MARAUDER'S GLORY EXCERPT | THE WAMINGO

From the Chronicles of

Nicholas “Cole” Wolden

in the year 1363 AE

“What are you waiting for? Kill the damn thing already.”

I looked up from the goblin wailing at my feet, her cries so loud they drowned out those of the newborn clutched in her arms, and locked eyes with my fellow cavalry scout. He stood ten feet away, leaning on his battlestaff. His golden armor gleamed so brightly in the afternoon sun that I had to squint when looking at him. He held his helmet in the crook of one arm. His face was young, pointed, and wore a crooked smirk.

“Who are you?” I demanded. He may have been a fellow scout, but I had never seen the man before in my life.

The scout's smirk turned into an arrogant grin. “Name's Aeon Blacwin. Seventh Cavalry Division, out of Fort Brix. We got your call for help.” He looked around at the carnage, the mounds of dead goblins, the burning huts, and snorted dismissively. “Not that you guys needed us by the looks of it.”

I nodded my understanding. Fort Brix was a military outpost a couple of days’ journey south of here. Here being a charming acre of dried up riverbed that the locals, in their infinite lack of imagination, had simply dubbed “Dry River”.

The riverbed lay along the border of Tryggr, a small province in the southeastern region of Gos. My division, the Twenty-third, had radioed for assistance shortly before the so-called “battle” took place. It was strictly standard procedure. Aeon's patrol must have been in the area and picked up the call. They had arrived late, but, like the cocky bastard said, it wasn't like we needed their help.

As far as I could tell, eight hundred goblins lost their lives that day at Dry River. For my part, I had little to do with the battle. Not that I have anything against killing goblins, mind you. As a member of the emperor's cavalry scouts, I have bagged my share of the wretched creatures over the years.

No, what stayed my hand that day was the realization that the enemy we were fighting was so ill-prepared for our attack that the events I was participating in were more along the lines of a slaughter than an actual battle.

The trouble began when the skifftank I was assigned to, the Skullcrusher, chanced upon a goblin village built along the aforementioned riverbed in the early hours of the morning.

We had received reports from up and down the southern region of Gos for months now claiming that a goblin horde was on the warpath. The reports were mainly from farmers and ranchers who had caught a couple of hungry goblins butchering their livestock and then exaggerated the situation the next time they were in town, claiming that they had fought off not two, but a dozen bloodthirsty goblin raiders who were threatening not only their lives but that of every farmer and his family throughout the region.

This, of course, got the townsfolk into an uproar, and it wasn't long before they contacted their regional lord, demanding that they do something to quash the problem before it got out of hand. The regional lord then passed the word along to our commanders, who, in turn, dispatched the cavalry scouts to deal with the situation.

To be fair, there was cause for concern. The goblins had long been a nuisance, breeding in great numbers, raiding farms and settlements, looting, and even killing and eating settlers when the opportunity presented itself. It was only a matter of time before the orders were given to exterminate the creatures when and wherever they were found.

And, we cavalry scouts, the elite of the emperor's grand army, followed these orders with gusto. We roamed the Deadlands in our armored skifftanks, always on the lookout for the “goblin hordes”, taking them out village by village, leaving thousands to rot under the cruel desert sky. Dry River proved no exception.

Late that morning found our sergeants prodding us from our bunks and into our armor and gear; they herded us to our battle cycles stored in the skifftank's belly and then led us out into the sun-baked riverbed to face an enemy that didn't just shun daylight but feared it. The Seventh Cavalry Division arrived twenty minutes into the skirmish to lend support even though we could have easily finished the job with half our numbers.

With the Seventh's added strength, the skirmish became little more than a game. Scouts set fire to goblin shacks, burning alive those that didn't escape the flames and shooting dead those that did. They pulled the goblins' flailing bodies from their dark hiding places so that they could watch with sadistic amusement as the sun's rays ate away at their pale gray flesh. The scouts began placing bets on how many of the creatures they could kill. Some took heads as trophies. I saw more than a few scouts skinning corpses since a goblin’s hide and bones went for a fair price in many of the urban markets.

The whole bloody ordeal sickened me. I broke rank the first chance I got and made my way to a narrow gorge on the other side of a large boulder, as far away from the slaughter as possible. All I wanted was to find a quiet place where I could be alone for a while; at least until I could get my nerves under control.

