Matt awoke to the flow of natural light through his bedroom's only window; thankfully, the dim streams of light sluicing their way through the thin, dusty pane of glass awoke him. He was hoping that they would; he needed to be up early today, as the escort was setting off right after breakfast and he still had some business left to get done. Hurriedly, blocking the sunlight from his eyes, he made his way out of bed, groped in his wardrobe for suitable riding clothes, dressed himself sloppily and rushed out the door, making sure not to forget the shiny six-shooter that he was going to trade in to Lord Kurnias.
Late last night, Will had finally made his choice, rapping heavily on Matt's door just as the latter was slipping into bed. Groggily, Matt answered the door and listened as Will quickly rattled off his reasons for leaving and succinctly told Matt that he had no better choice than to take Cassandra to the perceived safety of the Ditch, and take care of her there. Matt nodded sleepily, accepting the decision, and Will returned to his own chambers. He was hoping that the swordsman had not double back on his decision.
Just to make sure, Matt knocked on the door and it was almost immediately answered by Will, who had sloppily thrown on a chainmail hauberk and was buckling his flimsy leather belt around his waist. The sword that he normally wore upon his hip was nowhere to be seen.
"Can I help you?" he asked rather heatedly, frantically struggling to force leather through a strap and cinch the piece tight.
"Are you still going with me?" Matt asked.
"Does it look like I intend to stay?" Will puffed. He moved aside, and behind him Cassandra was cheerily packing clothes away in a ragged knapsack, humming some song to herself and blithely unaware of the two men standing at the door. It took her a few seconds to notice them, and when she saw Matt she smiled and waved cheerfully at him, her eyes glowering with excitement.
"It's another adventure for her," Will muttered as she return to her state of introverted bliss. "But I'm not sure what to think of it anymore. Going home doesn't seem like an option."
"You'll get home-"
"We've been here for nearly two weeks, Matt. It's time to be realistic," Will admitted. "There's no more time for flights of fancy."
"You're giving up hope," Matt accused him, crossing his arms. That did not ring well with the swordsman.
"I am simply thinking realistically. You'd do the same if you were in my situation," Will hissed, obviously already tired of his early morning visitor. "Leave. We have things to do. I will meet you and your envoy in the main hall when it's time, just let me be."
The door shut rather fiercely in his face, and Matt did not wait around any longer. At least the two of them were packing, that was good enough; if Cassandra was going somewhere, Will had no choice but to go along with her. She had probably ended up making the decision in some burst of optimistic cheer.
The hallways were no more inviting than they were the previous day, although the castle seemed a bit livelier, owing to the large group of riders and diplomats who had opted to spend the night inside of the keep. Several of them could be seen traversing the hallways as Matt made his way up, some of them in their night shifts and others already dressed or armored, prepared for the long ride ahead. Only one of them nodded and grunted at Matt, recognizing his existence; the others passed by as if he were a phantom, something intangible and thus not worthy of time or effort.
Kurnias, of course, was already up and awake; Matt simply had to find his way to the back of the main hall, towards his private room, which was being guarded at the hour by Sir Lyonel Cormac. The knight nodded brusquely at Matt, acknowledging his presence, before opening the creaky wooden door and admitting him inside.
The dim interior was lit only by a few candles on the table, even though there were several candlestands in the corners that could've provided much more light. The Kraken sat in his usual position, hunched over several documents, scribbling on one furiously with a quill. When he looked up to dab the quill in an inkpot he grunted at Matt, signaling him to come nearer.
"Can I help you?" he asked as soon as Matt had come over to the opposite side of the desk.
"I have what you wanted. In exchange for Sora's contract?" Matt reminded him. The old, battered lord's expression did not change, but he sat up at the mention of the matter.
"What is it?"
Without another word, Matt withdrew the handgun from the pocket of his riding coat, producing the shiny, dangerous piece and placing it gently on the table, in full view of the candlelight. Kurnias stooped down slightly, examining the weapon with keen interest.
"How did you come upon this?" he asked, not giddily but not without excitement. Matt saw a small amount of impression register on his face, and for some reason that made him feel accomplished.
"It was given to me by Lord Walker. Before I set out before, to take the pendant…"
"There were always rumors, about what treasures the Ditch had stored in its Vault," Kurnias muttered to himself, wringing his hands anxiously. "I do not know what to do with it."
"Take it," Matt told him.
"I have little use for it," Kurnias replied dryly.
