For a ti long enough to make him look weak, King Alistair Morrison of the Dark-Water Depths remained motionless as all the various reports hit his desk in central Shadowfall Coast at the sa ti. He was flabbergasted. He was in a state of denial, which he was cognizant of yet powerless to break himself free from even as Major General Kenth Baxtra and his other ranking commanders continued to shout and pester and demand things of him while he sat with his head resting in his hands in the situation room. Over and over, he tried to make sense of what he was hearing, which caused him to question how it could be possible. Yet it was happening. But it couldn't.
But it was.
"Tell again," he said, lifting his head and looking into the eyes of his leading military advisor.
"Like I said," Major Baxtra repeated. "If I combine what's left of the 6th and rge them with the 131st brigade, we can move our available—"
"No, no, from the beginning."
"S-sir?" he asked. A mont later, he croaked and corrected himself. "I an, Your Grace?"
Alistair waved dismissively at him. Now wasn't the ti for formality. More importantly was the fact that he was coming across as very weak in a mont of true peril and he needed to pull himself together now. "I'm just juggling a lot of thoughts at once. Tell again. One more ti."
With a note of uncertainty in his voice, Major Baxtra nodded and said, "We've detected unusual flight activity from the Slopes of Dal'Zarrah—of the sort that would only be possible if the Lords of Justice commandeered every single airliner and routed them all to southeast Varda's Lair, which indicates People of Virtue's complicity in what is almost certainly a rapid and drastic troop deploynt. An attack is likely imminent after sunrise tomorrow."
Even though he knew Major Baxtra was correct in all that he said, Alistair continued to shake his head in disbelief. "But why?"
"I don't know, Your Grace."
This just didn't make sense. Earlier yesterday afternoon, when Sir Oren, the newly anointed third-in-command of the Lords of Justice, had announced his guild's desire to continue the war effort in lieu of surrendering, it had been the opinion of all his military advisors—as well as his own opinion—that this was re bluster designed to put their guild in what they perceived as a better negotiating position; never, did he imagine that this was an actual, credible threat.
"Don't they know…don't they know I'll kill every single one of them?" Sir Morrison asked.
"Their motivations are as much a mystery to as they are to you, Your Grace."
Sir Morrison rubbed his chin as he again looked over the various reports projected onto a digital screen built into the desk itself. A mont later, he fixed each of his top military advisers with a hard, angry glare. "Can they know?" he asked at a whisper. Having coming this far, the words he had to say next were so dangerous that even alone with his most trusted people he dared not speak them—yet he did. "Can they know that we have bluffed?"
"That is impossible," Colonel Dakrit stated. He spoke in a way that was both certain and even reassuring, yet, it failed to reassure King Morrison because clearly sothing here was amiss. No matter how confident Colonel Dakrit was in the security of their research lab and the weapons facilities, it simply would not put Sir Morrison at ease, because it kept leading to the central question behind all of this: why. If the enemy believed the Guild of Gentlen had an arsenal of nuclear missiles at their disposal, for what possible reason would they risk such reckless, hostile action?
As though in response to the dubious way in which Alistair was staring at him, Colonel Dakrit sat up straighter and said, "Your Grace, it is truly impossible for anyone to have leaked to the enemy. There is simply no way. Not a single researcher has been permitted to leave or make contact with the outside world, and as far as the n we've got working on the weapons facilities are aware, they're building additional facilities, and others have already existed elsewhere. In other words, they don't know that they are currently working on the first true batch of new weapons."
Alistair continued to make slight shaking motions of his head. He heard what the colonel was saying, but still: it didn't add up. It just didn't. "Place a call to High-Lord Besh," he ordered. "Tell him that if he even thinks of stepping foot in Shadowfall Coast, I will launch a missile at Slopes of Dal'Zarrah directly."
For so reason, this seed to cause Major Baxtra to squirm uneasily in his chair. "What is it?" Alistair asked him. "What?" he demanded angrily.
"Your Grace, I've already done that."
"You what?" he snapped. "And they're still attacking?
"I…I'm afraid so."
Alistair swore, then picked a paperweight off his desk and threw it at the wall. "How long until our next weapon is ready?"
"We can complete an untested protype by the middle of the day, but I must stress, Your Grace, it is untested."
"They'll be here by then," he growled. "Can we not have a weapon ready to fire sooner?"
"I'm sorry to say it can't be done. The process necessary to enrich the uranium is ti-consuming, though we're working on ways of speeding that up in the future."
"Little good that does us now!" he shouted, half getting up from the table. Then he took a deep breath, forced himself to remain calm, and he retook his seat. More sedately, he said, "We're going to defend our city. The Lords of Justice are strong, but we have dragon's loot. We will triumph."
This now caused Major Baxtra to look even more unsettled—to the point he actually appeared sickly and frail, characteristics that Alistair would not typically associate with him. "Your Grace…"
"Now what is it?" he replied, doing his best to suppress the rising anxiety within himself.
