Breaking The Skies

By Evan Marshall Hernandez

After a revolution overthrows the King of Duryan the only member of the royal family to survive is sixteen year old Princess Sarai who finds herself a Queen without a country. She is protected in a remote fortress by the remnants of her father’s royal guard, a force made up of both humans and mighty talking animals, such as a fox standing four feet tall at the shoulders named Rhyn, and the eight foot praying mantis named Quoto. Among the leaders of these elite soldiers is Sentrus, a man who feels too young to lead and carries the guilt of letting his sovereign die.

Nearby, a young boy lives with his father on the outskirts of civilization. As the soldiers of the revolution approach the Queen’s final stronghold, he stumbles upon the kidnapping of Queen Sarai by a rival nation. Thrown together by fate, Tem, Sentrus and a small team of friends struggle to reach Sarai before a hideous fate can befall her. On the way, they will fight terrifying golden eagles and manmade monsters who never seem to die. Above all, they will face their own fears and find courage in each other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evan Marshall Hernandez
• Release date: Apr 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311437235

Evan Marshall Hernandez

An award winning playwright, an actor, and a producer of stage, audio and film projects, Evan began his creative career at a young age. Working with his parents, Frank and Betsy Hernandez, his vocal and acting talents were used on such projects as the Hide ‘Em in Your Heart video series for EMI CMG and Bridgestone’s animated cartoon, Under the Sea.He attended the University of Evansville for a degree in theater. There, he was published as an opinion columnist and short-fiction writer. He was also honored with the Kennedy Center American College Theater Festival Short Play Award. He was a principle actor in many U of E’s acclaimed theater productions, including Our Town, Street Scene and Taming of the Shrew. He graduated cum laude in 2006.Evan went on to tour with The Seattle Shakespeare Company as a principle actor in Romeo and Juliet. Since relocating to New York City in 2009, he has worked for various productions as a producer, writer, and director. In 2011, he joined the scenic carpentry team for The Public Theater creating the elaborate sets for Shakespeare In The Park as well as The Public’s main-stage theater productions.Last year his one man Christmas show, A Great Light, went on its first interstate tour after two seasons of New York performances.This summer he is directing and editing a new web-series called Living the Dream, with Iconoclassic Productions.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Sentrus missed.

It was a good shot, well placed, but his prey was tricky and disappeared from sight. He scanned his surroundings closely, looking for movement, but also kept an eye on his heads-up-display, looking for heat signatures. Not that it would do much good in this desert. The golden sand and black ferrite stones were hotter than any living thing. Sometimes he would look for the shadow of a cooler body if he were hunting anything cold blooded. But the fox was hot blooded in every sense of the word and Sentrus knew, for the moment, his own eyes would be of more value than the Maelstrom’s instrumentation.

There was no time to wait, if his target was on the move he was better off moving as well.

Sentrus bent his knees deeply, then jumped. The Maelstrom amplified his movement into a tremendous leap and he soared up and away. Machine and rider spun gently in their trajectory, allowing Sentrus to keep his face pointed towards the ground. His eyes searched every rock, every undulation in the desert floor, blurred as they were by his velocity, seeking out any hint of activity below him.

His upward momentum exhausted itself and the Maelstrom began to fall back to earth when he saw a hint of movement. Dust kicked up from the prairie floor as his prey darted behind a rock. Sentrus twisted violently, seeking to line up his crosshairs with the dust cloud at the edge of his vision. He squeezed the handgrip and a flaming bolt of plasma shot away from the Maelstrom’s wrist.

No dice. He kept firing, hoping to force the fox to keep to the ground. If he could pin his target down long enough maybe he could get a clean shot.

He landed well, his knees bending gently, eyes locked on his opponent’s last location. This time Sentrus stayed on the ground, taking careful, planted steps and firing off the occasional pot shot to discourage any movement from his foe.

Inside the cockpit the soldier rolled his shoulders, his vertebrae popping. He feinted left, taking one, two, three steps and then spun ably to the right, rolling on his Maelstrom’s shoulder in an expert motion that kept his cannon bearing on its target at all times. Finishing the roll, he bounced out of it, gaining his feet and sprinting at a furious pace.

He stormed the boulder, making a short leap up and over, twisting around and landing with a great scattering of dust, one robotic fist on the ground and all his guns zeroed on… nothing.

