Noinsdee, the 29th of Harvest, 768 A.E.

  Captain Genero sat in what was considered dim lighting for an Aurean. He was in the rear cabin of one of the largest Fliers in the Aurean arsenal, where he alternated staring at his hands, which held a copy of his orders in Corydon’s finely wrought script, and staring out the window at the not-so-distant Kerathi town of Harsbrukke.

  Guardian Fliers came in three general sizes, this one being of the largest type. The smallest was called a recon Flier. It held only three men, and was used primarily for scouting, delivering messages, and carrying lesser dignitaries between Aurean mountaintops as fast as possible. The next size up, the incursion Flier, held eight men. These were for minor military operations and carrying various cargoes between cities. This also happened to be the sort they had salvaged – though a lot of it was unsalvageable and therefore had to be destroyed – just a few Ouers ago.

  The final kind was the sort that Genero was contemplating his possible course of actions in the force Flier. It carried over a score of Guardians and a week’s supplies, which could be made to last three weeks with stingy rationing and foraging. It sported a nine heavy arc-lances from its forefront, making it look like some sort of ugly catfish waddling through the sky as it rained death down on those below. It was large, awkward, and slow, but it carried a lot, including a heavy battery for recharging lances and crystal pods.

  They were out here for the long haul. They’d either capture this girl Anthea, or they’d not return home at all. Already they’d been forced to deal with a few locals who had been intent on taking what did not belong to them.

  The savages had been combing through the wreckage and debris for anything of use. Had they actually known what half the things were, they might have put up more resistance. As it was, their long rifles couldn’t put a projectile through the skin of the heavy Flier. With regrets he dared not show in front of Corydon’s men, Genero had ordered the death of the Kerathi men attempting to defend their salvage claim.

  Sure, they were savages by any reasonable definition, but had they deserved to die for their curiosity? Even if they found some honor in a valiant death against impossible odds, it still didn’t feel right. Despite his misgivings, they Kerathi had ended up as piles of smoldering flesh and bones, their useless weapons lying beside their corpses. And they were only the first casualties in what was sure to be a bloody campaign.

  Then Corydon’s men had set to work. They’d dismantled and collected all they could of the Flier, for it would be melted down and reshaped and used for another Flier. Every Kee of the light but exceptionally strong metal was precious. There were only so many mountains on Elegia with the ore, and it was no coincidence that there were Aurean settlements or mining outposts on nearly all of them.

  So, they’d spent a Dee shuttling loads of Flier wreckage back to the base of the mountain that Cenalium presided over. There, they’d located one of the half-dozen hidden lifts that had been built hundreds of Yarres ago. The lifts would carry the wreckage up into the city some thousand plus Mayters above, where it could be reused in whatever way the most talented Aurean engineers chose.

  Genero scowled at his hands – hands that had been unable to stop orders he felt were wrong. He’d already hidden the small wall mirror that used to hang on the wall in his cramped quarters. It was strange that one Dee’s misdeeds could overwhelm a lifetime of service, Genero thought, wearing a bitter smile.

  All around him were Corydon’s strange Aurean Guardians. They were only Aurean by loose association with anything that Genero thought of as Aurean. From the moment he’d first seen them he knew they were different. They lacked the brightly colored hair, light eyes, and tall, lithe build that even Genero saw when he looked in a looking glass. Instead, they were darker complected, stockier, and more massively muscled than any Aureans he had ever seen. Strangest of all, though, was that they didn’t shy away from darkness.

  That was the most shocking thing. They’d worked right on into dusk, using only the external lights from the Flier to light their way as they’d loaded up the ship for the last two loads of Flier wreckage. They’d not even batted an eyelid about the whole ordeal. Sure, they were Guardians, but the idea of working in near dark was enough to unnerve even the most seasoned Guardian.

