“Howie, come have a seat and a cup of coffee.”

  The surge of irritation welling up at the gentle offer is a testament to how high strung I really am, and I gotta exhale long and hard before I’m ready to answer. “No thanks Aunty Ray,” I whisper, eyes fixed on the flashing lights on the distance horizon as if I can will my eyes to see through the grayscale shadows and pick out what’s going on. “I’m good.”

  “Howie.” Though far from harsh, there’s a commanding tone in Aunty Ray’s utterance of my name, one that makes me want to stand up straight even though I’m only hunched over so I can look through my rifle scope. “You got at least fifteen minutes before you gotta deal with what’s comin’ our way, so take a seat, relax, and warm up before you vex me into dropping Concentration.”

  She’s joking of course. This is a woman capable of reading Video straight off a crystal and using Major Illusion to recreate what she sees in real time. Holding an Illusion to hide our barely visible figures up on this rock formation is child’s play in comparison, and doubly so given how the base 10-minute duration of the Spell has yet to pass. Sure, the Spell requires Concentration right out the gate, but there’s degrees of difficulty to it, like the difference between reading a book while snuggled up on your favourite chair with your best bird in your lap, or reading that same book while you taking Aetherarm fire in a warzone. One is much easier than the other, meaning if Aunty Ray drops Concentration in the here and now, it’d be because she done it on purpose.

  That said, I get what she’s getting at, that I need to take a load off while I can because you don’t know what’s coming next. Engaging the safety on my Nanfoodle, I let it hang on my new sling and follow her back to the wagon where she got the kettle steaming and ready to pour. Another ripple of irritation courses through me over how easy breezy Aunty Ray is treating all this, boiling water and making coffee even during such dire circumstances. Then logic takes hold when I remember she’s keeping us hidden, so if the steam from a kettle or sound of it boiling gives us away, then chances are we were up against an Abby that was gonna spot us to begin with. She’s a top tier Illusionist, Aunty Ray is, and even though Supporter is only her secondary role, that don’t mean she can’t do the job as good as any. All it means is that she’s more valuable Disrupting the enemy than she is Supporting her allies, which just goes to show how good of a Disrupter she really is.

  On par with Captain Jung’s prowess in Evocation, I’d say, or possibly even better. Sure, they both took a Spell with an instantaneous effect and learned how to stretch it out over a whole minute. In Captain Jung’s case though, it’s Burst Bolt, allowing her to fire up to 192 Bolts in one minute flat. Which is impressive to be sure, but not as impressive as what Aunty Ray can do with Hypnotic Pattern. By sustaining the effect in a 10-meter cube area, she’s able to not only dazzle and incapacitate every enemy that enters in range, anyone who manages to shake off the effect will be affected soon after once again, so long as they’re still in the target area. That’s huge, because with Spells like that, those affected tend to snap out of their fugue when shit starts exploding around them or they take grievous bodily harm, but if Aunty Ray’s the one casting the Spell, then they’ll just get lost in the pattern again a few seconds later, leaving them unable to run or wake their friends still caught up in the effect.

  Meaning that for a full minute, or possibly longer if she can maintain it, Aunty Ray can pretty much lock down an entire 10-meter area all by her lonesome. Gives time for her allies to set up, dig in, fall back, or otherwise react accordingly, or for a Striker to carefully pick out the best place to put down a Fireball or whatever Big Spell they prefer. Sure, it costs her a Third Order Spell to do it and only lasts a minute, but sixty seconds lasts a lot longer when you going by fight time.

  In retrospect, I should’ve held onto my second Fireball during the last fight. Could’ve spent a full minute gunning down helpless Abby and saved myself the 16 Aether, a mistake I won’t make again.

  If that ain’t enough to convince you that Aunty Ray is a better Spellslinger than the best Evoker this side of the Divide, then lemme point out another factoid. Burst Bolt is a Second Order Spell. While Captain Jung can upcast the Spell to Third Order, she is still yet unable to sustain any other Spells in the same way, much less a proper Third Order Spell like Fireball. Aunty Ray though? She most certainly can, as Hypnotic Gaze is a Third Order Spell, and that there ought to be enough to clinch it. It also ain’t the only Spell she can sustain, as she got a mean Command that’ll linger long after it’s supposed 2 or 3 second duration, even if she don’t use it often.

