Wolfhounds

[Kingmaker]

This is the first bit of a story idea I've stopped and started over about a half-dozen times. I'm not terribly thrilled with what I have, but whatever. I'm hoping to improve my writing quality, so feedback is appreciated. This story was inspired by reading The Black Company and Perdido Street Station in rapid succession. And I've always wanted a fantasy story with automatic weapons.

Prologue

The Kelpie-class freight airship had a name, but Varus Rizen hadn’t bothered to learn it. The craft was one of hundreds of its class, and, more importantly, it was just one of several dozen near-identical airships that passed through the city-state of Tresorstadt’s skydocks every day. Under ordinary circumstance he wouldn’t have been caught dead aboard such an abomination. Today was different, though.

Now, a familiar voice whispered inside his mind. Strike!

Today he would help turn this abomination on its masters. He extricated himself from his place of concealment—inside one of the many shipping containers in the Kelpie’s hold. The belly of the monstrosity seemed cavernous to Varus, but he had been told the Kelpie was merely of modest size. A quick scan revealed that none of the airship’s small crew was nearby. He turned and withdrew a small sack and checked its contents. Most were biomorphs far beyond his meager skill with bioccultics to craft, all thankfully unharmed. Lord Veles had provided him with backups in case something unfortunate happened, but the purpose-built creatures were slow to make, and he knew Lord Veles would appreciate having some left over.

The rest of his companions were emerging from their own hiding places nearby. There were only four of them, but their gifts made them far more dangerous than ordinary humans. “It is time, brothers and sisters,” Varus said quietly. He did not need to say any more. They had been preparing for this moment for months. There was no need to review the plan or to check on the second team. Everything was moving to Lord Veles’s plan.

Recalling the layout of the airship from memory, Varus led his team up and out of the artificial cavern and into the airship’s crew compartments. They moved quickly and quietly towards the bridge. The first objective was to ensure that the crew was unable to alert anyone in Tresorstadt of what was happening. Varus had initially thought that meant killing the crew, but Lord Veles had patiently explained that the crew needed to be alive and compliant. Failure to keep in contact with Tresorstadt’s skydocks would alert them almost as fast as a regular warning.

A quick glance inside the bridge compartment told Varus there were only two people inside—a stroke of luck. A quick exchange of hand signals set his team in motion. Each crewman was seized by two attackers and silenced. Varus withdrew a pair of centipede-like creatures, and placed one on each crew member. It took only moments for the biomorphs to find the crewmen’s spines and start to burrow in. The crewmen convulsed for several moments as enlightenment was forcibly implanted into their minds. It was the first time Varus had seen the creatures in action. Lord Veles reserved them only for the most important missions.

“Remain here and act as if everything is normal,” Varus ordered. He motioned for his companions to release them. The crewmen stood and went back to work. “Excellent. Now to deal with the rest of the crew.” Varus and his companions stalked out of the bridge compartment.

The sleeping quarters were the first to be checked. Three crew members were killed in their sleep, faces shredded by razor sharp claws. Together with the two on the bridge, that took care of half the crew. After a quick sweep of the crew compartments, he found the remainder in the airship’s small lounge. One particularly alert crewwoman scrambled to her feet as Varus’ team rushed into the room.

“What the he-” she was cut off by Varus leaping across the intervening space and swiping his claw grafts across her throat. It took only a few moments for his companions to finish off the rest of the crew. The blows were not clean or efficient, but they sufficed. The airship was secure.

“Finish them off,” Varus ordered, gesturing towards the wounded men and women squirming on the deck. “I need to go check with Erezzo.”

Down in the hold, Erezzo’s team had managed to work fast, Varus saw. The volatile fuel filling the hold had been linked together such that it would all ignite and detonate simultaneously, if Erezzo had done his job properly.

“How much longer?” Varus asked. “Lord Veles is waiting.”

“Not more than five more minutes,” the diminutive woman said, glancing up from where she worked. “There is no rush, Varus. Lord Veles needs this done right more than he needs it done fast. Unless you failed in your task.” She returned to the mass of wire and arcane circuitry. “I trust we will not need to worry about Tresorstadt’s air fleet intercepting us. No? Then leave me to my work.”

Varus suppressed a sudden impulse to strike her. Her known of the abominations was useful, even if it bordered on heresy. And then there was the poetic justice of turning the abomination on its masters. That was the only reason to keep the woman around. Still, he would need to remind Lord Veles that she was getting out of hand again. “Get your team to the lifeboats as soon as you are done,” he said. He headed back up into the crew compartment and ordered his team into one of the airship’s extremely cramped lifeboats. They had a short range, and relied on the same principles as the contraption they were attached to, but they would serve well enough in absence of something better.

Erezzo has underestimated how long she needed, as usual. She and her team came scrambling up from the cargo hold and all but dove into one of the lifeboats. “I suggest we leave now, Varus.”

A moment later, both lifeboats dropped away from the hull of the Kelpie and headed for the surface of the ocean. Behind them, Varus could see the hijacked airship continuing on course for Tresorstadt. It was headed straight for one of the city’s high-rising towers overlooking the ocean. By the time anyone in the city realized what was happening, it would be too late.

That didn’t stop them from trying. As the Kelpie closed in on the tower, a few airships from the Tresorstadt air fleet scrambled to intercept. It was a futile effort. A few rockets streaked towards the Kelpie, but none brought it down. It impacted a moment later, and Erezzo’s improvised bomb went off.

A second sun ignited briefly over Tresorstadt, or so it seemed to Varus. He had to avert his eyes from the intensity of the light created by the blast. The tower did not collapse so much as it was ripped apart by the explosion and the impact. Dust and debris obscured the ruins of the blast site, but Varus had no doubt that they had just struck a powerful first blow against the abominations and their masters. Lord Veles would be pleased.

[Kingmaker]

Chapter One

Lieutenant Michael Kairan watched pillars of smoke pour from burning scars in the Tresorstadt cityscape. In the streets below him, shouts and screams and gunfire melded together in an incoherent symphony of battle that was audible even above the roar of the dropship’s engines. They were the latest marks of seven months of terrorism and rebellion.

“These guys are a bunch of amateurs.” Lance Corporal Marik Saitev yelled over the engine roar. He gestured out the side of the dropship at the fortifications that a company of Tresorstadt urban militia has set up. It took only a moment to see what he was indicating. The militia positions offered little support to each other and their flanks were exposed. They were only saved by the almost equally amateurish tactics displayed by their foes. A few rebels fired down from second and third floor windows, but most crouched behind cover in the street. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Marik aiming down his rifle’s sight at the advancing rebels.

“Do not engage, Corporal.” Michael ordered. “This is not our fight.”

He saw Marik clamp down on the annoyance that crossed his face. Nevertheless, he relaxed his aim. Michael checked the wires running from the sockets in his wrist to the arcane batteries on his hip for the sixth time since his team’s dropship had left to take up station above the Tresorstadt skydocks. It probably did not matter. The dropship was too high up for him to do any good if it came to a fight.

Watching the fighting bothered Michael. Not because it disturbed him—violence was nothing new to Michael. Any mercenary could expect to see a lot of action, and the Errynt Rangers saw more than most. Part of him desperately wanted to plunge into the action. Part of him was just annoyed that the attack on the skydocks was preventing any ships from landing. If the rebel forces weren’t beaten off soon, the Invictus was going to run out of fuel.

The militia leader had refused any assistance, so Michael’s team of Special Forces Rangers was dispatched to provide reconnaissance for the Invictus instead. There were only ten of them in a dropship meant to carry more than twice that number, but it still managed to feel cramped. Dropships always felt cramped. It was not his first command, but this mission was the first time Michael had commanded any Special Forces Rangers on an operation. He had finished RSF Officer Selection just in time to miss the Mylesian campaign. The other Rangers in the dropship had been sneaking suspicious glances at him the whole flight, but no one has said anything. Michael ignored them. They could think anything they liked as long as it did not interfere with the mission.

He looked over at the senior enlisted squad leader, Lance Sergeant Jack Gloverson. The tall, dark-skinned man showed no sign of having noticed the exchange between Michael and Marik. Michael doubted that was the case, even considering the engines’ deafening roar. No one made it into the Errynt Rangers’ Special Forces without being sharp, and anyone who made it to squad leader was sharper than most.

Below, the center of the militia’s line was in danger of being overrun, and the arcane monsters which had garnered the Tresorstadt rebels so much attention had yet to appear. They are fighting untrained scum, Michael thought.And still they fail. Of course, if they failed, then a hold battalion of Rangers and all their assorted support personnel would be in dire straits. Michael tapped a toggle on his microvox. “Invictus, this is Regal Six. Skydock perimeter is in danger of being breached. Requesting permission to engage.” He tapped the toggle again to terminate the transmission. The small arcanic device transmitted his words to the Combat Information Center of the Invictus, several miles away over the Twisted Ocean.

It took several moments to get a reply. “Negative, Regal Six. Tresorstadt authorities are still refusing assistance, and we have thirty minutes until nil fuel. Do not engage.” Michael bit back a frustrated response. It was obvious that the militia didn’t have half a shred of competence, and Michael’s team was going to end up engaged regardless, unless Commander Alarson intended to let the Invictus crash in the ocean. It was politics, of course.

“Acknowledged. Regal Six out.” He had no difficulty letting other troops do the dying if it would make his job easier, but the defenders’ numbers were dropping. Fewer militiamen meant fewer targets for the rebels, and that was going make his job harder. He resigned himself to waiting. That was something he had done before, and could do forever.
~

Twenty minutes of fighting and the militia had fallen back, almost inside the perimeter of the skydocks. Their resistance had stiffen, thanks more to concentration of forces than any sudden improvement in leadership or skill. Michael had made another request to engage when the militia had fallen back, but it had been denied. He briefly glanced at his watch. In a few minutes, there wouldn’t be choice.

“Sir, we have a giant fucking… thing moving on the militia position,” Master Sergeant Charles Hathcock reported. The sniper continued. “It’s coming on pretty fast. It came around the corner…it just cross the intersection by the red building.” He tracked the target through his rifle’s scope.

“I see it,” Michael said, focusing his binoculars where Hathcock indicated. The description Hathcock gave was apt. It looked humanoid, but only vaguely. It was impossible to tell how tall the creature was with its hunched posture. It moved with all four limbs, enormous fists pounding the street with each step it took. It was grotesquely muscled and covered in bony plates. “The real threat emerges,” Michael murmered.

Rebel gunmen scattered away from its path, a few shrieking in terror. It ignored them, charging straight in for the small nest of machine guns centering the militia position. A storm of small arms fire battered it ineffectually, deflected by the monster’s naturally armored hide or simply absorbed by the mountain of flesh. It swept away the machine guns and the gunners behind them before turning its attention to the rest of the militia.

The rebels recovered from their panic and moved out from behind cover to cautiously follow in the monster’s wake. Michael found it curious that they seemed afraid of their own ally. “Invictus, this is Regal Six. Militia position is about to be overrun. Requesting permission to engage.” Below, the hulking monster had snatched a militiaman and pulled his head off with ease before eating it. The rest of the militiamen were fleeing.

“Affirmative, Regal Six. Invictus is at nil fuel and is on approach. You have permission to engage rebel forces.”

“Acknowledged. Hathcock, bring that biomorph down.”

“Gladly.”

Michael switched his microvox to the dropship pilots’ frequency. “Lieutenant Ginnis, hold us steady for a moment.” Hathcock’s spotter, Sergeant Alice Faulkenberg, started calling out measurements and adjustments. Hathcock took aim with his Caliburn anti-material rifle. A moment later, the rifle thundered and the monster’s shoulder exploded in a gory pink mist of blood and vaporized flesh. The monster screamed in agony. It tried to hurl a piece of rubble, but Hathcock’s rifle thundered twice more, and the two thirteen millimeter slugs struck, reducing the monster’s head and shoulders to a ruin of blood and mangled flesh. Seeing the monster fall caused the advancing rebels to hesitate and the militia to rally.

