Down But Good...

[Walter]

Repetition upon repetition can make of any act, no matter how inconsequential, a sacred rite. Such was the case with the Petition for Clemency of Prisoner of Consequence 413.

As regular as the rains, as unfailing as the turn of the days, the Prisoner filed his motions. Each year, on the anniversary of his incarceration, he availed himself of the rights given to every Ordic citizen, to demand that his case be re-examined.

Every year, the jailor took it upon himself to read the brief. It was always a crude affair. The implements of writing were not provided to the prisoners, even to such an important prisoner as a warcaster. They could be purchased, using a system of work credit exchange that freed his guards of their chores, but such a purchase was far from cheap, and the prisoner spent much of his year's budget on these pleas.

Jardon snorted to himself, flipping the sparse pages of the folio back and forth as his eyes wandered across them, parsing for anything new. "Pleas" wasn't the proper description. As always 413 maintained his innocence, maintained that he'd been wronged or perhaps framed, and begged that his case reach the ears of his Majesty, Baird II.

The jailor shook his head back and forth. As if the case of a Warcaster accused of massacre could ever have been decided without the Royal attention. The prisoner grasped at straws. Jardon had no idea whether or not his claims of innocence were true, but true or no they'd long since found their way to the King, and yet here the Prisoner remained.

The numbering convention didn't refer to their current stock of noble prisoners, the tiny nation of Ord didn't have more than a few dozen notables important enough to keep under the kind of security measures 413 sweltered under. Instead it referred to his place in the list of prisoners that had ever been confined within this place. He was the four hundred and thirteenth such unfortunate, and to Jardon's knowlege, none had ever been released.

He sighed. Truthfully, the annual petition didn't amuse him as he pretended. Something about the prisoner's forthright refusal to believe that his King had abandoned him tugged at the old jailor's heartstrings. He wished that this man's story had a happier ending. He shut the folder with a sigh and dropped it into his outgoing message tray. Tomorrow a man would come and take it to his superior. He wondered each year how far up the chain of command these missives actually went. Was there some mildewed stack of them, growing larger every year, in some higher rankers wardrobe? Did they perhaps prop a door open? Were they burned annually for heat? Smoked by an idle nobleman to peals of laughter?

He put aside his thoughts of 413 and stood. It had been a long day, and tomorrow was just going to be another. It did something to a man, to live beneath the earth like a mole. It gnawed at the mind and eroded away the spirit. Folk were not meant to dwell so, the meanest peasant had the sun upon their face. He had not seen it in months.

He moved to the simple peg on the wall from which his overcloak hung, and swept it on. Jardon paused a second before going to the door, giving the folder on the desk a long look. He shook his head, the ritual sameness of it persuading him as much as anything else, then he went left his office.

Beth nodded from her desk. She would go to her rest after he did, another longstanding tradition. She believed that she'd decieved him as to how long she remained at her post, but he knew full well that she'd leave just half a bell after him, yet arrive in the morning a bell and a half behind him. Too young by half and useless, she was typical of the sort of personnel they got in the Pit.

He strode past her, passing through the guard post with a nod and a cheery greeting. They maintained the posts in the depths out of intertia. The prison had been built as though it was above the ground, off of a Cygnaran design which was supposed to be state of the art. There were innumerable choke points and cutoffs, murder rooms and traps. None of them had ever been used, and most were now unusable. They carefully maintained those guarding the stairs to the surface. The rest were simply a burden, their maintenance yet another worthless formality.

After several switchbacks and ladders he reached his room. He chuckled deeply as he entered. How it would shock the others of his rank to know that he made his abode within the cell reserved for prisoner 414. He lay down on the rude bunk and sighed, staring at the ceiling.

There were several reasons that he gave for his eccentricity. He said that by experiencing what his captives went through he maintained his empathy towards them. He claimed that by occupying the very cell that their next guest would inhabit he forced those tasks with maintenance to have it in working order. He told his men, jokingly, that the prisoners whose designations were 413, 411 and 409 were better company than he could find in the barracks.

He never let on the truth, which was that he stayed in the cell because of a dream. It was the same reason he worked in the Pit, the reason he'd thrown away a successful military career to work as a jailer for maniacs and madmen. Earlier in his life, back when choices were something that he made, and not something that he regretted, Morrow had come to him and told him what to do.

[Walter]

The next day was unsurprisingly similar to those which had come before it. He rose and attended to his appearance, showering with the frigid waters of their melt spring and shaving with his own razor sharp combat knife. He completed his preparations before the jail had begun to awaken from it's nightly slumber, and was the first of the staff to begin the day.

This afternoon would be consumed by the Inspection, their quarterly visit from the lands above. A functionary would climb down the "abandoned mine" and bring them news and mail from the world above. In theory he might bring orders. More likely he'd bring an escort of soldiers and another Prisoner of Consequence. Anything to break the monotony.

The morning, however, would be as ordinary and scheduled as all of the others. He had a meeting with 258, an inspection of the mantraps in the east wing, and lunch with Arak.

As he left his cell and set out down the corridor he paused by Four Thirteen's cell. He could hear from within the rhythmic grunting and straining of the prisoner's disciplined excercise. He sighed. The only man in the entire complex up and about before him and it was a prisoner. He rapped at on the bars.

Immediately, the Warcaster within leaped to attention. Naked and filthy he still looked ten times more like a soldier than any of the men the military had seen fit to give him as guards. Jardon turned and faced the inmate squarely.

The man's physique was impressive. It was impossible to be muscular on a prison diet, particularly with your work credits going towards parchment and ink, but Four Thirteen pulled off the next best thing. He was fit. The emaciated look of the other prisoners was entirely absent. He looked as though he'd been thrown in yesterday. In more ways than one.

"Warden, Sir!" the prisoner snapped, coming to attention. His military bearing couldn't quite hide the one thing that made him look more out of place than his musculature. The hope in his eyes. They positively shone with it, he had the look of a first day trainee, holding to his discipline to tamp down his frothing fervor.

"At ease, convict." The jailor drawled the sentence out, flat and slow. "I stopped by to inform you that your eight Petition has been received, and will be transmitted up the chain of command. You are hereby so informed."

The prisoner smiled as he relaxed his formal posture, and returned with an even grace to his workout. Outside, in the corridor, his captor turned and headed on down the hall. Behind him, the convict's voice rang out.

"Cheer up, Sir! It's not so bad as all that."

He shook his head. He'd been doing that a lot lately.

The interview with Two Fifty Eight would be an entirely different affair. He stopped by the ready room to grab an armed escort and headed into the less secure eastern sector.

His own room was in the northern portion of the prison, the area where they held the most dangerous and highly regarded prisoners. The central area was the primary security buffer. The eastern sector, towards which he was presently moving was unofficially the area that they placed those prisoners who creeped the guards out. The old joke was that in the event of a prison break the East would be both origin and deterrent, as the prisoners within would slay one another to the last, given the slightest opportunity.

Guards in tow, he arrived at his destination. The cell was shabby and barren, it's inhabitant restlessly pacing and prying at his fittings. The Jailor didn't mention his guest's preoccupation, it was simply his way. The sun would rise beneath the earth before Two Fifty Eight ceased his escape efforts. If they could succeed they'd have done so long before. This prisoner had been incarcerated for over decades.

There was no reason to prolong things. The only reason this 'interview' was taking place was to satisfy the Jailor's orders. It wouldn't take long.

"Prisoner of Consequence Two Hundred and Fifty Eight, do you have any information regarding your superiors that you wish to reveal? I have been empowered to offer you clemancy in return for your assistance. Your silence does you no service in this matter. No? Very well."

He delivered the questions and responses, cribbed from the field manual, in a rapid fire monologue, and he turned to leave in the instant the last syllable had left his lips. Unsurprisingly the man within the cell had given no sign that he'd noticed his interrogator, save to eye the Guard's weapons as though evaluating the odds of snatching them.

He was almost back into the corridor when he heard the voice rising behind him, thin, whispery, but inhumanly compelling. He spun about, like a puppet grabbed and twisted by the prisoner's rasping intonation.

The Cryxian's frantic and useless escape attempts had ceased. He stood squarely, as a man stands, and stared into the jailors eyes with a burning gaze.

"My superiors? You wish to know of the Lich Lords? Know this, then. They come."

[Walter]

[Edit: Modified previous entry to put 258's incarceration back further in time. It didn't make sense initially]

Disturbed by the Cryxian inmates dire promise, Jardon engaged in his usual inspection with a bit more fervor than was normal.

What he saw gave him some small measure of solace. In truth, the Pit was quite secure. Much of this came from the place's state of the art design, but a not inconsiderable amount was due to his own diligence and vigilance. He held his men to a military standard, and the results showed.

The prison was layed out in a Menofix pattern, with a north, south, east, and west wing, and a fortified central area. Each area had it's own fortifications and defenders, though their quality varied wildly.

The North wing held the most important prisoners, approximately a dozen in total. It had a fairly heavy security presence, a squad of Regulars stationed there at all times, with a demisquad perpetually on patrol. It's fortifications had been allowed to fall to rust and decay, however. There just wasn't the manpower to keep the gates, traps and cunning locks in good repair. They stuck with the cell fastenings, and left the rest to the guards. As a jail wing it was fine, as a fortress...well, he hoped it wouldn't be tested.

