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Prologue - Empty Honour
Copyright © 2024 by Levi Michael Strauss
Dawn had arrived, revealing an ocean of gleaming, metallic warriors stretched across the horizon, their bodies sheathed in hardened armor. The emblem of a radiant sun etched prominently onto their chest plates, shields, and helms. Their war banners flittered in the breeze, a golden circle stamped on a black background. Above each warrior's head hovered a luminous halo that bathed them in soft light, casting long shadows behind them as they moved forward in unison. Their footsteps created a rhythmic backbeat upon which they chanted prayers to their God, Stasis, who watched from his sun throne high above. In all their radiant glory, the unified armies of the eternal enemy, The Sol Cabal Empire, approached. An ignorant man might have found it difficult to believe that the scattered platoons of the Crimson Truancy that dotted the rolling hills at the base of the valley were the aggressors in this conflict. Outnumbered by at least five to one, the contrast between the two armies could not have been any starker.
Instead of shining metal knights marching in tight formations, they lounged casually in garbs of dark leather and long cloaks. Cigarette embers occasionally revealed glimpses of grizzled faces hidden by shadows-circled brimmed hats. An ignorant man might have underestimated the lethal advantage that the bolt-action rifles slung upon their shoulders and six-shot revolvers holstered around their waists commanded against the swords and shields of their adversaries. And on this different day, he might have been right.
From my vantage point on a nearby hill, I watched as a single figure strode purposefully out from the shadows of the mountain.
The man’s name had become prominent among the whispers of the contingent—fresh off from academy graduation and having arrived earlier that morning with reinforcements—a young officer bearing the surname freshly etched into the nation’s legend.
Ironsights.
Tall, lithe, and powerful even at a glance, the young man kicked up a cloud of dust as he broke into a gazelle-like sprint. His cloak trailed behind like the tail of a comet, closing the gap between himself and the tide of gleaming, metallic warriors in leaping strides.
As the distance closed between man and army, Indion brandished barrel and blade, and five thousand enemy swords flashed under the rising sun's light in response. A handful of warriors broke free from formation, charging forward to meet this audacious attacker head-on. Eager to please their god, they wished to be the first to wet their weapons with the blood of the man behind this deranged one-person assault.
The officer leaped high into the air, steel raised high, revolver fire echoing throughout the valley as he disappeared into the mass of steel-clad bodies.
Some things in life defy accurate descriptions, like trying to put the flavor of a perfectly ripe apple into words or convey the feeling of love at first sight. No matter how eloquent you might be, some moments transcend language itself. Such is the challenge of describing what happened next—when Indion Ironsights made first contact with the Sol Cabal—an explosion of violence so extraordinarily absurd that even the most talented poet would struggle to evoke the proper imagery.
You could liken a master painter's portrayal to an image of a simple farmer during harvest—with his effortless scythe arc leaving a trail of felled crops in its wake. However, even this analogy falls short. For on the battlefield, Indion was neither the farmer nor the scythe; he was both—a living weapon reaping life from anyone who dared cross his path.
His right arm became indistinguishable from the blade it held—each sweep deadly and exacting; his left hand became synonymous with its six-shot magnum, each bullet finding its way past enemy shields to the weak points in the hinges and visors of their armor with unnerving precision. Leaving behind a grim tableau of blood-drenched earth and an ever-growing wake of dismembered corpses—a harvest of destruction.
It became immediately apparent that Indion carried the genetic blood inheritance worthy of his surname—that he was indeed the son of the enigmatic war hero of legend.
Only then did the rest of the leather-clad Truant forces join the fray. Emerging from the shadows, a thousand warriors clad in dark leather rallied around their new champion in a chaotic charge of rifle fire and bayonets as they pushed Cabal forces backward.
Feeling my pulse quicken, I remembered the importance of my mission. I began descending the valley, the crucial objective prominent in my mind. For the next two and a half years, I would observe Indion, my presence merging with his shadow—seldom seen and always forgotten. Led by my own self-imposed rule:
Observe with excellence. Exert no influence
Some days, I donned the garb of a field lieutenant; others, I disguised myself as a cannoneer or scout. Sometimes, I took no form at all—merging with a shifting breeze—simple illusions deflecting attention and mental sleights of hand. There was a time when such simple magic used to come with ease. Still, in my current state, it drained what little remained of my abilities—my brush scraping at the bottom of a once-endless well of Ink.
I feared not for any physical harm; nothing made by man's hands could pierce the veil separating mortal from immortal. But there existed another side—a side that divides reality from oblivion. But it was not the time to reminisce about past mistakes. Time is unforgiving, and no brush can erase past deeds—dwelling on such thoughts would only hinder my mission.
As I continued observing Indion, I admired his small yet courageous comrade, Morgan Stockend. The pale, nervous-looking young man insisted on joining Indion in even the most dangerous skirmishes—keen on shedding whatever he could of the noticeable crown scar across his temple. Only eight or nine generations separated him from his ancestors' liberation from the suppression of the Sol Cabal’s stasis halo—a stark contrast to Indion's scar—a thin line barely visible across his forehead, a child inherits traits from both parents, after all.
