Adult-FanFiction.org : Comics

The Games that Gods Play	By : Ristul Category: DC Verse Comics > Wonder Woman Views: 16896 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Wonder Woman,nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 38
- 39
- 40
Phillip is already an excellent swordsman, but when he employs the full range of his abilities he becomes an unstoppable force in battle. Nowhere was this demonstrated more clearly than during the Nepherian campaign.
-Jake Kabrinski
Stanley gazed out at the open plains unhappily. “What are we doing here again?” The flat grasslands were illuminated by the soft glow of the moon overhead, and a cool breeze blew past them. It was a pleasant night, but Stan felt uneasy. For many reasons.
Ramon and Lance looked up from where they were talking beside the camp fire, its warm glow effusing the quiet night. The boy answered him, “Making our way over to the next few kingdoms to scout out the situation.” Ramon quoted blandly, “Information is ammunition.”
The media mogul threw up his hands. “I know that, but my feet are killing me!” He was in a sitting position, and he lifted up one foot, covered with blisters, for them to see. His boots laid beside him, barely adequate for their long journey.
Ramon snickered softly. They didn’t have horses on the island(technically, it wasn’t an island anymore), and Jake had deemed the few vehicles they had too important. Hence, the small party of about 25 men sent out on foot to explore their surroundings. Stan was in charge of the diplomacy part, while Lance and two of his Army Rangers, along with Ramon and the twenty other men from the island, served as scouts and escorts.
The twenty men selected were volunteers from the few that Jake and Morgan had deemed ready for actual combat, the fastest learners and the most determined. Since they were unable to spare too many of the Rangers for escort duty due to the need for them to act as the training cadre instructors, they had no choice but to send the few men who were ready.
Over in a corner, Ramon could see some of the men in a sword drill, and the rest engaged in mock combat with wooden swords. A Ranger stood by one side, offering advice while polishing his wicked looking Bowie knife.
There’s nothing for me to do here. Better get some sleep, I’m taking the second shift of the watch. Ramon leaned back, and was about to doze off when his senses suddenly screamed to him. He jerked up from his position, and bounded to his feet.
“What is it?” Lance asked, immediately bringing up his pistol from its holster, while his left hand checked his side to ensure that his sword was still there. The officer had no idea why Morgan wanted the boy to go with them. Sure, Ramon was skilled for his age, and had the makings of a fine soldier if he ever decided to enlist for real in Uncle Sam’s army, but he suspected there was something more. Jake had told him to trust the boy’s instincts.
Ramon did not reply, instead looking intently out at the plains, towards the east. They had been traveling southwards, not eastwards, because the survivors of the force that had attacked them a week earlier had come from the east. They didn’t want to stir up any more trouble than necessary.
“There.” Ramon pointed, and Lance saw it, thankful for the full moon that enabled them to see quite well, even without using his night-vision goggles. A cloud of dust, thrown up by riders traveling at high speed.
“To arms!” Lance shouted, and the men quickly scrambled, grabbing bows and swords, gathering in ranks behind Lance and Ramon.
“What do you think?” Lance asked Ramon, who shrugged.
“How would I know?” He stared out at the approaching riders. “Uhm, Lance, I think there are two groups there, one chasing the other.”
Lance placed the goggles in front of his eyes, and increased the magnification. “They’re heading towards us too.” He looked back at the fire. “Maybe we should have put the fire out.” He didn’t think it was a problem, but apparently it was now.
“Shit.” Ramon’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. “So what are your orders, chief?”
Lance looked back at the men, who were standing around nervously. “We’re all on foot, and they’re cavalry. Which means we’re already in trouble.” He saw rope on the ground near the fire, and some stakes. “Alright, all of you, move back twenty paces. Ramon, help me with this.”
Lance quickly hammered the stakes into the ground, then the two of them tied the rope between the stakes to trip the horses. Lance quickly rejoined his men, but Ramon decided to move ahead.
“Kid, what are you doing? Get back here!”
Ramon didn’t reply, instead moving determinedly towards the first group of onrushing horsemen. Horsewomen, he realized as they came closer. On horses, and wagons too!
Then he got the biggest shock of his life when he saw Vanessa Kapatelis riding the very first horse towards him. And behind her, he thought he could identify the women as Amazons.
He yelled to nobody in particular. “This sucks!” He couldn’t let them be tripped up by Lance’s rope. Ramon started dashing forward and waved his arms, hollering, “Vanessa, it’s me! This way, this way!” He gestured madly to one side, beyond the rope, hoping that Vanessa got the hint. The shock on her face when she recognized him was priceless, but she continued in his direction.
“Dammit!” The Amazons didn’t change direction, and if they went on, they were in for a nasty surprise. Ramon could see their pursuers, a troop of cavalry armed to the teeth. He didn’t know if Vanessa didn’t understand what he was trying to do, or if she didn’t care.
Offering a quick prayer, Ramon decided to do something that he judged to be insanely suicidal. He placed himself just beside Vanessa’s path, and as her horse swept past him, he grabbed a strap of her saddle and jumped, pulling himself up behind her.
He almost made it, even with Vanessa riding at top speed. His leg failed to get all the way to the other side, however, and he almost slid off the horse to a sorry demise before Vanessa grabbed him by a shoulder and steadied him. His arm felt as if it had almost been yanked out of its shoulder socket.
“That way!” He shouted at her, and this time she did get the idea. The horse veered off, neatly avoiding the rope.
“What are you doing here?” She asked him.
“Tell you later!” They got back on their original path, so that their pursuers would go right over the rope trap Lance had hastily set up.
It was night, and the enemy horsemen could not see the rope strung out at the fetlock level. They bore down on the Amazons, not knowing why they had suddenly veered off, and then back again, allowing them to gain. Horses and riders alike were exhausted, and that only made what followed worse.
The first row of horses screamed in fear as they crashed to the ground when their legs hit the rope. The stakes had been long enough to be dug in tightly, and the resulting pandemonium made the fleeing Amazons look back.
The subsequent rows of chasing cavalry were moving too fast and too close to avoid the first row which had gone down, and the horses collapsed on top of one another, causing a pileup that got bigger and bigger.
“On them!” Lance shouted, and he moved forward resolutely, snapping off shots with his pistol, his deadly accuracy accounting for three horsemen almost immediately. The men behind him fired off their arrows, and the confused horsemen did not bring up their shields to block. More than ten enemy soldiers went down.
“Turn around!” Ramon shouted at Vanessa.
She complied, and suddenly the enemy force found themselves on the wrong end of a charge when the Amazons followed Vanessa, sensing that an opportunity had come for them to destroy their pursuers. Ramon leapt off the horse, his sword lashing out and slicing as he landed. The men with Lance put down their bows after two salvos, and dashed in with furious battle cries.
The Amazons smashed through the dismounted horsemen, laying about viciously with their swords. They were badly outnumbered, but surprise and the addition of Lance’s party made all the difference.
Gunshots boomed out again, and more men fell to the ground, before Lance went in with his own sword, a saber he had been glad he had taken the time to master during his off-duty hours. Ramon quickly worked his way to the captain, his flashing sword liquid silver under the moonlight, and the two of them covered each other’s backs as they fought. A loud scream filled the air as Vanessa cut loose with her sonic cry, shattering a whole section of enemy soldiers. She had refrained from doing so during the chase because it would have scared the horses, but it hardly mattered now.
Stan helped out by confusing the enemy with illusions, causing them to waste time attacking enemies that simply weren’t there, or by using his talents to hide those on his side so that they could get in a telling blow. The confused enemy soldiers died in droves as a result.
Then it was over. Men laid groaning on the ground, mostly of the Nepherian cavalry. Ramon started to go to the downed horses that were slowly dying, and mercifully put them out of their misery.
“Gather the wounded.” Lance looked around, panting hard, and made a quick count of his casualties. Five of his men were down, but they were only severely injured, not dead. Add to that eleven Amazons nursing various injuries during their long flight.
One of the Amazons was obviously a healer, and she quickly set to work despite her own exhaustion. Phillipus took charge of the Amazons, and Lance made his way over to her.
He held out his hand. “Captain Lance Tiller, US Army Rangers. What’s going on?”
The tall black woman looked at him appraisingly, and replied, “I am Councilor Phillipus of Themyscira, and these are my fellow Amazons.” Vanessa stood beside Phillipus, and the two women wondered why a member of the US military was present.
Lance blinked in surprise. Ramon walked up, a grin on his face when he recognized Phillipus. “Hey, Councilor. How did you get here?”
For the next few minutes, they quickly gave condensed versions of their stories.
In the end, they decided to travel together southwards. Phillipus wasn’t sure if there were more pursuers, but Ramon had heard from fellow travelers they had met on the road that Nepheria was having problems in the conquered lands to the south. He and Lance still had their mission, but they couldn’t abandon the Amazons to reach their own ramshackle city either. So the Amazons had to travel with them.