The West wing was minimally secured, one demi-squad on station and an unlucky fellow assigned to roving patrols. The soldiers stationed there were the discipline cases and the crazies. In another wing they'd be at risk of collaborating with the prisoners, but the west wing's felons were the most unpleasant sort. The facilities were as run down as their guards, the whole would fall in moments in the face of any determined armed intrusion. The only real saving grace was that the gate from central to west sector had a dead man's mode, locking the whole complex off from the rest of the jail at the throwing of a huge lever. This, at least, was in excellent working order.

The east wing had gone to ruins years ago. Jardon had evacuated his men and activated the dead man's gate. His yearly requests for the manpower and supplies to restore it to activate service had about the same rate of success as413's petition's for clemency. It was, at least, not a security concern.

The south held both the general population of the prison, and the majority of it's guards. Four squads of Ordic regulars dwelt within the swollen south sector. Most of the prisoners were also located in the south wing, kept in line by the carefully maintained Cygnaran equipment and the stern gazes of their overseers.

The facility's true security came from it's central region, a veritable fortress. Only two squads defended it, but they were the elite elements of the fortress, not Regulars but Grenadiers, capable and blooded in the border wars. They were equipped with firearms to complement the traditional Ordic sabre, and they even had a half dozen jack marshals, who between them kept the units pair of jacks (a Nomad called Bad Cat and an old Talon nicknamed the Scarecrow) operational night and day.

The garrison's commander, under Jardon, was an irritatingly young and mopy thing named Sansa, whose professionalism was matched only by her pessimism, and who was one of the few subordinates he considered a friend.

He told her what the Cryxian had said. Unsurprisingly, she considered it a prelude to the apocalypse.

"I'm always telling ya" her voice rolled out, dull and low, "one day they'll come after us. Damn gravediggers won't let this meat locker just rest."

He nodded curtly, dismissing her rather more abrubtly than he'd ordinarily like to. Fact was, he was a little bit weirded out by 258's speech. He couldn't remember the man ever communicating before. After the meeting with the visitor from the surface he'd have to ask around among the old timers. Maybe someone could think of a parallel case. It would take a lot of the strain off his mind.

He left his inspection disquieted, disturbed on some fundamental level. It fell to Sansa to dismiss the men of Central sector (which was where they'd finished up), but he knew she'd manage with ease. If she had a fault it lay in her communications with her superiors, she related to her subordinates with the instinctive ease of one who'd risen through the ranks. His vexation was unrelated to the troops. Their slackness and fatigue was nothing knew.

It was a crystallization of several things. The Cryxian's sudden loquacity, the world's changing face, the endless fatigue...it added up. He was disturbed as a locust is disturbed when winter approaches. He hated the tedium, warred with it and wrestled it at every opportunity, yet facing an uncertain future he found himself wishing for his ordinary routine. Routine didn't hurt. It numbed, but that made him sigh. The future that was coming, he was sure, would make him scream.

[Walter]

Meetings with surfacers always made the jailer conscious of the eroding effect that the jail had upon him. This occurred regardless of the context of the meeting. If he met a fat one, he realized such a man could not exist below. If he met a thin one, it brought to mind the gruesome sicknesses that thrived within the lightless underland. And so forth. This meeting was no exception.

Senior Lt. Raul Cransick was a model soldier, professional and diligent to a fault. He would never have been posted to the Pit. Such men broke here. Jardon should know. He was such a man. He'd broken here.

They exchanged formal greetings, the jailor taking care to match the precision and formality of the other man's salute. Small talk followed, a nearly formalized exchange. He heard the news, all of it bad.

Cygnar and Khador doing battle in the east, the Thornwood lost, the Garrison at Felig reinforced, Cryxian forces raiding from hidden bases. Dire news, all of it. It brought home how very isolated he was in the Pit. The last news he'd had had been of the heroic defense of Northguard by their Cygnaran brethren. Now it was fallen, heroics futile in the face of Khadoran force.

He delivered the prison paperwork, tucked among it Four Thirteen's petition for clemancy. He felt instinctively that wherever it went astray each year, Lt. Cransick had naught to do with it. They were about through, he was just about to ask his guest to sample the Pit's home made fungus cakes (a sure fire way of ending an appointment), when the ritual went astray.

"Additionally, I have a Notice of Recall." The Lt's gaze didin't flicker as he made this astonishing statement. To Jardon's knowledge the notion of a Recall was without precedent. "Prisoner 413. I am to take him with me on my departure."

He stared blankly at the man, then saluted once again, more to buy time for his thoughts to catch up than because he was required to. "It'll take a moment to bring him to Central." he heard himself say. Cransick nodded.

He turned and left the room, thoughts whirling. Deliverance at last for his favorite prisoner. It was almost enough to let a man hope. He nearly skipped down the hall, an unaccustomed happiness radiating from the core of his being, warming his flesh and putting a grin on his face. The guards he past did double takes.

He paused a second later. It felt like the ground had rumbled slightly beneath him. He waited a second, dreading another rumbling, followed by the entombing shake of an earthquake. Nothing further occured, and he put it down to his good mood. He decided it had been his imagination.

It hadn't.

[Mercykiller]

Really digging this story, can't wait to read more!

[Walter]

He was passing through central, when he heard the screaming.

Agonized, high pitched and grating, it was the dying wail of the adult human male. He'd heard it in battle before he transferred to the Pit.

A less experienced marshal would have put it down to a prison brawl, or perhaps a guard being taken by his charges and experiencing their longed for revenge, but Jardon had no such illusions. The men in the west wing had been set upon by an overwhelming force. Such screams as issued forth had nothing of combat, nothing of hope or courage. They were simply the last noises of a being entering the infinite in the midst of great suffering.

The Grenadiers responded with commendable swiftness, taking firing positions covering the western entrance and looking to him for orders. It was one of the harder calls he'd ever had to make.

Every one of his instincts screamed at him to call for them to drop the deadman's switch and seal off the west wing. No one was going to live through whatever was happening there, and it would buy them enough time to get out via the central stare. Every one of his instincts, however, could not over come his sworn duty.

His oath bound him, compelled him to risk the many for the few. It was not a soldier's oath, but his vow to Morrow, made long ago and of his own volition. He couldn't turn aside from the felon's of the west wing, or any of his men who might be alive. He pointed to the First Grenadiers.

"With Me!" he roared, and rushed towards the deadman's gate. They formed behind him, while the Second shifted to take over their positions. He paused long enough to ensure that messengers were dispatched to the remainder of the prison. The sound might not have carried to the other wings, and he had a gut feeling he'd need all his men for this.

His hands didn't trembled as he unlocked the gate. He was the second man in when it rose, clanking and trembling due to the unlocking machinery's age. He had the brief impression that the machinery of the place had inherited the spasms he was suppressing by will alone, then banished idle reflection as he passed through the Gap.

It was as though Urcaen itself had come entered the western wing. He'd anticipated having to push through several corridors before he encountered the disturbance, but scarcely had he made it through the gate when he saw figures rushing at him. They were dark and heavy set, all but invisible in the gloom. The wing must have been fully secured before they permitted a sound to be made, allowing them to set this trap.

The man ahead of him ducked a heavy punch, but caught the followup strike on his buckler and fell like a shoved statue. The Grenadiers armor was stout, for a man to take a hit like that and drop spoke to a tremendous strength on the enemy's part. He didn't give it a chance to exhibit it again, striking the figure with a blow of his heavy jailor's maul before it could recover from it's attack.

Two shapes rushed at him, swinging their clubbing arms, and his experience carried him through. Rather than attempting to parry he dashed aside, shoving into another shape he hadn't even seen and bowling it over as the Grenadiers pushed into engage the enemy. The touch of the foe was cold and slimy, and the one he'd jostled reached for him with heavy metal gloves.

He was saved once again by his training. He'd have no time for a blow of the maul, but with a short jab of the long handle he had both time and range. He thumped it in the belly, and it's grasping arms, fell, their owner robbed momentarily of the leverage necessary for such a maneuver. A shot went off, next to him and slightly low, as one of the Grenadiers put a round into the enemy.

Jardon leaped forward into the foe's midst, swinging a monstrous two handed stroke as the enemy turned to react. He didn't hit any of the enemy, but at least two had their attention stolen by his breach of the line, and were struck down by their Ordic adversaries. His battle cry filled the darkness and he feigned another charge, then gasped and fell.

One of the fallen foe clutched his ankle in a grip of steel, in an instant it's iron hands would tighten and he'd be a cripple. He had but one chance, and Morrow smiled on him as his kick found it's target, heavy jailor's boots shattering the face and head of his enemy.

A Grenadier tripped over him, the man was backing up from some onslaught and hadn't seen him beneath. More than likely he was in fact on his way to rescue the head jailor, and had simply missed his way in the gloom. Whatever the reason, his tumble saved Jardon's life, as a bullet intended for him struck the soldier instead, but did not pass through.

He leapt upright, struggling a second to pull his foot from the foe's death grip, and cried aloud the retreat. They had to get out of this trap, get back to their prepared positions. Friendly hands pulled him back as they withdrew towards the door. Another bullet smacked into the wall beside him.

As they fell back into the central chamber, pursued and overrun by an avalanche of the foe, Jardon got his first good look at the attackers. They were wasted and pallid creatures, stumbling and smashing with animated enthusiasm. Corpses of men long dead, or constructs of familiar minerals and wooden shapes, now turned to the purposes of the Nightmare Empire.

