Silent Gate: Outsider

There was mud in Mezeren’s boots, even while he was on the caulgon. The massive lizard bore his weight with ease, and he absent mindedly patted its neck. It huffed, and shook its head. He had donned durnan plate, as he couldn’t rely on his wards this close to the Silent Gate. Rain was pouring down all around him, and he looked to his fellow Rangers. There were five of them, each mounted on a caulgon, and also wearing durnan plate. He only knew two of them, Ketta and Leda. The others were new, after his previous squad had moved on from the Ranger program. In the place of helmets, each of them wore a stark white mask, the face of a long dead Seeker. “Are we ready?” Mezeren asked. “I believe so,” Ketta said. She was shorter than him, as she wasn’t a Disciple, but she was a peerless archer. Mezeren knew better than to underestimate her. Beside her skill at archery, Mezeren chided himself, he wasn’t a full Disciple yet. “Then we wait for the signal,” he said, and turned his head back to the battlefield. Right now, they were one of the few hills that overlooked the fighting down below. He was to take his squad, and assail the left flank of the demons. It was hoped by the council of Disciples that upon seeing Rangers, cultists, and maybe even the demons using them, would break ranks and flee, the horror of Seekers turned against them. After all, if the Rangers could kill a Seeker, what else could they do? “Why are we always waiting?” Ketta asked. Mezeren scowled at the question, and turned back to face her. “Because those are our orders. We wait for the pulse before we move.” He turned back to the battlefield. Mezeren had to admit that he had his doubts about the plan. It relied on the pulses of the Gate being predictable, and he wasn’t looking forward to fighting without the Arcane on his side. He could hear the rain pattering against his armor, and on the hood he wore over the mask. The rain slid off of both the cloth and the metal. The battlefield below was awash with Arcane energies so potent that Mezeren could taste them. Fire and waves of multicolored energy washed over both the demons, and the Legionnaires. The landscape warped and changed with spellcraft. A particularly loud scream carried to the hill, and he heard the anguish behind it. Mezeren shook his head. The Legionnaires were being slaughtered. Even from far away, he could see Hellions marching through the lines of soldiers, swinging their axes indiscriminately. The creatures walked on four legs, not unlike that of a massive crab’s. Above that, they had a body like a person, only much larger. They had four arms, each bearing an axe, one on each side of the body. They had four faces, one facing in each direction. There was a flash of light in the distance. Mezeren drew his bow as the wave of force washed over the battlefield. Arcane flames died, the land shifted back to its original state. A flat plane of mud, other than the hill that the Rangers were on. The wave washed over Mezeren and his squad, and he felt his wards pop, sputter back, then fail again. He felt his Arcane core cramp as his spellcrafting was silenced. “Move forward!” Mezeren called, and readied an arrow as his caulgon bolted forward. The caulgon were surprisingly fast for their bulk, and the four legged beasts were at the battlefield in mere moments. Mezeren felt the daggers that were in his boots rattling in their sheathes as they moved. The Rangers immediately began harassing a hellion, peppering it with arrows that buried themselves deep into its flesh. Eventually, Ketta scored a shot to one of its eyes, and the beast fell. Mezeren turned his attention to the cultists that were fighting alongside the demons. They were much easier to kill. They fell before the Rangers and the Legion as grain before a hurricane. The demons had begun to pull back, guided by their sick hive mind. Their Arcane Arts were unusable, and their advantage was lost. There were entire hordes of Mirvan, demons plated in rusted steel armor, split into twisted mirrors of the Legions. The durnan tipped arrows of the Rangers punched through their armor with ease. The caulgon made short work of any foolish enough to approach the Rangers, rending them apart with claws and fangs, and breathing long streams of fire at any larger foes that drew near. The peppery smell of demonic blood and the stench of scorched flesh burned in Mezeren’s nostrils. He felt his stomach turn, in hunger. The Legionnaires had taken advantage of the distraction that the Rangers had provided. They pushed forward, mowing down demonic forces with impunity. After a while of taking targets out with his bow, Mezeren found that he had no more demons to kill. He and the other Rangers examined the battlefield. The Legion was mopping up what few demons remained, and Mezeren left them to it. “What next?” Luda asked. Luda was a mountain of a man, relying on a mace instead of a sword. He towered over anyone who wasn’t a Disciple, and was almost as large as some of them, as well. “We secure the relic that we fought for, and return to camp. The Legion here will be supported by dragonfire artillery.” “Copy that, Captain.” The Caulgon stalked forward, through burned demonic corpses, and the limbs that were strewn about the battlefield. Mezeren searched through the remains, looking for the relic. Eventually, on the corpse of a Seeker that some Legion mage had killed, he found it. Mezeren halted his Caulgon, and dismounted. The ground was not mud there, as it had been dried by the waves of Arcane Energy that had washed over it. It was, however, softening as the rain intensified. Mezeren knelt by the Seeker, and examined the Relic. It was a necklace, carved from the bones of some beast. Origin script had been carved into it, the language of the Ancients. Luda had crouched next to him. He picked the necklace off of the dead Seeker. As he did, he felt his Arcane Core relax. “What does it say?” Luda’s voice was thick, but not stupid. “I don’t know. I’d need time to study it. It’s not in the dialect that my clan used.” Mezeren stood up, and put the relic in a pouch on his waist. He mounted the Caulgon again, and turned it towards the direction of camp. The rangers had formed a half circle around him. “Let’s get moving.” The Caulgon began to move, and the Rangers approached their base as the sun was setting.   