Dark Crow Rising

"This place is quite old," I comment, a finger going along the signs of long-dead plant life. Looking out of place on dry land, they're quite peculiar, as are the implications. This building must be so many thousands of grand-cycles old. All built before the Time of Liquid Mountains!

I am baffled as well as impressed by the sight. This is all made well enough not only to survive that dreadful time but to last all the way to now, too. It slightly shames me to fight here soon, in a way. This place predates even the ancient Valkinvar of the Ringed City by so much!

It's even stranger that no one from Thrurstradtur-Suhurlodst has come here to research it. We are right on the doorstep of that peculiar, dually governed country. But I also have to wonder, does this plan involve them? Being so close to their border, their involvement being a part of my superior's plan, does not surprise me.

Hopefully, the heretics will provoke them, and we'll gain an ally.

"Battcomm, is that really necessary?" a man from a nearby gun crew comments to his officer.

"What? Just making sure the screw is properly in," the aged, powder-stained man answers, stomping his foot on the gun's leg once again. The four-screw steadily breaks into the stone with his forceful assistance.

"Be careful, this is ancient stonework," I warn them as I turn away from the crumbling wall.

"Sediment is often better for field guns. Aye, she's an old building, but she'll hold," the Battcomm explains to me.

"I'll trust in your judgement, then," I tell him as my gaze goes over his array of equipment. This location was chosen specifically for the narrow pass and these ruins. Surveyors, however, still have to go through it all and ensure it is safe. Evidently, these men have the go-ahead.

"Those two out there, though, they won't," the gun crewman who had just complained remarks. Hearing this, I go to his side to look out there with the rest of them. That tinge of confusion I have turns to adherence to duty instantly. Envoys of the enemy are out there.

Heretics stand before us, only a couple on juperses, but they are already here...

Pausing myself, I spot a peculiar detail. The strange uniforms are back. The banner is too and like before, it's unveiled in its full glory like a shield. Having seen the other lot wiped out, there's no way they are mercenaries. That was a thousand men my superior killed prior.

A worrying thought, seeing that there are more...

The usual rabble I deal with might not bring pride in their heritage with them. Despite that, I know full well what this display of respect means and who it is for. Possibly, these strange troops are just the elite of the Seven-Peaks Union of Jherikra. Something more likely along these lines, surely. It would explain why I am unfamiliar with them, as Giant's Victory is not a major battle site.

That banner, though, makes a fist tightly form.

Arrogant is certainly one way to put it. On a field of shining cloth, there are seven mountains. Six of them form a smile like curve underneath the greatest of them all, the source of all wind magic. Just above the great peak, a full moon delivers a crown, a king.

The prison for Jhrarda the Mighty gave them a king... The idea alone leaves a foul taste in my mouth.

"Get Grand-Thoucomm Pathort. Notify him of what is out there. I will see what they want." I tell the men as I squeeze my way through one of the ruin's larger holes. Getting my foot out into the open, I fly out towards the pair of riders. Despite my relative slowness, however, I make sure they feel a wave of forceful wind when I stop.

There is another purpose to it as well, and when I feel nothing, I become further baffled. Not one scout or even a dozen patrols are out there beyond us three. Most certainly no witches, either. These two riders really did go out so far on their own. Did they even intend to find us here?

Whatever the reason is, I let my magic seep out in a display of strength. I will not strike, as they are unarmed, but I am not tolerant of them either. Just leaving them be does not satiate my hatred. The idea of scaring them entertains me.

Yet, they are not scared, the riders anyway. Their insectoid equine mounts are, but juperses are always skittish, so it means nothing. The lack of a response from the soldiers, though, tests my patience. Combined with that disgusting heraldry, it makes my eyes narrow.

"If you have a message to deliver, do so now. Or, leave." I tell them.

They say nothing, they just stare at me. Unflinching in the eye. The strange darkness from inside the helmets that envelop their heads does not react to my power. Two pairs of glowing, orange eyes do not break away. I narrow mine further.

They are tearing my patience into its thinnest possible state. So much so that I can't help but snort at them unprofessionally. One of them begins to move, his arm going to his chest and then up to his helmet, stopping short of it before he swings an open palm down at me. He moves away from this blasphemous prayer and his hand inverses its facing to begin the traditional salute of his evil people. They're actually inferring that I am their lesser by trying to hold a palm flat above my head...

Absurd.

I can wipe them away into nothing but a bloody smear if I want. I could, if I did, earn the ire of Undwote for denying a soul for his Pack of Seven to find. My husband-to-be would be just as angered. For I would deny him a body to honour in doing so.

They continue to hold their palm over me. I am still supposedly lesser. One of them presents a tube-shaped message container, one slightly more ornate than what I am used to. And something about the contents makes my body hair stick straight. There's something power-

I snatch it up, "Go."

They do not listen and neither do their far more emotive mounts. Worst, it is me that moves first. I am the one to back away so I can relay the message. I try to focus on my current duty, but their gazes insist on drawing forth my anger. Ignoring it isn't an option either. I know full well they are still staring blankly at me as I fly back!

