May 15th, 2282
Who really was the Courier?
The funny thing was, even he didn't know! Who would've thought getting shot twice in the head would produce adverse health effects?
Well, that wasn't entirely true. He had woken up from his head wound unable to recall much at all. When Doc Mitchell had asked him for his name, he hadn't even been able to recall that. But the longer he stumbled and then walked away from Goodsprings, it came back to him in bits and pieces. He saw a gun and realized he'd used it before. He saw a computer and realized he knew how to use and troubleshoot them. It took weeks and months and required specific circumstances to jog his memory, but the Courier had been able to recover a wide range of skills and talents he had most certainly possessed before getting buried alive. He'd been a crackshot survivalist, but that was hardly unique.
Still no idea what his name was, though. He'd just gone with 'Courier' once he woke up because that was one of the only words he could process. And he'd just kept going on with that, occasionally using Six as an alternative. Might've been part of the reason nothing jogged his memory.
Or maybe it was because it wasn't something that'd been important enough to recall second nature, like stabbing a raider or taking apart a 10mm pistol. He didn't remember just skills, he remembered places: Utah, Montana, San Francisco, Vault City, and many others. Ulysses had jogged his memory more than anything else, but he remembered plenty on his own to remember he had always been a man in motion, traveling from place to place and never staying long. He hadn't even been sure if he was an NCR citizen (he certainly was now that the Mojave had been annexed), even though he was certain he'd been to cities in the republic.
He wasn't sure what kind of person he'd used to be either. Most of the Mojave and the Republic's citizens back West no doubt saw him as some moral harbinger of good and justice. But it wasn't something he would describe second nature. He definitely hadn't started out like that. He'd seen the problems Goodsprings had had with the Powder Gangers and still decided to leave as soon as the fog cleared from his mind. He wanted revenge. That, and the Mojave Express was going to take the losses out of his blood if he didn't recover the package that had gotten stolen. But once he'd shot up half of Primm to find out where to go and been ready to keep heading South, he'd stopped and looked back North towards the town. And, for reasons that weren't entirely clear to him then, he'd turned around and started heading back.
That led to defending Goodsprings, then helping the NCR take out the Correctional Facility, clearing the roads for caravans, and the good deeds just kept going and going from there. The rewards usually helped, but he got a little bit of a rush from it too. But the rush didn't stir any nostalgia the same other things did.
He'd asked Arcade once if there was any medical science to getting some 9mm to the skull affecting personality. 'Some' was the word the doctor had used, although he'd immediately gone on to be snarky and say the only change he believed was that it had made the Courier too dumb to live. That might've been true too, given the amount of trouble he'd often got himself and his companions into. He was somewhere in his late 30s, and he hadn't gotten to it by being as trigger happy as he was now.
The past wasn't really a deep existential question to him, though. He was certain he didn't have a family or life anywhere he needed to return to. And even if it wasn't what he'd once been, he liked what he was now, so he was going to keep it like that.
So why was he still here? Wandering the Mojave and frequenting Vegas? The war was over and he'd fulfilled his obligation to the Mojave Express. He had nothing keeping him here. He could, and even expected he should, hit the trail again, roaming the wastes like he knew he always had.
To be only half serious, he considered himself cursed and leaving would only invite pain and suffering. Look for the Sierra Madre? Get enslaved to a crazy old man. Join a caravan heading to Utah? Trapped in Zion Canyon helping in a war between the former Legate of Caesar's Legion and a vicious tribe. The Divide? Easily the worst portion of America he'd ever seen. Big MT? He wasn't even sure what had been real there, but it hadn't been fun. It looked like Vegas and Mojave was the only part of the world not trying to get him killed. Even if he headed West into civilization, something would probably go wrong. So he was going to stay here, a place he'd come to know like the back of his hand and was free of major danger-by his hand, no less.
To be completely serious, Big MT was the main reason. He felt like he needed to stay close to it. The Think Tank was gone and Mobius was conducting his own little experiments in peace, but that place had a mind of its own and he had to be ready in case it decided to get out of hand. There was some amazing stuff there, stuff that could really make a positive difference in a lot of people's lives. It would take some time, but he decided he wanted to share it all with the world. But slowly and subtly; he didn't want any undue attention, or at least more than he already had on him. The only people outside his circle that knew were the Followers of the Apocalypse and one other who, like him, saw the potential to humanity's future housed there. Both had helped him take stock of the place and start fixing it up a bit. The Followers were ecstatic, and his other friend mildly curious.
One day, him and they were going to try and dig out the Y-0 research center there. The Sierra Madre vending machines had been manufactured there. Everything else in the Big MT was nice, but those would be a holy grail. Humanity had been on the verge of amazing technology before the bombs dropped, and they could still reclaim it. The amount of things they could do with them would do endless good; the Courier had already used the one at the abandoned Brotherhood of Steel bunker to keep the Followers in Vegas stocked with a huge stockpile of medicine that was really lessening Vegas' growing pains.
