Links in the Chain (PMT, Closed; Gholgoth/Greater Dienstad)

[Havensky]

HRS Unity
0505 Hours
Deck 6

“Hey! Hey! Hey boyo get your ass up!”

Private First Class Aber rolled over in his twin sized cot and groaned for about the three seconds it took for the disorientation to wear off. This was his first full day aboard the Unity and things didn’t seem to be off to a great start. He had arrived by helijet late last night and the jetlag hadn’t worn off.

“Alright, alright, I’m getting up. What’s the big deal… oh crap it’s 0505? Gods, it feels like it should be 2 in the morning.”

“Oh right, Aber… you just got in last night. You picked a hell of a first day son - now suit up. You’re going up on deck. Come on, double-time! I’ll give you the grand tour on your way up.”

Sergeant Hatan’s small frame did little to minimize the booming of his voice. He was a livewire bolting around the berth, waking up the laggards and making no small amount of noise as the heavy metal boots of his power armor hit the deck. Aber quickly finished shaving and backed up into the ‘dresser’ where his power armor was hung. As he stepped into the metal boots, small mechanical arms worked around him snapping together his leg, arm, and chestplate before the exoskeleton bolted itself in followed by the last bit of protective armor that protected the robotics that made the suit move. He grabbed his helmet from up top and pulled it over his head. The sing songy chime of the power armor’s signal telling him that everything was connected and in working order.

“Alright, good to go Sarge.”

Hantan chuckled, “Good, I hate being late. Belay that, I am never late so you better hustle. Come on, follow me.”

Aber ducked out of the door still in somewhat of a daze as he tried to orient himself without the benefit of the sun or any outside landmarks. The whole environment still looked like metal and linoleum to him. The sergeant could tell he looked lost.

“You know where you’re going?”

“Not a clue.”

“Where did you serve before?”

“Fort Unnachgiebig, north of Argyz.”

“Oof, no wonder you couldn’t get up. That jetlag must be a killer. I bet you’ve never been on a ship before either. Well, lucky you - you landed on the biggest one in the fleet. They don’t even make these bad girls anymore! OK, first thing about serving on the Armada ships like these. The main deck is the hangar deck not the flight deck. All the decks above the hangar decks are levels that go up as you go skyward. All the decks below the hangar deck are called decks and they go up as you go seaward...tracking so far?”

Aber blinked as he ducked through another door. He was not, as they say, tracking.

“Next, the frame numbers. The bow of the ship is zero. The numbers go up as you go towards the rear. Compartment numbers start at 1 in the middle, even numbers to the port, odd to starboard.”

“What? That makes no sense” , Aber asked somewhat in disbelief.

“You’ll learn!” He shouted as he ran up some stairs Aber quickly followed before entering into a room with guns. Lots of guns.

“Ok, Compartment 4-69-9-B! Main Armory. Located right above the Legion berths. Very convenient. You go here, pick up your weapon out from the cages. Hey Smitty!”

“Hey Hantan, got a newbie do you now. Alright, hand in the box.”

Aber reached out and put his gauntlet into a black box. A wire shot into the suit, confirmed with the suit that he had the right biometrics and then a locker opened up with his weapon and ammo. Hantan did the same little ritual.

“Alright, up we go. Down to the next frame and head skyward again. This is the mess deck. We eat in the aft deck in the very back. Still better food on the Unity than half the Armada and certainly better than those fracking MRE’s. The ship store and the gym is in the middle. One perk, Legion gets its own gym. There’s also the theater, pub, and then where the officers and fancy people eat up towards the bow.”

“Wait, theater?”

“Don’t get excited. Mostly used for large briefings with the brass. Oh, that’s the other thing. This ship? So. much. brass. on this ship. Keep climbing. Second deck, fleet operations. A lot of Armada in dress uniforms trying to run the war. A lot of civvies too. Don’t get any ideas and keep climbing.”

“Alright, this deck is deck one. The fancy deck. No linoleum here. Nice clean walls that aren't just chunks of metal with equipment sticking out of them, carpeting, the whole kit and kaboodle. The back aft half of the ship is a hospital. The front half is all conference rooms, guest quarters, and diplomatic offices. Might as well be a cruise ship. The middle is intel ops and the CiC. Extremely secret squirrel stuff. Constantly guarded 24/7/365. If they don’t got a good keycard, the officer won’t give them clearance to go in and if they’ve got a problem with that...well, that’s when you might have to play bouncer boyo. If you’re not guarding intel ops, then you’re gonna be playing escort. Most of your time here is gonna be spent shuttling VIPs back and forth from the fancy deck to the mess hall. Keep climbing, gotta get to the hangar deck.”

They went up one more stairway and arrived in a cavernous area full of noise and aircraft.

“This is the hangar deck!”, shouted Hantan over the sound of a helijet being lifted onto the flight deck behind him. “VIPs come in on the flight deck and come down these elevators here and they all need an escort. They tend not to go up to bridge or flight bridge, but sometimes they like to take a look. All of that’s in the superstructure. Today there are a bunch coming in for a big confab down at the fancy deck. Don’t get starstruck.”

“Wait, starstruck?”, asked Aber as they got into the Legionary guard formation.

A pair of Skyan officers walked across the flight deck. The first one wore an almost unseen five stars on his shoulder, followed by a man in scarlet power armor.

“Is that?”

“Told you, don’t get starstruck. SUPER VIP day. Supreme Commander always greets the biggies. Major Squall’s never far behind either.”

“Wait, Squall is here?”

“The whole damn Gothic Alliance is here boyo. Now buckle up and look sharp, don’t embarrass me.”

[Havensky]

A Skyan corvette cut through the water like a shark. It’s hull was adorned with a bright red streak across the bow. It was dwarfed by and contrasted starkly with the superdreadnought that glided right behind it.

The superdreadnought HRS Unity floated at the center of the Allied fleet surrounded by all forms of sea and airships. Above the ship, but below the airship line several VTOL craft were landing and taking off again in quick succession escorted by fighter craft.

The commanders were arriving.

As Skyan ships went, the Unity was much more luxurious than other vessels in the Armada. It was an expensive vessel and it showed in it’s spacious cabins and quiet interior. The Skyans had purchased four of the titan vessels. Three were converted into humanitarian and diplomatic command ships. Only the fourth maintained its original purpose as a warship. The Unity was the flagship of the Armada and served as Supreme Allied Commander Bexar’s command ship.

The Unity’s command deck was the location for a meeting of all the major allied commanders. After weeks of practice and months of preparation, it was time to decide if they were ready to proceed and if their original plan still made sense.

Assembled for the Skyans were Supreme Allied Commander Bexar, High Admiral Colina Murciel, Stars and Signals Officer Mathias Willow, and Major Gavin Squall.

Bexar and Squall met each commander on the flight deck as their respective craft dropped off their passengers. Both Skyan officers had donned full power armor as was custom among the Skyan Legion. As they were both Skyan Heartknights and had their personal insignias on their shields instead of their units. They both snapped a sharp salute to greet each delegate.

For the Ghantish, they were represented by Imperial Emissary Eloi Xurio and Lord Gorri Salamana who was representing Imperial Commander Cygnus Salamana. Eloi emerged from the transport craft first, followed by Gorri. Eloi was much more plainly dressed in comparison to his young noble companion, electing to wear a simple dark grey tunic and a black set of gloves, boots and cape. Gorri on the other hand dressed in a highborn military uniform, complete with the straight pressed jacket with badges and insignias upon it.

“I’m glad to be here,” Eloi said amicably with a courteous bow to the Skyans. “The Emperor is very concerned about making sure that we get all this done right...the first time. Please, allow me to introduce myself. I am Eloi Xurio, Imperial Emissary of Emperor Nathan IV of Ghant. This young man beside me is Lord Gorri Salamana, nephew of Lord Cygnus Salamana, Supreme Commander of the Gholgothic Armed Forces.”

As though on cue, Gorri bowed gracefully, and then said “a pleasure to be here, your excellencies.”

The Skyans returned the bow and Bexar ignored the ‘first time’ remark. Squall, having not learned everything he needed from Atticus, gave a visible grimace.

Bexar gestured towards the entryway that would lead them to the bridge.

“Welcome aboard the Unity. We’re glad you could take the time to come out this way. You’re the first to arrive. Major Squall will accompany you while I wait for the others.”

Bexar shot Squall a look that Squall took as an order to best be on his best behavior.

“Major Squall,” Eloi inclined his head to the Skyan. “Your reputation precedes you. Your fame is well known throughout Ghant.”

A small black helicopter arrived with a reaper emblem on its tail and landed gracefully on the designated area. Exiting from it’s hold were two soldiers wearing combat uniforms not seen before in Gholgoth, with a third man of a significantly larger size stepping off behind them. He wore an exceptionally clean and crisp all-black suit with matching shirt and tie. His beard was in a particularly fearsome warbraid, and his scalp shaved clean. He dismissed his escort, who then returned to the helicopter, and walked up to Squall and Bexar.

“Hello again, Master Squall. ‘Tis a fine evening for planning.” He took in a deep breath through his nose, “Ah, the salty air of the sea. Always refreshing.”

“Indeed sir, if you will follow Private Aber he’ll escort you to the briefing room.”

