Chapter One
The mist rising from the jungle floor was no longer the common kind of steam and fog; as it rose it did not collect, but congealed on the bottoms of ponderous leaves. Each tree and bush stood abashed, crowned by crowds of leafy spectators nodding regretfully as the drops of thickened mist gathered and fell from sticky, reddened clumps.
Regret was a luxury of peace, and Cole knew they warred still. The silence of the jungle around them was a deception, the trick of trees once alive with battle, now returning to the more sinister dormancy of their own thick persistence. The slumber of the rustling forest through which they passed was still sometimes pierced with the too-near screams of combat.
His bodyguards were anxious, but they were Elites, meant to hear and see every sound and shuffle. They were also reduced by half – with his record, he proudly earned two units worth – as the first unit had gone ahead to clear the field of some of the commoner traps and more fervent rebel fanatics. Vicious, feral fighting was what this war had become. When peace came, Cole would be both sorry for his part in it, and sorry he hadn’t been ready for his part in it earlier.
His 'part' being the general who would end it.
An arrogant thought for so a young man, but as he made what would hopefully be his final charge, however, he did not carry the burden of preferring humility. Perhaps most thought that youth and ill-earned vanity went hand-in-hand, but there was no vanity in wanting the war to end.
Word came back that the way was clear. As Cole had hoped, the fiercest fighting had spread up through the rebels' scattered routes of retreat. The Rear Ward had passed the majority of the rebel encampment, where stood the tents of the long-sought Comid High Command.
It was the discovery of the High Command that had driven him into the thick of it. Seize High Command, seize the day – and stem the slaughter and, with any luck, end the war. Confused messages had intercepted them on the way there, though: someone was still fighting; they might have bagged a rebel leader, or some kidnapped dignitary, or a prisoner. The field was too busy, the fighting too intense, for anyone but those still battling to get close enough to say for sure, so the messengers had nothing to say but contradictory rumor.
If it was a prisoner, if there was still killing around some kidnapped dignitary, he needed to be there fast, and that meant faster than his Elite guards could kill. The 'Smiling Peasant' may have personified the Rebellion for farmers and laborers, but the military and nobility felt the sting of the assassin's knife held behind his back. It wasn't only Cole's recklessness that had earned him the second batch of Elites ringed round him. His recklessness, however, was what pushed him through the jungle, over-ornamented saber strapped to his hip, using force of will to bend the twined trees out of his way because any other tool would be undignified for the Executive General of the Ainjir Army.
Well – force of will and and the Elites.
The Elites ahead signaled; a hidden die-hard was cut down off to his left, cry strangled with fanatic death. The circle pushed in as the Elite was left to lag, hacking his enemy down, to be sure – be absolutely sure – he was finished. Never turn your back on anything but a certain corpse. He was not squeamish, he’d struck out across battlefields himself before, but he was glad of the ring of men around him. It would have taken far too long to get there himself; if the noises from ahead and the surreptitious spread of the forward Elites was any indication, he had arrived in the midst of whatever difficulty was harrying his men.
All was action now. They broke into a fast march, spreading net-like to positions of cover, stepping lively, wary of traps. The jungle broke into an unnatural plain littered with tents, stumps, and abandoned earthworks. The plain of the encampment emerged from the dank jungle as a bright yellow spot of sunlight and burned grass, whose anomalistic light blinded him almost as much as it roused him to caution. Battle anxiety, a thrumming of the nerves reinforcing an ever-present paranoia, took over his senses.
He and the Elites were of one mind and body. Cross the plain, crouch like an animal – open air was more dangerous than a field full of enemies. As their cover trickled away, they leapt, spun and crawled like a fish-heavy wave, pouring into the mess of tents that made up the ravaged camp. It was clear where to go: standing alone in the middle was a great green and gold cloth wall: the front face of an officer’s tent.
He wove in and out of ropes, eyes flashing side to side, all dignity of uniform and place forgotten as the instincts of the fight took over. The Elites crawled around him like bugs, securing a field of safety that meant nothing. A loosed arrow, a thrown rock could kill a man in the open. He put his back to a tent wall, a gaping tear showing it to be empty, and listened: the clash they sought had to be beyond the flap of the big tent.
It was too far away to see, but the noise was high and clear. He listened, trying to get a feel for what was going on before he went charging in, but the sound was confused. He thought he heard the grunts of his own men, the clash of steel, but the number of raised voices didn’t match his idea of the number of Elites he’d sent in, the estimated number of the Comid High Command, or their chosen weaponry. It sounded more like a brawl. Alone, a moment, in the privacy of open battle, he let the wild half-grin that so revealed his youth spread over his face. A brawl was no trouble; just like his old school days, brighter days, violent days of peace.
