The Killing Kind

By Joshua Banker

Lieutenant Marianus O'mas thought his days with the Intelligence Division were over. He’d made it pretty clear that he was done, and yet, soldiers came for him. After a cross-country trip takes him to Commander Lynwell, O’mas discovers why he is summoned: Moa’rehnza's autocratic government has sent invaders to attack Verenigen's southern shores.

O’mas is given a dangerous assignment: to assassinate the Moa’rehnzan despot Carolus Res Ceosan and his High Council and end the unplanned war.

O'mas needs every advantage that he can find. He assembles the 12th VRF, a team of highly-skilled soldiers and militiamen. Among them are "the gifted," people with special abilities that will help them on what is most likely a suicide mission.

As the fighting to the north rages on, O'mas and his squad journey through the jungle of the Regenwald. Deep in the dense rainforest they uncover Project Ember, Moa'rehnza's darkest secret and a reason for the fighting.

Set a decade before the events of Not Gods But Monsters, The Killing Kind details a conflict with complex causes and devastating outcomes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joshua Banker
• Release date: Sep 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463570777

Joshua Banker

Joshua Banker was born in Greece in 1973. He grew up in the San Francisco area before moving to Chattanooga where he attended the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga and received a BFA in Graphic Design. After moving to Charlotte, NC, he ran an independent entertainment review website from 1999-2006. Now living in Greenville, NC, Josh is a writer, painter and illustrator, loves all things H.P. Lovecraft, is married and has two cats and a dog.

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Prologue

The Seventh of Ninimond, Year 2059 BAE

Vale Grans’tsarren

Tellouh’s view through the eyeglass remained trained on the organized movements of invaders on the distant beach. The men themselves were clearly outfitted in military garb; their garments and gear were decorated in matching leaf-patterns of green and tan. With the oak-and-brass device still pressed against his eye, Tellouh took a quick headcount as soldiers continued to disembark from the vessels anchored hundreds of meters offshore. Groups of longboats worked feverishly to unload both crew and gear. As some of the troops sorted through the growing collection of crates, others toiled to assemble a temporary settlement of canvas tents.

From his post, an elevated hunting blind nearly a kilometer from the tan beaches below, he quietly surveyed the shoreline. Tucked within the overgrown foliage, the well-camouflaged outpost was a few hundred meters above sea level. This position on the hillside allowed for an unobstructed view of Medaveh’s Coast. The two-kilometer stretch of shore was nestled between the southernmost tips of the Southern Hadleys to the east and the Horans to the west.

Behind him unfurled the dense greenery of Vale Grans’tsarren, a lush forest of ageless trees that spread for hundreds of kilometers across the valley between the two immense mountain chains. Those that lived in the Vale’s lone settlement of Vertegarte had little interest in the modern trappings of the surrounding world beyond the basin’s natural borders. That would have remained true for Tellouh had not a small fleet of foreign ships made land on his watch.

Though he was not alone, Tellouh remained vigilant at his position. From time to time, one of the others would come up behind him to peek briefly before they retreated. They knew that nothing could be done. All that they could do was wait and watch.

Tellouh was a seasoned member of the Vale’vigia, village warriors trained to defend Vertegarte and the Vale from both the regional fauna and outside threats. Even if many spent the bulk of their time away from home, this cadre of protectors was considered to have a vital role in their community. Through an exhaustive screening and assessment period, one eventually earned their role in the Vale’vigia. Once inducted into the service, men and women worked through a challenging regimen of skills necessary for living off what could be found in the dense forest.

In all his years, Tellouh had never witnessed such a sizeable, organized force make overtures towards breaching the grand valley. Briefly, he considered that they might be pausing, mid-voyage, for a break of some sort, but once cargo began to arrive, all doubts about their intent dissipated. Certainly, there had been stories about groups of raiders who entered from the northern passage to the Vale, only to be driven away by the more hostile predators, but none were so well-equipped for such an incursion.

While he took notice of his post-mate’s shuffling approach, Tellouh’s gaze remained fixed.

Anything changed? Geswich inquired as he sidled up beside Tellouh. A nervous hand went to the clasp that kept his cloak in place over an ill-fitting leather cuirass. Geswich fidgeted uncomfortably as he adjusted to his new gear. Beads of sweat collected along his brow. His cheeks, still afflicted with youthful acne, were flushed by the heat of the day.

Still the same as last time you asked. Offloading troops and supplies, Tellouh replied, continuing to peer through the eyeglass. He counted a half-dozen ships bobbing lazily in the waters. After a few seconds of silence, Tellouh spoke. Is the missive away?

Uh… oh, yes.

Tellouh nodded. Stelha, their fastest messenger, had been dispatched to inform the leadership in Vertegarte. If she didn’t run afoul of the local wildlife, it wouldn’t take her more than two days to reach the village.

Are you sure about this? Maybe they’re stopping to tend to problems with their boats? Or letting the men get a breather. I hear the trip from southern—

They’re not traders. Those are Moa’rehnzan military vessels. Warships, by the look of them. Loaded for bear. They’re looking for trouble. I can see the cannons along the deck from here. And the rows of gun ports. And that’s some heavy duty gear to be dropping off. They ain’t here to set up a trade route.