Michael didn’t bother to complement Hathcock’s shooting. “Weapons free.” It was a short fight. The Rangers who could shoot out the door did so. Even as high as they were, their Curtana assault rifles could still be deadly effective in the hands of a skilled marksman. More deadly by far were the door mounted rotoguns manned by the dropship’s crew. They made a sound like an automatic saw, and close to thirty rebels were caught in the open and shredded by a hail of extremely rapid and accurate gunfire. Most didn’t have time to scream.

Fire from rebel positions slacked off. Michael suspected that the sudden reversal left them hesitant to continue their assault. A few slipped out of the houses and stores where they had been hiding and slid away into backstreets and alleys. Michael was tempted to tell Ginnis to pursue, but decided against it. Tresorstadt's civil war was not his concern.
~
They circled above the perimeter of the skydocks for several more minutes to confirm the withdrawal of rebel troops. The militia started to pull their defenses back together, and a number of reinforcements had arrived in what looked to be cheaply made freight trucks. Michael ordered Ginnis to set his team down near the militia position. The dropship touched down near the perimeter of the skydocks. The skydocks themselves loomed up behind them. In front of them was an improvised defensive position made of rubble and sandbags, spanning the street and being shored up by several dozen militia.

“Hathcock, Faulkenberg, stay in the dropship and provide us with sniper cover in case we need it,” Michael ordered as he stepped off the dropship with the remainder of his team. The dropship lifted off, and, for the first time in over an hour, the omnipresent roar of its engines was gone. It was replaced with the wailing of injured and dying men. A few were being treated by the handful of medics, but it was clear to Michael that they were neither skilled nor numerous enough to deal with most of the casualties.

Corporal Marcus Schueler spoke up. “Sir, do you mind if I help out?” The Altari man gestured at the growing number of casualties being dragged in. Michael almost said no. They had better things to do than treat the wounds of a band of conscripts. But there was also no reason to antagonize the medic. He jerked his head in assent.

“Fine. Calder, stay with him.” The two Rangers nodded and moved off to help. Michael glanced around, looking for an officer or sergeant, and noticed the militiamen staring at him and his team with a mixture of curiosity and awe and a little fear. It was reasonable, Michael supposed. His team was probably the first group of real professional soldiers they had ever seen, rather than whatever parade ground professionals the island city-state kept. They looked pathetic in comparison. Most had nothing but a badly made grey uniform with a few pouches and cheap assault rifle with a spare magazine or two. The often haphazard-look of the Special Forces Rangers likely made them look even more dangerous.

A man who looked like an officer jogged out of the crowd of troops towards Michael and his team, snapping orders at the militiamen to return to work. He had tanned skin and brown hair, and he towered almost a foot over Michael. Not that that was unusual, given Michael’s stature. The man looked distinctly unmilitary.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked in Altari, jabbing a finger at Michael’s face. Michael was briefly thankful that so many of the Errynt Rangers’ recruits came from Altar. Otherwise, he never would have bothered to learn the language.

“Lieutenant Michael Kairan, Errynt Rangers. First Ranger Combat Unit.” The man sucked in a breath and eyed Michael suspiciously. There was always the possibility that the reputation that usually preceded the Errynt Rangers was not good.

“Captain Jan Keese. Second Company, Fifth Urban Militia battalion.”

“Where is your commanding officer?”

“I am in charge of the defense he-.”

“Don’t be absurd. This city wouldn’t leave the defense of one of its most important facilities to the hands of one company and a storekeeper in a uniform. Who is in command of the troops defending the whole skydocks?”

Keese choked off for a moment. “Lieutenant Commander Lord Frederick Mueller.”

“Would you kindly inform him that an Errynt Clan air assault airship named Invictus is coming in to land, and request that he not order his triple-a to fire on it.” Michael had no doubt that the Invictus could handle whatever anti-air defenses the militia had set up, but it would be wasteful and hazardous to be drawn into a fight with fuel so low.

Keese hesitated for a moment. “Fine. I’ll let him know.” He headed back towards his troops and took the handset to an outdated, back-mounted vox from one of his men. He spoke into it briefly, before walking back over to Michael looking relieve. “Lord Mueller wants to speak with you in person. He is coming over here now, and will be here in a few minutes. If you’ll excuse me, I have my own command to worry about.”

Keese left and Gloverson’s squad busied themselves watching for any lingering rebel snipers. Michael approached the corpse of the fallen biomorph. It has been dragged away from the militia’s line by one of the freight trucks, leaving a broad red streak on the street. From close up, the thing looked even less human. All that remained of its head and shoulders was a tangled mess of gore created by a trio of high caliber slugs. This was the reason he had chosen his profession. The world would be well rid of creatures like these and the real monsters, the ones who created them.

He heard the distinctive continuous growl of a golem engine and turned to see a polished looking armored carrus driving towards them, cutting across the tarmac of the skydocks. The vehicle stopped a few yards away from Michael and a pair of men climbed out. The first was a lean man armed with high quality assault rifle similar to the ones the Rangers carried, and wore a plain gray uniform like the militia, though of higher quality. The second was unarmed save for a small sidearm and wore a highly adorned blue and green uniform—presumably Lord Frederick Mueller. His odd uniform was likely based around family colors or something similar. He strode over towards Michael, sparing a glance of disgust and revulsion and the dead biomorph. His had an expression of extreme annoyance on his face.

“Just who do you think you are, Lieutenant Kairan? You’ve already interfered in a Tresorstadt internal affair without my authorization, and now you suddenly demand that I let something past my anti-air batteries? Weak security was what started this whole mess.” Mueller’s voice was raised, but he was not quite shouting.

“The Invictus needs to refuel. Your skydocks’ ground control was already informed of our approach. That you were unaware of this is a problem with your own communications predures. The Errynt Rangers have no desire to interfere with Tresorstadt’s conflicts.”

“Good. Tell your airship that it can come through the defenses. And keep your troops away from my command.”
Michael watched, amused, as Mueller stormed off. He activated his microvox again. “Invictus, this is Regal Six. No serious problems encountered. You are clear to proceed.”

[Kingmaker]

Chapter Two

Lieutenant Commander Silvia Errynt stepped off the Invictus and into Tresorstadt’s damp, chilly air. The airship berth that the Invictus had docked at was meant for handling freight, and so lacked any sort of protection from the elements. Massive wires ran from sockets in the Invictus to the walls of the berth, channeling arcane energy into the airship’s depleted reserves. A number of Rangers and aircrew milled about the berth, providing security or assisting in the refueling process. Like Silvia, most were dressed in the long overcoats the Errynt Rangers issued for cold weather operations. The only exceptions she could see were a trio of abhumans, all cold-immune skadi.

The refueling had been delayed for hours by the attacks, so the Rangers found themselves waiting in the cramped confines of the airship. A number of sergeants and officers took the unexpected opportunity to put their troops to useful tasks instead of the endless rounds of card and board games that usually filled air transits. Unfortunately, it had also drawn considerably more attention to the Rangers than a refueling stopover should have. In the past few hours, Silvia had received several complaints from an upset Tresorstadt noble about Lieutenant Kairan’s interference in his command. At first she had thought nothing of it. After all, it was unlikely that a minor from a tiny country had enough influence for anything to come of it. Then Marcus Alarson, the RCU’s commanding officer, had disappeared to meet with a representative of Tresorstadt’s government. An hour later he had voxed Silvia, requesting her presence. That had made her reconsider the possibility of this Frederick Mueller having significant political power. After all, what she knew of Tresorstadt’s government could be summed up in a few sentences.

“Nice to see you out and about ma’am.” Silvia turned to see the speaker, Sergeant Major Miles Havelock. Miles Havelock stood out among even among the Errynt Rangers, a group that features far more than its fair share of abhumans and soulforged, and even a few homunculi. He was the longest serving Ranger in the unit’s long history, and the only one to keep serving after being killed. He was shockingly well-preserved for a necromorph; it would be easy to mistake him for a bald, copper-skinned old man at first glance. But his skin was too desiccated and his eyes unnaturally sunken. He was also the senior sergeant of Silvia’s command, the First Ranger Special Forces Team. “Spending too long inside these flying things can’t be good for you.”

“I heard the weather here was reminiscent of home. It seems they were right.” She glanced around at the activity. “Commander Alarson asked me to meet him at the main dock. Is there any way I can get a ride, or am I going to have to walk out there?” She gestured at the large stone building to the north.

“I’m afraid we don’t have much to offer, ma’am. When Commander Alarson came through earlier he had a mechanocycle. I think there might be another one around here somewhere, but aside from that you’ve got nothing but your saints-blessed feet.” Silvia nodded and was about to that him when she caught a flash of someone not in the uniform of either the Rangers or the Tresorstadt skydock union—a woman in civilian clothes. Havelock also saw it. “Who the fuck is that?” he growled. “I’m going to find out who’s handling security and tear them a new asshole.” He glanced apologetically at Silvia. “Pardon the language ma’am.”

“That’s quite alright, Miles. I can take care of this.” She indicated the approaching woman.

“Thank you ma’am. I’ll take care of security, then.” He saluted and stalked away, the crowd parting in front of as they caught a glimpse of his expression. Silvia moved to intercept the civilian woman.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” Silvia said. “What are you doing here?”

“Irene Schreiber,” the woman said, speaking Tyrran with a slight Altari accent. “I am a war correspondent for the Tharsburg International. I’ve been observing the conflict here in Tresorstadt for the past few months.” That confirmed Silvia’s suspicion. Looking over the woman, Silvia saw several pieces of equipment that hinted at her profession. Most prominent was the small metaclockwork automata that clung to Schreiber’s shoulder and kept its lens pointed at Silvia. It was most likely an autonomous recording device. Silvia briefly wondered what model the unfamiliar automata was before focusing back on Schreiber. “I was hoping I could speak to a representative of the Errynt Clan. Is it alright if I ask you a few questions, Miss…um…” she trailed off.

“Lieutenant Commander Silvia Errynt,” Silvia supplied. Schreiber’s eye lit up at her name. That’s not good, Silvia thought.

“Oh. Are you one of the famous Errnyt twins?”

Silvia arched an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware we were famous.”

“Well, you aren’t, really,” Schreiber admitted. “But you’ve caught the attention of quite a few military writers, given how rare it is now for actual members of the Errynt family to serve in the Rangers. Regardless, I was hoping to ask you a few questions about the attack on the skydocks earlier today.”

“A few questions. Then I’m going to have to ask you leave, ma’am.” It was fortunate that Silvia had been around to intercept Schreiber. Given his intense hatred of journalists, Havelock probably would have shot her at the first mention of her credentials.

“Lord Frederick Mueller has been accusing the Rangers of deliberately interfering in Tresorstadt’s internal affairs and threatening the security of the city with their intervention in the siege of the skydocks this morning. Can you offer any insight into the Rangers’ actions?”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” Silvia said, keeping her voice carefully flat and neutral. “It was certainly not the intention of the Rangers to put the city at risk in any way. The officer in charge of that operation only engaged when ordered to because of the Invictus’ critically low fuel.”

“So the Rangers have no plans to pursue further operations in Tresorstadt? There has been speculation that the Rangers were working under the employ of an organization that wanted to keep its involvement under wraps, such as the Arcane Library or the Saevenok Company.”

“The Rangers have no plans I am aware for involving themselves in the fighting here.” Silvia glanced at her watch. This impromptu interview had delayed her several minutes, and Commander Alarson was waiting. “And I’m afraid that is all I have time for, ma’am. You need to leave now.” She started herding Schreiber out of the berth.

“Wait. Is it alright if I talk to a few of the enlisted men and women of your crew?”