The day's events had rattled me more than I cared to admit. Not because I feared for my life, but because the gunshots, laughter, and screams reminded me of another time and place; a place where a massacre much like this one had occurred; where a boy who could still count his years in single digits had witnessed the slaughter of his entire people. Those who killed them had laughed too. It had all been a game to them; just one big fucking game.

I had no sooner sat down and taken off my helmet when a thin, reedy cry caught my attention. I was on my feet again in an instant, gun cocked and raised. I saw no one around me, yet the crying persisted. I followed the sound until I came to a fissure in the large boulder.

There I discovered two goblins, one male, and the other female. The female cradled a wailing newborn in her arms. By the looks of it, they had holed up here, hoping to wait out the battle. Unfortunately for them, I had picked this very spot to work off my shakes.

The male leaped from his hiding place with a crudely wrought knife clutched in his small, bony hand. I knew he was a male not from the narrow eyes or large, pointed ears that typically defined the humanoid species, but also from the elaborate paint that covered the creature's face and body. It was the mark of a mature male of some importance in his tribe's society.

He swiped at me with the blade. I avoided the clumsy attack, holstered my gun, and put out my hands as a sign that I didn't want to fight. But the goblin wasn't taking any chances. Despite his obvious pain from the sun's burning light, he charged me, screaming in his high, reedy voice. I sidestepped the attack, grabbed the creature's wrist, and pried the knife from his grasp.

I thought that would be the end of it, but, disarmed or not, the male wasn't giving up. He wormed free of my hold and pawed desperately for the knife in my other hand. I had to give him credit. A cavalry scout was a highly trained soldier, conditioned to deal with far greater threats than a mere goblin could dish out. But the concern for his mate and their child must have overridden self-preservation because he continued to come at me despite his disadvantage. I shouted that I didn’t want to hurt him, but my pleas fell on ears that were as ignorant of my language as I was of his own.

The goblin switched tactics and leaped on me like a babe scrambling for its mother's bosom. The suddenness of the attack took me by surprise. One second the creature was dancing back and forth at my feet while I played keep-away with his knife, the next he was on top of me with his long legs wrapped around my midriff and pointed teeth inches from my throat.

My training took over at that point. I clamped a hand over one of the goblin's wrists so tightly I felt the bone splinter in my grasp. The goblin screeched in pain but did not relinquish his hold on my head. I twisted the hand into an unnatural position and finally managed to pry the creature loose.

He came away kicking and flailing and screeching his hatred for me. I held him at arm's length and in the same motion plunged the knife straight into his heart. The flailing stopped at once and the goblin went limp in my hands.

I let his body fall to the ground and stood there for a moment, staring at it. Why didn't you stop? I thought numbly. I didn't want to kill you. There are only two people in this world I want to see dead and you weren't one of them. All you had to do was stop fighting, why couldn't you see that?

The female goblin's piercing cry brought me back to my senses. I turned to her slowly, the knife, still dripping with her mate's blood, gripped in my hand.

The female clutched her wailing child against her chest and darted from the fissure. In her haste to escape, she tripped over a rock and fell, hitting the ground at an odd angle. I heard an audible pop! as something, likely one of her vertebrae, snapped inside her lower back.

The female goblin's whole body seized up and she just lay where she fell, bawling with one arm wrapped protectively around her child, the other shielding her large yellow eyes from the blazing sun. Tendrils of smoke wafted off the blackening skin from where the sun's rays cooked her flesh.

I stood over her, my hands once more raised in a placating gesture, trying to calm her down, to reason with a creature that possessed only the most basic intelligence.

That was about the time Aeon Blacwin showed up.

“What are you doing down here?” I asked in somewhat of a daze. Everything had happened so fast my mind was having trouble catching up with it all.

“I could ask you the same question,” Aeon said. “The others have pretty much mopped up the opposition. Figured I'd check the perimeter for stragglers. That's what you're doing, right?” His grin widened. “Checking for stragglers?”

I knew what that grin meant even if his words said otherwise. He had me pegged as a coward. Probably thought I had run off to hide when the fighting started and happened upon this trio of goblins by mistake.

