PRIDE OF THE SCOUTS EXCERPT

From the memoirs of

Sebastian Delano Blayac

In the year 1325 AE

“It’s one piss poor excuse for a day,” Caleb said between striking a match on his boot heel and lighting his pipe.

His observation left little room for argument. The sky was a dull gray, promising the first real rainfall in over two months, but the humidity was oppressive to say the least. The sun’s rays had no trouble penetrating the dense clouds, but once through they became trapped, creating an oven effect that sucked the moisture from the air and cooked alive those of us who lingered above deck of our sluggishly moving skifftank, the Pathfinder.

"I guess so.” I wiped sweat from my brow and leaned against the skifftank’s railing. The jostling of the machine’s giant treads as it propelled us over mounds of dry, barren soil was enough to lull my already heat-exhausted mind to sleep, but I did my best to tune it out, focusing instead on the thunderheads, which loomed above the jagged formation of rocks that passed for hills in this desolate area.

“My, aren’t you in a talkative mood?” Caleb got his pipe going and placed the tobacco and matches into separate pouches on his belt.

“It’s just hot is all.” I tugged at the collar of my cuirass. Both Caleb and I stood in full battledress, our golden armor so finely polished that it gleamed despite the overcast day. The Seventh Cavalry Division went on alert the moment we entered enemy territory. This meant that, regardless of the heat, every man now performed their duties fully armed, armored, and ready for combat.

Lightning etched itself across the gray-tinted sky. Thunder echoed off the jagged rocks with blustering and increasing regularity. A fine mist snaked through the valley and hills like the sinuous form of some spectral dragon. It seldom rained in this region, but when the rain came, it was sudden, furious, and never lasted long.

Shortly after sunrise, the Pathfinder along with another skifftank, the Reaper's Revenge, entered a section of Kofteros known as the Dagger Hills. I had been on edge ever since we crossed the border. There was something in the air other than the approaching storm; a sensation that had caused the hairs to stand up on the nape of my neck and my skin to break out in gooseflesh.

Caleb noticed this (not much escaped his watchful eye) and he clapped me on the arm. “Come on, Bas, it’s not the humidity that’s got you sweating. You’re spooked about something, what is it?”

“What makes you think I’m spooked?” I said, trying to hide my unease. It wouldn’t do to look afraid in the eyes of a superior officer. Especially one I considered a close friend.

“Just a hunch, but you’ve been bobbing your head about for the last hour like a chick searching for its supper.” Caleb grinned. “Come on, I promise not to judge you too harshly.”

I nodded to the barren hills. “Do you feel that? There’s something out there. Almost like . . . I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.”

Caleb blew smoke through his nostrils and said, “Like some giant’s foot is about to come down and stomp us into the dust, you mean?”

I considered this and nodded. “Aye, just like that. Do you feel it too?”

“I do. We’re being watched. And whoever’s doing the watching doesn't have our best interest at heart.”

“Think they’ll pick a fight?” I looked the hills over, but there wasn’t a soul in sight. If the enemy was out there, then they were well hidden.

“Relax,” Caleb said, “if something is going to happen then it will happen in its own time. Worrying will only make it worse, believe me.”

I gave another nod, this one less assured, and continued to watch the jagged hills for any signs of movement.

Kofteros sat in the far western region of the Deadlands, far enough from the eastern Empire of Elysium and its surrounding provinces that most of its land remained free of Imperial control. That isn’t to say that the Emperor, the wise and canny Arius Adrastus, didn’t have his eye on the territory and its many resources, but in these turbulent times, as we fought to expand the Great Walls of Elysium farther into the surrounding Deadlands, a place as far removed from the cradle of civilization as Kofteros barely warranted a second glance.

Because of this, many barbarian tribes called the place home. Their clans were diverse and well-organized. Most had been forced into the region by the Empire's continued expansion, making them hostile towards both the inner and outer territories. They would sometimes raid neighboring towns or passing caravans and then retreat back across the border, knowing that what scant authority existed in the area would think twice about following.

That the Emperor would send his elite cavalry scout regiment to such a wretched place was a sure sign that the already strained relationship we had with the barbarian tribes had gone from bad to downright unfriendly.