The next VTOL to arrive was carrying the representatives of Caesar's Imperial Armed Forces. Three incredibly tall figures stepped out of the aircraft as it touched down on deck and were quick to approach the Skyan party waiting to greet them. First among them was Dux Praefector Osorkon Netos, who was dressed in his official dress uniform - a white high-necked tunic with golden boards, buttons and tassels along with a shoulder cape - along with a medallion that bore the symbol of Caesar, a mark of his status as one of the Dux Praefectors and Commander of the Fifth Fleet, and a not too insignificant number of medals pinned to his chest. Following him to his right was the dark hooded figure of Khonsu, the Imperium’s Praetor to the Gothic Council, the only distinguishable colours being her burning red hair and the glisten of her Praetor pin. Standing and towering behind them both was the unmistakable figure of Dux Imperator Hyperion, the venerable right-hand of Caesar. His inclusion in this meeting had been a late addition - Caesar wanted to ensure that Allied forces were capable of working more effectively together. There could be no harsher judge then her most loyal warrior.

As the two parties met face-to-face, Osorkon was the first to speak. “Supreme Commander Bexar, Major Squall; it’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance in person.” Osorkon gave them the traditional salute of the Caesar’s Imperial Armed Forces - his left hand pounding his chest - before he extended his right to clasp their forearms firmly to shake. Khonsu, for her part, gave a brief bow to Bexar before giving a nod of acknowledgement to her fellow Praetor. Hyperion stared down at them both and said nothing, though his eyes would meet with Squall’s at least once.

Bexar clasped the arm of Osokon as Squall returned the nod to Khonsu. Bexar gestured inside as he spoke.

“Dux Netos, Praetor, Dux Hyperion it is a pleasure to have you onboard. Dux Hyperion, I think this is the first time we’ve had a man of your stature aboard a Skyan vessel. Welcome. I apologize in advance for the amount of ducking you may have to do while onboard. My staff has taken the liberty of converting a portion of our hangar space into living quarters for you as I think you’ll find that much more comfortable. Now then, Private Mendesian will show you to the briefing room.”

Osorkon smiled politely and immediately made his way to follow the Private. Khonsu stayed dutifully by Hyperion’s side as he acknowledged Bexar’s address. “Your hospitality is most appreciated, Major. This will be my first time in the company of your servicemen and women; I look forward to getting to observe them.” He then made his way, making sure to give Squall a not so inconsiderable slap on his breastplate as he passed. Khonsu bowed again before following close behind.

After the Kylarnatian VTOL made its way, another one bearing Aldarminian insignia made its landing. From it, two passengers disembarked to greet their welcome wagon. The first was Darysha Kassakhana, the Warczar of the Aldarminian Empire, and she wore a form-fitting golden blouse with a similarly-golden longskirt and golden-flaked white papakha. White epaulettes and a small tiger fur cape hanged from her blouse’s shoulders, and a white rope-braid belt carried a mammoth tusk ivory sheath. Behind her followed Svyn Pugochev, the Over-Commander for Aldarminian forces participating in the Allied operations to liberate Shen Almaru. Pugochev’s uniform was more in the Totalitariet era style of modernized dress. He wore a solid dark green suit with golden stripes down the lengths of each arm and leg and around each cuff and the collar. Purple boots seemed to march in formation under his purple epaulettes, and a similar shashka and sheath hanged from a purple belt. Both wore long chains, bracelets, and rings of gold around their necks, wrists, and fingers with alternating links carrying the various trophies of their martial exploits.

In the beige cherkeska and papakha of the Druzhina, the adopted Prince-Imperial Ryslander greeted his Aldarminian superiors with a Gothic salute, “Welcome aboard the unity, comrades.”

“T’is good to see you again, Ryslander,” nodded Kassakhana with a soft smile as the reciprocated, “How did the Praetor training treat you? His Sublime Majesty tells me you fared well enough.”

Instinctively clasping the pin on his left breast, Ryslander said, “It was a difficult challenge, but one I thoroughly enjoyed overcoming nonetheless.”

After easing his own salute, Pugochev said, “As always the ambitious one is so often so close to the throne, but so far away.”

Darysha nudged the Over-Commander with her shoulder, “Do ignore his cryptic observations.”

Ryslander chuckled, “Will do, and may I introduce you to Supreme Commander Bexar…”

Another helicopter arrived, hurriedly making its way from the east, and settling down, the flag on its side showing it to be from the Telrosian Compact. The door opened to reveal a large man, brown hair shot through with silver, blue eyes glaring out from under the cap of his dress uniform. The uniform was a bit different from the darker colors of his predecessors to the meeting, a dark brown with bright, almost golden yellow, trim with dark green stripes on his shoulders. One side of his face showed clear damage that plastic surgery had managed to reduce the worst of it; those versed in such things would see it was from an explosion and shrapnel. This was Vice Admiral Saladin Hajós, commander of the 1st Fleet tasked to assist in the Shen Almaru operation. Introductions were made with the waiting Havensky staff before he and his small command staff whisked away to the meeting; the man was all business as he moved.

Arriving fashionably late was Ambassador Lucius Salvias Otho, aboard what looked a comfortably appointed VIP transport helicopter in Imperial Pudite Air Force markings. The ambassador had changed out of his usual attire (an island shirt, khaki shorts and a pair of sandals) into a coal black suit and maroon tie and had his dark hair slicked back in contrast to his more recognizable shabby style. The clamshell door of the helicopter opened to form velvet-clad stairs and inside Otho was seen to stand and stub out a cigarette in an on-board ashtray. He was the first out of the aircraft, striding toward Major Squall, his large hand already extended for a friendly shake.

Following the ambassador, two uniformed military officers disembarked from the helicopter: the first was a short, stout man in the uniform of the pudite navy, he wore three stars on his lapel; the next was a taller, more slender, and strikingly hairless man in the uniform of the pudite army, he wore four stars. The field marshal stopped before Squall to return his salute before introducing himself, "Isak Boretskii, Chief of Army General Staff, GOTHCOM." Boretskii spoke formally but without being terse. He had the air of a confident, dependable character.

The admiral spoke next, "Fleet Admiral Khudoi, Commander, Task Force Khudoi," with a smile he acknowledged, "I know, I know, I told them to call it something else!" He seemed more at ease than his companion but so far the field marshal had stoically pretended not to notice.

Bexar chuckled, “Well, there are worse names Admiral. Welcome aboard. Lord Otho, it is an honor to have you board.

Otho gave a characteristic grin as he accepted Bexar's welcome, "Pleasure to meet you, Sky Marshal. Let's say we get down to business."

"As you are the last to arrive, I will escort you personally to the briefing. This way please.”

Laying Out the Plan
Briefing Room

The briefing room was a small amphitheater with plenty of seating for all staff members involved in the operation. The more senior members got a seat at a large glass table which was displaying a map of the region. The air was on full blast in a futile effort to keep the room cool as it was overcapacity given how many staff members each nation was bringing. Smaller monitors hung from the ceiling and mirrored the main display in order to ensure everyone could see. In a separate room, entire classrooms worth of translators worked to translate the briefing from Common to the various languages of the attendees for those that wished to hear it that way.

Major Squall stood by a large glass map and began the briefing.

“I know that all of you have had the general plan in your hands for a while so this will be a review for most of you.”

We have divided our forces into seven primary battle groups. Currently, Neptune Naval Group is stationed in a defensive formation around Task Force Hell. Poseidon Naval Group is positioned to the south of us conducting a blockade of the Vismer region in order to prevent slaver forces from attacking our southern flank.

Our primary mission is to liberate Shen Almaru from Slaver forces. For the first phase of the operation, allied forces will liberate and hold the Pudite island of Ashkak. Our first objectives will be the Ashkak Naval Base, the city of Kata, and the international airport just outside of the city of Ashkak.

The map shifted to show various air assets within Task Force Hell.

The first step will be to secure the air. Jupiter Air Group will launch from allied carriers led by Navarch Celer of the CINV Resolution. An operation of this size and scope will require the allies to own the skies. It is also crucial to the Pudite population of Shen Almaru. Food shipments to the island had ceased and there are rumors of mass starvation.”

Squall instinctively glanced at Otho.

Ambassador Otho stood in response to the Skyan officer's glance, "It is true the situation for the civilian population of the islands is dire. The Scandinvan authorities have instituted their policy of chattel slavery to the islands, the population is in turmoil. Millions of people have been detained or taken into bandage, tens of millions have been displaced from their work or their homes. The blockade has only made these problems worse, unfortunately - although stories of slave ships interdected leaving the islands are a welcome reminder of some good we can do. Relief efforts will commence immediately, alongside the liberation, and I fear will be necessary for years to come."

Once we have air superiority, our headquarters and logistics group Hermes will carry out airdrops of aid and supplies to resistance and civilian groups. Aid drops to civilians will warn them to take shelter after nightfall. At dusk, we will begin heavy bombardment in preparation for our assault.

At the mention of the bombardment, Dux Praefector Netos crossed his arms confidently, a stern look in his eye. “The guns of my venerable Apophis and her sister battleships will lay waste to the enemy’s entrenchments. As for Navarch Celer, he is one of my most capable and honourable commanding officers; if anyone can successfully command an air dominance campaign, it’s him.” Osorkon’s enthusiasm for the pending hostilities reflected a general eagerness amongst all in Caesar’s camp; to lay waste to slavers was their cultural foundation, and a successful liberation of Shen Almaru would - Supreme Command hoped - buoy Allied morale for the inevitable conflict with the Reich.