"It's a weapon above any other you could find…"
"Yes, it's a great advantage, but there is only one, and I do not know how to use it. Such things are...dangerous," Kurnias grunted, making to shove the gun away. But he did not; he faltered in the last moment, falling back into his chair.
"It's the only thing I've got," Matt said to him. "That's all."
"I see," Kurnias pondered, rubbing his chin. His single eye, unwavering, studied the piece with a scrutinizing gaze.
"I would do anything to get her-"
"There is no need for that. I will take it," Kurnias told him.
"You...ah...alright," Matt accepted, somewhat taken aback. Something he had said, or perhaps the tone of Matt's voice, had changed his mind about the gift. He reached out a calloused, scabbed hand and took the gun, placing it out of sight within his desk.
"Thank you for this. I'm sure it will be put to good use."
"So...her contract is broken now?" Matt ensured.
"Yes, there is no paperwork to be done. It was an unwritten contract," Kurnias assured him. "She is free to go now. Your payment may turn out to be worth more than any amount of gold you could've paid."
"I...thank you," Matt muttered, hanging his head quickly. He felt embarrassed, for reasons that he couldn't conceive; hastily, to avoid any more conversation, he turned his back on Kurnias and opened the door, closing it just as quickly.
"That was a good piece, lad," the heavy, thickly-accented British voice of Sir Lyonel struck him as he left. He turned left to see the heavily-armored, worn knight standing guard at the door, a heavy broadsword in his mailed right fist.
"You...you saw the gun?" Matt asked, vacillating between curiosity and fright.
"Aye, it's hard to hide things from me. I have a discerning eye," Sir Lyonel smiled warmly. "Don't worry, I'm not ratting you out. There's no Regulators left alive, least not here."
"Ah...well, ah, thanks," Matt said.
"He appreciates it. He might not show it, but a weapon like that is worth ten blades if you get the drop on your foe. He appreciates it, don't you worry," Sir Lyonel assuaged him. Matt nodded hastily, wishing to get away, wishing to leave, and as soon as the knight stopped talking he began heading for the servant's quarters.
"Take good care of that lass, boy. One day, she'll pay you back," the knight called after him amicably. He was apparently unfazed by Matt's hasty, and rather rude, departure.
The servant's quarters were alive with stewards and cooks preparing for their day's duties, all of them groggy and sleepy-looking. A few of them shoved past Matt with inaudible grunts, but most of them just stepped aside when he rushed past them. He knew exactly where he was going; once more, he rapped on that door, and it opened to greet him just like it had every other time.
"Did you do it?" Sora asked nervously, her left hand folded into her right palm in front of her waist, tapping her foot on the floor anxiously.
"He took it. You're free."
She stood stock still for a few moments, processing the words before that tender smile spread across her face slowly and her hands detached from one another. They reached up around Matt's shoulder and dragged their two bodies together, as she buried her face in his shoulder. He brought his own arms around her waist, letting his hands slide gently across the soft silk of her black steward's dress and meet on the small of her back.
"We've got to pack and get ready…"
"I know. Just let me enjoy this, please. Let me enjoy this moment."
He did, until her arms unwrapped from around him and she returned to standing on the threshold.
"I'll get my stuff ready," she said quietly, smiling again. "Whe-"
"Main hall in an hour," Matt replied before she could even finish. She bid him goodbye and closed the door as he left. He felt some kind of energy take flight in his heart, something strange. A sudden happiness overtook him, and he could only pin it down to one thing.
Sora was finally free.
VVVVV
The Xonos Mallistron was always up late nowadays; before, he could expect to be up until around ten or eleven at night, drawing up marching and formation plans with the officers and reviewing layouts and statistics with them. Even with the Archon dead and forgotten, he was still not overloaded with labor related to his force.
But now, it seemed like every night he was up until three in the morning, taking note of casualties and defections and quartermaster reports and any other sort of bad news that found its way to him. Very few reports seemed to be positive in nature; the locals of the Southrun were striking at them with a vengeance, forming their own vigilante parties and in some cases guerilla fighters and attacking outriders, scouts, foragers or even picket camps if they were daring enough, spilling blood and burning property and supplies before retreating back into the woodlands that they struck out from. Nearly three thousand men had been lost to guerilla fighters and brigands, and another eight thousand lost to disease, exhaustion or malnutrition. The once great Kleisardathan army was weakened; still able to put up a fierce fight, as the action at Nathan's Ford had proven, but a mere shadow of what they had been before the Battle of Ash. That's what his men had taken to calling it.