On the more sentimental side, something about things here had just grabbed him. You could find honest people anywhere, but the ones here he just felt closer to. And Vegas…Vegas was something special. You could get civilization and high living in the NCR. And in the NCR, you could even find vice and sin if you went to New Reno. But Vegas was a different kind of civilization, and it had a class all on its own that New Reno would never have. It was hard to put into words, but what he could definitely say was it hooked him in. And the Mojave still had just enough ruggedness and danger in it to satisfy his insatiable adventurous spirit.
Or bloodlust, depending on who you asked.
The Courier had a lot of accusations thrown at him. Some were unfair, but others had logic to them. Being an egomaniac was one of those accusations, and the only one he would be willing to admit to. Whatever his past, he was a big deal now. He knew it, and he intended to act like it. If they didn't like him doing so much, maybe they shouldn't have asked him to do it in the first place. Feeling good about it was just an added bonus as far as he was concerned.
And you know what? He'd started to think of this place like his home. Thinking about it always brought him back to his conversations with Ulysses. He'd made Vegas and this part of the Mojave with hospitality, smarts, and a LOT of firepower. It was a product of effort you cherished, like a house you built. He cherished it, and he wanted to protect it, no matter how many bullets or stabbings it required.
A surprising amount of people had the same idea. The state was technically under General Oliver's military authority still, but they were taking steps to set up a state government and representation to the wider NCR. A lot of people, in and outside of Vegas, seemed to think the Courier would make a fine governor. The talk had gotten so persistent, the NCR had even had a damn Ranger track him down to deliver a letter outlining that he needed to take a hell of a lot of steps before he was legally allowed to do that.
And you know? He thought he'd make a kickass governor. He'd spend all his time walking around and talking to his constituents. He was the best damn soldier in the Republic, he could probably be the best politician too! It was going to be months, probably over a year, until they got that ready. But he kept in mind. Who knew? Maybe if he got that high up, he could make the idiots in Shady Sands sit the hell down and focus on securing what they had. He was honestly amazed the NCR wasn't already trying to colonize the East side of the Colorado River.
In the meantime, he kept busy in other ways. He handled security on The Strip. Some of the families weren't so keen on paying taxes, and he had to keep the wheels greased. Couple of agents from New Reno had also been stirring shit, not wanting to have a competitor for legal gambling and prostitution in the republic. Outside of Vegas, there was always wildlife or raiders that needed shooting. Brigadier General Moore, despite not being his biggest fan, had sent him across the Colorado to help with some Legion remnants. He'd even taken a part time interest in construction, although it was definitely not a skill he was fond of. If nothing else came up, he was happy to take packages to one of the settlements or just join a caravan for a stroll down I-15. He kept busy while other wheels of progress turned elsewhere, until another big undertaking would be ready for his honeyed words, trigger finger, and unusually high luck.
On this day (he didn't keep track of days, but he knew it was May), he was walking North up I-15. It was early morning and he'd just left Goodsprings after spending the night there. He was heading up to Sloan, a little mining town that was a couple miles outside Vegas, to meet up with Raul and ED-E.
Those were the only two of his original 'posse' he traveled with. ED-E's home was with him now, since the energetic little eyebot wasn't going to find the Enclave out here anymore, and Raul lived here in the Mojave and was just as much a gunslinging 'do-gooder' as the Courier, so their continued friendship made perfect sense. The old ghoul would never admit to being lonely either, and the two or them could go on for an entire day snarking back and forth in good fun. The rest he had parted with, on good terms of course.
Boone was the first to go, only a week after the victory. The sniper had stayed stoic even as the rest of the NCR partied like the world was ending again once the Legion was in retreat. But it was obvious to all his new friends that his death wish had passed. He accomplished what he thought impossible and found a sense of final peace even visiting Bitter Springs hadn't given him. He decided he was going to join back up with his old battalion and put his skills to use in the other trouble regions of the NCR. The rest of them had insisted seeing him off at Camp McCarren when he reenlisted. He had short words and only firm handshakes for all of them, and one extra word for the Courier: "Thanks." He sent letters to Novac for whenever the Courier stopped by. By his accounts, he was doing a lot of good out there.
Arcade had left too, although he was still close by. With the NCR opening up an opportunity for partnership to the Followers when it came to setting up the new state, they needed every single one of their members to help. The more work they did, the less work the NCR would do and screw up. The Courier always dropped by The Fort when he could so they could talk for a bit. He might have exaggerated the insanity and violence, but Arcade really had enjoyed their travels together and all they'd done.
Lily was gone practically the next day after that, out to search for clues to her past. The Courier couldn't fault her for that. Even if he was pleased with how things were, he doubted he'd ever stop wondering about his past too. Given a chance, he'd do the same as her.
Veronica was close by too, just spending more time with the Brotherhood of Steel. Her outgoing personality and open mind made her more valuable for interacting with the NCR and other outsiders, something many of her compatriots had trouble with. Besides, after Elder McNamara had made his choice, around a dozen members had defected and headed West to find another chapter. Hers needed her now more than ever.
Rex had left with Roxie to Big MT, after the other cyberdog had made its way all the way to the Mojave looking for a mate. He was guarding the crater for the Courier now, and him and Roxie were making litters of just the cutest little cyberpups the Courier knew were going to be tearing mole rats and raiders into bloody chunks one day.