Phillip smiled as he surveyed the gathered forces before him as they marched along the border. “Impressive, Lord Tesin.” The Eckians had gathered a force of five thousand soldiers under General Tesin’s command to see if there was any hope of beating back the inevitable Nepherian invasion.
Tesin scoffed. “But hardly enough to oppose Nepheria. They have twenty-five champions blessed with the Goddess’ power, and each champion commands ten thousand men. Even if all the remaining free nations combine all our available resources, we can only muster seventy thousand soldiers.”
Phillip gave Tesin a predatory smile. “Many of my men come from the lands of defeated nations. If you take that into consideration, I believe that’s worth another ten thousand.” Enough stragglers had popped up to give Phillip a thousand men, but the rate of recruitment was steadily increasing.
“That’s still not enough.”
“Then consider the amount of land they have to garrison. Does it take the same amount of troops to hold a small piece of land compared to a large one?”
“No.”
“Then that’s your solution to the problem.”
Before Tesin could inquire further, a soldier came up to them. “Lord Tesin, our patrols to the north have found something.”
“What is it?”
The man looked confused. “A diplomatic envoy from some new kingdom to the north. They were accompanied by women claiming to be Amazons from Themyscira. Never heard of any of it. Do you want me to send them away?”
Phillip nearly fell off his horse at the news.

Lance and Ramon stood to attention when Phillip’s cold gaze inspected them. “So Jake and Morgan are in command back at the island.”
Ramon answered him. “Yeah. We were sent out here, and who should we find hobnobbing with the local brass?” He tried to cover his nervousness with humor.
“And the Amazons?”
Lance filled him in while Tesin listened attentively. Artemis and Phillipus gave more details when they felt it was needed, and soon they had the whole story.
Tesin blanched. “The Goddess is that powerful?”
Phillipus nodded gravely. The Amazon had never believed her people could be placed in such danger.
“And that’s the least of our problems.” Phillip said. He directed a question at Tesin. “How long do you think it’ll take Nepheria to gather a force large enough to attack the remaining free lands?”
Tesin frowned. “They could do it at any time.”
“So what’s stopping them?”
Tesin paused, then admitted sullenly. “I don’t know.”
He directed the question to the others. “Anybody else has the answer?”
Lance replied in a peeved tone. “You apparently already know that, so how about telling us?”
Phillip smiled sardonically. “The Goddess may rule Nepheria with an iron hand, but the source of her power still comes from them. From everything I’ve heard, it’s their prayers and faith that keeps her strong.”
“So what?” Ramon asked.
“So if she wants a war, she’d need to have good reasons for doing so. Because if she doesn’t, they might get angry enough at losing their warriors that they’ll decide not to pray to her.”
Lance had a very skeptical expression. “Sorta like voting, except whoever gets elected becomes a god?”
“Exactly. Now,” he turned towards Artemis, “did you ever think of how easy it was to escape from Clea’s prison?”
Artemis glared at him. “Easy? It was not…”
“Wait.” Phillipus cut in. “Now that he has mentioned it, it does seem rather convenient. Clea is a goddess. If she really wanted to stop us from escaping her domain, could we have done anything?”
“Clea wanted you to escape.” Phillip concluded.
“But why?”
“She needed a casus belli for war on the remaining nations.” The Lion of Ares leveled his cool, almost mocking gaze on the Amazons. “And you’ve just handed her one on a silver platter. I expect their army to arrive in about two weeks. Congratulations.”