Geswich frowned with a grunt.

Seen anything like this before? Geswich asked after a moment of sullen silence. Even though the inquiry was innocent enough, Tellouh cast a sideways glance at the youth. Geswich was a fresh face, just eighteen and recently posted to the southern acreage. He was a new recruit and the only addition to the Vale’vigia that year. Tellouh quickly reminded himself that he had once been that green.

After drawing in a long breath, Tellouh answered. Not in my time. A few boats passing to other locales. Once there was a boatful of privateers that made land. Only hung around for a day before a feral cat dragged one of them into the forest for dinner. Probably didn’t like the taste of unwashed sailor though.

Geswich’s eyes widened at the revelation. Hastily, he posed another question. Are we being invaded?

Not in the traditional sense of the term, I’d wager. This has all the look of an initial expeditionary force. There’s only about a half-dozen ships anchored offshore. Tellouh motioned to the boats with a sweeping wave. Moa’rehnza’s navy is big enough that... He trailed off as he brought the telescope back up with a snap of his wrist. After a few seconds scanned the horizon, he frowned. I’ll be damned.

What? What is it? Geswich’s voice was shrill.

There’s probably a good twenty or so vessels just along the horizon.

The Seventeenth of Ninimond

Vertegarte

Though she lingered apprehensively at the village entrance, beneath the large wooden archway that served as gateway to Vertegarte, Marcel tried her best to temper her growing exhilaration. Even with her hands tucked into the pockets of her coveralls, she could not contain the occasional jittering of her limbs. Pacing back and forth across the dirt path had done little but soil her shoes with dust.

A cold breeze pushed through the surrounding foliage and tossed a lock of thick brown hair into her eyes, which she thoughtlessly batted from her face. While certain that her husband, Seddy, would arrive home from his rounds at the eastern outposts before the day was over, the wait felt interminable to Marcel. Rather than remain cooped up in the cottage they shared, where she might busy herself with chores, she chose to loiter at the edge of town.

News of the recent arrival of foreign boats to the southern shore had spread like wildfire through the tight-knit community. With the assumption that many of the Vale’vigia would be recalled for redeployment, Marcel was aware Seddy’s visit would be short-lived. A bitter feeling in her chest told her that if she didn’t go out to greet her husband, she might not see him before he was gone again.

Marcel paused her impromptu patrol to fidget with the hem of her sleeve before resuming. She was all but certain that Seddy would return this way; the trading path that wound northwards out of the valley and eventually to Grundy was the lone avenue Vertegarte shared with the outside world.

Her patience was rewarded as she caught sight of Seddy. He and three of his compatriots came marching around the distant bend in the road. Each was dressed in similar apparel: green, hooded robes draped over reddish-hued chestplates of boiled leather. His outfit accentuated the color of Seddy’s thick, red beard. For a moment, she thought that he looked particularly good in his gear.

On his right strode Pattrich, Marcel’s brother-in-law, who lugged a duffle overloaded with equipment and weapons. Behind them trailed two of the younger warriors, neither of whom Marcel knew.

Sela will be happy, Marcel thought to herself. Her younger sister had not joined her in the vigil at the village border. Instead, she was busy picking up Marcel’s niece, Jehn. Pressing town business required use of the community’s common house; the centrally-located building doubled as a school during the day. Shame she and Jehn couldn’t be here. Though, I think Sela doesn’t want Jehn to know more than she needs to. She’s too young… Just seven and way too perceptive for her own good. It’s like she can feel when something’s wrong. Can tell when there’s something in the air.

Marcel! As Seddy spoke, his booming voice filled the air. He picked up the pace and met his wife with open arms. A man of sizeable girth and height, Seddy’s embrace swallowed the woman up. For a moment, she just took enjoyment from her husband’s familiar smell, even as his muscular frame pressed tightly against her own.

After a few moments, they pulled apart and Marcel turned to Pattrich, who waited a few steps away with a grin on his weathered face. Weeks of untended growth placed a lean beard of brown hair along his jawline. Green eyes flickered brightly above his sunbaked cheeks.

You should go see your wife and daughter. They’ve missed you.

Pattrich was about to respond when Seddy interrupted.

Not just yet, Seddy announced, ushering Marcel back towards town with a thick hand on her shoulder. We’re to have words with Trinsler.

Can’t it wait? Marcel frowned as she turned to Pattrich, who mouthed the words ‘I’m sorry.’

Not if the messenger who delivered the recall notice is to be believed. The man needs to have a talkin’ to.

Marcel found any urge to argue with her husband quickly dissipate. The joy he exhibited at their reunion had passed; the mention of the village’s mayor clearly worried him. With the recent news, Marcel had a fair understanding of what ate at Seddy.

Trinsler was unapologetically an isolationist. Vocal with his opinions, he had no interest in the world outside of the Vale. That a trade caravan was allowed regular access to Vertegarte stretched the boundary of his good graces. If a sizable military force was mounting on Medaveh’s Coast, it was certain he would want to defend the Vale with the Vale’vigia alone, without outside assistance. Marcel was hard-pressed to think her husband could convince Trinsler with words alone. Still, she kept such feelings to herself.