I noticed they differed in almost every way—Morgan's wiry frame and restless energy seemed in constant motion, while Indion's calm and steady presence anchored their partnership. Yet, despite his imposing physique, Indion's eyes betrayed a vulnerability seldom seen among soldiers in this centuries-long war. Still, amid daily smoke and ash and the ever-present chorus of gunfire and clashing steel, Indion moved with a fluidity that belied his inexperience— and all knew they bore witness to the true progeny of Asher Ironsights himself.
***
The campaign had just passed its second-year mark as I stood among Truant generals and officers atop a small hill—their excited tones echoing as they pointed to an object in the distance. I waited patiently until the view scope reached my hands and was passed on to me by Captain Indion himself.
The clash of coincidence and irony caught me entirely by surprise, nearly causing my veneer to slip. An arched eyebrow hung over Indion’s dark eyes as they lingered over my dumbstruck facade, frozen like cornered prey. Finally, I willed my arm to move, quickly grabbed the instrument, and turned away. My heart pounded as I feigned fiddling with the instrument's dials, and with no slight relief, I felt the weight of his gaze lift, called away by some officer down the line.
My breath settling, I peered through the view-scope in earnest. In the far distance, an arching span of unadorned steel glinted in the moonlight—it spanned the hundred-and-fifty-foot length of frothing rapids' chasm carved by a mighty river. Its far end was dug deep into the earth on the other side to complete the bridge—a single perpendicular support beam ran straight from beneath the arc's curved peak and into the deep—forking the grand torrent in two. The only bridge Cabal couldn't destroy—for it was an object forged in secret flames, left by he who carved the mighty river himself. The Anchor-Head Bridge. On the far side lay a direct path to Sol Cabal empire's beating heart—the capital city of Thermalion itself. As I lowered the view scope from my eyes, a shiver ran down my spine. The weight of destiny hanging heavy in the air.
The smell of oil, gunpowder, and steam announced their presence long before General Honneralls mighty army came into full view, greeting us at the valley's base—ten thousand strong—their war banners held high and plentiful—eager to partake in a historical moment that would indeed become etched into Indion’s legacy. Bringing with them all the recent innovations in steam-powered technology, they displayed the newest advances in siege warfare technology—their massive frames constructed of dark metal adorned with sharp, deadly edges, with multiple cannons varying in size and length—with gears and pipes connecting every part of the vehicle to the steam engine core, each one pointed at the great fortress guarding the bridge's mouth a half a mile down-field. A tall and proud structure that formed a protective semicircle around the entrance to the bridge, its walls constructed from smooth obsidian-like material—with gleaming golden sun symbols etched into each panel—radiating even under a grey sky. Despite its intimidating appearance, the fortress seemed uninhabited—not a single haloed head showing up on walls, turrets, or ramparts. The drawbridge remained lowered—oversized doors wide open at its base.
It took no strategic mastermind to recognize a trap for what it was.
My uniform showed the rank of Colonel above the sigil of some low house—unassuming and forgettable—I blended into the rest of the captains and other high-ranking officers as they gathered under a makeshift tent, where General Honnerall himself stood at the head of a great table, where he began to relay his plans for a siege. Only when the rain started to pour in earnest did I notice a missing face among the crowd—shortly followed by the alarmed voice of a nearby guardsman, pointing out towards a line of figures in the distance, moving swiftly towards the fortress entrance. After years spent in his shadow, I recognized the leader spearheading the assault merely by his gait alone—long, powerful strides that left all who followed at a near sprint just to keep up. My heart jumped into my throat, forcing a single word out of my lips—ending nearly three years spent in careful, cautious silence.
“Fuck!”
I left the word hanging in the rain behind me as I moved across the vast space like a muddy brushstroke—from the tent, down through the valley, through the maze of siege engines and war machines, and across the near mile-long field to join the rogue platoon. The effort of the maneuver left me heaving for breath as I staggered into the back of their formation—my clumsy portrayal of an unremarkable rifleman drawing more than one raised eyebrow from members of the rear guard. Luckily, that was the full extent of the disturbance—I cursed again, silently this time, for my lapse in focus at such a crucial juncture in the mission. As I regained my composure, I began to move, slowly, up the filed ranks of fifty hardened men and women—Indion’s most loyal—up to Lieutenant Stockend, who moved in lockstep with the Captain himself. I hung back, just out of their sight, as we crossed the bridge and moved beyond the threshold and into the belly of the silent fortress.
***
“Smoke and Sulfur," Stockend said, neck cocked at an awkward upwards angle as he shook the rain off his circle-brimmed hat. “Indy, you ever see anything like this?”