  Even now as they prepared to storm the sleeping village of Harsbrukke, there was no apprehension in the faces of these men. There really wasn’t much expression at all for that matter. They just did what they were told, and they did it with a ruthless efficiency that was admirable. If all Guardians acted with such propriety, there’d be a need for far fewer of them, yet they acted like men taking no relish in their activities. They didn’t speak to each other except when necessary. They didn’t joke amongst each other or engage in any sort of comradery either. They were just here doing their job for Corydon. That was it.

  Genero couldn’t help but think that they were spying on him too. They’d report back if he failed to carry out his duties to the letter, and that would be the end of him and his family. They’d be banished like Vitalis and his family or executed like the innocent pair of Ox-Men who had been publicly mutilated and dismembered as an example to the rest of their kind.

  So now Genero sat in his private quarters, little more than a glorified closet with a place to sit. Only a pair of couple crystal pods lit the room. He sat there loathing himself for what he was about to do, but powerless to stop it. When it comes down to them or us, animal instinct would kick in every time. It had to be them, he realized. No sane man would lay down his life for a stranger.

  Genero pushed himself up out of chair and opened the door to the Flier’s cargo bay beyond. He was immediately greeted with the sights and sounds of twenty men strapping on battle gear. On went the golden helms, greaves, and chest plates. Each was limned with silver and bronze, and a highly detailed insignia of Corydon’s own special guard had been picked out on the forehead of the helmets as well as the center of the chest plates of each guard’s armor. The carried heavy arc-lances and a pair of arc-swords, one over each hip. They were an intimidating sight, even in a state of unfinished preparation.

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  Captain Genero stood up a bit straighter as he passed by the men on his way to the front compartment of the Flier. He tried to remind himself that he was these men’s leader, even if his hands were tied as to what they were about to do. He would do this with dignity, because to do less would be to further dishonor those who were about to die when he gave the order. Nelius would have his fill of work to do tonight, with more to come every night until Anthea was found.

  In the front compartment, another pair of Guardians, also hand-selected by Corydon, waited. They were the only ones who were able to read the complicated navigational charts, each one marked with longitudes, latitudes, and altitudes. They were also the only ones trained in the operation of this ship. It took most pilots over a Yarre of training to learn to pilot a Flier, and then a pilot had to work their way up from the recon Flier to the incursion Flier, to finally the force Flier like they rode in now. Only the best pilots would be given a force Flier.

  “Sir?” The pilot and navigator both said in unison upon his entry to the forward compartment.

  Genero glanced around the pilot’s compartment, noting that everything was in place and stowed in a tidy fashion. “Let’s go. Let’s make this as quick and painless as we can.”

  “How do we proceed?” The senior of the pair asked.

  “Start by raking the outer circle of homes with lance fire. I want them burning. It should draw them inward to the central fortress that we’ve scouted. While they’re in disarray from that, we’ll set down and offload. I’ll be with the squad. You’ll continue to circle the village to pick off stragglers and anyone who looks like they might try to take shots at our group.”

  “We have limited batteries, sir… I can’t promise we’ll be able to stay aloft too long. The moonlight is weak through all these clouds tonight.”

  “That just makes our strike that much more of a surprise if they can’t see us coming then, doesn’t it?” Genero asked, earning a pair of nods. “Good. Let’s go to it. We leave in a quarter Ouer.”

  “Yes, sir.” They replied.

  Genero retreated to his quarters once more after that, sagging into his chair after the effort of maintaining a strong front before his men. His hands shook and he wanted to vomit, but he knew the worst was yet to come.

  ?????

  Genero stood in the Stammheim of Harsbrukke. The Hersker, whose name he’d since learned was Esben, lay dead at his feet. He had caused the lone casualty among the Aureans, as well as dealing a rather nasty wound to a Guardian’s chest. The only other two wounded had been wounded securing the Stammheim, but they would survive with only the scars of this night to remember.