“Aye,” I said. “That's just it.”

Aeon snorted laughter as he leaned his battlestaff against an outcrop of rock and then hung his helmet over the top of it. My gaze fell on the standard-issue weapon with its curved blade on one end and smooth-bore barrel on the other that fired devastating blasts of buckshot. I realized that I no longer had my staff with me. I must have lost it somewhere between exiting the skifftank and entering this gorge.

The battlestaff was the signature weapon of the cavalry scouts. To lose the weapon to your enemy was considered a grave insult. To just outright lose one was unforgivable. Yet I had done just that. And as expensive as each staff was to produce I had a feeling that my superiors wouldn't be too pleased with me when they found out I no longer had mine.

“Go ahead then and do it," Aeon said.

My attention returned to the scout as he stepped towards me.

“Do what?”

“Kill the damn thing. She and her squint are shrieking so loud they're giving me a headache.”

“There's no need,” I said, grasping for an excuse, no matter how lame. “She's hurt her back. She can't move.”

“So what?”

“She's no longer a threat. Just let her be.”

Aeon stopped an arm's length from me, brow furrowed. “What're you talking about? Our orders are to kill these things wherever they're found. Besides, the thing's lamed. We'd just be putting it out of its misery.”

He began to walk past me towards the goblin and her child, but I blocked his path.

“No.”

“Are you crazy? What're these things to you? Shit, man, one of them just attacked you.”

“All the same, we're not killing them.”

Aeon snorted and brushed past me. “Stand aside then. If you can't do your job then I'll do it for you.”

He drew his knife from his boot and was kneeling over the goblin when I grabbed him by the shoulder.

“I said no, dammit!”

Aeon whirled on me, knife raised. I caught his wrist, but he twisted loose and shoved me back. "Have you lost your mind?"

"You're not killing her!"

"Screw you!"

My anger got the better of me and I came at him again, teeth bared and a growl sounding deep in my throat. He must have seen something in my eyes that convinced him I wasn't the helpless coward he took me for because that infuriating grin was now gone from his face. In its place was a look of dawning horror. "Keep away from me!" he cried and swung the knife at my exposed head.

I dodgedand the knife's blade skidded off the shoulder of my cuirass instead. I elbowed him in the side and he stumbled backwards, losing his knife in the process. Without missing a beat, he reached for the pistol at his side.

The barrel had barely cleared its holster when I caught his arm and began wrestling him for the weapon. He reached up with his free hand and tried to shove his thumb into my left eye. With a snarl, I batted his hand away and more by reflex than thought thrust the knife into his throat.

Aeon's eyes widened in disbelief. They mirrored my own bewilderment as my anger subsided and the realization of what I had done sunk in. Blood gushed from the corners of Aeon's mouth and trickled down the hilt of the goblin's blade buried in his neck. He tried to pull away from me, but I continued to hold on to him, unable to let go as I watched the life slowly fade from his eyes. I only released my hold when his body collapsed to the ground beside that of the male goblin.

“Why'd you make me do that?” There was a moment's pause as the rage boiled up inside me and then I shouted: “Gods damn you! Why'd you make me do that?”

“He took you for a pushover, that's why,” a voice said.

With a start, I looked up and saw another scout from the Seventh Cavalry Division perched atop the boulder, using his battlestaff for support. He stared calmly down at me from behind the mirrored visor of his helmet. Even from here I could see he was an older man. By the gods, he was downright ancient if the white beard that sprouted out from under his helmet was any indication.

The beard's length far exceeded army regulations, which required all facial hair be neatly trimmed and hair length either close-cropped or tied into a topknot. Under normal circumstances, such rules were strictly enforced, though they were known to relax under certain field conditions. That meant that either this old buzzard's commanding officers were far more lenient than my own, or the man had been out in the field for some time now.

“How long have you been up there?” It occurred to me that he had likely witnessed my entire exchange with Aeon, up to and including the part where I turned his neck into a pin cushion.

“Are you nervous, boy? Afraid I'm going to turn you in for murder? Maybe try to get me a promotion out of the deal?”

The thought had crossed my mind. Soldiers were often encouraged to tell on each other. This not only weeded out potential troublemakers, but also had the added benefit of keeping the other soldiers in line for fear of betrayal from the most unlikely of places, even one's oldest and dearest friend.