“No.”
~
In the end, Silvia end up trading a few more questions from Schreiber for a ride to the main dock structure, sparing her a long walk.

The interior of the large stone building looked newer than its exterior. Though nearly everything was still made of stone, it had an unnatural smoothness and polish that made the floor slightly reflective. It also looked as if it had gotten very little civilian use in the past months, judging from the immaculate floors and absence of passenger airships in the dock areas. Freight would still move through the Tresorstadt skydocks, but it looked like passenger traffic was quite limited. As she made her way to the main area of the building she saw why. The urban militia had taken over and turned the skydocks into a headquarters and strongpoint. Hundreds of militiamen filled the front area of the skydocks, and she could see more in the streets outside. She spotted a few of her Rangers among the crowd of soldiers, members of Michael Kairan’s reconnaissance team. They stood out with their simultaneously more and less professional appearance. With any luck, one of them would be able to point her towards Commander Alarson’s location.

She found Lance Corporal Marik Saitev lecturing a squad of Tresorstadt militiamen out in front of the building. He was gesturing with his entrenching tool. “This is the most important thing an infantryman has. You can dig holes with it, and when you rifle jams and your bayonet breaks you’ll be glad you brought it along. Knowing how to fight with your e-tool can save your life.”

“Marik,” Silvia said softly. The bronzed-skinned Ranger spun around into a surprisingly precise salute.

“Yes, ma’am?” he said, switching back to Tyrran from Altari.

“I see you are giving your ‘Discourse on the Virtues of the Entrenching Tool’ again.”

“Just attempting to pass on my accumulated wisdom to these fine but inexperience young men.” Silvia glanced over his shoulder at the squad behind him. Most looked older than him, and at least one had to be twice his age.

“Have you seen Commander Alarson?”

“Last I saw, he was talking to the lieutenant and Gloverson. Gloverson is over there talking to the company CO. LT wandered off somewhere.” Marik rolled his eyes. “Oh, and watch out for Lord Freddie. He’s been looking a bit tweaked since the LT and the Commander both brushed him off.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. As you were.” Silvia briefly worried that Marik was sending her on an unintentional faust hunt, but her fear turned out to be unfounded. Gloverson knew exactly were Michael and Commander Alarson were, and she had little trouble finding them.

She made her way back into the rear of the building, into what would have been administrative offices had the skydocks been running normally. She found Michael Kairan down a poorly lit, nearly featureless corridor, leaning against a wall with Corporal Georg Wahl, staring down a pair of hulking, tattooed men in civilian clothes. The door they bracketed was labeled a conference room. Georg and the two civilian guards made Michael look even smaller than he really was.

Michael was short and lithe, barely a few inches over five feet. Silvia had almost a foot of height on him, and she was the next shortest person in the room. He also stood out as being an abhumans, with the white hair and pale skin of the skadi. The alchemy foci grafted to his wrist in the form of black fingerless gloves marked him as one of the Rangers’ combat mages. He would have looked strange in the gear of a combat mage if not for his steel-grey eyes, which were harder than anyone’s should be at his age. He reminded her of the cruel-looking marble archangel that stood at the head of the Rangers’ chapel back in Arran.

“Lieutenant Kairan, what’s the situation? Is Commander Alarson in there?” Silvia asked.

Michael nodded. “Shortly after the Invictus set down a representative of the city Stadtholder arrived and demanded to speak to Commander Alarson. The Commander requested that my team and I remain here. He has been speaking to the representative for the last seventy minutes.” He activated his microvox. “Commander Alarson, Commander Errynt is here.” Michael spoke with a light, drawling brogue that marked him as a child of Arran’s urban middle –class. Silvia had once had a similar accent, when she was younger, though years of diction coaching had mostly forced it out of her.

A few minutes later, Marcus Alarson stepped out of the room. “Commander Errynt, can I speak with you privately for a moment?” He forced open the door to an office down the corridor and gestured for her to follow. She stepped inside and he closed the door. The room was a fairly generic administrative office that would doubtless ordinarily be occupied by a low-level bureaucrat.

“Is there a problem, Commander Alarson?” Silvia said, smirking.

“I just didn’t want your two men to overhear. It helps cut back on rumors,” Alarson pointed out. “The man I’ve been talking to for the past hour is representative of the Stadtholder. Apparently you impressed the Stadtholder this morning, and now he’s offering a contract to employ your RSF Team in this civil war he’s got going on.”

“Not the rest of the Wolfhounds, though?”

“No, and we aren’t selling either. The rest of the RCU got pretty hammered last year. I have no intention of letting the top brass hire us out until we get a chance to recover and replenish.” He stopped to rub his temples. “Anyway, I didn’t want to sign the Creeps away without getting your input. I want your unbiased opinion on this offer, so listen to the man and tell me what you think afterwards. You think it’s a bad job, I just don’t pass it on to the contract sharks.”

That made Silvia wonder if Alarson suspected there was something off about the contract offer. Of course, that was probably why he wanted her to talk to the man. “I’ll do that. If we’re going to take this contract, we’re going to need more intelligence on Tresorstadt. I know little about it, and I doubt any my troops know much better.” An errant thought crossed her mind and she smirked again. “You realize that your valiant effort to contain rumors has merely changed the nature of the inevitable stories.” Alarson’s reputation was well-known and mostly unmerited.

“Lieutenant Kairan wouldn’t know a dirty rumor if it grabbed him by the balls and Havelock will have that Corporal Wahl of yours strung up by his intestines if he tries to start anything. If you’ll excuse me, I should check with Captain Ansol to see how long until the Invictus is ready to go again.” He stepped out of the office. Silvia followed him out, and entered the small conference room.

The man waiting inside was a plain-looking man with dark brown hair and wearing a conservative business suit. He rose smoothly from his seat as she entered. He surprised her by taking her proffered hand and bending to kiss it lightly. “Commander Silvia Errynt, I presume.”

“Yes,” she said as he released her hand. “Did you do this for Commander Alarson as well?”

“Commander Alarson is not nearly as attractive as you are.” He smiled and Silvia gave a light chuckle. “You may call me Schwarzseele. I am a representative of Stadtholder Willem Eisenfaust. You are here to evaluate the contract he is offering,” he continued. He gestured for her to take a seat, and passed her a file. “While I don’t expect you to be familiar with the fighting here in Tresorstadt, I presume you have heard the basics, at least.”

“I’m afraid not. I have been in the Mylesian country-side for the past eight months. My knowledge is limited to awareness that it is happening, and that it has been limited in scope.”

“There isn’t much to it. Seven months ago, a group of fanatics hijacked a freight airship carrying yag fuel batteries and crashed it into one of the Seaside towers. The explosion destroyed one tower, and further damaged nearby ones. The final death toll was just over five thousand killed. Since then, they have moved on to inciting rebellion among the malcontents in the Vaults and committing lesser acts of terror and destruction. The fighting has been limited to a few small raids for the most part. At first we felt confident letting the police handle it, but it has gotten worse in the past few months. We have lost total control of entire sections of the Vaults. The rebels have become bolder and more aggressive. Their attack earlier this morning was not unique. We have called up several militia regiments to assist, but since Tresorstadt’s professional ground force is limited to the Navy’s Marine Battalion and the small companies of armsmen maintained by the eight families, we have had little success in making them effective fighters.”

“And so you want to hire the Rangers’ Special Forces to train them and provide advice and support,” Silvia said.

Schwarzseele gave a weak smile. “Exactly. The Stadtholder is willing to pay quite generously for high quality professional assistance in putting down this rebellion as quickly and with as little disruption as possible.”

“Why, may I ask, are you only interested in hiring my Special Forces Team? That gains you less than fifty operators. Why not hire an entire Ranger Combat Unit? Surely you could use the professional troops.”

“Ah, the reasons are numerous, but most prominent among them is cost. The services of the Errynt Rangers do not come cheaply,” Schwarzseele pointed out.

Silvia somehow doubted that was all there was to it. “You should at least consider employing a second RSF Team. The Rangers don’t normally like to commit single small units to this sort of contract.”

The man nodded. “Noted.”

“And what can you tell me about the rebels? It is important that I know what sort of opposition I face. I have no intention of leading my troops in blind,” Silvia said.

Schwarzseele nodded towards the file. “The intelligence we have gathered is in there. Suffice to say that the rebels are elusive but few in numbers and poorly armed.”

Again, Silvia found herself skeptical of the man’s assertion. If the rebels really were so minor a threat, the Stadtholder wouldn’t be resorting to hiring foreign mercenaries. Scanning through the intelligence reports in the file, she saw that many looked incomplete. She had no doubt that Schwarzseele was hiding something. Of course, playing down the risk of a contract was an almost universal tactics when negotiating with mercenaries. She had every intention of getting more intelligence on the situation in Tresorstadt before accepting the contract.

After a long silence, Schwarzseele spoke again. “So, what do you think of the contract we are offering? Will you consider it?”

“I will certainly consider it seriously,” Silvia said, rising to her feet. “Though I’m sure that any final version will be much amended. But that’s a problem for the lawyers to handle.”

“Very well, then. It was a pleasure to meet you, Commander, even for so brief a time.”

“Likewise, yourself,” Silvia replied, not really meaning it. Something about the man unsettled her. He held the door for her as she stepped out. Michael and Georg were gone, but the two hulking guards remained. Schwarzseele flicked a hand lightly over his shoulder as he stepped out into the corridor, and they fell into step behind him as they left.

[pieman3141]

Highly interesting. I've been interested in fantasy myself where there it's more military-oriented, or at least an escape from the usual heroic stuff. Even something like featuring an organized professional army (a la the Roman legions or the Mongol horde) would be alright.

There was one story on AH.com where it featured La Grande Armée of Napoleon in Middle-Earth. I definitely want to see more of that.

This is good. Keep it up.

[LadyTevar]

this is good stuff. Please post more.

[Kingmaker]

Thanks for the feedback. It's occasionally surprising how much knowing someone is reading your work can motivate you.

Highly interesting. I've been interested in fantasy myself where there it's more military-oriented, or at least an escape from the usual heroic stuff. Even something like featuring an organized professional army (a la the Roman legions or the Mongol horde) would be alright.

Then I hope I don't disappoint. This story will focus primarily on a mercenary Special Operations unit rather than a larger army. Hopefully I'll get around to writing more stories in this setting eventually. I've always been an industrialization fanboy, and I thought it would be nice to have an industrialized fantasy setting where advancing magic/technology didn't magically make everyone's life suck somehow. Also, where Science!!!(tm) was applied to magic.
I've started assembling articles I've written on the setting here.

Why yes, I do believe in shamelessly plugging my own work

[Kingmaker]

Chapter Three

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have work to do,” Silvia Errynt said, glancing around Invictus’ ready room. “Tresorstadt just finished the fastest contract negotiation in history. Either they’re desperate or they have enough money to make the lawyers’ heads spin.” There were a few laughs.

None came from Michael Kairan. He was busy examining the leadership of the First Ranger Special Forces Team. He had met all of them before, briefly and individually, but this was the first time he had attended a command staff briefing. There were eight of them, enough to fit in the first row of seats with room to spare. The ready room was ordinarily used by the command staff of the whole RCU.

Furthest from where he sat was Captain Alayne Tavish, the plain-faced, brown haired woman who commanded the Team’s second platoon. Next to her sat her executive officer, Jacques Celeste. The smirking Outremeran was nearly as tall as Silvia and his blonde hair was nearly as white as Michael’s, though through dye and exposure rather than by nature. The two senior enlisted of Tavish’s platoon were Master Sergeants Tania Vasilieva and Arius Thiersch. Vasilieva’s reputation as one of the prettiest non-commissioned officers in the Rangers had done nothing to mitigate her reputation as the fiercest. Thiersch, on the other hand, was a middle-aged man with a reputation for remaining calm and reasonable in situations that would reduce most to fits of rage or quaking with fear. He was generally believed to be the next Miles Havelock.

