I.
TURBULENT BEGINNINGS
From
the memoirs of
Sebastian
Delano Blayac
In
the year 1325 AE
“It’s
one piss poor excuse for a day,” Caleb said between striking a
match on his boot heel and lighting his pipe.
"Looks
that way, all right." I leaned against the railing of our
sluggishly moving skiff-tank, Pathfinder, and peered out at the storm
clouds looming above the jagged formation of rocks that passed for
hills in this desolate area.
The
sky was a somber gray, illuminated by occasional flashes of
lightning. Thunder echoed off the jagged rocks with blustering and
increasing regularity. A fine mist snaked through the valley and
hills like the sinuous form of some spectral dragon. It seldom rained
in this region, but when rain came, it was sudden, furious, and never
lasted long.
Shortly
after sunrise, the Pathfinder along with another skiff-tank, the
Reaper's Revenge, entered a section of Kofteros known as the Dagger
Hills. I had been on edge ever since we crossed the border. There was
something in the air other than the approaching storm. A sensation
that had caused the hairs to stand up on the nape of my neck and my
skin to break out in gooseflesh.
Caleb
noticed this (not much escaped his watchful eye) and he clapped me on
the arm.
“What’s
got you spooked, boy?”
“Do
you feel that?” I asked. “I've got this sensation. Like...I don’t
know. It’s hard to explain.”
Caleb
blew smoke through his nostrils and grinned. “Like some giant’s
foot is about to come down and stamp us into the dust, you mean?”
I
considered this and nodded. “Aye. Just like that. Do you feel it
too?”
“I
do,” Caleb said. “We’re being watched. And whoever’s doing
the watching doesn't have our best interest at heart.”
“Think
they’ll pick a fight?” I looked the hills over, but there wasn’t
a soul in sight. If the enemy was out there then they were well
hidden.
“So
what if they do?” Caleb said. “Relax. If something happens then
it happens. Worrying will only make it that much worse, believe me.”
I
gave another nod, this one less assured, and continued to watch the
jagged hills for any signs of movement. Kofteros sat in the far
western region of the Deadlands, far enough from the eastern empire
of Elysium and its surrounding provinces that most of its land
remained free of imperial control.
That
isn’t to say that our emperor, the wise and canny Arius Adrastus,
did not have his eye on the territory and its many resources, but in
those turbulent days, as we fought to expand the Great Walls of
Elysium farther into the surrounding Deadlands, a place as far
removed from the cradle of civilization as Kofteros barely warranted
a second glance.
Because
of this, many barbarian tribes called the place home. Their clans
were diverse and well-organized. Most had been forced into the region
by the empire's continued expansion, making them hostile towards both
the inner and outer territories. They would often raid neighboring
towns or passing caravans and retreat back across the border, knowing
that what scant authority existed in the area would think twice about
following.
That
the empire’s elite cavalry scout regiment would be sent to such a
wretched place was a sure sign that the already strained relationship
we had with the barbarian tribes had gone from bad to downright
unfriendly.
A
report had filtered in several days earlier pertaining to an
expedition led by one of the emperor's vassals, the famous explorer
Alton de Breilmaier. It appeared Breilmaier had encountered hostiles
while searching for a route through the Knochen Mountains, which
acted as a natural barrier between Kofteros and the Skala Sea to the
northwest.
Breilmaier
had hoped to open up trade with the island-folk said to exist just
off the coast. The wealth of exotic goods these sea-faring people
were rumored to harbor would easily fill Elysium's near depleted
coffers. Needless to say, things had not gone as planned. The scouts
were dispatched to search for survivors, if any were to be found.
We
were nearing the point where Breilmaier had sent his last frantic
transmission, stating that he was overwhelmed by Deadlanders and in
need of immediate assistance. From my position on the Pathfinder's
deck all appeared peaceful enough (or as peaceful as a group of
jagged hills can look, that is).
“Do
you think we'll find them?” I asked.
“Alive
or dead?” Caleb said.
“Either,
I suppose.”
“Hard
to say. We must stay optimistic, but the reality of the situation
doesn't bode well for anyone in that party.”
“And
if they're all dead?”
Caleb
puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. “Then we bury them and track down
their killers.”
“To
dispense justice?”
“Aye.
If it helps you sleep at night.”
I
glanced at Caleb, curious what he meant by that last remark. I knew
better than to ask him. Some things he would tell me, others he would
have me ferret out on my own. I had a feeling this was one of the
latter.