Cassidy was the most recent departure, having left only a few weeks ago. With the war over and the rail lines doing most of the heavy lifting, the NCR back home decided now was the time to grab the Van Graffs and the Crimson Caravan Company by the balls and squeeze them for all they could with the info on their illicit activities they'd gotten. That included seizing valuable assets they deemed 'illegally acquired'. One of those was Rose's old caravan company, and they'd invited her back West to talk to them about it. So she'd caught a train to take back what was hers and rebuild. Before that, she'd been sure to corner the Courier in his Lucky 38 suit and give him a 'thank you' she'd been holding onto since the battle at the dam. It was a good time, but it really made him wish the securitrons did housekeeping too.
He kind of missed the whole lot of them traveling together, but time marches on and things change. No matter what, he would always be glad he met them and for the time they'd stayed together. He still had plenty of fun times with Raul and ED-E.
Today, the three of them were going to try and clear out a deathclaw infestation in Quarry Junction. The deathclaws had actually been there since last year, moving into the limestone quarry after it shut down when Powder Gangers staged their breakout and stole all the dynamite used for mining. The Courier had already volunteered once to clear it out on behalf of the workers in Sloan and the caravans on the I-15 being hounded by the monsters. Him and Boone had spent several hours on the rim of the quarry taking shots at the colony below, and they'd cleared out most of them before a huge Legion hit squad had almost got the drop on them.
They'd spent half the night playing shoot and weave with the assassins, moving well over a mile across the desert without getting shot and killing at least a dozen skirt boys. Other important business came up, and they hadn't returned to finish the job. But they'd done enough to at least make the road safe again and the miners wouldn't have been able to work even if they had cleared all of them out.
The NCR was nice enough to keep the miners on some kind of security pay, but with so much to do, they weren't in a rush to re-open a quarry that's main job had been providing material for fortifications for a war that was over now. But the pack had reproduced enough to threaten the road again, so now they had to focus on the quarry. No one wanted to risk a deathclaw headbutting a train running down the line that ran along the highway, and caravans and travelers were still relatively frequent on the road. Besides, the NCR could only cobble together so much from the surviving houses and scraps dotting New Vegas. Some limestone would be really useful for building more advanced infrastructure.
The trio had been in Nipton yesterday when an NCR official passed through to post a notice in the town hall that they were looking for 'contractors' to deal with a wildlife issue. So they'd talked, agreed, and split up with a further agreement to meet at Sloan. Raul was taking ED-E to his shack up north to get some gear they'd need, and the Courier decided he'd make the 40 mile walk to Sloan along I-15, since it'd been a while since he visited the townspeople in Goodsprings and it was on the way. He passed through Primm on the way too. The little town was looking a lot cleaner now, and the old Steve Bison Hotel was pulling double duty as both a town hall and an apartment complex.
Goodsprings was a little emptier these days; old timers were moving out to avoid the taxes and NCR law enforcement. Sunny Smiles was still there, and Trudy too. And of course, the Courier was always courteous enough to visit Doc Mitchell. No one in the town truly despised him for the annexation. On the contrary, his legend brought more people-and more caps-to their little town. The taxes were a pain, but they were still prosperous.
He was sure to leave early; his detour to visit added quite a few miles to his journey. He could save time and hoof it across the desert to reach Sloan faster, but there was always a chance he might see Veronica on patrol or something if he stuck to the road. The Mojave sun was always baking you, but it was definitely at its worst this time of year. The Elite Riot Gear he was dressed in was good for protection, but it didn't have the benefit of air conditioning. He had a fast stride and strong legs. He could make it to Sloan before the sun was at its highest point, he was certain.
And so, he walked the I-15 like he had so many times before. He was holding a trail carbine over his shoulder with his left hand as he did. He had a combat knife in his boot and 3 handguns stashed among his person, but he wouldn't be caught dead now without a long gun. The road was empty, something that was a little eerie after all the traffic for the past few months. The NCR had already closed it down, and unlike before, they would enforce it. Everyone here was a citizen and had to do what they said, after all. The notice had said to apply at Sloan, so there was probably a checkpoint set up there. He didn't see a Brotherhood patrol either, but that was probably because of the closure too. A lot of them wouldn't help the NCR if they could get away with it.
The wind was the only noise, howling around his ears. It didn't always blow that hard; there might be a dust storm coming in. Those things were always a bitch to ride out. He tilted his head back and looked up, the lenses of his gas mask deflecting the worst of the sun's glare; if there was a dust storm coming in, he might be able to see it on the horizon. The cloudless blue sky stared back at him.
Then he noticed them: specks. Maybe a dozen specks, all moving around the sky. He couldn't make out what they were from how far away they were. But just the fact they were so easy to see from this distance told them one thing: they were big.
The Courier stopped, his front boot twisting slightly as he changed his stance. His arms smoothly and unconsciously moved the trail carbine into both of his hands while his fingers slipped into the trigger well. When you wandered the fringes of civilization, you had to face the fact that the post-war world was filled with horrifying radiated wildlife. He'd seen his fair share here and other places, but for the life of him he could not recall anything particularly huge that could fly. Cazadors were huge, but they couldn't fly that high.