For more than two weeks, they had been retreating back towards the coast, where the beach camp that the Archon had established was, hopefully, still standing. The Xonos was pinning so many of his hopes on the continuing survival of that fortress, and if it were to fall his hopes would be dashed into bloody pieces. His worst fear was Cymander, and the Lapiscloak army that he had command of. Minor lords and brigand parties could chip away at picket defenses, but the Lapiscloaks now proved to be a serious threat that could wipe his army out with a single well-planned and well-organized offensive. And he had no idea where they were now.
The past few days had been daunting for him; the vanguard had quartered themselves in a village a few days ago, taking what they needed and finding sleeping spaces throughout the town. The story that came to his ears was that a few of the men had attempted to steal the town inn's ale and both of the drunks were slain by the angry tavern keeper. Normally he would have had the wretch put to death and his tavern burned down, just for good measure, but the anger and frustration that had been building up in him had to be depressurized at some point. Any man that was unlucky enough to avoid the sharp steel of the Xonos' vengeful men was crucified in gruesome fashion wherever there was room available, and the hoplites took every woman, no matter the age, and raped them until an the mercy of an iron blade ended their suffering. The Xonos himself had taken several of them himself, enjoying the pain that he wrought and allowing his frustration to escape as he gave no quarter.
It was almost funny to feel regret at such heinous acts, like he did when his finger crossed over the name of the now burnt-out village on a map. Every single one that had been marked with an X his finger passed over, leaving a faint smudge of dirt and oil on the fragile parchment. There were so many of them; so many dead, he thought. Of his own and of the innocent.
And, of course, of his enemies.
The journey south had been marked with peril, and was even close to its terminus, but every day brought them nearer and nearer to the coast, where hopefully friendly arms would greet them and spirit them back home, back to Ais Kleisardathos, back to safety.
He tried to keep that hope alive, but every day was wearisome more and more; guerillas, bands of vigilantes eager for Southern blood, stalked his mighty army as it straggled back to the southern shore, harrying small groups and slaughtering pickets in the night. Each day his runners, slipping their way through the maze of tents and supply caches, brought him news of another attack or another foraging party lost. Each report made him more and more anxious, and it didn't help that he knew what else he had left behind at those ashen fields.
The undead haunted his dreams. He dare not mention them again; to be afraid of them would make him look like a coward in the eyes of his men, who had been much closer and had a far more personal experience with the skeletal horrors than he had, and to mention them once more would unnerve the soldiers who had watched their brothers fall before the horde that day. It was best not to speak of the topic, and many of the officers never brought it up amongst their men.
He was tracing a line on the map all the way down to the sandy southern shore when the tent flaps parted and one of the company commanders entered. Most of the men like him had been slain on the battlefield, and those few who remained had accrued far too many leaderless soldiers to their command. The army's structure was far more frail now, reliant on too few men of rank.
"What brings you here?" the Xonos asked the officer, before the latter could speak. He turned around to face the ebon-skinned, stalwart man, who doffed his helm out of respect.
"Reports, my lord. I have a few. Not of attacks," he added quickly at the end.
"What do you have?"
"Our scouts have brought back reports from the east. The land is vacant; everything around Castle Tanner, everything in the Mornwood, emptied...every hamlet, village-"
"Are you sure about this?" the Xonos interrupted, suddenly feeling a chill run up his spine and lance out into his shoulders.
"What scouts came back told the same stories. Vacancies, not a single human being seen," the commander said.
"Totally empty," the Xonos mused to himself. "Nobody at all?"
"No one," the commander repeated for the third time.
He let himself ruminate over that report without letting his fears and assumptions overcome him; perhaps the scouts had been incorrect? Perhaps it was just the war? He didn't want to think about ulterior reasons…
"Maybe the scouts were incorrect?" he posed.
"Unlikely, sir. No offense, of course...but eight of them brought back the same reports," the commander spoke, shifting his feet awkwardly. "Nobody…"
"Damn it all," the Xonos cursed. He didn't want to know where all of those villagers, all of those native people had gone. He wanted to believe they weren't part of a great necromantic legion, preparing to strike at the heart of the living, but it seemed all too likely.
"There are other scouts coming, sir," the commander added, "Perhaps they have different news…"
"Yes, of course," the Xonos said, irritated. "Do let me know when they come in. I want to know what they say."