A flush of embarrassment barely made its way to Sentrus' cheeks before…

WHAM!

His Maelstrom was rocked with the impact of a three hundred pound Vulpine pouncing on him from the left. The machine stood fifteen feet in height and outweighed the animal by two or three tons, but even so the blow was so furious and unexpected that Sentrus found himself sprawled out on the desert floor in a heap.

The giant fox howled furiously, then hopped down from the back of his humbled opponent and waited.

I won, it growled.

Sentrus slowly pulled his machine upright, looking at his victorious partner.

How’d you do that? You disappeared.

Trade secret.

Don’t give me that. How did you do it? he demanded, opening the hatch of his cockpit.

Scurries have dug tunnels all over the place. There’s a little one hidden right under that big rock you were so happy to blast away at. Under I went, popped up over there and...

What’s that on your tail? Sentrus pointed.

Rhyn daintily turned his hindquarters away from his partner’s view.

Nothing.

I did hit you!

No you didn’t. You missed by a mile.

Don’t give me that. Look, your tail is scorched.

That’s dust. We’re in the desert. There’s dust everywhere. I just crawled through a tunnel!

That’s a plasma burn. I can smell singed fur. If I hadn’t been using marker rounds then half your tail would be missing.

No, it’s not. No, you can’t. No, it wouldn’t. And I won!

Sentrus popped the hatch in the lower back of his Maelstrom before lowering himself to the ground and swinging away like a kid coming off the monkey bars. He landed, stretched and prepared to start arguing with Rhyn again when his mitcom crackled.

The fox narrowed his eyes.

So?

They're coming, Sentrus replied as his hand came away from his ear.

How many?

Not enough.

The fox smiled pure mischief.

Sentrus mounted up again and they walked with their backs to the evening sun. Ahead of them rose the daunting crest of an enormous crater, nearly two miles across. Hidden within this natural bulwark was the last bastion of the Artoren of Duryan, the mighty fortress Tynshact.

**********

On the far side of the crater, only a few miles to the southeast, the ruins of Curubain loomed over the surrounding desert. Enormous hulks of steel and alloy reached up hundreds of feet into the sky, like the petrified arms of silver titans. Tynshact had been built to replace those crumbling spires and centuries had passed since men at war sheltered there, but the peaks of the towers still shone in the sun, scoured by wind and sand.

At the base of Curubain, metal and rubble piled thick and rusting. A sheet of that metal abruptly rose from the ground. It seemed to lift of its own accord and hover indecisively, wavering back and forth. Once it chose a direction it picked its way along with expertise, swerving left and right in an awkward dance through the maze of wire and debris. The progress was slow, but never once did a corner of metal touch the ground. Occasionally it bumped and scraped its edges but even so the long, walking sheet made its way through. After escaping the maze of the ruins the sheet stopped and flipped itself over. It lost its expertise and personality, clattering to the ground a helpless lump. Underneath it had been a boy.

His name was Tem. He was maybe twelve years old, or ten, or maybe fourteen. It was hard to tell beneath all the dirt. His clothing fit loosely like sacks held together by fishing line. Chalky grey dust coated his sandy hair and his face was thick with grime, which had caked into dark lines. At a passing glance you could have mistaken him for a very little, very old man. Only his bright green eyes, searching and inquisitive, declared his youth.

Tem, how many? His father, Baratem, was calling out from their lean-to.

Three papa! Tem had been gathering for most of the morning. It didn’t take long to stack the large metal sheets, but it took time to find them. The site had been scavenged for so long that pieces of useable size were becoming few and far between.

Already? Good Tem! Good boy! His father’s smile was wide, though somewhat lacking in teeth. Go and eat something before you head back out. A few more of those before sundown and we’ll go to the fortress.

Yes Papa.

Baratem leaned over a set of sawhorses with his sand torch and, after tucking his long, tangled beard into his shirt, went back to scouring the large sheets of steel. Ever since Tem’s mother died the two of them made their living salvaging from scrap heaps and wreckage all over Duryan. For the past several weeks they sold bits and pieces of Curubain to the Artoren garrison inside Tynschact.

They were barely ten miles northwest of the great river Ajkenal, which made the border with Sekris. Tem didn’t know it was named the Ajkenal though because his father always called it the River Ash.

Why do you call it that papa? Tem once asked him.

