New Story, "A Way Out"

Recently came up with the following as a new introduction to most of my other work. This is only the first installment, more to follow. For S&Gs I thought it might be interesting to take on the Deluran perspective and use that to frame the environment of Felarya. It also felt remarkable to show them acting a little more desperate to be able to have their entire base recalled out of felarya. As an extension of that, enjoy the following:

The engines of the transport slowly began to hum to life. A large cargo hatch slid open and several dozen men began a busy routine of guiding a hovering line supply-carrying labor drones into it and directing their contents to appropriate destinations. Spare parts and fuel canisters began to accumulate. The ship was laden with more than twice its usual stock, as if it were expected that every part be replaced a number of times over in the field. One crew in particular was given the ceremonial task of polishing the ship's emblem, clearing the grit from between four even squares, four lines, and four triangles arranged about an orderly axis that bisected another at a perfect right angle. The workers and their drones scurried away as this task came to a close and soldiers began to file through the hatch into the ship. Each carried his own oversized pack of supplies, as if they too were expecting to have their inventories spent several times over over the course of the forthcoming deployment. Whispers began to circulate between the loading crews, as the very same routine was carried out in the adjacent docking bay, and also the one beyond that, and the one beyond that.
This process continued through dark hours of the morning, long before the sunrise would have the chance to better expose the work having been carried out. The officer standing upon the control deck for the dock checked his wristwatch and read 05:28:06 when the preparations had been deemed complete. With only a subtle nod the operation was ordered to begin and a flurry of radio communication orchestrated the ships to file to the launch tunnel. Each vessel was bulky and heavily laden, forcing the use of smaller towing vessels to assist in tugging the series of them into an neat line. Gears turned, and the series of bunker doors and blast shields were lowered, exposing the protective underground sanctuary to the outdoors. The very instant this took place, defensive gun batteries sprung up in a perimeter around the base, soon followed by a series of surface-to-air and surface-to-surface missile emplacements. Each was still sheathed in plastic panels, to insulate the metal from the harsh, corrosive atmosphere. IFF detection chirped a storm as sensors and antennae swept the surroundings, judging any sign of movement, sound, or thermal emission as a possible threat.
A second nod from the officer, and the operation took wing. Each ponderous vessel set its six engines to full throttle, and gained speed at a surprising rate. One after the next, the hurled themselves out of the tunnel and just over the treeline. Eight in total departed, and as soon as they were out of sight the blast doors quickly shut tight and the batteries retracted back to their hidden positions. Sunlight hasn't yet made it past the horizon, but it would soon. The transports accelerated further and began to scatter. Two headed east, the other six spread towards the north. This turn of events came as a surprise to the occupants of the first two, who had been expecting superfluous support for the duration of their errand. Chatter began and had to be quickly snuffed out.

“Rally point isn't for another twenty mikes, where the hell are they going?”

“They aren't headed for the same rally point. They're being deployed to the Negavian front to divert attention away from us.”

“The Negavians? Did they already mount an invasion of the south passes?”

“Not yet, but if they think that we're headed that way, they might get desperate and try it themselves. And if they make a move, everyone knows about it. Before we know it we'll be up to our necks in Bowl guerrillas and Miratan shock troops.”

“That bad, Sarge? Wouldn't they just kill one another, kill the natives, and make our job easier?”

“Were you born this stupid, or did you have to work at it? Of course we can't have the filthy foreigners intervene here! We're moving to control that junction, and we can't afford to share it! Anyone new enters the picture and before you know it there's nothing but compromise this, bargain that, negotiate here, give up there, and we end up with nothing.”

The others quieted down almost immediately at that point. They remembered how few advantages they would have in open warfare against their human neighbors. Their outpost had only a fraction of the population of any of the foreign colonies, their supplies were limited, and worse yet their metal alloys were vulnerable to the atmosphere. Sustained military campaigns were suicide. And not to mention that even the Bowl peoples' psychic links, sheer Miratan firepower, and Negavian sorcery were mere trifles next to the threat posed by local predators. But if it was one thing their own faction had in its favor, it was the finest sensory equipment. That, and the element of surprise. This particular operation would end quickly and smoothly, they reasoned, because they could slip in, claim the goods, and get out without so much as seeing a foreigner or predator. But one troublesome thought lingered. If that were the case, why the elaborate diversion? Why send such a large and well-armed force to do this in the first place? And why was it necessary to withhold so much of this information until the final moment?
This thought would have to be put aside, after all nothing would be more irrelevant once they set foot on hostile soil. The platoon's sergeant began assigning fire teams and divvying his subordinates to check weapons, and more importantly the attached IFF systems. These would be crucial and not a soul aboard wasn't privy to it. He was given the luxury of a few moments spare time to ready a makeshift good luck charm of his. It was little more than a nylon cord tied into a loop, a handful of spent shell casings of varying sizes strung upon it. He had made a habit of collecting spent cartridges from his travels, and was particularly interested in the bizarre and often primitive ones that other factions employed. One of the mountain folks' prized long rifle rounds may offer a fine addition to his collection, if such a relic could still be found, that is. But in no time he had to quickly dispense of his trinket as the cabin's video monitor clicked on and began a transmission from home. The officer overseeing the commencement of the operation appeared, doffing his cap in a quick substitution for a salute. The sergeant wasted no time straightening himself and clicking his heels together to assume formality. The officer didn't so much as say a word, he simply gestured to the monitor, which then blinked an incessant red icon. The image of the officer promptly went blank at that point, and the red icon expanded into a comprehensive briefing document.

“Platoons alpha through foxtrot are to proceed to the northeast bounds of field J-22. Rendezvous and relief of extant scouting parties will occur at 09:30 to feign operations on the Negavian front. Engagement with local militias and Negav-controlled settlements will occur to incite northbound troop movements and decoy hostile forces away from the target area.

Platoons golf and hotel are to use this cover to advance to mountain pass J-87. Commence infiltration of the Ellisian front and capture mineral stockpiles stored in the ruins. Elimination of tribal leaders is highly recommended to disrupt local population's resistance. Use whatever means necessary to subdue the natives. Scouting parties have already identified eight priority targets and recorded pertinent data. Good hunting.”

At this point the screen then shifted to display the profiles of these strange tribe leaders. Each had already been under surveillance for some time, and quite a library of information had been compiled. Every single one had even been given a code name. 'Highlander', 'Headmistress', 'Archbishop', 'Pretty-boy', 'Iron-lung', 'Golem', 'Vixen', and 'Jackal'. One would wonder just how long the scouts had been away from home to learn all this. Moreover, how close they wold have needed to get to these mountain tribes to have been divulged a thing at all. The sergeant was miffed by this sudden flood of new orders, which he wouldn't have dreamed of being handed so suddenly. Even the thought that the old mountain folk hadn't yet been driven to extinction was an irritating shock. All the same, it became obvious that this operation had been in the works for a long, long time and for a very good reason. He turned away from the screen and stomped a boot down onto the deck to command the others to attention.

“Colonel's not on the fritz after all. Listen up, briefing just came through. The brass thinks the old ascarlin mines have been all but tapped out on this end. The mountain folk have been digging here for a while, matter of fact, they still are.”

This statement solicited some surprised reactions.

“You heard me, they're still there. Matter 'o fact, a lot of them are still there. And they have their fingers wrapped around the goods. I'm not talking about just a little bit of ascarlin here, this pathetic little tribe has been mining the whole southwest corner of the whole goddamn mountain. They're looaaaaaaded. And if we can liberate that deposit from them, I'll bet it'll be enough material to send home that we can leave this ugly rock behind us. That's right, pull this one by the numbers and we're done with this naga-infested hellhole!”

“...and the only thing in the way are these eight jackasses. We take them out, their tribes split, and we're done. The bastards have been infighting and inbreeding for decades now. Won't take much to tip 'em over.”

He promptly uploaded the scouts' report to the portable computers strapped to the wrist of each of the men in the platoon. For the duration of the flight they would be consumed with the task of studying it and plotting to assassinate them, one after the next.

Installment Two

In short order the two transport vessels were given little choice but to dive just beneath the tree canopies to seek cover from the rising sun. They continued along their path, one following the other, until they had gotten suitably close to the drop zone and spotted a wide enough clearing to disembark the troops within. The ships did not come to a stop, rather they continued at significant speed in a diving motion towards the forest floor, each ship detaching the lower segment of its hull and allowing these to come loose, fall, and then grind to a stop along the ground. Relieved of their burden, the transports very nimbly regained altitude and sped back home. The two detached armored modules very ungracefully collided with the ground with an obnoxious thud and slid some hundreds of meters through the boulders and underbrush before grinding to a halt. Each suddenly sprouted a bristling array of sensors and defensive weapon emplacements, mimicking the underground fortress from whence they game. When all evidence pointed towards a successful infiltration, both modules spat a volley of smoke canisters in all directions, very quickly blanketing the clearing in a haze to obscure the numbers and movement of the troops they carried.

The hatches opened and all but a handful of the soldiers promptly filed out of the drop pods, weapons in hands, seemingly expecting to have been met with the harshest of resistance when they did. Their sensors easily perceived the population of the woods even through the smoke, and in no time they were able to declare the perimeter secure with a few loud shouts of the word “Clear!” The two platoons advanced on foot further east, approaching the foot of the westernmost ascarlin mountains. They were accompanied by a number of hovering reconnaissance drones, controlled by their colleagues still manning the drop pods. The pods would serve as their home away from home, offering protection, shelter, and an abundance of supplies. Use of the recon drones for additional surveillance and intel was icing on the cake. As were the number of ballistic rockets stored in racks on the pods' upper edges, ready to be launched at a moment's notice and guided by the drones' laser designators. Using these, the combat team effectively gained accurate artillery support so long as they remained within five kilometers of their drop pod.

Following the plan concocted during the flight, the team quickly dispersed into a dozen small squads to conduct raids and assassinations against the indigenous tribes. They set up camps within scattered ruins of the long-gone settlements, covering their equipment and uniforms with local cloth to pose as traders, outcasts, hunters, mercenaries, anything but soldiers. These 'insurgent cells' as the sergeant had described them, would be spread far apart in the contested territories, to better preserve the image that they weren't working in tandem. Digital maps were synchronized, and all twelve teams began aggressively entering the borders of what at one time had been the diminutive Ellisian empire. Little was to be found in the way of company, let alone resistance. These villages and old decrepit fortresses had been abandoned for nearly a century. Only two days later did team four of platoon hotel get jarred from their lax pace by a sudden contact on their IFF detection.

Thermal and mass readings were substantial. It could easily have been a number of hostile fireteams moving close together. Each carrying a handful of those wicked long rifles that had gained so much infamy. Team four immediately scrambled its recon drones to get a closer look and readied the machine gun nests that they had been digging in the time since they settled into “fortress oscar”. Personal IFF affixed to each weapon went abuzz, readying each fin-stabilized round to have its trajectory corrected and guided right towards the target. Range to the contact was measured. The map was checked over. Possible intercepts were plotted. Every precaution was taken, including the preparation of those ballistic rockets to remove the threat ahead of time. It would take ninety seconds or so for the rocket to make it to its cruising altitude, and several minutes more to zero in on the desired target. The fire command would have to be made very soon if it were to be made at all. But the contact was on the move and from the speed readings its ETA would be far shorter than the rocket's. Final checklist for the predicted engagement was complete, and team four stoutly waited for their quarry to appear.

Movement in the brush soon became visible but its nature was unusual. An infantry element would be more dispersed, more low to the ground. Thermals also refused to suggest that they were being approached by dismounted infantry, rather one very large object. Teeth were bared at the possibility that they may be accosted by a predator instead. Arguably, this would be an even greater concern. Trigger fingers were disciplined and kept steady as the brush finally parted to reveal a pair of kensha, one adult and one juvenile. The adult carried an animal carcass between its teeth. In no time the pair sensed that they were being watched, and let out a low, frustrated growl. Team four, on the other hand, pulled the bolt handle of their second machine gun as a final warning. The adult kensha sported a number of long, narrow scars. It soon became obvious that these were caused by grazing hits having come from gunshots. The creature was apparently very familiar with the pain associated with firearms, in fact the most recent of these scars was still nearly fresh and was outlined by a brown stain of dried blood. The adult kensha came to a stop just fifty meters downhill of fortress oscar, realizing its predicament, and turning away slowly and confidently to seek shelter elsewhere, its cub in tow. Team four was frozen in the moment, very much having accepted the distinct possibility that much more dangerous and feared predators could have met them under similar circumstances. But the corporal leading the element kept a level head and wasted no time sending a low-frequency transmission to his superior. He didn't need to say much, a photo of the kensha sufficed. Its recent wound had been the result of a long rifle. No other man-portable cartridge would leave such a large gash in the kensha's side. The natives were alive, somewhere. They were armed, they were willing to resist the elements, and they had done so very recently.