The captain stood hunched over, fighting to light a cigarette, then stood tall and glanced around. I followed his gaze, the hollow interior of the fortress that seemed to stretch forever, the walls rising high above like towering cliffs. The doorway arched and decorated with intricate sigils of the sun, glowing with a faint golden light. The walls were adorned with elaborate murals depicting figures and scenes from a distant past. A colossal doorway fit for giants stood at the far end of the hall decorated with an ancient script that would seem indecipherable to only a select few; a simple nostalgia fluttered in my chest as my eyes traced the ancient words and long past worth reciting.
When Indion spoke, it was through an acrid cloud of thick smoke. “Seems a bit much.”
“The ceilings are just…so goddamn tall,” Another officer said.
“Stockend stripped off a glove and ran his hand along a nearby surface. “There’s no dust,” he said, rubbing his fingertips together. “I can damn near see my ugly face in the tiles; they’re so polished, but where are the cannons? The ammunition stockpiles? Access to the defensive battlements? I’d eat off the floor, but I’d rather defend a pile of boulders than try and defend this place from a siege.”
It’s a temple, you fool, a place of power beyond your feeble understanding, and you should all be as scared as I am right now. This is what I wanted to say; instead, with a floating voice that was more suggestion than a statement, I said. “The captain has moved on, and so should we.”
“Enough standing around,” Stockend snapped, pointing towards the end of the hall, the recently opened door still swaying on its hinges. Indy’s moved ahead; let's see what he’s about.”
Exert some influence, but only when necessary. My self-imposed rule became looser in definition with every passing moment.
The task sounded simple in theory but became difficult in practice. Indion had all but disappeared; the only clues left of his presence were the gentle sway of recently opened doorways. For a moment, I feared that Indion had lost himself within the labyrinthian halls. We eventually find him leaning against a doorless archway, his gaze locked straight ahead.
“Skyman, shoot me dead,” Morgan yelled out with noticeable relief. “Damnit, Indy, what has gotten into you…?” His question left lingering as he reached the archway and saw for himself what lay beyond.
It was a scene equal in beauty and danger, the arching bridge made entirely from a single, seamless steel span with a maximum width of perhaps fifteen meager feet at its apex, stretching out like a delicate spine over the swirling, tumultuous river below. The rain fell in fierce torrents, hammering against the rusted surface of the bridge and adding to the deafening sound. On the other side of the bridge, a massive doorway carved into the cliffside, above which, upon a mile-long rampart seemingly etched into the stone of the mountain, thousand halos hovered above the heads of armored soldiers, each wielding a loaded crossbow.
Indy flicked his cigarette into the watery abyss below before stepping back inside.
“There is a stairway at the end of this hall, leading up to the rampart that wraps around the structure that we saw from the front,” He looked at Stockend, “Morgan, you take the men up and fan out, rifles at the ready. Send one or two men to search for cannons or any leftover supplies that may have been left behind and bring them to bear.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Do not open fire unless fired upon, do you understand? Make your presence known, but do not engage. Repeat it back to me.”
“No shooting unless shot at. Remind 'em who’s got the guns. Simple.”
“Good Enough,” Indy said. “Shivreen,” he said, addressing a woman with a prominent nose ring and long braided hair. You’re the best of everyone here at not getting lost.”
Murmurs of agreement echoed through the hall from the rest of the makeshift platoon.
“Ain’t been lost since a bottle of muck-man moonshine had me hanging upside down from a tree five miles south of Sudeny-port some fifteen years back.” The woman confirmed.
Indy scratched his chin at that. “Right. Well, any moment now, the rest of the big heads we left outside will come stumbling into this place, looking for anything resembling a bullseye to point their new steam toys at. I need you to trace your steps back to the entrance, guide them up to the top, set up with the rest of the lot, and, most importantly, wait. Let them know they can show off all they want, but remind them that Captain Ironsights will remove any fingers that prove too itchy to follow a simple order. I don’t care if it’s King Joten’s mother raised from the dead or General Honnerall himself. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,”
“Good. Now Go.”
With that, Shivreen spun about and padded down the hall the way we came.
“How come she doesn’t have to repeat--” Morgan’s complaint was cut off by the screeching sound of metal on metal as the doorway at the bridge's far end began to open.
Indion turned on Morgan. “You’re still here?”
“What will you-”
“Go, Lieutenant. That is an order.”
The two locked eyes for a tense moment. Stockend seemed to shrink in the looming shadow of the captain; the lightning clash of rain on steel above the thunderous roar of the tumultuous river below only added more weight to Indy’s imposing aura.
Stockend spun on his heel and marched off without another word. “Up top,” he barked over his shoulder. “All of you. Weapons ready!”
As much as it pained me to leave Indion, I had no choice but to follow and carry on my observations the best I could from above. Fear propelled me forward as I made my way up the winding steps, for I understood now that Indion had innately sensed the same thing I had the moment we entered these gilded halls: that whatever challenges that presented themselves over the next few hours would define him for the rest of his life.