The senior enlisted men from Silvia’s platoon were the ancient Sergeant Major Havelock and Master Sergeant David Midian, who was only a few inches taller than Michael but weighed twice as much—all of it muscle and bone. Silvia herself was working at the kinetoscope in the center of the room. She wired in a data tome into the device, and a crude projection of a cityscape sprung up—most likely Tresorstadt. The rocky coast on the north side of the city seemed to corroborate Michael’s guess.

“This is Tresorstadt, as I’m sure you worked out,” Silvia said. “We have recon automata scanning the city, and hopefully they will be able to provide us with more detailed maps in a few days. What we’re doing here is a mix of operations. The Stadtholder wants us to provide training for the urban militia units they’ve called up, since the only cadre of professional troops they have in this city is a battalion of marines who haven’t fought a battle in two hundred years and the personal armsmen of the nobility. However, we’re also going to be performing recon for them and taking direct action against the rebels.”

“And they’re expecting an under strength, underequipped SF team to do all this by ourselves?” Vasilieva scoffed. “They must have dropped a fucking gold brick on the negotiating table for the lawyers to let them get away with that.”

“Fortunately, that isn’t the case this time. I’ll be remaining in overall command of this operation, but Andrew Errynt’s Third RSF Team and a support section will be arriving to reinforce us in a week, and Commander Alarson is leaving us with four dropships and a pair of Shrike gunships plus maintenance crews. Our contract officially starts in a week, when our reinforcements arrive.” That was a significant increase from the thirty-four men and women of Silvia’s RSF Team, Michael noted. And Silvia’s twin was reputed to be both a skilled fighter and commander, if somewhat less diplomatic than his position called for.

“Good to know the old man hasn’t lost it yet,” Vasilieva muttered. The comment went ignored as Silvia continued.

“Our biggest problems right now are our equipment shortages and lack of intelligence.” Michael remembered arriving in Mylesia to find that the SF Rangers had little more than what equipment they had been carrying when the firebase they had been operating out had been overrun. They all still had their rifles, but heavy weapons were in short supply, and peripheral equipment like automata was entirely absent. The Wolfhounds had pulled out two weeks later when their employer had been assassinated, terminating the contract. “I’m not too worried about equipment for right now. We have virtually no intel on the situation in Tresorstadt, and the reports that we were given are basically useless.”

“Ah, yes,” Midian said. “Diving into a situation blind, following in the proudest Ranger traditions. This is our reason! Hoo-rah!” That elicited another round of chuckles.

“I’m hoping that we can fix that to some degree in the next week. Invictus is pulling out in a few hours, and we’ll be moving to a building at the Tresorstadt Naval Campus. From there we can start working on patching the gaping holes in our intel before actual ops start.”

Celeste raised his hand. “If you’ll pardon my asking, do we have an exfil plan in case this whole operation meets with the Madgod? With the Invictus leaving, we haven’t got much in the way of options.”

“Thank you for volunteering to deal with that, Jacques,” Silvia said. “I was wondering how to bring that up. I want you to look into a fast way for us to get out of here in case it does turn sour.” Celeste let out an exaggerated groan and slumped back into his seat. “While I’m handing out assignments, Michael, you’re in charge of making sure we’ve got the equipment we need before we roll out. We’ll have a dedicated logistics officer in a week. Until then, you’re it.”

Michael nodded. “I will handle it.” The assignment did not surprise him. He was the newest member of the command staff. He was going to get the worst jobs. It had been the same when he first made platoon commander. Invictus’ quartermaster had a reputation for being petty and stubborn.

“We’re badly in need of starlight goggles,” Tavish remarked. “Thiersch is the only one in my platoon with a working pair.”

Thiersch shrugged. “Never leave base without them.”

“That makes you one better than first platoon,” Silvia said. Midian and Vasilieva looked ready to speak up with their own comments when Havelock cut them off.

“Save the wish lists for afterwards,” he said. “I’m sure Lieutenant Kairan will be happy to take them.”

“Thank you, Miles. I want to know as much as we can find about Tresorstadt. Economic data, population data, recent history, political figures—everything you can find. We don’t know who or what we’re up against, but we may be able to put together enough of the picture to guess. Focus on the basics first. I don’t want us stumbling around in the dark. Which brings us to our biggest intelligence problem.”

“This is going to be a disaster,” Celeste muttered. Silvia shot a silencing look at him before continuing.

“Underneath and around Tresorstadt is an enormous network of former mine tunnels that have been converted and expanded to serve as living space for the poorer elements of the city. Tresorstadt officials don’t know how extensive they are, but high estimates put about a quarter of the city’s population down there. Low, around a tenth. There are a few maps of the upper levels, but that’s it. The police and militia don’t dare go in any further.”

“No surprise there,” Midian said. “Those tunnels are a deathtrap. How do they fit so many people down there?”

“Easily,” Michael said. “The real problem is that they should not be able to breathe unless there is an extensive infrastructure to move air through the tunnels.”

“Are there any estimates for how many rebel fighters could be down there?” Havelock asked.

“That’s the problem,” Silvia said. “We have nothing but guesses on how large and deep the Vaults are, and the only population estimates are based on the volume of food that goes down into them.”

“So we’ll have to scout them out ourselves,” Vasilieva said. “We can handle recon patrols just fine.”

“With due respect, Tania,” Midian began slowly. “That is the stupidest fucking thing I have ever heard. Somehow, I don’t think wandering around underground waiting to get our throats slit it a winning plan.”

“Fuck you,” Vasilieva snapped. She turned to Silvia, who was smirking. “Ma’am, could we take a break while Midian goes to get his balls out of the armory? He obviously forgot to check them out this morning.”

“Enough,” Silvia said, cutting off any further argument. From her amused expression, Michael guessed that Midian and Vasilieva bickering was nothing new. He agreed with Vasilieva, though. Midian seemed overly cautious—perhaps the result of being wounded twice in Mylesia. Being shot made some Rangers more skittish, a sentiment that had always eluded Michael’s comprehension. If you were afraid to die, you pursued another profession. Silvia glanced at Michael, and then at Celeste. “What about you two? You haven’t weighed in yet.”

Celeste shrugged. “I think we need more intelligence. This isn’t the first time we’ve gone into a contract dark, but none of those had a subterranean labyrinth that’s, as far as we know, full of bad guys we know nothing about. I don’t like the looks of this.”

“Michael?” Silvia looked at him expectantly.

“Either the Tresorstadt leadership is hiding something from us, or they truly have no idea what they are dealing with. The biomorph we brought down yesterday was not the creation of a mob of underclass rebels. That was not the first time such things have appeared, either.” And then there was the fact that they seemed almost as afraid of it as the militia.

Silvia nodded. “That could indicate that they have a few talented bioccultists working for them. I doubt they could smuggle something like that into the city.”

That was not what Michael’s instincts told him. “I think that there was more to it than that.”

“You think there’s an eidolon involved somehow?” Havelock asked. He would probably have spat if he could have. Havelock had been a century old during the Eidolon War, when the actions of several of the minor gods, known as eidolons, had sparked a global conflict. Michael had not even been born. Most of the others in the room had been young children, if not infants.

“This just keeps getting better,” Midian muttered.

“Do you have any evidence for this, Lieutenant?” Tavish asked. Michael shook his head. Nothing he could share with the rest of the command staff—nothing but an unshakeable conviction. It was not the first time Michael had gotten such a feeling, but it was not much to go on.

“No. Just an intuition.”

“I’ll keep it in mind, but I can’t deal with something if I don’t know it exists,” Silvia said. “But I’m definitely counting on the enemy turning out worse than the Tresorstadt reports we have claim.”

“Why would they give intel reports that so obviously useless?” Celeste asked. “I can understand playing down the threat to get us to sign the contract, but at certain point keeping us in the dark hurts them. I can’t come up with a single reason.”

“Never discount the possibility that they really are just idiots, sir,” Vasilieva pointed out. “These sorts of places aren’t known for their brilliant military leadership.” Again, Michael found himself agreeing with the woman. If Lord Frederick Mueller was representative of Tresorstadt’s military leadership, it was no surprise that they were having difficulty dealing with the uprising.

Silvia disconnected the data tome from the kinetoscope, causing the projection of Tresorstadt to vanish. “That’s it for now. Invictus takes off at 0800. I want us to be en route to our new headquarters by 0700.”

“The troops are going to love that,” Celeste said.

“They can sleep when they’re dead,” Havelock said without a trace of irony. “I’ll get them moving.”

“Any more questions?” Silvia asked. “Good. I suggest you get your supply requests to Lieutenant Kairan in the next hour.” She winked at him. “And try to keep padding down to a minimum for now. The cabbage roll for this operation is quite generous, and anything else extra you need can be brought with the Third RSF when they arrive. Let’s get to it.”

~
Michael rapped his knuckles several times on the metal bulkhead of the Invictus’ armory in order to get the attention of the other man in the cabin, Master Sergeant Stewart Macrasse. He stood between two rows of weapons and equipment crates. The slightly pudgy man’s head whipped around at the slight sound and his eyes narrowed as he spotted Michael Kairan standing in the hatchway. Like the rest of the Invictus’ crew, Macrasse was not a Ranger, and merely wore the uniform of an Errynt Clan retainer. He was little better than a civilian.

“Yes, lieutenant?” he asked, his tone betraying annoyance. “Is there a problem?”

“I see, Master Sergeant, that you have yet to start moving the equipment I requested to the staging area, despite the fact that I ordered it nearly two hours ago.” Michael had no trouble keeping his own voice perfectly flat. “Do you imagine that this is acceptable?” The rest of the RSF Team was in the middle of their own preparations. Michael had little time to waste with Macrasse when he could assist them instead.

“I told you two hours ago that I can’t start moving the equipment until you get me the appropriate requisition forms, signed off by Commander Alarson or Commander Errynt. Until then I can’t help you.” Michael was pretty sure that was not the case, and had been two hours ago, but didn’t argue the point. Debating supply regulations with Stewart Macrasse was a futile effort.

“Commander Alarson and Commander Errynt are both occupied,” Michael said. “The request is not extraordinary and the circumstances are unusual.”

Macrasse flipped a page on his clipboard and started reading. “Forty starlight/targeting goggles. Four hundred ration packs. Twenty-”

“I know what is on the list, Sergeant. I wrote it.”

“Then you should be aware that it is pretty fucking extraordinary, sir.”

“Don’t be absurd. A platoon’s worth of starlight goggles and ten days rations are hardly a ridiculous request for an SF Team deploying on detached duty.”

“And you are clearing out half of our automata stocks,” Macrasse said. “Do you think that is acceptable to release them without authorization? Have you considered the possibility that someone else may also need them? You aren’t the only fucking unit on this ship.”

“Don’t be absurd. And don’t exaggerate The Invictus will be returning to Ulfast, where it will remain while the Wolfhounds rest and retrain. The requested automata are all for infantry and special operations support. The chance that the automata on that list will be required before you have the opportunity to restock them is negligible. You are grasping at air now, Sergeant.”

“None of that deals with the fact that what you want is an expensive collection of equipment, above both of our pay grades. You don’t have the authority to requisition it, and I definitely don’t have the authority to let you take it. So go get the fucking authorization forms or learn to live without.”

Michael checked his watch and considered his options. He was growing tired of going back and forth with the quartermaster, and he was running out of time regardless. He could attempt to complete the requisition forms that Macrasse was demanding before 0700, which was unlikely. Even then, Macrasse would not have time to move the equipment to the staging area before it was time to move out. That left a more direct approach to acquiring the necessary equipment.

“I have neither the time to obtain the requisite forms nor to argue with you, Sergeant. I want the equipment on that list at the staging area in two hours. If you have not started moving it within forty-five minutes, I will send Sergeant Gloverson and his squad to do so for you.”