It was a short trek through the overgrown alleys to reach the common house at Vertegarte’s center. Rows of homes fanned out in concentric circles. There were a few workshops and public-use buildings that flanked the meeting hall, but the bulk of the township was one- and two-story housing. Topped with a maroon-tiled roof, the central building was easily the largest structure by square meter.

Once through a set of double-doors on the southern-facing side, Marcel lingered in the shadows near the entrance. The two younger Vale’vigians hovered nearby as Pattrich and Seddy crossed the now-empty chamber. Both were pensive as they watched their seniors make a beeline for the chieftain, who couldn’t be bothered to notice the new arrivals.

Except for a series of storage closets at the back, the edifice was one undivided space. The main room featured a vaulted ceiling and was lined with wooden pews. A few dozen desktops were dragged off to the side, abandoned by the school children as they were escorted out of the building.

At the far end beside the stage and flanked on both sides by his personal retinue waited Trinsler. An elected official of some kind for most of his adult life, Trinsler was a thin man with a graying mane and old eyes behind tortoise-shell framed glasses. Instead of serving as Vale’vigia in his younger years, he had worked as personal assistant to the former mayor. Despite the reservations of the more-experienced warriors, he had moved into the role upon his predecessor’s retirement. At the time, there were rumblings of vote manipulation as a sizeable contingent of the Vale’vigia was out on patrol and unable to return before the transition was complete.

Trinsler! Seddy barked as he drew near. His stomping footfalls echoed off the wood flooring.

Though she grimaced with anticipation, Marcel loitered quietly at the back of the room, anticipating a heated exchange. Seddy was not one to dance around a conversation and his interactions with the mayor had a habit of escalating quickly.

Trinsler and his three assistants turned in unison to coldly greet Seddy. Pattrich’s own arrival came without notice as Marcel’s husband charged the group aggressively. It was only when Trinsler’s sergeant-at-arms stepped forward that Seddy skidded to a halt. Though he didn’t need to, the balding officer made a move for the baton on a loop in his belt.

Are ya daft, man? Seddy towered over the chief. As he brushed at the spittle on his beard, he found himself restrained. At his side, Pattrich placed a hand on his arm.

If you wish to speak with me on a matter, I would suggest employing your indoors voice, Trinsler sniped, goading the much-larger man. There are usually proper channels by which to lodge complaints— He pointed to one of his assistants. —but such procedure can be waived due to the circumstances.

Trinsler acted unfazed. It occurred to Marcel that he might have expected such a scenario. Seddy and Pattrich were not the first of the Vale’vigia to return, but as two with the most seniority, it was not unexpected that they would rush to meet with Trinsler over decisions yet made or announced. As word of the foreigners reached other Vale’vigia posts, some of the more seasoned warriors returned with the expectation that they would be dispatched to the south.

Marcel was both proud of her husband’s diligence and disappointed that she would only see him for a short while. She gave up any hope that he would be staying for an extended stopover; in fact, his visit would likely only involve a night or two in his own bed and fresh clothes before he was gone again.

Piss on procedure! Have you sent someone to Chancel? Or Grundy even? Have you let them know what’s going on? That they should ready their men?

Have you asked them for any kind of aid? Pattrich quickly added.

Why should we send someone to beg for alms? Do you honestly think that their Congress would even waste the time to hear our petition? That they would dispatch the Gendarmery to assist? The chief’s logic was reasonable. Though it had existed long before the formation of the Verenigen Congress, Vertegarte was never invited to be a part of the assembly. Even though some deemed this a slight, that the village was not valued enough to be a part of the continental government, most regarded their long-term independence as a boon.

Are you so dense as to not see danger as it stands before you?

Between the Vale’vigia and the Vale itself, we should have no problem repelling these would-be conquerors. Your dramatics only serve to diminish the name of Vale’vigia. If you don’t think you and your fellows can handle such a task, then maybe you should resign.

Even as his face flushed, Seddy ignored the barbed comment. At what cost? How many lives?

Trinsler looked away as he responded. The job was a dangerous one when you took it, was it not?

At this, Pattrich clutched Seddy’s arm even tighter. Before either could respond, Trinsler continued.

I am going to call for a vote on ‘The Right of Protection,’ the mayor announced.

While this caused Seddy to grind his teeth, Pattrich was the one to step forward.

"You can’t."

I can and I will.

Marcel held her breath for what felt like minutes. The Right of Protection was an old law that compelled anyone who had ever been in the Vale’vigia to return to duty. Anyone deemed in good fighting condition would also be conscripted into service. Though Marcel knew she would not be forced into combat, she realized that Sela would. Her younger sister had served as Vale’vigia for years before she married Pattrich. Once pregnant with Jehn, she resigned from the force.

There is an assembly tonight, after nightfall. You will have a public forum to voice your concerns there, if you so deem it necessary.

I. Do. Seddy’s voice was a growl. Before anything else could be said, he turned away and marched from the room. Pattrich gave Trinsler and his subordinates an examining glare before he followed.

See you then! Trinsler called out with a wave of his hand. Marcel was grateful that neither Seddy nor Pattrich witnessed the wicked grin that grew on Trinsler’s face.

