Chapter 2

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The jagged rocks sat high above the rest, domineering the distant valley horizon like the bared teeth of a humongous predator. The surroundings rippled with the noise of volt fire, as the roar of explosions echoed across the stony hills of the Molag Valley. Long held as the demilitarized border between the Zeraph Republic and Eldraeci Island Federation, the place now writhed with the horror of combat.

The stink of dust born from ground stone hung heavy in the air, the upward trek had done nothing but aggravate the basic discomforts of a long march. All that would be irrelevant as the air whistled with the cry of runic arrows that blotted the sky. Knowing their shields would do little to staeve against the damage, the platoon bolted for cover behind the sunken boulders and broken hills of the Molag Valley. Lieutenant Able Froster dove for cover behind a huge jagged rock, he landed his shoulder on the stone’s hard surface.

Forgetting he still had a nice fresh wound stuck on that part of his body. The pain shot up his entire arm to the point of numbness as he felt his left hand shiver as he gripped the shaft of his voltcaster. The arrows detonated, clouding the platoon in a shower of stone dust and soil. Knowing they didn’t have time, he ordered an advance. Able Froster’s platoon shot up from their points of cover, sending bolts of plasma hurtling towards the entrenched Archers.

Though their weapons were seemingly primitive, the Eldraeci elves weren’t foolish enough to send bows against the Line Infantry of the Zeraph Republic. The primitive weapons themselves were lined with fire runes that would turn their simple arrows into explosive projectiles, while the aid of a Battle Mage could even guide the arrows towards specific targets. Able Froster knew all of that, in fact he could smell the Battle Mage hiding behind the lines of archers, just waiting for the perfect opportunity. There was an arcane spark that hung in the hair, he could detect its traces despite the dominance of dust, sweat and blast staeve ozone. He sensed the crackle of magic, and writhing of a wind spirit bound by the chains of precise Edraeci spellcraft.

“CHARGE!” His command was spoken not screamed, but the entire platoon had responded.

Knowing they would have little time to react if the elves decided to fire back, the Lieutenant ordered a full assault. In near perfect cadence, the Voltiirs of the DragonWolves ran towards their enemy, bayonet’s faced forward as they bellowed a deafening battle cry. The solders fired as they advanced, keeping the shields braced for any bolt shots from the Eldraeci. The Lieutenant kept his eyes peeled, waiting for the enemy to react. But no retaliation came as the elves stuck to cover while the Voltiirs closed in, relaying suppressive fire as they ran towards their enemy. The boulders closed, as crests of their bows and brim of their helmets could be seen. A surprise was coming.

A flurry of arrows shot up into the sky, as an Eldraeci Battle Mage stood from cover and commanded the arrows with a bristle of his arcane staff. Knowing that taking cover against the runic arrows would be pointless, his platoon did not falter in their charge. Able waited for the elf’s magic to touch the arrows, the enchantments glowing aura danced and gripped the arrows as they were redirected against the charging Zeraphites. Knowing this was the perfect moment, he fired his staeve at the Battle Mage. There was no hesitation in the act, no fear and no doubt. He knew the plasma volt had found its mark. Despite the wards the Eldraeci mage had put up, the bolt had entered through a gap in the defenses. A center point where the mage’s magic flowed out. The arrows now losing direction of the magic had now fallen, returning to their archers, detonating as they landed. When the platoon had arrived by the entrenchment, the Eldraeci were already defeated. What was left was a few groaning wounded, and a scattered mess of body parts. While the rest lay defeated, a lone enemy soldier lifted his disk staeve at the Lieutenant. The elf had lost a leg while his guts lay torn and bleeding. But his weapon gleamed with energy, howling as the disk was ready to launch. Able fired his blast staeve at the wounded soldier before he could fire, he felt it merciful if he allowed the defiant enemy to fight back.

“Sir, the enemy has wounded. Orders?” Sergeant Kelaw had stirred him from execution, reminding the Froster of the task at hand. “Are we capable of tending to the wounded?” He asked.

“No sir, it isn’t advisable. I suggest we execute them.” The Sergeant responded without pity or guilt in his voice. Only the stoicism expected of a Dragonwolf.

