I believe our largest disadvantage was the speed at which our enemy moved. They were...dragons, and we were slugs. Perhaps if we had more time things may be different, but...it would have only led to more death and destruction.
-Vilmek of Toumaren.
Falmart: Saderan Capital-Hundreds of Miles From The GATE
"It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity," Hamish said. He spoke at the far end of a lengthy dining table with his spork pressing into a piece of ham, an empty seat in the seating arrangement next to him. "You've the chance to nestle right in with the Imperial family!"
Herm sat small and with his legs tucked like they'd been sewn together, "Yes, sir." He picked idly at his food until eventually setting the utensil down.
"Then stop shaking," Father ordered.
"I'm not shaking."
"Yes, you are," he shook his head, "Hear me, you'll become a knight. Isn't this what you always wanted? why, I remember when you came up to about my knee and tried swinging around a bastard, fell right over but you stood tall each time." Herm looked at the walls surrounding them as he went on. They were painted in colorful murals recounting the two's once-great family history.
"When Mother was still..."
"What?" Hamish interjected, "speak up," he took a massive swig from a mug on the table and set it down then wiped his mouth. "Grey best beat that voice out once your training begins."
Herm did not answer, rather he watched Hamish keep eating. The boy's shoulders slumped like a hunchback in a circus freak show and his heart raced with a bubbling ancestral aggression.
It took Hamish a moment to notice, he bit hard into a turkey leg and glanced at him. Herm was staring right back, "Is something the matter my boy?"
He looked away, "No."
"No, what?"
"No, sir."
The next week he was set on a carriage to the training school. His thin form together and staring down at closed knees, a soft thump in his head and needles in his spine. A concrete road their passage and the draft horses hooves clomping against it. Bruises lined his right arm and a bandage hastily wrapped around his left.
The noble houses became grander and grander as the shires gaited on and on until the Imperial palace came in sight. Higher than even the snow-capped mountains in its backdrop and running denser than a dwarf's mine. Bountiful colors decorated its towers and walls like a piece of art sprung out and settled into the mortal plane. But it was not his destination on this day.
He arrived at a vast and orderly mansion. A baluster in its middle and a garden filled with blossoming rosebuds. He walked its purple rugged halls with his family's coat of arms heater shield that detailed a man pushing a massive rock up a steep incline, hellfire lit in the background.
He stopped to study the gold-framed paintings lining the walls, and surveyed artifacts placed on marble standing. Visiges of battle and rendevous by centuries passed kings drawn all into one large draft of ancient history on display like a museum.
"Are you lost?"
The voice's owner had her arms crossed beside him. He almost jumped in surprise, but saved his honor upon viewing. A girl who could not be any older than him. Red hair went all the way down her back and she wore a white noble dress with vibrant red and black. But he saw no shield nor identifying features pointing toward a family name. "You have the face of a fish from a pond."
"No, milady," he found himself raising his shield and hiding behind it unconsciously. What little arm hairs there were back then started rising and his face was heating up like a lit oven baking seedcake.
Tilting her head and uncrossing both arms, she prevented a giggle with her hand as he glanced out at her from behind the shield, "Oh don't be so nervous, or are girls a phobia of yours?"
Slowly, he lowered his shield and gave a small bow, "My apologies, what might I call you lady...?"
"Is it not customary that the knight foremost introduces himself?" she asked curiously.
He cringed at the correction and held his position, "I apologize, I am Herm Fule Maio, at your service."
Her colorful face had turned to one of utmost amusement. Sticking out a hand she added, "And I believe it is customary for the brave knight to kiss his lady's ring, Sir Herm?" he saw the jewelry on her index. A large ruby bigger than any he'd ever laid eyes on resided in its prong.
"Is that not reserved for a princess?..." he glanced at her queryingly.
"Quite the lip, tsk tsk. Perhaps I am a princess, what then?"
Getting the message, Herm did as requested. She withdrew her arm after the embrace and let out a small laugh, "My brave warrior!" she applauded merrily.
He rose and rubbed a hand over his heater, "I mean no offense, but there's rite in the courtyard and I'd best be-"
Her face lit up, "Oh yes, the ceremony! we'd best hurry, a knight late for the battle is no kind of knight at all!"