He’d started to say something. It sounded like, That’s where the Sekrals… But that’s as far as he got before refusing to explain further.

Stay a boy a little longer for me Tem. Don’t ask that question yet.

Tem hadn’t understood, but the look in his father’s eyes made him decide not to ask again for a long time.

When his father called him back to the lean-to a few hours later, he had piled up two more sheets of alloy. The sun was beginning to set as they swallowed some sandwiches and guzzled water. Then they loaded up their little cart. The metal Baratem had polished reflected the sunset, glowing like fine silver.

The land for miles around was flat, yellow prairie, with hardly a tree in sight, so whenever they made the climb over and into the crater Tem felt like he could see the whole world.

On this day, as they reached the crest, Baratem stopped pulling the cart and looked north into Duryan. The village of Ceebee was just a few miles to the north and from this height Tem could easily make out the blocky shapes of its buildings. Some times they made deliveries there, too. But the boy could tell his father wasn’t thinking about the village, or sales, or deliveries, or anything else they could see.

Baratem took a long breath. His eyes filled with a distant dream.

Someday, Tem, he said, we’re gonna find us a home out there. That little lean-to ain’t home. We’ll find us a home. Then he laughed and rumpled Tem’s hair. Just gotta find us enough garbage all in one place is all. We’ll find us a place so full of scrap we’ll be in business forever. The heaven for twisted steel. Tem chuckled. If Curubain wasn’t that heaven he couldn’t imagine one existing at all. His father always returned to this idea, but Tem knew it was only a dream.

In the boy's short life, the two of them had traveled from one end of Duryan to the other; from the quaint farm towns of the east, to the mountain villages of the west; from the sprawling metropolis of Roathe, to the bustling dockyards of Perinassus and Harrisport. Every time, his father had gotten the same look in his eyes and declared their current spot to be less than heaven.

Tem was fine with that. Why would anyone want a house that just stayed in one place? After a few months in one spot he would start asking his father how long it would be before they moved on. Baratem always worried his son asked because he was making friends and wanted to stay. Tem always asked because he was ready to load up his little pack of belongings and move on to new adventures.

Baratem gazed into the distance once more.

What’s that?

Tem’s eyes were better than his father’s and he looked where his father pointed. A cloud was rising off the desert floor between the crater and Ceebee. He squinted, looking for who, or what might be kicking up so much dust. It took him a second to register what he was seeing, but there were definitely people down there. They seemed to be trying to sneak forward, staying low and scooting quickly between whatever rocks, or spindly dead trees they could find for cover.

I think they’re soldiers papa.

Toxies?

Think so. They’re wearing green. Should we warn the torens?

No need. Baratem jerked his chin to indicate the top of the ridge. The boy looked about a hundred yards down and saw movement and the glint of sunlight reflecting off glass. Someone was watching.

I hoped the rebels wouldn’t come quite so soon, said Baratem, picking up the handles of his wagon. He began to turn it around, pointing it back down the slope towards their lean-to. Let’s get back to camp. They won’t attack while there’s light in the sky.

But what about the delivery?

Not tonight son. The Artoren will have more important things to worry about than a little extra steel.

**********

A sliver of red still cut across the horizon when they returned to camp. Baratem was concerned about drawing attention by lighting a fire so they ate a cold supper and lit no lamps.

As night engulfed the desert, Baratem sat at the edge of the lean-to looking out into the darkness. Tem eased down beside his father. The boy had lived most of his life under nothing but the sky. Though the moon was only a narrow crescent, his eyes were well adjusted to the faint light of the stars. They sat in silence for a moment before Tem pointed to the horizon.

Papa? He whispered.

I see them

Sound traveled perfectly in the windless desert night. The tread of footsteps and jangling of equipment drifted to their ears. Men were scrambling through the night and over the rim of the crater. Tem thought he could see the outline of the soldiers cutting dark holes in the starlight along the horizon.

Will there be a battle?

Aye. A fight at least.

What’s the difference papa?

Shhh...

Tem felt a strange tension in Baratem, a weight on his father’s shoulders he did not remember sensing before. They sat in silence for a few moments more.

A glow flared along the crater’s edge. As it disappeared a deep boom echoed through the night. Tem held tightly to his father’s arm and stared in awe. More bursts of light and more crashes of sound followed. The rattling noise of small arms fire filled in the gaps between the great bursts of plasmic shells.