I found myself huddled next to an old black powder cannon twenty or so feet to the left of the bridge. Three head-sized cannonballs sat racked into the loader, and the wick, while soaking wet, was still intact. Even though observation was my mandate, I felt utterly useless as all around me; Truant Soldiers moved about, Stockend’s shrill voice barking out commands. Still, I couldn’t help but create a small barrier around the cannon's wick against the pouring rain and a whispered word suggesting that it should shed its wet attire and remain dry.
Exert some occasional, harmless influence, just in case.
Shivreen had arrived with the first reinforcements, wielding only hoses that they strung out and looped on nearby ramparts. It would soon become apparent that steam weaponry had been designed with brute force first, winding stairs second sort of philosophy, and it would be hours before anything substantial would make its way up top. On the other side of the ravine, above the open door on the opposite side of the bridge, stood an endless line of haloed soldiers, rain pattering off their armor, statuesque in their stillness.
Then, as if of one mind, they brought their crossbows to bear in a single motion, the unison of their rustling armor sending shivers down my rain-soaked spine. Each arrow tip traced Indion’s path as he emerged from the doorway and stepped onto the bridge, stopping shortly before the apex of the arcing stretch of steel. His hands were resting on the butt of his revolver and sheathed blade, waiting. A hundred rifles appeared in response; hammers pulled back.
“Hold your fire!” Stockend screamed as he marched the span of the rampart, his rifle pointed high as he shouted. “The first one to fire before my order is going for a long fall and a deep drink, you hear me! Hold. Your. Fire!”
Soon, the High Generals joined the chaos. Each was as demanding in their questions as they were eager to assert their authority but found their voices lost amidst the din. The soundscape had devolved into a wave of white noise, and it took a staggering amount of focus to keep myself blinking against the rain and fixed on the figure on the bridge below.
Then, a sound rang out above like the snap of a finger, and all was silent. The rain still fell, and the river raged, but it was as if a bubble had formed around the bridge, a space in which sound was exclusively allowed to exist. Darkness descended around the bubble, and time slowed down as golden light flooded the far doorway.
A figure emerged, floating mere feet above the bridge. The immortal’s visage was shrouded within the shadows of a radiant light source just beyond his crown. His attire was an enigmatic fusion of obscurity and radiance - robes that flickered with burning flame as if spun from the strands of the sun itself. He held his hands with palms open in a liars display of peace. For I knew they were the same hands that forged the mind-suppressing stasis rings placed on the head of every newborn. Halos formed as it fused with their skulls. To most, he was known as the High Prophet, a speaker for the Sun God called Stasis. But this was only the beginning of the lies that Solis, the true and only Sun-God, weaved.
His voice reverberated around him, resonating with the crackle of flame upon kindling; each syllable seared into the atmosphere around him like embers on dry grass.
“You have proven to be a remarkable adversary, Indion, son of Asher.”
Although time was in its infancy when I last heard The Great Deceiver's coaxing words, my lips turned into a snarl upon hearing them again.
“Wish I could say the same,” Indy replied. “And who…or what, are you exactly?”
“I am the High Prophet, Keeper of the Sun throne, and speaker for the Peace-God, Stasis. But you can call me Solis.”
“Ah,” Indy said, pointing to the scar on his forehead. “Is this your work, then?”
“A small piece of a larger puzzle that I fear is beyond your comprehension.”
“Suits me fine. I prefer to comprehend as little as possible,” Indy replied.
And then, although his true face remained forever hidden, I felt Solis’s searing gaze shift to me. It took all my strength not to look away as he recited my hubris-filled words, spoken millennia prior with the long-lost confidence of one who commanded near-unmatched cosmic power.
“I have a proposition for you.” Solis said, his gaze shifting back to Indion, “It is a solution to both our problems and one that could save untold lives, a bargain of sorts, should you choose to accept it.”
I let loose a silent scream.
Never could I have predicted that Indion’s defining moment would be built on an echo of the fateful moment of ruin that defined my own.
Indion’s response was amplified to all outside the bubble. “I'm listening.”
“The main problem is the obvious one,” Solis said, each word crackling like a burning cinder. “Your people will never stop in their assault on our sacred land, removing my blessing with your twisted methods, and my people will never stop in defending it. I can offer your side a considerable advantage. Given the requirements are met.”
“These requirements being?”
“A duel, here on this very bridge. Your champion against mine. One must die; the other must walk through one of these doors on their own two feet. That door will remain forever open, the other, forever sealed.”
“And if we both fall?” Indy asked.
“Then both doors become sealed, and the last bridge across the river ceases to be. “
Indy frowned, unconvinced. “It seems like I could just walk through that door right now and skip this whole charade,” he said.
“That would end in what I can only describe as the worst possible outcome for you and your stolen countrymen.” Solis’ said matter-of-factly. “But I have more yet to offer. I have been watching you for some time, young Indion. I know it is not the glory of victory or the prestige of accolades that have driven you recklessly to my door. Within this duel, you shall find the answer to the question that has robbed you of your sleep, the doubts, the second guesses. You will find no greater challenge than what I offer you now. Within victory or death, you shall sleep better tonight than ever. ”
It was then that I knew Solis had him. Indy was locked in an illusion of choice, a personal prison for which there was only one way out.