The answer had been made very obvious. All teams were to advance further in. The noose was to be tightened. The course, secured. It would only be a matter of time before the natives realized that they were being hunted. And it would be even less time before one of the larger factions found out and pressed its own advantage. The plan would have to be accelerated.

Installment Three

The rainfall had gotten continuously more dense over the first few weeks of the operation. Fortress oscar had to be renovated several times over to cope with the endless torrent that threatened the earthen foundations and stones of which it was made. Before the original fort had been deserted decades ago, it had once been carved of a single rocky outcropping jutting out from the mountainside, but years of harsh punishment had taken their toll. Even solid stone could fall victim to years and years of rain, wind, gunshots, rocket-propelled grenades, artillery strikes, and the occasional predator's fists. However there was something to be said of team four's resourcefulness. So fond had they gotten of their crow's nest on that rock that they sacrificed their entire supply of sealant foam to patch the endless collection of cracks and holes in fortress oscar's walls and ceiling. Especially before thick storms like this one the six soldiers within scurried about in a frantic pace to reinforce the weak joints and improvised battlements which they had erected themselves. Particular attention was paid to the condition of the plastic sheathing over the weapons and ammunition cases, always with the hope that they would never have to be unsealed. Over the coming weeks, however, this process had become quite routine and soon it hardly inspired much attention. Radio and surveillance equipment had been transferred to fortress oscar and while other teams continued their advance, team four served as little more than a relay between the others and their common post at the original landing site.

Routine had become so dominant that little came as a surprise any longer. The two kensha that had happened upon the fort weeks earlier had shown up on a number of separate occasions. Naturally, their appearances were unsettling to say the least, but just as before having at least one loaded machine gun pointed in their direction inspired the two wild animals to keep a respectful distance. It was widely guessed that the two had used fortress oscar as a den before team four had moved in, and were just waiting for an opportunity to take it back. But so predictable were these little visits that the two were even given pet names, 'Betty' and 'Ralf'. Having predators afoot did help preserve the notion that the hill remained unoccupied, so these two kensha gained the benefit of being mere accessories to the position. More exciting encounters were being reported elsewhere. Teams five and six had pressed within sighting range of the old city and were incessantly calling in reports of local activity. And every single time, contact was lost before anything could be confirmed. Team two had been interacting with local travelers and buying mercenary contracts, posing as a security firm. And then out of the blue, team eleven made a breakthrough.

A glitch in their digital map had them wander too far east, a whole two kilometers past the old city ruins. Lo and behold, sat before them an entirely different set of ruins that lay on the far side of a gigantic ridge of the mountain's roots. The thing sprawled up the slope, culminating in a gaping ornamental doorway into a pitch-black cavern.

“Jackpot...”

“Eleven, you had better not be clogging the line with more 'bravo sierra'.”

“I shit you not, I found them! The town we were scouting was the wrong position! All the maps were set... uh.... two klicks too far to the west.”

“But there's nothing there on the map, just the J-101 ridge and then more forest.”

“No, dipshit, behind the ridge! IFF has already marked four dozen hostiles! This is it!”

“...Copy. Sarge and the mercs he picked up can route there as soon as the storm lets up.”

“You best pray that we get some sunlight then. The contacts are on the move, they're... oh hell.. stand by for video feed.”

At this juncture, team eleven began broadcasting images from their helmet-mounted cameras to the communications station jury-rigged into fortress oscar. The numerous figures moving in the distance were draped in dark cloth, highlighted with thin stripes of gold. In broad daylight this would have been conspicuous, but with the tree cover so thick the black backgrounds with tiny glints of yellowed reflections merged perfectly into the undergrowth. The figures moved quickly, and with purpose. They turned north, weapons in hand, and only stopped when another armed group met them head-on at the gap of what had apparently been an old stone bridge, the remnants of which had scattered into a slowly churning creek that snaked its way between the colossal gnarled roots of the surrounding trees. Indistinct angry shouts were exchanged between the two parties.

“Are they mad? Every pred in the region will hear them.”

“Wait, focus the camera on that fellow with the funny headgear.”


With a few minor adjustments, the screen was zoomed on what appeared to be the leader of the group on the close side of the collapsed bridge. He stood taller than his cohorts, and his clothes bore a greater frequency of the angular golden stripes. His mask was shaped different than the others. It was more pointed at the front, and over the figure's crown it cleft into two more points, vaguely resembling in shape the snout and ears of a canine predator. A kensha perhaps. The computers were put to work to cross check this data with what had already been on record.

“Lord Gamaliel, 'highlander'. Tribe leader, suspected to be in command of no more than fifty persons.”

“That can't be right, there's more than a hundred riflemen on his side. And why would he be brazen enough to move where anyone could see him?”

“Beats me. Is he in range of the two-five-two?”

“You better believe it. Stand by.”

Two of the men in team eleven began to assemble their prized weapon- the M252 'executioner'. It was (by Deluran standards) an bloated and oversized piece of equipment, but its scope and IFF were linked to a state-of-the-art targeting computer that was claimed to be able to land one of its 20mm explosive shells within lethal radius of a man-sized target at any range said target was visible. The only problem is that the brochure advertizing this neglected to mention that triangulating the coordinates and calculating a firing solution was a lengthy process at best. Many experienced marksmen simply overlooked the formality and attempted to line up their targets manually- a thing unheard of in the Deluran combat ethos. In short order the two-meter long cannon was assembled and mounted on a squat tripod. A peculiarly short member of the team was called to man the thing, and his stature made the otherwise uncomfortable process of laying beside it more bearable.

“Target onscreen. Permission to engage?”

“Stand by, we need to ID the other party.”

….”Oh sweet Khorne have mercy, its Gilead.”

“What? Two priority tangos together in one spot? Please tell me your man has that target computer already booted.”

“Give me a freaking minute, the power coupling needs to be cleaned off!”

“Well any day now, they'll only pull down their pants and moon us if you give them any longer.”

“Come on, come on, yes! We have power! Computer's measuring range... come on, come on you lovable whore....”

And just at that moment, one of the two leaders must have hurled an insult just a little too harsh as the two leaders immediately turned their backs on one another and the riflemen on both sides opened fire across the gap of the bridge. The long rifles beat a very loud and clear tune, and in their wake brilliant tracers that etched clean arcs from one side of the gap to another. The observers at fortress oscar huddled around the screen, gritting their teeth at the unbearable delay in their comrades finding the perfect firing solution. At last the scope's reticule turned from crimson to bright lime green, its optimal trajectory having been calculated at last. In the racket of the ensuing battle just one more shot would nary be noticed.

Installment Four

Firearm development had been an advantage the Delurans had often taken for granted. Centuries ago they had already mastered the perfect proportions of their 5.25mm caseless infantry cartridge. Not long afterward they had engineered the projectile with stabilizing fins and rangefinding lasers. And it didn't take much longer still for them to realize they could use the two in conjunction to allow each shot to automatically correct its trajectory to match a target of nearly any distance. GPS tracking devices improved, and soon Deluran shells could be trusted to compensate for gravity, wind, temperature, humidity, and the Coriolis effect of a number of different planet classes. Then along came the advent of dynamic IFF detection. Once the targeting computers could themselves tell the difference between friend and foe, then so too could bullets in flight. A few advances later, and a typical SMART carbine would only needed to be pointed vaguely at the enemy and the projectile would take care of the rest. Marksmanship in and of itself immediately became a relic of the past. Soldiers in training needed only to be taught how to calibrate the all-important portable computers and IFF. And more significantly, how to prevent the enemy from using clever tricks to evade the software.

And this was precisely the problem team eleven faced at the moment of truth. Just as their cannon's scope had locked onto Lord Gamaliel, the Gileadite riflemen opposing his began to deploy ether flares. A vicious concoction of ethyl alcohol, hydrogen, and a few more exotic compounds condensed, crystallized, ground to powder, packed into vials, and burst into the fray of combat as points of such intense light, heat, and magnetism that they confounded any digital optic. The craggy cliffs on either side of the gorge soon came alight as both clans scattered either flares and pockmarked the mountainside with shimmering bluish-white stars, each only as large as the palm of one's hand. Both clans collected their wounded and scattered, knowing full well that with flares lit they would be fighting blind. Unwittingly, this ploy had also completely scrambled team eleven's targeting computer, and left them to do little but curse angrily at a golden opportunity having been lost. The gunner still manning the two-five-two made a desperate attempt to get off a shot using manual control, but severely overestimated the range and let the shell whiz a whole ten meters over the fleeing riflemen.

“Who wants to report this one to the sarge?”

“This is four. You know he's been linked to the relay the whole time?”

“No shit. You clumsy little sons of bitches just lost our best lead in months!”

“But sir...”

“But what!? Did they shoot themselves to save us the trouble?”

“We found another one.”

“What!? Where?”

“Scouts on the J-22 front marked a suspicious position an hour ago. Team eleven could route there before nightfall.”

“Which one?”

“The Jackal. That suspicious position looks like one of his black markets for arms dealing. Its close to Negavian territory. Best send a smaller element, we need a low profile for this op.”

“Fine. Eleven, this is your chance to make up for lost time. Find the jackal. Waste him. We need to show the brass that we aren't just sitting on our hands.”

“Civvies frequent that corner often. Rules of engagement?”

“The jackal's an arms dealer. He sells weapons. Weapons kill people. Whatever happens can be made to look like an accident. If anything is still breathing after you're done, then you ain't really done.”

“Roger. We'll sweep the bridge site and set up a marker so teams five and six can find it later. Four can route teams eight and nine to rendezvous with us at the jackal's den. Soon as its cleared we can double back and support your push from J-101 to the clan that operates from further north. I saw them fight just now, they took at least 40 casualties. Might make things easier.”

“When you set the marker, loot the corpses. We need to learn how these things tick. They're making deployments with gear that isn't listed anywhere in the briefing.” …..“And get me one of their shell casings.”

Team eleven disassembled the two-five-two and began advancing to the battle site. At the southern end of the collapsed bridge they placed a small radio transmitter, as per their orders. They were not all too eager to get a closer look at the corpses left by the recent engagement. The oversized shells heaved by both sides at one another didn't neatly fell human-sized targets, rather they appeared to abruptly disintegrate parts of their victims on the spot, leaving behind a dismembered limb or two and an eerie reddish haze. The remains were often missing arms, legs, or had massive chunks of flesh and bone seemingly stolen away from their midsections, leaving entrails and organs to spill messily to the ground. Or worse yet some of the fallen natives had been cleanly decapitated by incoming fire. Others, not so cleanly. A few in particular still had tongues and jawbones, but anything above had been entirely removed. But most grotesque of all were the victims of ether weapons. Just as the flares burned with the intensity of the sun, the same fuel was often used as the payload for incendiary shells and rifle grenades. Needless to say, this didn't bode well for any soul unfortunate enough to experience the effects of an ether weapon first-hand. The flares deployed during the conflict still smoldered some two hours after they had been lit, each resting in a small crater of glass. They would continue to glow for another several days before the rain would finally drown them out.

Some picking and prodding later, enough gear had been exhumed from the site for team eleven to see what they were dealing with. The shell casings were, as the sergeant had hoped for, preposterously large. The typical caliber was estimated to span 14.5 millimeters wide, backed by a casing fully of propellant some 130 millimeters long. Suddenly it made sense why none of the dead were found in a single piece. These cartridges weren't meant for human targets, they were meant for predators. And it had been no accident that two forces had all been armed with weapons of this size. And it had been no accident that the larger, more intelligent predators were not to have been seen since the platoon had arrived in the region. They had all learned the hard way that not all humans were as helpless and ill-equipped as the ones carelessly bumbling through the woods. Some minutes later, the gear found here was thoroughly laser-scanned and photographed, the information sent back to fortress oscar to be reviewed later.