“With due respect, sir, fuck you. Your time constraints are not my problem. Just because you’re SF, you think can piss all over the regs and threaten me and get away with stealing equipment. Well, fuck you, sir. I’m just doing my job, and I’m not losing it over some LT who thinks the tab makes him a fucking saint on earth.” Macrasse turned away from Michael and went back to his previous task.

It was a risky thing to say to an officer, and under ordinary circumstances Michael would have respect the man for showing more spine than most bureaucrats would. But right now, Michael needed that equipment—his troops needed that equipment. So he didn’t have time to deal with the man’s stubbornness. He focused his mind and pulled energy from the batteries on his belt into the foci grafted to his hands. The arcane geometries inscribed on them shone with a faint bluish light, and equations in arcanic script started to run through his mind. The temperature dropped suddenly, but Michael hardly noticed. Skadi could ignore cold that made the air unbreathable.

The drop in temperature brought Macrasse’s attention back to Michael. He flinched away as he saw the charged foci. “What the h-hell do you think you’re doing?” he stammered, backing away. Michael relaxed his will and cut off the flow of energy to the foci. He glanced at Macrasse, in his shirtsleeves, shivering uncontrollably. He gave into the temptation to smirk. Macrasse was obviously both freezing and terrified. There was something amusing in the pathetic scene.

“Getting your attention, Sergeant,” Michael said, his voice still even. “I do not care what you think your job is. Your job is to maintain this is equipment until it is needed, and then to deliver it to the Rangers who require it. It is needed. Now deliver it. You will get your requisition forms when you get back to Ulfast.” He turned to leave. Macrasse said nothing.

There were going to be consequences later. Michael had no doubt of that. But for now the problem had been solved and the Wolfhounds’ SF Rangers were going to get the tools they needed. He checked his watch again and stepped up his pace. There was still more to do.

[LadyTevar]

Sometimes, you just have to put the Fear of Officers into a Sgt.

[Kingmaker]

It's amazing how long, rambling descriptions can lengthen a chapter.
___

Chapter Four

Silvia was struck by the contrast between Tresorstadt’s Jessel commercial district and the Himmelrand slum, despite their proximity. Both were part of Tresorstadt’s Jessel borough, run by the noble family of the same name, but that was where the similarity ended. The commercial district could have fit seamlessly in Nova Edessa or Tarres or any other modern city, with its paved streets and colorful storefronts and polished flowstone buildings. Thousands of people walked along the streets without fear. Cars and draft constructs hauling carriages filled the streets. But within a few hundred yards, the streets declined in quality and by their looks they hadn’t been properly maintained in decades. Only a few people were out on the streets, and a mere handful of vehicles were present. Lining the streets were row upon row of nearly identical dilapidated gray brick tenements. And if her reports were to be believed, Himmelrand was one of the least unpleasant of Tresorstadt’s lower class districts.

The border between the commercial district and Himmelrand was watched by heavily armed police troopers. The dividing line was marked by flowstone barricades and barbed wire coils. Sandbagged machine gun nests pointed towards the slum side of the divide, and their handiwork could be seen in the several mangled, decaying corpses lying on the street. In the carrus ahead of Silvia, Sergeant Midian was arguing loudly with the checkpoint commander. The troopers at the checkpoint eyed the pair of armed carruses warily. The roof-mounted heavy machines they carried were from the weapons foundries of the Aurian Church, putting them several steps above what the police were accustomed to dealing with. That’s the difference between police and soldiers, Silvia thought, though no legitimate police force would be armed with machine guns. The very idea that police work would require military weapons was an inherent contradiction to her. Looking at the corpses in the street, she bit back a wave of disgust. There were no weapons near them, and she doubted that the checkpoint guards would have bothered to collect anything they had dropped. It wasn’t the first time Silvia had worked for a brutal employer, and personal experience had taught her that it was unlikely the rebels she was going to be fighting were any better.

Silvia pushed her doubts away as Midian finished his aggressive negotiations. Tresorstadt’s problems were not hers, she told herself, except as they kept her from doing her job. The checkpoint gate swung open and the two carruses rolled across, carrying Silvia, Midian, and eight other Rangers into Himmelrand. The underclass neighborhood derived its name from its proximity to the city’s skydocks, and many of the skydocks’ employees come from Himmelrand. What had drawn Silvia’s interest to the area were the police reports that the attack on the skydocks had come from Himmelrand and the presence of a militia battalion’s operating base. The smooth streets of central Tresorstadt gave way to potholes and poor maintenance, jostling the carrus and its passengers.

Marcus Schueler, behind the wheel of the carrus, steered carefully around the corpses in the street and cast a disgusted glance behind him at the police checkpoint. He had already voiced his discontent with the contract, and Havelock had told him to do his job. Silvia had no doubt that he would—Marcus was a good soldier—but not happily. He was oddly idealistic for a mercenary. I suppose we all are, really, Silvia thought. We all signed on with the Rangers when we could have gotten better pay and easier work as the thugs of some petty dictator. Behind her, in the back of the carrus, Marik Saitev, Georg Wahl, and Ira Calder were withdrawn in their own conversation.

As they plunged further into the slums, Silvia saw it was not quite as monotonous as it seemed from the border. The ten-story tenements all had the same rough brick front and doubtless at one point they had all had identical layouts. The inhabitants had defied their homes’ uniformity and brought some degree of individuality to the tenement buildings. Narrow wooden bridges spanned the gaps between roofs, and holes had been cut in upper-floor walls to create more passages between buildings. The alleys between the tenements had been turned into extra living and building space, and were covered in colorful graffiti. The number of people out on the streets climbed as they moved away from the border, some huddled around small fires to keep the damp chill of Tresorstadt’s winter at bay while others moved about on some sort of business. It started to sound less dead.

Many stopped to watch the Rangers as they went by. Some were curious, but most looked on with hate. They probably see us as just more of the Stadtholder’s thugs, Silvia thought. And they aren’t too far wrong. With her augmented senses she was able to pick out several men holding assault rifles in the small crowd of onlookers. There was another crouched on a roof. Ira, behind the Almace machine gun on the roof, spotted them a few moments later and started to swing his weapon around.

“Armed diggers,” he said, using the Rangers’ term for poorly armed locals. “One on the roof directly west of us, and at least two in the crowd.” Marik and Wahl immediately fell silent.

“Four in the crowd,” Silvia corrected. “Let’s not antagonize them, Ira. We don’t want to bring this whole neighborhood down on us.” A similar event had happened to a company of the Rangers several years before, in an obscure city on another continent, trying to catch a warlord. They had been lucky to make it out alive.

“Aye to that,” Marik muttered behind her.

“Got it,” Ira said, moving the machine gun back to point forward. Silvia saw the men in the crowd relax a bit. Silvia suspected that they had done their reputation some good by not opening fire. She doubted that the police would have made the same judgement.

She activated her vox. “David, how far?”

“Not much, but these fucking roads keep slowing us down, the way we keep starting and stopping,” Midian said. “We’d make better time if these folks would keep their shit out of the street. Any longer and I’m going to tell Gloverson to start shooting anyone who gets in our way.” They had been stopping constantly to avoid hitting the civilians wandering through the streets, and Midian was clearly getting annoyed.

“We may want to pick up the pace,” she said. “We spotted five diggers. They don’t look hostile for now, but I’m not inclined to linger here and see.”

“Got it.” Midian’s carrus sped up, and Schueler accelerated to keep up. Their increased pace let them cut a path through the otherwise oblivious foot traffic. Spotting the diggers changed the mood in the two vehicles. Before, the Rangers had possessed their usual relaxed alertness—not expecting an attack, but prepared for one. Now there was quiet as they focused on scanning the streets for hostiles. Several minutes later, they rounded a corner and slammed to a halt. Midian's carrus had stopped in front of a flowstone and barbed wire barricade similar to the one separating the slum from the commercial district. Silvia couldn’t hear Midian, but she could imagine his reaction.

“Stop!” A pair of men in the rough grey uniform of the urban militia dashed out from behind the barricade and leveled their rifles at the two vehicles. A third and fourth crouched behind the barricade, crewing a machine gun. None looked confident staring down the pair of armed and armored trucks. “Identify yourself.” The speaker was a frightened looking man with corporal’s stripes.

“Hold fire,” Silvia ordered, unnecessarily. She had every confidence her troops would keep control of their trigger fingers. Midian identified them, eliciting a confused reaction from the corporal.

“He says he hasn’t heard anything about us, and he needs to check with his superior,” Midian said. “This guy’s looking really tweaked.” Silvia could see the man’s gaze flicking back and forth rapidly from the two carruses to the surrounding buildings as he retreated behind the barricade.

“This exact same thing happened when we landed three days ago,” Schueler said. “These militia types don’t seem to be big on downward communication or personal initiative.”

Marik snorted. “Would you trust that man’s personal initiative? It’s even money whether he pisses himself where he stands or starts shooting wildly at every twitch and shadow.”

“That would be why they hired us, Marik,” Silvia said. “Once the contract really starts, we’re going to be spending a lot of time turning these conscripts into something resembling real soldiers.” The corporal emerged from behind the barricade, and after a brief exchange of words he waved them through the gate.

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” Marik muttered.

The militia’s operating base was a low-lying building compared to the tenements around it. A battered sign proclaimed that it had once been a charity-run school, and it was surrounded by a small, ill-kept area of greenery that had been trampled flat by foot traffic. Several of the surrounding tenements looked to have been cleared out and converted to barracks for the militia. There was a small motor pool consisting mostly of light, unarmored trucks with no weapons. The Rangers pulled to a stop in front of the school.

“Ira, Marcus, stay with the carrus. Georg, you’re with David. Marik, come with me,” she glanced back Marik, who was in full battle dress. His combat vest and webbing was burdened with rifle magazines and a variety of explosives. He was one of the better explosives experts in the SF Teams, but he had never learned the meaning of ‘too much’. “Leave the armory,” she added.

“Come on,” Marik said.

“Rifle and sidearm, Corporal. No grenades.”

“Real-“

“No grenades.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He started pulling the explosives from his webbing while Georg disembarked to meet with Midian. He slapped Ira’s leg when he finished. “Don’t sit down too hard, mate.”

Silvia instinctively double-checked her sidearm as she stepped out of the carrus. Her decision to carry only her sidearm had been against Havelock’s better judgment, but the custom-made and heavily enchanted pistol was the equal or better of many rifles in power and accuracy. Arcane geometric runes along the barrel shone a soft red inside its holster. It had already been a superlative weapon when she had received it, and her personalized touches had just made it better. Beside her, Marik stepped out holding his Curtana carbine assault rifle. Despite his protests, the weapon was more than powerful enough to deal with any ordinary threats—it chambered a freakishly powerful cartridge for an infantry rifle, and the cosmourgic torque enchantments that came standard with it ensured there was almost no recoil.

Marik adjusted his scarf and gestured grandly, grinning. “Shall we go, my lady?” She looked over to see Midian and three other Rangers from Gloverson’s squad moving out to investigate the rest of the base. He didn’t need to be reminded of anything. He knew his job.

“After you,” she said. Marik took the lead into former took. Bringing Marik along was probably unnecessary, but anyone who had passed through both Ranger selection and SF qualification had learned the importance of never going alone into any situation where an attack was conceivable.

They were met inside the doors by a young lieutenant who looked like an aide. “Commander Errynt,” he said, ignoring Marik. “If you would follow me, I will take you to see Lord Ulrike.” He spun on his heel without waiting for a response and started down the corridor.

Marik looked at her and shrugged. “Puts everything in perspective for me,” he said, smirking. They followed after the lieutenant, cutting through the traffic of other junior officers and support troops. He took them up a flight of stairs and into a classroom that had become a command center. Children’s murals could still be seen on the walls. Aides were constantly entering and leaving with reports. The center of the room was occupied by a table with a detailed projected map of Himmelrand. A strongly-built man of average was hunched over the table. From his finer uniform and less worn appearance, Silvia guessed that he was Lord Ulrike Jessel. The lieutenant confirmed her guess a moment later.