“Fine,” Indion said finally. “I accept.”
“Excellent,” Solis said as a large parchment unfolded from within the burning light of his aura. “A signature in blood, and the deal is sealed.”
Indy took out a knife, cut a gash across his palm, and pressed it against the singed paper. It snapped as it rolled up, disappearing into the folds of Solis’s robes.
“No! You cannot! I screamed; my voice rendered silent, along with those of the rest of the red-faced onlookers. "Not again…” I whimpered…” Not again.”
“I suggest you prepare,” Solis said as he disappeared back into the dark. My chosen champion will arrive shortly.”
And then, with another snap, the sound of life roared back.
The restless crowd grew quiet as, a few moments later, another figure stepped out of the doorway. Upon seeing the haloed challenger, a confused hush fell upon the crowd, for I knew that only the most elite of the Truants fighting force had ever set their sights on a High Justicar before. The figure stood ten feet tall, each inch of him covered in intricate gold and red-flaked armor that gave off an opaque, almost glass-like appearance. The helmet had a tiny slit for a visor, with a mysterious glint shining through. In his hands, he carried a giant broadsword with a spinning sun-shaped sphere suspended in its hilt, and my heart continued to sink into depths unknown as I clung to my next emotional support object in the shape of an old cannon, a relic of some past conflict, wedged between a gap amongst the parapets.
Rain continued to pour down in sheets, and the steel bridge’s surface seemed to vibrate with palpable tension. Indion erupted into motion. His movements were lithe and quick. Each swift swipe of his blade was underscored by the sharp metallic crack of his revolver firing. But the projectiles didn't merely deflect but reversed course back toward the attacker. One slug struck Indion's shoulder with a sickening thud while another followed closely behind, forcing him to contort and evade mid-air. Still, he searched for weakness in the Justicar's seemingly impervious defense.
Indion maneuvered around each fiery sweep of his adversary’s weapon with a desperate elegance, narrowly avoiding scorching his leather armor at every turn. It soon became apparent he had targeted what seemed like a prominent weak spot - the tiny slit in the Justicar's helmet visor. Perhaps he believed there was a chink in that formidable armor.
I watched as Indion executed precise feints and nimble sidesteps to position himself within striking distance of his towering foe. Seeing an opportunity, he drove his revolver into the giant's meaty hand, firing the remaining slugs in his chamber in rapid shots. The unexpected assault forced the Justicar to instinctively readjust his grip, creating a fleeting chance that Indion seized without hesitation as he drove his blade deep into the vulnerable slit in the Justicar's helmet.
Indy jumped back, his breath heaving, before narrowly avoiding being cleaved in two by a flaming overhead strike that carved a deep, burning scar into the bridge’s surface.
Indion took a backward leap, pushed up off the near wall and onto the rampart, landing gracefully not but three feet away from where I crouched next to the old cannon. He lifted a foot on the rampart and leaned forward; his eyes narrowed as he peered down to the bridge. The Justicar stood exactly where he always had, moving only to reach up and yank out Indy’s sword from its visor slot before unceremoniously snapping the blade in half as if it were made of dried bark. He then resumed his defensive stance, holding a two-handed sword vertically across his body.
“Well, there goes that,” Indy said as he began to pat himself down. “Now, where did I put those…Ah,” he said with a hint of satisfaction as he fished out a sopping-wet pack of cigarettes from an inside jacket pocket. He closed one eye and peered inside the wet box, smacking one end until a limp white cigarette flopped out. “One left. By the Empty Gods, I promise it shall be my last if I live through this. Nasty habit, after all.”
I remained silent, unsure if he was talking to me or the wind.
He hunched over, cursing as he flicked his lighter, which, given the circumstances, could be forgiven for not producing a flame.
That's when he first looked at me as If just noticing I was there. “Spare a light?”
I nodded, conjuring a small flame from the tip of my thumb.
“Hey! Now there's a trick,” Indion said as he leaned over and inhaled deeply. The tip caught an ember, flaring bright with an orange glow as rain-battered smoke rose before his gaze returned to the Justicar on the bridge below.
“So clearly, I have mistaken the location of this gentleman’s head,” Indion concluded. “At first, I wondered if it was a case of him just having a prominent forehead or a prodigiously long neck. But then, why the visored helmet?”
I spoke out the side of my mouth, a simple suggestion hidden within the rhythm of the pattering rain. “Vent.”
“I bet it's a vent!” Indion exclaimed. His armor probably conducts heat like the backside of a muckman’s forge. I'd wager he can only keep that bastard of a blade ignited for so long before he cooks from the inside out.” He took a long haul of his cigarette. “Which means,” he continued through an exhale of dark smoke, “That his actual head is where his chest should be, and his chest is where…well, you get the idea. That reflective armor is a nasty piece of work, too. And how does he see? Is it some one-way glass?” He peered around, spotting a loop of steam hose nearby. “This thing energized?” He asked a nearby officer.