The base had been put together a few months prior. The walls were made of thick logs that had been dragged from far away, and the ground within had been dried as best as possible. The gates were a solid wall of Durnan. Inside the camp, there were many tents. Each individual soldier had a tent, and the clerics and Disciples had also set up large tents for their studies, and to command the Legionnaires below them. The Legionnaires on guard at the camp were jumpy, and they raised their weapons when the Rangers approached. Mezeren reached up, and took his mask off. The Legionnaires signaled for the gates to be opened. The metal was silent as it slid open. The Rangers made their way into the camp. Legionnaires were bustling around the camp. Mezeren dismounted the Caulgon, and made his way towards the command tent. Inside, Commander Darren was examining a map of the surrounding plains. He looked up at Mezeren. Darren was a Disciple, and was rapidly moving up the ranks in the Legion towards Master of Command of the Golden Skin Order. His eyes burned with ambition. His skin was rough, and had the sigils of Hazma, the Archon of war, carved into it. They glowed a faint red. “Mezeren,” he said, “did you find the relic?” Mezeren reached into the pouch on his waist, and held up the necklace. “Is this it?” he asked. “Hand it to me.” Mezeren handed over the necklace, and Darran took a moment to examine it. As Darren took the necklace, Mezeren felt his Arcane Core cramp again, and his hand jumped to his chest. Darren ignored him. “Yes,” he eventually said, “this is the necklace of the Speaker.” “What does it do?” “One cannot be silenced while they wear this necklace.” Darren took a moment to examine the map again, and pointed to a location southeast of the camp. “I need you to take it to Shade Squadron, here. Their operation is crucial to sealing the Gate.” “We’ll get moving then,” Mezeren said. He turned to leave the tent. “No,” Darren said. “Take the night to rest and relax. Besides, I don’t want you out at night with that. It’s a high priority target for the Menace. You and your rangers won’t be on any patrol tonight. All you’ll be doing is resting before you set out in the morning. The Legionnaires can hold down the fort. I’ll hold on to the necklace until morning.” “Understood sir.” Mezeren left the tent.   “We’re getting some rest before we move out to meet with Shade Squadron. Until then, Darren wants us to rest and take it easy, I suppose.” Ketta reached up “ “This thing makes us a high priority target, and I don’t want to deal with the forces of the Menace in the dark.” “Fair enough, I suppose.” “I’m going to get something to eat, before I go to bed,” Mezeren said. “I recommend you all do the same.” The Rangers grunted in acknowledgement, and parted. Mezeren made his way to the canteen. The woman behind the serving table. She was heavily scarred, and her eyes narrowed at Mezeren. He handed her two ration tokens from his pouch, and she served him the meat from the leg of some demon, and a pile of noodles in sauce, with various vegetables. Mezeren scarfed the meal down, then handed off the plate to the dishwasher. He wore a dagger on her side. He nodded at Mezeren. Mezeren nodded back. “Thanks,” he said, and left the canteen.   He could hear laughter, and the crackling of a fire. Mezeren made his way to it. There was a bonfire under a cover, with a flute that was offset from the fire, so rain wouldn’t put it out. Legionnaires were drinking around the fire, and he could smell the sharp odor of Dalecha, a potent alcohol made from Dalet grain. Mezeren joined them around the fire, realizing for the first time just how cold he was. He scooted closer to the fire. “A Ranger joins us, eh?” One of the Legionnaires asked. She was a short woman with a scar that arced from above her left eyebrow down to the corner of her mouth. “What brings you here? I thought all the rangers were out running errands for command.” “More or less,” Mezeren said. “I’m just relaxing before I run some errands tomorrow.” “Well,” another Legionnaire said, “you sat by the fire, so you owe us a story.” Mezeren raised his hands in mock surrender, and smiled at the Legionnaire. “I don’t have any real stories to tell, Legionnaire, I just do my job.” “That’s a way of saying that everything he’s done was classified,” another woman said. He laughed, and lowered his hands. “That as well,” he said. Mezeren’s eyes fell to the bonfire. He could see every funeral pyre he had lit, in that flame. “I’ll just listen for now.” Mezeren thought on his prayers, as the Legionnaires spoke around him. He didn’t pay attention to them. He was focusing on his mission, the next morning. After a while of thinking, Mezeren took a moment, and pulled his sword free. The Legionnaires around him tensed, and pulled away from him. There was a pause, while they eyed Mezeren. Mezeren took a cloth from his pouch. He began to clean his blade. Durnan was resistant to rust, and to the caustic blood of demons, but Mezeren took the time to clean his sword every night, before he went to bed. Some water had leaked into the scabbard, and onto the blade. There was a small out of water left in the scabbard after he dried the blade, and he poured out what he could. There was still some water left in the very bottom of the scabbard. Mezeren paused a moment, and looked up to the Legionnaires around him. “Do any of you have a stick?” “You know that Durnan doesn’t rust, right?” the man to Mezeren’s left asked. “Did you just ask a Ranger if he knows how to maintain his fucking gear?” the same woman that greeted him asked. “Here,” she said, and handed