“It was so simple.” Clea crowed while a frustrated Wonder Woman laid in chains before her. “Letting a small group of Amazons escape, letting them kill some of my concerned citizens. And what happens next?”
Diana snarled. “You won’t get away with this.”
“But I have. Can you hear the baying of my people outside? They’re crying out for blood, for vengeance. And I am going to give it to them.” They were in Clea’s throne room, and the shouts of enraged Nephrians could be heard even within the shielded sanctuary of the palace.
“Isn’t what you have done to my people enough?” Wonder Woman gritted out through her teeth.
“Definitely not!” Clea laughed. “Oh, how you’ll enjoy this, Diana, when you are turned. I’ll parade the heads of my enemies through the streets, and your precious Amazons will cheer when their slave masters return in victory.” She held up the chain attached to Wonder Woman’s collar. “Everything you bitches stood for, I will make you betray.”
“No.” The princess’s eyes filled up with tears at the thought of her mother and sisters abandoning what had made them Amazons.
“Oh yes. My revenge on you and your whore of a mother. And when I’ve conquered this world, I’m going to go back to dear old planet Earth and take back what is mine.” Clea smiled triumphantly. “All those metahumans, and your jealous gods, will not be able to withstand the storm of magic I will unleash, nor the armies I have gathered, nor the champions I have raised.”
“Somebody will stop you.” Wonder Woman insisted, despite the cold grip of despair telling her otherwise. “You cannot hope to conquer people completely without resistance.”
“Resistance, there’ll be some.” Clea conceded. “But too minor to be of any importance.”
“What about your people? Those who will fight, and die?”
“They die for my glory. Isn’t that a worthy cause?” Clea sniggered. “They can all die, as long as it is not detrimental to my power, my status, and my cause.”
Diana stared at Clea with pure hatred. “You are a monster.”
“And who can stop me?”
An officer suddenly walked in, and bowed profusely to Clea in apology, even as he handed her a note. “Goddess, the regiment we have sent to regain control of Osdare has been decimated by the rebels. Lieutenant Mayse was the only surviving officer, and he said this letter is from the rebel leader.”
Diana suppressed a smile as Clea sputtered. “What? That was a thousand men!”
The officer shuffled nervously. “They were caught in a vicious trap… Perhaps they wish a parley?”
Clea snarled at him, and quickly unfolded the letter. Diana did not know what was written on it, but she enjoyed seeing Clea’s facial expression gradually grow darker and darker.
The goddess suddenly screamed at the end, and the piece of paper burst into flame at her angry stare. She opened one hand, letting the ashes of the letter scatter to the floor, while her other hand was clenched in a tight fist.
“What was it?” Diana asked, gleeful to see Clea so discomforted, and also curious about the contents.
Clea hissed out. “Phillip Delacroix…”
Wonder Woman hid her surprise, though it sent a surge of hope through her. The Lion of Ares was an implacable foe, and while she knew he and her were supposed to be enemies, his actions had never really backed up his words. She also knew without a doubt that if he was given a choice, he would stand on the side of good.
The evil goddess spun around, and barked at the officer. “Those men who survived... Send them back to the front.”
“Excuse me, your Holiness?” The officer stammered. “Many of them are still wounded, and they…”
“Are you going to disobey me?”
The man gulped. “Never, your Holiness.” He departed in a hurry, not willing to endure his ruler’s bad mood.
Diana said, “You want them dead, just to remove a reminder of a failure, your failure. That’s low, even for you.”
“I did not fail! They failed me!” Clea’s eyes spoke of madness, madness that even she did not recognize in herself. “I’m giving them a chance to redeem themselves.”
Wonder Woman shook her head. Clea was too far gone for any rational discussion. She forced herself to remain impassive as Clea ran her hands over her body, fingering the tears and rips in her costume. “What are you doing?” She spoke in a cold tone, fighting off her fear.
The goddess paid her no heed, and continued rubbing her hands over Diana, and the hands suddenly felt very warm, sending tingling sensations through the helpless Amazon’s body. Clea started at her hips, and then sliding them slowly upwards, cupping Diana’s full, firm breasts.
“Oh!” Wonder Woman cried out as an intense heat ran through her breasts, heat generated by Clea’s power via her hands. “Stop! Stop this at once!”
“You’re not in any position to make any demands, Wonder Whore.” Clea grinned. “Give in, little Amazon. Enjoy the pleasures I can give you. I know that you’ve yet given yourself to a man, so that must mean that you enjoy the attentions of…” she licked Diana’s throat delicately, as though tasting an exquisite dish, “women instead.”
“I can’t. No.” Diana squirmed. She tried to clear her mind of stray thoughts, using meditative techniques she had learnt in her childhood and from her time in Man’s World to block out the sensations engulfing her body, mind, and soul.
“Come on. Give in.” Clea’s seductive voice fought to break through the barriers the Amazon had set up. “I can give you pain, but now I give you the choice of pleasure. Take it, or I shall give you back pain.”
]Her left hand snaked under Diana’s arms and behind her, rubbing her back in all the right places. Her right hand moved to cup one of Wonder Woman’s full, majestic breasts, treading them softly, eliciting a soft moan from the Amazon despite her best efforts.
I’d rather face torture than this. Diana affirmed to herself. “I prefer the pain, thank you.” She made sure to inject as much venom and sarcasm into her words as possible.
Clea stopped, and glared. “Bitch. You may think yourself strong enough, but what about this?”
All of a sudden, Wonder Woman could feel an alien, unwelcome sensation in her mind. She was used to such telepathic assaults, having practiced defending against them in sessions with the Martian Manhunter. Clea, get out! She yelled in her own mind.
Oh no, Diana. What you’ve faced before is going to be nothing compared to this… Clea’s physical body smiled wickedly as she thrust into the midst of Wonder Woman’s mind, scouring memories and thoughts in mere instants. It was rape of the mind, as worse as that of the body.
Diana shuddered in mental agony, unable to move due to the chains and shackles on her lovely body. She could only shake her head, trying to fight off the intense pain, while striving to keep her secrets intact.
What’s this? Clea murmured in surprise, coming across a name. Phillip Delacroix… Ahhh… so you know this man, little Amazon. Let me look a bit deeper… Interesting! You even have feelings for him!
Get out, Clea! This is my mind! Diana fought desperately to regain control, but in utter futility. She tried another tack, instead thinking of Phillip, as she remembered him in battle, not out of it, where he would seem like a completely different person. She concentrated on the image of him with his sword, his cold gaze sweeping all before him, and a sardonic smile on his mouth that never reached his eyes.
Then she made her inner mind look him straight in the eyes, knowing that Clea was also doing the same.
AH! Clea jerked out of her mind, chilled by the merciless stare of the Lion of Ares. The goddess trembled for moment, which gave Diana another measure of satisfaction.
“Who, and what is he?” The goddess demanded angrily.
Diana replied truthfully, “I do not know myself.”

Phillip did not waste any time preparing the battlefield. The others were stunned by the barrage of orders he gently but firmly gave, and even the Eckian lord Tesin found himself readily obeying the instructions he had been given.
First, Phillip sent several runners to Jake, asking him to bring down everybody from the island, including whatever portable machinery and equipment they had constructed. He suspectedstyle='mso-spacerun:yes'> the men of the island would be the lynchpin of the campaign, and he was determined to use them as much as possible. He also asked for Joshua Peres to arrive ahead of the main body of soldiers. The businessman was going to be their quartermaster, where his talent for figures and calculation would be invaluable.
Several more messengers were dispatched to the courts of the various kingdoms in the area, imploring them to contribute men and arms to the cause, though Phillip knew nothing would arrive in time for the first wave of enemies.
Meanwhile, scouts were deployed to warn of enemy movements.
But Phillip had still more tricks up his sleeve…

“Councilor Phillipus?” He walked up to the stern Amazon, and bowed slightly in greeting.
“Yes?” She replied curtly, no doubt recalling that he was Ares’ right hand, and that the men soon to be arriving were tools designed to destroy her people. She had every reason to feel uneasy.
“You’ve seen the reports, I hope.”
“I have. So?” Twenty thousand near the border, due to arrive a mere four days after the men of the island. They would be outnumbered two to one, not counting the goddess Clea’s two powerful champions who would be leading them. Another thirty thousand in a second army, due to arrive two weeks after that, led by three champions. And finally the killing blow, a third and last army of eighty thousand soldiers, due in a month’s time.
“The figures don’t look good, do they?”
“I and my sisters are Amazons. We will prevail.”
“No, we won’t.” His tone was flat, forcing reality onto the bravado of the Amazon. “We can beat the first two armies, but not the third.”
“Are you suggesting we give up?”
He offered a slight grin. “Of course not. I’m just pointing out a fact, and how we’re going to deal with it.”
Phillipus raised an eyebrow. “We?”
“More specifically, one of your Amazons. Hear me out here. I need you and Artemis. Artemis is a better shot than anybody else around, and she has to be our leader of archers.” Phillipus nodded, and he continued. “I’m offering you command of a contingent of men from the island.” He grimaced at her scowl of disgust. “Look, better they serve under you. If nothing else, you can teach them how to respect a woman.” He smiled slyly.
Barely mollified, she said, “Get to the point, young man.”
“Not yet. I also need Io to inspect the weapons and teach the sorry blacksmiths around here better metalworking. So out from the remaining Amazons, I want you to select ten Amazons. I have a special mission for them, along with Stan.”
“For what?”
His grin grew wider as he told her. By the end of it, Phillipus was giving the special mission her wholehearted endorsement.
A few hours later, Mala and the Duke of Deception, along with nine Amazons still recovering from their wounds, set off.