A report had filtered in several days earlier pertaining to an expedition led by one of the Emperor's vassals, the famous explorer Alton de Breilmaier. It appeared Breilmaier had encountered hostiles while searching for a route through the Knochen Mountains, which acted as a natural barrier between Kofteros and the Skala Sea to the northwest. Breilmaier had hoped to open up trade with the island folk said to exist just off the coast. The wealth of exotic goods these sea-faring people were rumored to harbor would easily fill Elysium's near-empty coffers.

Needless to say, things had not gone as planned. The scouts were dispatched to search for survivors if any were to be found.

We were nearing the point where Breilmaier had sent his last frantic transmission, stating that he was overwhelmed by Deadlanders and in need of immediate assistance; though from my position on the Pathfinder's deck, all appeared peaceful enough (or as peaceful as a group of jagged hills can look, that is).

“What do you think the odds are of us finding Breilmaier?” I asked.

“Alive or dead?”

“Either, I suppose.”

Caleb puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. “It’s hard to say offhand. We must stay optimistic, of course, but the reality of the situation doesn't bode well for anyone in that party.”

“And if they're all dead?”

“Then we bury them and track down their killers.”

“To dispense justice?”

“Aye, if it helps you sleep at night.”

I glanced at Caleb, curious what he meant by that last remark. I knew better than to ask him. Some things he would tell me, others he would have me ferret out on my own. I had a feeling this was one of the latter.

“The barbarians are butchers,” I said. “They deserve what they get.”

“We're infringing upon their lands. Tell me, what would you do if things were the other way around?”

“The Emperor only wishes to unite the lands.”

“With us on top.”

“What's wrong with that? Someone has to be, right?”

Caleb laughed. The wisdom of his forty-three years was evident in every line of his long, weathered face. I had known the man my entire life. Caleb and my father had served together in the military and fought in many campaigns together, earning each other’s trust and respect.

“There isn’t a man living I’d rather have watching my back,” my father once told me. This was high praise indeed coming from Alexandro Blayac, captain of the Emperor's Second Legion and hero of the Boggarian Wars.

It was while Caleb and my father were off fighting in those very wars that I was born in the kitchen of our stately cottage, delivered by the head cook and his staff. My mother, Lena, better known in polite society as the Lady Andreea, named me Sebastian, after my grandfather. I was the sixth of twelve siblings, and the third of four boys.

My family descended from a long line of heroes, whose exploits dated back to the Empire’s sanguineous beginnings. From Xenodoros Blayac, who had been instrumental in overthrowing Elysium's last king and paving the way for Imperial rule, to Kol Blayac, who braved the Sorrowing Seas in search of pirates, our name carried with it a sense of pride and duty.

We had a responsibility to always be the first into battle and the last to leave, either on our feet in victory or carried off on our shields in defeat. It had always been this way, and the expectation was that my brothers and I would carry on the tradition. Not that we needed much prodding. Ours was a military family, after all. Service to the Empire was the greatest honor one could achieve.

This was not to say that my father skimped on our education in favor of military service. To the contrary, Alexandros spared no expense when it came to his children's schooling. He understood that a well-honed mind was the greatest weapon in a soldier's arsenal. You had to be able to out-think your enemies on the battlefield, to predict their every move, and outwit them at every turn.

I had an insatiable hunger for knowledge from an early age. By my teens, I was so far ahead of my fellow students that my teachers allowed me access to the archives between classes. I spent hours here poring over the histories of the ancient world, much to their approval. Most were convinced that once I had completed my mandatory service in the military I would forgo a soldier's life for that of an academic. How little they truly knew me.

I was my father's son. I lusted for the glory of battle as he once did. Never could I envision wasting away my days in some stuffy classroom as my chances for honor and everlasting renown gradually faded with the passage of time. So if it was true that I shined in my studies of the spirit and of the mind, then I all but radiated in my physical education.

Classes were primarily taught by lamed or retired soldiers who took their role of overseeing Elysium’s next generation with the utmost seriousness. Their jobs were to keep us fit, teach us the art of war, and see that we understood what was required of a vassal under the standard of our glorious Emperor.