“The
barbarians are butchers,” I said. “They deserve what they get.”
“We're
infringing upon their lands. Tell me, what would you do if things
were the other way around?”
“The
emperor only wishes to unite the lands.”
“With
us on top.”
“What's
wrong with that? Someone has to be, right?”
Caleb
laughed. The wisdom of his forty-three years was evident in every
line of his long, weathered face. I had known the man my entire life.
Caleb and my father had served together in the military and fought in
many campaigns together, earning each others trust and respect.
“There
isn’t a man living I’d rather have watching my back,” my father
once told me. High praise indeed coming from Alexandro Blayac,
captain of the emperor's second legion and hero of the Boggarian
Wars.
It
was while Caleb and my father were off fighting in those very wars
that I was born in the kitchen of our stately cottage, delivered by
the cook and chambermaid. My mother, Lena, better known in polite
society as the Lady Andreea, named me Sebastian, after my
grandfather. I was the sixth of twelve siblings, and the third of
four boys.
My
family descended from a long line of heroes, whose exploits dated
back to the empire’s sanguineous beginnings. From Xenodoros Blayac,
who was instrumental in overthrowing Elysium's last king and paving
the way for imperial rule, to Kol Blayac, who braved the Sorrowing
Seas in search of pirates, our name carried with it a sense of pride
and duty.
We
had a responsibility to always be the first into battle and the last
to leave, either on our feet in victory or carried off on our shields
in defeat. It had always been this way, and the expectation was that
my brothers and I would carry on the tradition. Not that we needed
much prodding. Ours was a military family, after all. Service to the
empire was the greatest honor one could achieve.
This
was not to say that my father skimped on our education in favor of
military service. To the contrary, Alexandros spared no expense when
it came to his children's schooling. He understood that a well-honed
mind was the greatest weapon in a soldier's arsenal. You had to be
able to out-think your enemies on the battlefield, to predict their
every move, and outwit them at every turn.
I
had an insatiable hunger for knowledge from an early age. By my
tween-years I was so far ahead of my fellow students that my teachers
allowed me access to the archives between classes. I spent hours here
poring over the histories of the ancient world, much to their
approval. Most were convinced that once I had completed my mandatory
service in the military I would forgo a soldier's life for that of an
academic. How little they truly knew me.
I
was my father's son. I lusted for the glory of battle as he once did.
Never could I envision wasting away my days in some stuffy classroom
as my chances for honor and everlasting renown gradually faded with
the passage of time. So if it was true that I shined in my studies of
the spirit and of the mind, then I all but radiated in my physical
education.
Classes
were primarily taught by lamed or retired soldiers who took their
role of overseeing the next generation of soldiery with the utmost
seriousness. Their jobs were to keep us fit, teach us the art of war,
and see that we understood what was required of a vassal under the
standard of our glorious emperor.
I
graduated from the academy at the age of seventeen with top honors,
ready to serve and die for the empire. I was given the chance soon
after alongside my father and two eldest brothers, Joonas and Alaric,
at the disastrous Battle of Tarkat. This was the emperor's first
attempt at expanding the overpopulated empire farther into the
surrounding Deadlands.
As
anyone schooled in our rich history knows, Elysium did not always
encompass the vast territory it does today. When originally
constructed by the kings of old, the walls that enclosed the inner
kingdom were meant to contain only a limited population. However,
with the passing of several centuries and the transformation of the
kingdom into an empire it wasn’t long before overcrowding led to
disease, starvation, and death.
It
took the Great Plague of 1314, which wiped out nearly a third of the
population, to convince Emperor Adrastus that expansion was a
necessary action. This was by no means an easy task. It meant seizing
land currently occupied by other inhabitants. Some saw the writing on
the wall and surrendered without a fight. The majority, however,
wasn’t willing to go as quietly.
Tarkat
was a relatively small province in Voor, an eastern region close to
Elysium’s great walls. Barbarian tribes had been settling on the
land for generations, all but thumbing their noses at imperial rule.
Our armies lay siege to Tarkat in 1322, but we were ill prepared for
the resistance we faced. The Deadlanders were outnumbered two to one,
but they fought with a savage fury that was frightening to behold.
Many
of our troops, mostly young boys no older than myself, broke
formation and fled in every conceivable direction. The middle of our
great phalanx collapsed. The officers tried vainly to reform the
ranks. Most were slaughtered for their efforts, my father among them
with an arrow through the neck. Alaric joined him seconds later.