"The first bombardment will target the island of Taltu," Pudite Fleet Admiral Khudoi was standing and gesturing at the map Squall was presenting. "Taltu is basically a mountain range in the sea, and has been systematically fortified much in the way the Scandin's did on Vismer, but on a smaller scale."

Khudoi tapped a few keys at his terminal and the image of Taltu was enhanced: a large island approximately 150 kilometers to the west of Ashkak and directly astride the planned amphibious route to the city. A few more strokes and smaller inset pictures appeared, showing satellite photographs of military vehicles, fortifications and construction sites, "Construction of the fortifications has been observed, and a limited plan of their layout is available. Seven days prior to D-Day Ashkak a full spectrum bombardment of Taltu will commence, lasting 24 hours. On D-minus-six a Pudite ground operation to secure the island will be launched. It is anticipated the operation will succeed by D-minus-one." Khudoi looked at his senior comrade, Field Marshal Boretskii.

Bald headed with a neck of thick rolls of smooth flesh that bulged over the high stiff collar of his uniform, the Field Marshal glistened in the mild heat of the Millian climate. He grabbed a handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed his forehead before speaking matter-of-factly, "We understand there to be just over one hundred thousand Scandinvan and rebel Pudite defenders on the island. Complete control of the networked fortifications will be impossible for weeks, if not months after we land. We are defining success in this operation as neutralization of the position's electronic surveillance, communication and targeting capabilities as well as destruction of a ballistic missile stockpile presently unaccounted for in the tunnels. The Coalition should expect no trouble from Taltu later than D-minus-one." Boretskii, content with his explanation, ungraciously lowered himself back into his chair.


The map zoomed in on the western part of the island.

At 0500 hours, Aries Group will launch an air assault to take the airport and establish an air bridge. Meanwhile, Mars Group will launch an amphibious assault on the city of Kata and the Ashkak naval base to capture the port and establish a beachhead. Mars and Aries will hold these ingress points as we land Vulcan Group’s heavy ground units. Vulcan and Aries will then move to liberate Ashkak city while Mars pushes north to Lan Gai. We will then sweep the rest of the island from west to east. With Ashkak secure, we will then be able to launch dual offensives on the islands: one to the north and one to the south. These offensives will then meet at the capitol for the final liberation.

The challenges are that the Slavers will have had ample time to prepare the island chain which is a dense urban area. Worse, the Battle of Hab Centre 06 had given the slavers a blueprint on how to make the Skyan Legion and our allied forces hurt.”

Squall took a breath. He personally hated talking about Hab Centre 06 this way. He had to be very clinical about it, when it was very personal to him.

“While Hab Centre 06 had been populated, it had only a portion of the population that Shen Almaru currently has. We will want to avoid civilian casualties. Complicating this was that there are traitors within the Pudite government who will blend in with the local population. It may be entirely possible that we might blow through a city block only to have suicide bombers hit the rear formations.”

Squall looked apologetically at the Pudites in the room.

Otho answered Squall's look with one of his own. Raising a finger, he added, "I have good friends in the islands still," only a few in the room would know the details of the network Otho ran in the archipelago, though Skyan and Ghantish intelligence were by now well aware.

"There are rumors in the islands that the Scandinvans are using some unknown chemical process to forcefully indoctrinate Almaran populations. Attacks on a scale dwarfing the suicide run at Citadel City are not unlikely."

“If we could get a sample, we could try to counteract it… but.. It’s unlikely. If we come across wounded, we will treat them the best we can, but I.. I don’t want to lie. If that’s happening, I don’t know how to avoid ugly causality rates. I’m sorry.”, said Squall apologetically.

At the suggestion of securing a sample, Khonsu - who up until this point had stood silent and observant - stood out of Hyperion’s shadow, the luminescence of the screen causing a particular sheen against her red hair. “Do we know where this chemical is being produced? Due to the blockade, it must be local. Once I and the Cobra’s infiltrate Ashkak prior to the main landing, perhaps I can find and extract a sample, or if we can subdue the production plant without much damage, produce an antidote on site...” Her head tilted towards both Otho and Squall, awaiting either’s reply.

Squall shook his head, “I have no intelligence at this time about a location. However, we have a quick reaction force on the deck in the event we get good intelligence.”

“Any questions?”

Kassakhana raised her hand with closed eyes and a solemn expression, “The chemical. We need to make it some kind of operational priority to obtain a sample of that. If we don’t, we could island hop all we like on this damned ring, but it wouldn’t matter. We’d have to level the islands to secure them, and unless the Pudites and the Skyan Republic are ready to commit genocide to rule over barren land, I don’t see us doing this. No, we need to prepare ourselves for exterminating indoctrinated populations if we can’t break whatever wash’s on ‘em. We need to be doing everything we can to prepare for these sorts of assaults and to be proactive against this threat. Should we not establish a new Battle Group directly tasked with the capture of a sample?”

Squall repeated himself as he interjected, "Our intel branches are already coordinating all incoming intelligence. The trouble is that we don't know where it's being manufactured."

Pugochev added with a raised hand of his own but a more enthusiastic smile on his face, “I share the Warczarina’s concerns, but I have a solution to hers and another problem I see.”

The Over-Commander stood up and gestured to the map of Shen Almaru as a whole, “The political situation demands that our campaign be expedient and quick toward liberation. I fear,” clearing his throat, “That although I understand why we must island hop to assure rapid dominance of each island,” glancing around the room with a crooked smile, “I cannot understand why we would limit ourselves to such narrow dominions of staging.”

Kassakhana nodded, seeing where the Over-Commander was going, so she beckoned him back to his seat and stood up herself. “Aldarminia is prepared to deploy a Special Operations Expeditionary Myriad of Vanguard troops across the islands. That’s over 10,000 good men we can use throughout our invasion to track down and capture a sample of the indoctrination serum.”

Spreading his arms wide, Svyn noted, “Why stop there?”

“Right,” affirmed Darysha, “Simultaneous if not right after initial bombardment or during airdrops, we should deploy an Orbital Assault Joint Strike Legion to Ashkak. If this method proves its merits, we can use it to expedite our later operations on the other islands.”

Retaking her seat, “There is little reason to think we should not take this opportunity, especially when all of our intelligence and reconnaissance suggests that the presence of hostile forces in potential orbspatial areas-of-operation over Shen Almaru is likely low if not nonexistent.”

Bexar looked over to Otho, "It's your land, we'll take direction on that from you. If we think we can sync up the orbital troops with resistance forces I agree with this line of action. Major Narmada can coordinate."

Squall continued his briefing.

“Securing the islands post liberation will be the other challenge that they would need to work through. So long as the Slaver Empire stands, they can send additional ships and aircraft to try and wreak havoc on the islands. There is a case amongst some of the commanders that we should shift our forces towards the slaver homeland itself. We will need to make a commitment to a plan of action as soon as possible because once the air battle commences it will be impractical to alter our plan.”

Eloi coughed into a closed hand, and looked squarely at Squall. “With all due respect, Major Squall, we Ghantish have come all this way to liberate the island, secure it, and hold it in the name of the Emperor of Ghant. We have neither the manpower, nor the gumption, to attack Scandinvan proper, though I’m sure your Golden handlers would be quite eager to commit all of us to such an attack.”

Lord Gorri looked at Eloi with a wide-eyed expression, and his mouth moved as though to speak, but no words came out, at least right away. “...but Lord Cygnus…”

“Isn’t the Emperor of Ghant,” Eloi cut off the young Gorri with a sharp gaze, before turning back to Squall and adding. “There’s two sides to every war, Major Squall. Strategy and politics. We Ghantish are a political breed, you see, as I’m sure you already know from your dealings with the Emperor...or rather, the Executor now.” He added that last part rather matter-of-factly.

Squall grunted. He hadn’t wanted to bring up attacking the Slaver homeland, but he had heard enough grumbling amongst the other officers that he thought he would bring it up - and now it had bit him in the back. He wasn’t sure how Atticus managed to deal with all this.

“I agree, but as long as the Slaver Empire stands they can continue to reinforce their holdings in Shen. If we’re going to do this, we should do this quickly.”

“Which is why we attack Shen with maximum strength and with great haste, so that there’s nothing for them to reinforce,” Eloi responded. “At that point the will of the Council should be that the Scandinvans cannot retake it. You’re a Praetor, after all...isn’t it your job to enforce the will of the Council?”

Squall took a deep breath. He was not a diplomat. He was far more comfortable with kicking a door in than playing nice. The gears in his head turned trying to come up with a response that wouldn’t start a fight in the war room.

Supreme Commander Bexar spoke up in his gruff voice.

“Emissary, I’m sure you’ve noticed the massive number of ships, aircraft, and guns surrounding us at this very moment - many of which have participated in drills that Major Squall has conducted in order to form good working relationships between our units. I do not doubt for a moment that the will of the Council will be done. You seem in agreement with this plan, so who else has questions or concerns?”

Eloi said nothing else, and neither did Gorri, though clearly he was tempted to speak.

Bexar raised an eyebrow, “Lord Gorri, you have an opinion on the matter? This is your opportunity.”

Gorri shifted his feet, and then he responded. “There had previously been some debate between Eloi and Lord Cygnus concerning whether to prioritize an attack on Shen or on Scandinvan proper. It’s a tenuous situation, because the men are eager to take the fight to the Scandinvans. Emissary Eloi was right when he said that the politics are delicate. If we attack and liberate Shen, it can be construed as a legitimate enterprise sanctioned by the Council. However, any attack against the Scandinvans in their main lands would constitute a breach of the Gothic Pact. Therefore, we must liberate Shen quickly, and force the Scandinvans to the table. The Emperor...or Executor rather, is confident that if Shen is liberated and held by a multi-national force, that the Scandinvans will have no choice but to come to the table and accept a new status quo in the interest of peace.”