“Lord Ulrike, Commander Silvia Errynt is here to see you.”

“Thank you, lieutenant. Dismissed.” The lieutenant practically vanished at Ulrike’s words. The noble turned to look at Silvia. His gaze tracked up and down, lingering on her just a little too long to be appropriate. Beside her, Marik tensed.

“Pig,” she heard him mutter. The utterance was almost inaudible, even to her augmented hearing.

“You certainly look nicer than I expected of a mercenary officer,” Ulrike sneered. “Shouldn’t you be off playing clotheshorse or something? You might strain a muscle out here.”

Silvia grabbed Marik’s wrist to prevent him from laying out Ulrike. “That’s the brilliance of Saevenok bioccultics. A homunculus can be a work of art and still be strong enough to tear a throat out.” Ulrike visibly recoiled and looked away at the revelation that she was a homunculus—an individual who was wholly the product of human artifice from conception to birth.

Why am I not surprised? Silvia thought. Augmetic conservatism was still widespread, especially in less advanced regions. Still, she wished that the report Michael had assembled on Tresorstadt’s prominent nobles had offered more insights into their personalities. If they were all like Ulrike she was going to find the coming months a very trying time. Be fair to the man, she scolded herself. You’ve known him for less than a minute. He might turn out to be alright. Unlikely but possible.

“What do you want?” he snapped after several moments of silence. “I don’t have much time to spare.”

“We’re here to observe militia operations and gather intelligence. The Stadtholder contracted us to provide assistance, and we need to determine the best way to provide it.”

“The best thing you can do is pack up and go back to whatever miserable place you call home.” Ulrike cast a disgusted glance around the room. “Colitz, deal with them. I have better things to do.”

A plain looking man in a black police uniform peeled away from the central map. “Would you both come with me, please?” he said. They followed him out into the corridor, where he continued in clear but accented Tyrran. “Allow me to apologize for Lord Ulrike. He is City Lord Otto Jessel’s cousin, as well as a former Marine officer, and is unaccustomed to dealing with foreigners. He holds his position largely by dint of no one else wanting it.”

“A winning plan if I ever saw one,” Marik said

“You must understand, Corporal Saitev, that the public-minded nobles, like myself, were all already in the City Civil Service or the police before this conflict started, and all the military-minded ones are in the Navy. That leaves only the dilettantes and the washouts of the military to lead the militia battalions.” A look of sudden realization flashed across his face. “I apologize. I am Captain Stephan Colitz, of the Tresorstadt Police. I am in command of the police detachment here.”

“What is a police detachment doing fighting a rebellion?” Marik asked.

“Intelligence work, mostly. Ensuring discipline as well.” Colitz turned to Silvia. “What can I assist you with, Commander?”

“I need reports on your operations and the kinds of opposition you have been facing since this conflict began,” Silvia said. “The reports we were given when we were contract were almost useless.”

“The inevitable result of them being compiled by civilian bureaucrats and militia intelligence officers, I assure you. The police are much more thorough in their documentation of intelligence.” He led them back down to the ground floor of the school. “I will have copies of the relevant reports sent to you as soon as possible. I can give you a quick summary in the interlude.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Silvia said. “But we don’t need to waste any more of your time.”

Colitz waved dismissively. “Nonsense. I need to file a report to my superior anyway.” He started talking without waiting for a response. “Operations here started ten weeks after the bombing of the dockside towers. Since then, we’ve been facing an elusive and surprising well-armed opponent, although extended firefights are rare. A good thing to—the militia lack the skill and discipline for them. Instead, we’ve faced—”

“Homemade bombs, snipers, mortars, drive-by shootings, the odd idiot with a knife,” Marik supplied. He turned to Silvia. “I’m pretty sure we’ve seen all of these before.”

“Let him finish.” Silvia knew Marik was mostly right, but she wanted to see what else Colitz might mention.

“As you said, Corporal. We have encountered all those things, but also more. The rebels like to use vehicles with added weaponry—machine guns, mostly, but sometimes other things—that we have taken to calling scraptracks. That is far from the worst of it. Occasionally we have been attacked by people and animals that have been altered by magic—bioccultics. There has been little pattern among them, aside from an unnatural durability and a common source. We believe that they were all created by a group of fanatic cultists calling themselves the Knights of Silvas. They were the ones who launched the first attack, and since then they have been responsible for destroying a dozen factories here in the city and destroying several mines out in the countryside.”

“Well fuck,” Marik drawled. “They forgot to mention the eidolon cult in the contract. This op just got a whole lot more exciting.”

Silvia suppressed a flash of irritation. Schwarzseele had neglected to mention that they would be up against an enemy significantly more dangerous than ill-equipped rebel militia. An eidolon cult could be a serious threat, even to a proper military force, if given enough time to prepare. Thus far, order had mostly been kept, and the rebellion had been more like an unusually long and vicious crime spate than a true uprising, but Silvia had no doubt that whatever low-intensity fighting had been confounding the militia would not last.

Silvia was jolted out of her thoughts by a flurry of rifle fire. “That is just a disciplinary execution,” Colitz assured her calmly. Silvia and Marik exchanged looks.

“What for, may I ask?” Silvia said.

“They are from a squad that deserted while on patrol two weeks ago. After we lost three squads in a week, Lord Ulrike started offering bounties to the locals for deserters.” Seeing Silvia and Marik’s expression, he added “It is an unfortunate necessity for keeping discipline and morale up. As I said, the police are here as much to preserve discipline as to fight rebels.” His statement was punctuated by another clatter of gunfire.

Silvia was familiar with the penalty for desertion, but it was rare for her to see it necessary to carry out. It spoke volumes about the morale of the militia. “Thank you for your assistance, Captain Colitz. It has been invaluable.”

“No, thank you, Commander. I am afraid we will be needing all the help we can get before this rebellion is through.” He departed, and Silvia and Marik headed for the school’s doors. As soon as they were outside, Marik turned to her.

“We’re two for two with arrogant idiot nobles for battalions COs. They have shit for discipline, shit for morale, shit for training, and shit for leadership. No wonder they need us. They probably couldn’t find their asses without help. And throw in an eidolon cult. You could cite that as reason to terminate the contract right now.”

“True enough, Marik.” Silvia sighed. “In two days Andrew and his team are showing up. We’ll decide then.”

[LadyTevar]

I'm really enjoying this story. I hope things continue to get interested.

[Kingmaker]

I'm really enjoying this story. I hope things continue to get interested.

I'm glad you like it.

That said, while I plan on finishing this story because I'm sicking of starting stories and not finishing them, I regard it as practice of sorts, for developing this world and cast of characters.

[Kingmaker]

Chapter Five

“Excuse me, sir. There is someone here asking to see you.” Michael did not look up from the pile of intelligence reports on the table—he barely registered the speaker. Under normal circumstances, collating intelligence would have fallen to an RCU’s intelligence detachment. Without the usual SF intelligence section that would have accompanied an RSF team on detached duty, the task of sifting through the myriad Tresorstadt police and militia reports and condensing it into useful information had fallen almost entirely to him. Jacques Celeste spent all his time collecting physical intelligence on the city, which was surprisingly lacking from local sources. Havelock and Thiersch spent all their time working with their respective platoons to prepare them for operations in Tresorstadt, and Errynt and Tavish had more important issues to handle than compiling intelligence summaries. Thus the task fell to Michael. He assumed that he and Celeste would be handing their current jobs over to the intelligence section that would be arriving with Andrew Errynt’s RSF team in two days. Nevertheless, he had thrown himself into the mind-numbing task with full intensity in an effort to assemble a coherent picture of what was happening in Tresorstadt.

He had met with frustration. The police reports were of isolated incidents for the most part, and aimed at law enforcement rather than military intelligence. The militia reports were entirely useless—to be expected of barely trained conscripts, whose meager education and training had done nothing to prepare them for intelligence gathering. All Michael had been able to do was pull together a patchwork image of attacks and other incidents with no clear motivation behind them other than the creation of unrest. The reports had identified only a few groups responsible for acts of rebellion, and they had identified none of their leaders. Most frustrating for Michael was that the significance of the group seemed to inversely relate to the amount of information available. Two groups in particular, the Knights of Silvas and the Vault Liberators, were responsible for almost all of the deaths and damage but were also the least known. The Knights were some sort of cult, the Liberators a band of radicals from the Vaults, but beyond that he had no information. No data on to their motivation, potential targets, size, or true capabilities.

“Sir?” the man asking was a corporal from the Tresorstadt Marines, seconded to the Rangers as part of a liaison team. “What you want me to do about her?”

“Who?” Michael finally looked up from the reports.

“There is a woman here asking to see the officer in charge. Irene Schreiber. She claims to be a journalist with the Tharsburg International.”

Michael’s first instinct was to send her away without speaking to her. Journalists tended to unnecessarily complicate things. When he had been serving as an infantry officer, journalists had been something to be avoided at all costs. He suppressed those instincts—the Special Forces were not the infantry. Journalists could be a useful tool if treated properly, and an antagonistic journalist could be a serious impediment to a Special Forces team, rather than merely an annoyance like they would be for an infantry platoon. “I’ll speak to her.” He did not want to end up routinely dealing with journalists, but if he could avoid antagonizing this one, he could let someone more diplomatic deal with them in the future.

Irene Schreiber was dressed in plain, practical clothes, with her brown hair pulled into a simple pony tail. Michael guessed she would have been described as moderately pretty by someone who cared about such things. What immediately drew his attention was the manner in which she carried herself—confident, like she was accustomed to getting what she wanted in spite of the efforts of others to thwart her. Michael’s instincts flared up again.

Michael stood as she entered. “Lieutenant,” she said, inclining her head briefly. “I was hoping to speak to one of your superiors, but the Marine I was speaking to indicates that none of them are available.”

“That is correct. What do you want here?”

“Information, of course,” Schreiber said. “We’ve had a detachment of Errynt Clan Rangers in the city for close to a week now, and yet we’ve heard virtually nothing from or about them.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Were you expecting some kind of press conference?” Michael said. “The Stadtholder has employed a detachment of Rangers to assist the internal security forces of Tresorstadt.”

“Well of course. That was readily apparent from your presence. But what sort of operations will you be carrying out? How long is your contract? What are your objectives? I’m looking for details, Lieutenant.”

“I can’t say, Miss Schreiber. Operational details are kept secret for security reasons. As for contractual information, that is both private and something that I haven’t concerned myself with.”

“Please, Lieutenant. I’ve been covering this conflict almost since it started. Not just because my boss tells me to, but because the people of this city have a right to an uncensored look at how their government is handling the situation—including why their government hired a team of mercenaries.”

Her earnest, sincere tone surprised him. He thought of war correspondents as vultures that hovered around battlefields in search anything that could be converted into news, not someone with ideals. Not that it mattered much. “The people of this city, as you call them, are a crowd of half-illiterate slum dwellers who likely wouldn’t care to read a newspaper even if they could afford one. Those that aren’t are the nobility, and could hardly care less what one foreign journalist writes.” This is not exactly being diplomatic, he reminded himself.

“I think you underestimate them,” Schreiber said softly. “There are more than a few underground presses in the slums and Vaults, and what I write sees print in several of them.”

“Whatever the case may be, I can’t give information to you. If you want to try and talk more information out of Commander Errynt, that is her business, but I’ve no intention of giving away anything more than I already have.” He gestured at the table of reports. “I have work to do.”

“Fine, then, Lieutenant,” she snapped. “Thank you for your time.”

