Chapter 5

The sheriff was a recluse, how and why he opted to be a lawman of a bustling trading town was a mystery to all. Including himself, but he did find pride in his work. Still, it was considered hard to operate as a reliable sheriff if he was half asleep. He very near wanted to slap the hell out of his deputy the moment he could hear the young Orsim’s crusty voice calling his name as he slept.

“This better be good Will” He mumbled as they both sped their horses down the main highway. It was 3am, and a few traders had already began departing with their wares down the Sorrenson Road. Ferrying herbs, produce, meat and other essential wetland resources. A few of them recognized the sheriff, greeting him as he rode by, while the rest reacted the same as the lawman. With tired glances and a few nods.

The pair soon reached their destination, a huddled congregation of upturned wagons deputies in masks and ever prevalent stench of fresh blood and spilled shit. The sheriff was all too familiar with the scent, he had served the Republic’s armies as a MageBlade fifteen years ago. He didn’t think he would encounter it again.

“Deputy. You weren’t fibbin.” He mumbled, covering his mouth with a bandana. He approached the scene with his blast rod drawn and ready to fire. But the horror that was displayed by the moon’s quiet glow was enough to make him wish he had his MageBlade armor back on. Bodies lay torn apart and ripped to shreds, devoured or impaled. Many had their bones broken, their spines torn out and their faces eaten through. While some heads lay scattered with the back of their skulls broken apart and emptied out.

Their steeds didn’t fair any better, the stench of the dead horses had already riled up their own. Forcing many deputies to restrain their rides to prevent them from bolting away.

“Who were they?” The sheriff asked, “Merchant caravan from Beliz, judging from the documents we found.” The deputy hands the old man a waddle of documents he held in a clear plastic,

“Light sprite” he orders, summoning one of the hovering lanterns to his side. “Vicker’s Fertilizers” the document read, a team of five wagons with twenty passengers with a shipment of five tons of slaughterhouse waste.

“They had guards right?” He asked, the deputy pointed towards a series of points where the light sprites hovered. “Blast staeves and rods, one feller even had an autocross with him.”

“Were they fired?”

“No sir. It seems the armed folk were killed first.” the deputy’s tone had cracked and stuttered, he was laced with fear.

“Who could have done this sir?” the deputy asked again. An uneasiness set inside the sheriff’s mind as he tried to search his memories for an answer. There was a familiar pattern here, devoured victims, emptied skulls. Near traceless signs of plasma or fire volts. He hated the idea, the very thought made him shiver like a cat left in the rain. His memories painted a grim picture of a being covered in twisted branches and mossy hides. With sharpened wooden hands that gripped onto a grotesque spear that grew from rotten wood.

But the most vivid image in the memory was the face of the being itself, it resembled that of a pale porcelain mask that stood in contrast to the natural wooden rot that covered the rest of the body. But under the lips of that mask lay a brutish row of razor sharp teeth. He could almost hear the Birchman’s laugh as the cold night wind bore past them. Almost as if they were nearby.

...

Aster stood in front of the mirror for a good five minutes. The captain’s badge pinned on her uniform seemed surreal as its diamond shape glinted in the early morning’s low light. The Zeraph Dragon seemed to shudder as she placed a finger on its metal frame. Three years of military service, and she had just made Captain. It wasn’t without struggle or sacrifice, her profession ensured that. But she had to believe that the piece of metal on her chest was worth it all.

“Captain Aster Likaya. Squadron 7. Dulling ring to it.” She thought to herself, “Should be B Company but the fates had other plans.” Muttering as she exited her quarters and headed to the mess hall wondering if her squad was present. But they weren’t, so she dined alone.

The hall only had a few participants, none military personnel, other officers and some platoons catching a late breakfast. The windows provided some measure of entertainment, since they had a full view of the marching grounds. The rest of the Regiment was abuzz with activity, completing combat drills and running a gamut of physical exercises that she had not seen since her first days in basic training. An entire platoon, no a company of voltiirs marched across the marching grounds with blocks of wood on their backs. She expected them to rest between partitioned sections of the twelve kilometer marching ground. But they didn’t. Much to her surprise the entire unit had walked the entire distance and back. Their posture unbroken and their resolve focused as they resumed their march.

“Where the hell am I” She whispered to herself as she cleaned her plate.