Shortly afterward, team eleven departed from the ruins towards the northwest, spending a scant few hours traveling on foot towards the jackal's den. They linked up with teams eight and nine, and re-armed themselves for close combat. Bulky gear like the disassembled two-five-two were left behind in a cache for later, and the three teams donned special operations uniforms, complete with hazmat suits, gas masks, lightweight flexible body armor, and more than double the typical load of SMART grenades and tripwire mines. Sonic truncheons were even included just in case hand-to-hand combat became a reality. The eighteen soldiers skulked through the underbrush, sighting the rather innocuous-looking target zone. One of the larger tree stumps, some fifteen meters wide and ten meters tall, was hollowed into what appeared to be a typical woodland home. The position was double-checked on the map, appearing exactly where it was purported to be. Thermal scans showed intense heat and machinery coming from below ground level. The jackal had gone far out of his way to hide his activities, but this one slip in his guise would prove to be the only one to truly doom him.

Installment Five

Fortress oscar had quickly become something of a repository for the flood of new findings that accumulated at a frantic pace since the observation of the recent battle at the site of the fallen bridge. Dozens upon dozens of images of rifles, cartridges (spent and otherwise), uniforms, deceased natives, and other relics had been transmitted on the spot, and more continued to pour in as teams five and six made their own advances into inhabited territory. Matching these findings to the old records was a frustrating and mostly fruitless affair, one that team four had quickly tired of. Every indication pointed towards a radical shift in the way these mountain folk conducted themselves. This new development of tribes warring with other tribes seemingly made no sense. It had been assumed that with populations having diminished across the board, resources would be in great abundance. Preposterously great abundance. The clans would only be at open warfare if either their resources had already been stolen away, or if their numbers had risen well above what they had been predicted to be. Both were troubling prospects.

More troubling was the level of organization and equipage that the clans were now boasting. These weren't just hunters and trappers from the countryside, they were disciplined soldiers. They fought in uniform, carried military-grade equipment, and above all obeyed the orders of officers among them. Their weapons and tactics appeared crude, but their presence were not to be trifled with, be they at war with one another or not. And the sheer power of their tools, crude or otherwise, were even more a reason to draw concern. But a weakness had been revealed in these natives. Their knowledge of their neighbors was nonexistent. While team four studied them, they hadn't a clue that a foreign threat brewed in their midst. They hadn't a clue how their neighbors conducted war, or the nature of the tools brought to challenge their own. The only thing they would do is what they've always done- dig their trenches, raise their long rifles, and wait to be challenged.

But there were exceptions, principally the clans that had settled further away and became isolated from their kin. Among these was the clan of one Eliram Nadiel, the 'jackal'. While other clans had relied on procreation to gain numbers, he had taken an alternate strategy. Over time he had amassed a growing collection of orphans that wandered into his neck of the woods, hoping that in time they would grow into loyal soldiers for his cause. Though, bearing in mind his eccentric code of ethics one might better describe his little entourage as a mercenary corps in the making. But this result was still a distant pipe dream, and the one lone Nadielite was still a great deal from truly having a clan of his own. In the meantime, however, he was massing wealth and stockpiles of weapons from his work as an arms dealer on both sides of the border. In time, perhaps he could become a powerful figure. But as things stood in the here and now, his only real worth was in connections with other clan lords, the ones who truly controlled the region.

All the same, teams eight, nine, and eleven weren't going to let him merrily carry on supplying his peers with munitions and intel. And thus eighteen fully armed commandos stormed through the front door of the 'jackal's den', weapons raised, just itching to put him down for good. From the clearing ringed around the hollowed stump, the scene was remarkably quiet and peaceful. The shop was taken over and secured in no time, and only shortly thereafter was the basement hatch breached with a subtle thump of compact plastic explosives. A few more soft popping drum-rolls of the team's carbines and the rather pathetic-looking body was dragged out by its ankles to be left sitting in a narrow band of sunlight having filtered in from the tree cover.

“Positive ID, that's the Jackal.”

“Good lord, look at that skin. You'd think these locals had never seen the sun before.”

“No shit, they know better than to let themselves be seen in broad daylight. The ones at the bridge were just as pale. No matter. Here's one name we can scratch off the list.”

“What about the market? Has to be enough arms in there to supply nearly a whole regiment.”

“We'll burn it. Just so the other clans can't salvage anything. The forge too. We don't want anyone selling more arms to these locals than they have already.”

Just then, the jackal's corpse sprung to life for just long enough to vomit up a mouthful of blood and then collapse to the ground again, panting with a rasping wheeze. The soldiers quickly took up their carbines once more, fearing that he might have retaliated, and hesitated to lower them again. If one thick volley wasn't enough to cut him down for good, two might not be enough either. But a new opportunity presented itself and the lance corporal of team nine was quick to leap for it.

“Hold your fire, we can take him back for questioning. These tribe leaders hate one-another, right? Maybe this one hates the other seven. Might give us intel.”

“You can have him, but don't expect us to haul him back for you.”

“Fine, fine. Just set fire to the shop and fall back to the rally point. And don't forget to send a report to oscar.”

But something had been neglected. All three teams had taken for granted that the predators didn't wander so close to the mountain ruins, but the jackal's den was much further northwest. A rustle in the nearby brush very characteristically hinted of much greater troubles looming. The eighteen huddled together, back to back, reloading their weapons. As tempting as it may have been, the disassembled two-five-two was much to far to be retrieved in on such short notice. But a couple lightweight tubes housing rocket-propelled grenades were shouldered in an instant and IFF detectors were booted to full alert as fast as humanly possible. The team shifted slowly to the side of the stump, each one seeking cover by putting their back to it. The unit as a whole was locked shoulder to shoulder, forming a tight firing squad that had weapons pointed firmly to the southeast. The jackal was left behind in the open without a second thought, and the scent of his blood was the perfect lure to draw out a young female naga from the treeline. Fair complexion beset with golden hair and deep blue eyes were a startling reminder of an age old enemy, and the whole team strained to keep quiet and hold their position.

The naga approached a little closer, ignoring the team and hovering over the jackal's body. Seemingly dissatisfied with it, she poked and prodded to little effect and then only when one soldier cocked a weapon with a telltale 'click-clack' did she raise her stare to face them in unison. A moment was taken by both sides to judge one another. The naga hadn't yet grown to maturity, but was still a large and powerful enough creature to butcher a number of the soldiers before they could finally dispense enough lead to fell her. Growing more impatient, she narrowed her eyes and ventured to speak.

“He's dead?”

The lance corporal answered with a brief nod.

“You did this?”

A second nod followed.

“.....Bastards.”

The only answer left to give at this point was a frustrated shrug. At that the naga angrily bolted to the far right and back into the trees, soon vanishing away into a sea of green. A collective sigh of relief was felt, but in no time the team realized how vulnerable they were and promptly fled away to the south, unceremoniously strapping what remained of the jackal to the back of one of their surveillance drones to carry him with them.

I should have said this earlier, but it's great to see you posting your stories here

Installment Six

Fortress oscar was abuzz with activity when teams eight, nine, and eleven converged upon it following their raid of the jackal's den. Rations had been expended in the flight from the scene, and needed to be replenished. Magazines had been spent and needed to be replaced. Anti-corrosion sheathing had been popped open for the use of these weapons, and barrels and muzzles had been exposed for too long. These would need servicing too. The tasks piled up, and not a soul had the luxury of rest. The one exception was the jackal himself. For all any of the soldiers knew, he was already dead and his remains would be useful only for identification purposes. But a few strained twitches soon revealed that perhaps some interrogation could take place after all. In no time he was unstrapped from the back of the drone and set to a series of magnetized restraints. His wrists and ankles were drawn together with the force of several hundred pounds of weight, arching the jackal's body into an awkward loop.
The moment he regained consciousness, a sonic truncheon was held menacingly over his right eye. The weapon had already been energized, shrieking an incessant high-pitched cry. If it were to so much as gently touch him, it would immediately rupture both of his eardrums and leave him a disoriented, clumsy wreck. He hadn't suspected this to be the case, but was still intimidated by the nature of his restraints and the number of armed men apparent here.

“Easy now, we still want him alive.”

“You, down there. You're the leader of the Nadiel clan, correct?”

“Who wants to know?”

At that, a worn-out rifle barrel was shoved at the jackal's midsection, right across several of the bullet wounds he had sustained earlier. He winced and coughed a bloody spray, wailing in agony.

“Are you him, or not?”

“Yes, for lord's sake you already confirmed it when your lackeys shot me... about 12 times as I recall..”

“Shut up, jackal. We're doing you a favor.”

“Inferior, genetically-failed abominations, all of you!”

And once more the jackal was bludgeoned right across his wounds.

“I told you to shut up. Now unless you want us to start dissecting you alive, you had better cough up some intel. The other seven. Where are they? Which are fighting which? How many men at their disposal? Where are the front lines, the supply caches, the fortifications, where is everything?”

“Easy, easy easy..... I'll talk, just stop with the shoving.”

The jackal could not raise his hands to feign surrender, but strained to look more harmless just as a new trickle of blood ran past his chin. His captors weren't so easily fooled and kept their weapons raised. Over the course of the next several minutes, tensions settled and the interrogator began again.

“Okay, let's start nice and slow. The Gilead clan, how many troops at their disposal? Where are they deployed?”

“You're mad. No way in hell you soft-willed simpletons are making it that far up the mountain.”

The sonic truncheon was lowered a little closer.

“Alright, alright, ….she's been shifting her fire teams southward as a buffer from the Hebronites.”

“The ones her men were fighting at the bridge? Same clan?”

“No, those were Gamaliel's war-maidens. He borders Gilead from the northeast.”

“And she's been moving forces away from his front?”

“Yes. He's the lesser threat now.”

“Why?”

“Hebron's numbers are growing, doubtless your scouts have told you that much at least.”

“Yes, so what if they have?”

“She knows that you've been observing him. She thinks he's been getting outside help from you. And now she wants him out of the picture.”

“She knows we're here?”

“Naturally. She bought that information from me.”

“What!? You blew our op!?”

“Not directly, I bought that information from some of your own scouts. A little ascarlin can be very persuasive.”

“Who did you bribe? We want a name, NOW!”

“Don't know what his name was. Never asked.”

The callous tone the jackal used to utter the couple of last sentences infuriated his interrogators, who now armed their weapons and ominously raised the sonic baton again.

“.....But you don't really need to know his name, do you? Just do what everyone else does, follow the money trail. Your traitor now has the funds to buy a small town, personally I have my doubts he'd keep that a secret for very long.”

The jackal was carried out of fortress oscar and his restraints were fixed to a large root of a nearby tree. He was left there for a time, and though he expected to meet the business end of a firing squad, he was simply held prisoner. Over the course of the next few days all the information that he had bought from enterprising Deluran scouts had been regurgitated right back to his new hosts.

Installment Seven

A loud and obnoxious thud woke most of the men resting at fortress oscar some scant few moments before the first crack of dawn. Rest had been taken for granted, but still having it interrupted was a displeasure that was not easily tolerated. Some shifty glances later, and it would have been forgotten if the same thunderous bang hadn't struck a second time some moments following the first. At this all six members of team eight rose from their side of the shelter, snatching up arms within reach, loading, and peering over the edge of a warn stone parapet, having expected this to be more of the jackal's handiwork.

But alas, he was still restrained to the tree, and just as irritated by the racket. Very willing to witness a summarily-arranged execution ahead of his own, he nodded to his right and downhill, where the lance corporal of team eleven was experimenting with a commandeered long rifle. He stood beside a small pile of cartridges, reaching clumsily for one while still keeping his eyes fixed elsewhere. Just before he could finish discarding the last spent cartridge the others turned away in disinterest, knowing they could hardly convince him to stop.

“Damn that Rhodou, the hell does he see in that stone-age crap, anyway?”