  Around him the survivors were huddled, mostly the elderly, children, and women of the settlement. Anyone who had not been taken unaware or clubbed unconscious had taken up arms against their attackers. Even the women and children had thrown themselves at the Aurean soldiers, brandishing pots, farm tools, or even sticks. The Guardians had been merciless subduing them.

  The smell of smoke, sweat, and burnt flesh filled the air strongly. Genero’s nose protested at the other odors that mingled in as well: urine, manure, gunpowder, blood, and a palpable odor of fear. These people had been attacked while most of them slept. Their houses had been set on fire, and their men had been slaughtered, just as their leader had been.

  Disgust welled up in the breast of the young Captain as he looked at the terrified, often bloodied and bruised, faces of the survivors. A child of no more than eight stared at him as if he were Cainel himself, vengeful god, come to wreak havoc upon this village. And he might have well been, as much of a contest as it had been. Even in the night, lit only by the fires of burning homes and the half-light of a cloud-covered moon, these Guardians had swept aside any attempts these people had made at defending themselves as easily as batting aside a child’s weak arms.

  The Captain glanced around the wide-beamed lofty ceiling of the Stammheim. They’d use the Stammheim as their base of operations until they knew where to go next, and already there were crystal pods hanging from the rafters, bathing the place in Aurean-friendly light levels – not that the soldiers seemed to care.

  Yet for the familiar light, the place was still very foreign. Depictions of war glories and heroes of the Kerathi peopled had been carved into nearly every surface and decorated with colorful pigments. Woven hangings and the heads of great beasts taken on the hunt adorned the recessed area at the northern end of the chamber, where Esben had sat a wooden bench carved to look like a great serpent whose head coiled protectively around whomever sat in the chair.

  Genero shook his head at the violence and savagery displayed even in the artistry of these people. Perhaps the fact that he didn’t like these people would make his job easier. “Illias.” He called out, looking around for the leader of Corydon’s squad.

  “Yes, Captain.” Came a booming voice from his left side.

  Genero turned toward the voice and noticed with a start that Illias had in the space of a few Saycunds presented himself no more than two paces away. The man moved with the unnerving silence of a cat, even with full gear on. Yet he was nearly as large as many of these Kerathi males. His strong, masculine chin and nose were obvious even with a helmet concealing most of his features, and his piercing silvery-blue eyes searched the room as if looking for prey.

  “I understand you’ve been trained to speak Low Elegian, like these people here do?” Genero remarked, more of a statement than a question, since this had been written in the personnel reports Corydon had handed him before he’d left to come here.

  “Yes. I, as well as Leander, was trained to speak Low Elegian. Our parents trade with lowlanders on occasion.”

  “Excellent. You’ll oversee the questioning then. Use whatever method you must. Find out everything you can about a girl named Anthea. You’ve been told of her, yes?”

  “Lord Corydon told us all he felt we should know.”

  Genero started at the title used before Corydon’s name. It wasn’t entirely inaccurate, but it was still odd to hear said with such devotion. “Good. Get to work. The Ouer is late. She may be growing further away from us with each moment wasted, and I for one plan to get back to Cenalium as soon as possible.”

  As he watched, there was a flash of surprise, perhaps even incomprehension in Illias’ eyes. Genero’s guts twisted into a knot as he considered what this might mean, but Illias betrayed nothing more out of the ordinary. Instead, he responded with a nod and stalked off to be about his business – the business of extracting information.

  Genero grimaced when a scared Kerathi child caught his gaze, and he tried to put his mind elsewhere. The problem was that every time he tried to call up the images of his wife or child in his mind, the faces of the survivors here superimposed themselves on his memory. He couldn’t quite remember exactly how his own child looked anymore, and the image of his wife in his mind was blurring with each passing Ouer. All he could see in his mind’s eye was the burning village and the bodies that they’d stacked up outside the Stammheim.

  But maybe that was just the first stages of dark-poisoning talking. This idea brought a disquieting sort of smile to Genero’s face.