  Yeah, Rachel Walker-Bradshaw is most certainly up to Ranger standards when it comes to Spellslinging, and she also knows enough about the rest to teach me a few things. Like how to take a load off before a big fight, instead of standing with weapon aimed down sights for a full 30 minutes all tense and nervous as can be. Would’ve tired me out long before the fight even started, so I’m right grateful for the reminder, and ashamed by my hair-trigger temper that’s got me feeling sour for it. So I give her my best smile as I accept the hot cup of coffee and squeeze her hand three times after taking the cup, which gets her to beaming bright all cheery and carefree despite the danger looming over the horizon.

  Hurry up and wait, that’s the soldier’s lot, a mantra told to me by all manner of professionals over the years, and a lesson I have yet to fully understand. This right here is one of the hardest things to do, how to unwind and take a breather when tensions are high, and if I’m having troubles with it, then Tina’s probably even worse off. Glancing over at my sorta sister, I see her sat in the driver’s seat with her knees tucked to her chest and steamy mug cupped between both hands, ostensibly like she’s cold and tired, but all I see is scared and nervous.

  So being the older brother, I climb on up and take a seat across from her so Aunty Ray can take the other seat. Don’t say nothing, just meet her eyes, flash a smile, and hoist my cup in a little ‘cheers’ gesture that gets her to reciprocate. Then all that’s left to do is to relax, because if you remember one the thing about the Walker-Bradshaws, you remember that they are highly empathetic. The mere act of seeing me lean back and take a load off is enough to get the tension flowing out of Tina’s shoulders, and she even puts her feet down after a sec, though that might be due to her mama’s presence sat right beside her. The important thing is that company is all Tina needs to get out of her head and shake off her funk, as she leans heavily on her mama’s shoulder in search of warmth and solace. Which she finds, because she’s able to let her guard down once I’ve done the same, and she feels safe knowing I feel safe enough to be here instead of standing vigil over by the edge.

  I don’t of course, because I’m paranoid like that, but Aunty Ray is 100% right. We got time, and all I’ll do is wear myself out fretting over there.

  So I enjoy my coffee and bask in the presence of two of my best girls while staring up at the stars. One of the best ways to get my mind off my troubles, but a better one shows up soon enough as Chrissy tentatively lifts the front flap of the wagon and peeks out to see what we up to. The glint of her Darkvision glasses gives her away, though I wouldn’t be able to see it if I didn’t have Darkvision myself, courtesy of the goggles I got on. Course, her shades look much more fashionable than my bug-eyed headgear, but my daddy was never cared much for appearance so long as things were neat and tidy. Function over form, that’s him, so he got me goggles because they’ll protect my eyes from more than just the glare of the sun.

  Like sand and Acid, though I don’t much like getting hit by Acid anywhere, and I most certainly would not care to get hit in the face. Ain’t ever heard a man really scream like them mafiosos did while I emptied a vial over their bodies, and I heard a lot of different screams in what I would’ve thought were worse situations.

  “Hiya Chrissy,” I say, forcing a smile as I push the memory back down into the cold, fathomless depths of my belly. Gave up the game, as Tina and Aunty Ray had yet to notice, but I couldn’t help it. Besides, Chrissy don’t like feeling left out, as evidenced by how she leans out once the flap is secured and buries her face in her mama’s shoulder. Pulls her sister in close too, throwing a little fit of pique over how she been left in the wagon all by her lonesome, though that proves false as baby Cowie sticks his head out soon after. “Ain’t that a sight?” I say, leaning back to snap a one-handed Photo of the scene, which I’ll put on a crystal and hand over to Aunty Ray sometime for her to brighten up with light and colour.

  Assuming we all make it out of here alive of course.

  A grim thought to contend with while the girls placate Chrissy until she’s ready to pose for a real picture. It’s a darling sight it is, her leaning out the wagon with her arms around her mama and sister who both got big, genuine smiles instead of those fake soft smiles most people put on when you tell them to say cheese. Add in Cowie’s wide-eyed exuberance as he butts in from the side and we got one that belongs on the wall back home. Aunty Ray’s home at least, and maybe I’ll even get a print for myself and hang it in my new house once it’s built.

  This here is what I’m fighting for, their smiles and these moments right here. “That’s a winner,” I say, ignoring the look traded between Tina and Aunty Ray, which are most certainly brimming with doubt and might even include an eye roll or three. Can’t see it, but that don’t mean it ain’t there, because they got high standards when it comes to things like framing and composition, when I figure getting the faces in focus is good enough. Seeing Chrissy shiver, I direct her back in to grab her cloak at least, as she just crawled out of her bedroll to see what’s what. Seeing this, Aunty Ray clicks her tongue and heads around to help Chrissy into something warmer, because the silly girl is only wearing her jammies and won’t voluntarily change so soon after bedtime.

