“Am I too hard? Is that it? Is this some sort of backlash?”

“No, Sergeant.”

“Than what’s going on?” It was a sincere question, his voice calm and collected. “The Captain will have all of our hides for something like this going this far. Is that what you want? To see me get it as badly as you?”

“No, Sergeant.” I had never felt smaller.

“I don’t get it than.” He turned to Crown. “Are you officially charging Mark with the murder of Arthur Tuxedo, JME2 and the others?”

Crown kept his eyes straight. “I never accused...”

“Don’t play semantics games,” Wilkens cut him off evenly. “You know what you said. Are you officially laying charges of murder? And be careful how you answer this because it will mean the difference between settling this here and bringing it to the Captain and then most likely the Commander. Are you accusing this man of killing, or taking part in killing, four of the last remaining of our species over a bunch of pelts?”

The air was silent, waiting for the response.

“No, Sergeant.”

“Alright.” The man before me pondered for a moment. “Than you were just trying to punish him without the benefit of a trial? What’s next? Were you going to go after Fanboy next? Then maybe fight your way through the whole Council? You are aware that they heard and accepted the report of what happened the day these two came back, don’t you? Do you think the Council, and the Commander of the Watch I might add, did that on a whim?”

He didn’t wait for a response but turned his attention to me. “Private, go get your kit and bring it back here. All of it.”

If those waiting stealthily in the wings were surprised and curious as to why I was sent rushing off alone, they were undoubtedly doubly so to see me return with all of my gear.

“Inventory your gear of me, Private,” he said on my arrival.

I hesitated, confused.

“Now,” he ordered in annoyance.

So I did, laying out each item in the lamp light one at a time. Crown seemed as confused as I was but dared not speak.

“Now,” Wilkens started, once I had finished, as if about to reveal the reason for being. “As entertaining as Private Fanboy is, I don’t know what really happened out at the black ponds any more than you do, Private Crown. The Council has recorded one version and we have both heard tell of another, which Private Mark here does not discourage, though he will not give his own. Frankly, It’s not our place to try to force it out of him. What I do know, however, is that I am apparently more observant than you.”

He picked up the eight inch long fang I had placed on the room’s table. “I don’t know how anybody can shave around a man who uses something like this and not notice.”

“As for you,” he continued, now facing me. “You were about to do what he was accusing you of doing, just because he accused you of it. Do you have any idea how stupid that is?

“There are too few of us left for this. Too damn few. You should know that. This is not why you are here. We are not here just to kill Morlocks. We are not.” Still, his voice was firm but not raised. “We are here to protect those people. If we are meant to kill to do that, so be it, but we are not killers. You were not trained to be an attack dog. We are not animals that lash out at everything that offends us. We are men, not Morlocks. I need soldiers, not dogs.”

Now I hadn’t felt smaller.

“This is ended now or I’ll have both your swords. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Both of you suit up in full armour and report to the forges,” he ordered. “Tell them that you will be working the fires for the next twelve hours together. If only one of you comes back I’m killing the other myself. If either of you removes a stitch of clothing while you work you had better be on fire or I’ll kill you both.”

Crown actually waited as I gathered my things. “He was my friend too,” I said, adjusting Metatron’s weight on my hip.

As far as I know the matter did not leave the Daggers. If the Captain knew about it, he gave no indication. We all moved forward and on to other things, most notably the Battle of the Mound, though Crown and I never were great pals.

The Battle of the Mound. Historically, a shining moment in the existence of the Night Watch. We showed the Morlocks the quality of our character that day. There was more than one moment of pause on our side as well though. That is certain.

Rumour had abounded the previous week of an upcoming offensive, so no one was overly surprised when word came down. It was only a matter of who would be involved. As it turned out, of course, it was Bravo Company, again not much of a surprise, as we were due on patrol anyway.

Third Lance was assigned to heading straight east toward the marshes while the First and Second would ride North and South respectively before turning east. There are others much more qualified than I to learn the particulars of the strategy and troop movements from. I suggest you read those papers if you are interested.

For the first few days of the sweep, we came across nothing. I didn’t think we would. I had never seen more than a dozen or so Morlocks at a time and expected that they would be moving away from such a force as we were as we approached. Still, memories of ghosts in the darkness do not fade easily and I was one of the many that fell asleep with their eyes fixed out toward the blowing grasses.

As it turned out, they were watching us during the night but in too few a number to brave an attack. It seemed they weren’t as stupid and rash as we all thought. The thing was, we had enough experience with them by now to be watching them as they did us. Keeping down wind and under cover in the moonless night, pairs of Watchmen managed to track groups back to the thickets that dotted the plains. Weng Tze and David were the first to report back. As I overheard them being debriefed, it finally dawned on me why old Quatto never wanted to stray too near those trees.

Armed with this information, our path of action was set before us and we fell upon each stand in our range, one by one. For my part, I was assigned to the left flank of our wedge, near the mid point of the line, and as all Morlocks that we encountered ran further east and not back at us, I saw no action. I was, however, called in after the charges to investigate the area and anything the enemy may have left behind.