The Courier kept walking though, with his eyes looking up and his rifle pointed at low ready. A new wasteland creature wasn't going to immediately discourage him. Some of the creatures started to fly further and further into the distance in all directions. But two of them were flying towards him, getting bigger and bigger as they did so. The Courier stopped and stood still as they raced overhead.
All he could make out was the silhouette. Whatever they were, they had two wings, a fat body, and a long neck and a long tail. From the shadow it cast, it had to be bigger than a human. They didn't notice him, and continued South. He craned his neck to watch them go.
"Always something new in this town." The Courier muttered, and continued walking now with his rifle in front of him. He'd check into that later. Maybe those things were like the deathclaws and just migrated into the Mojave. Sloan was just maybe half an hour away. He kept going, with a few more glances than usual cast upwards or behind him to be safe.
He was coming up to a rise in the Interstate when something crested it from the other direction. Something big and moving. The Courier stopped and immediately took aim. The rifle barrel followed the creature as it ran by on the opposite side of the highway and kept going without evening coming near him. Once it was in the distance, the Courier lowered the rifle, but he kept staring.
"Huh." He said out loud. That...had been a horse. He'd never seen a horse. No one had, on account of them being extinct since the Great War. But plenty of people had seen pictures of them, or toys. Raul had even talked about them at some length before, with a sort of melancholy fondness. Again, because they were all extinct. Raul knew that more than anyone, cause he'd been alive before the bombs dropped. And yet one just ran right by him. It even looked like it had a saddle and metal armor on it.
That was two weird creatures now, both coming from up North. Coming from the same direction as Sloan and the quarry. The only other thing of note was Black Mountain, and while that had a big nuclear crater on its peak, it didn't have anything else that could really explain. Something other than deathclaws was going on up there. Spurred by a strong sense of curiosity and a concern for his friends and the people of Sloan, he quickened his pace.
He only got over the rise himself when something made him pause for the third time that morning. There were three more horses at the bottom of the hill decked out in armor and saddles, only they were all tied together.
And a legionnaire was riding one.
Well, 'riding' was a stretch. The one he was riding was nervous and moving back and forth. The man on top was holding ropes around its head to stay seated with one arm while trying desperately with the other arm to hold the rope that had two more horses ensnared. But those two were trying their damndest to get away, bumbling into each other.
The Courier stood there on the crest and just watched the spectacle for several moments, rifle still at the low ready. The more he watched it, the more confused he became. The rider was obviously trying to wrangle the animals and keep them from running off, but the Courier wasn't so sure it was a member of Caesar's Legion now.
At first glance, there was a clear resemblance, mainly the color scheme and the skirt (he knew there was a term for those, but he didn't care enough to bother). But there were a lot of differences. The first the Courier noticed was the metal helmet, the metal chest piece, and even metal armor on part of the legs. Caesar's Legion had helmets, but they were leather. Most of their armor was leather, but they attached metal bits to it often. And he couldn't recall ever seeing one with leg armor. The rider also had a short cape affixed to his shoulders, something the Courier had never seen on the Legion's rank and file.
Aside from that, and he noticed this on the horses too, the armor was too neat, too clean, and too 'perfect'. The Legion eschewed technology by and large, and that included industry. They didn't have factories like the NCR to churn out standardized and complex body armor and uniforms. Hell, their most senior officers cobbled armor together from their defeated foes to establish themselves. There was enough symmetry to establish organization, but low enough resources to always look slap-dash. This man had no such hang ups even if it was still in a style older than pre-war America.
The Courier started approaching slowly and unnoticed, mulling over who or what this man was. Had someone new taken control of the Legion and implemented more modern thinking? Or had some other lunatic taken inspiration to imitate a centuries dead empire? Had one or the other just gotten lucky enough to find horses with no mutations out East? He was almost certain this man was bad news, but he wanted to make sure and we wanted answers for the horses and the equipment. The Courier would gladly shoot, stab, or vaporize anyone who fucked with him or other people. But he was going to make sure it was justified first.
The rider was too focused on the horses to notice him approaching, even in an instant where his horse spun around and for a second he was facing the Courier's direction. He got within twenty five feet of the man and called out to him.
"Hey, skirt-boy!" The man swung his head around to look at him. "You got some nice gear there." The man shouted something unintelligible back at him, and the Courier cocked his head to the side. "What?" Had that been tribal? Caesar's Legion didn't let the tribes it forced into its fold to keep their language. They used English, although he'd noticed they used Latin too in some places. Those words might have been Latin, but he couldn't be sure. He'd never heard of anyone in the legion speaking purely Latin. Whether or not it was Latin or some other tribal language, he didn't recognize it. "English?" asked.
The horseman transferred the reigns of the two free forces to the same hand as the one holding his own, performing the impressive feat of controlling all three beasts with just one hand. With his new free hand, he pointed at the Courier and spoke more speech the Courier didn't understand. But he was certain he picked up more Latin in that one. He didn't get a chance to question it, because the man suddenly reached down and retrieved a spear from his horse's saddle. Six immediately took aim at the man's chest. Fancy metal armor or not, it wasn't going to stop a bullet.
"Oh, a spear." Faux drama laced the Courier's tone. "I've never seen that before." Although he didn't miss that it, like the armor, looked far better crafted than the crude throwing spears the Legion's cannon fodder used. The rider said nothing, and he raised his arm higher like he was going to throw it.