Joonas
and I made our stand along with the remnants of our army at what has
been christened 'Reaper's Rock' by historians. Our situation looked
helpless, but at that moment Caleb, who had been leading a separate
attack to the north, managed to reform a thousand men into a brigade
and attack the enemy from the rear.
Caleb's
first wave shelled the entangled mass of combatants from a distance
to soften them up for the impending attack. He was aware that he
would be hitting friend as well as foe, but under the circumstances
he had little choice. In the end, the opposition sounded the retreat,
Joonas was killed by mortar fire, and Caleb was given a medal.
It
wasn't long after that infamous battle that Caleb paid a visit to my
family, offering his condolences for our loss and to beg forgiveness
for his part in my brother's death. I thanked him for his kindness
and assured him that neither I or anyone in my family bore a grudge
against him for what had happened to Joonas. Caleb was a soldier
fulfilling his obligation to win the battle at all cost. Had he not
come to the rescue we all would have dined with the gods that day.
Caleb
took me under his wing, becoming both my teacher and close friend. I
learned that he once served as a member of the royal guard. He was
quite intelligent, and was often called upon as an adviser to the
emperor. I once asked him why he chose the life of a soldier when he
could have easily spent the remainder of his days in the palace,
content with his usefulness to the empire in any number of ways.
He
smiled that sad smile of his that somehow passed for amusement and
told me what I already suspected. He had an adventurous streak in him
that could not be fulfilled any other way. He, like myself, wanted to
explore, to carve new paths, to do something glorious with his life
before he lost it to that unrelenting bastard, death. It was a
sentiment I could easily understand.
Meanwhile,
The senate was alarmed at how dearly Tarkat had cost us right out of
the gate. An estimated twenty-eight thousand loyal subjects were
reported dead. Another thousand were missing in action. Most were
deserters who fled into the Deadlands during the battle, rightfully
afraid to return and face our emperor's wrath. The cost of vehicles
and equipment strained the already over-taxed plebs. Riots became a
common occurrence in the streets.
The
senate feared a full scale revolt if something wasn't done to quell
their rage. They pleaded with Emperor Adrastus to call off his
campaign, but he would have none of it. Instead, scapegoats were
culled from the ranks. Generals, advisers, and instructors all found
their necks under the executioner's ax. The emperor condemned his
army as weak and undisciplined, unworthy of their roles as guardians
of the empire.
That
is, with the exception of us few who stood our ground at Reaper's
Rock; we who fought and died to maintain a foothold into the
undiscovered country. We were basked in glory. The emperor honored us
further by announcing his plans to create an elite special operations
unit, beginning with those of us who had shown our true hearts at
Tarkat. The unit's primary duty would be to clear the Deadlands of
all who opposed the expansion of our glorious empire.
So
it was that the Cavalry Scouts were formed.
“...thinking
it over?”
“Pardon?”
I snapped from my daydreaming and shot Caleb an apologetic look.
“What
I said earlier about us and the Deadlanders,” Caleb went on. “About
what you would do if our roles were reversed. Have you thought any
more on it?”
I
sighed and said, “Is this another of your quizzes? Like the ethical
judgments of soldiers during war and the difference between duty and
revenge?”
Caleb
puffed on his pipe and smiled. “Something like that.”
“What
I don't understand is how you can defend these savages from a moral
standpoint but not even hesitate when it comes time to kill them.”
“I
do my duty as a soldier. It doesn't mean I can't sympathize with my
enemy's plight.”
I
looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was listening. “Careful
what you say. The wrong ears might hear.”
“Relax,”
Caleb said. “My loyalty is above suspicion. As is yours, so quit
avoiding the question.”
A
burst of thunder echoed through the hills. I closed my eyes,
relishing the cool breeze on my face as I considered Caleb's words.
At last I shook my head. “I don't know what you want me to say.”
“Maybe
I just want you not to lose sight of yourself.” Caleb blew a smoke
ring into the air. The ring stretched to the point of breaking and
then slowly dissipated as it drifted away. “You're a lot like your
father, Bas. He was a good man, but all too often he put his duties
above his own feelings. He did things that would come back to haunt
him later in life.”
“So
what,” I said, “you want me to put my personal feelings above my
responsibilities to the empire?”
“I
want you to think for yourself. Do your duty, but not at the cost of
a guilty conscience.”
I
laughed and clapped him on the back. “No worries, old man. My
conscience is clean.”