Tem and his father sat in the desert and watched fire fill the sky. Whatever fight there was did not last long. And not a single soul came back over the lip of the crater.

Chapter 2

Baratem decided not to make a delivery to Tynshact the next morning. It would be bad timing for sure, with the torens busy cleaning up the mess from the night before and probably jumpier than usual. But he wanted more information, so he and his son packed up the wagon and headed out for Ceebee.

The heat and the silence were equally oppressive as Tem and his father rolled their cart down the main street. No one greeted them, or even poked their head out of doors. The village was usually bustling with activity. Ceebee was the last stop on the King’s Highway that led down from the north. It was only a couple miles from Tynshact and when that fortress was occupied by a large army then Ceebee performed the role of supply depot. At other times traders, convoys, and military shipments on their way to Fenura, or Sekris stopped here before making their way through the final stretch of desert.

Tem examined the houses as they trundled past. Some of the more obviously human dwellings were one or two stories tall and made from sandstone. But there were also curious looking domes, with a single wooden door and maybe a square window or two. The local acuma lived in them; Scurries mostly, but also several Mustelan families who had adjusted to town living. Every other time he and Baratem had come through town, doors would be swinging open and slamming shut constantly as Scurries and Mustelas skittered back and forth to work, play, eat, and chatter. Today, every door was closed, every window shuttered. Scattered throughout the street there were broken wagon axles, pieces of furniture, sacks filled with odds and ends, books and clothes and food; all of it dusty and sometimes crushed beyond recognition. Everywhere was evidence of sudden and panicked flight.

The two of them took a couple turns through back alleys.

With the whole town empty like this we’ve no of way knowing if there’s anyone still here to deliver to or not, said Baratem, wiping his brow with a kerchief, stained brown with years of sweat, snot, and spit.

Where did everybody go?

I don’t rightly know, Son. But don’t you go wanderin’ off today, you understand?

Yes, Papa.

They arrived at an oversized metal door. It was set into the back wall of a brick building, distinctly larger than any of the houses in the town. The door concealed a loading bay in back of Ceebee’s only general store. Scrawled on the door in faded white paint was the simple title Mack’s.

Baratem lifted his hand high and hit the door three times with the heel of his fist. The metal resounded with a loud hollow banging. After a few moments of waiting, the door rose, seemingly pulled straight up into the wall above with all the dignity of an ancient castle gate. Standing behind it was William Mack. He was gripping a rifle.

Tem thought the storeowner must be about the same age as his father, but he carried himself with a lighter, more mischievous air. He was long and stringy, like a piece of thick wire with huge, bushy sideburns. When he saw who was knocking at his door his face broke into a smile.

You should work for the post Baratem, he said, setting down his rifle, leaning it against the doorjamb. You always deliver!

Mack stepped out and shook Baratem’s hand, hard.

Did you hear them explosions last night?

We saw the light of the blasts from over the crater’s edge.

Gor! You was that close? It scared everyone here out of their wits, even short as it was. Half the town’s either fled for the hills, or slunk away into their tunnels. Let’s get this stuff unloaded and then we can share a drink and pretend the world is only half as crazy as it aught to be, instead of as truly madcap as it’s getting.

The wagon was filled with odds and ends. The giant sheets of steel Baratem sanded down would go to the Artoren in the fortress, but there were plenty of other scraps in Curubain to trade and Tem had a good eye for collecting them. It was mostly old tools and pneumatics this time. Baratem had tinkered them all back into working order. There was also copper tubing and wires, some pewter trinkets and even the odd piece of silver.

It only took a few minutes for the three of them to unload everything. Once it was all inside Mack’s storeroom the proprietor kicked an empty crate into the center of the room for use as a table and stuck three stools around it. The makeshift dining area sat amidst row after row of shelves and open cabinets, all of them bristling with countless knick-knacks; scraps of metal; bent and rusting tins of food; bags of wheat and cornmeal, much of it ancient and molding. The only organized space in the room was a smartly aligned rack of crank rifles standing next to neatly stacked boxes of ammunition.

Tem and his father sat down on their stools as a clear, long necked bottle and a tin can were placed on the crate by their host.

Okay Mr. Postman, said the storeowner, milk for you and moonshine for the boy?