Hands and jaw clenched tight, Seddy said nothing as he passed his wife and barged loudly out of the building. Pattrich at least offered her a half-hearted smile before he likewise departed.

Just as she was about to follow, Marcel looked back. Through the echoes that bounced off of the vaulted ceiling, she was certain she overheard Trinsler speak to his assistant in hushed tones.

Remind me to pen a courtesy notification to the Verenigen Congress. Let them know that they’ve got foreigners making camp on the southern shore. Maybe they’ll be interested in stopping an invasion before it gets too far. We’ll have it sent out the next time the trade caravan stops in town.

The Twentieth of Ninimond

Vertegarte

Not long after the evening’s crucial vote passed the Vale’vigia began to stream out of Vertegarte, many in groups of four or more. The meeting had been heated, but the ballot seemed doomed to pass. Those of age who were temporarily conscripted departed in the presence of more experienced Vale’vigia. As was the plan for just such a scenario, the squads began their multi-day trek for the southern outposts. Younger recruits would be given a crash course in how to fight and survive as they travelled. A few were held in reserve, stationed to the north or at posts within a day’s travel of the lone village.

Seddy and Pattrich were among a group of senior members who wrapped up personal business in town before their own inevitable departure. Many had not been home in at least a month, if not longer, and the temporary respite was all the comfort they were afforded. Those with family took time to enjoy the comforts of home, if only briefly.

While in the presence of her husband, Marcel held her tongue. She knew that complaining about Seddy’s situation would solve nothing. At best, it would only serve to enrage him further. It certainly would not change his mind. Ultimately, she wanted some enjoyment in their time together before he was gone. She had no idea of how long he would be away and arguing with the fiery-tempered man was not in her best interest.

She found herself haunted by the notion that he might not return. Though those macabre feelings would intensify once he was gone, she did her best to push them to the periphery of her thoughts. When she was by herself they began to creep forward.

This mental effort to maintain her composure was hampered by a rushed schedule; Marcel’s time was split between her husband’s preparations and the sudden upheaval in her sister’s home. With Pattrich and Sela both compelled into service, their seven-year old daughter had no choice but to move in. Marcel was well aware that theirs was not the only family thrown into disarray by the recent decision. Raising Jehn in her parents’ stead would be something she would have to do on her own. All she could hope was that everyone returned home safe when their duty was complete.

Time passed far too quickly for her liking and on the morning of the twentieth, she found herself walking beside Seddy as they left their home. Laden with a duffle of gear and clothing, he was curiously somber. One of his beefy paws was wrapped around her thin hand. She could feel the heat radiate from his palm into her own. The cold damp air about them sunk deep into her body and no matter how tightly she wrapped her chest in the sweater and knit shawl, a light shiver rattled her bones.

Even though she followed her husband, she knew where they were headed. They were to meet Pattrich and Sela where the trio would join up with the last of Vale’vigia bound for the distant coast. There was a walking path, only a few hundred meters from the town’s graveyard, which weaved southward. At its entrance was a barely-trodden dirt track that quickly disappeared in the dense foliage. Those unaware of its presence would have easily overlooked the winding lane’s existence. It would be there that she would say her farewells to her family and take guardianship of her niece.

When they arrived, there were a half-dozen men and women milling about. Each was dressed in matching green cloaks and leather chest-pieces. Most nodded quietly to Seddy before they returned to their equipment.

Without a word, Seddy came to a stop and turned to Marcel. While she looked about for her sister, Seddy enveloped her in his arms. This sudden display of affection caught her off guard and she grunted in his embrace.

Love you, too, he responded sardonically.

Sorry, Marcel said as she tucked her head into his chest. Was not expecting you to be—

Don’t ruin the moment. Just enjoy it for what it is. There was a hitch in his voice that almost drove her to tears. Seddy was cavalier and brash, to a fault. His current mood did nothing to alleviate her fears.

Once they parted, much quicker than Marcel would have liked, Seddy spied Pattrich and Sela on the other side of the clearing. As expected, they were both dressed in their armor and green mantles. Pattrich had a pair of matching rucksacks slung one over each shoulder. Sela, uncomfortable in a uniform that had gone unworn for years, led her daughter by the hand.

Dressed in a flower-print dress and a pair of fur-lined boots, Jehn looked curiously at the faces gathered. A thick wool jacket was draped loosely over her shoulders. A chilly breeze blew reddish-brown locks out of her face. She shared her mother’s pale complexion with cheeks dotted with freckles. Marcel herself had a similar facial shape, though her cheeks were wider and her hair coarser. Even after giving birth, Sela had the more athletic frame. Marcel, on the other hand, retained their father’s stockiness.

With limited time, greetings were quick. As the last of the southward-bound Vale’vigia rambled into the clearing, Marcel gave both Pattrich and Sela long embraces. Both parents took a moment to speak with their daughter, who was brave in the face of the imminent separation. When tears began to well in Sela’s eyes, it was Jehn who consoled her with a tight hug around the neck.

Once the group of warriors began to depart, Marcel gathered up her niece. Seddy gave her one last peck on the cheek before he jogged after the troop.