Bexar nodded, “We are in agreement. Who else has questions, comments, concerns? We’ve all been briefed, but we’re all here so now’s the time to hash it out.”

Hyperion had observed the exchange between Emissary Eloi and Major Squall with a disapproving glare towards the former. As he had demonstrated with his address to the Slavers in Citadel City a few months prior, he loathed the seediness of politics and the opinions of those who seemed more interested in attaining political capital then doing what he believed was the right and necessary thing. He was not too enamoured with Lord Gorri’s and the absent Lord Cygnus’ approach either; as far as he - and his Caesar, for that matter - was concerned, it was the Scandinvans that had breached the Pact first, and thus forfeited the rights it had once afforded them. Such was the reasoning behind condoning - albeit begrudgingly - the Golden Throne’s campaign against them. As far as Hyperion was concerned, they were just as open season as the traitors of Shen Almaru who had aligned with them.

But, all that was just politics, and if he could avoid it, he would. In fact, Caesar had given him strict instruction to do so. So he held his tongue, though he was sure to make a note of the Ghantish behaviour in these proceedings. Such would not be tolerated in future, particularly if a strike against the Slaver Empire became necessary. Especially when the war with the Reich began.

Bexar stood up and buttoned his uniform, which was his own way of ending the meeting.

“Very well, pending final approval from the Executor, our attack will begin in 72 hours. Good hunting everyone.”

A louder than necessary clearing of a throat from the back, "Hmm, but commanders. What are we going to do?" His accent thick and heavy, "I mean, your people.. Eh, they can help with the buttering up of the enemy I suppose." He chuckled to himself as if speaking of an inside joke. The man took out a thick cigar and lit it with a match. "I only joke. The Dephirians will swarm in to help save the day. Ha!" He laughed a hearty laugh and slapped his knee. Boris bent over laughing before holding up a hand, "'Tis good joke. Seventy-two hours and our enemy will see just how powerful Tristan's thrust game is."

Squall chuckled just a bit somewhat thankful that somebody could bring a bit of levity.

Boris takes in a long drag of his freshly lit cigar, holds in the smoke to appreciate the flavor, then lets loose a cloud of smoke towards the floor. "Give us an opening, comrades. Give us an opening and we will grind our enemies to dust. Take an airport and our Hell Knights will swarm in. Take the shore and our amphibious forces will be a tsunami! You give us an opening and we will give you your home back." He had taken the time to step towards the table during his say, then pounded his fist against the table to punctuate his final word. The man then nodded to his comrades in approval before producing a flask and a glass and poured him some whiskey. "Til then." He lifted the glass before bringing it to his lips and taking a sip.

[Emperor Pudu]

Shen Almaru archipelago, mountains east of Mazaraan

The room was small and plain, and looked smaller for Quiet Isaac’s being there: he was easily over seven feet tall, and when he laid on his back his shoulders were wider than the cot they gave him to sleep on. That’s what he was doing now, and most days; he was laying on his back staring up at the ceiling. There was no window in the room but there was a small vent on the ceiling. Right now it echoed with the sounds of at least a dozen other prisoners in this place chattering away. Isaac knew most of them by now, even if they had never met. There was Manny, he had been a newspaper editor, one of the first to test the limits of their new masters’ patience for a free press. It hadn’t taken long. Isaac also heard Audie, he called himself an ‘Almaran Outlaw’, he sounded like an average street tough - he was picked up for putting a trio of Vigilies police in the hospital - but Isaac knew there must be more to the outlaw for him to be locked up here. Listening closely, Isaac could also make out a faint, regular tapping. That was Mehim.

Isaac and Mehim had been arrested together, he had lost track of how much time had passed since then - the prisoners had been isolated from each other and any natural day-night cycle since they arrived at the asylum. That’s what Isaac had heard the guards refer to this place as, apparently it had been a sanitarium before the occupation but had been cleared out by White’s private army to hold prisoners of special interest. Most prisoners here were moved in together, Isaac and Mehim from the cells below the governor’s mansion in Mazaraan, others came in from across the islands, and very few new prisoners had come in since then. Those that made it here were lucky in a sense, as most were guilty of crimes enough to see them executed by the new Scandin authorities. The fact that they were alive was where their luck ended, however. This was Albus White’s personal super-max. The prisoners were subjected to regular bouts of torture and arbitrary punsihment. Some must have broken, or died, Isaac had concluded when their voices could no longer be heard through the corridors and ventilation shafts of the asylum.

The tapping continued through the vent, just audible under the voices of the other prisoners. Isaac stood up and, reaching his hand above his head the ceiling was easily in reach, he flicked his index finger against the metal vent three times. The tapping from the other end stopped, then gave a one tap answer. Mehim was okay, and now he knew Isaac was okay as well. The big man settled back down onto his cot. Audie was now doing an impression of a well-known comedian which had a few of the other voices Isaac heard through the vents laughing. Loud enough, it turned out, to warrant a couple of guards somewhere in the facility banging their heavy wooden clubs on the steel doors of someone or another’s cells which carried quite loudly through the whole building. It only quieted the voices for a second before they were back at it again.

Then he heard the gunshot. That silenced the prisoners one and all, Isaac standing to stretch his ear toward the vent in the ceiling while keeping his eyes turned on his own cell door - what was happening? The guards did not just execute prisoners offhandedly like this, it had never been done. He heard another gunshot. Prisoners were screaming now, Isaac heard through the vents and down the hall outside his cell, screaming in confusion, it sounded, and they were being answered with the banging of more heavy clubs against steel doors. Isaac heard someone run by in the hallway, but the door was solid and there was no way to see who it was. Then an alarm began to sound, and the lights went out. Isaac heard Mehim’s voice through the vents - he never spoke, always used their tapping code - but this time he spoke, “Isaac!” he shouted, “Get ready!”

All hell seemed to break loose in the asylum after that. Isaac had begun counting after the second gunshot, six minutes passed as battle seemed to rage around the building. He heard at least two distinct explosions, and four more times did groups of people run past his door. The prisoners never quieted back down, and now most were actively cheering for whatever was going on outside their walls. It was clear by now the battle had moved into the asylum itself, gunshots could be heard echoing through the halls and vents. Shouting too could be heard, from guards and perhaps some from whomever was making this assault. Isaac heard Almaran accents - White’s guards were never Almarans, always foreigners, so any voice Isaac heard must be a prisoner or - or whatever these people turned out to be.

As battle raged, Isaac kept a steady count. It had been seven minutes, now eight. Whatever was happening out there, it had to happen fast. As soon as that alarm went off, Isaac had no doubt, White’s men would be calling for reinforcements. If the attackers were already in the building, though - he didn’t dare to hope any farther than that. What had Mehim meant? “Get ready?” Did the old Suudi know something he hadn’t shared with Isaac?

The next gunshot came from the hallway outside Isaac’s room. He quickly leapt across the room and put his back against the wall beside the heavy steel door, ready to react if it opened. Just one gunshot? Were guards executing prisoners before they could be reached by the attackers? Then there was a heavy metallic thud and Isaac saw his door swing just a little looser on its hinges. The cells had been unlocked. He remained motionless, watching the door for any movement. When it swung open he barely had time to stop himself delivering a swift strike to the entrant - it was a woman. White’s guards were men. Isaac made eye contact, she was much shorter than he, just over five feet tall, and she was a Pudite - she was also carrying a submachine gun and wearing a red band of cloth tied around the arm of her Imperial Guard field uniform. All this and he suddenly realized, he recognized her. He raised his hands in front of him and flashed off the sign for ‘Spring’. Isaac was mute, he could not speak, but the woman - Seeking Spring was her name - answered him in the same sign language, ‘Good to see you Isaac.’ Then she spoke, “It’s time to go big man, follow me!”

In the hallway were a half dozen more fighters in Pudite uniforms with the red band around the arm, other prisoners were emerging from their cells and looking around just as cautiously as Isaac had. Some of the fighters were unholstering sidearms to hand to prisoners, others had carried what Isaac recognized as some of the small arms White’s men used. Isaac himself bent over the corpse of one of White’s soldiers and slipped the big club from the loop on his belt. That would do just fine for him.

Cells in the asylum were located on three floors in this, the west wing of the building. Isaac was on the second, while Mehim was on the first. Isaac could hear frantic activity above and below them, though the gunfire appeared to have moved further in to the building to the east. Seeking Spring shared a look with one of the fighters at the eastern end of the hall, leading back toward the center of the facility. The other fighter nodded and Spring understood, “With me, unless you’d like to extend your stay!” she shouted, jogging back toward the western end of the building. Six rebel fighters and a dozen prisoners quickly fell in line behind her, with her soldiers taking the lead and maintaining a rear guard as they moved out of the detention hall. The corridors to the west had clearly been those Spring’s fighters had come through already - there were dead bodies only just kicked to one side or slumped out of the way. Some prisoners stopped to trade up their impromptu armament here, Isaac saw Audie the outlaw stick the little revolver one of the fighters had handed him into a pocket of his jumpsuit and pick up a large barreled shotgun. Clearing the breach, Audie discovered the gun was loaded with nonlethal shells, which elicited a quick laugh from him.