One more bang later, and there was a strained creak as a thick branch in the distance was finally forced loose and sent tumbling to the forest floor.

“Stone age, perhaps. But damn if this old hunk 'o junk isn't the most amusing toy we've found in one hell of a while. Hey! Artie! Throw down one of the spare rangefinders, would ya?”

With the greatest sincerity of frustration, a small case was hurled over the parapet and nearly struck Rhodou in the shoulder. His intentions elsewhere, the case was opened and a rangefinding scope was removed from it. Two hours were spent adjusting screws before it was successfully bracketed to the long rifle, but at least now the weapon would be mildly compatible with Deluran heads-up-displays. Improvising some of the larger fin-stabilized rounds to fit into the awkward caliber would be undue labor, but at least having an accurate sight picture was a good first step. Rhodou donned his helmet and was visibly pleased that once a polycarbonate visor was flipped over his right eye the reticule generated by the scope was abundantly visible. But calibrating the ballistic computer to an entirely alien weapon and caliber of ammunition would take more time still. The day passed with the firing of shells tolling regular intervals of trial and error. At some point his curiosity led him to question the weapon's maker.

“Okay jackal, I give up. How does the damn thing absorb recoil?”

“It asks it really nicely to go away and bother someone else instead.”

“That mountain folks' sense of humor is getting old. Don't make me get the baton again”

“....Everything forward of the trigger block is a regulator. Shifts gas from the muzzle through a piston. You know you found a good piece when the craftsman took the time to put a vent back into the breach, to eject the shell casing.”

“Funny how you're only civil when I threaten your life.”

“Funny how your race claims to be able to fly to the moon, but 'stone age crap' gets too complicated for you.”

“And there it is again. Now you're going to tell me what metal you made it out of or I'll have to test the stock out on your jawbone.”

“Not metal at all, you philistine.”

“Philistine?”

“Some tribe of morons that awfully resembles yours.”

“Adorable.”

“.....”

“Answer, or I'll have to start on your kneecaps before I make it to your jaw”

“Chitin mixed with a few tree resins, laminated over an ether flame, and then finished with anything from rubber to aluminum, depends what the maker had on hand.”

“Where do you get the chitin?”

“Insect shells. If the maker was a cheapskate, he'll have settled for those large cave crickets. If he was more generous, then maybe tonorion if he was lucky too.”

Rhodou shook his head with some disbelief, but understood that whether or not the jackal was trying to deceive him, this conversation couldn't be any less relevant to his faction's goals than it already was. Trying to make this escapade seem productive, he immediately shifted his tone and his line of questioning.

“You already said that Gilead is warring with Hebron and Gamaliel too. If that's true, wouldn't she be stretched thin?”

“Not likely. She still has the advantage of numbers, at least for now. Hebron is catching up, but slowly. Plus, that old she-wolf has more supplies than all the others combined, the best holdings in the old city, and trains her maidens with a purpose.”

“Maidens? I'll bet you know why so many of the corpses were women.”

“Naturally. The clan wars haven't been kind to any of us... well maybe they've been kind to me, but not the others. They're building numbers as fast as they can, but its never fast enough. Most of the old families broke up, and all the patriarchs were the first ones to get found by assassins. I'd imagine some of that to be your side's doing, or the Negavites for that matter.”

“Isn't it pronounced Negavians?”

“Negavites is more demeaning to them, so therefore that's what we call them. ….Anyway the masses turned to the few nobles left, and they were very quick to claim control of the breeding rights. Last thing they needed was anyone else spreading impure bloodlines around. Didn't help the population fiasco, but lo and behold one clan lord and his sons would be the ones to carry the torch, so to speak. The male heirs became precious, and all the hundreds and hundreds of daughters they spawned became expendable, so guess who got marched to the front lines?”

“That's despicable!”

“Meh, maybe it is. But if it makes you feel any better things began to normalize over the last few generations. All the hierarchies of dozens and dozens of scions and princes started to become too much to bear for one lord trying to keep power, and now the men are getting to be cannon fodder too, right along with their sisters. Poetic justice, karma, or some garbage like that. Still, you come up to a line of 'hayeleth' class war-maidens, and you can bet it'll be tenfold the horror of the good old days when the men did the dirty work. They don't have the luxury of being civil out there. They'll shoot you in the ankle just to watch you squirm. And that Gilead is the worst of them. If I was you, she'd be the last one to screw with.”

“But she's the one holding the.... asset we want. No way around it.”

“Then you're plowed six ways to lord's day.”

“That bad?”

“Let's put it this way. Your little operation has what, less than a hundred men? She has nearly a thousand war-maidens. Each of them are just as well trained as you are, just as well supplied as you are, and being women they don't abide by logic or reason.”

“How does that make them better?”

“Because hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. And they're pissed.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“It will. Wait and see.”

I think your dialogue is pretty natural and flowing.

I'm not sure what I can say about advice regarding the plot and relations between the fighting groups. It seems to have potential though.

Installment Eight

***Send_Transmission//05/92201

Contents/progress_report/entry_03 as follows:

Information compiled from fortress oscar as of week four since operation commencement.

One priority target eliminated, one other taken into custody. Unfortunately, both appeared to be only minor warlords in the region. The former, Lord Helon, commanded some several dozen subordinates before he was assassinated by team twelve. The latter, Lord Nadiel, had been an arms dealer and we suspect he may also have been involved in the establishment of a number of mercenary outfits. In the time since his capture he has shown an exceptional tendency for manipulation. One can only guess how many of the conflicts in the region were incited by his mercenaries just for the purpose of generating more frequent arms sales. It has also been suggested that Lord Nadiel, the 'Jackal' as he's been code named, is personally invested in at least two of the major tribes. When interrogated he's revealed a startling amount of information regarding the rivalry between Lords Hebron and Gilead, who command the strongest of the Ellisian clans. But once more we fear that this may have been misinformation deliberately leaked to us for the purpose of deception.

The Jackal has been observed for some time, and reflects a number of potential weaknesses of his kin. He apparently cannot interface with digital readouts at the level of complexity resembling our own. Gear confiscated from his own armory use only the most crude designs, and are supported by practically nonexistent digital enhancement. Nearly all firing solutions are made manually, leading us to believe the Ellisians are at a severe disadvantage when forced to abandon line-of-sight combat. The only electronic countermeasures developed on their part are just as much of a hindrance to the user as they are to the victim, revealing a second weakness that the Ellisian clans can only use their so-called 'ether flares' as a means to cover a retreat. Otherwise they would be blinded.

However, the jackal has also revealed a disturbing number of traits that appear threatening. His metabolism appears to have been forcefully slowed to preserve his longevity without rations. Heart rate and breathing seem to only be about a third as fast as one may find in a healthy human being, and his body temperature is nearly ten degrees lower than normal at all times. He only appears to need sustenance once every few days, and even then just a quarter of the usual rations were more than enough. His skin is unnaturally pale, and this does not appear to be a genetic trait. The common theory is that many Ellisians take great lengths to avoid the sun, some are suspected to have kept below ground for the entirety of their lives. And he's developed a disturbing habit of playing dead quite believably. Thus far, his record is now nearly seven whole minutes without so much as a single readable heartbeat. He's even used this trick to evade the advances of Betty and Ralf.

The marks on his arms that we had suspected to have been tattoos seem to have been inflicted by the burning of a similar chemical as the one that's used in Ellisian gunpowder and flares. The pattern is obviously man-made, meaning the burns were no accident. Most of the other Ellisians encountered thus far have similar marks on their right arm, though the insignias tend to vary by age and tribe affiliation. From what we gather, this is some form of rank identification. Though marking rank so obviously seems foolish. Yet more misinformation perhaps? The jackal refers to this as “branding”, but he may have caught on to our suspicion and may be lying to reinforce an incorrect guess on our part. He also appears to be a unique case due to his profession. He may have encountered similar weapon systems to ours in the past. On one occasion, we tested him by leaving a SMART carbine within his reach and temporarily lowering the power on his restraints. He promptly smashed the IFF lens with a rock and then proceeded to fire in our direction. Fortunately someone had the foresight to only load the carbine with blanks for the purpose of the experiment. Still, to think that he had been observant enough to understand that our weapons' IFF automatically engages a safety catch when pointed towards 'friendlies' reveals a sinister cleverness on his part. We can only pray that the others are not so well versed in foreign technology.

What's worse is that even after altercations like these, he immediately sits right back down, waits for his restraints to be powered up, and resumes conversation as if nothing had happened at all. This has happened consistently after we've tested him, and consistently even after he makes very sincere attempts to free himself or kill members of our team. And yet, he fails to do either every single time. Is he feigning incompetence? Is this yet one more strange custom of the mountain folk, or could it be that he wants to stay for the sake of another ruse? In response to this possibility we've since kept his restraints at full power around the clock and never let him go so much as a moment without oversight. He may yet be sending messages through subtle means. Shifting stones, snapping twigs, scratching at the soil, et cetera. At least twice now we've caught thermal signatures during the dark hours, and he never allows himself to fall asleep when it happens. We're now very much inclined to believe he's calling for outside help. He may even be bargaining a price for a forceful release. May be putting on a show to distract and misdirect us in the meantime. It can only be assumed that every one of his quirks is a deliberate and calculated move.

But a thought still lingers. He's a mercenary. He's paid to supply arms and information, and to other clans who would otherwise be his moral enemies. If they can buy his loyalty, then so can we.

It could well be that he is very well aware how thoroughly he's been studied, and that we're reporting this to home. For all we know he's managed to move freely and may be tampering with our records as he pleases. Who knows how many 'revisions' he's already made to this document. Knowing him, likely self-flattery for his ego's sake. All he same, if we can't buy him, then we can't risk his involvement against us.

Installment Nine

The morning following the most recent transmission was followed by a subtle shock. The jackal's restraints were found empty and a small commotion followed until Rhodou hushed it down with a smirk.

“Es oh bee took the bait. Hah! Who's clever now?”

“Sir?”

“Wasn't really going to execute him, just put that in the last report to scare him a little.”

“But the [mike foxtrot] is loose! He could have covered half a dozen kilometers overnight!”

“Yeah, that's the idea. Bugged the back of his skull him with four different GPS transmitters. We'll know exactly where he's headed. Better yet, might learn something without all of his damn lies and tricks.”

“Wait, how did you know he was eavesdropping into our transmissions? How in the hell did he get loose in the first place? Sarge is going to have our balls either way!”

“Shut the [foxtrot] up! He'll kiss ass when we get actionable intel from this.”

Though he tasked the others more rigorously than usual to distract them, Rhodou was curious and spent a few moments of his own time investigating the jackal's escape. The restraints were still fully functional, and still tightly fitted. There was no visible damage or obvious signs of tampering. The only sign left behind was a slender metal pin, which was scratched and dented in a number of places. It was found only a few steps away from the restraints, nearly hidden in the mud. No one could have easily guessed its relevance to the jackal's escape, though the pin was stowed away in Rhodou's pocket if only for sentimental reasons.

In little time the search became dull and team four turned to their monitors to appear productive. They did receive signals from the transmitters attached to the jackal, and followed his winding seemingly-drunken path back to his armory. A reconnaissance drone persisted after the signal, hovering a scant few hundred meters away to observe. Its sensors focused in, and noise amplification was made to overhear the jackal's ramblings. Thermal imaging pinpointed him as he barged through the doors of his den and spent the better half of the day repairing the damage made by a fortnight of neglect. A myriad of smaller signatures were also present, though they kept out of sight and seldom moved. It was widely guessed that these were the orphans the jackal had collected. They had done well to keep hidden during the previous incursion, and were likely so used to the scenario of the jackal's absence to run errands (or while being apprehended) that they could keep safe even without his supervision. Even as he returned they scarcely moved and in no time he departed again without so much as a second glance.