Baratem harrumphed. I think not, Will.

Oh, very well. Mack fetched three jars and began pouring a tall serving of moonshine for Tem’s father, who pushed it away gently.

Milk for the both of us.

Narrowing his eyes and chewing his upper lip, Mack gave a short whistle of disapproval before snatching back the half-full jar and taking a long pull. He grimaced hard as he set the drink down, much emptier than it had been.

Like a swift kick to the head that is.

Tem looked up at his father. He was grinning cautiously as he snapped open the tin of milk and poured some into the other two jars.

So, where is everyone?

Like I said, they’re gone. Run away before the White Army of the Republic gets here.

Where?

Headed north, most of ‘em. I doubt they even know where they’re going, just anywhere that ain’t here. They’re afraid if they stay they’ll get labeled as loyalists and traitors. Folk around here don’t want the rebels asking why their sons didn’t sign up to fight with the Toxies. Good news for the likes of us when it comes to that. You and I are too old fer them to want us and little Tem here’s too, well… little. Saying this, Mack rubbed Tem’s head, roughly shaking his dusty hair back and forth. Tem didn’t like it much. He glanced up at his father who was combing his beard with his fingers, a gesture Tem associated with deep thought.

But you stayed, eh? said Baratem. Not afraid of being tagged a loyalist then?

The storeowner took another pull and wiped his mouth.

Not really, no. I gotta look after my store haven’t I? And no one buys more than an army in a hurry. Way I figure it, if they decide to ‘commandeer’ and just take it all instead of pay me I won’t be too happy about it, but they’ll do that for sure if I leave. This way they have to choose between shooting me and just laying out some coin.

I hope, for your sake, they feel generous.

Why shouldn’t they? They’re winning.

The growl coming from his father was almost inaudible and didn’t really sound human.

It’s not over yet. The Artoren still hold Tynshact. That’s like playing poker and holding all the aces. No one can take the Tin Shack if it’s well defended.

If you say so Baratem, but for my money the game is played already. You’re a smart man, so don’t fight what’s already done. Last night was just beginning of the end. The White Army is coming down that road any day now. Might be within sight of us for all we know and word is they’ve got something like a hundred thousand soldiers! Armor, cannons. They won at Oleander. They took Roathe. I mean Roathe… The capitol! Your queen is four hundred miles away from a throne she ain’t never gonna sit on again. It’s over. We live in a Republic now, the Republic of Duryan.

The Queen lives.

She’s a child.

She’s young, but she is the rightful queen. And she lives.

For how long?

That doesn’t matter. As long as she’s alive, my loyalty lies with her.

The men stared at each other. There was no malice in the look, not that Tem could see anyway. There was only a curious suspicion. William Mack and Baratem were now on opposite sides of the war, where only minutes before they had simply been friends.

Baratem reached out for his jar of milk. He raised it, saying, Here’s to peace, one way or the other.

The other man lifted his jar of moonshine. They clinked the makeshift glasses and drank. Tem grabbed his own milk and gulped some down. It was thick and rich. The three of them all set down their glasses at once and Mack started laughing. It took the boy a moment to understand what was so funny until he saw the dripping coat of white on his father’s mustache.

The bearded fellow looked puzzled as the other two gawked at him. He looked down, licked his lips and understanding dawned.

Hah! They’re useful things mustachios. Always good to save some for later.

The three of them laughed hard. It wasn’t particularly funny perhaps, but they all needed to laugh and the trouble in their hearts overflowed in laughter.

They laughed so long and loud that four faces peeked into view, looking in scornfully from the doorway to the storefront. Tem saw them out of the corner of his eye and when he turned to look he almost had another laughing fit.

Scurries are undeniably comical looking creatures. The oversized prairie dogs stand about three feet tall when upright on hind legs, which they are most of the time, and usually keep their front paws held primly in front of their chests. The fur on their backs and faces is a golden brown, almost identical to the honey colored dust and sand of the sandy prairies they prefer to call home, but their chests are bright white, which gives the impression of a smartly bleached shirt. They always reminded Tem of miniature waiters, or fancy butlers in linen suits, like the ones he used to see when they lived in the city by the ocean.

Welcome friends, called Baratem. Join us?

The four newcomers looked at each other, chattered for a moment and disappeared back into the storefront.

How rude… grumbled Baratem. I thought you said everyone left.