“Yes sir,” the rain-soaked officer responded sharply,
“How hot are you running it at?”
“Extremely.” Came the soldier's simple reply. “However, we won't have anything to hook it up to until-”
“Good enough,” Indion said as he heaved the thick house around one shoulder, stringing it towards the rampart's edge. With a mighty heave, he tossed the coil out onto the bridge. Frowning as it suddenly snapped taught, the nozzle landed with a clang a disappointedly fifty feet or so from the Truant entrance. “Don’t suppose there's any more length hiding somewhere?”
“Unfortunately not, sir.”
“One day, I’ll get a different answer to that question,” Indion murmured. Something else had caught his eye now - the cannon I had been holding on to like a life raft in a storm.
“Interesting, an old Briggam six-loader XL; two racks on each side, three oversized cannon balls loaded in each rack.” He said, scratching his chin as he looked it over. “Twenty pounds each instead of the standard ten-pound shot. Fires automatically once a cannonball is chambered as long as the wick is lit…”
He looked at me again, eyebrows raised in surprise as if noticing me for the first time, for the second time. “You there, mind If I try something?” He asked.
I continued my routine of silent nodding as I slowly stepped away.
“What are the chances...” His voice trailed off as he took the last remnants of his cigarette from his lips and pressed the ember against the cannon’s wick. A wide grin formed beneath the brim of his dripping wet hat as the wick caught flame, filling the air with the acrid smell of burning gunpowder.
“That settles it. “That was officially my last cigarette,” he said before looking at me again. “Mind if I borrow this?”
A rhetorical question, for the cannon was already off the rampart, sailing high above under the captain’s armpit, held tight against his torso like a farmer holding a prized hog.
Except this hog was forged in cast iron and vomited cannonballs, and once more, I was forced to add an addendum to my rule:
Exert no influence, except when accidentally enabling a series of seemingly insignificant coincidences that trigger a cause-and-effect reaction that becomes a considerable variable in determining the course of a significant, century-spanning conflict between two warring nations.
Indy was still airborne when the first shot let loose, a sharp crackling boom that rumbled through the rampart walls. The Justicar blade erupted in a vast, flaming arc, severing the projectile in two. But Indy was already onto the next phase of his moon-drunk plan, sliding feet first between the Justicar's legs, then jumping to his feet just as another thunderous clap sent the second projectile straight into the Justicar’s exposed backside. The Justicar brought his flaming blade in a deft backward arc, sending two more iron semispheres sailing into the mouth of the angry waters below. Indion, never one to linger, was already back in the air, a planted foot propelling him directly overtop the T-shaped helm of his foe and let loose the 3rd volley in a direct line downwards. The Justicar let his sword extinguish as he jumped backward, the cannonball bouncing off the bridge's steel surface and off the side to join the rest of his fallen comrades.
Three shots down, three shots left.
The fourth volley fired just as he touched down back on the Truant side of the bridge, but instead of springing away once more, he watched as the Justicar stepped deftly aside, the cannonball thudding into the rampart walls behind him. Even though I only caught a flashing glimpse of his eyes, I could tell he was smiling. The fires were burning bright inside those dark sockets. I, too, smiled then, for I had realized the extent of his plan. He had waited for the Justicar’s reaction to see if he would re-ignite his blade, revealing the threshold for ignition by stepping aside instead of cleaving through his cannon fire, cautious of overheating.
Indion burst into action, scooping up the steam hose and throttling the nozzle, casting the entire bridge in a vapor shroud. Steam hissed, rain clattered off steal, and the river roared. The silence was deafening as we all leaned forward in anticipation. The steam stopped, the air clearing, revealing a confused-looking Justicar glancing about before noticing the cannon between its legs, its nozzle pointing straight at its gauntleted hands a moment too late just as the fifth volley roared, steel crunching as his fist took the full brunt of the impact, the cannon exploding into splintering shards, the combined forces sending the Justicar sprawling backward, off balance, greatsword held wide in a single hand, its tip drawing unwieldy circles in the air as the great metal clad knight tried to regain balance.
A figure appeared below, emerging like a ghost from the last remnants of steam; his feet were planted firmly parallel to the edge of the bridge, his arm cocked backward, the sixth cannonball held in his palm.
Indion roared as he let loose an overhand throw, the ball soaring across the bridge at breakneck speed and connecting square into the Justicar's chest, cracks emerging in the plated surface as he stumbled backward, still stubbornly hanging on to his weapon.
“Drop the sword!” Indion shouted while planting his feet, hands stretched outwards as the predictable ricochet came rocketing to him. It struck him with a heavy thud, sending him skidding backward across the bridge's slippery surface. The impact forced him to his knees, and the cannonball held tight against his body. He stood up, steadied himself, sprinted forward, and once more was airborne as he leaped just as he crested the bridge's apex. “Bastard! Drop the sword!” he repeated as he let loose an overhand throw that sent the Justicar crashing against the opposite battlements before collapsing into a heap. The ricochet caught Indion square in the abdomen, sending him sailing backward once more and tumbling precariously across the bridge’s narrow span.