He could handle a brawl.
He glanced from side to side, checking his left and right cover. Good men: they were watching him, waiting for his signal, signing the area clear in each direction he looked. He nodded. Gave himself a three count.
Go.
He burst from cover, sprinting as fast as he could through the long stretch of open space between himself and the green-gold tent's entrance. Some part of him was pleased that his caution proved worthy when the thick stabs of arrows into the ground let him know that somebody recognized his colors. He saw his right side Elites peel off to prevent future attempts.
He was in good shape, but his sprinting had fallen on hard times since he’d been a cadet. With some amusement, he reflected that he was lucky he was young and spry, and not spoiled enough by rank to yet let his daily exercise fail him too much. He’d be fine, but Fortune favor him with not finding himself against somebody younger or more spry in there.
The tent entrance neared, and he allowed himself a little relief as well as pride. Not far still to go, and he wasn’t puffing too much. His heart pounded in his ears, but it was because battle was nigh. He was prepared. There was no fear, only awareness.
What he had thought was a tent turned out to be a stripped set of ropes and cloth, ragged sheets hanging from tent posts as if they were unstrung maypoles, the lines barely holding them upright. Strewn about were the bodies of Elites, some eight of the fifteen he had sent in this direction either groaning or immobile on the ground. He could see the mêlée ahead, a rotating circles of those who were left, striving to keep up with the winding struggles of two combatants in the center.
Just two. Cole wondered where the Elites had put the rest of the Comids – and who was guarding them. The Elites had tried a group attack and found it cost them dearly, so reduced to impractical, but effective, single combat. Not many men could stand up to that many Elites, though luck and fortitude could account for some success. Like most Academy-trained officers, he’d fought squads of Elites – and unlike most, had even won once or twice – when he was a cadet. A solid knowledge of their tactics and training assuredly helped him along then, but it certainly hadn't been the only reason he'd won. As he slowed his sprint, he realized he was grinning. He couldn’t stifle the love of a challenge.
Cole neared the edge of the fight and the circle of Elites burst as the two fighters shoved through them, the Elite the one in forced retreat, his back to Cole and barely upright. Cole slid to a halt just as the rebel combatant closed, shattering the Elite’s defenses with enough force to send the man half to the ground again. The Elite dove, trying to stand, get away, and stay facing his opponent all at once. Cole watched as the rebel soldier raised his foot and brought it crashing into the Elite's chest, sending his opponent to the dirt for the final time.
The rebel’s light brown uniform was torn and dirtied, blood seeping through over wounds in some places, and merely adding splashes of color in others. Cole could see the flash of steel as he dragged his sword arm back up to defend, stumbling, so worn by fighting that his breathing was labored – but he was still fierce, threatening enough that the Elites backed away as he moved. They'd learned their lesson.
Though he still had his sword, he wasn't using it for much but defense, striking out with limbs and elbows as would an animal with claws and teeth. He was an animal – beaten and cornered, a strange wolf amidst an unfriendly pack. Or, Cole grinned at the thought, more like a badger, always underestimated by the ignorant and unwary.
The Elites awaited inevitable weariness, and though it was inevitable, the rebel made them pay in blood for every minute they delayed. Removing the soldier from between them left rebel and general unimpeded, squared to fight. Though eager, Cole courteously waited until his 'worthy foe' was face-to-face with him.
There he froze.
Of all the rebels, the most lauded, the most renowned among the military hierarchy – he hadn't seen the insignia through all the blood–
The rebel didn't use his sword because Nika had always preferred hand-to-hand. Fame and glory was surely before him, but all Cole saw was mischief and... and a face now spreading into the fearsome smile he hadn’t seen since they'd graduated.
The Elites, sensing a challenge between their General and this beaten rebel, had backed off far enough to let combat rage – only when it did not, they started to close again, nervous lest they had miscued. What they knew as a solitary rebel had not moved to attack – and neither had their General.
They were fighting men, and this position was vulnerable, so rangy silence only stood between them for a few seconds before the rebel’s sword fell out of his hand onto the blood-softened ground at Cole's feet, followed after by a few clipped words of an efficiency unutterable by any other tongue.
“Oh,” the rebel said, voice torn and tired. “You took your time, didn't you?”
The fine General’s empty mouth worked.
The rebel smiled, falling to his knees. “I, acting in accordance with my office as Dux Comidri, surrender the Army of the Comid Republic to General Cole...gladly.”
Dominicus Galen collapsed at Cole’s feet.