  She should though, because chances are the three of them are gonna have to make a break for it soon enough, so she’s gonna want to be dressed for the weather. A fact which Aunty Ray accepts, even if she don’t dwell on it, which is why she hopped right to getting Chrissy dressed. “You still remember what I told you Chrissy?” I ask, which is a mistake, because it’s too open ended for her to say yes or no. Reaching out to touch her cheek so she focuses on me instead of trying to make sense of what’s in her head, my heart pangs with love and grief as she leans in to the touch and grabs my hand in both of hers to warm them up.

  Odd that, my Wildshaped Hand being warm to the touch. Means my blood is flowing through it then, which should bring all sorts of trouble, seeing how it’s a Conjured construct of pure Ecto, not actual flesh and muscle. Internal contact with Aether is a big nono, and Ecto is pure Aether given shape. Temporary shape, but shape all the same, so any blood flowing out of the hand should be bring Aether back into me, which in turn should technically rot me from the inside out. Contagion is the word for it, which is also what they call the type of damage done by certain Spells, and so far modern science got no answer for it. Necrotic damage is similar, in how it’ll cause you to literally decay in real time, but at least that can be countered with Radiant Energy to restore whatever was damaged, or at the very least keep things from getting worse.

  Yeah, best to be proactive when dealing with Necrotic damage, stop it before it has a chance to take effect, but ain’t nothing to be done about Contagion except make your peace with the Lord above and pray the damage stops spreading before it gets to something vital.

  Aunty Ray’s arrival inside the wagon interrupts my little talk with Chrissy, but I get right back to it once she’s got a sweater and jacket on over her jammies. Got a limited amount of time, but I get Chrissy’s attention right quick as all I gotta do is reach out with my right hand to capture her focus. “Eyes on me please,” I whisper, and she snaps her head up to comply. “You remember what to do when you hear gunshots?”

  Nodding rapid quick, Chrissy says, “Take cover. Sit in the corner. Hang onto the handrails right. Stay quiet.”

  “Until me, Tina, or your mama comes to fetch you.” Hesitating, I ask, “You remember the second thing?” Chrissy pauses, then nods, though she don’t say it out loud, because even guileless as she is, she understands some things ain’t supposed to be said. She’s not supposed to use her Big Spell, but I done given her permission to, because if worst should come to worst, then she might have to fend for herself.

  Won’t win no battles, but if the three of us are already gone, then she might put up enough of a fight to keep Abby from taking her alive. That’s all you can really ask for at this point, because we’re stuck in deep only a day’s ride from the Divide with Abby all astir because some fools done disturbed them just as they was getting ready to go quiet for the winter. Seriously, another week or two and they could’ve strolled from the south end of the Divide all the way to the Coral Desert if they so pleased, assuming there’s enough snow on the group to keep Abby asleep. All the Ferals of the Divide ain’t built for the cold, because creating heat burns precious energy that could go towards feeding the Proggies, and the same can be said of extra padding to keep warm.

  Squeezing Chrissy’s fingers three times right quick, I hold on tight even after Aunty Ray takes her seat again, because she don’t wanna take off her boots and sit inside the wagon with Chrissy. She got her 3-Line at the ready and her Whumper slung across her back, looking far more alert than Tina who left her Merlin leaning against the side of the seat. No sense dinging her for it though, because she got enough weighing heavy on her mind for now, so I don’t need to go adding to it. Try as I might to enjoy the moment, my mind keeps going back to what’s to come, so I tell Chrissy to try and get some shut eye before heading back to the ridge to make ready for our unwelcome visitors.

  Credit where it’s due, Tina follows hot on my heels, while Aunty Ray keeps Chrissy company for a bit. The gunshots are getting louder now, but also far less frequent. Guess our ‘friends’ are running low on ammo, and it ain’t much of a surprise considering they’ve been making a racket for so many days now. Say what you will about their brains, of which they got none, but you can’t fault them for their strength. Unless they’re riding with a wagon convoy packed solely with ammo, then the only way for these strangers to have made it this far after kicking over the hornet’s nest last week is to have some serious magical muscle to fall back on.

  Hence why my first instinct is to pull the trigger as soon as the first head pops into view, because I’d rather kill them all now and take my chances with Abby than the other way around.

  That’s the big reason why I told Tina to light out as soon as I give her the word, because the worst-case scenario ain’t falling to Abby. The worst case is winning the fight, then getting double crossed by these formidable strangers. Desperate folks can do all sorts of terrible things, as I myself discovered first hand, but even if they on the up and up, I can’t let my guard down. A foreign force of soldiers operating this deep in the badlands has to have some reason for being here, reasons which might mean they won’t want any witnesses placing them here or knowing what they was up to. I don’t know shit of course, but you show me a veteran soldier, and I’ll show you someone who don’t like leaving things to chance.