For a worrisome moment, Indy laid entirely still. Groaning, he propped himself on an elbow and let out a series of hacking coughs, blood spewing to mix with the rainwater on the bridge surface. Slowly, he rose and moved forward in staggered strides until he stood mere feet from the motionless Justicar.
He lifted the cannonball high above his head. “Just…drop it…,” he gasped, then brought the ball down, side-stepping the ricochet as the final projectile sailed off to join the rest of its kin in the river below.
The Justicar crumpled, the sword clattering from his hand, sword spinning across the bridge surface before falling inches from the edge.
Cheers erupted from the Truant side, and I could not help but join my voice with theirs. With Indion's final blow, it was as if he had banished the relentless rain as the sun began to peek shyly from beyond the clouds.
“Finish the fucker off Indy! Cut the power to that damn halo,” Came Morgans high pitched wail. “The sword belongs to you now! For Indion Ironsights!” For the Crimson Truancy! Forever Forward!”
“Forever Forward!” The crowd echoed in jubilant unison.
The cheers slowly subsided as Indy stood motionless before the crumpled Justicar for a long while, his back turned to us. Then, he limped over to where the great sword lay precarious at the bridge's edge, poking at it with his foot, inching it towards the edge. His eyes furrowed above a dark frown.
“What…what is he doing? An officer asked in an echo of my thoughts.
“N…No…, please,” A voice spoke in broken Truant, coming from the Justicar’s slumped figure.f
Indy looked at the armored man, the cracks in the mysterious plating revealing a broken nose above a mouth full of bloodied teeth.
“Why?” Indy asked, his tone genuine in its curiosity. “It’s just a sword.”
“When bested...in battle… A Justiciar must die by the edge of his weapon, held in his adversary's hand, for Solis has shown him that he is no longer worthy of wielding it himself. "
“Or?”
“Or be eternally forgotten, shunned from entering Stasis’ timeless halls.” The Justiciar coughed. “There is no worse fate…than this…”
Indy moved the sword beneath his foot further until the weight of the blade would tip to the rapids below if he were to lift his foot off the handle.
“And If I refuse?”
“Then you have condemned me and will live the rest of your days marked as a man devoid of honor. A mark that you will carry beyond the grave…where I’ll find you, and we shall fight for all of eternity…for I will make sure that you are robbed of the peace you so callously stole from me.”
Indy sighed. “You know, I chose the wrong day to quit smoking.”
“Wh-What?”
“Never mind,” Indy said. Then, with a painful-looking motion, he swiveled his foot around and shoved the sword towards the Justicar.
I knew that the Truant contingent was shouting in a chorus of angry confusion around me. So I projected my consciousness forward away from the din, filtering out the waves, wind, and dripping leftovers falling from every surface. I knew this was Indy’s defining moment, the culmination of my mission, and I refused to miss a single word.
“You do it,” Indion said flatly.
The bright flame in the young Captain’s eyes was gone, replaced by a swirling darkness that echoed his words, and I no longer recognized him.
“I don’t…understand…”
“Show me what honor looks like if you must die by your blade. That is your responsibility, not mine. Only a truly pathetic god leaves the fate of his devout to the whims of their killers. Show me that honor is not just a fantasy, a false reality sold to children begging for the chance to join the next wave of fodder in some meaningless war, another corpse to add to the burning pile. Just as that halo above your head leads you to do the same.”
“How…dare you!”
“I wonder if this god of yours has saved space for the countless haloed corpses I reaped on my path here. Enough to stack to the moon and back tenfold, an ocean of blood spilled in the name of this so-called protector of peace. Does this honor you speak of apply to them, too?
“Blasphemer!”
“Prove me wrong. Your blade is right there, its edges still sharp. Punch your ticket. It would be rude to leave Stasis waiting. I'm sure a great celebration is planned for his most honorable warrior.”
“Sacrilege!” The Justicar roared, blood and spit spewing from his lips, the cracks in his armor reforming like a living liquid to cover his face once more as he gripped his great sword in his broken hands and lurched to his feet.
This was bad.
This was really bad.
Indion was in no shape for a fight. Just from a glance, it was clear he had broken several ribs, possibly puncturing a lung, not to mention the ever-darkening bullet wound in his shoulder. His only weapon, a six revolver, would only cause him more grievous injuries if used against the Justiciar reflective armor. But if he was afraid, he did not show it. And behind the black clouds that swirled in the depths of his eyes, I saw something that froze me to my core.
A flicker of resignation.
The Justiciar lunged forward, broad, sweeping blows coming in slow, predictable arcs, easily sidestepped by the Captain even in his damaged state.
Whenever the Justiciar would veer left or right, lost in his rage. Indion would unleash another torrent of blasphemous rhetoric or fire a series of gunshots errantly wide. He slowly guided the deranged haloed warrior to the Truant end of the bridge, where he did something unthinkable.