“Good,”
Caleb said humorlessly. “Enjoy it while you can.”
We
watched the approaching storm in silence. It was 1325, nearly three
years since Tarkat and the formation of the scouts. Before that
battle I was a wet-eared pup fresh from the academy looking to make a
name for himself. Now here Caleb and I were, well beyond the farthest
reaches of explored territory. We stood in full battledress, our
armor finely polished and gleaming despite the overcast day. Our
helmets and ordnance were stored in the armory below deck.
Elysium's
most renowned blacksmiths were tasked with creating the scouts'
armor. What they produced exceeded the expectations of even the most
enthusiastic among us. The armor was lightweight but
ballistic-resistant and covered our chests, shoulders, and outer
thighs. The remainder of our bodies were encased in aramid fiber
suits that would automatically inflate over wounds to stop bleeding
until medics could intervene.
Our
helmets were designed with a special telescopic visor that could
switch to infrared to better see in the dark. It also had a built in
comlink, allowing us to keep in contact with each other during
battle. This left our hands free to use any number of weapons built
specifically for the scouts.
Chief
among our arsenal was the battle-staff, a five foot metallic stave
with a curved blade on one end and a barrel built into the other,
which was capable of discharging twelve rounds of shot-shells. The
battle-staff tilted the odds in our favor in close-quarters combat.
We were trained mercilessly in the use of this weapon until we could
wield it with deadly accuracy.
The
.38 'Scourge' auto pistol was capable of firing forty rounds of
ammunition without reloading. This was due to an extra magazine built
into the pistol's grip. When one magazine emptied it automatically
switched to the back-up. This little feature was handy in a life or
death situation.
There
was also the usual assortment of weapons carried by all
soldiers—knives, grenades, back-up pistols, long-range rifles and
the like—but the most unusual device in our arsenal was the LHED
(Low-amperage High-voltage Electrical Discharge).
This
piece of hardware could fire a jolt of electricity capable of
stunning your prey for questioning, or, with the flick of a switch
from low to high, fry him to a crisp. The LHED was large and
cumbersome and took approximately sixty seconds to recharge after
firing, so the scouts seldom relied on it when in the field.
Our
cavalry cycles were made of lightweight armor along with a bullet
proof face shield and two mounted machine guns on either side of the
foot controls. Due to the Deadlands' rough terrain these wondrous
machines were constructed sans wheels. Instead, they could hover up
to five feet from the ground via an anti-gravity generator mounted
beneath the bikes. This allowed us to ride freely without the worry
of losing a wheel or becoming interred in anything from quicksand to
man-made traps.
The
cycles were quite expensive and meant to be used only for short
distances. They, along with their riders, were transported from
skirmish to skirmish within the protective hull of a skiff-tank.
These armored behemoths were operated by a captain and crew, and
served as a mobile barracks for the scouts during missions.
We
lived ten to a room in twenty double-bunk compartments to a tank. It
was cramped at best. To relieve the claustrophobia we often went
topside to mingle with the crew or take pot-shots at wildlife and the
occasional dust-dweller. This got so out of hand that the captain
would allow only a few of us on deck at a time. We began drawing lots
for the privilege and even getting into rows over it until our
commanding officers threatened to ban going topside all together if
we didn't shape up.
So
was the glorious and much romanticized life of a cavalry scout. Truth
is, we did see a lot of action in that first year, but as time drew
on the Deadlanders learned to both fear and avoid us. With the steady
decrease in opposition we were reduced to endless hours of sitting
wedged between our brother scouts in compartments lingering with the
smell of flatulence and body odor.
To
kill time we cleaned our weapons, wrote home to loved ones, played
endless games of Capture the Ace, pulled pranks on our superiors, and
jerked off (the last of which we did with great zeal at every given
opportunity). With egos swelling from past victories we were lulled
into a false sense of security. We were the emperor's elite. A force
to be reckoned with. The whole of the Deadlands cowered at our
approach.
In
other words, we grew soft. The Deadlanders did not. That they feared
us was true. That they went into hiding was also true. But it was not
to cower, but to wait—and to plan.
Pride
Of The Scouts, A Tale From The Deadlands. Written by Jeremy Lee Riley
with illustrations by Dar Parsons. Coming soon in paperback, Kindle, and
Nook. Copyright, 2014, Wamingo Publishing, by Jeremy Lee Riley and Dar
Parsons. All rights reserved.