"You're here for training?-" she was already off up a flight of stairs ere he finished. "Uh! that's not the right way..." his voice softened as she disappeared behind a door. He lowered the hand and let out a soft sigh, the redness leaving his face.
He jogged the rest of the way. His shield hooked on his forearm, his greaves shaking, and his fauld and tassets jingling like a stripped plate orchestra. Vanilla smells of candles filled his nostrils.
Joyous conversations and cheers were a key factor in Herm finding his way. A gentle spring breeze hit him as he exited into a cobblestone-floored courtyard with foreign gnarled and crooked trees exported out of faraway nations planted strategically in the four-quarters.
Girls, dozens dwarfing the number of boys by at least a ninety-to-ten ratio. He saw one with two bows tied neatly into her golden hair and foretelling tales about her knightly grandeur, one with her silvery hair cut neatly and holding her hands together in silence as if a specter, and one who looked to the ground with a bob of brown covering her quivering face.
"Oh, man!" an odious voice sent him springing. Stomping beside him was a short boy with stars in his hazel eyes and his hand brushing aside wind-swept long hair. "There's more girls here than I expected!" he carried in one arm a spiked war hammer which swayed unconcernedly.
"By the gods it's him..." a voice whispered in disgust.
"Eww..." another added.
The boy didn't appear to have overheard, he observed Herm and slapped him on the back. "We're lost in paradise my brethren!"
Herm cringed as some of the girls giving glares or side-eyes.
"Why don't you take your pick?" he laughed as Herm did a shushing motion. "C'mon...don't be so stuck up big guy, put 'er there," he put out his hand and Herm hesitated to shake, but did so eventually. "Norma, of house Igloo."
He said an introduction back, but Norma was already moving on. Watching in second-hand embarrassment, he saw the boy approach the three girls and yell something inaudible to Herm but he understood quite well when all three turned to meet him.
The brunette and the silver-haired women put their hands up to their mouths in shocked appallment. The blonde turned and without pause, gave Norma a slap that was audible round the premises.
Herm took a step forward and stopped when Norma started laughing and walked past his squawking aggressor while rubbing the imprint of a small hand upon his face.
All disputes and discussions subsided at a throaty call, "Here, here!" Stepping out onto a balcony in front of them like clerics in an oracle's temple with heads tilted in respect, a tall, square-jawed, and rugged man in his mid-thirties presented himself.
He acknowledged his audience with a bow, a long flowing white robe brushed against the cobblestone. He spoke with conviction, "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this fine abode. I am Sir Grey Co Aldo and owner of the halfway academy in which you stand." He went on about campaigns, and rules of chivalry while eyeing Norma, and the mental and physical education they'd receive. "What is a body if there is no head to support it?" he finished and took a breath.
Small cheers followed. Grey waited, and they stopped, "Allow me to tell thee one truth, none of you..." he put a fist up to his mouth and cleared his throat. They watched him. "None of you are shit under my boot."
Shocked outrage, children staring wide-eyed and murmuring protest. Herm took a moment to search for the red-headed girl's face, but she did not come up. "Not even the princess whom requested my tutelage and homestead for this laborious task at hand. Whatever delusions you children may keep in your narrow skulls, rid them now. For I will beat and lecture each of you until each here has become a slayer of man and demi-human. If thou is not knighted by then, thou shalt abandon all hope and pray to be wed with a fair-minded husband. Save our few unvirile lollygaggers who shall just abandon all hope."
The children let the information sink in. Some were already leaving, their heads shaking and spouting slurred remarks at the knight. Herm brushed past and saw Norma and the three girls still standing at the front. He silently joined them, none gave him notice.
Grey saw the quitters exit and gave nods at those who remained. He stepped away with a bow and the shock on Herm's face when he saw the very same redhead appear on that balcony was so apparent all four of the nearby children gave him shoddy faces. "Pervert..." the blonde said.
"Allow me the honor of introducing our esteemed princess..." and they were gone. Plop. Plop.
EARTH: CLASSIFIED
Plop, Plop, Plop.
Something dripped onto his forehead and rolled down his stubbled and grimy face. He awoke, blinked, and surveyed the darkness taking up every inch of his surroundings. He'd been tied up on both wrists to a wall and made to hang like some kind of condemned circus freak. He took a breath and needles shot through his ankles. He looked down and saw his bare feet dangling awkwardly off a cold and wet floor. A puddle formed beneath them and a drop plopped on his head.