Mezeren a long thin stick, “this should work.” Mezeren wrapped the cloth around the stick, and used it to dry the inside. “Look, Kera, sometimes people forget things.” Mezeren took a moment to look up at the speaker, and raise an eyebrow. “Did you know that the caustic blood of demons, while not eating the blade, will help ruin the coat on a Durnan blade, if you kill enough of them in a short amount of time?” The man paused. He was a younger man, a year or two younger than Mezeren. He had relatively few scars, and his face paled when Mezeren spoke to him. “No,” he said, “I didn’t know that.” “You should. That’s in basic training, Legionnaire.” “Not all of us have Durnan equipment, sir. Some of us just have steel.” The soldier’s voice carried irritation to it, and his face flushed with annoyance. “Then it’s even more important that you care for your gear properly, soldier,” Mezeren snapped back. “The enchantments on your gear will wear down and fade completely if you don’t maintain that equipment. Once that happens, your steel weapon will easily be turned away from the flesh of all but the weakest of demons.” Mezeren narrowed his eyes as he met the man’s eyes. “And then you die, and your place in the line is open.” The man hung his head. “You are right,” he said. “I am also tired.” Mezeren stood up. “Rest well. Archons protect you.” “And also you, Ranger,” the woman said. Mezeren left the fire, and found the Ranger’s Tent. The rain was pouring down, at this point. Lightning weavers were winding through the clouds, their serpentine bodies arcing with electricity. Lightning arced through the clouds, as well, the massive bolts of electricity causing the ground to shake with rolling thunder. The Ranger’s tent was more ornate than the others, and had better furnishing than the others. It had actual beds, instead of cots, and the inside was as dry as could be hoped. There were armor racks at the end of each bed, and candles burned in the tent. Mezeren could see that the rest of the Rangers were asleep. He took his armor off, slowly, placing it upon the rack. He took the dagger sheathes off of his boots, and put them under the pillow on the bed. After he was done, he clambered into bed, and closed his eyes, drifting into sleep.   Mezeren awoke to the alarm bells ringing. He could hear the sound of blades clattering against each other. “Legionnaires, form a shield wall!” Mezeren got up as he heard the call, and grabbed his daggers. The other Rangers were getting up as well. “Get up and get ready to fight,” he said. He looked to the tent flap as it opened. A hand with long, thin fingers was pulling it back. The fingers were the sickly gray of demonic skin. A cloaked figure began to move into the room. Mezeren was the first to engage the Reaper. He launched a dagger at the hand, and pierced through the hand. The Reaper hissed, and stepped back. The scabbard cracked as it connected with the Reaper’s hand, and the fingers twisted and broke. The skin sizzled and hissed as it made contact with the Durnan. Mezeren stepped out of the tent. There was a flash of lightning, and then a boom of thunder. The Reaper brandished its scythe. The wood was old, cracked, and rotten. The blade dripped with water, from the storm. Its top hand was the one Mezeren had hit, and it still had a dagger in it. Mezeren’s feet sank deep into the mud. The Reaper was accompanied by three Mirvan, each wearing pitted, rusted armor. They held swords made of garviel, the twisted counterpart to Durnan. Mezeren lunged forward, choosing to engage the Reaper. It caught his blade on its scythe, and twisted. Mezeren took a moment to continue the twist, allowing the scythe to pass over his blade. Mezeren pressed forward, and punched the demon in the chest. There was a crack, and he felt its bones crack and buckle under his fist. The demon shrieked, a hollow rattling sound piercing Mezeren’s ears. It dropped its scythe. Mezeren brought his dagger up, under its chin. He pulled his blade free, and it stumbled back. It fell. Its hood had fallen, revealing its beady eyes, and the mouth of a deep sea parasite. Its skin was a sick gray color, as though an Angel had been drained of all their blood. Mezeren stomped on its chest, where he had punched. He felt something pop under his feet, and took a step back as a Mirvan slashed at his face. Mezeren reached down, and picked up his second dagger The other Rangers had moved forward, engaging the demons. The Rangers made short work of the Mirvan, and examined the rest of the camp. There were Stalko visible over the walls, their frames nearly forty feet tall, but as thin as a Legionnaire’s. Their skin was like that of tree bark, to aid in their camouflage in forests. The Legionnaires were firing bolts at the Stalko. The Stalko were picking up Mirvan and Reapers, and lifting them over the wall. Mezeren could see that the bolts had been lit on fire. One of the Stalko shrieked over the sound of the battle in the camp. Mezeren felt his Arcane Core clench at the sound. The shriek of the dying creature had silenced his spellcasting. Mezeren growled, and turned to the Rangers. “We need to make our way to the command tent, and get our orders.” “Yes, sir,” Ketta said. Mezeren and his Rangers started making their way through the camp. Mezeren kept his blade at the ready. A few rows of tents away from the Ranger’s tents, Mezeren found another group of Legionnaires. The Legionnaires had formed a circle, their shields ready. They were surrounded by Mirvan, all probing and prodding at the circle’s defenses. Mezeren glanced at one of the Rangers, and smirked. Mezeren lunged forward, and grabbed a Mirvan from behind, wrapping his left arm around its neck. He buried his blade in the creature’s back, piercing through the creature’s Arcane Core. Black blood spilled from the wound like rain from the sky. Mezeren pulled his dagger free, the blade shrieking against the ancient armor of the demon. The Mirvan turned to face the Rangers, and the Legionnaires made quick work of them from behind. The Rangers kept moving towards the command tent, now joined by the other Legionnaires. Eventually, the Legionnaires and the Rangers had reached the command tent. Mezeren looked around again. Luckily, most of the Stalko had been killed. Mezeren opened the command tent, and stepped in.   