Michael sat back down as soon as she left. What an utter waste of my time, he thought. He wondered if he should have simply told her to leave when she first arrived. That would have saved him both the annoyance of dealing with her and the risk of bringing her ire down on the entire Ranger detachment. The only thing of use he had learned was the existence of presses in the slums, and he doubted that would have been difficult to discover independently.

Not the only thing of use, he suddenly realized. “Corporal, would you kindly get me a list of the articles Miss Schreiber has written in the past seven months. And determine where in Tresorstadt she is staying.”
~

Irene Schreiber let out a startled little shriek when she entered the main room of her hotel suite. The plush room was well lit and furnished, and show signs of long-term occupancy; unsurprising, since it had been occupied for close to half a year. It was a symbol of the limits of a Tharsburg International expense account.

“You aren’t very attentive for a journalist, Miss Schreiber,” Michael said. “The lights should have tipped you off to my presence.” He had spent the last four hours waiting for her, having ceded command to Celeste when the Outremeran had returned. It would have been a suboptimal use of time, had not the potential value of the information she possessed been so high.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. She blinked and then added “Why are you sitting on the table?”

“I dislike the chairs in this room.” Michael said, stepping down. “And Commander Errynt decided that you have discovered too much.”

Schreiber’s face was stricken with terror for a moment before transforming into irritation. “You have a twisted sense of humor, Lieutenant. What are you really doing here?”

“I want the information you gathered on the Knights of Silvas and the Vault Liberators, as well as anything else you have on the city’s rebel groups.”

“Rather presumptuous of you,” she said. “What makes you think I even have any significant information?”

“The fact that you are a neutral agent in this conflict, and yet nevertheless have been producing highly detailed reports containing sources on both sides.”

“I don’t have the slightest idea what you are talking about. I have no access to any special sources. Anyone in my position could have easily obtained the same information.”

“Why do you bother lying about it?” Michael started to pull facts from what he had just read. “Yesterday, Primus third was your most recent publication. A detailed account of the events surrounding the attack on the skydocks—including details about the planning of the operation, which could only have come from rebel sources. Sanctuary twenty-sixth, a similarly detailed account of nonviolent rebel groups and actions perpetrated against them by the Tresorstadt police—again including details not available in public sources or even to the police.” He went back over several more weeks of articles. “Shall I continue, or are you prepared to cooperate and give me the information I need, Miss Schreiber?”

Schreiber straightened and gave Michael a defiant look. “I have no intention of giving up my sources, Lieutenant. I have profession ethics, and I have no intention of betraying them to help a crew of mercenaries.”

“Don’t be absurd. I want more than your sources. I want all the notes and recordings you made while you were talking to members of the groups I am interested in—all the information you decided not to publish because of your professional ethics.”

“My point still stands. Leave, before I summon the police.” She stepped to reach around him towards the handvox on the desk.

“Don’t be absurd, Miss Schreiber. The police couldn’t handle me, and I have no desire to kill them. They are only slightly less innocent than anyone else in this city.”

Schreiber hesitated. “You’re very sure of yourself, Lieutenant.” Her defiant mask had slipped a little and fear was edging in. She was probably wondering if Michael could and would follow up on his threats. Still, it was obvious that she wasn’t going to be easily intimidated.

There was a knock on the suite’s door. Schreiber glanced from the door to Michael. “If you will excuse me, Lieutenant, I appear to have a visitor with better manners that you.”

“You should answer them, then. It would be impolite to keep them waiting.”
Schreiber threw Michael an angry glare as she moved into the suite’s front room to answer the door. “Yes?” she said, opening the door.

“Irene Schreiber, of the Tharsburg International?” The man asking was oddly nondescript, without a single distinguishing Michael could pick out beyond being well dressed.

“That’s me,” Schreiber confirmed. “I’m afraid I’m a little busy right now. What do you want?”

The man said nothing. Instead he reached inside his jacket to pull something out. Michael realized what he was doing. He couldn’t let that happen—Schreiber still had information he needed. Michael focused. Arcane power surged through the wires leading from the arcane battery at his belt to the foci on his hands. The runes erupted with bluish-white light, and the arcane formula they described burned into his mind. He raised a hand and focused again.

The man at the door was fast—by the time a bolt of arcane energy, shining with the same light as the foci on Michael’s hands, streaked over Schreiber’s shoulder and struck him in the face, he had drawn a handgun and begun to aim it at the journalist—but he was not as fast as thought. He died near-instantly, Michael’s transmutation flash-freezing every cell in his body. Frost had formed instantly on the surface of his skin, causing him to shine slightly with reflected light.

“Mage!” another man called, out of sight. “Wards up.”

Michael rushed forward and grabbed Schreiber by wrist. “Back inside, now.” He drew his sidearm and fired one-handed as the first enemy appeared in his view. He sprayed off five rounds, half a magazine, in quick succession. All missed their target, who danced back out of the line of fire after the first two. Several struck the dead man, carrying away fragments of frozen gore and shattering his remains. Michael pushed Schreiber back into the suite’s main room and slammed the door shut. He twisted the key lock shut, and then slammed home the bar lock for added measure.

“You killed him.” Schreiber stared dumbly at the door for several moments. The hint of fear he had seen earlier had been replaced an expression of sheer, confused terror. It was one he had seen before, on the faces of many inexperienced soldiers, confronted with the sudden realization that someone was trying to kill them.

“In case you failed to notice, he was about to kill you. I couldn’t allow that; you have something I want.” Michael took a quick mental stock of his equipment. A magazine and a half of pistol ammo, one battery, and his usual pouch of alchemical reagents, a pair of starlight goggles, a microvox, a thermophage blade—and no support.

She shuddered, and for a moment Michael thought she was going to vomit. She didn’t, however, and turned to Michael.

“What is going on?”

“It appears someone is trying to kill you,” Michael said. “Is there another way out of this room?”

She shook her head. “Nothing, aside from the windows. I suppose we could try climbing out, since we’re only a few floors up.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “Wet flowstone with no climbing equipment. I will take my chances with an unknown number of warded hostiles. Move away from the door. Move.” He pulled Schreiber away from the door, toward the center of the room. He could hear several men moving out in the front room. As he expected, there was the crack of a suppressed gunshot and the core of the key lock burst in. The door rattled as someone threw their weight against it, but the door was study and the bar lock held. “That will not slow them for long.” He needed another way of dealing with the attackers, one that wouldn’t be stopped by the wards like direct transmutation. He was a mediocre shot with his pistol—he doubted he could reliably defeat a single opponent in a face to face engagement, let alone have enough ammo to kill multiple opponents. His thermophage wouldn’t be stopped by the wards, but he would need to get close in to use it, and he was nowhere near skilled enough at hand to hand combat to defeat a gun-armed hostile. That left his alchemical reagents.

“I need water,” Michael said. Schreiber pointed him towards the suite’s bathroom. Going inside he found exactly was he was looking for. Several small glasses were placed around the faucet, and there was a pile of washrags opposite them. He withdrew a small, paper-wrapped, steel flask labeled ‘g’ from his belt pouch and quickly filled one of the glasses with water before dumping in the contents of the flask. He pulled a washrag tight over the glass and held it their while he unrolled the small scrap of paper that had wrapped the flask.

It only took him a moment to draw on the one-used focus imprinted on the paper, transmuting the mix of water and reagents into liquid gehennum and causing the paper to crumble. It was a low energy transmutation, and it only took a little more to stabilize it. Another minor transmutation fused the washrag to the glass, sealing it. Finally, Michael grabbed a towel and re-entered the main room. In the intervening minute, the door had started to show serious damage and looked like it would break soon.

“Cover your skin as best you can,” Michael said, handing Schreiber the towel. He pulled his own scarf up, wrapping it around his head, leaving nothing but his eyes exposed. Schreiber attempted to follow suite, but the bulkier towel still left skin on her face exposed. “When I tell you, close your eyes and follow me.” She nodded. Michael resisted the urge to laugh. The journalist looked absurd with the bulky towel wrapped around her head.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she said when she saw his expression, irritation momentarily cutting through terror. “We’re about to get killed and you think this is funny?” Michael said nothing, but smirked and motioned for her to stay behind cover. He gripped his pistol in his right hand and held the sealed glass of gehennum in his left, ready to throw. The door rattled one final time, and the bolt lock snapped.

Michael hurled the glass through the now open door into the front room, then jerked back as a pair of men dressed similarly to the first opened fire with handguns. He waited several moments—he could hear the gehennum boiling away as it reacted with the air, creating a cloud of reeking, stinging, choking mist. It was far from the most dangerous alchemical toxin Michael could make, but without more protective gear it was the strongest he dared to use. “Close your eyes,” he said. He pulled Schreiber behind him and fired a pair of shots at the blinded men choking in the gehennum cloud. Neither hit, but it forced them to stagger further away and out of the line of fire.

Michael closed his eyes and sprinted straight for the open outer door, counting his steps as he plunged through the cloud of gehennum. He felt the mist burning at the exposed skin around his hands and eyes, but his uniform did the job of keeping it off the rest of him. He opened his eyes in time to see a third man in the hotel corridor, aiming a pistol at the two of them. Michael pushed Schreiber to the ground and instinctively lashed out with another bolt of freezing energy, but it splashed off the man’s wards.

The man returned fire, hitting Michael twice. The first round was stopped by the armored fabric of his uniform coat, but the second tore through and grazed his side. He barely noticed the burning pain as he got a proper two hand grip on his sidearm and fired the last three rounds of his magazine at the man. To Michael’s surprise, one struck the man in the throat, dropping him to the ground with blood pumping from the hole in his neck. He grinned, feeling exhilarated despite the pain. “More souls for the Madgod,” he muttered.

He tugged Schreiber back to her feet. “You can open your eyes and move,” he said, pushing her towards an emergency stairway. He dropped the spent magazine from his sidearm and push in a fresh one. “Would you kindly tell me who wants to have you kill? And keep moving downward. In a minute or two they’re going to get over the gehennum and come after us.” he said as soon as they were in the stairway. Schreiber pulled off the towel wrapped around her head.

“I don’t know. Anyone who was angry at something I wrote. One of the major nobles, perhaps, or the Liberators.” She gasped for breath and turned back to stare at Michael, wide-eyed. “Burning saints, somebody is trying to kill me,” she said, sounding half-incredulous and half-terrified.

“I noticed,” Michael said. He pulled another steel flask out of his belt pouch and drank the contents. Within moments the burning pain subsided.

“You’re bleeding!” Schreiber said.

“I noticed,” Michael said.

“We need to summon the police.”

“That would probably be a good idea,” Michael agreed. He activated his microvox. “Havelock, this is Lieutenant Kairan. I am at the Kingship hotel, and have engaged four unknown hostiles. Requesting extraction. Would you kindly notify the police as to the situation as well?”

“Affirmative, Lieutenant.” Havelock was annoyed, Michael could tell that from his voice, but he knew enough to wait for an explanation. Schreiber remained silent during their short descent. Witnessing battles hadn’t prepared her to be in one—her total failure to react had made that clear.

They emerged from the stairway into the luxurious lobby of the Kingship Hotel, immediately drawing the attention of nearly everyone in the busy room. Both had gehennum burns on their face and hands, and blood leaked down Michael’s side onto the lobby’s polished wood floor. Guests and staff members edged away from the ragged looking pair. Schreiber immediately ran over to the reception counter and started speaking to the woman behind it. Michael didn’t hear what she said, his attention focused on two men across the lobby, both wearing the same high-quality but utterly generic business suits as the four men upstairs. Both had started moving the moment Michael and Schreiber emerged, heading towards Schreiber. Both were reaching into their jackets.

Michael sprinted towards Schreiber and shouted a warning, ignoring the bolt of pain that pierced the haze of painkillers. He wasn’t going to reach her in time. Instead he opened fire on the two men—a reflexive pair of two-shot bursts. None of the shots hit their mark, but they drew attention away from Schreiber and on to Michael. Behind the two gunmen, Michael saw that a man had crumpled, with blood pumping from his leg. Inconsequential, Michael thought. He spared a split-second glance at Schreiber—she had ducked behind the reception counter. Good enough.