His path became much more deliberate until he had trodden far enough uphill to the south to come within rifle range of the Gamaliel clan's territory. He lit a small fire and tossed a powder onto it to swell the flame and color it an eerie greenish-yellow. This signal solicited a northbound fusillade that promptly drove the jackal to scurry away and try a different mountain approach. Apparently Gamaliel had not forgotten sour business arrangements and wasn't going to have anything to do with the jackal. Or perhaps he had gotten word of the jackal having been associating with the foreign military that had made so many recent incursions into the region. In either case it became obvious that the jackal would need a different way in. He had considered going below ground and entering the old city from the mountain caverns, but doing so would mean slipping past the Uzziel clan. Coming in from the east meant crossing Hebronite territory. Likewise, in the northwest dwelt the Azaryites. None of these would likely be any friendlier. And still some desperation compelled the jackal to attempt bartering entry from every single one. And every single time the war-maidens watching their masters' borders fired off a volley to shoo him away. Some were more disappointed in having failed to hit him directly than others.

Several days were spent in circling round the mountainside, trying to find passage. As team four observed this, the routine quickly became boring. Other leads were developing much more compelling results in the meantime. Team two had gathered up enough mercenaries to make significant advances in the southeast front. And more interesting still, an emissary affiliated with the Hebron clan had actually gone through the trouble of meeting them with open arms.

Story is looking great so far man. Good job.

Installment Ten

The jackal had found it necessary to assemble his own mercenary corps if he was going to gain any leverage on the situation at hand. Nearly two days after sending a signal only a mere handful had gathered to answer his call. Noticeably disappointed, the jackal cursed at the very likely possibility that many of his own mercenaries had even been folded into the local forces bought out by team two. Still, he knew he could buy them back, for a high enough price that is. But his time in captivity had taken its toll on arms dealing and he could hardly afford to make such lofty bribes, at least for very long.

All the while, team two's native militia was stopped dead in its tracks when confronted by superior numbers of Hebronite fireteams that had cut off their advance up the mountainside. When the Hebronites had even produced an emissary to speak on behalf of their lord it was even more of a shock. Team two itself had little choice but to part aside the expendable mercenaries and handle the issue themselves. 'Sarge' stepped forward, frustrated that Lord Hebron was wise enough not to have taken the risk of appearing in person. Convinced that he may yet have a chance to silence one of the major clan leaders, he feigned cooperation and advanced. His riflemen kept within sight and never for an instant lowered their carbines. Likewise, as the Hebronite revealed himself it was painfully obvious that his multitude of sisters and daughters were waiting for any excuse to descend upon the Delurans and their hired guns. Even the most inconsequential disagreement in the forthcoming conversation could easily warrant a hail of lead from both sides.

“You command this cadre? What shall you be called?”

“I am a first sergeant, call me by my rank.”

“As you wish. I am a scion of the illustrious lord Ezra Hebron Ha'Ellisi. I have been instructed to convey my lord's wishes to you.”

“He has wishes now?”

“Many, in fact. The first being to congratulate you on the successful killing of his cousin, Helon. The Helonite tribe had all nearly been merged into our own thanks to your efforts. As a consequence, our lord benefited from many new maidens to be added to his warrior caste, and many new lovely consorts to be added to his chambers. For this he is most grateful.”

“...Happy to help.”

“I'm sure. More recently, word has reached us that the Gileadites had assumed that foreign aid had been given to their enemies. This seemed to frighten them. Why not realize these fears of theirs by lending your collaboration? I hear that the quarry you seek is within their territory, is it not? So instead of barring your way we will stand aside and allow you to do battle with the Gileadites.

“Tempting, but what's the catch? Let me guess, you want the ascarlin too. And if we help you get it, you'll take half?”

“No, we'll take three quarters. This is only fair, considering your investment next to ours.”

“You don't understand, we need that stone. All of it.”

“Inconceivable! What in the nine hells would you use it for?”

“We need it. That's all I'm willing to say.”

At the sound of that, the soldiers on both sides tightened the grip on their weapons, expecting a bloody melee to follow. But their concentration was quickly broken by the rather subtle sound of a bemused giggle that came from the trees above. A familiar juvenile naga hung from a large branch, her long golden hair swaying a mere few tens of meters above both parties. Sarge was horrified at the thought that this may have been the dreaded Crisis, but this naga was too young. Before he could entertain the thought any further his heads-up-display indicated a match between this figure and one encountered by the party that raided the jackal's den some days earlier. If this naga was fended off by the mere threat of violence from three squads, then two companies could surely intimidate her.

“Uh... oh, don't mind me. I'm just watching. Please continue.”

“Damn it all! How many times must I tell you that if you want to take handouts, you do it after the negotiations fall through! Not before!”

“But... but.. I was going to! I told him to continue, didn't I?”

“You slither that scaly arse out of sight! If I see it again before the talks are finished, then I'll plant a shell there myself! And for lord's sake, tell that 'big sister' of yours that the same rules apply to her. Matter of fact, tell her that she'll get two shells to the backside instead of just one.”

“Tightwad!”

“Yes, yes, sticks and stones. Now get going!”

The naga curled up the branch and crawled away to the next tree, seeming irritated that she had lost what could have been a very large and energetic meal. The emissary shook his head and attempted to regain the attention of his counterpart, who was noticeably shaken.

“Terribly sorry about that. The scaled ones never have any respect for manners or decency.”

“She was there the whole time, and you knew?”

“Pay it no mind, just a... how you say... insurance policy. She was supposed to keep away until negotiations broke down. In our case it must have taken too long and made her impatient.”

“Suppose they did break down, what would stop her from feeding on your side no different from mine?”

“Nothing, really.”

“And you were willing to try it out anyway?”

“This little runt wouldn't have done much. Now her sister, that one I wouldn't do business with to save my life.”

“Wild theory here- blond hair, bright teal eyes and scales. Innocent, but devours everything in her path...”

“You've met her already I see.”

“Buddy, you have no idea.”

Talks continued, to little effect. The two factions parted ways, still unsure of any cooperation from one-another. In time they would attempt negotiating again. Not far away, the jackal had sensed an opportunity to advance while a great number of the Hebronites were away from home. He and the small band of mercs still on his payroll moved quickly to cross the border and worked their way closer to the old city.

I'm sorry to have missed this story ^^;
It's a nice one I think. It flows well and it's interesting
My only few remarks is I think you could try and highlight a bit more the personality of the characters to make the reader more involved with them. Putting also a bit more descriptions in general would make your story all the more captivating and the scene easier to visualize I think .

Installment Eleven

A mere three days later Sarge, squad two, and their hired guns had assembled again further within Hebronite land to resume negotiations. Though truthfully they would have just loved to get close enough to the clan lord to down him on the spot. And the memory of the naga overseer at the last meeting wasn't especially pleasant either. They weren't intercepted this time around, and were allowed to cross right through Hebron's territory northeast towards the old city without crossing paths with so much as a soul. Not directly, anyway.

The jackal and his company had taken shelter some two dozen meters up one of the of the larger trees, and had the remarkable opportunity to observe the Delurans march right along below. The jackal very spitefully counted the mercenaries as they passed by. He had produced a small notebook from his pocket and scored out names from a list. An incredibly vicious stream of curses buzzed from the breathing port of his combat mask as he recognized individual mercs, some of which had once been loyal to him. Others had even been orphans he had raised and trained himself.

Seventeen in total had accompanied the jackal thus far, a tiny fraction of his mercenary corps at its entirety. They had been especially careful when crossing through another clan's grounds. One shout and Hebron's entire tribe would be upon them. Compared to their peers, the Hebronites did not sport great abundances of supplies nor rigorous training, but they made up for this with sheer numbers. Lord Hebron himself was claimed to have hundreds of wives and thousands of children, though these rumors were often grossly exaggerated. But truth be told the Hebron clan's numbers were rising more quickly than any of his peers. In time they may have the sheer expendable masses they would need to challenge the other major clans. And next to these, the total of eighteen unwanted intruders would appear entirely insignificant.

It would have appeared that Hebron was testing the Delurans and the rumors of their technological advantage. He could easily afford the luxury of waiting for them to engage the Gileadites just to observe their combat effectiveness. And at any moment he could intervene to reinforce them, but it would not benefit him to risk his own maidens. Not unless he could perceive some extraordinary use for these strange foreigners. Preparing for this contingency (among others) he had dispatched scouts to follow the Delurans, not to lead them. The jackal was in no hurry to break cover at the first sight of this. If anything, it only made it more appealing to wait until the scouting parties had been diverted ahead, and their full attention fixed on the border.

In time there was hardly any mystery that the pressure was mounting for an offensive, and on both sides of the border camps had been established for the big push. With attention so thoroughly focused upon these, the jackal was finally given his chance to slip by and advance before the Delurans could do the same. He had little choice but to loop around the front to the north and skirt close to Gilead's holdings to make it to the edge of the old city. The exertion to have traveled so far in so little time had taken its toll, and the jackal sought refuge in a small cluster of abandoned dwellings at the bottommost rung of the ruins. Here, he waited. The old city itself was contested territory, with the Gilead, Hebron, and Azaryah clans each holding portions of it. The Ellisians were not fond of the close encounters typical of urban warfare, and the sacred nature of the city imposed its own difficulties in justifying conflicts there. More often than not, one clan would attempt to drive another out by instead cutting off their access to the perimeter of the city and isolating the stragglers. This, in turn, often led to prolonged sieges and turned the issue of alleged control into a superficial and political issue.

In the midst of this, the jackal was put in the advantageous position of getting to sit behind the front and allow the two sides to collide at the foothills just below the city. Neither would possibly have considered him a threat. Neither likely expected that he had gotten anywhere near this close to the prize. All was going so well, until he received an unexpected visitor.

“Hey, hey you!”

The voice came from a split in the shelter's ceiling, over which a gigantic eye hovered. The jackal immediately recognized it and scowled back.

“Dammit, how did you know to look for us here?”

“I didn't. Just smelled something funny.”

“This isn't the time, Deedee. I kind of need to keep a low profile and it doesn't help to have you lingering around here. Now go play with someone else. One of the cadres further southwest maybe. I'm sure you've smelled the camps from here.”

“But they have me under one of those boring contracts. I can't play with anyone until the big fight starts. If I step in early, every rifleman on the whole mountain will shoot me on sight.”

“Clever little vermin, to find a way to dump you onto me instead of themselves.”

“That wasn't very nice! I'm the kindest naga this side of the river! Just to prove it, I should stay right here and tell every passerby that you've been sneakin' around again.”

“Diana!”

“...I was just kidding. I wouldn't do that to you.”

“I detest your sarcasm. And right now I can't tell if you're being serious.”

“Crisis said you'd be this way. Damn if I didn't try to lighten you up. You know I could always ask her to come along and keep an eye on you instead of doing it myself.”

“Oh lord no, anyone but her.”

“So its settled then, I get to stay and you won't complain.”

“...That's not fair! And I really can't afford to be seen right now.”

“Oh, why not?”

“You know damn well why not. If that old she-wolf Gilead finds me, I'm dead. If Hebron finds me, I'm off to be tortured, then dead. And if those thieving foreigners find me, I really don't know what'll happen.”

“Okay, okay, I get the point. I have to watch over the border while the fight brews anyway. If I'm lucky there'll be plenty of stragglers. Keeping well fed while under contract isn't easy you know. But the moment things let up, I'll be back.”

“Fine. Now scram before someone sees you!”

“I'll go when I feel like it ...and by the way, don't get shot again. You have no idea how pathetic you looked the last time it happened.”

“Very funny. Those tiny-caliber nail trimmings the foreigners shoot hurt a lot, you know.”

“I'll be the judge of that.”

With that, the naga left. The jackal was shaken by the encounter. It was a sobering experience- one that demonstrated that he could be tracked down after all. The mercenaries accompanying him were nervous and wouldn't dare have spoken with a predator afoot, and only when the naga was long gone did they venture to ask about her sudden appearance.

“You sure we can trust her, boss?”

“She's still young. Just a game to her. She wouldn't have taken up a contract with the other clans otherwise. And just like that 'sister' of hers, all of the decision-making comes from her stomach. When the two clans start their campaign, she'll be there to mop up all the loose riflemen like candy. She'll stuff her face, then adore herself for having done it. Should keep her out of our hair for days.”