BANG.
A .44 magnum round blew right through the legionnaire's gut, the sheer power forcing his whole body back. The spear dropped from his hand. The loud sound caused the horses to panic, and the one he was on bucked him off. The man flew limply through the air before landing on his back on the pavement. The horses tried to scatter, but the ropes kept them tied all together. The animals did a weird dance across the highway, knocking over and dragging one another in their bid to get free. The Courier paid them no mind as he approached the fallen Legion soldier.
Surprisingly, the man had survived the shot; his arms and hands were trembling. That open exit wound was making direct contact with the pavement, and even this early in the morning it had to be close to triple digit heat. That had to hurt like a bitch, but he was too weak to get up.
"Gun still beats tribal weapons." The Courier said cheerfully as he knelt down near the man. Setting the rifle behind him, he reached to pull his gas mask off. "Whew, it's sweaty in there." He wiped the sweat from his brows and then back over his bald and scarred head. Some gurgled sound emitted from the man's mouth and his body did a larger spasm than usual. Probably surprised at his face; the Courier got that a lot. People usually told him he had a constant thousand yard stare that was deeply unsettling even at the best of times, not to mention the giant scare across the top of his head. He was used to it.
The man had a pouch on his hip, and the Courier wasted no time starting to pillage it. One of the best things about killing these bastards was looting them after; they almost always had fresh fruit on them. Apples, mostly. Juicy ones at that. Free and un-irradiated food was a luxury out here, and he was never going to miss a chance to get some.
"So, do they just speak Latin out East now?' He talked while he rummaged. His hand immediately grabbed onto something big and wrapped in cloth. He pulled it out and unfolded it, finding a half eaten loaf of bread. It felt stale, but still looked edible. He wrapped it up and set it behind him next to the rifle before reaching back in for more. This time, he found an apple. "Ha!" He tossed it up and caught it again. "I love these things. You guys are too nice to me." He took a bite and finally looked up at the fallen man's face, and what he saw made him stop.
Fear. Fear in his eyes at the pain he was feeling, and new fear when he made eye contact with Six, the rugged and scarred man that had mortally wounded him.
It was such a simple emotion, but it was enough to make the Courier pause. He saw plenty of fear. He felt fear himself. But, in all his time here in the Mojave, he'd never seen fear on the faces of Caesar's Legion. Those bastards had all the fearless violent energy of chem addicts without the actual chems. They literally beat the fear out of them when they were children over there. How else did you explain them charging NCR soldiers with guns when they rarely got any issued to them?
A long time ago, he'd fought with another Legion hit team closer to Novac. One of those bastards had charged and jumped over the rock the Courier was taking cover behind and nearly caved his head in before a .357 round blew his guts out behind him. But the legionnaire hadn't died-he'd laid there beside the Courier bleeding out for close to nine minutes while the firefight continued. The Courier had looked over every few moments to make sure he didn't get back up. He never did. He'd just stared at the Courier with intense hatred the entire time. Only hatred. Nothing else as he bled out on the ground. He died with his face twisted in that same expression.
That wasn't the only example. The Courier knew with 100% certainty: Caesar's Legion did not feel fear. That man's expression convinced him that he wasn't what the Courier thought he was. He leaned down close to the man's face.
"Caesar's Legion." He said slowly. "Are you Caesar's Legion?"
"Ca-esar?" The man gurgled. The confusion was unmistakable. The Courier stood up.
"Well shit." He muttered. It wasn't like he'd murdered an innocent man or anything; the guy had obviously been about to kill him. But that left a mystery of who the man was-some kind of fighter, obviously, but was he a soldier? A member of a raider group with a weird flair? He'd heard the news that Legion scouts had been shot along this highway a few weeks ago by caravan guards. Had that actually been the Legion, or these guys? Whatever the case, he had to have come from up North, and all those horses meant there had to be others besides him.
The Courier had to get to Sloan fast.
But what did he do with this guy? Mercy kill him, or leave him to bleed out on the hot pavement? Bullets were expensive, after all. The Courier was pragmatic. A lot of people in the NCR and Vegas might scoff at the brutality of wasteland justice, but he knew that's the way it had to be in situations like this. He even preferred it for its simplicity and how fast it went.
But he wasn't completely heartless. The guy hadn't even come close to hurting him, and the sun in the Mojave really was a bitch.
He shifted the trail carbine to his left hand and slung it back on his shoulder. With his right hand, he pulled out a .45 caliber pistol-a gift from Joshua Graham himself-out of a holster on that side of his hip. The Legionnaire's eyes followed the barrel as it was pointed as his head and he weakly tried to reach up and grab it. The Courier squeezed the trigger, and the Legionnaire's body jerked and went limp as a bullet splattered the back of his head all over a patch of the I-15. There. Out of his misery. The Courier's first good deed of the day.
He tucked the pistol back into his holster while glancing to the sky again. In the distance, he could still see those weird creatures. Still no idea what they were, but he'd stay aware of what was above his head. He quickly finished the apple and put his helmet back on. Propping the Trail Carbine over his right shoulder again, he continued his way down I-15 at a light jog now, intent on seeing just what the hell was going on closer to Vegas.