It came to him like a stab in the throat. That's right, he was not back in the capital. He was not seeing Pina and his friends for the first time. He was trapped, here, in the belly of the new world. Water dripped on his head.
He licked the roof of his dried-out mouth with a dried-out tongue. However, thirst wasn't as unbearable as the gnarling, stomach-ripping hunger. Moving his head was the next idea, but he found his shoulders and neck so stiff that doing so was an entire ordeal in of itself. Moving his hands proved just as uncomfortable, some kind of rope dug into his wrists whenever he tried moving. Water dripped on his head.
He was naked, save the red hose he'd worn under his armor. Goosebumps brushed up and poked out his bare chest like daggers wielded by an army of fairies. His back was numb and cold and his neck was in a way that his spine contorted backward and inward. Water dripped onto his head.
"Where am I?..." he licked the roof of his mouth vigorously. No water, no saliva, it was maddening. Water dripped onto his head.
Managing to get his head further down, Herm saw his injured leg in a splint and cast. He narrowed his eyes and widened them. They'd gone to the effort to keep him alive, what would become of him? would he be tarred, feathered, and made to parade through the street as stones were thrown at him? flayed and roasted on a spit as food and a sacrifice for a foreign god? or perhaps he'd just stay here, hanging like a buck on a hunter's rack. The water dripped on his head.
He waited, and nothing came. No one. He thought himself dead a second time and feared that he wasn't. Minutes passed, no an hour, two hours, three hours, days, he had no idea. The water dripped on his head.
He swung back and forth, the idea of escape rammed inside his mind. Tucking his elbows in, he tried unfastening from the ropes. No such luck, each attempt resulted in more pain. The damned things must've been nailed or rooted to the ground with magic. He couldn't see how in his state. The water dripped onto his head.
His fingers dug hard into his palms and he began to pray feverishly, "Wareharun please, please take me from this nightmare. Please, I beg of you, deliver me away, deliver me, deliver me," he kept on and on until his vocal cords were coarse and like a knot held together by one string. He wanted the gods to speak, he begged them. They never spoke back. The water dripped onto his head.
When he was done with his desperate prayer, Herm hung his head as low as possible and tried his leg far from the discomfort. The try failed and he let out a sharp scream at the resulting pain and set back to his original position. The water dripped onto his head.
His eyes stung like needles were heavy like the ones in the great giant forges up in the Dumas mountain ranges. The darkness, oh it'd swept him into an eternal nothingness. Its embrace, its bowels. The thoughts of friends and family he may never see again. The water dripped onto his head.
"Made for battle, molded, won't allow..." he let out a breath. Shuddering heavily, true night universal. He perched there like a caged wounded animal, a black tarp laid on the iron bars. Water dripped onto his head.
He saw them again, the lesson today was horseriding. The smell of hay and manure inside and outside the stables. The mare snorted and he brushed her neck, his young mind marveling at the great beast before him. Water dripped onto his head.
The road, viscera, and blood. His fault, he'd done this, he'd led the army right into their graves and it was all his...Father...
In a jolt, he began jibbering madly as the image of Father came stumbling drunkenly inside his foggy head. "Bastard," he croaked. The bounds on his wrists wrenched his skin as he pulled and tugged. "Are you there? Do you still have a neck by which I may strangle?!"
As the bound started cutting into flesh, bright light seared down into the very pores of his eyelids. He recoiled and half closed them. Blinking rapidly, he saw the room for what it truly was. Well, more like a cell, he saw iron bars at the end and the room he was in had walls so close together they were nearly congealing him.
So he really was not dead. Not yet.
Footsteps, and a figure. So thirsty, so hungry, so tired. The last thing he remembered before falling back to unconsciousness was the bars opening and the silhouettes stepping inside.
He saw stars dancing and bouncing in the deepest depths of space as if he were flying past them at the speed of a sun god.
"Wake up!" A bucket of water was his alarm bell. It drenched him and his skin popped goosebumps back up. Herm attempted to put out his arms but realized he was still tied up.
"Wake up!" A smack across the face. Breath escaped him in a long hiss like a deflating balloon.