"Of course, my Lord."
"You are dismiss-"
"There was one other thing," the other man said, cutting him off. "It's...from home."
"Home?" Mallistron asked quietly, as if the word was foreign on his tongue. It felt weird to say aloud; they had been gone for over a month and had seen so much, suffered so much. Ais Kleisardathos itself felt like a dream now, the memories vague and distant.
"From the capital. They've sent us a bat, surprising that we were able to intercept it. It's been going for weeks, most like," the commander stated.
"They knew we were marching south. If only they had waited until we'd linked up with the southern force, or gotten back home-"
"About that…"
"About what?" the Xonos snapped suddenly, interrupted once more. "Home?"
"That's what the message was, sir. Something's happened back in the city. I have the...pamphlet itself," the commander struggled. That was the first time that Mallistron noticed that the messenger had a roll of parchment clenched tightly in his fist. He extended his own hand and wordlessly accepted the letter, unrolling it as cold, apprehensive sweat began to bead on his brow.
It is with happy heart and great relief that the people of Ais Kleisardathos are once more under the command of an Archon, a dear man by the name of Qorhas Aelthos. The presently much celebrated Archon Aelthos has assumed his seat of power, after the quite unfortunate passing of our beloved Archon Sykardos, and is already steeping himself in political issues left behind by the late Sykardos. Heretofore, all armies south of our borders are to be recalled back to Ais Kleisardathos under the command of the Xonos Traiiton, and any and all forces under the command of the Xonos Mallistron are hereby nullified in any political power. The Xonos Mallistron himself has been declared an enemy of the state for his role in the grievous murder of our beloved Archon Sykardos, and any and all citizenship and nobility benefits he receives are now void.
With the seal of Ais Kleisardathos,
Archon Qorhas Aelthos
Prime Emissary Jhoqalo Stertros
Mallistron read the letter twice, thrice, poring over its contents and absorbing every word. And when he was done, he set the letter down on the table upon the map and brought his hands down over his face, wiping the sweat away with already sweaty palms.
"It's bad tidings, my-"
"Could be far worse. He could've had me assassinated before I had even known his name," the Xonos sighed, bringing his hands back down to his sides.
"He may do so yet."
"Indeed, he might," Mallistron agreed. "And unless the boys down on the shore have a change of heart for me, we no longer have their support. 'Enemy of the state'...heh," he chuckled, rolling the words around in his head. "He thinks I murdered the late Archon?"
"Apparently so. Details are scarce, most likely, and you never found an actual killer," the captain pointed out.
"Indeed I did not. Should've been a greater priority," the Xonos laughed, suddenly realizing his grievous error. "A bit of torture here, some investigation there, but nothing every came of it."
"And you assumed power of the entire army, my lord. No offense, but that could be taken very wrongly back in the capital…"
"Of course, of course," Mallistron shrugged it off. "Perhaps they see me as a power-monger, rather than a general trying to salvage what's left of this ill-fated invasion," he raised his arms to emphasize his point. He spread them out to encompass all of the tent, encompass the entire camp. "One way or another, we are isolated."
"This new Archon will pursue you," the commander warned. It was not his official duty to advise the Xonos, but if he did not, who else would? There was nobody left, no official "advisor".
"I know that."
"The base camp may turn against you. If there's a reward on your head, we cannot expect them to be friendly," he continued.
"We outnumber them."
"Money is a more powerful motivator. Will you risk it?"
The Xonos did not know. It was all happening so suddenly; suddenly, the world was upside down. His own countrymen were now conspiring against him, he was an exile, and now the base camp seemed like it was a million miles away, so far now and no longer friendly.
"It's too much to risk...if they have turned against me…"
He trailed off, realizing that his face was swamped with his sweat. He had to get some sleep; there was too much to do, and not enough energy.
"Tomorrow, I will decide our course," he told the commander. "Double the guard patrols. Make sure that each soldier knows this."
"Every man?"
"Every man. They must be informed," the Xonos told him. "Ignorance breeds more ignorance. They need to know."