“I guess that depends on whether I shoot you off that rock and call it self-defense,” I answered coldly.

The scout surprised me by laughing. “You've got sand, kid. Whatever else you might be you're no pushover.”

He skidded down the side of the boulder, hopped off five feet from the ground, and landed on his feet. For an old timer, he was pretty spry. Strong too, judging from the size of him. Not in terms of height, as he was rather short, the top of his helmet barely exceeding my collarbone, but in width. He was a broad man, barrel chested with thick arms and legs and a neck the size of a tree trunk. His armor was of an older design, not as sleek as the modern version I wore. It, much like its owner, was bulky, battle-scarred, and covered with at least a week's worth of dust and dirt.

I stepped back as he approached and raised my knife in a defensive posture. The scout stopped and raised his free hand, palm forward. “Relax, kid, if I was going to turn you in I wouldn't have called attention to myself. I would've just faded away and you wouldn't have been the wiser.”

He was right. I would never have known he was there had he not spoken. “What do you want?”

“Only a few precious moments of your time,” he said. “But first . . .”

With blinding speed, the scout drew his gun and fired a single shot over my shoulder. The bullet hit the goblin child and passed through it into the mother. Both ceased their wailing at once.

I stared numbly at the two fresh corpses.

"Why did you do that?"

The scout didn't answer.

I turned back to him, barely conscious of the knife in my hand. I felt my anger errupt in a rush of crimson fury. "Why did you do that? Answer me!"

The scout pointed the gun dead center with my face. “Watch it, boy. You've got a quick temper and an even quicker hand, but I'm not about to end up like our good friend Aeon there.”

I managed to get a grip on my anger, at least enough to lower the knife, though I still held it poised at my side, ready to strike the moment the scout let down his guard. “Why'd you kill that mother and child?”

“Child, eh? Not squint?”

“Well, that's what it is, isn't it?”

The scout nodded to himself as if he had just reached a decision, most likely concerning me. He kept the gun trained on my face and said: “The mother was suffering. Aeon was right about that much. She ruptured something in her back when she fell. She was never going to move from that spot again.”

“You don't know that —”

“Shut up and listen. She would've died a slow, agonizing death and her child along with her. That is, unless our fellow scouts got hold of her first, which I think you'd agree would be a far worse fate. Somebody needed to put them out of their misery, and since you're too busy acting like some mongrel protecting its wounded master I decided to do the honors.” He thumbed back the hammer on his gun. “Now drop the knife.”

He was right. I had allowed myself to become emotionally involved, let the senselessness of this so called battle cloud my judgment. I had killed a fellow scout, my brother-in-arms, in defense of the enemy and I was ready to do the same to this one had he not gotten the drop on me first.

“Okay,” I said, tossing the knife aside. The scout continued to hold his gun on me. I could feel his eyes boring into my own from behind the mirrored visor. I saw my face reflected back at me and understood why he was so hesitant to lower his weapon even now with me disarmed.

I saw blue eyes narrowed with contempt, thin lips pulled back in a feral-like sneer, a smashed nose broken numerous times on countless battlefields from one end of the Deadlands to the other. I saw that old familiar devil in me trying to get out and I looked away from my reflection in disgust. “Okay,” I said, more gently.

This time, the scout lowered his gun, though he had sense enough not to holster it. With his free hand, he unstrapped his helmet and pulled it off. I took an involuntary step back when I saw his face. If it was true that you could count the years of a tree by its rings then you could likely do the same with scars. Some looked so fresh they were still swollen and red. Others were much older, faded whispers of battles fought long ago. The largest scar looked the oldest, zigzagging down the left side of his face and ending near his chin, leaving a smooth, whisker free path through his shaggy beard.

“What's your name, kid?”

“Why do you wanna know?” I thought once more of the dead scout at my feet. Did the old man think me so daft that I would give him my name so he could report me to his superiors?

“Very well,” the scout said. “I shall go first. I am Master Sergeant Mage Driskill of the Seventh Cavalry Division out of Fort Brix. Perhaps you've heard of me?”