  Got no choice though. Can’t rightly murder these folks in cold blood, because there’s doing what needs to be done, and then there’s making things easier on yourself by making it harder on others. That second bit is how outlaws and gangsters operate, and I ain’t no outlaw or gangster. Besides, if these strangers are actual factual soldiers of another nation and word gets out of what I done, then the Feds might well have me arrested and extradited even if there ain’t no treaty with the other party in place.

  Or at the very least, they’ll look the other way when foreign government operatives come a knocking at my door. Make no mistake. I’m good at what I do. Damn good even. Thing is, I’ve learned firsthand how hard it is to keep my small, empty village of one secure, and I can’t imagine anything I’ve done holding out against soldiers with real skills.

  So I hope for the best and prepare for the worst as best I can, without shooting anyone dead until they give me proper justification. Not that I could shoot them from this far out anyways, not while looking through my scope with Darkvision goggles on. Though I still get the same grayscale images even whilst peering through the glass, the clarity of the image looks all smudged and blurry due to how the Spell works. Not to mention how the muzzle flash and flaming Bolt would blind me if I was staring at it through the Scope, because Darkvision does not do well in bright light.

  I know, big surprise. Fact is, Darkvision is actually worse in bright light situations, so a lot of Abby that got it natural fare worse in daylight. A trade off made due to economical considerations no doubt, as Proggies do be a penny-pinching bunch when it comes to getting the most bang for buck out of their Aether and biomass. Problem is, even though there’s evidence that Proggies got a better solution up their sleeves, one that lets Abby see through darkness of the mundane and magical varieties, Proggies have never bothered turning that into a Spell and putting it into a Core.

  Probably because it’s too high Order for them to be bothered. I mean, regular Darkvision is a Second Order Spell, and that already seems too high for what you get, especially when there’s tech to solve the issue for you.

  Long story short, what I’m saying is that if there’s a fight, it’s gonna be up close, at 150 or so meters max. Probably closer, because I’m pretty sure them indistinct strangers are making a beeline for this very defensible rock formation upon which we are standing. If they know the lay of the land, then they know this here is one of the best places to go down fighting, as it’ll take Abby some doing to dig their way up the rock formation instead of using the one and only path up.

  Ain’t no winning against an all-out Abby assault, but fighting here would buy them the most time. Annoying is what that is, but it is what it is, so ain’t nothing to be done but sit and wait. As our guests make ready to arrive with their entourage of Abby, I pose a question for Tina to give her something to focus on, and give Aunty Ray a bit of a refresher seeing how she done followed us over. “Anyone teach you how to eyeball range so you can use the iron sights?” Tina nods, which is to be expected, and doesn’t take her eyes off her scope, so I say, “Walk me through it then.”

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  Learn by teaching, that’s the method my daddy used to teach me, and Tina ain’t no stranger to it either. Gives a little pout as she furrows her brow in thought, but it don’t take her long to get her words in order. “At 600 yards or further, all you see are indistinct blobs. People shaped ones sure, but most you can do is make out their general shape.”

  “540 meters,” I say, because I’m a stickler for metric. Never understood why the old-world Americans get so stubborn about using Imperial. Every other nation I run into uses metric, and not without reason. It just makes sense, so to prep Tina for the future, I get her into the habit of thinking in both. “Take 90% of the value in yards, and you get meters,” I explain, which is about as easy as it gets when going from one system to the other. Don’t get me started on feet, inches, or lord help me, Fahrenheit to Celsius. “Go on.”

  No doubt shooting me a look from behind her glasses, Tina raises her head to look over her sight, which got irons built in and says, “So yeah. Indistinct blobs. At 500 yards, or 450 meters, like they’re coming up on now, you can see a little more detail on them, but not much, and there’s no light showing from between their legs even when they all back lit nice and proper.”

  From the moonlight and gunfire, though again, it’s irregular and intermittent at best. Though they still mostly blobs of grey when I look through the scope, I can make out a few distinct shapes about them with the naked eye, like how they got big furred hats up top of their heads and moving in clean formation. Three to a group, three groups to a side, four sides of coverage, and a good number of bodies moving in the centre. All at a fairly rapid pace, one that’s augmented by Longstrider for sure, but also Expeditious Retreat or some other Spell that allow for quick movement in short bursts. That’s the tell, their uneven pace, going slow, then speeding up for a few seconds before going back to slow again as the Abby horde strives to ring them in and stall their advance.