[Walter]

There is a rhythm to battle, a certain cadence that every fighting man learns to anticipate and understand. Right from the first, the Cryxian forces defied that pattern.

Typically, on bursting into an enemy's fortified position, there'd be an instant's pause, as the attackers sized up their foes, a grain of sand falling in an hourglass, the beat of a sparrow's wings, a heart's frenzied beat. Something. The thralls came on with preposterous speed, without the slightest pause or hesitation.

It betokened supreme confidence on the part of their commanding authority, no, more than that. It was the actions of a commander careless with his assets, a force certain of it's own supremacy. A leader to whom victory is more than a foregone conclusion, and struggle merely the disagreeable prelude to a triumphal parade. Where the usual flow of a battle mirrors that of a life and death struggle, the thralls moved instead to the cadence of the rapist.

The roar of the Second Grenadier's rifles jolted Jardon from his reveree, the pair of Thralls attacking him falling like dropped tools, their limbs heavy and clanking. He fell back and took a place in the firing line, then darted instinctively into the press again, at the sight of a fallen comrade.

The guard had been neatly crippled, a Mechanithralls viselike grip closing over his shin and powdering the bones within, and he lay like a corpse himself. The chief jailor dove forward, sword flashing, as the brutish thrall above him lifted clenched fists above its head like a boxer accepting his belt, preparing to swing them down and crush the life from the injured man.

It was the cleanest cut of his life, a long horizontal swing with both hands and all his will behind it. It was a tree cutting stroke, like a man swings at a practice dummy. No living man could have failed to duck beneath it's arc, but the thrall knew nothing of self preservation, and had eyes for none save it's target. The blade passed through it's left arm, it's skull, and it's right arm, neatly severing all three extremities in a picture perfect instant of violence.

Jardon had no time to savor his success, he dropped quickly to one knee and hoisted his man, his life saved by accurate covering fire from Second Squad, and ran back towards the line. His mind outraced him. Once he was back in the ranks he'd have to relinquish frontal command and take charge of the rallying of the ranks. They'd need every man for-

Cransick stood before him, standing out in his surfacer uniform among the drab Grenadiers. He aimed a handcannon directly at the jailor's skull and roared "DOWN!". A younger man would have died, but Jardon's body reacted with the reflexes earned in the Thornwood, and he and his limp passenger sailed to the floor the merest whisker before the enormous weapon roared.

Without looking back the chief jailor sprang into the ranks and past the Lt, exchanging a meaningful glance as he did. As he did so the Marshalls finished their work, and Bad Cat and the Scarecrow plunged into the melee. He'd have to hope that jack superiority would turn the tide, or at least hold back the foe. Right now, the only priority had to be the gathering and concentrating of his force, and above all the activation of the deadman's switch. If he'd read the man a-right, Raul would hold the line as well as he could.

He dashed across the room towards the lever, already pulling the Warden's Key which would allow him to activate the device. He prayed that the fighting hadn't damaged the drop mechanism. If it had, the switch's name would be grimly literal.

[Walter]

A scream echoed from behind the Warden, a man's soul chilling wail. He gritted his teeth and kept up his sprint, resisting the temptation to turn and see which of his men had fallen. If he didn't activate the gate they'd all be screaming soon.

He reached the device and fumbled with the key, cursing his old fingers for a heated second before he slammed it home. With a might wrench he pulled the activation lever and whirled about, gazing upon a battlefield he'd abandoned for mere seconds.

He was appalled at the outcome. The thralls were all over his men, the Grenadiers slashing and hacking at the foe in melee combat instead of firing their weapons. They'd simply pushed through the volley, numbers overcoming their losses with the remorseless and timeless power of attrition.

Raul was down, a black blade jutting straight up from his chest as he lay prostrate. It must have been he who had screamed, for the blade was drinking blood and soul before Jardon's horrified gaze. Even as he completed his turn it rose on phantom wings, and flew back into the darkness beneath the gate.

The only sign of hope was the carnage wrought by the jacks. The Scarecrow swung a battered but serviceable battle glaive through it's foe, the unfeeling metal pulping the thralls without ceremony or delay. Bad Cat's ancient cortex had a predatory spirit, and beneath the ministrations of the Marshalls it pounced and stalked among the enemy, bringing the larger thralls to earth with dashing elan and an almost palpable pleasure.

Their reign was about to end, however, as the Cryxlight swelled. Beneath the gate Jardon could see the approach of a monstrous helljack, digging claws glimmering with the cold green flame. Other's followed it's approach, at least a half dozen emerging from the walls of the West wing with a ground eating tread that brought to mind the very progression of death itself. Among them walked a shrouded figure, mansized and shrouded in darkness catching the midnight blade with a warrior's grace.

All this the warden took in in an instant's horrified glance. The gate began to fall, then halted, arrested in it's fall by damage done to the archway moments ago. Perhaps an errant strike, or perhaps cryxian deviltry, but for whatever reason the gate halted in it's downward plummet.

Jardon swore and moved back into the hopeless battle. It was easier for him than it had been to charge the gate, but only by a little. He told himself that he had naught to fear. He had tried to do his duty. No more could be asked.

It was left to another to be the hero of the hour. Bran Tander, deep in the Marshall's trance, saw the situation as well as his mentor did, and was in considerably better position to take action. A burst of thought and the Scarecrow wound up it's weapon. A thrall's suicidal assault delayed matters a second, but then the jack was clear.

It was a moment of sublime connection for Bran, he felt like a Warcaster, unconsciously moving his flesh in imitation of the jack's mighty throw. The spear soared through the air clumsily and gracelessly, it was a weapon meant for the cut and thrust of melee combat, but it struck it's target as desired.

The helljack beneath the gate had brought it's scything arms up and taken a step back as the mighty spear had flown, its controller's despicable cowardice overcoming it for a moment, and it lost the chance to pluck the weapon from the air.

The spear struck the gate with a deafening clang, which was lost in the crash as the enormous deadman's portal, jarred from it's catch by the impact, crashed to earth and sealed off the western hallways.

The next several moments were touch and go, but mostly touch. The troops from the rest of the facility were arriving in a flood, and the thralls had been cut off from their reinforcements. Jardon led them in cutting down the monsters.

"Get the prisoners, we need to get out of here" he gasped, even as the last thrall fell. His men needed no encouragement, already bolting to begin organizing the evacuation. He sat down heavily, panting from the unaccustomed exertion of battle. Truthfully, all his exercises couldn't compare for the frenzied expenditure of energy that went with a of a life or death struggle.

"And hurry" he added with a sudden shunt of fear. "They dug a long way to get here, I doubt the gate will hold them for more than a moment or two"

As though to emphasize his point, the ebon blade suddenly emerged from the iron wall and swiftly, like a bread knife in it's proper employment, began to saw through the gate.

[Spooker]

Wow.!

I really enjoyed that. Please keep writing.


Take care

[Walter]

Prisoner 409 had always given Jardon more than her fair share of difficulty. It wasn't that she was troublesome. Far from it. She was among the most obedient and cooperative of his detainee's. This was the source of the difficulty.

Her arrest positively reeked of the political. She'd been drummed out of the military and into the Pit on charges that were, to any who knew her, preposterous. According to the text of the file she was fiend from the blackest pit. In Jardon's experience, she was a model soldier.

Her story was a simple one, far from uncommon save in the severity of her censure. She'd fallen for the advances of a social superior, and then she'd gotten with child and not had the good grace to vanish. The General had pulled some strings, and voila, her incarceration.

This ran through his head as he saw her in the line with the others, filing along towards the staircases under the shouted commands of the guards, needing no urging to race for their lives. His duty was clear.

The old General's reach was long indeed. 409 was under a Black Order, the only such prisoner currently in the Pit. Should the enemy take the structure, or a riot occur which threatened his command, he had orders that she was not to survive the evacuation. He had even received word, indirectly of course, that perhaps he should execute the order even in the absence of such occurrence. A despicable suggestion, and made in such a way that it could not be verified, it's very existence evidence of the rot that ran rampant through Ordic forces.

He drifted to the head of the stairs, standing sentry over each of the prisoners as they approached, drawing his short stabbing blade. He'd lived a long life, but never once had he shirked from a task just because it was unpleasant.

So focused on her approach was he that the iron limbs which seized him from behind caught him utterly by surprise. He was lifted into the air and spun rapidly, then set down again to the sound of riotous laughter.

He spun about to face his assailant, and found himself staring into the grinning mug of his resident warcaster. Jubiliation shone from every pore. At a time like this, under siege by the Nightmare Empire, trapped below the earth, the erstwhile prisoner was grinning like a madman.

"You've heard of your Notice of Recall, then?" he asked drily. It wasn't really a question. An enthusiastic headshake was the only response, whether because 413's emotions were too strong to permit speech or because he simply had nothing to add was unclear.

In the commotion he caught sight of 409, sliding along in the line with the rest. He'd missed his chance, if he'd ever really inteneded to take it. He turned his attention back to the Warcaster.

"You've chosen quite a moment to return to active duty. Our position is untenable, flanked by burrowing foes we are penned in the depths of the earth. Our evacuation is uncertain, our ability to hold another assault frankly dubious. Our-" he cut off, seeing from his conversational partner's unflagging grin that he was making no impression.