"Quid?..." Herm breathed and glared up. He regarded the new room. Stainless steel walls, and flooring. His ties were two metal strips against a wall. They bore strange and obtuse locks on their openings.
"You aren't dead pal, at least not yet, so wake the hell up!" A small and meager man stood idly in front of him. Wearing strange spectacles and black clothes at odd angles, he was quite the oddity.
The man in black drummed his hands together, his face clean and his hair short and neatly done. "Sorry about that, but I'm on a bit of a time limit here what with all the nations of our world in a tizzy. Could I get you something to eat? drink? must be starving, just look at ya. Skinny like a damn pencil."
Herm did not respond. If he could just relieve himself of these bounds...no...he couldn't kill anyone right now. Not in such a weak state like this. "Where am I?" his voice was barely audible, but the bastard seemed to understand.
"Don't get any funny ideas kid, you ain't goin' nowhere," Herm looked at him, "no sword or shield in here I'm afraid."
"Quid?"
The man pointed a finger at him, "Listen to me, and listen well because you're getting one chance and one chance only," he exclaimed with each letter of the last word.
Herm's knuckles curled down and turned white, "You speak my language?"
"Reasonably." The man in black placed his hands together, rubbed them on his face, and planted them at his side, "First and foremost, my name is Arthur. My friends call me Art, but you'll be calling me just Arthur."
Herm thought for an instant, "Sir Herm Fule Maio."
"Very well-mannered for a mass murderer, but don't concern yourself with that Mr. Maio, we know who you are. "
"Mass murderer? I am a knight of the Imperial army and an expedition leader into the new world..."
The bastard shook his head, "And what an entrance you people made, Herm, I can call you Herm right?"
He shook his head, "Whatever the hells you wish-"
"Great! Herm, I represent an organization based on intelligence gathering. You understand?" His brows were narrowed under the odd spectacles he wore.
"Yes," he fidgeted in the cold, "what is going to become of me?"
Arthur tapped a finger against the metal and answered, "Let me be straight, you've got options but a lot of them aren't exactly in your favor. But I'll start off with the best outcome. I can get the leg treated, you out of that unfavorable position, and home in just a few short little months. Or..."
"Or?"
"Or you'll spend some time with a few friends of mine right inside this cell until you're willing to accept number one," Arthur said it so matter of factly. As if he were talking about the weather.
His hands tightened into fists, "Do you know who I am?"
"Course I do," he smiled, "we know a lot of things, many things. You led the charge, didn't you? tried to take that Japanese Palace? guess it felt familiar huh?"
"Japanese?..."
"Oh, yes. Those were the people your kind attacked. Big mistake buddy, huge mistake."
"Stop mocking me..."
"You've yet to give me a real answer."
His knuckles were white by this point. He was forced to look back up, his neck so in pain that his head felt as if it were about to fall off. "Where am I? what've you done with my men?"
"Like a broken record."
"What will be done with them?"
"You should worry about yourself."
"And what should I worry of?..."
"Plenty of things. Your own self, the empire that sent you, lots of things."
"E-Empire?!"
"Well yes, how couldn't I know? got some nice details talking with some of your friends."
Herm glared at him, "Then do you not have all the information you need?"
Arthur put a finger up and tilted it from side to side, "Not quite, along with information we need contacts to keep us informed and up to date on current and future events. Well, it's gotta be my birthday because you've got a stake in this Empire's government and military. Little noble boy."
"If you think me a rat-"
Arthur cut him off, "This is saving yourself and your Empire. Listen, my nation is already building up a force to go beyond that GATE, and if you aren't gonna tell me who the people responsible for the attack on our world are, then things get messy, very messy. There's an opportunity for you to do some real good here while saving your own skin, I'd take it if I were you, son. I have definitive proof of you ordering the killings of dozens of cops, know what that means?"
"What?"
"It means you could stay locked up in here for a long time, the rest of your life undoubtedly. Are you ready to do that Maio? come on, tell me. Tell me you're ready to starve to death in this place when you had a way out."
Thoughts blitzed through Herm's mind. Treason, the order, Father, the highway of death, and finally, Pina. He shook like a continent-shifting earthquake. Could he trust this man? did he even have a choice in the matter? what would become of his home if those death machines invaded the land?