Hopefully, it wasn't the Legion.
X Imperial POV X
They'd marched out of the Gate and into another world. The Holy Gate on Alnus Hill: The magical structure that only the Gods themselves could open to other realms It was the path from which all races that inhabited their world had originated. Its power was beyond the grasp and understanding of any mortal being.
And yet, in Year 687 of the Imperial Calendar, Emperor Molt Sol Augustus had proclaimed from his throne that the Gate had opened again, and that the Saderan Empire would launch an expedition to conquer and bring civilization to whatever was on the other side. He made this proclamation without consulting the Imperial Senate, a controversial move that was lost in the fever of patriotism that swept the populations.
To Constans Labienus, a career officer, senator, and the man who'd been chosen as the general to lead the Empire's most monumental military campaign since the Arctic War the idea came across as blasphemous at worst and fraught with risk at best. If the legends were true, then all sorts of creatures could've been beyond the gate; they could walk into a realm filled with flame dragons for all they knew. And he would privately admit the idea of conquering a new world when the Empire's reach did not even extend over the entirety of the continent in their world seemed misplaced.
But he was a soldier of the Empire, there to protect and expand its wealth, glory, and civilization. Whatever his feelings, he accepted the position he'd been appointed to with the fullest intention of carrying it out. Whatever unknowns there were, he felt confident that the Empire had the strength to overcome them. What lay on the other side may be fearsome, but he was even more fearsome.
Scouts had gone through the Gate months before, so not all was unknown. They knew the land on the other side was a desert inhabited by barbarians. But more than that, there was a massive city. None of those scouts had journeyed far enough to reach it, but it was so large they could see it from leagues away. When night fell, by their own words, the city glowed with light as if thousands of candles and bonfires had been lit inside. Mages or maybe artisans, but certainly people. There was a lot for the Empire to gain when it conquered that city: plunder, slaves, and even the knowledge of those lights. All things to make it grander. And when the conquest was over, that city would be the capital of the Empire's first province in this world. Labienus knew he would likely be its governor.
The scouts didn't bring a lot of knowledge about its fortifications or if there was a garrison, but it was enough for General Labienus to make a plan. The force he'd been entrusted with was massive: twelve legions of the finest infantry, cavalry, and archers the Empire had to offer, a third of the Imperial Army's Wyvern Corps, several smaller legions of auxiliary beastmen and demi-humans, and several forces contributed by city-states within the Empire. It was quite possibly the largest force the Empire had formed in all its history, so long as you took legends with a grain of salt.
Well over 35,000 people-soldiers, slaves, and camp followers-were spreading out across the plain they'd arrived on, setting up tents and unloading supplies from wagons. More would be coming in due time. The Gate would be their connection between this world and theirs, and the General predicted that in time, a new town would spring up here. But for now, it would be their staging area for when they headed North to capture that city. While that happened, he'd instructed the Wyvern riders and cavalry attached to his legions to scout the landscape and areas around the plains respectively. Within the hour, he would be getting his first reports and crafting his plan; there would be more than just that city to capture, he was certain.
What he really wanted to find quickly was a river; the invasion force was lavishly equipped, but there was only so much supplies they could carry or bring over from their territory. The faster they could find resources to acquisition here, the easier the conquest would go. Deserts were merciless places; even back home, neither the Empire or any other civilization that claimed the vast Western Desert of the continent. If a city was here, it was reasonable to expect that a river was close by. Or perhaps ran directly through the city itself.
But until those scouts returned, he busied himself by riding his horse through the camp, surrounded by his praetorian guard, ensuring that everything was proceeding efficiently. With undertakings like this so unusual, he would be a fool to expect to to go flawlessly. But he started impressed; His legionnaires were orderly and efficient, doing the work needed where there weren't enough slaves around to do it. Here in the center of the camp, it was just fields and fields of tents. It would be on the edges of the camp where the legionnaires and the large amount of architecti that had been brought in would be building defenses, although with the lack of trees here in the desert, they would only be basic defenses.
That thought stuck with him, and as it combined with the cool feeling of sweat under his helmet and armor, and the pungent aroma filling his nostrils of men and slaves at work, he started to wonder a little more about the Emperor's plans. He could understand the logic of expanding into a new world; the Empire had already brought civilization to most of the inhabitable land in Falmart. There were other politicals besides the empire: Vassal kingdoms that paid regular tribute, and many smaller kingdoms, none of which were wealthy or important enough to bother with conquering. Obviously, their greatness should expand, but was a filthy desert really the best place? Perhaps when night fell and he saw the lights the scouts had spoken of, he'd feel convicted just like the Emperor had.
As he rode through the camp now though, he was only convinced of the lowliness of the barbarians here. Two roads crossed the plains the Gate had opened upon. One was unlike any road he had ever seen-iron rods laid parallel with wood between them. Some men were already trying to remove the wood to put it to better use, but it was fastened to the rails tightly. They looked finely crafted, even if their design was confusing. The second road looked more like the many paved highways that stretched through the Empire to bring wealth and ease to its people. But the stone was cracked and uneven. Sand and dirt from the cracks caked it and blew with the wind. What kind of civilization did not properly maintain its roads? Not a good one, that was for sure. But it would be enough to let his legions march straight to the city. He made sure to instruct that the camps be made not too close to the road.