The party did not have long to run before they reached an outer door. This one was guarded by a pair of the red-armbanded soldiers, who quickly radioed something in and pushed the doors open ahead of Spring, moving in a jog down the hall. The whole group then followed her out into the warm, humid night air. Isaac had not been outside in he didn’t know how long. Red flashing lights, at least two flares in the sky and a fire burning somewhere around the corner of the building to the north were all casting intermittent light around the asylum grounds, so his eyes did not need much adjustment. The asylum itself was very remote, located in the high mountains east of Mazaraan and surrounded by jungle. About a hundred meters ahead of their little group was the perimeter fence, which was sporting a large and presumably brand new hole from the outside.

Just as the team started to make for that hole, a terrible deep thudding sound erupted from the south; earth was flung up into the sky around them and the rumble of a very powerful engine was heard. A tracked vehicle had rumbled out from behind a shed and opened fire with what looked like a 30mm cannon. Seconds later a machine gun burst to life and the prisoners and rebel fighters scattered. Isaac dove to a prone position and rolled into a shallow defile, others ducked back into the building, or around the corner, and some desperately tried to make a run for the fence. Isaac saw as Manny, the middle aged white collar dissident, led a trio of sprinting prisoners toward that hole in the fence. One by one they were met with bursts from the vehicle’s machine gun, each tumbling ungracefully into the grass. Manny was the last, and the nearest to freedom, when he fell to the earth.

Isaac realized there was someone else in his shallow ditch with him, Audie was laying on his back with the shotgun clutched to his chest, looking past Isaac and watching Manny and the others as well. It was then that Manny started to climb to his feet again. Isaac looked as the vehicle’s machine gun, which had been tracking away from the runners, began to reverse course. Then a thunderous blast echoed next to him, rolling to the other side Isaac saw Audie kneeling now, firing off round after round from his pump action shotgun - rubber slugs - which were bouncing off the armored vehicle with heavy thumps. The machine gun began to track back toward Audie and Isaac and away from Manny. Audie looked down at Isaac, still prone, and smiled “Sorry brother, didn’t mean to blow up your spot.” Isaac almost laughed. “Last one!” Audie shouted as he racked the final slug and fired.

The IFV exploded. Isaac looked to Audie and both had the same look of amazement. No time to process, however, as Seeking Spring was suddenly at their side, grabbing both men by their coveralls and dragging them toward the fence. “Last chance!” she shouted, her submachine gun hanging off her back by the strap and bouncing as she ran. Isaac and Audie, who had thrown the shotgun to the ground and pulled out his little pistol, began to run.

About halfway to the fence Isaac watched as a handful of rebel fighters emerged from the shadows beyond and picked up Manny, still struggling forward, and hurried him along. Seconds later Isaac and the others ducked through the holes in the perimeter and were greeted by more urgently ushering guerillas. Seeking Spring seemed to hang back at the fence, fighting was still going on in the facility, but Isaac and Audie were bundled off by her troopers to the treeline a few hundred meters down the slope. As they ran Isaac spotted a team of the rebels carrying an ATGM launcher tube, clearly their saviours from moments ago.

As Audie and Isaac, and Manny too Isaac soon saw, crossed the treeline they came into a small triage station manned by more of the rebels. Manny was on his back with one leg elevated and bandaged while a soldier was administering a shot. Another rebel checked over Isaac and Audie, though both were unharmed. Isaac looked about for Mehim but didn’t see him. He was prepared to wait here, or indeed go back for him, but the soldiers were ushering him further into the jungle. As Isaac stood, neck craned looking into the shadows toward the asylum one of the fighters, dwarfed by the big man, was holding a hand on his chest and pointing with a rifle down the slope and away, where a trickle of the escaped prisoners and other fighters were moving once patched up. Isaac merely shook his head and the soldier, giving a questioning look to one of the others in a red armband nearby, gave up trying to move him.

The noise of battle coming from the asylum began to die off. Isaac heard at least one more large explosion, then only a scattered round of gunfire, then nothing. Some more fighters and prisoners had come through the little camp, but not Seeking Spring, and not Mehim. Isaac waited. One minute and thirty six seconds passed between the last gunshot and Isaac’s spotting Seeking Spring coming down the trail from the asylum. There were at least a dozen fighters with her, and one prisoner. Mehim Yeza, the old Suudi. Yeza was tall and slender with a wiry black beard and dark almond skin weathered by years of hard living. When Isaac spotted him both men showed warm smiles. Isaac rushed across the clearing and scooped up the older man beneath the arms and held him up in a bear hug, long enough for a woman behind Mehim to cough audibly, which caused Isaac to put her down. It was Seeking Spring - only, she had an eyepatch on? Isaac unwrapped his hands from behind Mehim and started to sign something to her when she laughed, “Nice to meet you, Isaac.” she said, and then the real Seeking Spring stepped up beside her. “My sister,” she smiled as the big man took them both in. “My name’s Verdant Spring.” the first one said. Seeking Spring spoke next, joking “I think she went and lost that eye so people can tell us apart.” Both sisters laughed.

But it was time to go. The last couple medics, the newly arrived soldiers, Isaac, Mehim and the Spring sisters all started off down the hill - now Verdant Spring appeared to be in charge, while Seeking Spring seemed to fall back in the line to converse quietly with Mehim.

They were only running for a minute or two before they heard the first hint of VTOL engines on the horizon. They were descending into a mountain valley overlooked by the asylum and the engine noise was coming from the west, towards Mazaraan, where any of White’s reinforcements would be coming from. Their pace did not slacken, though, and soon the line was shaken out into a longer chain, each runner only just visible to the one behind. Isaac soon realized they were not on their way to catch up to the larger force which had already evacuated. The other prisoners, the soldiers who had urged Isaac to leave the advance position, they had clearly gone somewhere else. Verdant Spring was leading their little band parallel to the mountain’s ridgeline now, halfway up the valley.

A flight of VTOL aircraft, heavy Coba gunships, cleared the mountains east of them. They appeared to be heading for the asylum directly and not yet engaging in a search, Isaac was thankful. He couldn’t see the asylum from here, and he was focused primarily on running and keeping the soldier in front of him in view, but Isaac did hear what happened next.

Explosions began to sound off behind him, from the asylum. Isaac had been a soldier all his life and he had some frame of reference for the sound of incoming mortar fire - that’s what this was. Light infantry mortars it sounded like, at least three based on the rate of incoming shells. This bombardment quickly sent the sound of the Coba gunships back up into the air around the asylum, no doubt only moments away from locating the source of the attack. Then a new rain of flares flashed to life behind him, casting a new soft orange glow as they settled quickly to earth - defensive flares from the gunships - an explosion and whirring engine wail confirmed what must have been coming next. Surface to air missiles streaked out of the hillsides into the night sky in the valley and all three heavy gunships were hit. Two went down somewhere in the valley, while one sounded like it had remained under control but had clearly ditched somewhere and was no longer in the sky. Isaac and the others continued to run.

They ran until the sun had risen above the mountains. They passed two villages in the night, skirting around them in the forest - certain they were already locked down by White’s troops. At one point they had heard a gunfight somewhere in the valley. It went on for about ten minutes before it sputtered out. Nobody had any idea who, or where, it had been. They stopped that morning when they came to the banks of a wide river. The valley they had been following had a stream in its base, which had now flowed out to this larger run. The party, about fifteen of them all together, quickly refilled water bottles and the medics did a quick check in with Mehim and Isaac to make sure they had weathered the hard night’s march well. Mehim looked winded, but the old man had spent his life running from government helicopters so Isaac assumed he’d be all right.

Verdant Spring stood at the center of the little party with her sister, and Isaac and Mehim moved to join them. Isaac tapped Mehim on the arm and signed, ‘You knew about this?’ to which Mehim smiled, and signed back ‘Sorry.’ Isaac then turned to Verdant Spring. He had known her sister, Seeking Spring, as a field agent of the Envy Temple intelligence services; both he and Mehim were temple agents from other branches, but he didn’t know Verdant Spring. He signed to her, ‘So who do we have to thank for our chance to meet, Verdant Spring?’ She understood, and answered “Since we’ve got time, might as well give you the story, eh?”

“I’m Verdant Spring, Mercy Temple,” so she was a temple agent, like her sister. “When this kicked off I was on Esu with an earthquake relief team.” Esu was an island just to the east of Mazaraan, rural and mountainous. “After, we set up the first armed resistance there. Seeking was in Mazaraan, but she came to Esu to lay low with us.” Seeking Spring interjected then, “Not sure I’d call it laying low, but continue,” she laughed. “Well, can’t say the heat wasn’t on in Esu, that’s for sure.” Verdant Spring flicked the elastic band holding her eyepatch in place, “There was some action. But the real fight’s gonna be here.” she concluded. “We’re the Mercykillers,” she gestured at the other fighters around her before tugging off her red armband and tossing it to Isaac. Mehim also got one. “I brought a few hundred of my best people across the strait in the last few weeks. This op might have blown our cover, they know to look for us now, but I think we can get back underground pretty quickly.” Isaac listened intently, then asked, signing ‘So why now?’

Seeking Spring answered this time, “Long answer? Because it’s all gonna kick off real soon. Simple answer? The old man wanted to meet.” Mehim then clapped Isaac on the back and handed him a canteen, “Drink up big man, it’s time to do what we came here to do.”