Indion faked a stumble, pretending to trip over some unseen debris at his feet; he lurched over, holding out his right hand and the revolver it held out wide as if attempting to catch his balance.
The bait was too tempting to ignore; the Justicar lunged forward, blade flashing in a deadly arc, severing Indy’s right arm just below the elbow. Blood painted the air crimson as Indy let loose a guttural scream that echoed off the long and winding walls of the river-forged chasm.
As I watched, time seemed to slow. Every detail crystallized in my memory: the disbelieving horror in Morgan's eyes from the ramparts above, the shock and confusion etched on the faces of their comrades, the strange, twisted satisfaction that flickered across Indion's face, mingling with the agony that racked his body. The feint that had cost him his right hand had been a distraction from what he now held in his left. A brass nozzle at the end of the snaking steam hose he had tossed earlier. With just enough length left for him to reach up and shove into the narrow slit at the top of the Justiciars helmet.
A sneer formed on Indy’s ghostly pale lips. “See you in Hells.”
Then, he opened the nozzle wide.
The Justicar shrieked in agony as his armor became a prison and a furnace. The Black armor glowed hot red as he flailed wildly, stumbling one way, then the other, and then he was gone—off the edge of the bridge, swallowed and carried away by Astas's raging torrent.
Indion picked up the great sword, dragging it behind him in slow, meandering steps as blood poured from his severed wrist.
As he crossed the threshold, collapsing into the arms of a team of medics, the metal door on the far side of the bridge slowly closed. The most strategic and feasible route to Thermalion’s conquest forever shut.
The metallic stench of blood and disinfectant assaulted my nostrils as I stood in the makeshift field hospital, now donning the guise of a medic. Doctor Lazar Tardig, his hands slick with crimson fluids, worked frantically to stem the torrential flow of blood from Indion's severed limb.
"Get me more bandages!" he barked, and I hastily complied as the nation's next great war hero lay upon the table in the back of the medic wagon, pale as death itself, his blood-shot eyes wild with pain. But he did not scream, for beneath the torment etched upon his features, there was something else - a strange, almost tangible, serene sense of relief.
_____________
Three years later, I stood among the raucous crowd at a clandestine bare-knuckle fight, wearing a stranger's face. The dimly lit, smoke-filled room reeked of sweat, cheap alcohol, and desperation.
In one corner, a surprised and horrified look painted the face of the man now forever marked by the loss of his gun-hand, a rounded knob of flesh just below his right elbow. For in the other stood none other than his former brother-in-arms, Morgan Stockend, his nervous energy barely contained as he shifted restlessly on the balls of his feet, eyes locked on his former brother-in-arms.
The place was packed, everyone standing on their feet. Indion has gained quite the reputation in the years since his honorable discharge, and tonight was a particular milestone for Indy "Five Knuckles" Ironsights - on the verge of his fiftieth straight win. But it was clear from the look on his face that tonight's opponent was not one he was expecting ever to see again, let alone opposite him in the fighting pit. An uncertainty that was evident from the starting bell, from the careful way he pulled his punches, not wanting to harm the same person he had once so instinctually protected. But it was a fistfight, after all...
Morgan fought back with all the tenacity I remembered from their days on the battlefield, refusing to yield even as his body began to betray him. Blood streamed down his face, staining his shirt crimson. Although the noise in the room made it difficult to hear, I could see the pleading words on Indion's lips:
"Concede, you fool, concede!"
Instead, with blood and sweat trickling down his face, Morgan spat venomous words at Indion, accusing him of cowardice, abandonment, and neglecting the potential of his golden genetics. An ascension that his bloodline would take generations to achieve. Sharp words, cruel and unforgiving, but not untrue.
The words found their mark - Indion's eyes darkened, his jaw clenched, and I felt unease ripple through me. A ten-minute round seemed ten years, and Morgan was unrelenting, staggering on his feet as venom continued to drip from his mouth.
The ring of the nine-minute bell set the spark, a dark flame igniting in Indion’s empty eye, just as it had on the bridge three years prior. I no longer recognized him.
With a too-wide smile, Indion pounced upon his former friend in a brutal one-handed barrage. Indy howled with maniacal laughter, each punch punctuated by a sickening crunch of bone and cartilage.
Morgan slumped against the wall, but Indion did not stop. His face twisted into a grotesque, blood-spattered parody of glee. His laughter rang out, wild and unhinged, a rictus smile below two dark eyes as his one-handed strikes fell like hammer blows, each a lethal proclamation that the sapling had not escaped the insidious rot that had festered within his father's roots. Indion was lost, for whatever hope may have remained for his redemption would forever be swallowed by the tide of hatred within his bloodline.
The days that proceeded that gruesome spectacle were the last my withering body could bear, consumed by the dark sickness inflicted upon my vessel of flesh and bone. While such physical ailments no longer burden me, it did not rid me of the white-hot fear that forever sears at my soul.