“We need more caltrops!” The Earl of Greed winced as Lord Conquest yelled at him in his small cramped tent. Piles upon pile of reports, rosters, requisition lists, and supply inventories cluttered his pathetically small desk, leaving him only a small gap for him to speak to his visitors.
“We also need more screws for the…”
“Enough!” Joshua Peres slammed one hand on his desk, and quickly regretted it as a pile of papers threatened to slip off the desk onto the floor from the impact, only to be saved by Morgan scrambling for the pile at the last moment, prompting a relieved sigh from the frazzled businessman turned quartermaster.
Both men looked at each other, before Morgan shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sorry.”
Joshua placed his head in his hands. “It’s been tough.”
“I know we’re not making it easier…”
“Nah, just need to pull it together.” Joshua smirked tiredly. “Hey, I’m treating it like the dateline of a project proposal.”
Morgan scoffed. “Yeah, except if this proposal doesn’t get accepted…” He drew a line across his throat, the meaning clear.
“Well, up to us to make sure it does.” Joshua pulled out a piece of paper from nowhere, and started scribbling on it. “Okay. Caltrops, lots more of it, screws… what size?”
“Standard size six, the ones we’ve been using for our ballistae. About two hundred more of them.”
“Gotcha. I’ll make a quick run down to the smithy. Anything else?”
“Nope, and thanks.” Morgan gave the Earl a quick thumbs up. “Don’t worry, you’re doing great compared to some of the supply officers I’ve dealt with before.”
“I don’t know to feel flattered or appalled at the standard of the US military if that’s the case.” Joshua commented dryly.
Morgan left the tent with a short bark of laughter.
Joshua glanced once at his cluttered desk, and resisted the sudden urge to just sweep all the piles of work off the small table. He walked out of the tent and headed for the foundries.
There he found Io hard at work, pounding a piece of metal into the rough form of a sword while barking out orders to her workers, giving out instructions for better weapons.
“Io!” He shouted for the big Amazon, who towered over him by two whole inches.
“Joshua!” She greeted him with a tight smile. “More requests?”
“Yeah. We need these.” He handed the supply form to her, and fidgeted uneasily. It wasn’t the first time he had bothered the Amazon, and he felt bad for piling his problems onto her. His telepathic abilities often made it easy to convince people back in the business world, but was loathe to use them on Io.
She took one look at the short list. “No problem.”
“Really?”
She laughed, an attractive sound to his ears amidst the hammering of metal and clash of tongs in the busy foundry. “Compared to some of the stuff we’ve been making the last few days…”
“Well, I’m still sorry.” He coughed a bit from the smoke. “I think I better take a walk outside before my lungs suffocate.”
He was surprised when she followed him out after passing on some instructions to one of hr workers. “They can do it now, and we’ve cleared most of the supply requests.” She explained. “Besides, it’s been a while since I’ve taken an evening walk.” Joshua recalled seeing Io stumbling from the foundry at midnight and staggering into her tent for the past few day, obviously overworked.
He was overworked too, but the strain was mostly mental, not both physical and mental like Io’s job. His admiration for the Amazon went up a few more notches.
They enjoyed their stroll in the area just outside the makeshift camp in silence, a marked contrast to the cacophony that surrounded them at work.

Phillip looked out at the dimly lit field before him, trying to imagine the symphony of blood and slaughter that he would soon orchestrate on it. He sighed, wishing that it didn’t have to be him, that the task had fallen to somebody else.
But this is who you are. This is what you do best. His inner demons whispered to him. Death and blood your destiny, destruction your fate. Kill. Kill. KILL. KILL! KILL…
He forced his thoughts away from the brink of insanity, and towards other matters. Wonder Woman’s plight, for instance.
He was sure he could defeat Clea’s armies and champions in the field, but what about the goddess herself? Veronica Cale was also in the capital, and he couldn’t help the discomfort in his heart whenever he thought of the two women he cared for in such danger.
Vanessa had told him of what was going on in the arenas, and Ramon had to hold the young woman while she sobbed in between sentences. The tale of violation of the Amazons and the torture of Wonder Woman almost made him drop everything he was doing to go into Nexopar and bring down Clea.
‘Almost’ being the operative word.
The moon was full again, and it had been two weeks since the Amazons arrived. The scouts were reporting in almost every hour on the fast approaching enemy army and its progress, while his own troops were as ready as they’ll ever be. It was almost certain the two armies would clash the next day.
He did not sleep for the entire night, instead meditating on the hilltop overlooking the battlefield he had chosen. His mind wandered back to his memories, of his first full scale battle. The terror, the fear, and the crushing sensation of approaching death that made it hard to breathe when their plan unraveled in the first twenty seconds of combat. Golgoth’s grinning visage, the frightening ease of the Drakkar’s attacks, and his own cowardice and shame when he had run in fear, his body broken and bleeding.
The cigarette in his trembling right hand during the desperate marching retreat, burning his fingers when he was too shell-shocked to even lift it to his lips to take a puff to numb his fear. The pain in his shoulder, his left arm barely attached to his body. Jake smacking Gawain hard across the face to wake him up when the boy had been driven insane by terror and wanted to charge back right in. Men screaming for help as they died in droves, either on the battlefield or in the moving MASHes when the medics could only give them copious amounts of morphine to ease their passing.
And always the grinning face of the Drakkar commander, mocking him for running, for not being good enough, not being fast enough, or brave enough to stand his ground like a man and die.
Phillip closed his eyes and remembered…
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Interlude 12