Marcel stood, her hand entwined with Jehn’s, as she watched the group disappear into the forest. Her sister turned back for a moment, waved and then hurried along. She was quickly out of sight.

Marcel bit at the inside of her cheek to keep the tears at bay.

Chapter 01

The Twelfth of Shumond, Year 2060 BAE

Library of Evisra, Kit’abana

Even before O’mas could speak with the recently-arrived quartet, they firmly yet politely requested that he come with them. He knew from their uniforms that it would only be so long until they ceased to be courteous. Someone high up in the Gendarmery wanted to meet with him and, despite the fact that he had retired to a private life, he would eventually be forced to travel with the soldiers. Though he knew of a few people with such influence, he had a fair idea of who'd ordered the summons. O’mas figured he was due for a long trip; the closest Gendarmery office was at least a day’s travel by land.

The soldiers had made such a racket upon their arrival to the Library of Evisra that O’mas had no choice but to go with them, if only out of embarrassment at being the reason for such a clamor. The sergeant, with his shaven-head tightly covered by a field service cap and a cold, severe visage, was civil but insistent. Though the Library staff explained that they weren’t certain where O’mas was within the sprawling, multi-story building, it proved an unsatisfactory answer to the terse gentleman.

They eventually located O’mas at a table in a second-story reading room. Across the tabletop were research materials that were in various states of use; many were treatises on supernatural phenomenon as presented in ancient folklore. One stack on his right focused on the properties of rare imbued ores and the procurement of such stones. Off to the side was a lonely tome of fables on an artifact known as the World’s Eye that was already there when O’mas arrived. He had briefly perused it before he returned to his own inquiries.

It was difficult not to hear their approach. A clatter of boots on tile slowed as they moved into the open doorway. Their presence quickly overpowered the small room as they shuffled inside.

He looked up as he considered his first move.

Marianus O'mas, the sergeant spoke. O'mas didn't need to see the bars stitched into his sleeve to know he was the squad commander. Along with the stiffness in his stance and the obvious deference of his compatriots, the lanky soldier exuded a commanding presence.

More than one of the quartet rubbed at their noses. O’mas knew the reason: the dry air within the building was dusty and thick with the odor of old paper. He had grown inured to it over his many visits. In fact, the nostalgic aroma always seemed to set him at ease.

Might I be of some assistance? O’mas eventually asked the man in charge. He could immediately tell the soldier lacked humor. From the well-pressed and probably over-starched black-and-blue uniform, the sergeant was a brusque man well-suited for a life in the Gendarmery. O’mas knew the type. The kind of person whom hard exercise and abuse of his subordinates helped him sleep well at night.

We’ve been ordered to retrieve you for a meet—

Who sent you? Who gave you your orders? O’mas interrupted as he rose from his seat. Gathering his possessions and placing them inside a leather satchel, O’mas continued. I’m a private citizen nowadays, so you’ll forgive me if I’m curious as to who in your chain of command thinks they can dispatch a squad for what I can only expect to be a very important sit-down. You’re not here to arrest me, of that I am certain. Your role, as I can best tell, as escort is less for my benefit as it is to make certain I arrive to a meeting in which I have yet to be formally invited. There really are only two or three men with that kind of arrogance.

Commander Lynwell.

O’mas nodded. After inserting the last of his papers in the sack, he collected two stones that were left out and used as paperweights. Both were polished to a mirror sheen and fit comfortably in the palm of his hand. One was a milky white hue that shone with adularescence, while the other was a myriad of blue tones swirled in a disorganized pattern. He slid both into the satchel’s side pocket and slung it over one shoulder. Since you’ve seemingly worn out my welcome here, let us be on our way.

O’mas patted himself down one last time before he followed them into the adjacent hall. From there, they hung a right and proceeded down a flight of stairs that led to the reception hall. The three-story tall room, which was lined in wooden columns, featured matching staircases on either side that led to a second-story balcony. At the center of the green-and-black tiled floor was the reception desk, where two members of the Library staff waited.

Both men looked sheepishly at O’mas, who flicked a wave to them, as if to assure them that he was fine. While he only knew one in passing, the other man was familiar to him. Sporting a thin beard and long straight hair that was pulled back out of his face, Hollistier Thabies was a native Evisran who was under the employ of the Library for years. O’mas knew that, given enough time, the young man would work his way up through the Library ranks.

Without a word to the pair, the group pressed on past the reception desk and headed for the exit. They pushed aside the double doors and continued on through the courtyard at the front of the building. Beyond was a three-meter wide path, laid with stone pavers, which ran a length of over 70 meters to a walkway that snaked through the village below. The Library itself had been built at Kit’abana’s highest point, on a cliffside overlooking the Dwyr Sea.

Below was the village proper. Many of the buildings were tightly nestled against the mountainside and elevated by wooden supports. The walking trail itself was carved into earthen steps that curled from clearing to clearing. A dusting of dry snow covered rooftops and the thick foliage that choked the winding lane.

Once beyond the circular court, O’mas paused long enough to look back over his shoulder at the edifice he was leaving behind. The towering building was fashioned from white brick and lined with rows of arched windows that ran the length of the structure on three sides. Above the three-story central construction was a smaller erection had added four floors to the Library. Atop this was a cylindrical tower bordered by a quartet of spires.