The command tent was a mess. It seemed like it had been one of the first targets of the demons, when they got over the walls. The table had been shattered, and torn up pieces of the map were scattered around in the dirt. The candles that lit the tent had long since gone out. In the middle of the tent was a dead Legionnaire. Mezeren’s leaned down, and examined the body. It wasn’t Darren, as he had feared. It was still one of his brothers, though. He closed the Legionnaire’s eyes, and turned to the Rangers. “Where to next, captain?” Ketta asked. “I’m not sure, Ketta. I think the smartest idea is to wait here, until reinforcements arrive, or Darren comes back. It seems like the other Legionnaires have mostly repelled the Demons, and are moving outwards towards the edge of the camp.” Mezeren took a moment to take the corpse of the Legionnaire out of the tent. Mezeren took another moment to look around. One of the last Stalko had been killed. Its shriek was still echoing across the fields, and Mezeren knew that it would only be a matter of time until more demons were drawn out. He scowled. “This is going to be a problem,” he said. In the far distance, he could see the shapes of more stalko walking towards the encampment, their movements jittery and stilted, as though they were puppets being animated by a child. “Still want to hold here?” Leda asked. The other Rangers were glancing at each other, nervously. The Legionnaires looked downright pissed off, as they had been awoken without their armor on, as well. Their captain was a serious looking man, with harsh features. “What’s the plan, Ranger?” he asked. His voice was like the cliff faces overlooking the coast at Nazeth, sharp, and cracked. It sounded like he had spent too long trying to cast while silenced. “Do you know where Darren is?” Mezeren asked. “Last I saw, he was facing off against a pack of Reapers. He’s a Disciple, though, so I’m sure he’s fine.” Mezeren nodded. “Alright. I guess we stay put and wait for him, then.” The Legionnaire raised an eyebrow. “Yes, sir,” he said, and turned back to his fellow Legionnaires. The last Stalko fell, and its shriek echoed across the fields as well. Mezeren could see all of the Legionnaires flinch. The Rangers looked to him, expectantly. “That was the last one for now,” Ketta said. “The others are probably mopping up what’s left of the Menace, and then they’ll come back.” She glanced over the walls, eyeing the distant figures of more Stalko approaching. “Why are there Stalko here,” Mezeren asked, “and not Kolcha? We know that there’s Kolcha in the area. Stalko don’t make any sense. Their best weapon is blending in with the trees, and there are no trees here.” “Maybe the Menace is busy somewhere else.” Mezeren turned to the speaker. Darren was walking towards them, between some tents. His hand was on his side, and blood was streaming between his fingers. Mezeren raised his blades towards Darren. “Identify,” he said. “Say the name of the True God, or be cut down where you stand.” Though the God of All was long since dead, its name still burned in the mouth of the Menace. “Ohn’Tah,” Darren said. Mezeren lowered his daggers. “Alright.” Mezeren looked around. The camp, despite having been attacked in the middle of the night by demons, was remarkably intact. Not very much of it was on fire, and Mezeren could see the Legionnaires organizing themselves, and preparing for the second wave. “But why Stalko? A single Kolcha could have made the difference between holding and losing this encampment.” “The Stalko keep us from casting when they die, and we aren’t being suppressed by the Gate right now. It’s possible that the Menace was seeking out the necklace by seeing who could still cast while under the effects of the Stalko.” Darren fished the necklace out of a pouch on his side. “In any case, I refrained from using the Arcane Arts. I thought we were still under the effects of the Gate, when the fighting started. After that, I didn’t have much time to think.” Mezeren nodded. “Regardless,” he said, “take this. It seems like your mission is starting earlier than we hoped. Your Caulgons will all be ready. Don’t give it to anyone except Captain Hasken. And Mezeren,” Darren met Mezeren’s eyes, “do not use this necklace. It will draw the Menace to you.” “Yes, sir.” There was a shriek as another Stalko fell, and Mezeren turned to the Rangers. “Let’s get a move on.”   Mezeren was riding away from the camp, now. He and the Rangers had gotten their gear together. The encampment was distracting the menace, and Mezeren could hear the booms of various spells being cast in the background. “Shade Squadron has been informed that we’re approaching,” Mezeren called over the rattling of his armor, and the panting of the Caulgon. “Should we keep this pace, and not be interrupted, we should be meeting with them by sunrise. They’re holed up in the ruins of the village of Tugaa.” “Understood, captain,” Leda said. The Rangers had put their masks on, again. Rain was dumping down on them, sliding off of their hoods and armor, both of which had been treated to resist water. They all had their bows ready, watching carefully for any demons on the way. Luckily, it seemed that they had all been drawn to the Encampment. It was still very early in the morning, nearly two hours from sunrise. Mezeren glanced to Ketta, then Leda. They were silent, and their posture was rigid. Mezeren could tell that they were nervous. He couldn’t blame them. Shade Squadron walked a thin line between battlefield effectiveness, and the atrocities of the Carvers. It was rumored that the captain of Shade Squadron, Kazen, practiced a twisted and heretical version of the