Installment Twelve

The jackal and his team had very slowly advanced up the tiers of the old city during the dark hours of every night. Over the better half of a week they had made it more than halfway to the mountain gate and what had been the center of what had been the empire's crown jewel. But they soon were completely stopped in their tracks when the reconnaissance drone that had tracked the jackal's homing beacon had finally caught up with them and began its search. Day and night it hovered overhead, just waiting for a thermal signature or twitch of movement. The jackal began to resent the 'infernal contraption', as he called it, and exhausted nearly every memory to find out how it had come to loom over them so deliberately. Once again he had no choice but to lay in wait within the ruins, cursing his fate, and angrily wishing that the gods would smite down his new stumbling block with bolts of lightning from the heavens.

In the meantime the accumulating pressure on the front had boiled over into a number of small skirmishes between the Deluran force and the Gileadite defenders. The latter had spent no time lining the northward slopes with a new series of trenches and minefields, expecting a much larger force (of Hebronite origin) to come bearing down upon them. Seemingly disappointed with the smaller Deluran raids, the Gileadites had shifted their tactics and begun their own southbound offensive. The Hebronites were reluctant to offer a real contribution to repel them, even at the expense of their own territory. Sensing lax resistance, the Gileadites deployed numerous independent teams of 'Ruakh' class war-maidens to slip past the lines and perform flanking attacks to disrupt the Delurans and force them to seek protection from their host. In response to this, Sarge had made the shrewd decision to simply deploy a greater number of automated surveillance measures and keep tabs on the incoming sappers. With instantaneous knowledge of enemy movement, it hardly became a chore to deflect the Gileadites to face their Hebronite counterparts instead. The Deluran drones quickly attracted interest from both sides, both for the knowledge they could so easily relay and the uncannily-accurate missile strikes that seemed to incessantly follow.

The drone looming above the jackal was no exception. Just when it was loathed beyond all possible reason, a shell slammed into it, sending the drone whirling like a top off course until it collided with a tree and came tumbling down into the ruins. The jackal spent a moment in disbelief, wondering if the gods had decided to favor him for once in his miserable life. But in no time his relief turned to horror as a team of Gileadite 'Ruakhim' surrounded his position, bayonets affixed. Unlike the more familiar 'Hayeleth' class maidens, the 'Ruakh' class were noteworthy for their more aggressive interpretation of Ellisian ambush tactics. They wore a greater density of light-absorbing crystal fiber cloth and were made conspicuous (or rather, less conspicuous) by the blanket-like stretch of fabric that they tended to don over their heads, shoulders, and backs like an exaggerated hood. They were said to appear near invisible when laying prone, and contrary to their 'Hayeleth' counterparts they deliberately avoided the trenches and fortifications where they would be expected. And exactly according to their typical mantra they had the jackal completely outgunned before he could even begin to dream of retaliating.

All the same, the jackal knew he was to be surely killed if the Gileadites had their way and sprung to the rafters of his current shelter. There he could stay unseen for a time, while his cohorts barred the door and prepared for the worst. Just like the orphans back at the jackal's den, the mercenaries operated without even a single order handed to them by the jackal himself. A number of them put their weight against the stone door, while the rest took up arms and converged their rifles' muzzles on the opening. The jackal began to slide shells into the revolver-like cylinder of his own rifle, but before the first round was even a quarter of the way into its chamber an incendiary charge burned right through the door and then some, boiling the flesh right off the bones of the men bracing it. A number of shells were released through the new gap in the door, ricocheting off the stone interior walls of the shelter and utterly dismantling those unfortunate enough to be in their way. Entrails, organs, and dismembered limbs were tossed errantly about and even while the remaining few mercenaries returned fire the Gileadites breached into the room, firing again at point blank range. The superiority of Gileadite tactics and equipment was shown in full force. The chamber was entirely filled with a bloody pink mist, which gave the jackal just enough of a distraction to worm his way through a newly formed crater in the ceiling to the outside, and right into the way of the waiting pistol of the officer leading his attackers. Realizing his error, he angrily removed his combat mask and tossed it aside so that he could spit onto the boot of his new captor, who stood a mere half meter away. Flattered by his spiteful reaction, she removed her mask in turn and raised an eyebrow.

“Mad?”

“Don't test me! I'll have all your heads for this!”

“Lord Nadiel, I presume. Let's not be difficult, if anything I've done you a favor. With your expendable and defective 'foreign legion' in tatters you're now free try putting together a real army for a change. Now come along nicely, mother wishes to have a word with you.”

“[foxtrot] that! I'll sooner go screaming to hell than be dragged to her feet again!”

“Is that so?”

The officer lowered her pistol to the jackal's throat and thumbed back the hammer, wearing a disturbing grin all the while. The jackal's previous calmness and confidence as a prisoner in Deluran hands completely vanished, and he shook with a very real fear. The officer savored this for a few moments before suddenly striking the pistol's frame against the jackal's temple, rendering him unconscious. Just as suddenly as they had appeared, the Gileadites departed. What remained of the jackal's mercenaries was piled and burned. And once again the jackal was a prisoner.

Oh damn. What a cliffhanger to leave us on.

Installment Thirteen

The jackal awoke while being dragged northward into Gileadite territory. His weapons had been confiscated, and were in the hands of the war-maiden walking behind him. In all likelihood, she had been diligent enough to also remove the ammunition, just in case the jackal were wily enough to wrestle control over them. Bearing this in mind, the jackal had little choice but to continue up the slope against his will. The crackle of distant gunfire and the flashes of flares hinted towards escalation on the front much further south. The maidens hastened up the tiers of the city and split away to the west to rough mountainside. Along the path they passed by friendly patrols, sharing only a word or two and without slowing their pace. A scant half kilometer uphill from the city they passed through the undergrowth and into a depression in the stony cliffs. The opening was wide, but the pit was only some few meters deep, and its floor was deliberately flattened. The end facing towards the mountain opened into a cavern containing Gilead's lair.

The inside of the pit was alive with activity. Shifts of Gileadite raiding parties were assembling to leave to perform their errands, while others were resting after having just returned. Armorers assembled rifles and ammunition, and tacticians looked over maps while barking orders into improvised radio assemblies. The depression concealed this base of operations just enough so that anyone observing from downhill would not have been able to have any inkling of its size or capacity. The rim of the pit was studded with land mines, as was the entire approach towards it from all sides. Particularly the south, which had been the most obvious route for decades. The raiding party returning with the jackal as its captive had to take a very peculiar winding path to safely enter the pit where they were relieved by two new squads who promptly departed to take their place in the field. It didn't take long before many of the war-maidens recognized the jackal and smirked at him for the embarrassing nature of his arrival. For that matter, it had only recently been learned that he had been given the codename 'jackal' in the first place. Many would now begin to refer to him by this name for further humiliation.

Two men in officers' uniforms appeared from the cavern and claimed the jackal from the raiding party. The jackal recognized them as Lady Gilead's own two sons, Erasimus and Tasroah.

“Raz, Taz...”

“Afraid mother insists that you meet her immediately. We'll unlock your cuffs, but we can't return your weapons, at least not until she gives the word.”

“Thanks for nothing.”

The two rolled their eyes and removed the restraints holding the jackal's arms, but neglected to do the same for the chains linking his ankles. Naturally, this had been deliberate. They knew very well how tense the situation would have been to have any two clan lords in the same outpost, let alone the same room. Leaving his hands free was in fact a great vote of confidence in the prospect of peaceful dialogue. The jackal had lived among the Gileadites in his youth, before his own clan branched off from theirs. There were lingering tensions over this rift, but if nothing else there was a great familiarity between these two factions. All the same, the jackal wouldn't have been trusted with a loaded weapon even if he were still a Gileadite himself. Passing through the cavern and then into the corridor of the lair, the three continued through an atrium and then to a small chamber. The lair was carved from solid stone, and below ground very tall shafts were hollowed out to allow very sparse rays of light to dimly light the halls by day, and ether lamps to do the same by night. By Ellisian standards, this was comfortably bright. The chamber at the end of the atrium was lit by a fire pit in the center, over which sat a vessel of steaming water. The walls of the room were lined with trophies of Gilead's previous military conquests, often odd trinkets ranging from combat masks of rival lords to commandeered rifles and blades from fallen foes, all of which were cruelly pockmarked with the impacts of long rifle shells. And sitting pretty beside the fire was the mistress herself, who very gently stirred the contents of the vessel.

“Ah, you've arrived just in time for tea. Come, sit, we have some things to discuss.”

“Don't play coy, your maidens just took out nearly a score of my best mercenaries.”

“And how many of my maidens did your best mercenaries down?”

“.....None.”

“Then they weren't your best.”

Lady Gilead's tone was very slow and calm, though her accent remained (deliberately) very thick. She had tried for as long as she could remember to properly emulate the manners and customs of the Ellisian nobility when it used to exist, thinking that in time she would be at the helm of an empire remade in her image. And at all times she dressed for the part. Her charcoal-black hair was bound in a series of ornamental golden clasps, and even while folded over it nearly reached down to her waist, indicating a very long life. She had been preparing to be empress for many decades, and had an appropriately-gaudy attire made for the occasion. Though bearing in mind her ruthless campaigns of destruction and utter extermination, one may have better described the lack of subtlety in her appearance as intimidating. Erasimus and Tasroah left the room, muttering over who would claim credit and taking the jackal's weapons with them. At this he was noticeably shaken. Gilead continued.

“You really meant to say, a score of your most 'loyal' mercenaries, didn't you? I hear most of your troops were bought out by the foreigners. You know, the ones pushing towards the city from the south.”

“Not that it makes a difference to anything, but yes. The Delurans, they call themselves. I trust you've fought against them before.”

“Well, to be honest I haven't so much as heard of them until recently. I had figured them to be one of the more clever colonies for having avoided the mountains for a long as they have, but seems everyone has to come knocking on MY door sooner or later. Come to think of it, I could say the same of you.”

“Your door? The other lords aren't dead yet, you know.”

“Perhaps not, but soon. I don't intend to show any mercy to this new wave of trespassers. And I tire of this never-ending game. It may have been good sport to compete with the other lords, but keeping them in check just the same as all the foreign powers and then all the predators too, its an unreasonable burden. And now I have to add you to the list as well. Dire times indeed.”

“Easy now, I didn't come here to trespass.”

“Yes, you did. You and that pitiful little band of mercenaries heard about the ascarlin deposit the foreigners were after and decided you could steal it faster than they could.”

“Damn. You're good.”

“For shame, I had thought you a less foolish man than this. Ah, the tea is ready.”

And just at a moment's notice she paused the conversation to pour the tea into a set of stone mugs and to take a tray of meats to be hung over the fire. A small furry creature emerged from her sleeve and stole a small piece of meat. The creature extended itself further until Gilead chastised it by plucking it out and resting it on her shoulder instead. The animal had a thin elongated body with two pairs of very short legs. Its midsection was very flexible, and it seemed to slither more than it walked. It was dextrous enough to hold the meat in its front two paws and nibble at it, using a pointed head of needle-like teeth. The jackal immediately took notice.

“This? Oh, just a little something one of my daughters brought back from an errand. Supposed to be a crossbreed between a weasel and a snake, if such a thing exists. Honestly, I don't know what to do with it. Always ends up stealing things that it shouldn't. Reminds me of someone.”

“Now listen, that ascarlin is a ticking time bomb. Since the deposit sits on your turf, every army in the region is going to come for it sooner or later. Let me relieve you of your burden by simply relocating the goods elsewhere. You'll need someone trustworthy to look after them, and I dare say you don't have many friends outside of your own borders.”

“And I suppose you're this trustworthy friend.”

“May as well be. Do you know any outsider more sympathetic to your cause than I?”

“But you wouldn't even bother unless you had planned to sell the ascarlin, or trade it for lord knows what. If I give you anything I know you'll be rid of it.”

“Guarding your property is a service. Certainly you believe that service deserves payment.”

“Let's say I do. How much do you expect to be given for this amusing 'service' of yours?”

“One tenth of a tenth. Ascarlin is infinitely less abundant outside of the mountains, and therefore infinitely more valuable. Allow me to barter even a tiny fraction of the holdings and out there it would be enough to buy whole armies. Endless columns of troops, tank divisions, flying death machines, you name it.”

“And when you get your flying death machines, how do I ensure that you don't turn them against me?”