But, what is in this tube, though, what message is inside of it? Again, if those riders had galloped here to deliver this, then something's off. Are they aware of our efforts, or were they suspicious of one, regardless? Why would they ever suspect a counterattack from a front that has not seen one happen since it first saw battle...?

Either way, I may need to set out to hunt them down before disaster strikes.

Yet, is there truly a need to do that? The Zaphadren-Valkinvar is going around through the nearby valley with her army. They are going to come around and trap this approaching force, and there will be no escape for them. We will let the heretics know we annihilated their army once again!

Despite my boiling thoughts, however, I find myself chilled with concerns. If the enemy is closer than we thought, would we be able to hold out long enough? Our defences have made good progress, so there's no hope of them catching us unaware. Time, though, time is in far shorter supply than previously thought, if this is truly the case.

Making one last glance at the distant riders, I step down onto the path leading to the command centre. Hastily, I go up the time-eroded stairs and into the entrance tunnel. Natural, divinely made light makes way for our candles and lamps and a pale shadow covers me. At least if the battle does come, this place is safe.

It's a bunker in all but technicality!

Arriving in the main chamber, I spot the gathering of well-dressed men around an impromptu table. It was once one wall of this place, possibly dragged in from elsewhere in the ruins. Something that becomes clear to me as I approach them is that many have just been called over. The actual tables we brought along are messy and the chairs are untucked.

An officer quickly takes the tube and Grand-Thoucomm Pathort soon holds it, "Dear, Superior Military Force. We are sorry for coming here. The end."

I frown at his words, this arrogance is dangerous.

My eyes widen and my body stiffens as a strange heat rises within. This is meant to be a man of age and extensive experience. A great man who manages the safety of our country, a master in defensive warfare! Why...

How could he? This violates the Fourteenth Law of Waionr!

Making way for action, my confusion vanishes as magic slightly pours from me. We are supposed to be better than the heretics worshipping an evil god! We need to be better than them in stuff like this! But, somehow, I am the odd one out -all of them- laugh at Grand-Thoucomm Pathort's words.

They all laugh and I breathe deeply...

"Grand-Thoucomm Pathort." I say firmly as I lean forward onto the table with resounding, stone-cracking pressure.

"What, Valkinvar-Imdvarce?" he asks, rolling his eyes slightly.

"That is not how you are meant to deal with the deliverance of envoys. Read them clearly to your fellow officers, equals and superiors and speak your mind about how to proceed. You do not throw it aside and mock it!" I remind him with sharp points and jabs against the air and his direction.

The army will suffer if he goes on like this. So, I make my way around the table and officers. I snatch the document back and carefully open it up properly. Like he should have done so. He needs to read it properly and handle it the same. It is essential- He must!

"Take your fanaticism elsewhere, cultist," he spits, "Do you seriously expect the Union to give a falling ryphurgok about how we treat their messages!?"

"It is not if they care," I say as my shaking eyes look up at the crack-covered roof, though my eyes are looking for what is beyond it. The heavens. The Orbital-Halo.

He scoffs again, "Do you truly think the gods will care, either? The Seven-Peaks Union, our enemy. They have brought down thousands of temples in their conquests. Much more scripture has been shattered or sent to the sky as ash! Thousands of grand-cycles' worth of history, gone! Face it, Cultist, you gibbering fanatic... If the gods were real, they would have stopped this themselves. They don't care about us or you, you strange woman."

If the gods are real...?

This is the kind of man that Pathort is? This thing had been allowed to become Grand-Thoucomm? Zaphadre- They placed a force of forty-thousand Ironcoats under his command!? I struggle to think of an answer. No...

"That's... Blasphemy. Apostasy! YOU ARE A HERETIC! A FAITHLESS WRETCH!" I point out, snapping my hand to my sword. Bringing it out in one clean, bloodless motion, the air blows office supplies about like a passing storm. Candles go dark and lamps shatter. Everyone bathes in the light of my twisting viridian power. Many flinch away and clutch what they can, but not him. He has a surprising amount of spine despite being the centre of my ire...

Showing it off, he walks around the makeshift table with a straight expression. He matches my gaze directly the whole time and arrives at a just abandoned gun. He ponders, then looks back at me with a nod and a moving but silent mouth. His hand touches the artillery piece, and he runs it along the metal.

"Properly? If you wish for that, Valkinvar-Imdvarce, fine. One of you, read it," he orders, facing away.

Unlike him, though, the man that does so is shaking, "Fellow Jhermonikra, surrender now, lay down your arms so that you might be given clemency. You will be taken into our care and..."

"Read it," Pathort tells him as my gaze narrows at the reader.

"Shelter will be provided so that you may rest and be... Corrected... To the beliefs of our saviour, the only true god of this world... The Mighty Jhrarda. Saviour of the Jhermonikra... You will be given one chance. Do not waste it. Signed-" he interruptedly finishes, and, quietly, I reflect on these words.

"Good, stew in that for a moment, Cultist, and I'll prepare a response for these brave envoys," Pathort says as an arming click fills my ears. My magic vanishes, eyes widen and mouth opens.

"N-"