Not everyone, Mack replied. Most of us humans. And all the Mustela are gone for sure. But a lot of the Scurries are still here. Those are my clerks. I told them to take the day off. No one’s gonna buy anything today anyway. But they showed up.

Why did they stay if all the Mustelas left? asked Tem.

The Scurries were here first son, answered Baratem. They dug a town here a long, long time ago and humans started putting up houses later. This is their land, their home.

Oh.

More to it than that, chimed in Mack. Scurries, you see, they’re more like us. They’re practical little buggers. They love to count. D'you know that Baratem? I let the Scurries do all my bookkeeping and they never miss a cent. Scurries love shiny things. Coins. Diamonds. Gold. They’ve also taken quite a shine to the art of making money. My clerks out there figure if they can make a little coin by staying, then they’ll stay. He grinned, winking broadly. They’re a lot like us. Whereas Mustelas… They don’t care about that stuff. They love to hunt. They love tall grass. They love freedom.

Tem thought for a moment, then said,

That sounds a lot like papa to me.

**********

After finishing their milk they loaded up and headed home. Mack gave Baratem lamp fuel and tinned food in exchange for their wagonload of trinkets. It wasn’t much, but it wasn’t bad. And there was one more thing: candy. The colored, flavored sugar was a rare treat for a boy used to homemade bread, canned vegetables and roast meat from a spit. Tem rolled a piece of it around the inside of his mouth, tucking it in his gums, hiding it under his tongue, trying to savor every last bit of flavor he could get and resisting the temptation to bite down hard and crush it into a dozen shards of sweetness that would disappear so much faster. He was so focused on this little battle of wills he didn’t hear his father call his name the first time, or the second. Only when Baratem blasted a shrill whistle through his teeth did Tem come back to reality.

Son, look!

Their camp was perhaps a hundred yards distant. Lying in front of the campsite was what appeared to be a lump of fur. The figure lifted itself up off the ground, trying to drag itself closer to the lean-to.

I think it’s Laica! Tem cried. She looks hurt!

Go. Run! yelled Baratem. I’ll get the cart there in a moment.

Tem let loose with his legs and a cloud of fine yellow dust was thrown up behind him as he went.

Laica was Tem’s nickname for the little Mustela who lived nearby. She couldn’t really speak human yet and Tem couldn’t speak Mustelan, but she would squeak and yowl enthusiastically around Tem and was probably the closest thing to a friend he had. Her family lived maybe a mile to the west, a good ways off of the main road.

Tem could hear her screeching. She had collapsed a few yards away from the lean-to and he reached her in a flash. Her coat was ragged and matted with sweat. Patches of fur were missing from her long, grey tail. Tem scooped her up into his arms and carried her to the lean-to. As he set her down on the dirt floor within the shelter he was surprised by the feeling of a sticky liquid along her side: blood. He looked her over, but with all the sweat and dirt it was hard to tell if she was wounded or where. He grabbed rags and a small cauldron with water left in it. He dabbed her fur lightly, trying to clean her off and find any wounds. She lurched and squealed. He was struggling to hold her still when he heard his father arrive with the cart.

Papa! Help me!

Baratem spun around the side of the lean-to and grabbed Laica firmly by the head and looked into her eyes.

Shhh… Laica. Shhh… he said.

The creature struggled for another moment before she locked eyes with him and began to gather her wits.

Good girl. Baratem let go of her head and began to stroke her fur gently, but firmly. His fingers worked down the length of her torso and legs. At last he stopped, and placed his hand firmly over one spot. Here son. Put the bandage here.

Chapter 3

Tynshact's war room was mercifully empty.

You can still call off this meeting, Mave.

The White Army will be here in two days, we have to be ready. We have to do everything we can to protect Queen Sarai.

I agree. But asking everyone to present their ideas? We’re going to, what… vote on our battle plan?

I’m going to ask for advice, yes.

General Falson died this morning, so the other battalion leaders have had barely six hours to come up with some haphazard, second guess of a plan.

"This is the best way to...

It isn’t! It’s a bad idea Mave. A terrible idea! We’re soldiers. We don’t vote on strategy. We follow orders. You’re the commanding officer. You give us the plan and we will follow it!

Colo Falson is the rightful leader of the Artoren and I don’t feel comfortable…

He’s dead! And his death makes you our rightful commander.