“First of all, I like you. Before this mess started you were the best of my customers. Not to mention that anything I have, you can buy. That's just good business. Remember that I am an arms dealer.”

“I also remember that you sell arms to my enemies just as often as you sell them to me. You intend to do the same again?”

“Certainly not. With this kind of income I wouldn't need to sell to anyone else.”

“You drive a hard bargain, 'Jackal'. That is what the foreigners call you, isn't it? Fitting, I think. When the smoke clears you'll be entrusted with a small parcel, and you'll have one of my assassins watching you at all times. We'll see how this arrangement plays out, and if its pleasing to my eyes perhaps I'll entrust you with more. I might not even need the assassin waiting to kill you if you can prove your loyalty to me and me alone. Wouldn't that be something?”

“When can we start?”

“As soon as the foreigners are driven out and the Hebronites are begging at my feet for dear life.”

So, who is playing who here? this is really good :O

Installment Fourteen

The jackal had decided to remove himself from Gilead's fortress before she might change her mind about her decision to spare him- worse yet if she should suddenly lose interest in his business proposal. With little resistance, he gathered his gear and promptly clambered right out of the pit. The land mines were still a hazard, but he could navigate through them. After all, he was the one who sold them to Gilead in the first place. A few staggered steps and he could at least make it to the nearest tree. The roots and trunks of the nearby trees had also been studded with mines, but at a lax frequency compared to the forest floor. The jackal clawed up to the first branch that reached within hopping distance of the next tree over. The gap appeared questionable, so he reared back for a running start. Just before he was to take off, he ground to a stop to peek down onto to the trail below, spotting something unusual.

Two of Gilead's maidens were returning home, carrying a large and heavy pointed object of shimmering white splendor. A peek through his scope revealed to the jackal that the blunt end of the object was cracked and broken- and more importantly dripped blood. A predator's fang, quite the prize. How just two maidens managed to pilfer it stirred up curiosity, but this was besides the point. The fang was too pointed to come from a canine or feline predator, and too long overall to have been from a number of species. But it hadn't yet developed the characteristic curve of adulthood. The jackal took several moments to put the puzzle pieces together, but when he realized the likelihood of a distinct contingency he sprang across the gap and followed the trail of dripping blood backwards to its origin. He turned to see if he had gained attention, but the two maidens were busy polishing their trophy and using a chisel to begin engraving decorative scrimshaw into it. He shook his head and continued, dropping down to the ground as soon as he was clear of the mines and shuffling through the undergrowth until a peculiar giggle interrupted him.

“Diana, get the hell out here where I can see you!”

The juvenile naga that had stumbled upon the jackal when he had first entered the city slithered out from behind an outcropping, but seemed to keep the right half of her face turned away, as if trying to hide something. A small trickle of blood told the tale for her.

“Damn it all, Deedee. You broke your contract, didn't you?”

“Well, kind of....”

She turned her face, revealing a swollen cheek and a toothy grin, though just as expected the better half of her right fang had been chipped clean from its base.

“What do you mean, kind of? Did you break it or not?”

“Promise you won't be mad..... I followed the plan, just like I was supposed to, but the lousy soldiers brought out their metal boxes and shot at me! Couldn't even nab a single bite to eat. I had to... you know... improvise.”

“Raided the camp at night?”

“Tried to, didn't work either. Bastards were expecting a fight and didn't sleep.”

“So what did you do? What ever it was, looks like it was too successful for your own good.”

He gestured to her bloated midsection.

“Tried one of big sister's old tricks. Caught stragglers that wandered too far away from the others. You wouldn't believe just how many loose squads they sent to out-frank one another.”

“You mean, out-flank?”

“Is that what they call it? I like 'franking' better. Soldiers kind of taste like beef franks you know.”

“How many times have I warned you about thinking with your stomach, you fat, scaled abomination! Thank the gods that Gilead isn't ready to dispose of either of us yet and let you off with a warning shot. What am I saying? You deserved worse. Might cure that greedy gut of yours to lose more than just a tooth.”

The naga did little but smile. She still had a ways yet to grow before making it to adulthood, and her appetite reflected this. She was also too used to the jackal's quips regarding her supposed gluttony, and if anything took these as his attempt at concerned affection.

“You wouldn't have followed me unless you were worried. I've been around you for long enough to get this whole thing figured out.”

She teased and taunted, laying on her side to emphasize the bulge in her stomach and in turn, her success as a huntress. The jackal winced, infuriated at just how apt she had become at getting under his skin.

“Why you little... I was headed this way for my own reasons. Your fat ass just happened to block my path. Why oh why did I feel pity on you and take you in... Worst mistake of my life.. But there's finally a silver lining to this dark cloud. I'm getting my ascarlin, I'll finally be able to pay Goldilocks enough to adopt you permanently.”

“How much did you pay her last time?”

“Nearly a whole platoon. Only kept her sated for a few weeks. The one thing she teaches you...”

“You really think you can buy big sis enough meals to adopt me for keeps? Good luck with that.”

“Oh you'll see. One way or another I'll get her to keep you out of my hair.”

“What's stopping you? By all means, go on. I'd love to see you try. Big sis isn't the type to be bribed, even with tasty treats. Even with tasty treats that give her good sport. How do you think she cut me loose the first time?”

“I thought she had just done it for her own amusement. My suffering entertains her like nothing else.”

Just then a whirring buzz interrupted the two. They gazed through the trees to see three Deluran ships assemble further to the south. At this distance they were mere silver specks on the horizon, but it was clear that the game had just been changed. Two transports dropped off armored personnel carriers, while the third kept watch while hovering overhead. Panels opened and gun mounts were revealed, the entire ship suddenly bristled with artillery and other various calibers of heavy cannon. A gunship, Avalon class.

“Did I mention the flying death machines? ….Guess not. Well, seems I'll be stuck with you for some time yet.”

The jackal winced again, and began huffing smoke from his pipe in his frustration. The naga only smiled.

A series of illustrations are in progress for the characters. Here's the first: http://mickilla.deviantart.com/#/d54xnjq

Installment Fifteen

Reinforcements from the front much further north had been falling back to regroup behind the far side of the mountains over the course of several days. Transports had been shuttling to and fro to relocate the force of the Deluran raiding parties to redirect efforts to the newer and more pressing warzone. The addition of gunships from home base only capitalized the severe need for immediate progress. Conflict against the Negavians had gone precisely according to plan; their attention was now thoroughly fixated on the west, but in time they would pick up the trail and turn southward to join the fray. They were no strangers to forceful annexation of the mountains, and had waged numerous campaigns to control the endless maze of caverns and mines within. Some more successful than others. It was thought that it would take far too much time and resources for the Negavians to plow their way straight through the entirety of the wretched, dangerous mountain passes. And perhaps yet more to come around the mountains the long way, through a quagmire of traps, ambushes, snipers, and the occasional predator. The larger their force, the more casualties they'd inevitably suffer. Strong discouragement, no doubt. But the Negavian elite were blessed with numerous columns of highly expendable peons and slaves, thousands upon thousands of which could be easily sacrificed for even the mere rumor of an ascarlin deposit.

It was precisely this that concerned the Delurans so. They would have to move quickly to secure their prize and remove themselves from the region before others could intervene. Subtlety could now be easily discarded, firepower was the one asset they had left. A single Avalon-class gunship spearheaded their new advance, followed on the ground by a newly deployed squadron of armored personnel carriers, each loaded with heavily armed special forces troops. They beat a clear path right to the juncture of Gilead and Azaryah's respective territories, punishing all resistance with a hail of cannon salvos and rocket strikes. Gilead soon sensed the threat and pulled her forces back, abandoning her forward trenches and leaving a horrid barrage of land mines in her wake. Azaryah's fanatics weren't so flexible, and resisted further. Ether flares popped en masse and other incendiary devices were hurled in grave desperation. These did sap morale and cause electronic interference, but the Delurans had gotten wise to these tactics and learned to operate their systems with manual control. The gunship's batteries opened up just the same, clearing the craggy cliffs and undergrowth one booming crater at a time. The personnel carriers had been retrofitted with hooked treads to scale all but the most vertical surfaces, and crawled right up the steep mountainside in their advance. Each was fitted with a 20mm gun in its topside mount, and these constantly chugged rounds at signs of movement. Wasteful perhaps, but effective. Defilade was cleared whether it was occupied by hostile forces or not. At signs of massed resistance, a series of mortar tubes mounted to the sides of these carriers spit out a volley of projectiles straight upwards. Computer guided and fin-steered, these would arc downwards and strike enemy positions with remarkable accuracy. A single salvo could easily be expected to simultaneously neutralize easily a dozen separate contacts.

The bombardment continued through the night, and while the Azaryites suffered significant losses their territory was for the most part overlooked. But this new mechanized force was incredibly thorough and didn't so much as leave even a single workable shooting position in its wake. There were no prisoners to be interrogated this time. No more information that would have been valuable. Resistance was quashed at first sight, and this shift in mentality was a terrifying shock to the remaining clan lords. They might have been able to outlast superior forces if they could be allowed to patiently wait and slowly dent enemy morale one land mine and long rifle shot at a time. In other cases they may have even gotten away with hiding among the local population to confound the enemy or prey on their 'civilized' sensibilities. To see the Delurans now utterly destroying all in their path, be it a threat or not, signaled that these tactics simply would no longer work. Predators under contract fared no better. They were just as susceptible to cannon fire as their humanoid counterparts. Arguably more so, bearing in mind their larger size. The few bold enough to attempt stealing off stragglers soon found themselves very quickly chastised and forced away by the bombardment. Many sustained gaping wounds, lost limbs, or other crippling injuries. A few were felled on the spot. One particularly unfortunate harpy gained the distinction of having collided with a mortar round while in midair. Survivors often broke their contracts and fled from the scene entirely. The older and wiser predators, on the other hand, sensed vulnerability and knew to bide their time.

Gilead in particular was put into a quandary over this new debacle. The Deluran force now turned straight for her stronghold and all evidence showed that it just could not be stopped. The sheer amount of ordinance that had been expended onto her Azaryite counterparts was already beyond reckoning. How much more would this force have left for her? And even if she managed to blunt this advance, how open would her fortress be to new attacks? She couldn't simply deploy troops to intercept the Delurans, that had been made obvious. They would simply be bombed to oblivion. Hardly a way to leave an ambush either, all the suitable positions were cleared out as the Delurans pass by. What else could be done? Subjugating and absorbing other clans' troops to boost her own numbers would only offer the Delurans more easy targets. Firing from long distances would only incite airstrikes. Land mines could be tracked and disarmed. More cleverly hidden fieldwork may slow the ground troops, but would do nothing against the gunship.

But another thought occurred. That a fighting force, even the most technologically endowed fighting force, is still made of men. Men can be easily lured into betraying one another. And nothing tempts like a well-awaited prize.

“They came for ascarlin, did they? By all means, they shall have it.”

Installment Sixteen

Rhodou was close to the front of the advance, following the column of personnel carriers when his company was brought to a sudden halt. Sarge lifted his arm, clenching a fist vertically. Carbines were raised and a sweep was performed of what was left of the foliage and obvious shooting positions. No one dared step into the open, in spite of their newfound success they wouldn't risk presenting Gilead's sharpshooters with any easy targets. Unmanned drones were dispatched and after a short delay they returned with video footage, ripe for the holo screen. Thermal readings were negative for close ambushes, an easy first sigh of relief, but the mines had been getting more dense further uphill and would have to be disarmed with great care. If just one popped prematurely, the ether flare would fry the whole company's optics and show the whole region exactly where they were. Squads were divvied to two-man elements for landmine duty. The scanners did their job quite well. The holographic map was littered with little red crosses, each marking a piece of live ordinance. The engineers simply had to cut the tripwires and the procession could continue along its merry way.