The two gunmen crouched behind the lobby’s center fountain and reciprocated Michael’s attack. Bullets started to crack through the air around him—one slammed into him, the reinforced uniform coat turning it from a deadly wound into an impact that merely staggered him. He fired several more shots in return. The screaming had started. The crowded lobby cleared rapidly at the sound of gunshots, guests and staff alike heading for whatever exit or cover they could find. Michael shut them out. They were a distraction. Schreiber was as safe as could be expected under the circumstances. There was no fear, only excitement. He grinned. “More souls for the Madgod.”

He ducked into a crowd of panicked guests, moving with them and using them as cover from incoming fire. That did little to deter the gunmen, and several people fell screaming and gurgling in agony as gunfire ripped into them. There was a meaty thud and a stinging sensation. Another near miss, Michael thought. He reached out with his will, towards the water in the fountain. Water transmutations were easy—he could do them near perfectly, even without a foci. Streamers of translucent energy lashed the surface of the fountain, flash-boiling the water and creating a cloud of scalding steam around the two gunmen. He smirked in satisfaction as the boiling cloud burned their exposed skin, forcing them towards him.

He was waiting when they emerged. Pistol in one hand, thermophage in the other, he emptied what was left of his magazine into the first gunman. He closed the distance to the second in moments and stabbed the second man in the gut. There was no blood, the enchanted blade draining the man’s body of nearly all heat in moments and killing him. Michael turned and scanned the lobby for more enemies. No one else moved to attack. He felt a rush of elation—he had won, despite being outnumbered and deprived of his primary weapon.

The thermophage slipped from his grasp. He was suddenly very thirsty and very tired.

[LadyTevar]

And the plot thickens

I hopee you live up to the promise to finish this. I will be most unhappy otherwise.

[UnderAGreySky]

That makes two of us, Lady T.

Keep going, Kingmaker!

[Kingmaker]

Chapter Six

Silvia paced through the sterile barren halls of the Tresorstadt Naval Hospital, trying to suppress the sick feeling of mixed worry and frustration in her gut. It had been four hours since she had learned about the events at the Kingship hotel. Michael might only have been under her command for a few weeks, but that still made her his responsibility. Somehow, he had managed to get himself shot before their contract had technically even started. Worse yet, no one seemed to know what was going on. She couldn’t decide whether to be angry or distraught over the whole situation, so she settled for tracking down the only conscious person who had been witness to the whole incident.

Silvia found Irene Schreiber sitting alone in a comfortingly painted waiting room. A pair of stone-faced police guards stood outside, casting suspicious glances at every passing patient and staff member. She looked far worse for the wear that she had suffered since Silvia had last encountered her. Her face was still marked by signs of rapid-regeneration bioccultics. The gehennum burns and minor cuts were gone, smoothed away in minutes by a hospital bioccultist, but there were still angry red splotches of skin where the burns had been exceptionally severe. Her clothes showed similar signs of damage from the compound, and the expression in her eyes made her look even more tired than she probably was.

“Commander Errynt,” she said, coughing viciously. “I apologize. It seems I got some of your lieutenant’s poison in my lungs, and I’ve been coughing up their contents for the past several hours. The doctors told me it will wear off eventually. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything about the Lieutenant’s condition? The police had him carried off as soon as they arrived and I haven’t heard anything about him since.”

“Lieutenant Kairan is in surgery right now with a pair of bullets in his side, gehennum burns, and multiple broken ribs. If he survives the next hour or two, he’ll be fine.” Silvia sat down opposite Schreiber and gave the journalist a hard look. “I want to know what happened at the hotel. I’ve gotten the police report, but it’s so vague as to be worthless. Why was Michael talking to you?”

“Michael?” A look of confusion briefly crossed Schreiber’s face. “Ah, your lieutenant. He came after me looking for information.”

“Why? For that matter, how does he even know you exist? He never met you.”

Schreiber shook her head. “We met at the Campus building you’re using as a headquarters. I came by this morning looking for you. I ended up speaking to him briefly since you weren’t there.”

Silvia felt a flash of irritation. “Miss Schreiber, in the future you will stay away from my troops unless you have my authorization to be there. I already told you that at the skydocks.”

“It remains to be seen whether I’ll be staying in Tresorstadt at all. The Altari embassy has already told the Tresorstadt Police that they want me out of the country as quickly as practical, and I suspect that as soon as a few of the nobles hear about the situation, they will be clamoring for the same.”

“Oh? Why do they want you gone? The nobles, not the embassy—I understand that.” The embassy chief was likely to lose his job if an Altari journalist was killed while he stood by.

“I’ve embarrassed a few of the leading families with my reports on the fighting in the city slums.” Schreiber shrugged. “I think one of them might have been behind the attack tonight. Tresorstadt politics can get vicious at times, and the eight leading families are very sensitive to humiliation.”

Silvia nodded. From what she had seen of Ulrike Jessel and other urban militia officers, it wouldn’t be hard to embarrass them, and killing an embarrassing reporter didn’t strike her as something that would cost a man like Ulrike any sleep. Still, anyone with half a brain would realize that a deported journalist was preferable to a dead one. “Are you sure? They can’t be the only people you’ve irritated. What about one of the rebel groups? It is possible you antagonized one of them with your reporting.”

“I don’t know, Errynt. This morning if you told me I had bothered someone enough to make them want me dead, I would have laughed at you. Journalists are irritating, but most of us aren’t that irritating.” She shrugged again. “I might have thought the Vault Liberators or Knights of Silvas were responsible, but the Silvans refuse to use guns and the Liberators aren’t the sort to target journalists.”

Silvia considered the issue briefly before letting it slide. “That doesn’t answer my original question, though. Why was Michael talking to you?”

“He was looking for information. He concluded from several of the articles I wrote over the past month that I must have access to some information the police don’t.”

“But you do, don’t you?” Silvia said. “Why talk like you don’t?”

“Because I’m not one to give up my sources,” Schreiber said. “Especially not when the person asking for them thinks threatening me is the way to get them. I have professional ethics, and I keep to them.”

“With due respect Miss Schreiber, fuck your professional ethics,” Silvia hissed, all sympathy she had for Schreiber’s predicament evaporating. “A Ranger—one of my Rangers—may die because of you. So will more people if you keep hanging on to the valuable information you have.”

“Oh, this is unique,” Schreiber sneered. “A mercenary is lecturing me on saving lives. Tell me, Commander Errynt, if you were offered extra pay to break a contract and sign on with the opposite side in a conflict, would you do it? What if it you knew it would save the lives of some of your soldiers? Would you accept? Of course you wouldn’t. The Errynt Rangers can’t afford to be thought of as contract breakers or cowards—because of their professional ethics. If I divulge my sources, then I’m violating the agreements I made with the people who gave me information, as well as possibly setting them up to die. If I do that, I may never work as a journalist again, and I definitely won’t be working in Tresorstadt.”

“Whatever your reason is for being hesitant to give up information,” Silvia began slowly, suppressing a rising tide of anger. “I don’t care. I don’t care if you keep your sources a secret. Michael saved your life and took a pair of slugs to the gut for you, and I want to know what he thought was worth that—and you are going to tell me, one way or another,” she finished, glaring at Schreiber.

Schreiber shrank back in her seat, visibly intimidated, but her expression hardened after a moment. “Commander Errynt, I may not be accustomed to combat, but I am quite used to being bullied by people in uniform.”

“I don’t care about bullying war correspondents, Miss Schreiber. The Rangers’ good name has survived more than one irate journalist, and you aren’t going to make a difference.” Silvia stood and started for the door. “Good night. Good luck with your recovery from your injuries.”

“Commander Errynt,” Schreiber said quietly. “I’m sorry about Lieutenant Kairan. I had no desire for him to get wounded on my account.”

Silvia stopped before she reached the door. “That’s a cold comfort. If Michael wakes up, I’ll be sure to let him know how grateful you feel.”

“What do you expect me to do? I didn’t do anything to make Lieutenant Kairan come after me,” Schreiber said. “Though I’m glad he did.”

Silvia sighed, pacing back and forth across the room. “Why do you defend these people? Do you think that they’re worth it—that they’re somehow better than the people they oppose?”

“What makes you think they’re so vile, Commander Errynt?”

“Experience, Schreiber. I’ve fought for and against revolutionaries of all types, and the common trait, no matter what
ideology or goal they have, is that they’re almost always just as bad whatever it is they’re fighting, if not worse.”

“You underestimate them. I’ve met many of the people leading anti-government groups, and while they might not be saints, they are better than some of the city nobility.”

“From what I’ve seen of Tresorstadt’s nobles, that’s damning with faint praise. And the most effective rebels in the city are the most violent. I’ve seen the accounts of the Vault Liberators and the Knights of Silvas—some of them written by you. I understand why you might Don’t tell me that you honestly think a group of leveller paramilitaries and a cult of half-insane eidolon worshippers are worthy of defending.” The Tresorstadt Police reports given to her by Stephan Colitz had given her a clear and unflattering picture of the Liberators and Silvans. They regarded anyone who worked with the nobility as the enemy, which made nearly everyone aside from themselves a target. Their favorite targets were factories and the workers who operated them.

“They aren’t typical.”

“No, doubtless most of the rebels are little more than harmless agitators—but the violent ones are also far and away the most effective. Why do you think the nobles are afraid to leave the Oberplatz?”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean the disgruntled workers and community leaders deserve to rot in a police prison for the rest of their lives.” Schreiber gave Silvia a confused look. “You seem oddly sympathetic for someone hired to fight these rebels. Most of the nobles in the police and militia that I’ve interview are willing to go on at length about how ungrateful and depraved and disgusting their enemies are.”

Silvia shrugged. “I don’t like Tresorstadt’s politics, but they don’t concern me. I’m a mercenary and this is just another job. I’ve worked for unpleasant clients before, and even if you think your employer is total scum, you grit your teeth and try to take comfort in the fact that your opponent is probably even more repulsive.” At least, that was what the Rangers liked to tell themselves in unpleasant situations. “I just want to deal with these rebels with minimum casualties. I lost six troopers in Mylesia on our last contract. This contract technically hasn’t started and I’ve already had a life-threatening casualty.”

“Do you ever have problems dealing with it?”

“A little, but I’ve been in the Rangers since I was twenty-two. Dealing with it gets easier—no one makes it fifteen years in a mercenary regiment without building up a tolerance or liking for violence.” For that matter, no one enlisted in a mercenary regiment if they didn’t think at some level that fighting was entertaining. Most of the Rangers liked to fight at least a bit, Silvia included. That they hated taking casualties merely indicated that they weren’t entirely insane. “It’s situations like these that are the worst, though. At least when you’re in the field, you’ve got the fighting to distract you from the brains splattered all over your webbing. Here, the only thing I can do to distract myself is paperwork.” That paperwork was probably something she should get back to, and not just for the distraction. She had other pressing concerns and it looked like she was going to get nothing useful out of Schreiber.

“I should go. Michael will be coming out of surgery in a few minutes, and I imagine he’ll be quite put out when he comes to. This is the first time he’s ever been seriously wounded. On top of that, I have a meeting with the military and political leadership of the city coming up that I need to prepare for.”

“Wait a moment, Commander Errynt,” Schreiber said. “I’d like to apologize again for Lieutenant Kairan’s wounds. I know it’s a meager way of compensating him for it, but I can at least give you some of the information he was asking for.”

Silvia was glad she was facing the door, preventing Schreiber from see her smile. “Thank you, Miss Schreiber. Good luck with your injuries.”

[LadyTevar]

You have a lot of partial sentences and run-on sentences. you need to go over it again, hon.