Arcane Exfil

The gates groaned open at their approach. Throughout the whole trip, Cole had kept an eye on Gadron’s reflection in the mirror. And hell, watching him breathe was like seeing a robot following a field manual on human respiration. Inhale, hold, exhale, all timed like a metronome – like he was forcing himself to do it. Even his blinking had that same mechanical bullshit going on.

He’d seen a lot of different reactions to combat stress, but none of them came close to this.

A medical team stood waiting by the gate as they pulled up to a stop. One of them stepped forward to meet Dalen.

“Sergeant Dalen,” the lead medic called out, “any injuries?”

Dalen shook his head, nodding toward Elina. “The Slayer healer rendered her aid. Best to have them seen again, though.”

The medics moved to help Vanner and Tellis down from the shuttle, offering them potions to recover their energy and stamina. Both men were steady enough on their feet, but looked ready to sleep for a day.

One of the medics approached Gadron as he dismounted, but the man just waved him away. “I’m quite alright,” he said.

Cole watched the Corporal’s mechanical breathing. What a brilliant conversation that would be – pulling aside a medic to report suspicious breathing while the guy was literally counting breaths right there.

Better to approach this with subtlety. “Hey.” Cole flagged one of the medics. “Corporal’s probably got some sort of uh… survivor’s guilt. Might wanna have someone evaluate him.”

As the medic led Gadron away, a runner came up from the direction of the command center. “Sir Warren? Captain Lorresh requests your report on the missing patrol.”

The team followed Warren through the fort’s central pathway to the command center.

Lorresh stood at his map table. “Sir Warren. What happened to my men?”

“Three dead – Kellam, Davies, Bremen. Struck down in an ambush by a Nevskor variant. Their flames were of little use. The others survived with little injury; it seemed their rifles and wit availed them in the end.”

Lorresh frowned. “A Nevskor variant…”

“Level 12, I suspect.” Warren proceeded to explain the details they’d pieced together.

He got to his speculation about the Nevskor’s burrowing ability against hard, rocky ground when a communications officer shot up from his scrying pane station. “My lords! Research Post Kidry is under assault! They’re on the pane.”

Warren and Lorresh turned toward the officer. A harried-looking lieutenant appeared on the glowing Scrying Pane behind him, a hole in the wall of their command structure.

“Captain Lorresh –” The lieutenant’s eyes locked onto Warren’s face. “And Sir Warren! Thank God.” The naked relief in his voice was painful to hear.

Composing himself, he continued. “We’ve just contained a mutiny among our troops. Ten of our own… They sabotaged our cannons and turned –”

A soldier burst into view behind the lieutenant. “They’re upon us! A company of goblins and three Nevskors! By God, one of them is massive! They’re charging the bridge!”

“Sir!” Another soldier appeared. “We can’t hold without the field guns. What are our orders?”

Someone else shouted from offscreen: “Flames don’t work! The Nevskors – our fire magic does nothing!”

The lieutenant turned back to the Pane as chaos reigned in the background. “Captain, we require reinforcements at once – the field guns from your armory. Just two will suffice. We’ve three Istraynian relics in storage, along with a month’s yield of research from the wastes. Should we fall –”

“Your current forces?” Lorresh cut in.

“Forty-three combat-ready after the mutiny. Five combat mages.” The lieutenant hesitated, then apparently decided on his argument. “Sir, we cannot lose these artifacts to the demons.”

Lorresh hesitated. But for what? The math wasn’t anything crazy like differential equations – Kidry sat 12 miles away, 30 minutes at most. That kind of call should’ve taken a second to make.

But no, here they were, watching an inexperienced commander agonize over whether to send help to those who might be dying right now. Thirty minutes. That’s all it would take. Fucking leadership paralysis.

After a good twenty seconds of thought, Lorresh’s expression hardened. “Dispatch a small party to evacuate the research staff and artifacts. The rest must delay, grant them time to withdraw.”

“Wha- Captain, I can’t! That would be… utter folly. I cannot, in good conscience, consign my men to such a fate, not when an alternative solution is readily accomplished,” the lieutenant rebutted, glancing at Cole’s team. “The Slayers, along with two field guns. This is all I request of you. Please, sir.”

“Lieutenant, I…” Lorresh’s voice faltered. “I understand, truly, but… we cannot – I cannot hazard such a loss…” He hesitated, struggling for words. Then, he straightened and drew closer to the Pane, standing directly in front of it.

“We shall endure through that which we preserve.” The words lent him steadiness, as if they somehow justified his decision. Real Thermopylae shit there, except Leonidas actually had the balls to die with his men instead of playing armchair commander from a fortress. “Save whom you may, along with the artifacts. May God be with you.”

He tapped a button on the side and the Scrying Pane went dark.

“The hell?” Miles snapped, rightfully so. “You’re just gonna let those boys die? You must be outta your Goddamn mind.”

Lorresh flinched about Miles’ tone. He almost scowled before he composed himself. “I– my lords, with respect, command decisions are never…”

He straightened, steadying himself with formality, even as his eyes suggested a flash of offense at having his authority questioned. “Every erstwhile rescue attempt has met with failure. The demons, they – our numbers are scarcely sufficient to hold Nolaren.”