Archonic Orthodoxy. Mezeren grunted. Leda was a former Inquisitor, so if anything was amiss, he would sniff it out. Mezeren took a moment to put aside his nervousness. It would do nothing for him. Mezeren heard one of the Rangers behind him loose an arrow, and turned his head. A mirvan hit the ground, the arrow jutting from its throat. “The Menace is coming out of the mud!” the Ranger called. Mezeren realized too late that in their desperation to escape from the attack on the Encampment, they had run headlong into an ambush. Mezeren shook his head. “We have no time to dismount and handle this! We have to break through!” A Mirvan tried to grab Mezeren’s leg, and pull him from the Caulgon. An arrow pierced through the side of its head, and it fell to the ground. Leda nodded to Mezeren. The Caulgon kept moving, trampling over Mirvan. Any Mirvan that tried to stand against the Caulgon were shot down by the Rangers. One of the Rangers was grabbed by a Mirvan. He was at the back of the pack. Leda tried to make the shot, but missed. More Mirvan piled on to the Ranger, and pulled him free from the Caulgon. The man started screaming. Leda looked to Mezeren, but Mezeren shook his head. “His sacrifice will be remembered. Keep moving.” The Mirvan had begun surging towards the downed Ranger, and his screams followed the others for nearly twenty minutes after they had broken through the Mirvan. The Rangers pressed on, disturbed by what they had seen.   Eventually, the rain had let up. The sun had begun to rise. The Rangers had begun to make their way into what was left of Tugaa. The buildings had been demolished, and some still smoked and glowed from the energy that had washed through the town. Shadows had been left on the stone streets and walkways, left behind when incredibly potent spells had been cast, vaporizing the people that lived in Tugaa. The only sounds were those of the wind through the old broken village, and the clattering of the Caulgon’s claws on the old stone streets. Mezeren and the Rangers began to see evidence of the Shades nearby. Demons had been tied up to the light poles, or even the supports of houses. Their eyes cut out and the sigils of the Archons had been carved into their bodies. Mezeren raised an eyebrow, and glanced at Leda. “You’re an Inquisitor. Is this normal?” “For most Legionnaires, no. For the Shades, who knows?” Mezeren shrugged. “Let’s keep moving, then.” The Rangers kept moving. Eventually, it became clear where the Shades were staying. They had made a small camp, with a perimeter of raised earth. There were Legionnaires wearing Durnan Armor that had been left uncolored, so it was the deep red of the unrefined metal. The Shades had crossbows drawn, and aimed at the Rangers. As Mezeren and the Rangers got closer, the Shades lowered their crossbows. There were no clouds in the sky for once, and visibility was excellent. Mezeren could see the pillar of light on the horizon that marked the Gate’s presence, reaching from the ground into the sky. “You the Rangers bringing us the Speaker’s Necklace?” one of the Shades asked. He was massive, towering over his fellow Legionnaires. He wore no helmet. This was to make room for his horns, which were massive, and curled, like that of a Kolcha or a Dragon. The horns were stained with blood. It was clear that the Shade was an Oni. His voice was like the stones in the road, shattered and broken. His teeth were in great condition. His voice rumbled like thunder, and as Mezeren looked over his armor, he could see the small indentations that marked previous breaches in the suit. All of the Shades bore the insignia of a skull being pierced by an Imperial dagger. “Are you captain Hasken?” Mezeren took a moment to examine the Oni. “And what am I to call you? Both your name and the title of your being.” “No, I’m Druk’Hal. I am a man. I’m his lieutenant. Anything you give to him, you can give to me.” Mezeren dismounted from the Caulgon. As Mezeren had not received his Arcane Enhancement yet, he barely came up to Druk’Hal’s chest. “No,” he said. “I’m under orders to only give this to captain Hasken.” Mezeren made eye contact with Druk’Hal. “And you are not captain Hasken.” There was a silent moment as they eyed each other, then Druk’Hal grinned. “Good. Hasken is at the fire, reviewing his prayers and most likely preparing his meal. He and Korta will be glad to see you, Rangers. The other Shades will put stow your Caulgons.” Mezeren nodded, and passed Druk’Hal. He turned back to the Rangers, and gestured for them to follow him. “Come on, then.” The Caulgons were all eyeing Druk’Hal nervously. The other Rangers also dismounted, and they began to make their way into the camp. The camp was filled with Legionnaires maintaining their weapons and armor, and talking and laughing amongst themselves. Mezeren could see that they had begun carving demons apart for meat. The Shades looked up at Mezeren and the Rangers as they passed, staring them down. Mezeren found the campfire, with two men sitting next to it in chairs they had scavenged from the ruins around them. There was an older man, who had a banner pike at his side, with the banner still curled up. He had a shortsword on his side, and a large number of scars on his face. His face had sharp features, and he had purple eyes, showing that he had gone through an Arcanic Snap at some point. His hair was white, and his skin was dark, even darker than that of most other Draconians. He was also wearing Durnan armor, with the brand of the Shades. His helmet was at his side. He smiled warmly at Mezeren. The other man was younger, but still covered in scars. He was also wearing armor, with his helmet at his side. His hair was dark, and short. He stood to greet Mezeren. The man had rounded facial features, for a Draconian, and also had purple eyes. The man also greeted Mezeren with a warm smile, but Mezeren saw a harshness in his eyes that made him uncomfortable. The man extended a hand. “I’m Captain Hasken Gellda. You must be Mezeren Tareeth. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ranger.” Mezeren looked at Hasken’s hand, and raised an eyebrow. There was an awkward pause before Mezeren reached up and shook it, realizing that was what Hasken wanted. “This is Korta,” he said as the older man stood up, and reached his hand out as well, “he’s one of my lieutenants, along with Druk’Hal. We’ve been waiting for you.” “So I’ve heard, captain.” Mezeren reached into his pouch, and picked up the Necklace of the Speaker. He held it out to Hasken, who took it. “Thank you, Mezeren. Now, I have a question for you.” Mezeren raised an eyebrow. “What is it, sir?” “Will you and your Rangers come with us to the Gate? We could use some backup.” “Has Darren cleared it?” “Yes, he has. We were talking while you were on your way here. Now, you don’t have to join us in this,” Hasken said, “but I would vastly prefer if you did. “Why would you need our help?” Mezeren asked. “You’re the Shades. Nothing can stand before you.” Hasken laughed. “That’s what the Legion would have you believe, yes, but we’re just soldiers. We still bleed.” Hasken put a hand on Mezeren’s shoulder. “If you take on this task, I will personally put in a word with the Council of Disciples that you’re moved up on the waiting list for your trials.” “I don’t need your assistance to move up the ranks.” “No, you don’t and I’m sure that you’ll pass your trials when you take them. But it’s still a favor to me, if you do this, and I’d appreciate the assistance with this. We need to make way for the council of Disciples.” Mezeren shrugged Hasken’s hand off. “Shorta will be there?” “We’re softening a target so that the council can close the gate, yes.” Hasken’s smile fell. “We need to get there before them. I chose you because of your experience in the Kan’Thak Order. We have reports of an Outsider near the Gate. The Eastern Blade.” Mezeren frowned. “How do you know my history in the Legion?” “I’ve read your file, while looking for recruits for Shade Squadron. I have the clearance. Now are you coming, or not?” “I’ll join you. Consider my forces yours.” Hasken nodded. “Good. Your Caulgons will be sent back to the main Encampment. Don’t worry about them, I’m sure they’ll be fine. Now.” he said as he examined the Rangers, “I’ve noticed your numbers are short. Where are they?” “We were ambushed on the way here,” Mezeren said, “we lost him.” Mezeren fell silent, and hung his head. The man’s screams hadn’t stopped echoing in his mind, yet. Hasken’s smile fell, and he put a hand on Mezeren’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll give you all a few minutes to ready yourselves while we break down camp and send your Caulgons back.” Mezeren nodded, and Hasken walked away. Ketta and Leda walked over to Mezeren. “We’re going with them?” Ketta asked, “To go fight an Outsider?” “Yes,” Mezeren said. “Why?” She asked. She reached up and took her mask off, glaring at Mezeren. “Why would you put us at risk like this?” “Because we both worked in the Kan’Thak order. We’re trained to deal with Outsiders.” “And the rest of us?” Leda asked. Mezeren met Leda’s eyes. “When you joined this Legion, you knew that we may die on any mission. Now, we go on a mission where we may die. Darren has cleared us for this mission. We may be the ones to kill the Eastern Blade. Regardless, we shall not cower at our task, for to do so would disgrace our Legion, and the Archons.” “I understand, sir,” Ketta said. “We will fulfill our duty to the Legion.” Ketta turned from Mezeren, and began walking towards the other Rangers. She was shaking her head. “Is this wise?” Leda asked. “It might-” “Enough. We are doing this. You can’t change my mind.” “Yes, sir. We’ll get ready.” Leda also left, to join the Rangers. Mezeren put his mask back on. He also made his way to the Rangers. They were grumbling amongst themselves about their mission, when Hasken joined them again. Hasken was joined by Korta and Druk’Hal. “We’ll be seizing a series of trenches that the Menace and its allies has dug near the Gate, which will allow easy transport for the Council, and the Golden Skins that will be joining them. You Rangers will be accompanying us, to make this push, though I doubt any of you will wish to fight the Outsider. We will make it clear when we have spotted the Eastern Blade. When we have, we strongly encourage you to fall back.” The Rangers nodded as he spoke. “But hell, if any of you want to fight for glory, you’re allowed to make an attempt on its life. The damn thing might die for real this time. Let’s get moving. We have a lot of ground to cover.”   Accompanied by 40 or so Shades, the march to the trenches was easy. The few Mirvan that approached were quickly cut down. As they approached the trenches, the rain rolled in again, showering them. The mud was thick, and deep. As the Shades and the Rangers approached the trench, the beam of light in the distance was growing larger. Mezeren could feel a low rumble in the earth, now, building in intensity the closer they got. “What’s the plan when we get into range of their archers and spellcasters?” Mezeren asked Hasken. “The Necklace of the Speaker will allow Korta to ward us. While we’re warded, we rush the trenches. Arrows, spells, we’ll be fine.” “And how will he know when we’re in range?” An arrow whizzed by Hasken as Mezeren asked. “Well, he knows now!” There was a hum as the Shades and the Rangers were enveloped by wards. Mezeren felt the rain crackling against the energy on the armor. They picked up the pace, rushing towards the trenches. They drew their weapons. Hasken was the first over the wall of the trench, landing on a Mirvan. The demon hit the ground, and sank into the mud. Mezeren landed on the sam Mirvan, and the armor buckled under his weight. Mezeren stepped off of the Mirvan, and the water in the trench splashed as he moved. The cold water seeped into his boots, soaking his feet and socks. Mezeren’s twin daggers glinted in what light there was. A Mirvan rushed