Stop don't panic, it's just a thing I do
It's not so tragic, nothing to hold on to
I'm like a tiger in a cage so I'm afraid
How do I stop this crazy rage
I'm not so cool about my own route
I'm gonna hit my switch and fly through
style='mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-bidi-font-weight:bold'>-Stop Don’t Panic, Jamiroquai
Tom Serra writhed piteously on his dirty bed of straw in the crowded hospice. He was naked except for the dirty dressings over his wounds. Delirious and feverish from his grave injuries, he drifted in and out of consciousness, at times screaming out in fear, joining in the chorus of suffering as men cried out for succor as they died or hung onto life. An old priest moved among them slowly and carefully, quietly listening to their last confessions and offering comfort as they died, or encouraging them to live, or to speak soothing words when nothing else was possible. Some sunlight poked in through the tattered holes in the ceiling, barely providing enough warmth to the dying. Flies zipped around the place, feasting on the dead and dying.
Tom’s burnt, bleeding hands clutched at the straw, sometimes curling as though holding a weapon. His limbs twitched spastically, reliving a terror only just past. His eyes were that of a frightened animal, seeking escape, and his mouth hung open in a soundless scream. Unable to move, and with nobody to help him, he defecated on the straw, adding to his own misery. Dirty linen served as his bandages, but were caked with dried blood and dirt. Most of the men in the hospice would die in a week, from blood loss, infection, or disease. More than half of them were dead already, and odds are Tom Serra would join them as well.
Still, something within him continued to fight, a bare flicker of determination that refused to give up its hold on life even after it had lost everything else.
It was only just yesterday.
He raised the rocket launcher to his shoulder, and thumbed off the safety. The rest of his squad fanned out around him in the shaded woods. And around them, three whole battalions of infantry laid in wait, waiting for the enemy force to swallow the bait of their armor bereft of infantry support and expose themselves to a flanking ambush.
The ground shook dully with the movement of mechs and machines getting into position. They had been waging an intensive guerilla war for the past month, refraining from a decisive engagement because they simply did not have the manpower.
But they had the manpower now. Enough trained men from the camps set up all over Predlitz for three full motorized infantry regiments, all deployed for this battle, what the Germans of old would call Schwerpunct; leading strong points of forces against critical enemy areas, in this instance an entire enemy division comprised mostly of unarmored troops. They were certain the loss of that unit would cripple enemy operations in the area. Never mind that there were about two million enemy troops overall.
That enemy division’s only armored battalion ranged ahead of their organic components, intent on crushing the contingent of human mechs and armor arrayed before them.
“Go! Go!” The orders came once the enemy force were within range. Too close to withdraw, and too far to overwhelm them immediately, even if the human force was only infantry. Tom ran forward, and sighted on a hulking tank. He grinned savagely, and pulled the trigger of the launcher. The rocket streaked down, and smashed against the tank, hitting it squarely on the treads. The tank ground to a halt, the treads blown off.
“Pour it on!” All around him, the soldiers needed no prompting, firing as fast as their weapons allowed. The key was to knock out the enemy armor, then withdraw, leaving their own mechanized force to pummel the enemy infantry at safe ranges. Within ten seconds, they had already hammered more than a company of vehicles into scrap, and more would join them soon.
Two of the other regiments were dug in, and holding off the enemy infantry support. Tom supposed that the lack of communications from their side was an indication of how well their part of the battle was going.
Then it all fell to pieces. The first thing anybody knew were the men from the screening regiments suddenly running over a hill rise and down the slopes screaming. Many of them were badly wounded, and Tom thought he could see the flesh literally dripping from their bodies as they ran, engulfed in napalm.
He shouted, “What the hell’s going on? Stop, dammit!” None of the fleeing men heard him, and he could feel the uncertainty spreading throughout his own unit.
The Lieutenant in charge of his platoon yelled for them to hunker down and prepare, but the tremor in the officer’s voice only served to make them even more nervous about what was to come.
The last survivors finally came over the hill, chased by whoever had driven them off, and Tom felt very cold.
A black tide of death enveloped the hill top. Drakkar.
“This one’s still alive.” The nun said tiredly to the priest beside her as she knelt beside Tom. She had seen too much death in the past few weeks.
“Hmmm… yes. I expected him to be.” The priest prodded his bandages softly, and Tom groaned. “Bring thread, and a needle. The stitches are torn.”
The nun replied, stricken. “Father, we’re out of thread.”
The priest stared at the linen, and sighed. “Tear out some of the bandages and pull out what thread you can. Wash the bandages first, though. Clean the wounds with water after you’ve taken out the bandages, and shift him to a proper bed. God knows we have spare beds now.” He grimaced at the faeces on the straw.
The nun gingerly unwrapped some of the bandages, and inhaled sharply at the torn flesh. The wounds were still raw, and bleeding. Some of the stitches closing the wounds had torn loose, pulling bits of skin and deforming it into grotesque shapes.
Through it all, Tom was reliving the nightmare. His eyes darted from side to side frantically, his breathing harsh and labored.
The priest lowered his head to Tom’s ear, and whispered, “It is not the end of your time yet, boy. There is still much for you to do.”
Gawain and him had barely managed to beat some Drakkar that time, and since then reports had come in of these ferocious beings who are stronger and move faster than ordinary humans. Most soldiers have no chance against Drakkar in a duel, and small squads of Drakkar have been known to completely eliminate entire platoons.
And a regiment of Drakkar were bearing on them.
“Stand fast!” The lieutenant fairly screeched. He knew as well as everybody else that the shit had really hit the fan this time. Trepidation spread like wildfire through the ranks, and for an instant Tom feared they would break ranks and run, but somehow they stood firm.
“Fire at will!” A sergeant bellowed, and rockets slammed into the advancing Drakkar horde, followed by a determined spray of small arms fire. Black clad bodies were flung aside by the explosions, but many of them continued charging down the slopes, seemingly impervious to the rifle fire ripping into them. Far too many of them.
“Fix bayonets!” An officer commanded, and many of the men stepped up to shoot, covering those fixing the thin deadly blades to their rifles. Tom didn’t bother, because he had his own sword, held in a scabbard slung on his back in such a way that it did not hinder his handling of the bulky rocket launcher.
He had only enough time for two more salvos, but that depleted his supply of rockets. Meanwhile, their armored elements were withdrawing in good order, falling back while the infantry covered their retreat. With the appearance of the Drakkar, their objective had changed from destroying the enemy to sheer survival.
The Drakkar slammed into their hastily set lines, many of them firing back with their own weapons. Men on both sides dropped, but far more humans died than the black clad sub-humans.
Tom drew his sword in a single swift motion, surprising a Drakkar bearing down on him and sliced the enemy across his belly with the draw cut, the blade getting past the heavy armor and to the flesh beneath. He followed through, the sword swinging up to block another Drakkar’s blade.
The Drakkar struck hard, forcing Tom back as he fended off the heavy blows, driven back by the sheer momentum. Tom took two quick steps back, opening up the intervening distance, then as the Drakkar came on again, he stepped quickly to one side, his blade sliding across the Drakkar’s and then through the wrists of the enemy soldier.
Tom hacked off the defenseless Drakkar’s head.
“Well done.”
He spun around to face another Drakkar. But this one stood even taller than the other Drakkar, and the markings on the armor and his serrated sword hinted that he was also different from the normal Drakkar. Moreover, he exuded an aura of menace that was almost palpable. “I am Golgoth, and you seem to offer a trifle bit more challenge. I will enjoy killing you.” Most of the other Drakkar wore fearsome helms that obsured their faces, but Golgoth did not wear any helmet, leaving his cruel mouth and his fangs visible for all to see.
Two human soldiers charged up at Golgoth with bayonets swinging. Golgoth parried one bayonet, sweeping it round and using the soldier’s momentum to send the bayonet into the guts of his compatriot. The shocked soldier did not move when Golgoth finished him off with a casual stroke at his neck.
“Bastard!” Tom yelled, lunging forward.
He convulsed on the bed, and buried his head under the somewhat grimy pillow he had been given, trying to block out the minimal light over him. They had stitched him up again, and repaired his dressings, but there was still some bleeding. Caught in his own spiral of shame and despair, he was unable to sleep, instead reliving the memory of the battle over and over again.
Useless. I’m useless. The words pounded in his mind. No matter what I do, how hard I try, I can’t win.
Golgoth parried the lunge, and jabbed forward savagely. Tom was barely quick enough to push away the serrated edge of the blade. The Drakkar officer continued moving forward, and unleashed a punch with his spiked gauntlets right into Tom’s face, digging four deep furrows into the boy’s cheek.
The former assassin spun to the ground from the impact, but continued rolling until he came up again, fire in his eyes. He pushed away the pain; it was only a distraction.
Tom weaved a deadly pattern with his sword, and dove in, making his sword dance as fast as he could in an attempt to slip past Golgoth’s aggressive attack. The patterns were from Sword 21, the sword technique Asem had instructed him in, and which had never failed him completely yet.
Golgoth had an uninterested expression on his face as he slapped the attack aside.
“Is that all? I expected better from the killer who slayed two of my Death Knights.”
A roar from one side signaled Gawain’s entry. The boy was covered in ichor and blood, most of it from the enemies he had dispatched. He wielded the broadsword in his hands like an extension of his body, spinning rapidly at Golgoth.
Golgoth blocked the strike with the same terrifying ease.
Tom raised his blade, and beckoned to Gawain. “We take him together!”
Still unable to speak much, and panting heavily from the fight, Gawain nodded. All around them, their fellow soldiers were desperately falling back in a fighting retreat. Corpses covered the slope, and blood ran in rivulets through the torn soil.
The two boys coordinate their attacks almost instinctively, Tom aiming high and Gawain sweeping low with his broadsword. Golgoth laughed, and blocked their attacks as though it was a walk in the park.
They separated, coming at him from both sides. Golgoth moved deceptively fast for a man wearing so much heavy armor, something that seemed like plate mail but capable of deflecting even small arms fire. He glided to one side, easily blocking Gawain’s attack and then using Gawain’s own momentum to redirect the attack towards Tom, who had to parry it. Golgoth stuck out a leg, and tripped Gawain to the ground, following up with a heavy punch to the head.
Then he slashed the sword right across Gawain’s brow. Gawain managed to lean back far enough for it not to be a fatal blow, but the boy was still stunned.
Desperate to distract Golgoth from finishing off Gawain, Tom picked up a second sword from the ground, and swung his swords one after the other, trying to hit him. At least once!
The Drakkar ducked below the blades, and slashed out and upwards. Tom screamed as a long gaping wound opened up on his left.
The gash along Tom’s left side, from the shoulder down to below the ribs, had opened up again, the stitches falling out from his constant movement on the bed. The priest beckoned to another nun, “I need more needle and thread. Get some alcohol too. I need to wash the wounds.”
Tom moaned, still trapped in his own nightmare.
His left arm was in such pain that he could not hold onto the sword he had just picked up. Terror was beginning to overcome him, but he forced it aside, refusing to accept the fact that he was completely outclassed. His vision was clouding over with both red and black.
He swung again, and again Golgoth toyed with him, three precisely placed cuts across his chest, deep enough to draw blood, but not deep enough to kill. His opponent smiled. “Since you’re such a disappointing opponent, I’ll take what enjoyment I can by cutting you to pieces… and you’ll be awake and conscious through it all.”
Gawain scrambled back into the fight, but Golgoth rammed his serrated blade right below the ribs on his right. Gawain screamed, and fell down. The Drakkar pulled out the sword, the jagged edges gouging out flesh and blood alike.
Tom flung his sword at Golgoth, who batted it aside. He reached down with his right arm to support Gawain, and they started to stumble away.
Golgoth took careful, measured steps behind them, never letting them get too far. He came up behind Tom, and dragged the edge of his blade across Tom’s back just as Gawain spun around to fling a fistful of dirt into the Drakkar’s eyes. The blade tore out more chunks of flesh and skin.
Tom screamed with the liquid fire on his back. Two men ran forward to grab Gawain, leaving him to unsheathe a dagger from his belt and hold off Golgoth. If he could. He knew he was going to die, and unlike in the past, this time he was filled with terror at the thought.
He thought he had accepted death in battle. He thought he would be able to look certain death in the eyes and not flinch.
He was wrong.
The stricken soldier convulsed on the bed, clinging stubbornly to life, while sweat and blood soaked the thin sheets of the bed. An old monk sat beside him, quietly reading the Bible in a soothing whisper, his voice a calming presence in the room. It had been three days since the battle, and many of the men in the hospice had died. They were all buried in a mass grave in the cemetery behind the hospice.
The casualty rate for the battle had been 95%.
The old priest was on the 23^rd Psalm.
“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul:
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name' sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: For thou art with me.”
Tom whimpered, his mind repeating the loop of horror endlessly.
Golgoth had cut him all over. Most of those were shallow wounds, but Tom knew as well as anybody that these all added up. He had managed to pick up another sword, but Golgoth was keeping true to his promise; he was literally taking Tom apart piece by tiny piece, drop by drop of blood.
Feint, parry, slice on his right calf. A quick roll, a sweep, followed by a lunge that drew only empty air and got him another cut across his cheek. Close in, sword up in a cross cut, blocked, and then let go, taking up the dagger and jabbing for the eyes. An iron gauntlet in his vision, then just a red haze in his bleary eyes and the hard ground behind his back.
Golgoth stomped down hard on Tom’s stomach, hard enough to make the boy cough up blood. He managed to roll away. Golgoth went after him, but there was a sudden explosion between them that flung Tom off the ground, sending shrapnel into him. He screamed in agony.
“Get out of here!” One of the few remaining men shouted. Artillery bombardment was their final ace in the hold, meant to cover their retreat. That was all Tom needed. He stumbled to his feet, and blindly started to run. Loud explosions filled the air, and the sky, as large as it was, was filling up with fire.
It wasn’t over yet. A tiny arrow-headed hook suddenly zipped out of the smoke and flame into the right side of his chest. Like an arrowhead it stayed there, and Tom saw that there was a thin wire behind it. His eyes followed the wire to a gauntleted glove, to Golgoth’s grinning face. “You can’t run away.”
He didn’t bother to reply, and reached up with his right hand, pulled the hook out, taking with it another pound of flesh. He screamed into the burning sky as the intervening distance was filled again with flame.
His eyes slammed open, and he jerked awake. He stared at the wooden ceiling, not recognizing where he was. He turned his head, to see Francis Gravesend sitting beside him.
“I thought you might like to see a familiar face when you wake. Don’t talk, I’ll get you some water.”
Tom nodded weakly. His throat was parched. After drinking, he asked, “What happened?”
“Don’t you remember?”
“I only remember Golgoth…” Tom shuddered as his memory filled in the events after.
Some fellow survivors led him to one of the MASH vehicles, filled with the sounds of sobbing men and the wails of the dying. He was barely aware of his surroundings by this time, too terrified to speak or think.
Jake Kabrinski stood in the middle of the rally point, barking orders to those still capable of taking them. His eyes roved around the camp, watching the survivors as they straggled in. The blood and gore on his battlesuit showed that the warrior wasn’t only just talk; he had launched a furious counterattack with his battle-suit infantry that delayed the enemy advance.
Tom didn’t even notice himself walking up to Jake, who called out to him. “Serra!”
He didn’t reply, instead slumping down to the ground, breathing hard, clutching his left. He was in shock. More survivors came in, all nearly hysterical and in tears from the massacre they had witnessed.
“Calm down.” Jake said, trying to put some steel back into the beaten men. “Calm down.”
Gawain stumbled to his feet, his eyes crazed. He picked up a sword and staggered in the direction of the enemy.
Jake took two giant strides that placed him in front of Gawain, and promptly smacked the boy right across the face. Gawain crashed to the ground, and curled up, hugging his knees to his chest.
“Wake up!” Jake roared, and the camp suddenly fell silent. He glared around him. “You think you’ve lost. Big fucking deal. Yes, we lost this round, but there’ll be others. We’ve lost, but we’re not beaten.” He gentled his tone. “We’re only defeated if we give up.”
He looked at a grizzled sergeant who didn’t look too discouraged. “Sergeant, go to the supply truck. There should be several boxes of cigarettes. Distribute it to the men.”
“Yes sir!”
Somebody pressed a cigarette into his hand, and even lit it for him, but Tom barely noticed while waiting for his turn in the triage line. Most of the other soldiers puffed away numbly, letting the sensation in their lungs tell them they were still alive to fight another day. Everything turned black after that.
Tom spent the next few days on the bed, being to badly injured from loss of muscle and blood to even get out of bed. He was fed a thin and bitter tasting gruel that Francis insisted was good for recovering soldiers, until he could take more solid foods.
Gawain was also convalescing in Gravesend’s small church, as were a small number of survivors from that ill-fated battle. They would sit in silence the whole day, staring blankly at one another. Tom was so badly injured that every movement he made was accompanied by sharp stabbing pain from his injuries.
Bit by bit, they recovered. News from the ongoing war would reach them occasionally, enough to tell them they were losing, and losing badly. The church was located in such an obscure and unimportant area that they weren’t bothered, but Tom knew it was only a matter of time.
He wanted to get back in the fight, but his terror towards Golgoth remain etched in his mind.