Then-stop-shouting-at-me-Sentrus!

Sentrus stopped. Blood rushed to his face and he swallowed, hard. He could feel Mave watching him closely, waiting for another outburst. Everything was wrong about this moment. His friend Mave was now General Antwern, supreme commander of the Royal Army of Duryan, what was left of it anyway. But she was so young! Brilliant, but young. Come to that, so was he. So were nearly all the survivors it seemed.

His training as a soldier collided head on with his instincts as a friend. The young, reckless, frightened side of him that cared about his friend really needed to yell. The soldier within him needed to be silent and obey his superior. But his superior was asking permission to lay down her authority and leave this all important battle and the safety of their queen to a vote.

Please tell me... sir, Sentrus said, with all sincerity, trying hard to find some moisture in his mouth, Please tell me you will be presenting your own strategy. We have been waiting here for two months. You and General Falson must have been using that time.

We have. But I want to hear from the group. If you intend to present your own strategy you still have thirty-six minutes.

Yes, sir.

You are dismissed, Commander Caroven.

Sentrus, already standing at attention, saluted and held his hand rock steady for a moment before Mave returned the gesture. Her face was all storm-cloud and Sentrus felt he deserved to have a great deal of lightning tossed down on his head. He turned on his heels and, with echoing steps, left the room.

He avoided his battalion’s bunk room and the main line of the mess hall, choosing to pull rank for once and sneak directly into the kitchen. He loaded up a tin box with whatever the cooks handed him until he had enough for a meal and abruptly left again. The food didn’t look especially appetizing since the cooks were just torens unlucky enough to pull kitchen duty for the week, but it would do for now and he was famished.

Up and out he went, taking winding tunnels through the roof onto the outer parapets. And there he sat and pondered, taking in the view.

Fortress Tynshact, while enormous in scope, was little more than thirty feet high. It was squat and asymmetrical and gave few hints to the power it contained. The evening was cloudy, with a blood red horizon and the crimson skies sucked the light from the stones, making the battlements appear no more than an ominous vacuum. Decades ago attackers had mocked it, calling it a Tin Shack. Then they died at the foot of its walls. Now the old nickname was the accepted term of endearment for any garrison. Nestled deep in the center of the crater, Tynschact had crushed dozens of assaults and countless attackers. The night before, when the enemy scouts made the foolish mistake of entering the crater’s perimeter their demise was brutal and swift.

Sentrus wolfed down his meal and scanned the wreckage, his grey eyes searching for movement. Few men were so truly acclimated to the world of destruction as he was. This acclimation brought with it an enormous potential for hope against hope. Destruction meant chaos, and chaos always left pockets of opportunity for some poor soul or other. Nothing was certain. Looking across the field of debris, with the lingering stench of sulfur and smoke filling his nostrils, he tried to guess which pile of wreckage might hold a living thing.

Where are the Condors? he wondered.

A hatchway opened behind him. The squealing of hinges accompanied a familiar scraping of claws on stone.

Care for some spinach Rhyn?

Figured you’d be up here. Trying to avoid the nonsense?

Rhyn’s speech was remarkably high in tone for a creature capable of such deep rumbling. Walking on all fours he stood four feet tall at the shoulders. The deep red of his fur and his stately bearing made him grandly terrifying in appearance.

We’re having a war council. That isn’t nonsense.

Mave has been consulting with general Falson for two months, said the fox. They've been preparing for this exact moment and any idea concocted by the brains of Falson and Antwern isn’t a plan, it’s a work of genius. The general’s death doesn’t change that. We all knew, after the wounds he suffered defending Roathe, that he might not live to see another battle. So tossing the plan and asking for ideas at the eleventh hour... Nonsense is the nicest word I have for that.

Nice has never been your strong suit.

Rhyn hauled himself up onto his hind legs and leaned his forelegs against the parapet to look out across the crater below. What a mess, he said.

It was quite the fight.

That was nothing and you know it.

Sentrus hesitantly grunted assent. He didn't like to think they could kill twenty of their fellow countrymen and consider it nothing. Still, the attackers had only been a scouting party and when compared to the swarming legions coming their way perhaps Rhyn was right to call it ‘nothing’.

They are getting better. We were lucky none of us got killed.

This time, Rhyn grunted.

Sentrus checked his time piece.

"Come on