Chapter 256: Fort Rolv |
O’Neer slid off his mount with the irritation of a man denied both breakfast and a good nights sleep. The walls of Fort Rolv loomed above him, old stone stacked into a frown. Rifles bristled along the battlements, all of them angled straight at his skull, which only deepened his scowl.
“State your business!” a guard barked from above.
O’Neer cupped his hands around his mouth and unleashed a reply that rattled the dust. “Shut up, you dumb sack of bricks!”
The rifles twitched. A few helmets ducked. Captain Wyatt, standing just beside him, did not. He gave O’Neer a sideways look that carried the weary grace of great but finite patience.
“Charming as always,” Wyatt said, voice flat enough to be used as a tabletop.
The wind carried O’Neer’s snort back up to the walls, a little reminder that trouble, once again, had arrived on schedule.
“Reporting to the general, Captain Wyatt and Captain O’Neer,” Wyatt called out, projecting his voice with the crisp authority of someone trying very hard to ignore the walking talking court marshall beside him.
“And who the fuck are they?” the guard on the parapet yelled back.
Both captains turned. A short distance behind them stood the Averlon delegation, arranged with stiff politeness that suggested they wished they were anywhere else. Their mages had taken up the front rank, palms raised, maintaining a shimmering barrier that was about as subtle as a parade drum. Its glow rippled over their faces, lending each mage the look of someone who expected a siege, a betrayal, or at the very least a spectacular misunderstanding.
“Friends!” Wyatt called up to the wall, doing his best impression of diplomacy.
“The fuck? That look like friends to you? They got magic!” the guard hollered back.
A few of the Averlon mages shifted, their barrier pulsing faintly as if offended on principle. O’Neer rolled his shoulders, already halfway to shouting something that would make the situation worse. Wyatt shot him a warning glance, a silent plea for the universe to give him five minutes of sanity before the next explosion of idiocy.
Wyatt drew in a long breath, the kind a man takes when he is moments from either diplomacy or homicide. His patience frayed, he cupped his hands and bellowed toward the wall.
“Just get the general! I know where you live, Sandie!”
A hush rolled across the battlements. Rifles wavered. Someone let out a nervous cough. The Averlon mages glanced at one another, unsure whether this was a threat, a joke, or some foreign ritual of military familiarity.
Up on the wall, a single helmet dipped out of sight with the defeated slump of a man who very much did know that Wyatt knew where he lived.
“For fucks sake…” Wyatt muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose as they waited.
O’Neer, meanwhile, stood with arms folded and a proud scowl, looking for all the world like a man convinced he had just handled things perfectly. Behind them, the Averlon mages held their barrier with polite tension, silently judging everyone present. The air settled into a thick quiet, heavy with the promise that whatever came next would be deeply inconvenient for Wyatt alone.
The wait lasted all of five minutes before the gates groaned open and presented them with a welcoming committee of rifle barrels. A whole wall of them. All pointed directly at Wyatt and O’Neer.
“Oh for fucks sake…” Wyatt muttered, again, because the universe clearly demanded repetition.
“I’m a captain! You just sent me on patrol four hours ago!” he shouted, throwing his arms up like a man trying to negotiate with a stubborn deity.
“They got magic!” Sandie yelled back, somehow managing to sound both terrified and proud, his pistol aimed squarely at Wyatt’s chest.
O’Neer leaned in beside him, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “You know, if you want someone paranoid to guard Fort Rolv, ain’t no one better than Sandie.”
Wyatt didn’t answer. He was too busy reconsidering every career choice that had delivered him to this moment, hemmed in by rifles, jittery mages, and the concentrated stupidity of men he technically outranked.
“Sandie, put your gun down, you idiot.”
The bark cut through the tension like a blade. The entire firing line froze. Then, as if struck by a single collective thought, every soldier lowered their weapon and turned toward the voice.
The ranks parted. Out stepped a weathered old Vulpus, fur gone grey at the edges yet still thick, ears sharp and upright. His presence had weight, the kind that made even the air remember its manners. His eyes swept the gathered cluster of panicked men with the unimpressed judgment of someone who had survived wars, disasters, and far too many fools.
“General!” Sandie squeaked, snapping into a salute so fast it nearly dislocated his shoulder.
“Pipe down, boy. Back to your post.” The General’s growl was low and gravelly, the sound of stones grinding in an old riverbed.