A wave from Sarge, and Rhodou was on the ground, tracing a wire. It wasn't stretched taut as one might have seen in more conventional applications. It snaked along the ground lazily, deceptively harmless-looking. The wire's fibers were lined with sharp, thread-like barbs. So much as touch it and you'd have to amputate a limb to be set free. These weren't the mine's triggers at all, this was yet one more morale-sapper of Gilead's cruel design. Or so Rhodou believed. How wicked a blow would it have been, he pondered, if one man was caught in the wire's barbs. He'd yell for help, and the the field medics would flock right to him to get the wire cut loose. What a perfect way to gather priority targets right where... and at that his instincts boiled up to stop him. The tree cover was too thick here. The shooters wouldn't have a good shot at their ensnared victims, not from their usual high perches. There was something in this gnarled little alcove that the mountain folk didn't want him to trod upon. The wire was pinned down and marked with a glowing plastic rod. He followed it further into the brush, right towards a spider's web of new wires, this time smooth and held tight from little hooks in the nearby trees. So there was a mine here, after all. But why guard it? Rhodou pulled his knife and shears from a pocket in his harness, snapping tripwires at a slow, deliberate pace. In due time the scene was cleaned up just according to the books. The snares were pinned and clearly marked, and the tripwires were all cut and double-checked. Proud of his work for a moment, Rhodou clicked his helmet camera, giving the typical confirmation back to Sarge. He waved off the second man in his element, preparing to follow him back to the assault group, but stopped and turned around one last time when a shiny glint caught his eye.

Doubling back, Rhodou found something very curious sitting just beside the disarmed mine. A gust of wind turned over a small pile of fallen leaves, revealing a polished metal box, small, sharply angled, and colored in the pitch-black and bright gold color palette of the mountain folk. Unable to resist curiosity, Rhodou snatched this up and hid it in his back pocket. When his shift finally expired he crept into the improvised quarters in the back of a personnel carrier and tried to get the box open. He dug further into his pocket, finding the bent metal pin that had been left behind when the jackal had escaped from fortress oscar. He fidgeted with the latch, finally prying it open. Inside was a wadded paper, weighted down by something dense in the center. Rhodou unfolded the paper, finding the unthinkable. A solid chunk of ascarlin, no larger than an acorn. This was easily worth several-thousand times his yearly salary. He sat dumbstruck, weighing his options. No one had seen him claim the box, not directly anyway. He could simply keep the prize safely out of sight and pretend he had never come across it in the first place. But what if he had been seen? Withholding the all-important resource from the state could be punished with a swift execution, followed shortly with similarly swift elimination of his entire family. A terrible risk, but one that could be leveraged.

Appearing to follow his normal routine, the comm room was his next stop. There he would be expected to mind the monitors and be sure the drones were bringing back good intel. Several others were already there, bored at the tedium of the nonstop staring at the holo screens. Rhodou sat at an unoccupied station, plugging his headset to the computer interface. The ping of the audio system syncing up drowned out an intercom message that called the others away. Seeing them leave, he quickly pulled up stored footage from earlier. He watched the drones hover over the forest floor while he was onscreen, disarming the mine. He saw himself turn to leave it and then stop to examine it one last time. But alas, luck was on his side. A conveniently-skewed branch blocked the view of the camera, forcing the view to switch to IR. All that was visible was an ambiguous reddish figure posed near the mine. Not a soul would be able to tell that he had retrieved anything. The ascarlin and its box were hidden away, but the wadded paper was discarded.

Some time later, it was picked up again and given closer inspection. Faintly scribbled across was the Ellisian script that read: “From Mother, with love.”

Installment Seventeen

Sarge was wary of the wadded up paper the moment he set eyes on it. Hardly any of the data collection or records kept were done on printed media. If something was given a hard copy, it wouldn't be so rashly disposed of in the first case. And on that pretense alone he found the message, scrawled in foreign characters. No doubt that stolen paraphernalia from the enemy meant something very dangerous was in the works. It didn't take very long for him to bring the evidence and have it scanned and sent as a digital report to home base. A mere hour later, a reply arrived.

Rhodou was very shocked when a whole squad stormed the comm room to arrest him, still donning full combat gear. Sarge parted the crowd and held the wadded paper, unfolded and text highlighted.

“This look familiar? Sent an image home and they said the damnedest thing. Apparently these things are pretty common. At least two dozen others have ended up in the hands of our troops on the front. And every single time, came tagged to some serious stones. Give up the ascarlin now, and I won't have to torture you to find out where it is.”

“You wouldn't, it'd get logged. ROE would never allow it!”

“You're right about one thing, it would get logged. Matter of fact, the last several instances of our own side deserting with stolen ascarlin were very thoroughly logged. The following executions too.”

At that a crackle and thump echoed in the distance. Much too high a frequency to have been Ellisian long rifles, this was the Delurans' own SMART carbines at work. And the reply, surprisingly, was more of the same. This was a major case of 'blue on blue'. Automatic fire rang out for a time before the gunship's cannon mounts opened up and in very short order things became very quiet. A quick comm check and Sarge was brought up to speed.

“....And that makes the twenty-sixth desertion we've had on our hands. Lord only knows how many more are yet to come. Orders already came through- we've had so many deserters and cases of infighting that the whole offensive might come apart at the seams. Command is giving us no leniency for anyone suspected of doing more of the same, and still we've got our own men breaking rank to get loose with the stones. We could threaten to execute every last one and still they'd run off as soon as they got the chance. The damn stuff is worth way too much to get them to give it up.”

Rhodou stayed quiet, allowing the soldiers to snatch the ascarlin and box from his pocket. He clasped his hands behind his head, hoping for a best case scenario- perhaps they'd only lock him up for this. Come to think of it, wouldn't be so bad to have a while to rest in the relative safety of the ship's brig.

“....But as far as I know, this was the first place you went as soon as you got ahold of the box. For all I know, you had come straight here to report it in. You're back on EOD shifts, and you'll be denied a day's rations.”

“Permission to speak, sir?”

“Granted.”

“They planned for this to happen, you know. They put chunks of ascarlin in our path, more than enough to get our men to butcher one-another for it.”

“Thanks for stating the obvious. What do you propose to stop them?”

“Hope they run out.”

“Not likely. Eggheads say the cache they have is about the size of that APC. They'll have plenty of breadcrumbs to scatter.”

Once again, gunfire rang out. The gunship spared no time barraging the whole area, utterly destroying a personnel carrier and firing even after resistance appeared to stop. Several men waving white cloth appeared from the brush, only to end up under the hail of another cannonade.

“Damn dangerous breadcrumbs. We need them too badly to resist. This has to stop.”

Only a kilometer away, the jackal was watching from the cover of the underbrush. He peered through a rifle scope, getting a closer look at the gunship. The naga was just behind him, hidden behind a gnarled tree root.

“Six cannon mounts, three on each side. Each looks like its packing a 40mm self-loader. Explosive shells. Automated targeting. Multiple target queues. Could be rockets and smart mortars in those racks topside. Anything else? Deedee?”

Diana seemed disinterested, having long since realized that getting through these barrages to claim her own prizes seemed the fool's errand.

“Are you paying attention?”

She only rolled her eyes.

“Scaly abomination... why oh why do the Gods curse me with your presence?”

“Because you were never pious enough to earn their favor, that's why.”

“Shut up and call out details.”

“Well, that one looks like he'd taste like sausage, and that one, like jerky. Does that help?”

“No, it doesn't.”

The two continued to observe, curious at the infighting and its bizarre regularity. The Gileadites weren't anywhere near as close, and this was obvious. The mines slowed the Deluran force, but these couldn't possibly be the source of the commotion. What then could it be? The jackal got his answer when the next attempt at desertion appeared to yield some success. One of the smaller transports veered away from the column, blasting through the foliage at breakneck speed. It had gotten just outside of the gunship's cannon range when it snagged a large tree branch and came tumbling down some several hundred meters to the forest floor, conveniently within the jackal's reach. He pried open the hatch, only to find four fresh corpses. One, however, clutched a mighty prize greedily in hand. The jackal knew that neither side could know that he'd pilfered the ascarlin, and set an explosive charge to the wreck. Diana had already stolen and swallowed two of the bodies when he raised the detonator, and wasn't at all amused that he was going to destroy the rest. Even less so at the prospect of having to handle food that was already dead. With a sharp crack the explosives scattered the wreckage in all directions, having easily cleared evidence of his involvement in the situation. A safe distance further away he opened the decorative box and found the note wrapped around the ascarlin chunk, amidst yet more passive-aggressive teasing from his counterpart.

“That clever old she-wolf, this was her idea, was it? Well played...”

Installment Eighteen

Fighting continued through the late hours of the night. The Delurans made it to rifle-range of Gilead's crucial defensive lines with a significant portion of their forces intact. The rampant desertions and infighting were quickly drowned out by a more visible and forthright enemy, and even the ascarlin lures seemed to quickly lose their luster. Gilead stood her ground, setting antitank weapon teams among her riflemen. Her trenches bristled with rifle grenades and long cannons, forcing the gunship and personnel carriers to keep a safe distance. Targeting computers were recalibrated to the new task of providing fire support from well outside their normal effective range. This slowed the targeting queues and brought the fierce torrent of Deluran cannon fire to an occasional and sporadic tapping. Rockets and mortars were hurled uphill en masse, but many of the defensive positions were either well-shielded by earthworks or entirely concealed from sight. Deluran ordinance pockmarked the mountainside with gaping craters, splitting trees, smashing boulders, and scattering debris in dense clouds. In time, the whole battleground was completely obscured. Both sides had little choice but to rely on digital optics to sight the enemy, and one bright muzzle flash shining through the haze would often quickly draw a counterpart from the opposing side. The slope shimmered with yellow flashes advancing from below, and pale blue lights from above.

The predators that remained in the region saw their chance and took advantage of the commotion to snatch at the flanks of both sides before quickly slipping away. Some claimed as many as a dozen victims before taking their leave. All things considered, this was the lesser threat compared to the onslaught of prolonged combat. Neither side was willing to give way, and the death toll began to rise dramatically. Rifle fire was exchanged as the Delurans advanced, at progressively greater density. Oversized Ellisian long rifles tore the attackers limb from limb, disemboweling and decapitating. While Deluran automatic fire shredded the lightly-armored defenders, whole squads at a time. The impact on morale was tremendous. Neither side had an effective means to cope with this amount of fire, and in the nonexistent visibility both had no clue whether or not their efforts had any real effect in the first place. Desperation led to cruelty. Both sides could ill afford luxuries like tending to the wounded or properly sheltering captured opponents.

Even more ominous, both became willing to use their most horrific tools. Deluran special operations forces wore hazmat protection from head to toe, and as soon as they advanced to the front they begin to deploy canisters of toxic, corrosive gas. The yellowish clouds were dense and clung to the forest floor. After being spread by an uphill current the poison settled into crevices and depressions in the mountainside, finding its way into Gilead's trenches and foxholes in the process. Her troops' combat masks kept their faces well protected, but their skin of their arms and necks soon began to boil and fester when exposed to the air. Even the most disciplined of her war-maidens soon cracked under this torment, wailing in agony. Worse yet, exposed wounds allowed the toxin into their bloodstream, leading to numerous fatalities. But gravity would only sustain a one-sided advantage for so long. The heavy poison clouds eventually began to sink downhill, past the protected advance guard and to the unprepared main body of the Deluran force. Fearing that they may be hoisted by their own petard, the Delurans sprayed clouds of counter-toxin to protect their own troops, and though they averted a catastrophe the toxin was weakened to a degree that the Gileadites resumed their resistance. Attempting revenge, incendiary ether charges were dropped down the cliffs and rolled downhill, spreading burning liquid ether in their wake. This fiery bluish-white tidal wave washed straight through the Deluran spec ops unit, roasting the men alive in their suits and personnel carriers. The larger trees were thick and strong enough to keep their shape, but the underbrush was turned to a scattered cloud of embers. Boulders were melted to lava and the soil was burned into a glassy slick. The fuel was exhausted very quickly, though in the short time since it was ignited it left the mountainside as a scorched graveyard. Yet more smoke was raised as a result, and the ether reaction caused severe damage to nearby electrical systems on both sides.

With radio communications in tatters, Gilead's squad leaders had to shout and bellow commands to have them reach the ears of her forward units. Much to the Delurans' surprise, the echoed order appeared to be: “Fall back! Regroup at higher ground!”

Having gained a substantial numerical lead in the last push, the Delurans were quick to order a pursuit.