Downtown Mazaraan, two days later

Carl Eastman wound his way through the narrow alleys of his adopted home with ease and a practiced wariness. He had survived on these streets since the occupation as the highest ranking Pudite intelligence official “in the wind” that is, unaccounted for by the local security forces. He had arranged the escape of Ambassador Otho in the opening hours of the crisis, but in the long interval since then he had been able to do little more than his best to keep up his network of contacts and leave an ear to the ground in case he might be called upon again. Now, his time had come.

Eastman was a middle aged man with broad shoulders, a pronounced belly and a narrow waist. He seemed to wobble his way along on skinny legs without ever seeming to be losing his balance. He had an unconventional grace that reached to his personality. He seemed to know every third person he passed by name, sharing friendly greetings and rapid smalltalk with a dozen men and women on every street. He was making his way toward the waterfront fish market - always an important part of the city but even moreso since food imports to the island ceased. Domestic fishing and the huge rice plantations on nearby Alacao did supply all the food the island could want - in peacetime - but these days it was the army and the occupying Scandinvans that took delivery of most of the island’s food. The fish market was heavily policed, but it was also visited by nearly every working professional and free civilian left in the city. It would be more suspicious if Carl never visited the market than if he did every day, which was his habit.

The market covered streets and warehouses across at least ten blocks along the city’s civilian waterfront. Sky blue uniformed Scandinvan guards were posted prominently on most street corners, alleyways and beside fishmongers’ tables. There was strict rationing of the catch most days and a seller caught not filling out a buyers’ ration card, or a buyer carrying multiple cards, was inviting serious punishment from the vigilant blue-eyed guardsmen. Carl Eastman carried a ration card under the name Randy Madrid, his primary cover identity. Randy was a broadcast engineer at a local radio station, a cover job which Carl thoroughly enjoyed. It was one which brought him a little additional scrutiny, but it did have its benefits. His double ration allowance was just one.

Passing under the nose of the powder blue stormtroopers, Carl made his way toward his favourite merchant’s stall. Always careful, however, he first made a circuit of a few blocks and ducked into and out of a few small seller’s warehouses, watching for a tail. At one point he thought he did catch someone looking his way, but she was across a large refrigerated hall of fish piles. He left out the back and never saw her again. After about ten minutes Carl was satisfied he was alone and made his way toward Carol Lee’s modest stand. She and her husband owned a small two-person boat and fished the harbor mouth every morning before dawn. She sometimes passed Carl more than a fish or two wrapped in those brown paper parcels. Today when he arrived Mrs. Lee was already helping someone, a housewife buying the day’s meal, by her look. When she had made her purchase Carl approached, “Carol, you’d better not be giving away your choice catches before I get here! I thought I knew all your regulars.” Mrs. Lee smiled apologetically, “She had crowns, couldn’t deny that Mr. Madrid,” Carl leaned closer over the table, “Mrs Lee! If they catch you accepting crowns!” he hissed. Carl then turned around to look after the woman, but she was standing right behind him.

“Howdy, Carl.” she said. “Been a long time.”

Seeking Spring led Carl Eastman back to the safehouse before she finally shed her disguise. A fake nose, a wig and a little bit of a stoop were shed like a jacket and tossed aside. The safehouse was an apartment three flights of stairs above a plain steel door beside a tired little bar that Eastman had never been inside. “You weren’t supposed to be in the city until tomorrow.” Carl noted offhandedly while lighting a cigarette as he paced around the perimeter of the little two-room apartment. In the back room he smiled happily as he discovered Quiet Isaac and Mehim Yeza sitting with sheepish grins on the single bed. “Good to finally meet you,” Carl started, as both rose to their feet and came out to the front room to join the others.

“So as you can see,” Seeking Spring said over her shoulder as she started to look through the kitchen for something, “We’ve gotten it all off without a hitch. My sister is in the hills with her people, we’ve got an open line if we need to get in touch.” she pulled out a teapot and began to boil some water. The little efficiency room had a card table and four folding chairs, one of which Isaac was already straining to its limit while Mehim had taken a second. Carl took a seat and pulled the clean ashtray on the table over to him, “Anything stronger than tea in that kitchen, Spring?” Carl called out. When she joined the other three at the table Spring set down two glasses and an unopened bottle of Almaran rum. “Don’t suppose there’s any whisky left anywhere in the islands then.” Carl said resignedly. Seeking Spring shrugged and poured the two of them a glass.

[Dephire]

Some time ago...

Thump! Thump!

The sounds from his boots echoed throughout the halls as the massive behemoth of a man walked towards the large ivory doors further down. This man stood roughly seven feet tall and built like a god of war, and his hair was styled in a tribal ponytail with the left and right sides of his head buzzed to near stubble. His name is…

“Boris Yarost! Thank you for coming on such short notice!” The voice from within the large chamber boomed the moment Boris stepped through the doors. Its origin was a much smaller man sitting at the center of a crescent shaped table. His chair being taller and made of a black material that Boris could not make out from where he stood. Three people sat along the crescent table on each side of the man in the center.

“I came at once, Your Lordship. Felraven said you had a task of great importance for me,” Boris walked towards the center of the table and kneeled. “I am yours to command.”

The man leaned forward, “You need not kneel, Boris. Our people know of your deeds and exploits. You bow to no one,” his voice becoming more grave. He then leaned back to continue his briefing. “There is to be a gathering of the Lords of Gholgoth. It is at this meeting where some changes will be made and I am sure there will be some new enforcer caste created to keep the peace.”

Boris stood as was requested and cocked his head, “Peace? What peace? There’s always been some form of attack on this city for this crime. Petty squabbles all of them. They make the job almost too easy.”

“Oh absolutely!” The man leaned back as he chuckled. “Here is the task I am setting before you, Boris. You are going to be implanted into the Dephirian administration. I have whispered into the ears of Tristan and his council and they have followed like marionettes. This meeting will be taking place a few months from now. We will provide you the necessary documentation, uniform, etcetera etcetera.”

Boris grunted in acknowledgement, “I can do this. What is it that I will be doing at this summit?”

A woman seated at the right-hand spoke up, “We want you to acquire the title of whatever they choose to call these peacekeepers. From that point on you will be providing reconassaince and perform a little bit of both espionage and sabotage. Dephire is going to be a wasteland in the coming years. I want to ensure this to be so. They have already begun sending their fleets towards the east. This only validates the prophesized events more.”

“Infiltrate the Dephirian hierarchy. Help bring it down from the inside. I understand my mission.” Boris gestured a tipping of a hat. “I will see to my new assignment immediately.”

“Thank you, Boris. Dismissed.” The center man returned the gesture.

Present - Aboard the Unity

Boris Yarost, Praetor of Dephire, my enemy… It makes my stomach sour. He was leaning over a railing with one hand holding his glass of what seemed like never ending whiskey, and in the other he held his smokey cigar. He kept looking over his shoulders to see if anyone wished to join him in his wallowing. It was not that he was actually lonely, but having someone to talk to would help take his mind off of the mission. Samael, I will follow you to the ends of the earth. This must be one of his tests to prove my endurance. He stood up straight and swallowed the rest of the whiskey in one big gulp, and then proceeded to wander a bit around the ship. Perhaps they serve some decent food aboard this ship.

Battle of Yarajevo - Acheron - 1500 Years Ago

The field before them was already blanketed by thousands of corpses. The soil itself stained red from the blood. Ten thousand men armed with war axes, spears, and various other blades marched in formation towards another army of nearly equal size. Ahead by ten strides was a massive man with blue and green tribal paint all over his body. He carried a massive double-bladed war axe and stopped on top of a large boulder.

Boris stood tall and without fear and roared towards the enemy forces. His men behind him joined him in their attempt to strike fear in their enemy. He hopped down and began to charge. As he charged, the enemy ranks faltered. None wanted to face the War God. Boris’ army crashed into the other as a tidal wave, meeting little to no resistance.

An hour into the slaughter, Boris stood upon the mountain of the fallen soldiers of the enemy, raised his axe to the sky, and roared victoriously. His forces suffered little loss while the others were nearly decimated entirely. With this victory his people would inherit the world...

...Unfortunately the world had other thoughts.

Unity

Boris found his way to the crew’s galley and proceeded to the service line where he was handed a tray with lightly fried fish filets, some sort of vegetable, and a starch.

“Thank you,” Boris said to the linesman before turning around and searching for a table to sit. He looked for one where he could be by himself. This was more for the comfort of everyone as he was a fairly large man with tree trunk legs. Thankfully he found one before too long and sat down.

Night Before Siege of Karakoa - 1500 Years Ago

Boris sat at his position at the head of a large table with a feast before him, “My friends, tomorrow we begin our siege of Karakoa, and the end of this war!” His lieutenants cheered in a roar of favor. “Our enemies cower behind their walls. The very same walls that we shall crush into the ground!”

“To dust and dirt!” One of his men shouted.

“Dust and dirt!” The others shouted as they raised their mugs and drank.

Boris took a long drink from his before returning the mug to the table. “Tonight we celebrate our victories that helped us reach this point of history. Do not drink too much as we mustn’t fight with our heads elsewhere. We begin at dawn. UNTIL DEATH TAKES US, WE SHALL BE DEATH!”

“FOR DEATH!” The men shouted in return.