Messengers arrived from his officers detailing their progress in setting up their camps, and eventually word eventually reached him that some farms had been captured, and people with them. He was about to go see for himself, when another messenger bounded up the road from the South, waving wildly and causing the General pause. The horseman rode up and brought his mount to a stop besides the General's horse. The man's face was pale. His eyes wide with terror. Even his horse appeared uneasy, fretting underneath him.
"General!" The man panted. "I bring urgent news from the South! The Legio IX and Legio XV have committed themselves to combat!"
"With an army?" The General questioned.
"No General, beasts!" Beasts? Two whole legions had to mobilize to fight beasts? Previous concerns flashed in the man's mind.
"Take us at once!" Labienus commanded. "With haste!" He turned to tell his guards and retinue. They rode fast down the road, towards the South, faster and faster towards an opposing mountain that reached into the skies. While they rode, the General took answers from the man.
"Our horsemen were taking the road South to determine where it led. Monsters emerged from the hills to attack them. Those that lived tried to flee, but the monsters followed them all the way back to the camp!"
"Fools." The General grunted, all the while wondering what beast could match the endurance of one of the Empire's expertly bred horses.
"Men from the Legio IX formed ranks to keep them away, but they tore through an entire cohort in seconds. The Legio XV came to their aid, but I do not know how they are faring."
"Seconds?" Labienus breathed in disbelief. Impossible! He doubted even a flame dragon could kill close to 500 men in seconds. He questioned if the messenger's words were true, or the man was speaking delusions. Either way, the General realized he had to ascertain the situation for himself quickly. If the Gods had not been kind enough to give his army a place to organize itself as he previously believed, then he needed to work quickly to make it so.
As they got closer and closer to the South end of the camp and by extension those mountains, the General noticed more obvious signs of peril. The soldiers and auxiliary were gathered tensely along the edges of the road, leaving supplies unpacked behind them. But the worst part was the smell. The stench of death had already started to roll over the camp interior. That putrid odor when thousands are slain and all their bowels release.
The next sign was the road itself; as it entered the mountains ahead, it began to slope up and turn. From below, it was easy to see the entirety of the slope before the road turned, and the slope seemed to be absolutely covered in something. The General did not dare think what it was until he got closer, but the blemish did not look natural.
By riding the road, they made it to the edge of the camp quickly, right under the shadow of the mountains and hills. The road made of iron had come closer to run next to the decrepit stone one. The camp neatly ended at an incomplete row of abatis fortifications, and it was there that the general stopped to gaze in absolute horror at what he saw. Some of his guards outwardly gagged or made other sounds of revulsion.
As the road rose into the hills, it was absolutely covered in bodies and stained red with blood. Hundreds of legionnaires, easily a thousand even. Spread all across the road's impressive width. But how? A Legion's excellence lay in part with its formation. Even if an entire cohort was to die in battle, they were expected and trained to do so without giving a single foot of ground to the enemy. Nothing could make a Legion lose formation. What force besides the Gods could inflict this upon one of Saderea's mighty legions?
His eyes had focused on the furthest sight of carnage he could find and gradually traveled down as he looked over the full scene, finally stopping when something blocked his view. Rows of legionnaires had formed a defensive line at the very bottom of the hill, shields held out front of them, and those shield bearers braced by the shield of the man behind them. It was a flawless wall, one that could defeat any cavalry charge for sure. In between two of the cohorts, in the very middle of the road, two men stood in the small gap, looking up the road. Several legionnaires stood behind them, ready to plug it in a moment's notice if needed.
The General quickly recognized the two men standing there both by their armor and their general figure; he'd been sure to become personally acquainted with all the major officers in his force before moving through the gate. One was in a legate's armor: Legate Calasta, commander of the Legio IX. The second man did not wear the armor of a legate. Instead, they wore that of a tribunus laticlavius.
It took the general a moment to recall his name: Viscount Herm Fule Maio. The position of tribunus laticlavius was technically the second in command of a legion. Practically, and especially in the Empire's peaceful eras, it was a position for young men of the upper classes to serve and get political clout for very little work. And as far as the general knew, Viscount Maio was already high in the Empire's political circles despite being young; he was friends with Prince Zorzal, one of the Emperor's older sons. That he stood there instead of Legate Otho, the Legio XV's commander, filled the general with a sense of dread.
As he trotted closer, both turned to face him. Calasta's face was grim but still. Maio's face had a scowl deprived of all color. Both stood to their full height and saluted their general as he approached.
"General!" Legate Calasta said.
"By the Gods, what happened here?" Labienus asked. The Legate's face twisted briefly, but he inhaled and answered.
"Our scouts had been set upon by beasts. I deployed two of my cohorts across the highway to prevent them from entering our camp." The General surveyed the road again, and concluded it was just wide enough for two tightly packed cohorts to form a defensive line. "But...they tore through my men with ease. I ordered two more cohorts to form, and then all of my cohorts behind them." The man swallowed. "But the beasts did not heed. They cut through all my men without slowing down. Legate Otho came to our aid, but his men fell just as mine did."