"I think you might be underrating out chances. We are honest soldiers of a sovereign nation, our foe are consumed by the weaknesses of their character. Virtue will triumph over vice." The words were shouted over the bustle of the evacuation, but somehow came across as solemn statements.

"That's all very well" Jardon responded, unimpressed, "but-" he found himself addressing the back of the warcaster's head.413 was striding back towards the deadman's gate, pausing only to grab a makeshift club from a thrall's corpse."

The dark sword had nearly completed it's circuit, a slow and menacing saw through the gate. If the circle it was cutting had been a clock it would be nearing midnight, when the gate would fall through and the enemy would once again swarm upon them.

The Ordic warcaster raced towards the gate along a forked path, coming right along the wall, close enough to touch it. He arrived just before the blade reached it's own trail, moving at a sprint and with monstrous momentum.

Jardon's heart caught in his throat, even as a chuckle forced it's way past his lips as he saw what was intended. With a mighty leap four thirteen struck at the blade with every bit of force he could deliver. The rude club snapped in half, unequal to such a task.

For a moment the former inmate's body obscured the outcome, then he stepped aside with a wide grin. The blade, stressed in a way it was never designed to be, had simply snapped off at the point where it protruded from the door. The shard spun across the floor, bleeding darkness like a severed limb sheds blood.

The old jailer shook his head ruefully. "Now, why didn't I think of that?"

[Spooker]

Excellent.
I am really enjoying your story.

[Turbulence]

This has been a great read so far! Actually makes me want to start writing some warmachine fiction again. I'm really enjoying this.

[Spooker]

I miss your stories Turbo. They are excellent!

Take care.

[Walter]

[Hey guys, sorry for the delay. I've been at Adepticon, and boy, was that a crazy time. Without further delay, here's the next piece of the story.]

There was no question whatsoever in Jardon's mind where the most dangerous position in the evacuation would be. The foe might flank them by burrowing, or be assailing the surface facility even now, but their main force had been committed to the west wing, and as soon as they made it through the gates they'd be on the heels of their prey like vile hounds.

Thus, he committed his strongest forces to the rearguard. It wasn't vain heroics, not the youngster's desire for glory rearing it's head once again in a man old enough to know better, it was the simple call of plain necessity. This he told himself as he took his place at the back. A moment later, he voiced a silent plea to Morrow for forgiveness. The faithful were enjoined to refrain from deception, even to themselves.

Being honest with himself, he was among the rearguard because he couldn't forgive himself if those under his charge fell while he did naught to prevent it. He couldn't deny himself the chance to defend his countrymen, couldn't hustle along to safety while others fell to buy him that chance. It wasn't the way he was made. But still, that wasn't the most important reason.

The truth of the matter was that he knew that Prisoner of Consequence 413, Solomon, 'Sunrise', Brucker himself, would be there, and that fighting alongside that man was the safest place to be. More, it was the 'right' place to be.

He drifted back along the stair, urging the men to hurry and the chastening the prisoners along, until he found himself among the rear guard. Bad Cat had been sent up along with it's Jack wardens, but he was unsurprised to see that the Scarecrow had been transferred to Solomon's control. Apparently the warcaster had gotten to know the garrison during his incarceration, and they'd a plan in case something along these lines broke out. He wasn't terribly surprised.

Alongside the jack and the caster he was somewhat surprised at the number of men who had taken the opportunity to form up and do battle. The Grenadier's remnant were a given, certainly, but a surprising number of the regular garrison, a squad or more, had found their way back here. Sansa, naturally, was in command.

She gave a laconic salute as he approached, then turned her head back to the tunnel behind them. They were slowly backing their way up, pace constrained by the prisoner's general physical impairment. Confinement below the earth had rendered many of them incapable of swift movement, understandably enough.

"The pounding stopped a moment ago, Old Man, they'll be on us in a moment here." She used the nickname that he'd picked up sometime in his first year on the job. "Best leave things be, you'll be needed once we get to the surface."

Jardon snorted. "I'm needed right now." He settled in alongside her, making distance to use his maul. "You are supposed to be inspecting the East Wing cell. I'm going to have to note your truancy in your file." He scanned the darkness as he spoke.

She chuckled. "You do that, Warden. But you'll have to cite yourself first, I seem to recall that evacuation priority was supposed to be Guards first, prisoners to be left behind."

He'd actually forgotten that soulless order. He'd taken one look at the official evacuation plans his first day on the job, and used it to mop up a mess of spilled fruit juice later in the day. "Guess that makes this a breakout."

Solomon spoke, for the first time since he'd joined the rearguard. "Actually, you know, it probably is, at that."

[Walter]

They looked, askance.

Solomon continued. "I've been thinking about the enemy's movements, and the only way that this makes sense is as a jailbreak." His face pulled together like a dying spider as he related this speculation, an emotion that Jardon hadn't seen in all his years of captivity. Uncertainty, perhaps?

Sansa concurred. "Yeah, if they were just looking to destroy the jail they could have just burrowed into the supports, crushed us all beneath the ground." She looked around apprehensively as she spoke, her innate pessimism no doubt gnawing at her resolve.

Jardon shook his head. "I'm not so certain that we can ascribe ordinary human motivations to our foes." He paused, at a loss for words, then continued. "What you say would make sense if they were any other enemy, but I'd be wary of seeing too much of our own reasoning in the minions of the Dragon. There might be any number of factors behind their choice of tactics. Maybe they just wanted mostly intact bodies?"

He'd learned, long ago on the Khadoran front, not to be too quick to second guess the enemy. He recalled a young officer's presumption that the Khadoran conscripts would happily desert the military that oppressed them. He shook his head at the memory. No wonder he'd ended up working in the Pit.

The warcaster spoke again, eyes never leaving the gloom below. "As you say, Warden. But they breached the gate some time ago, and I've seen no sign of pursuit. That would suggest that their objective remains below, would it not?"

Jardon saw where this was going. "If you are suggesting-"

"So, our duty as loyal members of the armed forces is to deny the enemy their objective, right?". The old jailer knew that his ex prisoner didn't intend to simply speak over him, it was just that there was a certain ponderous inevitability to his thinking, and he didn't stop speaking until he'd gotten it all out.

Sansa wasn't so phlegmatic. "Are you crazy, Prisoner? You want to go back down there?" She cocked an eyebrow and stared at Jardon obviously and frankly incredulous.

There wasn't a subtle bone in the Warcaster's body. You could actually watch him preparing the "No but it's my duty speech", then see him check himself. Instead he simply looked back at the pair of them and said "Yep".

[Spooker]

Excellent.

More, when you have the time.

Take care.

[Walter]

Side by side, the trio pressed back down into the gloom.

Their departure had been without ceremony, a whispered command from Jardon to the rearguard had seen them slip quietly down the stairs, unfollowed by prisoner or warden. It had taken the old jailer a moment to reconcile his abandonment of his charge with duty, but his current belief was that the enemy would be found below. So long as he remained between peril and his wards, he could not fault himself too fiercely.

For his part, he found himself gripped by a sense of excitement long absent. It wasn't simply the thrill of action after a long abatement, this was deeper. It reeked of the divine, the blessing of his God. How rare are the times in a man's life, how precious, when he can say without hesitation or doubt, without the possibility of refutement, that he is doing the right thing. He felt the approval of Morrow within, a certainty, an ineffable sensation. He was a tool in the hand of one who was more than mortal, a hand that would not slip.

Sansa, by contrast, appeared riddled with doubt. She glanced up the stairs, into every crevice and chasm. She'd always been a dour creature, now she seemed on the verge of panic. The invasion of the monsters of the Nightmare isle had transformed her from jailer to prisoner, if only of fear. Her paranoid soul whispered within her, demanding a sense of safety that was simply not in the offing. Alone of the three she clutched her weapon, carrying a blade before her where the other two bore torches. Jardon thought to comment on it, but something deflected his impulse. Perhaps it was a reverence for the silence.

Solomon Brucker moved with an obvious excitement. Taking steps two or three at a time with a released prisoner's enthusiasm and verve. He looked for all the world as though they descended into the earth to pick up treasures, or receive the adulation of the masses. Unless you knew the man the last thing you'd associate his demeanor with was a prelude to battle with a vile foe. If you knew the man, you'd guess that immediately.

Their encounter was almost an anti-climax. Jardon had been steeling his nerves for another of the sudden rushes from the night which had characterized his earlier battle. He was prepared to lash out with the torch, to leap into the enemy or to fall back, as their numbers dictated. Instead, they ran into the foe in a far more typical fashion.

At the bottom of the stairs, in the same defensive position initially occupied by the Ordic forces, the enemy had left a platoon of their vile thralls, ten in number. They didn't lurk in the shadows, didn't dart about or hide, they simply stood. Obedient to whatever commanded them, Jardon had no doubt they would so stand until they rotted.

He half expected Solomon to simply run towards the enemy, torch waving, and he wasn't that far off. Before they moved out, however, the Warcaster moved his hands in a curt gesture and said something under his breathe. Jardon felt the power surge and recede, he was no sensitive, but neither was Brucker terribly subtle. He'd ensorceled the trio, and, that done, he fulfilled the Jailer's expectation, leading them down the last stairs and straight into the enemy's midst.

The enemy's ***** lack of motion came to an end the instant a living being set foot off of the stairs. Too late it occurred to the warden that they might have been able to simply pick the thralls off from beyond their instructed range. He cursed softly, breaking at last the unnatural stillness that had gripped them, and nearly costing Sansa her life as her head snapped around to bring him into her sight.