I graduated from the academy at the age of seventeen with top honors, ready to serve and die for the Empire. I was given the chance soon after alongside my father and two eldest brothers, Joonas and Alaric, at the disastrous Battle of Tarkat. This was the Emperor's first attempt at expanding the overpopulated Empire farther into the surrounding Deadlands.

As anyone schooled in our rich history knows, Elysium did not always encompass the vast territory it does today. When originally constructed by the kings of old, the walls that enclosed the Inner Kingdom were meant to contain only a limited population. However, with the passing of several centuries and the transformation of the Kingdom into an Empire it wasn’t long before overcrowding led to disease, starvation, and death.

It took the Great Plague of 1314, which wiped out nearly a third of the population, to convince Emperor Adrastus that expansion was a necessary action. This was by no means an easy task. It meant seizing land currently occupied by other inhabitants. Some saw the writing on the wall and surrendered without a fight. The majority, however, wasn’t willing to go as quietly.

Tarkat was a relatively small province in Voor, an eastern region close to Elysium’s Great Walls. Barbarian tribes had been settling on the land for generations, all but thumbing their noses at Imperial rule. Our armies lay siege to Tarkat in 1322, but we were ill-prepared for the resistance we faced. The Deadlanders were outnumbered two to one, but they fought with a savage fury that was frightening to behold.

Many of our troops, mostly young boys no older than myself, broke formation and fled in all directions. The middle of our great phalanx collapsed. The officers tried vainly to reform the ranks. Most were slaughtered for their efforts, my father among them with an arrow through the heart. Alaric joined him seconds later.

Joonas and I made our stand along with the remnants of our army at what has been christened “Reaper's Rock” by historians. Our situation looked helpless, but at that moment Caleb, who had been leading a separate attack to the north, managed to reform a thousand men into a brigade and attack the enemy from the rear.

Caleb's first wave shelled the entangled mass of combatants from a distance to soften them up for the impending attack. He was aware that he would be hitting friend as well as foe, but under the circumstances he had little choice but to do so.

In the end, the opposition sounded the retreat, Joonas was killed by mortar fire, and Caleb was given a medal.

It wasn't long after that infamous battle that Caleb paid a visit to my family’s estate. He wished to offer his condolences for our great loss and to beg forgiveness for his part in my brother's death. I thanked him for his kindness and assured him that neither I nor anyone in my family bore a grudge against him for what had happened to Joonas. Caleb was a soldier fulfilling his obligation to win the battle at all cost. Had he not come to the rescue we all would have dined with the gods that day.

Caleb took me under his wing, becoming both my teacher and close friend. I learned that he once served as a member of the Emperor’s royal guard. He possessed a superior intellect and was often called upon as an adviser in matters of state. I once asked him why he chose the life of a soldier when he could have easily spent the remainder of his days in the palace, content in his service to the Empire.

He smiled that sad smile of his that somehow passed for amusement and told me what I already suspected. He had an adventurous streak in him that could not be fulfilled any other way. He wanted to explore uncharted lands, to carve new paths, to do something glorious with his life before he lost it to that unrelenting bastard, Death. It was a sentiment I could easily understand.

The senate was alarmed at how dearly Tarkat had cost us right out of the gate. An estimated twenty-eight thousand loyal subjects were reported dead. Another thousand were missing in action. Most were deserters who had fled into the Deadlands during the battle, rightfully afraid to return and face our Emperor's wrath.

The cost of vehicles and equipment dug deep into the average citizen’s pocket, many of whom were already struggling to pay taxes and feed their families; this led to mass protests and, inevitably, rioting in the streets. The senate feared that there might be a full-scale revolt if something wasn't done to quell the uproar. They pleaded with Emperor Adrastus to call off his campaign, but he would have none of it.

Instead, scapegoats were culled from the ranks. Generals, advisers, and instructors all found their necks under the executioner's axe. The Emperor condemned his army as weak and undisciplined, unworthy of their roles as guardians of the Empire. That is, except for us few who stood our ground at Reaper's Rock; we who fought and died to maintain a foothold into the undiscovered country. We were basked in glory.

The Emperor honored us further by announcing his plans to create an elite special operations unit, beginning with those of us who had shown our true hearts at Tarkat. The unit's primary duty would be to clear the Deadlands of all who opposed the expansion of our glorious Empire.

So it was that the cavalry scouts were formed.

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