Because the interior was darkened by lacquered wooden shutters, it was only now, as O’mas was descending, that he realized the time of day. Though obscured by cloud cover, the sunlight caused him to wince.

After an exasperated wave from the sergeant, O’mas picked up his pace. He had no desire to test the man’s patience; he would have to be in his company for some time before their eventual arrival in Chancel. As the group made its descent, they steered clear of the locals who watched as O’mas was escorted away.

The nearly three-kilometer trek ended at a small field just outside of Kit’abana. When the men retrieved O’mas from his research in the Library, it was clear then that they were surly, even for members of the Gendarmery. Once out of the building and in a more private setting, he thought that he might negotiate, possibly come to an accord that would postpone the inevitable.

When he caught sight of the hovercraft, O'mas sighed and became resigned to the escort. There wasn’t going to be an opportunity to bargain. What would have been a three-day trek in a stagecoach along the trade routes from Kit’abana to Chancel would now only take hours. In light of recent news that reached even the outer-lying township, O’mas could guess his future itinerary. Instead of heading east in one of the Gendarmery’s ground transports, be it horse-drawn carriage or one of the recently-developed motorcraft, the men came in a top-of-the line hovercraft. He was expected to see Commander Lynwell in Chancel without delay.

The flat-bottomed, open-cabin craft, similar in form to a water-based skiff, was roughly twelve meters in length and rested on a pair of landing skids. Largely rectangular in shape, except for the beveled triangular nose, the vehicle featured three rows of bench seats and a sloped windshield. From his readings about the development of the machines, O’mas knew that a single row of directed thrust jets ran along the chassis’ underside.

Though the fleet of had been in use for some time in a limited capacity, O’mas had not yet the opportunity to ride in one. His departure from the Gendarmery a few years ago had cut off any chance. The craft were not cheap to manufacture, even with the aid of certain private interests in the burgeoning technology industry. As such, outside of being detained by the law enforcement division, the average citizen had no opportunity to use such a transport.

When they reached the craft, the sergeant directed him to the back bench. He waited patiently by the vehicle’s side, concerned that O’mas might bolt. With a begrudging sigh, O’mas climbed into the hovercraft and took his seat.

After a few minutes of preflight preparations, the vessel roared to life. The frame rattled before settling into a steady hum. It rose into the air with a lurch that tugged at O’mas’ stomach. The sergeant shot the pilot a sideways glare. Eventually the craft leveled off before it picked up speed. By a hundred meters out, it was soaring roughly 30 meters above the deciduous broadleaf forest that spread across the base of the highland plateau.

A backwards glimpse was enough for O’mas to spot Kit’abana and the Library as they quickly shrank in the distance. It would be only minutes before both were well out of sight. With a shrug of his shoulders, he turned his attention forward.

As O'mas stretched out in the back seat, he looked to his left, where a metal crate was tucked into the corner. Sealed tightly and strapped into place, the object drew his curiosity. After a glance to ensure his escorts were otherwise engaged, he reached out and flicked the front latch upwards. With one hand, he opened the top and peered inside at a set of eight glass canisters, each topped with an aluminum cap and tucked into a preformed foam insert. From the evidence of empty slots on one end, it appeared that there had, at one time, been another four in the case.

When he withdrew one of the tubes, it became clear to him what the objects were; the shards of yellow-orange mineral contained within were a prevalent fuel source known as aeustes ore. Throughout the continent of Verenigen, aeustes was used to provide electricity to power motorized vehicles, and as a source of heat for those areas without natural gas. O'mas deduced that the squad was outfitted with extra cells for their vehicle in case their mission took longer than planned.

As his skin pressed lightly against the glass, he closed his eyes and focused. After a few seconds of deep concentration, a faint heat radiated evenly across his fingers. With a slight nod, he replaced the ore cylinder and resealed the case.

Once done with the crate, he reached down and retrieved his pack, which had settled on the floor between his legs. He opened the side-pocket and withdrew the blue-tinted stone. As he rolled it about in his hand, O’mas took notice of the familiar aura that emanated from it. An almost ravenous cold vibrated from the polished surface, as if it actively pulled the body heat from his hand as the moments passed.

O’mas knew that the stone’s unique energies would eventually weaken as the energy within was consumed. Unlike the more ubiquitous aeustes and iolide, the rarer ores could drain and then be recharged through a metaphysical process of transferral: those with certain abilities could offer up their own vitality to refill the artifacts. Of the two pieces he carried with him, only the mottled blue stone seemed to have a perceivable power. The adularescent stone, a family heirloom that went by the name of Rhepelles, had never emitted any effect. He kept it purely for sentimental value.

Before returning the blue gem to his sack, he waved it behind the two nearest soldiers. When neither showed any reaction, he heaved a sigh and returned it to the pocket.

As he replaced the leather pack back between his legs, one of the men looked over his shoulder and spoke. With a plump face mottled with small patches of acne, the young man could be no older than twenty. O’mas wondered how long ago he had completed his instructional training.

You might wanna catch some winks. He raised his voice over the whistling wind. It’s gonna be a bit before we arrive.