“Ahh!” Tom sat up from another nightmare, breathing hard. He winced, the sudden motion of sitting up eliciting pain from his numerous wounds. They were getting better, but some of the worst injuries had yet to heal fully.
“Time may heal your wounds, but what about the scars on the soul?”
“What do you mean?” He turned to see the wise eyes of Father Gravesend on him. Every night he would wake up, bathed in sweat, trembling from the nightmare of his defeat. From what he’d heard, Gawain was also suffering from the same problem.
“Thinking of the battle you lost?”
“What else would I be thinking about?” Tom muttered.
“Losing is no big deal. Nobody’s invincible.”
“I…” Tom paused, then continued, “I had thought I had improved, I was on my way to being better.” He laughed bitterly. “Turns out I was only fooling myself. I wasn’t even prepared to die.” He sighed. “I didn’t even hit him once…”
“And is that such a bad thing?”
Tom looked up, confused.
Francis said, “For now, concentrate on getting better. Anything else can wait. And be careful. Your stitches might still come loose.”
The injured soldiers gradually recovered, and some left the church to rejoin the fight. Tom and Gawain were also getting better, but the shadow of regret and shame hung over them constantly, instilling doubt and despair.
Three weeks after the battle, Tom and Gawain were helping Francis clear weeds from his crops. They had not fully recovered, but they did not want to sit inside the church all day staring at the walls. Tom had even dragged the other boy into daily exercises, knowing that they had to regain their strength and stamina.
They worked in silence, then Francis suddenly said to them while throwing another weed into a basket, “Body, mind, soul. These define the soul of a warrior. The body and the mind are easy enough to hone, but the soul…” He peered at the two boys, who stared at him in query, “the soul is the hardest to train.”
Francis straightened back up. “The only way to train the soul, the heart, is to face unfavorable situations, and then overcome them. It’s in these circumstances that a warrior can see himself most clearly, understand his own limitations, and then surpass them. Golgoth knew this too.”
The two of them were startled.
“Why else did he look for you? Because the two of you were the finest swordsmen he was facing. He needed to have a challenge, a real fight to measure himself.”
“Some challenge we proved to be.” Tom said sullenly. “In the end, we tucked our tails and ran.”
“Maybe that was the best thing you could do.”
“If I had run because I needed a better tactical situation, that’s one thing. But I ran because I was scared. Scared shitless.” He stared at his own feet.
Gawain, who was still learning to talk, simply added, “I. Too.”
Francis smiled. “It’s normal to feel fear. In fact, something would be wrong with you if you don’t. It’s in pushing past that fear and doing what needs to be done that makes a real fighter.” He walked up to Gawain, and reached for a bandage, peeling it off to reveal healed skin. “Ahhh, to be young again…”
Tom exchanged glances with Gawain. “Do you have something for us?”
“You’re almost fully recovered. Tomorrow, meet me at the clearing five hundred meters north of the church. Bring some wooden practice swords.”