"Some may desert…"
"None will. They owe their loyalty and their lives to me," he spat, clenching his fists tightly and feeling some kind of powerful heat well up in his breast. "This Archon is false, he is not their true ruler," he said, feeling the anger building up within him, and he began to pace back and forth, his eyes on his own feet. "I did not murder Archon Sykardos. I did not kill him, I did not harm him. I only did my duty for my country. I am the only true power left of our nation, this Qorhas is an impostor. I am the only one. I am Ais Kleisardathos now. I am the last that remains of our nation, and I intend to return home. I will bring these men home, as a hero or as a besieger, and they will see those walls once more and I will put the city in its rightful power once more! We will go back…"
By that time the commander had left; as he stamped his foot into the dirt to accentuate his sentence, he noticed that he was alone in the tent. The flaps were only barely rustling, and all that remained was the Xonos, and the sweat pouring down his neck and chest. The officer had left, taken his chance and left the tent before he was seen. That drove Mallistron beyond anger. It was the final straw.
In fury, he drew his dagger from its gem-encrusted sheath, raised it above his head, and drove it down with a cry into the map, right into Ais Kleisardathos. The steel pierced the parchment easily, tore out, and came down again, piercing the fabric and the table. Again, and again, he drove the knife into the map, tearing the southern region apart, each time spittle flying from the corners of his mouth as he drove the blade into the wood. Eventually it stuck, and when he couldn't pry it out he grit his teeth tightly, growled something incomprehensible and let it go. He clenched his fists so tightly that he felt fingernail cut into skin, felt tiny droplets of warm blood run down into his palm.
Within a minute his anger was spent; he was too drained to say anything more, to do anything more. His minute of fitful rage drained him, and as he slumped down against the leg of the table, bathed in sweat, a distant warhorn sounded and men began crying. The Xonos closed his eyes and ignored it all, feeling blood run down his fingers and create tiny, insignificant pools in the dry dust.
VVVVV
"They are savages, sir. Junkies with...with clubs and hatchets, no more a soldier than...well, me!"
The engineer's constant nattering was getting on the pilot's nerves, but he ignored the complaints and put the transport helicopter down on solid ground, in a small clearing within the forest. It was a tight fit, squeezing in between the boughs of many an oak and birch tree, but he put the bird down with little trouble, and the group of expeditionary soldiers, dressed in black combat armor with matching protective helmets, leapt out of the craft. The pilot shut the vehicle down by flipping several switches, and opened the bulkhead door to allow himself to exit.
"This will never work-"
"If I wanted your opinion I would've asked a long time ago," the pilot cut him off, his voice rough and gravelly, the result of a throat damaged by years of exposure to dust and sand, old age, and thousands of cigarettes. At that moment, he reached into the left pocket of his flight vest, withdrew the cardboard carton of cheap cigarettes he always kept on hand, and grabbed his lighter from the other pocket. He lit one of the tiny tobacco twigs as the engineer disembarked.
"They are primitive, sir. Junkies who get high and slaughter innocent people. Does that make a soldier to you?" the engineer asked, wringing his hands as he approached. He was the spitting image of an office intern; dress pants and shirt, a clip-on tie, brown leather belt and fine daywear shoes.
"If a man can kill another man, he can become a soldier," the other answered as he puffed on the cigarette, coughing on the toxic vapors.
"That's a brutal philosophy…"
"A brutal philosophy for an even more brutal world. Come, our 'savages' await us," he said with a laugh, beckoning the engineer on. The latter became flustered and frustrated, but nevertheless followed as he was bid.
The Black Watchmen led the way, down into the shallow-sloped sinkhole. A collection of about a dozen crude daub-and-wattle houses were clustered around a great bonfire in the center of the camp. All along the mud pathway leading down, half-naked, painted men stood waiting, armed with crude spears, clubs, atlatls and a few steel swords and halberds, most likely weapons stolen from men-at-arms or knights slain on various battlefields. Very few wore any sort of armor; clothing was relegated to scrappy tunics or loincloths tied around the waist, and only two or three wore any sort of headgear, that being a leather pot helm.
The soldiers led the way down into the camp, bearing their assault rifles with them. The pilot and engineer followed close behind, watched by the weary eyes of the Harvesters around them. The engineer looked rather nervous, eager to get such filthy business done with.
The Watchmen fanned out eventually around the bonfire, letting the pilot approach the man who seemed to designate himself as the leader. He wore naught but a loincloth for regular clothing, but upon his back he had some sort of great symbol attached to him. It was like a sun rising up over his shoulders, wooden prongs emanating out from a bundle of cloth bound with string and attached to the skin of his back, with feathers hanging from the tips of the prongs and each tip decorated with a flint spearhead. Two human skulls hung from the loincloth at his waist.