As the first thrall approached him Jardon discovered what the Warcaster's spell had done. He felt the enemy's potential, could visualize the path's its attacks could take and pick and choose his responses with a master's calm and precision. The theurgy bestowed upon the trio the defensive prowess of master duelist's. He quelled the concern that he felt at the thought of a man manipulating such power without the mitigating power of the traditional Warcaster armor. Then he had no time for such thoughts, for the battle was upon him.

His foe struck at him with it's left arm, and ranging hook intended to draw a response, not on a trajectory to actually strike. With his enhanced perceptions he ignored it completely, bringing his torch up in a two handed blow to the enemy's grinning skull, a shower of embers lighting the air as the thrall toppled into the embrace of it's compatriots.

A pair of the animated corpses had been following closely on the heels of his first opponent, and it's toppling form hampered one of their approach, and let him take on the next one without interference. He needed the time, as it wasted no time with preliminaries. It attacked with a pair of blows, one high and one low, and while the jailer's perceptions were enhanced his old body lacked the flexibility necessary to counterstrike and avoid injury. He was forced to step back, giving ground and waiting his chance.

As he stepped away he saw a bright flash from Solomon's position at the front of the wedge, and a pair of thralls toppled back, singed and smoking. The blast had been poorly controlled however, and the unarmored caster was caught in it's backdraft, tossed like a ragdoll to the ground.

Jardon had no more time to observe his comrade's plight, however, as the pair advanced together. He strode into their reach before he could question the impulses of the enchantment, and watched in amazement as the left hand foe's hook intercepted the back of it's comrade, blasting through the corpse's back with a spine shattering crack. He took advantage of it's impaired balance with a torch thrust to the chest which set the creature ablaze.

Suddenly, and without visible cause, everything seemed to speed up. The blazing thrall rushed towards him, and his suddenly unaided perceptions told him naught. It's arms spread wide, flames halo-ing it's attacks like a rippling vestment, and a sharp steel tongue protruded from it's skull.

It slumped limply forward, the "tongue" revealed as Sansa's blade. She stood behind the thrall, the rest of the enemy were crumpled and scattered about, felled and shattered by spell and steel. His glad smile was cut short as she made a curt gesture over her shoulder, to where Prisoner of Consequence 413 lay still and silent.

[Spooker]

Very good read. Keep it coming.

Take care.

[Walter]

The weight of a man's life never felt as heavy as it ought to.

In his time, Jardon had borne plenty of injured out of danger. It was one of his first impulses after a fight, to remove the wounded. Temple trained. He was no stranger to hefting and moving an injured comrade.

But it never felt right.

The weight that you carried could as easily have been a sack of grain, a particularly heavy piece of furniture. It didn't hint at the history you shared with your load, didn't droop with the strain of carrying those moments and memories. There was nothing unique about the experience, nothing to scream that another thinking and living being depended on you. It was an undertaking whose difficulty didn't correlate with it's significance, a task dwarfed by it's own moment.

Solomon should have been an insupportable burden. He always carried with him a profound sense of purpose, as though he alone was fixed within an orbiting and whirling world. His certainty was entirely unshakable, and it rendered him, whether prisoner or warcaster, the undisputed center of any situation. Stripped of that certainty, it felt as though the jailer was bearing another man entirely. Just a body, nothing of consequence.

With Sansa's assistance he lugged his old friend up the stairs, nearly as fast as they'd descended. They moved rapidly, supporting the man between them with weapon's sheathed. Speed was their shield now, speed and the gnawing certainty that the enemy had no interest in the pursuit. The guards, though destroyed, had turned them back, done their job.

Failure was galling. Whatever the Cryxian purpose was, they were achieving it even now. If Brucker could speak, he'd demand that they leave him and continue on. Maybe that was what a hero would do. Jardon didn't care. There would be more thralls below, jacks and whatever the black swordsman was. He was a soldier, and soldiers didn't advance unsupported into such odds. More, he was a man, and a man didn't leave another man alone in the dark.

Beside him, Sansa seemed calmer than before. Perhaps because she was moving away from the danger. Perhaps because she'd acquitted herself masterfully in the brief engagement. For whatever reason, she moved with the calm purpose that he'd displayed earlier. Now it was Jardon who continually cast nervous glances below.

He didn't really expect to see anything. The enemy had no motive to follow. They'd left the stair alone because their goal was below. Surely a trio of guards too stupid to quit wouldn't be chased. They had no call to follow after. He was sure of it.

They were halfway to the surface when he saw the cryxlight behind them, heard the trampling stomp of the helljack's iron feet. They had just another four flights to go, but at the rate it was going, the war machine would be upon them in 2.

He shared a glance with his subordinate, looked to the caster in hopes of a last minute rescue, and then they continued, increasing their pace as much as was feasible. He stopped glancing behind. There was nothing they could do to a heavy jack anyway, no use in fighting. They'd live or die by speed alone.

Too bad it wouldn't be enough.

[Walter]

It would have been bad enough if the tread of the Helljack had been regular. If it's pounding beats had been solemn and inevitable, emphasizing the awesome power leashed within it and deriding the feeble men who raced away. Such a tread would have brought despair.

The enemy jack, however, accelerated rapidly as it launched into a growling, slavering, rush. It would be upon them in moments, claws and iron and hellfire and all. Jardon threw the trio down, hoping that the fiend would continue up the middle of the steps, perhaps missing the frail humans in it's frantic race to the surface.

No such luck. The pain of their impact upon the cold stone had scarcely had a chance to sear itself across their minds when the massive war machine came to a stop directly above them. Jardon and Solomon slumped against the stone, the jailer drained by age and fatigue and the warcaster unconscious, as Sansa faced off with the jack.

Her earlier terror appeared to have left her entirely, and she struck without fear at the engine. Jardon had once heard her boast that she'd trained with the Cygnaran Sword Knights, legendary dismantlers of jacks, and it appeared now that her boasting was not without merit. She struck twisting, scoring blows, not cutting against the helljack's plates, but gouging and thrusting into the hollows of it's dark interior, along the angles no larger weapon could penetrate.

For all her valor, however, the damage inflicted was insignificant. Her blows had fallen upon the joints of it's left hellclaw, but even as their impact began to show it was retaliating with the right. A massive horizontal sweep, far faster than such a hulking creation should ever be capable of, ripped the air apart.

On level ground, Sansa would have died in that instant. The parameters of Cryxian jack's anti-infantry attacks were well adjusted, and her response was entirely within it's understanding. The slash covered knee to shoulder, nothing a human could duck under or leap above. It was only the added height differential of the stair that made her bold maneuver function.

Sansa leaped. From a standing start she cleared the claw, displaying an agility he'd no idea she possessed, and landed safe and sound upon the other side, blade never pausing or letting as her series of precise attacks continued. Her blade passed over over the arm as it drew back, then cut deep into a hip and withdrew as she backed up.

A monstrous howl erupted from the maddened jack, and within it Jardon could hear the souls of the Cryxen. It was a sound of futility and wrenching despair, a horrifying bellow that cursed the world of men. Enraged by her momentary escape, the beast drew back both arms, and prepared to trample the jailer into paste.

Jardon, only now regaining his feet, turned his gaze away from the monster and the darkness, and looked up the tunnel. Dying here, in the Pit, was fitting for him. The darkness had claimed him so long, sucking away his vitality and hope. Now it wouldn't let him leave. Of course not, he'd been a fool to expect it. At least he'd die looking up, facing the-

Scarecrow?

[11on2d6]

Just read to this point, and im hooked. I like your narrative style, you shift from 1stperson to little anecdotes in third person well, it makes for good little cliff hangers. My only criticism is in an extended piece it becomes predictable, but that in itself builds anticipation and dramatic import so is not wholly a criticism and more of an observation

So far, very nice. Cant wait for more.

[Walter]

The Scarecrow's descent mirrored the fragmented impulse that had beckoned it. It was calamitous and uncontrolled. Jardon had heard the expression "louder than a warjack falling down a staircase" before, but he'd never understood it for the hyperbole it was.

The sound of the old Talon's tumble was beyond noise, it went deep into his bones, bounced his mind across flashes of memory and impulse and left him whimpering and confused. The sound of it's collision with the Helljack surpassed it fourfold.

He glimpsed Sansa frantically dodging it's discarded, tumbling, lance. He glimpsed men with torches hard on the heels of the jack, their haste betraying a supreme urgency. He glimpsed the Helljack's raised arms, left one shuddering and slow, as the multiton bulk impacted.

It was too much for his aged mind to tolerate. His hands splayed, his eyes rolled back, and he slumped beside his precious burden, unconscious on the cold stone.

[Walter]

He drifted back into consciousness like a derelict vessel, slowly and painfully, with man shuddering collisions with unseen hazards.

Oddly, his vision was the first thing to return to him, eyes focusing on a flickering fire that burned before him. Familiar faces surrounded the fire, several of them looking his way with smiles. He tried to smile back, and found to his vague surprise that his mouth obeyed the impulses of his soul. He smiled.

As one his audience recoiled in horror, and he moved his arms, first thrusting off a confining blanket, to his face to discover the source of their disquiet. He was relieved to find that he was simply missing some teeth. From Sansa's (yes, that was her name!) expression he'd imagined something far more dire. As he was musing on this topic he found his hearing returning as well, and felt the first bits of pain from his battered form.