“But sir…” Sandie began, courage flickering on and off like a faulty lantern.
The General turned a single eye on him, among the troops it is said the General’s glare can flay skin. It can't of course but the troops shut up regardless. Whatever that look was, it was enough. Sandie swallowed hard.
“As you say, sir!” Sandie yelped, scrambling to wave his men back to their posts with the frantic energy of a man hoping speed would mask humiliation.
“How the fuck did Twitchy Sandie get promoted to lieutenant?” O’Neer muttered, watching the man scurry off like a startled beetle.
“The Rangers must be really going to the dogs if he’s guarding the place…” he added, tone ripe with judgment.
“You just said he wasn’t a bad choice,” Wyatt replied, voice dry enough to desiccate a cactus.
“That was a professional opinion,” O’Neer grunted.
“And what’s the other part? The I kicked him down a flight of stairs when I was sixteen opinion?” Wyatt asked, every syllable radiating that trademark deadpan.
O’Neer’s snort was practically a confession. Wyatt stared ahead, already regretting every minute of the rest of day preemptively.
“O’Neer, why are you back here? I sent you east to keep you out of trouble. You miss the front so much you came running back to it?” the General growled as he approached.
“Ran into some interesting folk,” O’Neer said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder toward the Averlon delegation.
“I noticed,” the General replied, tone dry enough to flake, as he stalked past the captains and headed straight for the delegation.
“General!” Sandie shouted from the battlements.
“Shut up, lieutenant. Man, your post,” the General barked back before Sandie could get another syllable out.
The two captains turned and followed their commanding officer out through the gates and toward the delegation.
“Seeing you two together is enough to make Sandie kneel in the torchlight at midnight. You know that, right?” the General growled.
“He’s just dramatic, General,” O’Neer replied, waving it off as if Sandie’s metaphorical midnight terror rituals were perfectly normal.
“Can’t say I agree or disagree with that, Captain,” the General grunted.
The General approached the delegation, and from their front strode General Montis, flanked by two Wardens in enchanted Magitech armour. They were plated head to toe, every inch gleaming, each one standing just shy of two metres and radiating the kind of stillness that suggested they could break a man in half without raising their voice.
General Montis gave a calm, precise salute before introducing himself. “Grand General Montis, Averlonian Empire, Imperial First Army.”
“General Abel, Commander of the Vulpina Rangers,” Abel replied, returning the salute with one of his own.
“Now, may I ask what your well dressed self is doing in front of my fort with mages?” Abel asked, his snout twitching and his eyes narrowing as he took in Montis’s ornate attire, all gold trimmings and a flowing red cape.
“Diplomacy,” Montis replied, tone still formal. He adjusted one gauntlet as he spoke, as if the matter were routine. “I had a brief conversation with your officer, Captain O’Neer, and assisted in the liberation of several slaves held by your local outlaws.”
Abel turned to look at O’Neer, his ear giving the slightest twitch as he weighed the claim. O’Neer gave a short nod in answer. Then, before Abel could form the next unspoken question, he added a small shrug and jabbed a thumb at the over two metre tall Wardens. The gesture was lazy, almost bored. Yes they helped, and yes they were useful.
“Those suits deflect bullets?” Abel asked. His eyes narrowed as he shifted his weight, tail giving a slow flick in thought.
“Among other things,” Montis replied. He straightened a fold in his cape, his voice as dry as ever, as if the subject required nothing more.
“So what do you want?” Abel asked, a low grunt under his words as he gestured at one of the Wardens with a flick of his hand. “I don’t see what I can offer you, not when your soldiers look like that.”
“Perhaps we can speak inside your fortress,” Montis said, neatly changing the subject. “This hardly seems the place for diplomacy.”
Abel paused. His older eyes swept over Montis, steady and measuring, and his snout gave a small twitch as if testing the air for falsehoods. Montis held his gaze. He had no idea if the Vulpus could truly smell lies, but watching Abel now, he suspected that with enough training they might come uncomfortably close.
“Fine. Come on then,” Abel said, turning back toward the gates.
Montis stepped forward to follow. Behind him, O’Neer and Wyatt exchanged a few quick hand signs to the men waiting in the wings. The Rangers shifted into motion, checking gear and tightening straps, preparing to escort the Averlon delegation into Fort Rolv.