"You are the one in charge here?" the pilot asked, extinguishing his cigarette with the tip of his index finger. It did not seem to faze him at all.
"I lead these. We shoot up together, we drink the body venom together, we plunder and kill and rape together. But I lead," the brutish leader said, his voice thick and his words difficult to understand. His body was painted with all kinds of symbols, with all different hues.
"You know why I am here."
"You come with your machines and your armored men. I know why you are here," the chieftain grinned wickedly. "The real question is, do I accept your offer?"
"It is so little to ask, for what I am giving you. It is unfortunate that you...ah...'killed' my messenger, to put it lightly," the pilot chuckled. "But you got his message. And I am glad that you have agreed to talk to me."
"You say you will give me the Southrun. You say you will give me free reign to loot and rape. You say you will send the villagers and the steel men running, and kill them. You say many words, but how am I to believe them?" the chieftain asked. And there was the hitch in the plan; the pilot could see that he was not a stupid man, however brutish and drug-addled he might have been. He was still intelligent, and was suspicious of the pilot's plans. But the pilot had yet another trick up his sleeve.
"Do you have any prisoners?"
"Prisoners?"
"Men who you plan to kill. Prisoners," the pilot repeated.
The chieftain nodded, and without a word two of his own men went off into the woods. Three minutes later, three agonizingly long minutes of being watched, the pilot saw the Harvesters return, dragging a middle-aged man wearing a peasant's tunic and nothing else.
"He was farmer. Tilled the land, had nothing to do with us. But we took him anyway, he pleaded for his wife and his children," the Harvester chieftain laughed, a guttural and wicked laugh. "Raped the fat bitch and burned her whelps alive. Took him, was going to kill him. What do you want with the pig?"
"Take this."
The pilot drew his handgun and extended the weapon to the chieftain. The latter took it cautiously, gripping it just like the pilot had done.
"Is a gun."
"You will shoot this man with the gun. That is how you will kill him," the pilot ordered. The chieftain was certainly not pleased with the command.
"I kill the man how I want. What gives you power over me?"
"Shoot him," the pilot repeated.
"You have no right to-"
"Shoot him. Do it."
Something about the pilot's voice urged the chieftain onward, and he gave in. The farmer, with a burlap sack over his head, was shoved to his knees before the painted man, who, with the pilot's assistance, leveled the pistol at the captive.
"Feel the power. Squeeze the trigger, and feel the power," the pilot urged.
"I will kill him?"
"You will kill him," he said. "Pull the trigger."
"What are you doing to me-"
"Feel the power," was all the pilot said, letting go of the Harvester's hand. The latter seemed to vacillate between doing so and not doing so, but in the end he felt the power. The handgun roared, the farmer flopped violently onto the ground, propelled backwards by the force of the bullet, and the Harvester's hand flew backwards, almost letting the gun fly. The gunshot echoed throughout the trees, and as the pilot looked around he saw many of the Harvesters cowering, their hands over their ears or their arms shielding their faces, recoiling from the fury of the weapon. The chieftain himself was just now recovering.
"So much...power…" he said as he looked down at the farmer's body. The poor man hadn't even said a word before his death; he had no idea he was at death's doorstep.
"So much, in such a little package. All of this, and more, can be yours. I will bring you the Southrun, with gun and fire and sword and so much more. It's what you've wanted, always," the pilot said, completely unfazed by the weapon's discharge.
"I will take the Southrun. You bring me your guns and your fire, and you take your machines and your men, and you give me these lands. Send the steel men away, give me their women," he growled, and the men around him began to chant in some strange tongue, something foreign. "And what would you want in return?"
"Me?" the pilot asked, smiling suddenly. He began to laugh, snorting as if the question had been a joke. "Me? I just want to watch these lands burn."
The deal was sealed without delay; the engineer would kvetch and complain, the Watchmen would walk back to the helicopter silently, the primitive Harvests would chant and sing and prepare for war, and gather all of their tribal strength together. But Konstantin Raam would stand there another few moments, and let himself be carried away.
Where "Dom", the young, unblooded mercenary had failed, Konstantin Raam would succeed. This was only the start of his grand warpath, and once he was done the money would pour in just like the oil, and he would be the one who would reap the glory. One day.
But for now, all he could do was pull out a cigarette and light it as the Harvesters began cheering and dancing in their drug-induced craze. It was funny, he thought; the cigarette and a thousand hapless villages had one thing in common.
They burned.