“Use the plasma, grant them a final mercy.” As the firing of blast staeves rang across the conquered entrenchment, Lieutenant Able Froster stood upon the opposite end of the hill they had just conquered. A dozen more hills lay empty and smoking, the banners of the fallen Eldraeci were removed as they were replaced by the draconic banner of the Zeraph Republic. If command was correct, this was their final mission. The war was indeed over.

That was three months ago. The days have gone long and dull. And much of the regiment had spent their time training in both combat and sports. While those with significant intellectual acumen were indoctrinated into specialist classes, learning magecraft, history, tactics and other aspects necessary for the survival and success of their fighting force.

The Lieutenant stood outside of the tent of the head of the entire DragonWolves regiment, Colonel Leo Xerxes. Though waiting was essential for the performance of any soldier, Able Froster hated it with a passion. He loathed the very idea of having to stand in attention at the bare nothingness of his surroundings. For he believed that if he could not interact with his surroundings, they were essentially nonexistent.

“Lieutenant Froster, enter.” The hoarse voice of the Colonel’s assistant called for him. As he entered the tent, the woman’s burned countenance greeted him. She was a Dragonwolf like the rest of them, but age and battle had scarred her beyond the capabilities of an able soldier.

“Colonel” The Lieutenant saluted as he enters. Their leader stood beside a map of the battlefield, marking patrol routes and defense points. Able’s Captain Xenophon was also in the room, his eyes on a ledger.

“Lieutenant Able Froster, reporting for duty. Sir!”. Delivering a crisp salute, Able stood in attention at his superior officers who locked eyes with their subordinate.

“At ease” barked the Captain as he placed down the ledger. Captain Xenophon had been Able’s commanding officer for almost three years, and for two years he was his equal. The two were loyal friends. “Able, how is the platoon?”

“Itching for battle, but staying alive. Sir.” Able replied.

“As they should.” The Captain cracked a brief smile before he continued.

“Lieutenant, I understand you have fifteen members of your platoon that are capable of using the arcane eye. Is that correct?”

“Seventeen sir, counting myself and Staff Sergeant Brasidas.” Able did a quick count, remembering the squad structure of his soldiers. The invaluable ability to detect the presence of spellcraft in the surroundings had proved to be vital to the survival of his detachment.

“Excellent. I need all seventeen ready by tomorrow at 1200 hours. You will be assigned to a new unit, under a new Captain.” Xenophon handed Able a letter that bore a seal that resembled a snake devouring its own tail. It was from the Republic Recon Collective. The nation’s foremost intelligence agency.

“I’ll be under an RRC Officer?” Able asked, doing his best to hide the inconvenienced confusion. A soldier followed orders, but it didn’t meant they never disagreed with them.

The Captain and the Colonel exchanged looks before giving their reply. Which was a resounding, “No”

“I, I don’t understand sir. An RRC assignment but I’m not led by an RRC officer?”

“These are the orders Lieutenant, we will get to the bottom of this. And when we do, we will send you more briefing files. Till then, we need your soldiers prepared. Get them acquainted with the documents.” The Colonel spoke with a voice that was gravely and twisted as a train engine’s wheels.

Yet it had the gravitas of an imposing leader who demanded nothing but perfection from his soldiers.

“Understood sir.” The Lieutenant, nodded his head in affirmation before he was dismissed.

“Besides, it’s just some escort mission into the Suha Marshes. Nothing a volt staeve can’t stop.”

…

Able Froster had read the briefing files straight for the past two days, he too had drilled the reports into the sixteen other members of his squad. Quizzing and lecturing all his soldiers on their objectives. On top of that, he had run them through a gauntlet of drills that kept them ready for the challenges of the Suha Marshes.

Leading the squad through a path of ruined vegetation, keeping their staeves dry and equipment neat. All soldiers of the DragonWolves had trained for every situation. Cold rains, putrid bogs, burning cities and killer snow.

Nonetheless, that didn’t exempt them from reconditioning their instincts for the trials to come. “staeves primed!” He ordered, drawing his sword and cutting a swath through the miry swamp. Green water had seeped through his boots, while the stink of rotting plants and dead animals hung high in the air causing a measure of dizziness.