Mezeren, raising its blade for a downward stroke. Mezeren lunged forward, and drove the daggers under its ribs. The durnan daggers rent through the rusted armor like paper, and the demon fell, bleeding badly. Leda and Ketta landed behind Mezeren. The trench was filled with Mirvan, and the daggers of the Rangers were more effective than the swords of the Shades, and the Mirvan. Mezeren stepped forward, his blades levelled at another Mirvan. He heard more Legionnaires infiltrating the trench, their armor rattling as they landed. “Spread out and push the Menace back! We will take this trench!” Hasken called. Mezeren began pressing against the demonic forces. A Mirvan stabbed at Mezeren’s chest. Mezeren stepped to the side, and lunged forward, burying one of the twin daggers in the Mirvan’s neck. Mezeren ripped his blade free, slashing through the demon’s spine. It fell, the blood spreading in the water. Mezeren moved forward, walking down the right of the trench. The trench was only wide enough for him and Ketta to walk side by side. “Keep an eye out for Leear,” one of the Shades said. “They travel in the water.” Mezeren and Ketta began to walk down the trench, their footsteps splashing as they did so. “Leda,” Mezeren said, “make sure that nothing gets the drop on us.” “Yes sir.” It seemed that any prior hostilities were gone, or at least set aside for now. Eventually, the trench turned to the left. Mezeren leaned past the edge of the corner, and looked down the trench. There were Mirvan, with shields, waiting around twenty feet down. They stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking the way down the trench. Mezeren flipped his dagger, holding it by the blade, getting ready to throw it. Mezeren started to turn the corner. Ketta put a hand on his shoulder, and Mezeren pulled back. “What is it?” “Leear,” she said, and pointed to the water. Mezeren looked down. He could see the long, water rotted fingers of a Leear wrapping around the corner of the trench. The creature pulled itself forward. It lacked eyes, and had tubes growing from its body. The creature’s tubes sucked at the water. It had three arms. One on each side, one on the bottom, so it could drag itself along the water, and two were folded on its top. The top of the creature was a collection of fleshy tubes that gasped and dragged at the air, and a mouth. The creature was nearly flat, almost like a sheet on the water. Mezeren stabbed it, in the center of the mouth. It thrashed, and tried to grab Mezeren. Its grip was strong, and it pulled Mezeren towards its mouth. Tubes connected to his arms, and he felt it burning where the tubes connected. Mezeren growled, and cut at the tubes with his second knife. Ketta rushed forward, and helped him cut the tubes away. Together, they managed to kill the Leear. The Mirvan had started moving forward. Leda pulled Mezeren back, and two other Rangers helped to pull what was left of the tubes on Mezeren’s arms and mask. Acid dripped from where they had been attached. Mezeren hissed, and leaned against the wall of the trench. The mask had thinned where the tubes had attached to it. “What happened?” Hasken asked. Mezeren turned to face him. “I thought you went the other way,” Mezeren said. “I didn’t.” Hasken reached into one of his pouches, and took out a container with a salve in it. “Korta, Druk’Hal, and a few Shades went to the left.” Hasken opened the container. “Here, let me help.” Hasken scooped some of the salve out of the container, and smeared it on the wounds that the tubes had left. Mezeren turned his head to the right as he heard the Mirvan engage the Rangers. Mezeren readied his daggers, again. He had no need. Ketta and Leda had made short work of the Mirvan. Leda slid his dagger behind the left Mirvan’s shield, then he pulled on it. The Mirvan stumbled forward, and its shield was moved out of the way. He lunged forward, and buried a dagger in the Mirvan’s chest, piercing its arcane core. Ketta stepped on the other’s shield, and leapt over the demon. She landed behind it, and buried both daggers in its back. She twisted, and the Mirvan jerked, then fell still. Ketta pulled her daggers free, the Mirvan falling into the water, onto the dead Leear. The burning in Mezeren’s wounds had begun to fade, and he stopped leaning against the trench wall. “Let’s keep moving, then,” he said. Hasken nodded, and Mezeren began walking again.   The trenches were a winding tunnel filled with demons and water. The demons were easy enough to kill, but the water slowed the soldiers down greatly, especially taking the time to search the water for Leear. Finally, they found their way to the center of the trenches. The trenches had widened, there, nearly five people wide. There was a small building in the middle, made from pieces of wood scavenged from buildings, and cloth draped over the gaps. Hasken pushed the cloth aside. “Outisder!” he called. A chill shot down Mezeren’s body, and he involuntarily took a step back. Hasken also stepped back, and a cleaver ripped through the air where he had just stood. A pale hand pulled the cloth back, and a masked face peered out of the building. It wore a cloak of strange material, a thick, tan cloth that was painted with strange images that seemed to shift and warp. The symbols seemed to be written in blood. It took Mezeren a moment to realize that the mask was not a mask. It was, in fact, a skull. It was large, with an elongated snout, large eye holes, through which Mezeren could see pale yellow eyes. There were two horns on top of the skull, and it was painted with more symbols. In the middle of the skull’s forehead was an image much like a twisted eye of Ohn’Tah. It was the eye of Motros. Mezeren started forward. The Cleaver whipped through the air faster than Mezeren could track, smashing into the ground where Hasken had just been standing. The cloth of the building was thrown aside, and more Shades entered the fray. One was rapidly eviscerated as the Outsider twitched towards him. The man