As the group neared the gate, Sandie’s voice rang down from the battlements. “General, are you sure?”
“Shut up, Sandie,” Abel barked without breaking stride, marching straight through the open gate.
“Nice to see you too, Twitchy!” O’Neer called up with a laugh.
Wyatt gave him a quick punch to the shoulder, a silent warning to leave the poor kid alone before he jumped clean off the battlements.
“The kid’s trying his best,” Wyatt said, giving O’Neer a pointed look.
“He’s always trying his best. Doesn’t mean he ain’t twitchy,” O’Neer replied with a grin, tucking a cigarette between his teeth.
Montis took a moment to turn and study the two Vulpus officers. O’Neer was a rough, half-feral mess of an individual, the sort who radiated trouble even when he was behaving. If Montis had to place him in the Imperial Army, he’d put him with the commandos or the raiders, maybe the shock troops. Men like that were useless on a parade ground and indispensable everywhere else.
Wyatt was the opposite. Solid. Steady. The kind you wanted on the line when things started to crack. Montis could see it in the way the two moved. O’Neer walked ahead with a cigarette in his teeth and a long gun slung over his shoulder like he owned the fort. Wyatt kept his rifle held in both hands, posture tight, eyes moving, ready for whatever came next.
As for General Abel… Montis liked this one. It was rare enough to find senior officers with real combat carved into their bones, but Abel carried it plainly. There was a steadiness about him, a kind of quiet hardness. Montis had the distinct impression that if the sky split open and rained demons, Abel would simply square his shoulders and tell his men to adjust their formation.
And Sandie… well, the boy had heart. Montis could see that much. It wasn’t nothing. It also went a long way toward explaining why he had been given a rear echelon post, somewhere his nerves could jump without taking the whole battle with them.
With that quick assessment finished, Montis turned and continued after General Abel. The Vulpina Wastes were proving to be a surprising gold mine of talent. The Rangers in particular stood out. Rough around the edges, yes, but impressive. They filled a role the Averlonian Army often struggled to staff, the kind better suited to men who thrived in the dark. Commandos. Raiders. Saboteurs.
When Montis reached Abel’s office, both men paused at the threshold for a moment. Abel gave a short gesture toward a chair. Montis nodded and took the offered seat without ceremony.
“If you’ve got something to say, say it,” Abel said gruffly.
“Direct,” Montis noted with a small nod. Then, just as plainly, “It’s simple. We offer protection, and in return, we ask a favour.”
“Protection?” Abel grunted. “My first instinct is to be offended. Sounds like you’re talking about those outlaws. But you aren’t that stupid, are you?”
“No,” Montis replied, unfazed. “I’m not talking about outlaws. I’m talking about something you can’t fight. This land. The dead soil. The creeping ether fog. That you can’t beat.” He leaned back slightly, eyes steady. “How long until you have to abandon this place? How long before you’re forced to move again, and again, until the fog drives you straight into that mountain range?”
“Two to three generations,” Abel grunted. “Maybe four if we’re lucky.”
Montis raised a brow. A surprisingly frank answer. It told him more than Abel likely meant to. The Vulpus didn’t speak of death with dread. Not even of a slow one creeping across their homeland. To them, it wasn’t a looming terror worthy of panic. It was just a reality to endure.
“It’s old news. Every last one of us knows we’ll die out sooner or later. We just live day by day until there’s nothing left,” Abel said, voice dry as dust.
“Fatalistic,” Montis observed.
“Realistic,” Abel countered, one brow lifting.
“Fair,” Montis conceded.
“Thought so,” Abel grunted.
“If I had to wager, and I was a betting man in my youth, you’ve got a way to get my people past the mountains. Into greener pastures, I assume,” Abel said as he picked up a cigarette.
“Mind if I smoke?” he added.
“No,” Montis replied calmly, gesturing for him to continue.
“Bet Captain O’Neer never asked,” Abel grumbled as he struck a match and lit the cigarette.
“No, he did not,” Montis replied, just as dry.
“I’m inclined to agree,” Abel growled, “but first, let’s hear your price. O’Neer didn’t say jack shit, and that gives me conniptions.”
“We need to locate the world gate that leads to hell,” Montis said.
Abel froze mid drag, cigarette hanging between two fingers. He let out a long sigh, took a slower pull, and muttered one word under his breath.
Fuck…