"There are reports of unusual movents among the Elves as well. Though it might be hard to believe—and we should not assu this to be the case—we must begin to consider the possibility that Queen Vayra will be joining the Lords of Justice in their attack. The sa is true of the Royal Roses, who are showing so signs of atypical troop movent in Giant's Fall."
Alistair had co too far. He was not going to let anyone set humanity back. Not when they'd worked so hard to regain the weapons necessary to ensure the survival of humans and their offspring. Not when he was finally in a position to reunite and civilize South Bastia and restore the glorious empire that Peter I had built.
"If the Elves attack, we will call our dragon," he said, massaging the Artifact-quality ring he now wore on his finger, which constantly released a shine so bright that, at night, he needed to wrap a cloth around it so that he could sleep. He never took it off: he would never risk having it leave his finger. As the rarest piece of loot from the raid, it was his final defense in the event that all else failed. The ring, with a thirty-day cooldown, gave Alistair an ability that allowed him to summon a level-190 sky drake, sothing that not even the wretched Elves would be able to overco so easily, especially if caught off guard.
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The ring's power was so imnse that Alistair's speed, dex, and strength had almost doubled simply by equipping it, as the ring provided 90 to all three stats as well as 45 int, the last of which he did not really have use of. Bar none, he was now the strongest mber of his guild thanks to this ring. In combination with his other dragon equipnt, his stats now exceeded 250 in all areas except luck.
If I have to get in the fight myself, I will, he thought. We're not going back to a position of weakness!
******
Captain Greshek Mink, the 37th in command of the Guild of Gentleman, frowned as he tried yet again to raise coastal patrol group 7 over the Comm. "Coastal Patrol Group 7," he said, becoming more alard by the mont. "Report!"
Nothing. Silence.
He looked around the confines of the dark, filthy dungeon entrance, which was secured behind a tal vault made of ancient, high-level materials. This dungeon had been built thousands of years ago, which was why it was in such a state of disrepair; put simply, nobody knew how to repair it. Thankfully, the spoken code that opened the vault still functioned, but aside from that, so much of the place was run down, cockroach infested, molded, and foul slling.
"I'm reporting this up the chain," he said to his partner, a young woman who was practicing swinging her sword at the empty air.
"Go ahead," she said. "But you're worrying over nothing."
"Am I?"
She nodded. "They're probably just fucking around."
He grunted. "I don't think so."
She laughed. "What, you think adventurers are gonna co through that portal and attack us? Those boys are there as a precaution. Just to have our bases covered. They probably got bored and wandered off."
"They're not boys," he scolded. "They're disciplined young n, and they understand the importance of securing our city."
Despite many of his peers viewing it as unnecessary, Greshek had stationed two young warriors, levels 25 and 26 respectively, to guard the area right around where the adventurers had all coalesced a few weeks ago, which confird to the political guilds that dungeons actually did exist. Of course, since then, so much more had been confird—things that were hard to believe, such as rumors that the forr king, Peter Brayspark, had used such dungeons himself. This, of course, was just speculation, and it was likely rude of him to keep dwelling on it. It was disrespectful to the dead.
Can't help but wonder if things might've been better if he was still alive, Greshek thought. Clearly, Peter was going to lead them all to a defeat at the hands of the Royal Roses and People of Virtue, but sothing just felt off now that they'd dropped that bomb on Ogre's Axe. Greshek couldn't shake the feeling that they'd committed an unforgivable act that the Gods would not turn a blind eye to.
Was it really okay to do that?
At any rate, out of an abundance of caution, he made the facial gestures required to change the output frequency of the micro-Comm in his ear. "Sir Malakor," he said, hoping to raise the man, who was currently much deeper inside the human-built dungeon—or maybe he should start calling it a prison to avoid confusing himself and others. "Do you read ? This is Captain Greshek Mink with the front guard. Sir Malakor? Do you…"
*******
"…read ?"
Gaelan sighed. Turning away from Vim, who in his last monts, was finally beginning to make decent conversation, he leaned his head to the side and responded. "I read you, Captain Mink. What is it?"
"Two of my n haven't reported in, sir."
"Which n?"
"Coastal Patrol Group 7."
"Patrol group 7…wait, are those the boys you have standing around the civilian area of the beach?"
"Yes, sir."
He chuckled. "They're probably just ssing around. Discipline them later for leaving their post. But don't be overly harsh. They're young. They will learn. But don't be too easy either. They've got a silly job, but during tis like these, it's important our young understand the importance of responsibility."
"Sir, it's just that…I know these kids. They're very dedicated. They wouldn't just—"
"What," Gaelan interrupted. "Do you think so adventurer decided to co through and smack them around? The adventurers don't want anything to do with war. Relax, boy."
"I apologize, Sir Malakor. May I at least send another group to check in on them?"
"No. It's an unnecessary distraction. Right now, I'm hearing so really scary-sounding reports that we might have a fresh round of fighting on our hands—but you didn't hear that from . For now, concentrate on ensuring the execution tomorrow goes smoothly in the morning. Remain at your post and focus on your duties."