Once O’mas nodded politely in response, the soldier returned his attention to his compatriot.

Though he initially doubted his ability to rest, he sank into the seat and wrapped his arms around his torso. After a few seconds, the heat from his chest began to radiate and leech into the fabric. He closed his eyes and focused on the howl of the air as it brushed against the hovercraft’s exterior. Recalling meditative techniques he picked up during his time in Kit’abana, he murmured a quatrain in a tongue that was no longer in regular use.

After the third repetition of the verse, his head bobbed forward.

O’mas stirred at the raised voices of his fellow passengers. Barely audible over the roar of the wind as it cut at O’mas’ face, chatter began to form coherent sentences as he shed off the remnants of sleep. Even curled up in the back seat of the roofless transport, he woke chilled to the bone; his clothes hadn’t been enough against the arctic temperatures. The stubble along his jawline proved poor buffer to the sharp cold that dulled the feeling in his bare skin. As he scratched the thinning patch of hair atop his head and sat upright, he deciphered the cause for the raucous exchange.

Sprawled out across a 370 km² stretch of prairie, Chancel was mostly unchanged. It was years since he’d found a reason to visit, but the largely-industrial metropolis was unmistakable in its features. Tightly-packed wards that many of the roughly 400,000 citizens called home rimmed the well-developed business sectors at its heart. A copse of high-rises, fashioned in modern architectural themes from the previous four decades, rose from Gortsa Ward and towered over the acres of foundries, warehouses and low-income housing. The only new feature of note was the light rail lines still under construction that ran from Gortsa Ward to the city limits.

As the city was located in the heart of the continent of Verenigen, many of the regional routes ran through Chancel. Surrounding the dense city was a six-meter high curtain wall, erected in the founding days to provide protection from marauders. Checkpoints connected the outer wards to the major roadways and trade paths which led to Gold Flats, the port city of Eithos Los, and Trone Stenan to the north.

As they neared, O’mas was able to spot a handful of other hovercraft that moved in distinct patterns as they patrolled the skies over the city. From their markings, it was clear they were not Gendarmery craft. Instead, they belonged to Chancel’s own security force.

While there were protection and support agreements amongst the city-states represented in the Verenigen Congress, the Gendarmery was largely relegated to patrolling unincorporated regions of the continent. Many of the cities chose to employ their own police personnel to maintain an illusion of autonomy. The industrial city of Trone Stenan was particularly rigorous in this regard. Because of a higher presence of Gendarmery administrative offices within the city limits, Chancel was usually less concerned with law enforcement territorial disputes.

Once they cleared the barrier wall, O'mas curiously raised a brow. Certainly, his escorts were pressed to rush, but this was not standard operating procedure. Usually the Gendarmery would have set down outside of city limits and accompany him to his meeting place. They had to be cleared by the Chancel administration to cross their airspace. By their flight path, O'mas could tell that they were headed for the Government Hall in Gortsa Ward.

As they drew nearer to the forest of skyscrapers at the heart of the city, the radio crackled to life. A hostile male voice demanded that they explain themselves. After a few seconds of bickering with the operator, the sergeant motioned to an empty lot a few blocks from the congressional offices. From the conversation, O’mas knew that they would have company.

A half-dozen men dressed in blue and silver had already encircled the lot. Despite orders from Lynwell, the Gendarmery were potentially crossing jurisdictional lines.

Once on the ground, the sergeant jumped from the vehicle and found himself quickly accosted by a trio of constables. As he barked about the origin and nature of his orders, one of his men pulled O’mas aside and escorted him from the lot. The younger man directed O’mas to the ivory brick steps that led to the legislative building, only departing once he was certain his duty was complete.

After climbing the set of sixty steps, O'mas pushed through the rightmost set of ornate glass doors. With a hand tightly-clasped on the strap of his pack, O’mas stepped into the vaulted entrance chamber.

Filled with the cacophony of overlapping voices, the rotunda was crowded with men and women in conversation. Though much of the discussion sounded like idle banter, O’mas overheard murmurings of unfinished business. Had he more time, he might have lingered, if only to sate his curiosity.

Legislators from more-advanced metropolitan areas were adorned in three-piece suits and had well-tended coifs. Despite their better efforts, members from the more rural villages stood out. Many came dressed in what were likely work clothes, simple vests and button-down shirts. A trio in the northern corner wore poorly-fitting ensembles that were probably hand-me-downs.

A tightly-packed group dressed in dull grey kept to themselves in a back corner of the entrance hall. Their hushed tones and furtive glances at the others confirmed that they hailed from the industrial city of Trone Stenan to the north. The metropolis was home to the Grymore Foundation, a massive corporation that produced mechanical goods sold throughout Verenigen. The foremost developer of new technology, the Foundation was also the largest manufacturer of armaments, including many of the hovercraft and ships in use by the Gendarmery. It was no secret that the business profited from being the primary outfitter of the continent’s main law enforcement resource.

Those from Eithos Los were dressed in flashy attire. Leather and colored silks adorned those hailing from the port city. This came as little surprise to O’mas, who was familiar with the trade guilds within the city. The largest seaport in all of Verenigen was home to many a former seaman looking to profit from the more lucrative mercantile industries within the city’s borders.