Herm's answer changed back and forth within. Yes, and no, yes, and no. He bit his tongue hard and tasted a speck of blood. In the end, he could bear his ties no longer, "You will keep your terms? for the...first...option?"
"Yes, as long as you do everything I need you to do. See, being friends with my country often yields greater rewards than being enemies Mr. Maio. This could be the beginning of a very beautiful friendship."
"I accept," Herm muttered.
"Excuse me?" Arthur put his hand and ear up.
His head shot up like a bolt, "I accept!"
Arthur nodded and smiled at him.
FORT ALNUS: SEVERAL HUNDRED YARDS FROM THE GATE.
Through dense and dark forest, over snow-capped mountains, and straight between pine-covered Taiga. Three legions moved about their daily training and tasks like the gears in a turning machine. The backdrop of a stone-walled castra stood above cohorts in intense training and the infamous GATE sat in view like a bottomless pit, isolated, almost like a slowly encroaching entity.
The legions stood fifteen strong. Twelve had made their way through the holy GATE early this morning. Those who'd stayed posted saw them off with cheers and envy as streams of army disappeared into a whole new world.
There were legionarii using training dummies with a long stick embedded from top to bottom learning the block and stab technique. A simple, yet effective battle technique developed by those men's forefathers and their forefathers before them.
Men shot arrows and threw spears at targets drawn on carts. Others used slings with stones that had small insults painted on them and joined the archers in a competition of who could shoot and throw the farthest.
Clashing and colliding, men battled in melee surrounded by shouting and advising instructors whom were once in the same position. An onset of new and old generations coming together for the passing of a torch.
Behind them were men working on the Castra's wall. They were a few dozen, laying mortar and brick down and working tirelessly for their fellow's sanctuary and safety. Likewise, there were many inside who'd been "gifted," the task of constructing baths, stables, hospitals, and shops for the sutlers.
On the north wall with a ladder a few feet behind them, two were given the rather treacherous task of finishing off the nearly thirty-foot high and few-foot wide barrier. One was tall and lanky, the other short and stocky with big wrists and big hands. They sat with legs over the finished parts in a rather odd view.
The taller slapped his trowel on a layer and the shorter handed him a brick with a sharp huff, "Hardy's taint, my legs are going to fall off, Markus." In one hand he held a bucket full of both the paste and in another, the brick bucket.
Markus curled his lip, a slight ridge forming in his brow, "Stop complaining and this will go quicker, Hector." He removed his tool, placed the brick down, and made sure of its affixment by tapping with the bottom of his fist, "Isn't this the eighth time today you've whined?"
"I am going to push you right off this wall and laugh," Hector scooched forth and kicked the mud off his caliga. Short edges of red hair poked out of his chaperon like small stems from an apple. His face was rugged and round like a smoothed desert pebble, devoid of any facial hair and making him appear as if he were still in his early teens rather than his late.
"Are you sure those stubby little arms may even reach me?" Markus stifled a laugh as the younger brother glared at him. His curly black hair was bunched up and connected over a goatee turning into a full beard.
Hector swung the buckets in front and placed them on the wall as Markus continued, "This needs to be done by sundown, so hurry up."
"Who died and made you Centurion?" he slouched over a little and rested. Whenever Markus ordered him, he'd listen no matter what. A weakness you may say, like Ma's honey hotcakes.
Markus brushed some dirt away on a square and diamond-chinned face, "Stubborn today, aren't we?"
"One month since we've joined up and you're even more of a dick kisser than usual," he let a breath out, "trying out for officer?" he straightened and accidentally hit his hand against the brick. "Pah, dammit all."
"Shut up and stop bellowing Red, it's only a scratch."
"Oh, why yes sir! me so sorry Master Markus!" he threw his arms up and waved them around while faking a fearful face. Then he dropped it, "Eat wyvern shit."
"You two! back to work!" An instructor yelled from below. He flashed a large stick and his sallow-skinned face sank into a sneer.
Like that, the brothers went back to work, knowing full well the damage that thing may bring. It wasn't hard for Markus to keep on like this, same for Hector though you wouldn't know it. Physical labor was a daily occurrence on their father's farm before conscription called them.
Look at them now. Once simple farmers turned men at arms. Ma cried up a storm seeing them off. Pa smiled proudly, holding her by the arm, waving as they left, walking sticks and packs over their shoulders for the journey ahead.