After eating, she headed straight to the armory and wasted no time suiting up. Though the attendants insisted they did so, citing protocol. She opted to do it herself. It was one of the few martial traditions she enjoyed maintaining. Setting her armor on the ground before her, she knelt in front of them as she placed the equipment in sequence. First the bracers, built of light plate and stiff leather. She strapped them to her arms, checking the integrity of the shield runes as she tightened them. Next were the greaves, full metal plate that could survive a heavy caliber bolts. Best to stay vigilant, since Battle Mages were prime targets. Lastly she wore the plate and pauldrons. Once glimmering with the Zeraph teal blue, the armor was not painted in the brownish green of the DragonWolves. Ideal for blending in the marshlands.

Once she was suited up, she tested the shield runes once more. Addressing integrity and strength, measuring the maximum capability of the cogs and pistons of her armor’s structure. As a Battle Mage she was expected to augment and enhance her soldier’s capabilities. And of course, cast the most stubborn of static defensive spells. “All ready” Aster inspects her two swords before sheathing them.

They were applied with another coat of kinetic breakers, that protected the metal from being shattered, this also made it heavier for her opponent to receive. The most recent campaign had left significant breakage in her blades, though the kinetic breakers could help her pierce enemy armor. The Ovak’s plates could survive plasma volts, an arcane enhanced sword could do damage but still receive breakage in the process.

Her reliable blast rods were holstered to her thighs, with fast loader clips and extra shells all in easy reach.

“Good morning, Captain” A voice emerged from the dressing room’s doorway. Their stood a voltiir officer, in full battle gear. Bulletproof chest plate, ridged infantry pauldrons over a stab guard cloak. The soldier wore a brace of ammunition pouches and carried a blast staeve that was slung on his back. Unlike the rest of the line infantry which usually carried their arm shields on their left forearms, the officer’s bracer was a plate emitter instead. An arcane shield that was capable of levitating a quartet of metal rods that protected the wielder from immediate danger. He didn’t look so much like an officer, but more like any other grunt of the line infantry.

“Good morning Lieutenant Froster.” Aster gave her new second in command a light salute as she exited the dressing room.

“Is the squad ready?” She asked, “Yes mam, Squad 11 has been at the ready since 0600 hours. They await us at the dock.”

Aster checked her watch, it was 0800. Her team was ready three hours before call time.

“Oh damn it, I should apologize. I was up too late. Should have been there with you.” Aster rubbed her forehead, she didn’t consider how overly prepared these DragonWolves were.

“Apologize? Not necessary Captain. It is protocol to be at the ready at least five hours before the call time. We should be the one to apologize, we were only ready in under three.”

Aster’s head spun at the Lieutenant’s response, standard military protocol stated that an hour behind call time was ideal in none combat situations. Three hours before call time was the standard for battlefield situations, it wasn’t necessary for the squad to be so early.

“That’s, that’s not necessary.” Aster cracked a casual smile at Froster, she could tell that he found the interaction strange. “You here to pick me up Lieutenant?” She asked.

“Yes mam.”

“Quite the gentleman aren’t you?” Aster caught it again, the small trace of uneasy confusion that permeated Froster’s countenance whenever she spoke or acted outside of military normalcy.

“Will all due respect, I wouldn’t count myself as a gentleman.” He replied.

“Aren’t all officers gentlemen?” The confusion didn’t leave Froster’s face.

“I believe it is necessary for those in the traditional military, mam.” He replied.

“Traditional military?” She asked, now the confusion was on her face.

“Those who are not DragonWolves.” Aster contemplated her second in command’s reply, it was true that she had observed this regiment to be a far cry from the Black River Regiment that she came from.

And her brother’s anecdotes of soldiers so steeped in tradition that it seemed that they were bred just to be voltiirs were taken into account as well. It was clear that there was more to the DragonWolves than what she could understand through mere observation. But further questions would have to wait, as she heard the excited hiss of her autogolems, Ragehog and Thornrat. “Hello darlings!” she called as she entered the somewhat empty autogolem repair dock.

“Barely any Gearbanes here. How come?” she asked the engineer who saluted her as she entered.

“Captain, majority of the Gearbanes are out on training exercises.” Snapped the specialist who handed her a clipboard containing the repairs and upgrades her war machines received.

RageHog was a bulky bipedal beast that wore an unorthodox but effective rotund armor that covered its joints and chest. It stood at least twelve feet tall and ran on a mixture of cyclic pistons and coal. The GearBane wielded a semi automatic cannon on its right arm while its left held a six foot iron wood spear. “Hello big guy” Aster placed her hand on the machine’s cold belly, the GearBane’s strange pig like face seemed to purr at the Battle Mage’s presence.