"-doing all right sir?" he heard a man inquire. He turned and saw Bran sitting beside him, the young jack marshal solicitously handing him a flask of something or other. He turned it away with an outstretched hand and consciously flexed his body, searching for damage.

He was aggravatingly unscathed. All his life he'd presumed that abject folly would be amply rewarded and here it seemed that the Powers that Be were giving him a free pass. He inwardly thanked Morrow and felt the warmth of his faith, flickering with a palpable heat he'd only noted previously in the presence of one man.

Turning his head still further he could see Solomon Brucker, seated at another fire and throwing back drinks with the lads. The Warcaster wasn't a huge man, but at this moment, silhouetted among comrades against a cold and uncaring night, he seemed to dominate the jailer's vision. He thanked Morrow again, with more feeling this time.

Sansa, seated on his other side, spoke up in her usual mournful tones. "Good to have you back, Sir." He nodded this time, feeling able to join the conversation again. He croaked a few times to clear his throat, then spoke with a wavering voice that gained strength as he proceeded.

"Bran, Sansa..."he faltered for a moment as his gaze passed over the other figures, then he continued "Darren, Lortan, Vulkis, what's our current status? Last thing I recall is being smashed in between two jacks as we fled up the stairs."

Bran answered. "You didn't miss all that much Sir, we scooped up the three of you and headed on out, fast as our legs could carry us."

He shook his head slowly, puzzled. "Then why are we camping? Where's the surface garrison...where's-"

Sansa spoke up, grim as ever. "Cryx sir. They've come in force."

[nealb]

wow! first time I have really read fan-fiction. This has really blown me away I actually laughed about Jardon smiling with missing teeth. This really makes the game, and imagery come alive right now in my mind. Fantastic, this is why I love fantasy!

[Walter]

Another figure spoke up. At first Jardon couldn't place him. He was naggingly familiar. "Well, you did miss one thing. A mass escape."

Bran shot the man a killing glare, then turned to his superior and said in a mollifying tone. "Nothing you could have done. When we got out of that tunnel and found what had happened to the surface force-"

He was interrupted. "What happened to our support? Were they killed? Missing? I have orders to report to a certain General in the event of this sort of situation. Was the fort intact?"

It was Sansa who responded. "You got it in one, Sir. They were killed. Less said the better. We stumbled on their remains, Cryxen work."

She continued to speak, doleful tones a match for the dire news. "We could see columns of smoke to the east, northeast and southwest. Some had that green tint you only get with Cryxen."

Jardon had a hard time following this, possibly due to his ringing head. "Wait, fire to the southwest? They are past the border? What of our...I don't know, the defenses? There's a war on to our east, for Morrow's sake, what were the border fortresses doing?"

The stranger spoke up again. "The enemy brought unmatchable warcaster superiority. Outpost eleven was hit by 4 casters at once. We could barely match them marshal for caster. It was a complete mismatch all along the lines."

The jailer focused on his conversational partner, noting now that his uniform wasn't the PIT's usual issue. He was a surfacer, one of the guards who he'd seen before on his reporting assignments. Must have survived whatever happened and joined up.

The man seemed to sense his discomfort. "I'm Jarl, aide to Colonel Lansen from Outposts Eleven and Twelve. I was searching for the garrison at your surface fort, not knowing they'd already been hit, when I ran into your troop."

Bran spoke up. "He helped us out in a dicey spot, too. The prisoners were fixing to take some payback before they split. A handcannon showing up behind them helped em find their heels, along with my bringing out Bad Cat."

Jarl nodded his acknowledgement, but Sansa spoke before he could continue. "Wouldn't have had this trouble if we didn't unshackle the prisoners." She glared ferociously at the distant form of Solomon. Bran heaved a long suffering sigh.

Before they could rehash what was obviously a sore point Jardon focused on the most important immediate consideration. "So, prisoners gone, but Mr. Brucker is up...what's our current combat effectiveness? Who do we have left?"

The fire crackled for a moment, highlighting the sudden silence. Then, all at once, they told him.

[Walter]

Jardon sat alone, pondering the information. His impromptu briefing concluded, the others had returned to the larger communal fire, leaving him with a pair of guards at his own request.

While an outside observer might imagine that he was planning strategy or determining a direction, Jardon was frankly overwhelmed. Until the outbreak his life had been a dreary slog towards the grave, his Deity's command placing him in a position so dreary, so grinding, that it eroded his very being. He'd imagined an end, pictured a hundred ever afters to his career in the Pit, but he'd never visualized anything like this.

It was easier for the rest, he imagined. Sansa and her ilk just had to take his orders, fight the good fight and fall where the enemy lay thickest. Morrow had charged them with nothing more than their own existences. The commander's lot was harder. He had to grapple with the situation, wrest victory from the seemingly insurmountable foe.

He looked away from their fire and into the woods. There seemed no doubt that the Cryxian incursion was no raid, no trick of stealth and night. The Dragonfather's wild children were loosed upon the world of men, and for the first time in recorded memory the light of day would shine upon the legions of Cryx, stark and undaunted by the revealing rays. The fact that the enemy felt no fear of discovery raised a primal terror, deep within his aged bones.

Jarl's news had all been bad. They'd brushed aside the perimeter defenses with a combination of contemptuous ease and ritual cruelty. Their tunnels, their magic, and over all else the sheer power that backed their movements lent them an unassailable superiority in mobility. Years and years of their probing raids had gifted the enemy with a deep understanding of their target region. Thus far it had proven an unstoppable combination.

At the second outpost an entire garrison had fallen prey to the enemy's magic. Three hooded figures had walked thrice around the walls, and as the sun fell the ramparts went down with it. At the fifth outpost Duke Bryce had briefly rallied the defenders, but a monstrous winged creature, fueled by the souls of the conflict had descended from the sky on tattered wings and devoured him before the eyes of his entourage powerless. Worst of all was the fate of the first outpost, the only one protected by a warcaster. It had simply been burned to the ground, and burned still. Jarl said that the Ordic caster's screams had not ceased even now, two days later. High command ascribed it to a quintet of enemy warcasters, but the troops whispered "Toruk".

Against the enemy's roving at will through the countryside his own forces were not quite so impressive. He had Solomon Brucker, a warcaster imprisoned for egregious failures, who had thus far been unable to defeat a unit of the enemy's most basic infantry. He had an amalgamated unit of Grenadiers and more basic troops, which ought to serve well enough. He had another unit of the more patriotic prisoners, who could best be described as irregular. He had Sansa, who was apparently a blademaster? Who knew? He had Bran and the old Nomad. Then there were another two prisoners who'd chosen to stay.

Tuvore Kithslayer was a troll notable for the fact that Ord was the only land he wasn't actually banned from. He'd been exiled from Khador after deserting their army, Cygnar after an incident with his kinsman and a patrol of the Third army, and Llael following a disastrous attempt at Regicide. He was a huge, ill tempered warrior, who had landed himself in the Pit after an entirely predictable brawl in an army town went against him.

Mayet Tath was a problem of a whole different stripe. She wasn't terribly dangerous, nor likely to disrupt things, but her crime would be a problem if Brucker found out about it. The woman was an outspoken Thamarite, whose fervent missionary work had ultimately wound up angering the wrong official. As far as he knew she was a fairly competent adventurer, and perhaps sorceress, but if she got to talking with Solomon one or both would wind up dead.

As though to think of him was to summon him, the Warcaster approached him. He looked up, resigned to a pep talk or some sort of sermon. With another man he'd have expected an apology, but Brucker wasn't built that way. He faced forward, at all times, past failures and past successes were equally immaterial.

"Jardon", the ex-prisoner's tones were soft, but emphatic, "I know where we have to go."

Jardon sighed. This ought to be good.

[Walter]

Much to his surprise, it was. Brucker's plan seemed forthright, sensible, and most importantly achievable.

"When I was interred, Sir, I had some little advance warning. I visited a local shrine, praying to our Patron to avert my fate. My prayers went unanswered, and now I perceive that they were selfishly voiced. I presumed to speak as commander of my fate and not-"

"Eh-hem", Jardon carefully cleared his throat. He knew Brucker of old, and when he got to feeling guilty he'd ramble on and on. Ordinarily he'd be glad to oblige with a listening ear, but they were pressed for time.

"Uh, yes. Sorry, the long and short of it is that I knew I had to attend the trial looking my best, so I borrowed some vestments from the ordinate of that shrine, and left behind my Warcaster armor. If it wasn't confiscated, it's likely still in there."

Jardon nodded thoughtfully. A fully equipped warcaster would be an immense advantage, not merely to their little group, but to the nation as well. It was a prize worth nearly any risk. Ord needed every son, now more than ever, if it was to survive this conflict. Most precious of all would be native warcasters, for those of other nations, Cygnar and Khador, would not doubt lend their aid only in return for influence, or outright surrender.

He spoke, turning the matter over in his mind. "I like this idea, Solomon. It's unlikely that the Cryxians would be garrisoning this shrine, hallowed ground is anathema to them, and it has no military significance. Further, your long incarceration has perhaps caused them to lose track of you, their scouting might not have told them where you cached your equipment."

Solomon nodded. "I'd feel a lot better with my armor about me, and my soul would be strengthened by a chance to undergo the rituals once more."