“Eyes on our surroundings.” He called, while spying the curved trees and overbearing swamp pines that dotted their field of vision. There was a dread charm to the swamp, the vast lines of greenery, and the dense overgrowth of branches made it seem as if the place was a massive cage. But with each passing step, the swamp had grown smaller, denser, darker.

Creeping closer and closer towards the small squadron of voltiirs. Able Froster felt a tinge of fear that bit across his senses, the pounding in his heart had gone wild while the sweat that trickled down his eye was now beyond tolerance.

Movement crackled in the waters, his instincts told him it was a frog or a rat that had slimed its way to the water. But the fear that had built in his mind had told him it was something else entirely. Drawing his blast rod, he aims the weapon at the clump of branches that sunk low into the bog. Nothing emerges. “Move on.” He mutters, continuing the slog down the swamp.

As the drill continued, his fear had began to wane. Giving way to stoic vigilance and sharp observation. Expected of an officer of the DragonWolves. In due time, his resolve was needed as the swamp had erupted in a flurry of arcane energy. Ward Stones took flight, igniting their blinding lights on the squad. The hovering triangular automatons circled the voltiirs, hiding behind trees and dipping back into the water. Though now disoriented, the Lieutenant fired back.

The crack of a plasma volt shuddered from the rod, the projectile finding its mark. Without hesitation, the rest follow suit. Pelting a series of well aimed barrages at the training dummies.

“Clear” echoed the squad, as they each removed a target.

“Double time, Forward.” Grumbled the Lieutenant as they broke to a run. The Ward Stones were more of an indicator rather than an objective to be removed. The hovering arcane automatons were guides that signaled the autogolems. Within seconds, the swamp once more burst with activity has plasma volts landed on the squad’s surroundings. Shields were already primed and weapons aimed, as Froster braced for a volt to land on his tool. As an officer, he had access to far more expensive weapons such as his warp brace. More energy than steel, but just as durable. The heavy gauntlet emitted a wide disc of kinetic energy that not only protected the Lieutenant but the two other voltiirs behind him.

“Hunker, aim, fire!” The DragonWolves rested barrels of their staeves on their shields, holding their heavy weapons with one hand as they took aim at the training golems that were firing back at them. The air began to crackle with floating arcane sigils as they released the plasma volts from the staeve. As with the Ward Stones, the golems fell fast. Their circular anthropoid frames crumbling as the projectiles hit their mark. Froster couldn’t tell how many were sent, he left that part of the training drills up to the Captain’s whims. The squad could have received a hundred, or just ten of the golems. Or worse, a Gearbane Trainer. Though Froster had handled such things a hundred times in his career, facing the mechanical automatons was a hefty ordeal that went beyond the base skills of a soldier and into that of a desperate survivor.

Froster expected the breaking trudges of a GearBane to echo through the swamp, he expected the collection of floating logs and tangled reeds to be whisked aside as the garrish war machine would tear its way throughout the swamp. His imagination told him the shadow cracking in the distant corner of his eyes was indeed one of the dreaded autogolems storming towards his position. While his fear, told him that the faint lining swaying leafy branches, did not signify the arrival of a GearBane trainer. But that of an enemy.

Still, the Lieutenant soldiered on amidst the scouring of his fearful imagination. And in short time the swamp drill had been completed. He deigned to show it, but there was a significant amount of relief that accompanied him as he stepped onto dry land. “Orders sir.” the voice came from the square jawed blue eyed Staff Sergeant Brasidas, who stood in rigid attention at his commanding officer.

Froster was ridden with fear, the closing barriers of the swamp, the walking nightmare of a GearBane’s assault. His second in command’s words failed to reach him for a moment. “Get ready for the Captain. She arrives tonight.” Collecting all the strength needed to keep the decorum, he dismisses his soldiers. The rest mount up on the wagon and begin the ride back to base. Each soldier was silent, gazing onto their surroundings with nothing but a blank stare. Able Froster knew little of what his voltiirs felt, a soldier in their regiment never showed fear or of their weaknesses. For it was paramount that they only did what was expected of them as DragonWolves.