When they'd been anointed in Telta, both were almost instantly set off marching a near two hundred miles towards some strange sight that'd seen no theological meaning or practice within the last millennia. A large GATE. Where it led no man knew, but each man wanted to find out judging by the twelve legions who'd marched through at morning dawn.
Clerics and priests told the men more about it at service. Entire worlds waiting right on the other side as an effect from the strange magic of the gods, and here the brothers were, left behind in some run-down Casta they'd been tasked to repair and build upon.
Run-down was an understatement. Half their days for the past month were spent rebuilding old defenses, fortifying walls, and laying fresh stone and new amenities upon barracks. The brothers found this way of work much more adjustable and enjoyable. If home prepared them for anything it'd be construction and hard labor.
Markus laid several more stones on the wall. He came up panting and straightened his back out and wiped the sweat from his eyes, some got in them, and that made him close both for a short while.
"Need water?" Hector questioned. Two leather skins sloshed on his belt as he moved up.
"Ita."
"Here, princess." He unfastened one and handed it over. Markus drank down three gulps and handed the skin back.
"Gratias."
"Tu es optatus," they kept working. They'd laid brick for half the day yesterday, were nearing it on this one, and damn if they wouldn't be doing this the next. Both would never admit it, but being here was much preferred to going to a world that may be filled with all kinds of foreign and strange environments.
The younger brother glanced to his side at the GATE and made a "Hmph."
"Something on your mind?"
"Supposing what may be on the other side," Hector answered.
"Such as?"
He shrugged and handed him another stone. As Markus laid it Hector finally gave him a reply, "What about a city full of gold?"
Markus rubbed paste along a brick, "Wishful thinking."
"Do I need a pass for being optimistic? would you like me to claim a world covered entirely in ocean awaits a watery grave for our boys?"
Markus laughed, "I'm telling you to be realistic brother."
"Off yourself, here."
He handed him another brick and Markus brought it over his head. He slapped it on a paste-covered one and said, "I'm imagining if there'll be folk on the other side."
"Other humans? dwarves? elves?"
"Perhaps, but what about something we've never seen before? remember those laborers and barmaids with the rabbit ears back at Italica?"
Hector smirked, "Wishful thinking."
"Piss yourself, how about we talk of the night one laughed right in your face as you offered her a flower?" He nearly choked from laughter as his brother smacked him hard across the back.
"Oh, I'm kidding you," Markus slid his arm up and stretched.
Hector reached back, and handed him another brick, "Set the damned rocks before I hand you your ass."
"Does somebody hear a woman whining-"
They stopped suddenly, hearing it both at the same time. Their compatriots followed suit, the archers, the slingers, and the instructors. "It's coming from the GATE!" somebody shouted.
The horses came first, rows of them out of the gates black abyss like some ghoulish parade. A black mare led the outfit and she trotted oddly, a bent knee the root cause.
Panic and alarmed confusion followed as horrid and disfigured forms of dying men hobbled at strange angles. Leading them was a single knight carrying no weapon, riding no horse, and wearing no helm. His blonde hair fell messy with grime and his face sat sunken as if disfigured. The men started taking up weapons thinking this an army that conscripted the undead.
But all arms were dispersed upon the tattered flag of the Empire forthcoming beyond the GATE. Its bearer, a boy of thirteen or twelve whose face was covered in dried crimson blood that wasn't his. Like a masque of red death. His eyes were wide and his hands shook wildly. His mouth moved but no audible sound came forth.
"By the gods!"
Notes: Sup guys, thanks for reading. Ginza's finally done and I can move onto Alnus where most fics die, fingers crossed mine doesn't. To be frank, it's taken a lot of shower thought to get an idea of how I can not make my fic a reskin. So why not start with giving actual layers to the Saderan characters and make them have the majority POV? don't worry we'll still get action from the Americans and Japanese though. Thanks again for reading, hope you're all having a great day.
Translations: Thought I might as well start doing this if I keep including Latin phrases and words
Tu es optatus-You are welcome
Quid-What?
Gratias-Thanks.
Castra-Fort or some kind of military base.
Ita-It is so. (Technically Latin doesn't have a word for "yes," by itself so this was the next best thing.)