It all indicated that they had fled as we advanced, of course, that was no surprise. The curious parts were the odd, mud-brick, domed structures they seemed to be using. Large enough to house maybe three or four people, grass grew completely over the exterior as thickly as the stink hung to the inside. It was obvious the dwellings had been around for some time and that the Morlocks had just recently evacuated. A layer of clay had been applied to the interior walls but had long since cracked and pealed away in most places. Nothing had been left behind, garbage or good. The next two of the mud huts were in pretty much the same condition. The remaining we did not bother to quantify beyond their occupancy.

Hour by hour we drove them steadily before us as the sun fell steadily behind. We chased them across the plain, until the night had taken full reign and we were forced to make camp. The dark was their time. If they were going to find the courage for their retribution, we all thought it would be then. And yet, though the watches passed the time in anxious paranoia and many more of us sat sleeplessly by the fire (no matter our orders), no baneful howls were heard, no blue devils appeared vengefully from the darkness. There was no attack.

The next day, oddly enough, was when it would come. We broke camp quickly that morning and continued our sweep until hitting the swampland, very close to the spot of that fateful ambush of Talon’s unit, I noticed. Just being back there made me start to get sick to my stomach.

It was assumed that the Morlocks would flee into the marshes and make their escape where we were not prepared to follow. We were wrong. That morning we crested one final rise on the plains, the sliver of morning sun growing unvaryingly to burn into our eyes, to find the beasts actually waiting for us. Their gnarled and twisted bodies seemed at perfect harmony with the gnarled and twisted trees that now sheltered them, and as they moved forward, testing the weight of their clubs in the morning mist, it was as if those trees and that clinging fog had given birth to them.

Yes, the creatures came out to confront us, forming into a rough battleline. Not only that, but there were a hell of a lot more of them than we had been chasing, a hell of a lot more than anyone had ever seen in one place before. To say that we were unnerved would be an understatement. No one had believed the monsters capable of such forethought and strategy. For a time after, many in the city, those who had not seen, still tried to explain it away as us anthropomorphizing.

“Yeah, great,” someone commented grimly. “Chain mail against blunt force weapons. Real great.” A round of murmured approval followed.

Quatto immediately began to prance and pull at his reigns, forcing Butch, beside me, to grab firmly onto my bridal and yank. His own taun, Prime, ever aggressive, clashed its closest horn against Quatto’s for good measure.

“Easy,” he said to all around him. “If this is the best they can do, we’ll be done before y’all can finish pissing your pants. It’s not like anyone’s going to be shooting at you.”

The matter-of-fact bravado helped to break the tension and remind us of who we were. No blue devils with sticks could beat our steel. Or so we kept telling ourselves.

The wind blew hot as our orders were issued, and carried away the scent of the bogs, our enemy’s malice and our lingering fears. I dismounted with nineteen others and marched forward into the wicked glares and hellish roars cast by the Morlock line. They did not wait for us to position, but seemingly at a brayed command of their own, charged as one, waving their clubs and howling wildly.

I quickly matched my shield with those beside me and added a spear to our bristling picket as the beast-men closed the distance. Behind, the sound of bows being readied tickled my ears. Time seemed to stand still as we waited for the enemy to close, nervous energy flowing freely. Some men dug their heels in as if preparing for a race, springs coiling tighter and tighter. Others took the opposite approach, bouncing loosely, quicker and quicker, as if trying to build some sort of momentum on the spot. All of this danced on my peripheral vision but I dared not take my eyes from the coming horde. Sweat dripped from under my helmet but I dared not shift position to wipe it away.

In seconds, a lone horn blast sounded the order for the front line to drop. Like a great gate falling into place, each shield man’s right knee hit the soft ground and each spear thrust forward. This did not slow the enemy’s charge in the slightest. They were almost on top of us.

An instant later the arrows of the second line whispered over head and hammered the Morlocks like a driving metal rain. That stopped them. The first of them anyway. Again and again the volley’s flew but despite it, the monsters crashed into us like an evil tide into a rocky shore. I grunted at the impact, my one knee and feet digging roughly into the ground, my whole body ringing with the impact, and pushed back with all my might. I thrust my spear into an oncoming chest even as the bowstrings sang once more. Blood showered down on me from a brute who had tried to jump our line, now bristling with still vibrating shoots. Before I knew it, the horn sounded again and we were all taking the offensive.

I remember drawing Metatron with a bellowing cry on my lips. Not some valiant war cry, no, but a cry for help. The Watchman known as 2000AD had been injured in the initial clash, a knee out of joint or something like that, and could not stand. I was yelling for a medic and trying to keep the Morlocks from such a prone target. I’m told that as I hacked into them, a constant stream of curses and obscenities issued from me the likes of which could poison the very land where I stood.

That may be true, but I don’t remember it. I was surrounded and swinging wildly, all form thrown right out the window, and am conscious only of the rage that I felt. At that moment, those creatures were the physical embodiment of everything I hated about this world, everything that had wronged us all from the beginning, and I poured forth that venomous wrath with every ounce of my being. Despite what the Sarg had said before, at that moment I was there to kill Morlocks.