The next day, the two of them faced the old priest in the clearing. Gravesend held out a hand. “Give me a sword.”
Tom looked incredulous. “Uhm, forgive me for saying this, but…”
“You think I’m too old for this?” Francis asked, taking one proffered by Gawain, swinging it to test its weight and balance.
“Uh, well…”
Francis snapped up his sword. “On guard!” Then he dove forward.
Tom was nearly caught off guard by the attack, and barely managed to bring his sword up in time. He parried another strike at his head, but before he knew it, Francis smacked the tip of his sword against his chest with enough force to bruise the area and send him stumbling to the ground.
Francis did not even pause when he beckoned to Gawain. “Your turn.”
Gawain attacked, but it took only moments before he fell to the ground too.
Francis went back to a guard position. “Now try again, the two of you together.” Tom was shocked. The old priest was only breathing slightly harder than before. Gawain picked himself up, and the two of them advanced determinedly.
A minute later, Francis walked away, and said to the two boys lying face-first on the ground, “The two of you should be ashamed,. You can’t even defeat an old man who had retired from the field long ago.”
Tom got up on one knee, one hand massaging the back of his head. “How is it we can’t understand your moves?”
Francis shook his head. “You’re focusing on the wrong things. Oh, and don’t bother coming back to the church.”
“What?”
“There’s plenty of game and forage here. Live off the land. Stay here, and learn what lessons you can from your environment… if you can.”