Unity - Mess Hall

The praetor looked down to his tray of food. He kept poking and moving the food around with his utensils. It was not that the food was not appetizing. In fact, he did have a few bites and thought it was quite good. No, the reason for his fidgeting was both out of boredom and sadness. His mind wandered to the past where he was once at the height of his power once upon a time. The soldiers he commanded. His many lovers. The kingdom he ruled. All of that had been taken from him. He now sat here a broken man. A man who had only a title and binding contract to Death himself. However beaten he felt, Boris still kept his loyalty to the one. Still, the thoughts of the past still haunt him fifteen hundred years later.

He looked up from his tray and took in the sights of the mess hall. Everyone he saw was in good spirits. They reminded him of his own and even let out a small chuckle. Ian would have brought out the strings and Yara would be dancing her tantalizing moves. The men and women would break out in song and join the dance. He began humming one of the songs from the Deathbringer War.

The Siege of Karakoa - Capital of Acheron - 1500 Years Ago

The thundering sound of boots marching upon hard soil could be heard from miles as the army got into formation three hundred meters from the walls of Karakoa. Boris stood within the ranks of his soldiers to survey the battlefield that lay before him. His siege weapons slowly moving to their positions from behind the army, siege towers among them. There were no signs of any enemy army before them. The walls themselves appeared barren. He could tell the city had not been abandoned, but it’s defenses were.

“This appears to be a trap,” one of Boris’ commanders whispered to him.

“It does appear that way, Ian. Signal to the others. There is something amiss and I do not like it,” Boris continued surveying. The battlefield was a large meadow with its outer edges being forests. Low hills spotted the landscape. Boris pointed towards a tree a few hundred feet ahead, “Send a scout to climb the tree. Have them try to see where their army is hiding.”

Another commander turned to the battalion behind them, “Isha! Come!” She shouted.

A small but agile woman stepped forward, “Yes, ma’am!”

“Your Lord needs your skills. See that tree over there?” She turns and points to the tree.

“Yes! Do you wish for me to climb it?” Isha looked to the tree and appeared to be calculating how to climb it.

“Smart girl. The war may be won or lost depending on what you see from that tree. Now go, quickly!” The commander urged Isha just as the woman began to sprint. A few moments later Isha was already halfway up the tree. They could see her frantically looking around the battlefield after reaching the top.

“Either she sees an overwhelming number of combatants, or there’s nothing.” Ian just returned from telling the captains their orders.

“We are already too far ahead of the forests to retreat. We must press forward. Signal the advance… Add caution.” Boris was suspicious of the circumstances, but the army began their march forward. The wind picking up from behind them.

As they approached the tree, Isha shouted down to them, “I’m sorry, my lord, but I did not see a soul. Even the city itself seemed abandoned.” She looked panicked. “This is too weird!”

“They left the city? How could they have done so without anyone noticing? The scouts would have reported this!” Ian was just as worried as the others.

The army continued marching until they reached the massive gates. Boris stepped forward from his men and looked upon the wide-opened gates before him. He looked down to the earth to gauge since they were last traveled on. “We have not been gifted a victory. The city was abandoned weeks ago,” he continued through the gates with his battalion following. “Ian. Yara. Send two battalions each along the walls towards the east and west. I want to ensure this trap is not sprung.”

“Yes sir!” The commanders said in unison before taking the soldiers away.

Boris put his battle axe in the sheath on his back and drew out a dagger from his hip sheath, and then proceeded to travel further into the city. The most of the remaining soldiers followed, with a small force staying behind to protect the siege equipment. The city was far more quiet than he thought. It was too quiet. No people. No animals save for birds overhead. That was when a thought came to mind as he realized there were dozens. No. Hundreds of birds overhead. “Carrion birds,” he said to himself as they continued further in.

The city had been prepared for a long siege. Wooden palisades were erected in what appeared to be random locations for an attempt of making a defensive point. Windows were boarded up. Spike walls surrounded various storage buildings. Every square they passed also had massive trebuchets erected for defending the city. It wasn’t until they reached the second wall before they saw the first mass grave. More sites would be found within the second walled section.

“Plague,” Boris said to his soldiers. “Be careful where you breathe. The sickness could still linger.”

“Someone must have been still alive to dig these,” one of the captains said.

“True. Just where are they?” Boris questioned. “Perhaps the answer is in the castle.” Boris turned to the soldiers, “Everyone! This city appears to have fallen to a force stronger than us. Plague! Either the gods truly favored us on this day, or there is a sick trick at play. I need you to go and help me investigate what really happened! Careful where you step and where you breathe. Cover your mouth and nose in cloth. If you find survivors, bring them to the castle. That is where I will be heading. We will make camp there and wait for Commanders Ian and Yara to return from their mission. Disperse!” With that command the army split into companies, and the companies into squads. Boris took his company and proceeded towards the castle ahead.

The wooden defenses grew thicker and denser the closer the company got to the castle. It was nearly an hour before they reached the walls barring entry into the castle grounds. The gates here were also open wide. Cautiously they entered, but found the grounds as empty as the city. They continued into the castle and began searching within. They entered the throne room to see even more palisades and spikes. Boris pushed through the defenses and stopped as he looked to the throne. Sitting upon the throne was the rotting corpse of King Balathron, the man he was to kill. Boris approached slowly while examining the body.

“Is that-” Captain Adronis started to speak.

“It is. King Balathron the Tyrant of Tyremore. Hmm,” Boris had gotten to the first of five steps leading up to the throne itself before he noticed a pool of dry blood on the ground around the throne. He then looked up to examine the king even more care and noticed the throat had been cut deep. “Interesting. Someone got to him before we did, and before the plague. Adronis, have someone take care of the corpse. Captain Kuraag, we are to setup camp inside the inner walls. Have your fastest soldiers rush to the east and west gates to relay the information to the commanders.”

“Yes sir. It shall be done!” Kuraag bowed before going to issue the orders.

Boris watched as four men walked over to the corpse, lifted it, and then threw it out a window.

Unity

He had finally forced himself to finish the meal, which was now cold. The mess hall was also emptying as dinner time was over. Boris sighed heavily before taking his tray to the collection bin then headed towards the deck. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small radio, “This is Praetor Boris. I am ready to be collected for transport back on board the Defiance.”

“Acknowledge, Praetor. Your standby transport is enroute. ETA twenty minutes.” A voice from the radio replied.

“Thank you,” Boris placed the radio back into his pocket and continued his walk to the deck. His mind continued to lament. The Dephirians consider me an ally. They do not yet know how far from the truth that is. Samael has his eyes on their souls and will use the same deception he performed on me. Heh. I wonder if Tristan will beg for the same deal that I had once begged for. If only I could warn him against doing such a regrettable action…

[Ghant]

"The Contact"
Ghantish Consulate
Mazaraan, Shen Almaru Archipelago

Nestled amidst the azure waters of the vast ocean, on the shores of the small island nation of Shen Almaru was the Ghantish Consulate in Mazaraan. It was a quaint yet majestic and venerable structure, cloaked in history and adorned with opulence – a building of a bygone era. This architectural marvel, steeped in grandeur, served as a testament to the diplomatic prowess and cultural heritage of its homeland. For even small things like diplomatic missions required a Ghantish flavor.

As Tarna approached the consulate, a sense of boredom washed over her, as though stepping into a library or a hostel. It seemed like the sort of place where pretentious professionals made into their personal retreat, as if they were trying to get away from something. The exterior facade was a harmonious blend of classical influences and local craftsmanship. Weathered stone columns, reminiscent of ancient temples, lined the entrance, supporting an intricately carved pediment that proudly beared the emblem of the nation it represented. The façade was draped in cascading vines of bougainvillea, their vibrant hues contrasting against the stately backdrop.

She had arrived earlier that morning, alone, and in secret. Granted, her status as a Praetor likely would’ve given her some degree of protection against harassment, but Tarna was never one to take any chances. The Consulate had been told to expect her arrival, so all she needed to do was arrive and present herself, before being able to carry on with her mission. That being said, she had little use for diplomats and their flowery words. Like snakes, she thought, they spoke with forked tongues.

Upon entering the consulate, Tarna was greeted by a foyer adorned with elaborate tapestries and gilded chandeliers that casted a warm, golden glow. The air was rich with the scent of exotic flowers, carefully tended to in ornate vases that line the marble floor. Embroidered rugs, woven with motifs reflecting the Ghant's rich folklore, lead the way through the comely corridors.

Tarna stood there in the foyer and examined the walls and tapestries, and couldn’t help but feel as though she too was being watched. She cut a striking figure with her platinum blonde hair cascading like liquid silver down her back, contrasting starkly against her midnight black attire. Her green eyes, like emeralds, gleamed with a predatory intensity that sent shivers down the spines of those who dared to meet her gaze.

“Greetings,” a young woman’s voice called out. “Welcome to the Ghantish Consulate.” From around a corner appeared a pretty woman in her early twenties, with blonde hair and light blue eyes, wearing a similarly colored dress. “My name is Lydia Algara, aide to the Consul.”

Looking the girl over, Tarna couldn’t help but think about how naïve this aide was, how pristine her condition was. This was someone who had lived a privileged life, free from the sort of trouble Tarna experienced. “Well met, Lydia Algara. I am Tarna Bo, Praetor of Ghant,” she introduced herself dryly before producing her seal.

Lydia’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped when she saw the seal. “Oh…it’s you. The Consul has been expecting you…please, Praetor, follow me.” Lydia, with a look of dread in her eyes, quickly pivoted on the balls of her feet and began walking forward, deeper into the Consulate. Tarna followed, her movement slow and methodical.