Even the asinine higher-ups back home at least had the excuse of geopolitics – a game larger than just the pawns out on the field. As fucked up as it was, denying reinforcements to preserve stability was, frankly, somewhat legitimate. But this? This wasn’t even tragedy anymore, nor some legendary last stand. It was just… farce. Sacrificing good men over shit math. Or worse, over cowardly incompetence – which was the last thing Cole might’ve expected from a minotaur.

“Explain your math,” Cole said.

“I…” Lorresh hesitated, caught off guard. Then, his face hardened. “Yes, the math. Forty men hold Kidry against two Nevskors and a company of goblins. Deprived of artillery, they… may yet hold for a time – but I fear not long enough for us to reach them.”

Cole didn’t buy it. Sure, Celdorne couldn’t match the U.S. throwing a battalion at every rescue like back home, but this wasn’t some massive demon invasion either. Just a border raid that happened to work. Nolaren could spare the manpower for this.

Ethan didn’t seem to buy it either. “How many men do you need to operate those field guns?”

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

Lorresh rebounded as if the question had just given him some ammo. “Eight men to a gun, sir. That, however, is not the matter of greatest concern – for not even so few may we spare, lest our defenses falter.”

The guy’s stubbornness was already starting to get under Cole’s skin. “So, just 16 guys. Plus ourselves and a small escort, you’ll still retain well over 70 men here. Your defenses ain’t gonna falter.”

Lorresh shifted uncomfortably. He knew damn well his numbers were fucked. “That… Yes, that may be accurate, but to risk weakening our position…”

Cole fought back a scowl, forcing his voice to remain level. “Against what? A goblin raid you just told us your regular patrols handle weekly? C’mon, your kingdom summoned heroes from another world. You’ve got two Slayer Elites standing right here – Sir Warren, Lady Elina.”

The reminder seemed to knock something loose in the Captain’s facade. He kept silent, hesitating. He knew he didn’t have shit to say; no more excuses to fall back on.

“Fuck it,” Mack said, shaking his head. “We got Slayer Elites, don’t we? We got our modernized fireballs, don’t we? Should be enough to handle some Nevskors. We can just go ourselves.”

Miles nodded. “Mhmm. And if something happens to us out there – Lord forbid – ‘cause you couldn’t spare the damn manpower? Hell, I reckon His Highness ain’t gonna take too kindly to that.”

Lorresh looked to Warren like some fucking bureaucrat hoping his boss would bail him out of a hard call. Warren just stood there, arms crossed, deliberately silent. Good; let him squirm.

Cole cleared his throat. Time to drive this home. “‘No man left behind.’ It’s a principle we live by, where I’m from. It means we risk everything to bring our people home, no matter what. But even then, we’ve only ever fought against our fellow man. Here?” He raised his hands, addressing the entire room. “Here you’ve taken up an even heavier burden – standing against the dark so no one else has to. It’s a noble cause, don’t get me wrong. A higher calling; a hard duty. But you know what I can’t figure out?”

It was a perfect hypocrisy, the fundamental disconnect between their words and actions. They probably knew it already, but maybe they just needed someone to say the quiet part out loud.

“The men at Kidry – they stood against that same darkness just as long as you have. They’re out there right now, holding the line. Shielding others from horrors they themselves must bear. Don’t they deserve the same salvation that everyone else gets? What makes their lives worth less than the ones you’re trying to protect?”

Lorresh lowered his head. Shame? Regret? Guilt, that he’d ever thought otherwise? Whatever it was, he finally cracked. “‘No man left behind.’ Very well. I shall dispatch 30 men with you. Save the men of Kidry.”

He nodded to one of his men. “Have the Second Platoon ready for deployment under Sir Warren’s command. I shall inform Kidry of our decision.”

Lord knew how much time they wasted just trying to convince the man while his fellow Celdornians were out there dying. But at least they’d succeeded, and that alone was a victory worth celebrating.

Cole walked out, leading his team to their shuttle.

“You’ve admirable conviction, Lieutenant,” Warren said as they walked. “I’d have done the same, though I must caution you – this single, thus far isolated incident affords us the luxury of choice. This is a grace not granted under the fury of full incursion.”

Cole nodded. Celdorne was nowhere near the U.S. in terms of firepower and logistical capabilities. They couldn’t be everywhere at once, nor could they have a crazy advantage in every single engagement they found themselves in. “Yeah, I get it. We’ll have to make the hard call eventually.”

“Were it not for our presence, Captain Lorresh’s decision would have been the correct one to make; he’d have no alternative but to let it fall.”

Ethan walked beside them. “Unless Nolaren were fully staffed. Why’s it running at half capacity, anyway? Something to do with the ‘colonial defense’ that one wolf guy mentioned, I’m guessing?”

“Indeed. Our trading companies, Duke Alvak’s foremost among them, have turned their designs toward distant lands – not for lucre alone, but that we might secure what shall be needful when the demons are upon us. By swelling our coffers now, we may gather strength in due course, that when the true war comes, we shall not be found wanting.”