fell, dead. Hasken lunged forward, slashing at the Outsider. The outsider caught it, the durnan slicing deep into the Outsider’s hand. The blade didn’t burn it, as Mezeren expected. “It’s the Eastern Blade!” a Shade called. The Eastern Blade slashed across Hasken’s chest. He fell, twitching. Mezeren raised his blades, and let out a breath. Mezeren started forward. The Eastern Blade hit him with the back of its hand, and he fell, collapsing into the bloody water. His daggers had been knocked from his hands. The Eastern Blade planted a foot on his chest, holding Mezeren underwater. Mezeren reached for a dagger. Ketta threw a dagger at the Eastern Blade, and it stepped to the side to avoid it. Mezeren reached up, and grabbed its foot. He pulled, trying to pull it to the ground. He was kicked in the stomach, and slammed into the wall of the trench. Mezeren coughed, blood spraying from between his lips. Mezeren curled into a ball, and groaned. He could hear the clattering of blades, and bodies falling to the ground. There was a loud crash, and a groan. Mezeren stood up, and forced Arcane Energy through his body, to where he was hurting the most. He felt the wounds patching themselves back together. Mezeren groaned, and got to his feet. His eyes fell on the Eastern Blade. It had been cut, on the arm, and blood was flowing freely from the wound. The building had been destroyed. Mezeren was surprised to see that its blood was red, like his. Mezeren found one of his daggers. He picked it up. The Legionnaires had fallen back a few paces. Mezeren could see that several Rangers were dead on the ground, Leda among them. Mezeren picked up a sword from the ground. He threw the dagger at the Eastern Blade. It easily smacked the dagger aside. Two Shades lunged forward, as did Ketta. Mezeren started forward as well. The two Shades hit the ground first. One had been cut in half. The other had the cleaver buried in her side, from the same swipe that killed her comrade. The Eastern Blade caught Ketta by the throat, and brought her in front of Mezeren as he brought his blade down. He stopped himself a mere couple of inches from Ketta’s throat. The Eastern Blade chuckled, a deep, rumbling noise. It crushed Ketta’s throat, and tossed her to the side. Mezeren brought his blade up as he saw the Eastern Blade twitch. The durnan sword in his grasp bent, and Mezeren slammed into the wall again. He felt something in his chest crack. There was a roar, and Mezeren saw a massive shape charge the Eastern Blade. He gathered that it was Druk’Hal. They clashed, briefly, and Mezeren’s hand reached up to his chest, where it hurt the worst. He sent a pulse of energy through his body, trying to fuse the bones back together. Druk’Hall landed a blow with his Kanabo, crushing the Eastern Blade’s right shoulder, its sword arm. There was a pause. The Eastern blade twitched again, and buried its right hand into Druk’Hall’s Arcane core. Druk’Hall screamed, and groaned. He fell to his knees. The Shades moved in, slashing and stabbing at the Eastern Blade. Mezeren saw Korta start forward, from the left. “No,” the Eastern Blade said. There was a flash of light, centered on the Eastern Blade. Then, a wave of heat hit Mezeren. The Shades were torn apart by a wave of energy. Korta raised his hands, and a wave of energy appeared before him. Mezeren hastily tried to put a ward together, but he was still pressed into the wall by the corpses of the Legionnaires. He screamed as they crushed him. His eyes fell closed.   Mezeren woke up in a tent, on a bed. He was covered in weighty blankets, and a cleric was looking down on him. He groaned in pain, and started to reach up towards the cleric. The cleric gently held his arm down. The cleric was an older man, with short hair. He had a single scar on his nose. He had warm, brown eyes. “Don’t try to move. I’ll get Tota, for you.” Mezeren growled, trying to form words. “Do you need water?” “Yes,” Mezeren managed to say. The cleric held a cup of water to his mouth, and slowly tilted the water into his mouth. Mezeren drank deeply. The cleric eventually took the water away. Mezeren took a moment to examine his surroundings. The tent was large. There were a number of beds, each of them with an injured soldier in it. Korta was in the far end of the tent, his eyes still closed. The cleric left the tent, and Mezeren was alone. He could hear the Legionnaires outside, patrolling. Mezeren groaned, and felt a stabbing pain in his chest, and dull ache all around it. Eventually, Mezeren heard the cleric re-enter the tent. Mezeren turned his head towards the cleric. Tota, the head Disciple of Karick, a speaker of the council, was with him. Tota was a short woman, especially for a Disciple. She had sigils carved into her skin, which glowed a faint purple. Her skin was dark, and rough, much like Mezeren’s. She had long, black hair, and a wide frame. She had a sharp face, and purple eyes. She had a genuine smile, and thin lips. She crossed the tent to him, and put a hand on his cheek. “Are you okay, Mezeren?” Her voice was smooth. “I’ll survive,” he said. “Where are the others? I saw Korta, but where are the rest of the Shades and Rangers?” Tota frowned, and brushed a thumb across Mezeren’s cheek. “They didn’t make it, Mezeren. But their sacrifice was not in vain. We’ve seized the ground near the Gate. With one more push, we will take, and seal, the Gate.” Mezeren closed his eyes. His chest tightened, and his eyes burned. Mezeren took a shuddering breath, and Tota moved her hand. “The Emperor will want to speak with you, when you’ve recovered. Besides that, you’ve been moved up in the waiting list. The killing of an Outsider has marked you as an exceptional candidate for the Disciple program.” Mezeren nodded. “But for now, I just want you to rest.” “I will,” Mezeren said. He opened his eyes. Tota smiled again. “Things will get better soon,” she said. She left the tent. Mezeren sighed, and closed his eyes, thinking on what the future would hold.