Every room within the consulate told a story, each ornament and artifact a testament to the diplomatic exchanges and cultural amalgamation that had taken place within its walls. The reception hall exuded an air of sophistication, with its polished mahogany furniture and plush velvet upholstery. Ornate candelabras illuminated the room, casting dancing shadows across the portraits of past ambassadors that adorned the walls.

“…This place used to be an embassy outright,” Lydia attempted to make some uneasy conversation as Tarna walked behind her. “Back when Shen Amaru was Pudite territory in the proper sense. After the Scandinvans took over, it was converted into a consulate, though as you can see, it still retains the trappings of a proper embassy.”

Walking past the consulate's library, Tarna observed shelves lined with leather-bound tomes and ancient manuscripts, offering a glimpse into Shen Amaru's intellectual heritage. Sunlight filtered through stained glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors upon the polished oak desks where diplomats could pour over treaties and diplomatic missives.

The Consulate featured a small square inner garden that Lydia led Tarna into. Meticulously landscaped pathways winded through lush greenery, leading to secluded alcoves and a tranquil pond teeming with koi fish. Marble statues of mythological figures stood sentinel amidst fragrant blooms, while a fountain gurgled softly, its soothing melody providing a backdrop for contemplation.

It was there in the hushed corridors of diplomacy, amidst the polished veneer of international relations, stood a middle-aged woman with long, flowing black hair cascading over her shoulders like a veil of shadows and eyes the color of a stormy sea. She cut a striking yet somber figure. Her face bore the marks of time and weariness, etched with the lines of countless sleepless nights and the weight of unspoken regrets.

“Consul,” Lydia said to the woman, “the Praetor has arrived.”

The older woman seemed to have been contemplating the fixtures of the courtyard when Lydia and Tarna arrived, and slowly, the woman turned to face them. “Greetings, Praetor. I am Lady Cyrenna Beltxarga, Ghantish Consul to the Shen Almaru Archipelago.”

Tarna inclined her head and introduced herself. “Tarna Bo, at your service.”

Turning her gaze upon the aide, Cyrenna waved her hand. “You may leave us, Lydia.”

“Yes, Consul,” Lydia replied before hurrying back into the building. Cyrenna and Tarna were alone now, the two of them staring at each other as though they were sizing each other up.

“Nice place you have here,” Tarna observed. “I’m surprised the Scandies let you all keep it.”

“The Scandinvans, despite their fanaticism, are a pragmatic people, I’ve found,” observed Cyrenna thoughtfully. “Well, at least their leaders are. The grunts, not so much.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Tarna countered. “The grunts pay lip service to Erid worship, but they all eat, shit, piss, fuck and die the same as everyone else.”

Cyrenna grimaced at that. “You speak with some experience on the subject?”

“I was born a Scandinvan slave,” Tarna sighed. “So yeah, I suppose I have some insight into their…culture, reprehensible as it is. I’ve spent a long time hunting them. Private contracts and such.”

“Oh, it all make sense now,” the Consul closed her yes and exhaled. “The Emperor has such a twisted sense of humor. Knowing how all the other Gothic Lords would appoint great heroes and champions as their Praetors, he appoints a slave.” Cyrenna cleared her throat, her gaze unwavering as she fixed it upon Tarna. "I must say, it's not often that I encounter someone of your...profession in establishments such as these."

Tarna's expression remained impassive, her eyes scanning Cyrenna with a calculating gaze. "And what of it?" she replied curtly, her voice tinged with a hint of defiance.

"Merely an observation," Cyrenna remarked with a thinly veiled sense of superiority. "You see, I am a diplomat—a woman of refinement and sophistication. I navigate the intricacies of international politics with grace and finesse."

Tarna arched an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes. "And?"

"It's simple," Cyrenna continued, her tone growing more assertive. "I wield influence and power on the world stage, shaping the course of history with my words and actions. What do you do? Skulk in the shadows, hunting down criminals for coin?"

Tarna's lips curled into a sardonic smile, her gaze unwavering. "You speak of influence and power, yet you fail to see the true strength that lies within me," she replied coolly. "I may not have your polished manners or your diplomatic acumen, but I possess something far more valuable—freedom."

Cyrenna's facade wavered for a moment, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her features. "Freedom?" she echoed, her voice tinged with disbelief.

"Yes, freedom," Tarna affirmed, her voice ringing with conviction. "I was born into bondage, shackled by chains of servitude. But I broke free from those chains, forged my own path in a world that sought to crush me. And now, I am beholden to no one but myself.”

And the Emperor of Ghant, same as I.” Cyrenna sighed heavily and explained that “I am of noble birth, and a diplomat by trade. I yearned for freedom too, once upon a time. I was married, had two children, wealth and prestige. Yet I felt trapped by it, so I left it behind and ended up here. So why is it now that I feel so alone?”

It didn’t take long after that for Tarna to size the Consul up. “You’ve had it easy in life, you know. Everything was handed to you. Things like safety, wealth, a family, a high place in society, love. You didn’t have to fight for any of it, and because of that, you didn’t know what it was worth. You thought that things like adventure and doing things your own way would be better, but it’s not because those basic things are the goal of everyone. You gave that all up for freedom, but what you found was that you were already free…from want, from hunger, from loneliness. I would call you a fool if I didn’t pity you, Consul.”

Cyrenna struggled to maintain her composure, her facade of superiority slipping as she grappled with the unsettling truth of Tarna's words. “I just want to make it all worth it, like you do, I’m sure.”

“That’s the plan,” Tarna nodded. “To kick the Scandies out of Shen Amaru for good, and help the Pudites take over again.”

Nodding, Cyrenna took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. “To that end, the Pudite contact will be notified of your arrival. He will meet you here and provide you with a plan of action. I don’t know everything that he has in mind, but he is intelligent and resourceful, as I’m sure you’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

Tarna nodded in agreement. “Aye, that will do. I suppose I should make myself comfortable until he arrives, then.”

“Yes, I will show you to your room where you can relax until then,” nodded Cyrenna eagerly. With some degree of hesitation, Cyrenna began to lead Tarna from the garden to the guest rooms, which while rather small for the grand tastes of someone like Cyrenna, proved adequate for Tarna. There was a bed with a nightstand next to it, a desk with a window above it, a six-drawer dresser and a small closet. There was also a small attached bathroom with a bidet, sink and shower.

“Feel free to go about the Consulate and don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything,” Cyrenna forced a smile as Tarna walked inside the room.

“Thanks,” Tarna replied before shutting the door, leaving Cyrenna alone in the hall.

Unbeknownst to Tarna, Cyrenna had been contacted by a close friend and colleague by the name of Lady Jasmine Palafox, who was the Consul of Caesaropolis in Kylarnatia, and a close associate of Silvier. Jasmine was aware that the Ghantish Praetor was going to Shen Amaru but didn’t know what her name was, and had previously asked Cyrenna to tell her the name of the Praetor once she had learned it.

Cyrenna promptly contacted Jasmine to inform her that the Praetor’s identity was Tarna Bo, and then Jasmine, being ever the resourceful diplomat, did a background check on her for the purpose of providing her findings to Silvier…

To: Her Imperial Majesty Silvier Catherina Silvanus, Fourth of Her Name, Caesar of the Imperium Antiquum Kylarnatiae and Her People, Supreme Commander of All Her Imperial Armed Forces, Pontifex Masimus of the Silvier Sacerdotium, Lord of Gholgoth, Ad Infinitum
From: Lady Jasmine Palafox, Consul of Caesaropolis
Subject: RE: the Ghantish Praetor
Encryption: High

---

Your Imperial Majesty,

I am reaching out to you to inform you that the Ghantish Praetor has turned up in Shen Amaru, and has met with Consul Cyrenna Beltxarga there. She is awaiting contact with the Pudite agent that’s been working undercover in Shen Amaru for the purposes of furthering their planned liberation of the island from Scandinvan control. Here’s what I was able to find out about our Praetor from going through Imperial files.

Tarna Bo was born in the Scandinvan Empire, in the year 2000. Little is known about her childhood, but I do know that she was orphaned at a young age, and was at sea when she escaped slavery as a little girl, presumably left for dead. She was adopted and recruited by the Cockatrice organized crime group, then mentored by one of its leaders, a man by the name of Unni Yarudi, in northern Zahaghant. Under Yarudi’s supervision, Bo was extensively trained to become a lethal assassin and learned multiple skills which include martial arts, marksmanship, melee combat, tactical and defensive driving, stealth, infiltration, and escapology. Bo would later use these skills to great affect as an assassin, bounty hunter and soldier of fortune, specializing in anti-slaver contracts.

Classified Imperial records seem to indicate that Tarna received some degree of training from former Ghantish Special Operations Commandos during her time with the Cockatrices, which would indicate a high degree of lethality, professional training and a broad range of skills. At one point during the Emperor’s northern adventures, Bo was captured by Imperial agents and presented to the Emperor, who agreed to let her go in exchange for a future favor. It was presumably this favor that the Emperor used to bind Bo to his service as Praetor.

Your Majesty, I do not doubt that this Praetor is an extremely dangerous and unpredictable woman with deep connections to international crime, with a particular hatred towards slavers and their host nations. I strongly believe that Bo will be an agent of chaos and destruction unleashed upon the Scandivans in Shen Amaru, and beyond. Whether the Emperor thinks he can control her long term remains to be seen, but for now, it seems as though he’s determined to remove the Scandinvans from Shen Amaru with a precision tool in the form of his Praetor.

Sincerely,

Jasmine