The logic was simple enough – hell, Cole’s sister used to stomp him with it in strategy games. Snatch up a bunch of bases early, get the economy rolling, and steamroll later. Only worked if the other guy just sat there twiddling his thumbs, though, and he’d learned that real fast.

Miles took a swig of water as they reached their shuttle. “A fine plan, ain’t gonna lie – ‘cept this ‘true war’ of yours ain’t waitin’ on y’all’s schedule.”

“No, it seems not.” Warren glanced ahead, where the Second Platoon had organized. “This incursion makes that plain. Two Nevskors, evolved beyond what we’ve heretofore witnessed… Indeed, this is no common raid. Something higher moves them. No mere orc set this in motion.”

Warren turned toward the command center. “I shall return anon. Thank you for your insight, Sergeant Garrett; I must put this before the Director-General.”

Cole watched him go, taking a sip from his own canteen. That was when he saw it – one of the soldiers in the Second Platoon, helmet on, breaking formation and walking toward Warren. Maybe he had business with Warren? A fan, maybe?

But it didn’t seem right; there was a time and place for getting autographs, and this sure as hell wasn’t one. Shit, he didn’t even wave a hand like an enthusiastic fan might. If Warren had caught on, he couldn’t tell.

Warren adjusted his path, angling himself so there was no one behind the soldier – no collateral damage. Oh, he knew.

And it paid off.

The helmeted soldier moved fast, his rifle snapping up with unnatural speed – enhancement magic. Warren reacted just as fast, bringing his revolver up.

At the same time, multiple barriers flared to life. The first layer was pulled straight from the surrounding atmosphere – ambient moisture condensed into a dense curtain of water. Behind it, a slab of earth and rock, compacted with magic, meant to absorb whatever got through. The final layer, a standard barrier, stood as a failsafe against anything that still had force behind it.

Both sides fired.

Warren’s setup might’ve worked against 9mm – hell, it might’ve worked against .50. But this was the same sort of round that pulverized that mimic on the first night. It moved hard, cleaving through the water as if it weren’t even there. It ripped through the stone next, punching a clean hole through like sabot against drywall. Then it hit the barrier, which probably did more than the water, but may as well have been nonexistent in the grand scheme of things.

The round slammed into Warren’s armor with the force of a truck, launching him backward.

The other guy? He wouldn’t be getting up at all.

Warren’s revolver had obliterated his chest, leaving a grotesque bloom of red where his torso used to be.

Cole was already en route, but it seemed that was the end of it. No immediate targets. The nearby soldiers didn’t even have time to react. The fight had lasted all of two seconds – most of them probably hadn’t even registered what just happened.

“MEDIC!” Cole yelled, rushing to Warren’s side to cover him.

Warren groaned. It was a rough, ragged sound – not one of those death groans Cole had witnessed occasionally, thank God. His breathing seemed painful, but at least it was still an option. Warren might be hurting, but at least he still had a chest. Couldn’t say the same for that helmeted guy.

Elina and Mack dropped down beside him while Miles and Ethan covered, directing the nearby soldiers to check on the rest of Sergeant Dalen’s group.

Cole glanced down at the impact site, stepping back to give the two medical experts room. The bullet had left a deep crater, warping the metal and caving it inward, but it had held, somehow. Probably because it was made of some absurdly high-tier legendary bullshit, the kind that could stop what should have been a kill shot.

“We gotta get this off,” Mack said.

Elina nodded, helping him loosen the brigandine’s side buckles until they could push it above the damaged section.

Warren grunted as it dragged over his skin, exposing the undersuit beneath – Arachne Silk, courtesy of OTAC’s lavish spending on its Slayers. Right now, it had demonstrated that it was worth every coin.

No penetration, no stain, no blood. A good sign, but they weren’t out of the woods just yet. Mack pulled up the undersuit, checking the skin. The bruising was already setting in. A deep, angry purple-black splotch spread across his side, centered on the worst of the impact. The edges bled out into mottled red and dark blue, swelling slightly where blood had pooled under the skin.

“No crepitus,” Mack said, feeling the region. He caught Warren’s confusion. “I mean, no broken bones.”

Mack smiled, patting Warren on the shoulder. “Good news: your organs aren’t leaking. Just cracked ribs and a lot of bruising.” He turned to Elina as Warren gave a grunt of acknowledgment. “How long will it take?”

“An hour to fully –”

Warren raised his hand. “Leave me. The medics here – you must go. Kidry.”

“Yo,” Ethan called out from behind them. He stood over the fallen soldier, the helmet already removed. “It’s Gadron.”

“He ain’t shiftin’ though,” Miles said. “Ain’t a mimic?”

“A mystery for–” Warren groaned, shifting to get a glance. “ –later. Stronger demon, no doubt. No time to tarry. Kidry. Go.”

Cole nodded. They’d have enough time to speculate en route. Mind control, possession – whatever it was, that must've been what caused the mutiny. They’d find out soon enough.

“Alright.” He turned to his team as a pair of Nolaren’s medics tended to Warren. “Let’s go.”