Jardon stood, admiring how neatly they'd skirted the truth of the matter. Cloaked behind duty, expediency, even patriotism was their ever present religious obligations. From the moment Brucker had told him that there was a Morrowan shrine nearby he'd known they would have to go there. The priesthood maintained such places as a refuge for the populace, precisely for times such as these. Any refugees in the area would have been drawn there like filings to a magnet, and such a place would need every defender that could be mustered.

On the other hand, he'd outright lied about the likelihood of finding the enemys. The refuge would draw the refugees, and the refugees would draw Cryx.

[nealb]

I thought this would just be a short story, its starting to turn into the start of a great book, and I am well and truly hoked. Cant wait to hear the next installment, it keeps me going on my uni work :-)

[Walter]

Jardon's bad mood vanished, along with the night.

As morning broke over their camp, he caught his first glimpse of the sunlight in years. He had to avert his gaze, the cleansing rays of dawn insanely piercing to one who had dwelt in the Pit. He turned his head, scrunching his face and blinking rapidly, self conscious before the outsider.

Among all of the company, only Jarl seemed unaffected by the onset of the day. Sansa cursed quietly under her breathe, shielding her face with a hand, while Brucker turned his back to the east and recited the Morning Prayer with a stentorian intonation. The company at large raised a ragged cheer, in which even the Trollblood participated.

As they broke camp, Jardon found himself unable to keep a grin from his lips. It felt selfish, to smile as his country faced it's most perilous hour, but the elation that he felt upon departing the jail demanded release. He'd longed for this moment, yearned for it on levels both conscious and beyond his self knowledge. It satisfied a deep seated need to stand once more in the light, as a man stands.

Their march was begun in a similar spirit. Nobody, not even the irregulars, could deny the improvement to morale that simple daylight had wrought. Jardon even had to quell Brucker's attempts to get the Grenadiers to march to the Ordic Anthem. In the bright light of day the perils of night, of Cryx, and the memory of the Pit seemed pale, wan, and entirely unworthy of consideration.

As the group moved out, Brucker gravitated to the rear, where he could observe the ebb and flow of communication among his makeshift column. Over the course of the morning, it was a revealing sight.

Brucker seemed to have adopted the irregulars, pacing among them and talking nonstop. From his gestures he was either telling fishing stories or exaggerating his prowess with the ladies. One way or the other, however, he drew laughs every other sentence. Perhaps it was his efforts at morale boosting, or perhaps something more mystical, but the Irregulars kept the pace without flagging, to Jardon's surprise.

The Grenadiers marched with unfailing pace and stout discipline, but their formation too hosted a stowaway, though in their case he matched the unit almost entirely. Bran Tander had joined their ranks after he transferred bad Cat to Brucker's battlegroup. With nothing to marshal he'd add his rifle and blade to the most powerful unit, putting his training to full use.

Bad Cat itself stomped steadily along behind them, battle blade stowed and hands filled with supplies scavenged from the wreckage of the surface facility. It had been a grim business, but a necessary one, and they'd all be glad of it before too long.

Riding it was another survivor, Jardon's own particular dilemma. The ill fated and beautiful 409, or Lasleen Touther, as she called herself above, had been assigned the interim duties of quartermaster. She seemed less buoyed by the change in surroundings, perhaps she'd been informed of the Black Order.

Alongside the Bad Cat, ever alone, walked the Kithslayer. Dour and solitary the scowling warrior alone yet bore his chains of captivity, though he'd snapped them in strategic areas so that they no longer hindered him. His only weapon was the ball and chain that had once hindered him, now revealed as a deadly flail. His gaze was fixed forward, his teeth ground, and his breath shuddered in and out.

Lastly there was the interim command structure, himself and his loyal escort. Sansa had simply attached herself to him, declaring dourly that after the stairway incident he couldn't be trusted to take care of himself. She'd simply ignored his orders to take command of the company, and he'd have found her presence somewhat comforting, were it not for their mutual companion.

Mayet had gravitated to their presence. He was tempted to suspect Thamarite ambition in her choice of the commanders as traveling partners, but it was more likely the fact that theirs was the most fitting place for an outsider to join the column. Whatever the reason for her original joining, she was unlikely to leave now. She and Sansa had struck up one of those inexplicable friendships that people of similar age and opposite natures sometimes form, and they gabbled away at one another like two birds all through the walk.

Such was their morning march, a pleasant stroll in the sunshine. A call from ahead put an end to it. They'd come to a clearing.

[11on2d6]

cool little section, I like the little analysis that was done on the characters, helps us readers identify with each of them a bit more. Only problem is...i got to the end

[Spooker]

Excellent, I really enjoy this story.

Please keep writing.

Take care

[Walter]

The woods gave way to a scene of utter abomination.

Jardon had thought that the Pit had numbed him, inured him to the depravities that mankind could inflict upon itself. For the most part, this was the case. What had come upon the occupants of this clearing was no man, however, and the depths of foulness that it had plumbed were blessedly beyond the reach of any of the prisoners that he'd ever incarcerated.

He had surmised that the populace would likely have headed for their destination in this time of crisis, and it appeared that his guess had been entirely accurate. However, the enemy intelligence had forseen this move, and appropriate forces had been lying in wait.

The wreckage and bodies which littered the grasses were too few in number to be titled a full fledged caravan. More of a proto-caravan, one of the streams of humanity which would flow together into the typical refugee diaspora. He'd seen their like, often enough, in his days of active duty. They were constantly displaced about the borders of Ord, Llael, Cygnar and Khador. The Iron Kingdoms seemed to spawn the desperate, the displaced and the hopeless. Each conflict was a tributary, each incident a seed of misery, and in his years within the earth the trend had only accelerated. Until now, that is.

He'd heard it said by a veteran once, a man who had worked with the Swans when their old King reigned. "Cryxan wars father no orphans." He'd not understood the old man then. Looking upon their work he felt he could at last comprehend it. Atrocity such as this left no one alive to mourn. The family's of the departed would rejoin them soon enough, as victims and as thralls in the enemy's host.

The wagons were in surprisingly good condition. It appeared to his practiced gaze that the occupants had emerged to do battle on the open grass, women and children too. Against this foe the civilians had understood that their was no such thing as a noncombatant. They'd left their possessions within, and there they yet waited, masterless now and bereft. Pitiful memorials of lives snuffed by the enemy's brutality.

The corpses came as a bit of a surprise. Perhaps the enemy's thrall needs had been met, perhaps even Toruk was glutted by the strife which engulfed the land. Or, more likely, the refugees had been insufficiently muscular to be worth the animation. For whatever reason the victims of the Nightmare Empire's raid had been left to rot where they fell, unmolested save for one odd detail.

The first faceless corpse had repulsed him, the second puzzled him. Were the enemy using some manner of acid, to scorch the skin from their victim's very visage? By the third and forth he had come to a grim understanding. Some entity, whether the enemy's commander or one of their number, had taken the trouble to revisit each carcass and carefully cut the flesh from the front of their skulls.

It rendered the scene before him oddly abstract. He hadn't realized how much he relied upon glimpses of a face to differentiate a man from the abstract shapes around him. Pull that away, leave just staring redness with glimpses of white, and the mind skips over it. The gaze moves past it and settles on the flies, or the horse bodies. He looked slowly around, half expecting to see the faces hanging from one of the trees, an Orgoth-like celebration of their enemy's diabolic cruelty.

No such savage totem caught his gaze. The faces remained resolutely absent, the atrocity before him plain and unapologetic. It felt offensive, vulgar, to be seeing such a thing in such a way. Cryxan atrocities of days past were answered by fierce reprisals, the forces responsible compelled to slink away by dark, lest their deeds be brought back to their accounting. Not so with this act.

The enemy's trail was clear and broad, unconcealed and unconcerned, as though they walked the dark soil of their island home. It cried aloud a message to the old jailer and his forces. "See," the violated land fairly shouted "See your future. See what comes. See, and know, and despair." Jardon cleared his throat and spat noisily.

He glanced at his companions, looked first to Brucker. At the expression on the warcaster's face he did a double take, then nodded in satisfaction. It was odd. He'd been a warden for years, seen Brucker's face more times than he could count. He thought he'd seen every expression in old Sunrise's arsenal. He had never seen him look like this.

The grim scowl, the flat gaze, the loose oddly open mouth. No jailer could mistake it. At one time or another almost every inmate displayed such a face. It was the face of a man resolute, a man who had deliberated, called the council of his conscience and weighed events within the chambers of his mind. A man who's heart was set upon his goal, unwaveringly fixed to a point that, come what may, would never waver.

Solomon Brucker gazed upon the enemy's work, and resolved to destroy them without mercy.

[Walter]

From the scene of carnage the band moved on, spirits dampened and hearts depressed.

The land seemed somehow to have lost it's color, to have taken on the Pit's lifeless character. There was no talk of singing now. The chatter which occurred was sullen and despondent, or fierce and swift. Faces were blank, gazes hard, and the whole of the band moved with weapons free.

There was a difference between comprehending that Cryxan forces were at large in the nation, and understanding it. The sight of their enemy's spoor had driven that understanding home to the members of Jardon's group, and robbed them of their ability to take joy in their release from the Pit.