Blood and gore stormed from high and low as I, and Twogrand below me fighting from his back, swung and slashed in desperation. Thunderous blows pummelled me and shattering my shield. Again the blast of the horn washed over the field as we were ordered to fall back. The two of us tried to comply but were too slow and a fresh wave of Morlocks, apparently reenforcements held back and waiting in the trees (another surprise),easily overtook us. Surrounded and battling for our lives, I thought that we were alone and doomed. All I could do was fight on as best I could until the end.

As quickly as those thoughts came, however, they were trampled down by a rush of taun-tauns. The sergeant had led a charge through the mass, scattering them away from us. I looked around in confusion to begin with, and panting, drenched in stinking Morlock blood, and apparently still growling swears, I caught Wilkens’ eye. He was looking at me strangely, as if he were seeing a ghost, before snapping back into focus and hauling me up in front of him on his mount. Twogrand was pulled onto Consequenses’ mount and we sped away, leaving the beast-men to chase after. The Sarge had saved my life once again.

The remainder of the battle was academic from my standpoint. Once mounted, I formed up with the rest of the left flank and, along with the right flank, attacked the horde with volleys of arrows from taun back, as best I could in my battered condition, that is. Surrounded by nine other riders and constantly on the run, it was surprisingly easy to keep Quatto in line. He only needed to get within bow-shot anyway and only fought slightly on the approach. Meanwhile, the Sarge and his group led the idiot Morlocks around the field and into a trap like the goddamn pied piper. By the end of the day we had slaughtered the majority of them, leaving only a handful to escape into the grizzled cover of the marsh.

As my injuries were limited to only some major bruising of the arms and torso (possible fractures not withstanding), I was one of the ones put on ‘mercy’ detail. We were tasked with killing any of the enemy that might be wounded yet still alive on the field. I was told later that I continued to curse every Morlock as I went about the grim work. It was the most anyone had heard out of me in years. From what I’m told, it began to unnerve some of the younger Watchmen.

So there it was. The deed was done. Mission accomplished. As far as we knew there were no more Morlocks on the eastern plains. The other lances met us later, under the column of smoke from the burning pile of enemy bodies we continued to gather and the captain soon turned us toward Avalon. Realizing it was still in my hand, I cleaned and sheathed Metatron and made the trip in silence, not feeling any lighter of spirit for having rid the land of blue devils.

As ever, Sergeant Wilkens seemed to take the victory in stride. I suppose the events of the day, and the revelations of the Morlocks, gave everyone pause for thought.


* * *

[LadyTevar]

YAY! Another great chapter!

[Knife]

I have to admit, I was half way through the chapter when it struck me what the title was. I was thinking sarg like a critter or monster, not sarge. lol.

Good background piece though. However didn't Wilkens get enough hero worship in the original. You're going to make his baby faced head get too big.

[Mark S]

However didn't Wilkens get enough hero worship in the original. You're going to make his baby faced head get too big.

I figured if people were trying that hard to protect his body / avenge his death at the Battle of the Hymn, I would show a reason or two.

[CmdrWilkens]

I have to admit, I was half way through the chapter when it struck me what the title was. I was thinking sarg like a critter or monster, not sarge. lol.

Good background piece though. However didn't Wilkens get enough hero worship in the original. You're going to make his baby faced head get too big.

There is never such a thing as too much hero worship for my taste . I also think that the story is excellent in the sense that, had he chosen to, you could easily have swiched in any of the lance commanders and it would still resonate because it remains such a personal tale.

Oh yeah and you did create the small problem that if you want to parrallel the original BotH then you have to spend time with me since there was the whole chapter on my lance's exploits so I'd blame yourself for writing me in as too central ofa character in the original. I've become the Bean to your Ender.

[Knife]

Oh yeah and you did create the small problem that if you want to parrallel the original BotH then you have to spend time with me since there was the whole chapter on my lance's exploits so I'd blame yourself for writing me in as too central ofa character in the original. I've become the Bean to your Ender.

It's all good.

Though, I actually wrote a chapter about me and Lonestar riding around doing nothing with a wee bit on the end about you telling me what happened at the Battle Mounds. I still really like the chapter and really the story in general. I said it before but will say it again, it fills in the original really well. I don't know how long he'll parallel the original but I'm enjoying it a lot.

[Mark S]

I'm glad this chapter came off well. It actually went through quite an evolution before coming to rest where it did.

It's been interesting writing this. I want to be able to comment on the major events, so I have to be there, and I have to put myself in interesting situation so people will continue to read, but at the same time I sure as hell don't want to turn the character of, well, me, into a huge glob of my own sploog running around.

As for the parallels, I can tell you that I have a bit of a tangent planned for the next chapter, then the next will be pretty much the final battle (which I'm not sure how much I'll get into), then we get started with all new...

[CmdrWilkens]

I don't suppose you are planning on parralelling Lonestar's tale since that would keep you in the same Company even after the war?