Chancel’s own representatives were a drab lot; many were dressed in conservative blues, browns and grays. While the population of the city itself was diverse, including communities of migrants from Tir and Moa’rehnza, their representatives were old Caucasian men. O’mas always wondered if election fraud maintained the status quo.

Would not be a surprise to me, O'mas thought. Immigrants coming in from either country are probably deincentivized from participation. Considering how their home countries are run—with one being an autocracy and the other infested with corruption—maybe they don't consider their lot in Verenigen is so bad.

O’mas paused only briefly when he overheard raised voices. When he located a group of Azzotians, with their distinct olive skin and black curly locks, he cracked a thin smile and moved on. Though he knew few who lived in the fishing communities that dotted the coastline of Azzot Bay, O’mas was familiar with the braggadocious temperament of their people.

He laughed before weaving through the crowd on his way to the administrative wing.

After stopping a congressional page to ask for directions, O’mas located the Gendarmery’s local branch. Tucked away in a back hallway, behind the senatorial library and far away from the main congressional chambers, the offices were well off the beaten path. He shared a few words with the head secretary and was quickly ushered into a back room. A brass sign mounted beside the door stated Cmdr. Conrad Lynwell in block letters.

Though O’mas had reported to Lynwell for years, he was surprised to find the man’s working space to be warm and inviting. O’mas expected the chamber to be impersonal and purely functional; during his years as a member of the Gendarmery’s Intelligence Division, he could not recall a friendly interaction with the commander.

Lit by amber lamps, the room was decorated in mahogany and leaded glass. Lynwell, a gray-headed man of lean physique, sat at his desk as he pored over a stack of papers. Vertical lines around his mouth carved the flat surface of his cheeks. Crisp wrinkles along his forehead exaggerated the harshness of his angular brow. Left smoldering in a glass ashtray was the remains of a cigar that filled the room with burnt vanilla. Bookcases and curio cabinets were littered with personal effects. The plush carpet swished beneath O’mas’ feet as he crossed the room and waited for Lynwell to acknowledge his presence.

After what felt like fifteen minutes of silence as he shuffled through his papers, the senior officer eventually cleared his throat and reclined. By now, the strap from O’mas’ pack had dug into his shoulder.

One would think that a private citizen, after a full day’s travel under the escort of four soldiers, would be imminently more vocal and cantankerous, Lynwell began with a thin smile that was almost lost in the creases of his face. Once sun-weathered skin had now grown sallow from time spent indoors, likely inside the very building in which they now met.

"One would, was O’mas’ response. A few seconds passed. Not every private citizen would have the advantage of understanding the nuanced situation in which I find myself. History dictates that I was not beckoned on a whim. You were never a capricious man and to send for me in such a manner leads me to believe that this is a pressing matter. I also might add that my time in the service was not so long ago that I would easily forget protocol in the presence of a senior officer."

Lynwell nodded. That’s all very good and well, but rather than going on with verbal sparring, which you will likely enjoy, perhaps we could get down to brass tacks. He motioned to the open chair across from his desk. When O’mas reclined into the plush velvet padding, he struggled not to sigh in relief. The hovercraft’s benches had been functional rather than comfortable. Once relaxed into his seat, he turned his focus on the commander, who smirked.

At this, O’mas leaned in and began. No polite pleasantries about how I am faring, now that I’m retired? No attempt with banal chatter about what I’ve been doing with my time?

If I had such interests, I would but inquire with one of your old confederates. To this day, your espionage network does you credit. There are a litany of things about your existence, post-‘retirement,’ that I’m sure would appeal to other people. Myself, I did not mourn your exit from the Intelligence Division. These diversions from the matter-at-hand have no value—they are merely the kind of distraction that you revel in.

True, O'mas said with a thin smile. He might have given Lynwell a wink for good measure but it was clear that he was only here because of a yet-unspoken need.

Before O'mas could continue, Lynwell spoke up. I will assume you know about the recent incursions in the south. And the subsequent activities in our territorial waters? Your familiarity with the situation will make this conversation move along more quickly.

O'mas nodded. Though he lived away from the majority of Verenigen’s residents for some time, O’mas remained informed of the day-to-day gossip and news. Word of the initial landing on Medaveh’s Coast had reached him in Kit’abana during an evening repast. Even without actively seeking them out, regular updates found their way to him. The topic of the recent attacks on the southern cities of Port Nym and Port Hadley had created a buzz.

Only when curiosity got the better of him, and he penned a letter of inquiry to an old contact, did he receive a fact-based breakdown of recent events. What was best described as an expeditionary force from Moa’rehnza had landed along the southern shore of Vale Grans'tsarren. As the soldiers attempted to progress northward, they were repelled by the Vale'vigia, a group of defenders native to the area. As he understood it, the Vale itself was challenging to navigate, even for seasoned explorers. Between the guerilla tactics of the Vale'vigia and the hostile wildlife, many in the initial deployment did not survive long enough to hear the call for retreat.

Days later, the fleet, which had been anchored a kilometer from shore, split into two forces. The smallest contingent sailed west while the other headed east.