Heard of him? That was an understatement. What soldier hadn't heard of Mage Driskill, the hero of the Battle of Skull Canyon, slayer of the Saymoorian general, Malkan, and a member of the legendary Twelve? I had grown up hearing stories of that famous battle, which had taken place in the enemy-held lands of Kom in 1325 AE. How many times had my surrogate father told me the tale of the dozen cavalry scouts left behind on the battlefield after their forces were defeated by Malkan’s army? How they could have easily made their way to the nearest outpost, avoiding the Saymoorians all together, but, instead, they opted to bring the fight to the enemy, luring Malkan’s army into a boxed canyon and then setting off explosives, causing the waters of a neighboring lake to rush in and drown them all.

That is, all but Malkan himself, who Mage spared so that he could personally deliver justice in a dual to the death. It was a glorious achievement, and one rightly remembered in history as an example of military strategy, courage, and honor.

But that battle had taken place over thirty years ago, and though this man who stood before me was the right age as Mage Driskill, I highly doubted it was him. Everyone knew Mage was a tall and dashing figure, a leader among men, not some sorry looking master sergeant who didn't look fit to polish Mage's boots, let alone wear them.

“You're Mage Driskill?” I said, adding a curt laugh to show what I thought of his claim.

The scout — I'll call him Mage for lack of a better name — grinned. “You'd be surprised how often I get that.”

“Tell me this then. If you're Mage Driskill how come you're only a sergeant? Everyone knows Mage was a lieutenant at the Battle of Skull Canyon, and that was over three decades ago. You'd be a general by now. Aye, a general at the very least.”

Mage nodded. “I could have been, but . . . well, let's just say I had a problem with authority figures; our glorious emperor in particular. My mouth got me busted down to my current rank with a threat of a court martial if I didn't watch myself. I would have likely been banished into the Deadlands years ago if not for my status in the public's mind as a hero of a battle I hardly even remember.”

“The real Mage wouldn't say such things. He was an honorable man. Loved by the emperor. Skull Canyon was his moment of glory. He would never forget that.”

“And what would you know about the man?” He sounded a bit testy, as if I had struck a nerve. “All you've got to go on are a bunch of overblown accounts made by folks who've never even met me. Truth is, the emperor hates my guts almost as much as I hate his. If he could dust my ass without lowering himself in the eyes of the people he would in a heartbeat, believe me.”

“That's a lie.”

Mage arched an unruly eyebrow. “Is it? Well, I guess you're going to believe what you want to believe. As for that damned canyon, the fact is I have no desire to recollect some skirmish that took place years ago in a shithole region where I lost many good men under my command.” He holstered his gun and looked to the horizon. “Too many good men if you want to know the truth.”

“Mage is a legend—” I began, but he cut me off with a sharp, bitter laugh.

“And what is a legend exactly? Just an exaggeration of the truth. Or an outright lie, most likely. Oh, I've heard all the stories. Mage Driskill is eight feet tall with six arms and fire streaming out of his ass. But it doesn't matter if you believe me or not. The reason I came down here was because I want to talk about you.”

“Me? What would you want with me?”

“Nothing at first. It was Aeon I was following. I had been watching him for a while now and thought maybe he was the sort I could cut a deal with, asshole or not. I'd followed him down here hoping to get him alone so we could talk.”

“Talk about what exactly?” I eyed the dead man at my feet. Blood flowed from the gash in his throat and onto the parched riverbed where it was quickly absorbed by the earth. I figured that if we had accomplished nothing else this day we had at least sated the thirst of this desolate land.

“I was hoping to make him my partner,” Mage stated. “I've been contemplating getting out of the soldiering business for some time now. I'm getting on in years and there's no future for me here, my superiors have made that abundantly clear. They'd love to see me disappear, so I figured why not oblige them? But I'm going to need some help setting up my new profession.”

“Okay, I'll bite. You're asking me to desert with you and do what, open a tavern, start a ranch, set up a private militia?”

“I need you to help me steal some guns.” Mage raised his hand before I could speak and said, “Now just hear me out, it's not like I'm making this up as I go. Aeon's dead. You killed him, but I could care less about that, I never liked the little shit anyway. Your temper aside, you're a much better candidate for what I have in mind.”