“You look, but you do not see. You hear, but you do not listen. You smell, but you do not sense. You touch, but you do not feel, and finally, you taste, but you do not savor.”
Tom blinked in bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”
“How does losing feel?”
He protested vehemently, “We didn’t lose! We’re still alive. And we’ll fight back, show him what we’re made of!” It sounded weak, even as he looked to Gawain for support. For the past four days, he and Gawain had done nothing except get the crap beaten out of them daily by Francis Gravesend.
The old priest laughed. “I can see you’ve almost fully recovered, since you’re capable of putting up a false front now. So…” He held out the wooden sword, “How are you going to win? What will you do?”
“First, we need to understand him. Learn his moves.”
“Good. You’re beginning to try to understand why you lost. So you want information, and how are you going to do that?”
Tom replied glumly, “I don’t know.”
“Remember the book I gave you?”
“What about it?”
“Where is it?”
Tom shrugged. “I lost it in the first day of the attack.”
Francis sighed. “Never mind then.” He took up a fighting stance. “Let us begin!”
The wind rustled the leaves of the tree branches above them, and several berries were shaken loose. Francis nonchalantly waved his sword, and before Tom and Gawain could react, they were hit on their cheeks by the berries Francis had batted at them. “I said it’s good that you’re beginning to try to understand why you lost.”
Tom was puzzled. “I don’t get it…”
Gravesend replied sternly, “And that is why you will still lose.” He charged forward.

The days turned into weeks, and still the two made no progress, and both of them were getting frustrated. They wanted to return to the fray, but Father Gravesend forced them to stay, kicking their sorry butts the whole time. Tom would spend long hours with the old cleric, who would discuss issues with him, regarding ethics, morality, and philosophy. Most of it went over Tom’s head, but he did realize that the old man was trying to re-shape his view of the world, which had become entirely too cynical. He put up with it, but he also wished for the day when he and Gawain would be able to defeat Francis and obtain his permission to leave.
Two months after the battle, the decision was taken out of their hands.
“The enemy is marching on the main production plant in the capital.” Francis said to Tom and Gawain. “That’s the source of most of the equipment for our forces. If the capital falls, we’re finished.”
“Didn’t we manage to snag their supply cache last week?” Tom asked.
“We did, and that is why the production units at Greenfeld are so important to either side. They need the munitions and the spare parts to keep fighting, and so do we. Whoever controls the city will win the war.”
Gawain, who was able to speak in longer sentences, asked, “Enemies. How many?”
Francis smiled. “Two million troops strong. And we have less than twenty thousand able bodied fighters in the city, not counting children and the elderly. Sucks, eh?”
“We can’t win.” Tom whispered.
“The moment you think that, is the moment you lose.” Gravesend said sternly.
“So we’re going there?”
“Yes, and I’ll be going with you.”
They reached Greenfeld with a small jeep Gravesend had stashed away in the church. The city was in the midst of preparations for a siege. Jake greeted them brusquely, too busy with the organization of the defenses. But that was only to be expected.
What was totally unexpected was the presence of the Soothsayer of Auben Hill, and Tom was shocked when he saw the old man directing a group of soldiers to clear several buildings.
He went up to the soothsayer, “What are you doing here?”
“Ahhh… young warrior, I see you have gained much since we last met. You even have a name now. Good!”
Tom narrowed his eyes. “Answer my question.”
“Tsk, tsk, the impetuousness of youth.” The soothsayer faced him, then pulled back one sleeve, revealing the multi-coloured tattoos on his arms. “I am one of the Thousand, and once an officer in the Clans. Now I am an outcast from my people, driven by my visions of the future. I have come here to render my aid, and with my help, we shall prevail.”
“You’re nuts.” Tom spat.
“Really? But you did what I told you to do. Who’s crazier, the man who came up with the idea or the man who obeyed him?” The soothsayer laughed. “Now, I believe I outrank you, Corporal, so get to work!”
Tom grudgingly snapped off a salute, and joined the other workers.

They gathered for a council of war. Jake was overall in command, Weasel as his second. Ereskel was in charge of logistics, and the soothsayer, who never gave his name(and the others claimed they knew him but not his name) was in charge of intelligence. Francis was their chief chaplain, especially for the local troops who were quite religious. Oplin, who had been demoted to commanding the city garrison, was also in attendance, looking worn down from the stress. Various other key personnel were also present.
As were two rather confused boys. Tom and Gawain had no idea why they were present.
Ereskel was speaking, “We have identified the enemy commander.” He clicked on a button, and a holographic image sprang up on the table before them. Tom felt a chill, recognizing the armored figure. “Golgoth, a Drakkar. He’s one stone cold killer. Nobody has yet to meet him in battle and live, except for two idiots who shall go unnamed.” That last phrase was directed at Tom and Gawain. “He’s leading more than two million troops, mostly infantry towards the city.”
One officer asked, “Their mechanized units?”
“Screening their main force, but make no mistake. Golgoth knows well that tanks and mechs won’t be at their best in urban fighting. He’ll bring them in only as the coup de grace. Most of the fighting will be done on foot, street to street.”
Jake said, “Behind us are the impassable Feldis Mountains, and we’ve established six lines of defense in the city’s fore. Between the first, second, third and fourth lines will be clear killzones, where we’ve cleared all the buildings and keyed our artillery to hit the killzones as we fall back. The areas between the fourth, fifth and last line will be a maze of rubble and debris to slow them up, along with plenty of booby traps to buy time.”
“Buy time for what?”
“We have training camps all over the planet, and they’re starting to really get online. We only need to hold out for a month before…” Jake paused, then shrugged.
“Before what?”
“I can’t tell any of you yet.”
The soothsayer walked up to the map of the defenses, the six lines shown very clearly in bold lines of red. “Interesting… So what are the names of these defensive lines?”
Jake and Eresekel exchanged glances. “We just call them by their numbers.”
“No, no, no, that won’t do.” The soothsayer clucked disapprovingly. “Soldiers fight and die, but they tend to fight better when defending a place with a name, a place that means something to them, rather than just a number.”
“So what do you suggest?”
The soothsayer laid a finger on the first line. His tone suddenly changed, a low growl. “The phases of the battle reflect the progression of life. The first line is Exultation. We are born into this world with expectations for the future thrust onto us, amidst great joy.” He glanced slyly at the clan warriors, who were birthed from iron wombs. “Well, some of us, anyway. Our soldiers will be confident, and willing to prove themselves worthy.”
His hand traced down to the second line. “The second line is Despair. As we grow into adulthood, we are faced with many choices and trials, and we often do not know which way to turn. We strive to go on, even when wounded in heart and spirit.” His eyes snapped up to the awed observers. “For the defenders, the first line has fallen. They are dejected, but still they fight on.”
“The third line. Renewed Hope. After the travails of adolescence, true adulthood. Purpose, vigor, and knowledge are there for the taking. The first two lines have fallen, true, but our soldiers know that they’ve survived everything thrown at them so far, and there are three more lines behind them.”
“Fourth line. Desperation. Better known as ’mid-life crisis’.” The soothsayer chuckled. “The lines have fallen one by one, and still the siege continues. The defenders fight on, knowing that they have no choice.”
“Fifth. Tranquility. In the twilight of his life, a man reflects on his deeds. Our soldiers have fought long and hard, and only the best of them remain. They savor every moment and cherish every breath, yet they will not shirk from their duty.”
His finger finally rested on the sixth and last line. He did not speak for long moments.
Somebody asked, “The sixth line. What will it be called?”
The soothsayer stared at the person who had asked. “What comes at the end of life?”
Jake nodded gravely, approving of the choice. “Death. The last line is Death.”
- 38
- 39
- 40
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

The Games that Gods Play