"Understood, sir. Over and out."
Gaelan turned to Vim. He was starting to worry the little Gno might not make it to his execution. He was very weak. And though he'd finally beco more talkative, he was also a bit delirious and his health was in real peril. Gaelan could not allow him to die here in this dungeon. That was not justice. He would die in accordance with the law, which ant that, tomorrow morning, he would be given the choice between a hanging and a beheading, and his sentence would be carried out quickly and humanely.
"So, you were saying?"
Vim coughed. "Right," he said weakly, gazing off at the wall as if looking at sothing that wasn't there. "So, Peter, before all this, he was one of my best friends. Before he went mad. And he had this—"
"He never went mad," Gaelan interrupted. "That's a lie told by guild dia."
Vim coughed again, but this ti, there was a sound of mirth in it: of laughter. "I can't tell if you're lying or you believe what you're saying, but that man lost it. Anyways, stop interrupting you fuck!" Vim closed his eyes and stopped speaking. For a mont, Gaelan feared he might not again reopen them. But slowly, he did, and he peered out at Gaelan from his bruised lids. "So, Peter had this big dog. I used to call it a giant rat. Thing would slobber all over you. When I used to co by for supper, he'd always order it to jump on and start licking my face. He thought it was so funny. So, one day, the dog knocks over a 10k bottle of wine, and it spilled all over Peter III's attire. Gods, the old king was angry. He forced Peter to spend ten hours cleaning graffiti off the buildings in Tomb of Fire."
Gaelan smiled. He liked hearing these positive old stories about King Peter IV. So much of his legacy had been tainted by sars and lies from the other guilds. Though Gaelan had never t the man, his father knew him well, and his father told him that Peter IV was an honorable, kind, and at many tis soft-hearted man who believed strongly in justice and decency. And he trusted the word of his father over the lies uttered by the enemies of humanity. That was why he was willing to believe so of what Vim said, but he was not willing to believe—
"Sir Malakor! Sir Malakor! Sir Malakor! Do you read ?"
"What is it now?" he growled into the Comm. "You're starting to remind of my daughter, Jeanna. What is it, boy?"
"Coastal Patrol Group 8 is not reporting in!"
"Seriously? This again?"
"No, s-sir, you don't understand. They started to transmit sothing that sounded like a warning. I couldn't catch what they said, but their voices were cut off mid-transmission."
"Boys being boys," he said. "No one is going to attack from the direction of the beach. Least of all adventurers. You're being—"
"Gods, I can't raise Coastal Patrol Group 9, either! I'm going to alert 10! Sothing's happening."
"Captain Mink. Enough!" Gaelan shouted. "You're letting hysteria drive your actions. Another word about this, and I will relieve you of your position. Do you understand ?"
"Y-yes, sir. Sorry."
"Good. Now focus on your own duties and stop micro-managing coastal patrol. Enough!"
"Understood."
Gaelan needed a vacation after all this was done. The real threats that they were already facing were bad enough without having to calm young guild mbers every ti so random thing spooked their imaginations. Gaelan understood. He was their age once. Even still, there was too much awfulness going on right now to put up with the young and their silliness. It would be impossible to maintain order if an alarm went off every ti a Comm frequency beca interrupted due to magnetic interference or connection was lost. Too much was happening to be rattled over nonsense. Captain Mink needed to calm the hell down before he worked himself up into a frenzy and ended up harming his career and shaming his family.
He was a good kid, and Gaelan didn't want that for him.
*****
The last sound the young woman made was a groan as Zach's Sword of Light Amidst Darkness cut deeply into her cranium and took off the top third portion of her scalp. Her brains spilling onto the sand, the rest of her body followed suit as she fell over and plopped down silently. Zach tried his best to avert his gaze and not look at the blood hemorrhaging out of her open head wound.
"Say one word into that Comm and you're next," he threatened the lightly armored man she'd been guarding the beach with. Surprisingly, he hadn't even put up a fight. The guy simply dropped his sword and then held up his hands in surrender.
"Please don't kill ," he begged. "Please."
Zach narrowed his eyes. "Take the fucking Comm out of your ear. Now!"
His hand shaking, tears running down his face, he removed the small device and extended his hand. Zach snatched it from him and crushed it. Then the guy fell to his knees and cried, holding his hands out defensively as Zach knelt down and pressed the edge of his blade against the man's throat. Like the others Zach had killed, he was only a few years older than Zach himself.
This is war. This happens in war. This is war. This happens in war.
"Where is Vim Alazar being held?"
Sniffling, sobbing, and begging, he turned his head around. "Th-th-th-three m-m-m-miles w-w-w-west, Sir Ca-Calador. In th-the d-dungeon. P-please. I don't wanna die. Please. I'm so sc-scared. Please!"
He'll call for help if I let him go.
Zach slit his throat, and then he proceeded onwards.
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