"And just what do you have in mind, old man? I'm not in the mood for games." My tone was sharper than I meant it to be, but my nerves were on edge and so far this geezer had done nothing but try what little patience I had left.

Mage glared at me. “Watch your mouth, boy. I'm not so old I can't still tan your hide.”

“The name's Cole. No more of this ‘kid’ and ‘boy’ shit, okay?”

Mage nodded. “Fair enough. So, Cole, what if I told you that I not only know about a fat weapons cache up at Fort Brix but that I've already arranged a way for us to slip inside and steal it?”

“What?” I yelled, and then looked around sharply to make sure nobody had heard me. Once I had confirmed the coast was clear I looked back to Mage and said in a lower voice: “Have you lost your mind? There's no way I'm helping you break into a well-armed fort and try to steal their guns. That'd be suicide.”

“Not if we have a man on the inside, which I do. He's willing to get us in and out unnoticed for a small fee. I even have a band of brigands lined up to sell the weapons to.”

“You mean dustdwellers? They're our enemies. I'm not going to sell weapons to them so they can turn around and shoot our own people.”

“That's the beauty of it,” Mage said, grinning. “We sell them the guns with just enough ammunition for them to use in the test firing. The rest of the ammunition will be duds, I've personally seen to that. You see, I was in charge of the armory at Fort Brix. I made sure that several boxes of ammunition were stripped of their powder. Those guns will be good for little more than clubs to our brigand friends.”

“Until they can find live rounds,” I said.

Mage scoffed. “Use your head. The cavalry's guns use a special kind of ammunition that can only be found in Elysium. And it's illegal to sell that ammo to anyone other than those who serve the empire.”

“But there are ways,” I reminded him.

“Aye, but a highly trained scout would still mop the floor with a dustdweller's mangy hide, live rounds or no.”

“You have an answer for everything,” I said.

“And what about you?” Mage asked. “What's your answer? I was watching you closely, Cole. You have no more stomach for being a scout than I do. I don't know what it was that made you want to join our ranks, but here's your chance to get out, and make a profit in the bargain.”

“Thanks, but the last I heard the cavalry shoots deserters.”

“They may well shoot you anyway.” Mage gestured to Aeon's body. “You didn't know this kid but I did. Aeon was a high born bastard if I remember right. His father is an influential man. Owns several slave rings in the capital and has a seat in the senate. He pulled some strings to make Aeon a cavalry scout, more in an attempt to control the kid's bloodlust than anything else. He's going to want justice for his son's murder. And his reach is long.”

Oh, wonderful news, I thought. Of all the asshole's I had to dust it would be a senator's son.

“Well, how's he going to know it was me?” I said. “I stabbed him with a goblin blade; as far as anybody's concerned he was killed while fighting.”

“Really?” Mage looked amused. “Aeon stood, what, six-one, six-two? Goblins, in general, stand around four feet tall. I've heard rumors of goblins as tall as five feet, truly giants among their kind, but they live nowhere near here. And this was a peaceful village we hit. Hardly any warriors present. The chances of ol' Aeon there being killed by a goblin is very slight. His father would see right through the ruse and launch an investigation into the matter.”

“I can just as easily say it was you who killed him.”

“And I could do the same to you. But does it have to come to that?”

“Damn it all!” I kicked at the ground, cursed some more, and then, with considerable effort, managed to get my anger under control. “This plan of yours, it's on the level? I need to know I can trust you on this.”

“Strictly on the level,” Mage said. “But this is hardly the place to discuss such matters. My cycle is hidden on the other side of these rocks. We can talk further once we've put some miles behind us.” Mage began up the side of the boulder, paused midway, and looked down at me. “That is if you have a mind to join me. It’s up to you. Stay and take your chances with a court martial or come with me and risk your life for something worthwhile.”

I looked down at Aeon's body and realized I didn’t have a choice. There were stiff penalties for killing a fellow scout. I was facing either the gallows or a firing squad; and whether I deserved it or not I still had unfinished business in this life. Business that led me to join the cavalry scouts in the first place. There were two men out there that needed killing. If I died now they would get away with what they had done to me. What they had done to my people. I could not allow that to happen.

With a heavy sigh, I retrieved Aeon's battlestaff and began up the side of the boulder.