"What happened to the Legate?" The General turned to the viscount. Instead of answering him, the young man went on a rant.
"Those scouts should be executed for their incompetence." He threw a hand in the direction of the carnage. "How could they have missed a danger like this? If these beasts had somehow found their way through the Gate and into our borders-"
"ENOUGH." Constans Labienus instantly recognized the young noble's avoidance of the question on this grave matter. He was not going to tolerate it on his expedition, especially when so much had already happened. He reached down for the gladius at his side. "Tell me the fate of Legate Otho or I will strike you down where you stand!" His roaring voice gave pause to everyone in earshot.
"The Legate had ridden close to see the battle!" Viscount Maio answered immediately. "When the monster swept through the cohorts with ease, the horses the Legate and we were riding on scattered in fear. His carried him right into the arms of the beasts." The General exhaled. This was an absolute disaster. But as General, he did not dare let it stop him even while it stirred great emotion within him.
"How many men have perished and how many are left?" He finally asked.
"General, the first 8 of my cohorts have all been destroyed." Calasta confessed. "There are men looking for survivors, but my faith is low."
"Seven of my cohorts remain full and strong." Maio did not wait for the General's eyes to sweep him to answer. Eleven cohorts then, more than an entire Legion's worth. One of his legions was severely understrength now, and the other was being commanded by a commander he honestly had no faith in. This was not good. He'd have to reorganize them later, preferably by giving much of the other legion to Calasta. At a later time though.
"What unholy creatures did this and where have they gone?" He still had to assess this threat and, if necessary, move camp.
"Something drew them away, I do not know what, but I am eternally grateful. As for what they are-" The Legate pointed a little ways up the road. "a body of it lies there." The General squinted, but between the haze from the heat and the general mess, he could not make out anything distinct. So great was his curiosity, he endeavored to urge his horse forward.
"General, please!" The legate tried to stop him. He then gave orders to some of his men not in formation, ordering them to go retrieve the body. There was hesitation in their voices, but they obeyed and dutifully ran out past the shield wall. General Labienus waited with baited breath, and he could finally notice something when the men pulled it out of the piles of gore. But it remained unfamiliar to him while the men struggled to drag it back.
"There were three of them." Legate Calasta started recounting. Two of them were of shorter stature. One was enormous, and that was the one that tore my men apart. That is one of the smaller ones. It may be a child." It was then the men returned, angling the body of something through the gap, and General Labienus finally got a look at what type of creatures inhabited this world.
It was some height taller than a man, but less than two. It's skin was a dark tan color and looked leathery to touch. It had a tail and two forward facing horns on top of its head. It had an underbite and two white eyes. But what stood at the most was its claws, soaked with blood the General was sure had been in Saderan's soldiers at the start of the day. On each of its five fingers-though it definitely wasn't a demi-human-were claws of frightening length, some dangerous close to the same length of a Gladius blade. The General deftly dismounted his horse to approach and examine the claws more closely in horrified curiosity.
"The smaller ones ran on two legs, but the largest bounded at us like an animal." The Viscount actually told him something useful.
"Our men inflicted many blows on this." The General said, feeling a twinge of pride in spite of everything else. Up close, he saw the blemishes in the skin the splattered blood would otherwise hide. Obvious sword slashes and piercing marks from spears. Several of the later on the front of the creature's neck had been the source of its demise, he was sure. They were physically intimidating, and certainly dangerous, but they could be killed.
"They died in battle honorably. Their families and we can at least take solace in that." The Legate's heart still sounded heavy, but he was absolutely right. The General stood up to his full height and went to stand between the Legate and Tribunus. The men forming the shield wall had already heard those words spoken, and he intended for this gesture to inspire them as well. "What will you have us do, General?" He pondered that for several moments. This was a grave setback, certainly, one that he knew would cause scandal back at home. But it could not be helped now. These creatures could be killed, and it would not be honorable to retreat when so much of their force still remained. But the General would not let more human soldiers die on his watch.
"We have several auxiliary legions full of beastmen." Goblins, orcs, and other brutish dumb creatures had been conscripted as a means to lessen the losses of the human legions anyway, so the General felt no regret in his decision. Their size and brute force would hopefully be a match for these equally savage creatures. "We will send them to draw out these beasts. Until they can come forward, I must ask you both to hold the line here to protect our camp."
"Yes, General!" Both men said it, but the Legate's conviction was more evident. At that point, the General was certain he would leave the Tribunus with no more than two cohorts to command. At that point, the General rode back into the camp, sending some of his guards ahead as messengers to a select few praefectus that commanded some of their auxiliary legions.
Labienus tried to clear his mind as his horse trotted along, trying to turn again to the thoughts of how to capture that city, now that this issue at the edge of their camp would most likely be solved. But it was difficult. Men died in war, he had led men who died, and he had killed men himself. But that slaughter on that hill was an event that was hard to accept. Even the slaughter of men during the Artic War, though greater in number, could be comprehended better than what he had just witnessed.
Somehow, he didn't think those lights the scouts had mentioned would ever dissuade him from his concerns of blasphemy and the unknown now.