Only Mayet seemed immune to the overall gloom, and she pressed Sansa and Jardon relentlessly with constant queries. Her voice was birdlike, high pitched and cheerful, Jardon found himself snapping his replies, perversely vexed that this slip of a girl was less affected by the sights behind than he.

"Yes" he replied, "I've known Brucker for quite some time now."

"Yes" he responded, "even before he was imprisoned."

"Yes" he answered, "we served together, back before the onset of the recent hostilities."

He noticed something odd, as they walked. Sansa had, in some moment when his attention had been diverted to the Thamarite, called the Ordic regulars over, and their trio had now practically joined the larger formation. This made far more evident the fact that his responses were the focus of all attention. He was about to remark on it when May cleared her throat.

"Oh, what's that?" He'd missed the last question. "Sorry, lass, my mind wanders."

"No worries, no worries, " she replied. "I was just asking what Solomon was sent away for?"

He looked over the assembled faces of the troops and sighed. That'd been what he thought she asked.

[Walter]

[Minor note to anyone who follows this story. It diverges from WM's official fluff right after Legends/Meta. When I plotted it out the force books hadn't been published yet.]

[Walter]

He paused for a moment, letting the beat of their trampling boots sound the tempo of the silence. He snuck a look out of the corner of his eye, verified that Brucker and the Grenadiers were still caught up in their conversation. This wasn't a story he could tell in front of the man. Not and stay objective.

He let the hush age, wither and finally expire as all moments must. Then he began to speak. "You have to remember, those of you who share my age, or imagine, for those of you not quite so grey, what a different place our nation used to be. The Ord of Warcaster Brucker's youth had yet to experience the horrors of modern warfare. The Five Fingers gangs made their typical trouble, and our mighty neighbors never ceased their posturing, but war, real war, was practically a stranger." He stopped once again, shook his head. This wasn't coming out right.

He looked back at Mayet and continued. "I'm not saying that we were innocent. We could see the clouds on the horizon. The Ordic eye had never closed, but seeing and comprehending are entirely different things. There'd be a demonstration of some new Cygnaran marvel, some lightning gizmo or whatsit, and we'd all chuckle that soon there'd be flying horses, and nothing would be done. We'd go back to our phalanxes, and our dueling houses, and...oh gods, the Aces."

She answered, cutting him off for a moment, her higher voice seeming to accent his gloomy tones without softening them. "The Paper Aces? I've heard something-"

He seized the narrative back from her, interrupting her sentence before it could reach it's conclusion. He found that he didn't want to know how they were remembered. "Yes, the vaunted Aces, the Ordic warcaster assembly, vaunted heroes who'd never actually battled anyone, leading jacks that were polished every day, but whose cortexes had never been used on the actual field of combat. Back in the day, the King believed."

"Ord's military was a fine one, on the books. We had calvary for charging across open fields, infantry who were trained to fight in phalanx and jacks at least 10 years behind the two great powers. We had nothing like Cygnar's Academy, nothing like the Khadoran Draug-whatever, just books and whatever our Aces could come up with. I think we knew, even then, that what we were was nothing like warriors. I think all the polish and prancing was a show, a play, a way to deny to ourselves what we knew to be true. We could handle Five Fingers trash, and make a show in our annual wargames with our allies, but that's all it was."

Mayet again. "And Brucker?"

Jardon sighed aloud and nodded slowly. "The worst of the lot. He was the Ace of Heroes, and the first to speak of honor and duty and such. He resisted the improvements that drifted down from Cygnar's way, called them unmanly or outright wretched. To Brucker the battlefield was, and still is, a place of heroism, of duels and honorable combats. He believed strongly in the limited war, the just war...in fact, in any war that didn't resemble the real one."

Sansa spoke up. "I seem to recall the other Aces were more of the same, right? Big medal soldiers who folded when the going got tough." Several other voices broke out, speaking their recollections of this or that figure from the days gone by.

"That's not quite fair. There were a few who saw the writing on the wall. Our present Chief Warcaster used to be the Ace of Warjacks, and he's as much a soldier as any man. They were few, however, and hampered by the fact that however much they knew the future's face, it was far easier to see the smiling past." He looked back, suiting his motions to his tale. Their path stretched behind them, less visible than he'd feared. Good.

"It was the year that Brucker beat the Sword Knight, what was his name?" He looked the crowd over, it was Jarl who spoke up. "Gathland, I think. He's still Preceptor, far as I know." Jardon nodded as the memory returned.

"Yeah, him. Well, that year we skipped the usual bout with the Sword Knights, our most realistic wargame, and that's not saying a lot, for a ceremonial dual between the leaders. Their Preceptor vs. the Ace of Heroes. Brucker won handily, no shock there. Warcaster vs. a man, what's going to happen, right?" He remembered the match. Even knowing what was to come of it, he'd thrilled to see their man triumphant. Solomon had looked every inch the champion that day, hand stretched out to help his worthy foe to his feet after a brief and conclusive bout.

"It was after the match when he showed up." Jardon spat. Eyes widening as he saw the warcaster's tramping form approaching the group.

Unaware, Mayet asked the obvious question. "He?" she warbled, birdlike voice rising into the forest air.

"Asheth" snarled Solomon Brucker. "Asheth Magnus, the Ace of Traitors."

[Spooker]

Very good.
Keep it coming - Loving it.

Take care

[Walter]

The arrival of Brucker scattered their little group, like a cat among pigeons. The column broke back into it's component pieces, units and officers drifting once again into separate bands. It was an odd effect for Solomon to have, he usually brought folks together.

Jardon chided him. "They'll find out eventually, no need to be so defensive." He looked carefully at the warcaster's visage as he spoke, probing for any clue or sign of Brucker's deeper passions.

As usual he saw naught beneath the surface. It was a recurring question as to whether Brucker was possessed of a singularly simple mind, or the player of a much deeper game. For whatever reason though, there was only ever one emotion on display. Currently, it was anger.

"No point to dwelling on what's past. I did enough of that in the Pit." The words were curt and quick. Almost before they were out the storm of his fury was passing. He laid a hand on Jardon's shoulder, concentrated briefly, and exerted his power.

Jardon gasped, feeling the heeling energies working through his battered frame. The bruises and pains of his tumble receded, not gone but going, and he felt renewed, bursting with vigor. It had been a long time since he'd taken healing, he hadn't realized Brucker could work such power without his armor's aid.

In response to his quizzical stare the warcaster responded. "Only a bit, and mostly healing. I'll need the armor to channel my full strength, but those things I'm best at, I think I can safely try." Jardon nodded slowly. He wouldn't have put it past Solomon to try despite any risk, if there'd been dire need.

The march resumed it's interrupted rhythm, their units forging slowly and tiredly through the woods, Bad Cat's tramping and the girl's constant conversation lulling the old jailer's tired mind into a semitrance, a kind of waking dream.

It was almost nightfall, naturally, when they next came across their countrymen. These weren't mangled corpses, however. In a way, they were worse.

[Walter]

A roaring creek crossed their path at the limits of vision, the normally placid waters rushing and racing along perpendicular to their direction of march. The waters were clear, unpolluted, despite the presence of the hated adversary in Ordic lands, but the enemy themselves had outpaced their blight.

Defying the daylight, a pair of hoary specters hung menacingly above the waters. Like shadows cast by an unseen hand, the duo flickered and faded, but never disappeared, cloaked and ominous despite the afternoon's brilliance. They circled and dipped, rose and passed about, one after the other, a pair of ominous moons orbiting a world of suffering.

The center of their circle was a bridge, crude and rope wrought, as befitted this backwoods trail, which passed from one bank, to a minor island, and on to the other. It appeared intact at this distance, though it's planks might need minor repair the structures overall integrity showed no signs of decrepitude. Upon the island was the focal point of the ghostly predators hunger.

Misery was made manifest on that forsaken isle. Not twenty by twenty, yet crammed with a score of refugees. Ordic citizens, subjects of King Baird and deserving of the military's protection, trapped here by the heartless craft of the Nightmare Empire, a living larder for their thrall creation divisions. They were stacked atop one another, or hugging each other for warmth, several were maimed and no provision had been made for the infirm, so that now they were jostled and bucked by the movements of the throng with no consideration whatsoever.

Corpses littered the bridges, shot in the back or side. The impression was simple and obvious. Should the prisoners make a break for the woods they'd face the fire of their insubstantial tormentors. Their souls devoured by the spirits, those who fell would be forever damned. It made for a powerful deterrent. At least, it deterred the prisoners.

In the minds of Jardon and his men, it made rather a different impression.

[Spooker]

Excellent.
Please keep the story going!

[Walter]

Brucker was fast, but the Kithslayer was faster still.

Spurred by Jardon's decisive hand gesture the hulking Trollking turned to the Warcaster and gave him a straight right. Brucker was fit, he was trained, and he had the blessing's of his deity. It counted for nothing against the pure power now levered against him, the fist sank into his jaw like a boulder into sand and he toppled like a collapsing building. Stepping back Tuvore shook his fist slightly, unclenching his hand and wringing the sting from it.

Jardon warily surveyed their unit. Nobody protested the sudden assault. Everyone understood that Solomon Brucker would not be able to deal properly with what looked to be a hostage situation, not and keep himself alive. They were on a mission to arm an Ordic warcaster. It wouldn't do for him to die in some pointless gesture on a random bridge along the way.

Another gesture and Tuvore lifted the man he'd just sucker punched, and they proceeded down to the foot of the bridge.