  Mostly Swarmlings and Spitters as far as I can tell, by they way all them small blobs throw themselves at the outer perimeter and die right quick. That’s the issue with Feral specialization though. There’s always gonna be a weakness, and in this case, they traded their strength and toughness for speed and numbers, while those Abby tough enough to put up a fight have long since been left in these strangers’ dust.

  “At 400 yards or 360 meters, you can make out actions and clothes, but not their heads,” Tina continues, just in time for the strangers to cross that threshold, and my throat tightens to see it. Those big fur hats they wearing is called an ushanka, which is a Soviet style of clothing, and them strangers be wearing Soviet style great cloaks too. All dark and uniform too, or at least they look the part with Darkvision from this distance. Could be different colours, but I doubt it, because the whole point of military uniforms is to look the part. Let you know who’s friendly and who’s not at a glance, which can come in real handy when you caught in a pinch.

  Like these bastards here are. Caught in a pinch that is, and most certainly military to boot. Soviet hats and Soviet jackets might led most to suspect they Soviet military, Order of the Red Star, but that ain’t enough to say for certain. The clothing style is distinct, but a lot of them Eastern bloc types use the same type of clothes, and there are a few other nations that borrowed the look too, including one in particular that makes more sense than Soviets. The Order of the Red Star got a base up north after all, dug in at the furthest reaches of the Serpent’s Fang Mountain Range as they can get, because they’re determined to fight their way through the orc and goblin infested tunnels to find a path to the other side of the Divide.

  Whereas our friends here come from the south, which makes it highly unlikely they Soviets, and me all the more ready to kill once I know for sure who they are.

  Unaware of my shift in mood and ignorant of who our guests might be, Tina continues on explaining how to eyeball range. 270 meters, you see a distinct person and can make a count, but you can’t see what they doing with the hands. You get that at 180 meters, but still can’t make out any faces, not even with the sharpest eyesight. I grit my teeth and take it all in, watching how they fight to prove my guess right, even though I’ll find out soon enough when they cross the 90-meter mark and I can make out the features still shrouded by shadows and distance.

  The signs are all there. Soviet clothes, but Prussian gear, or at least gear that was designed by a Prussian and further ‘engineered’ with mass manufacturing in mind. Not using factory machines and high-quality steel mind you, but bare hands working with the cheapest, roughest, and most readily available materials around, because they believe in strength in numbers above all else. They call it ‘strength in unity’, but everyone else knows what it really is, a numbers game in which lives are currency and spent freely so long as the juice looks worth the squeeze. That’s why they use crap guns like the Maosers, fast-firing semi-automatics with the precision of a can of paint thrown in a general direction, or the Soviet-made monstrosity that is the Sick-Boom.

  That’s what I call it at least, because I can’t pronounce the actual name. Don’t matter though, because the name fits, what with the rifle being a pump-action, single-Core revolver Blastgun that feeds shells from a revolving array of six tubes to be shot out with a flaccid bang. That’s what the pump does, manually cycle the cylinder of strapped tubes which enables the Sick-Boom to hold a whopping 36 shells at full load. Impressive as that might sound, the gun cannot physically shoot at a rate any faster than once every five seconds, because the gun still gotta Prime and Exhaust after every pull of the trigger, a lengthy process without the proper Metamagics or multi-Core setup so commonly found on fancier revolvers like mine.

  Which is why the name fits. Not only does the Sick-Boom got the lowest rate of fire possible, it don’t got all that many Metamagics either, because crystal Aether is also at a premium when you spread it so thin, so they cheap out on their ammo too. Forget overpacked rounds, the Qinks run around with underpacked ones that typically squeak in at 5 Grain shells whenever they can, as opposed to your standard 10 for a Cantrip, whereas a piece of junk like the Sick-Boom only uses 12 Aether total instead of 40 to tack Distant and Extend Duration onto their Blast Core for maximum sprinkle coverage of their lackluster sprays.

  The tactics are another dead giveaway of their identity, because that safe blob in the middle ain’t for their tired or injured. No, it’s for their strongest soldiers to rest and recuperate while their ‘comrades’ buy time with their lives, with those lower on the totem pole believing it their civic duty to die for their superiors who will then lead the way into the future. That’s some next level brainwashing, national pride that would make even the most patriotic of patriots look down in shame, and the Feds would give their left arms to be so effective.

  Not to say it’s all bad news. These fellas do some things right, I’ll give them that. Like putting a lot of stock in personal Spellslinging abilities, since gear is so near and dear to their hearts. Truth is, they use shit guns for a reason; there are just so many of these bastards running around, which makes it hard to equip each and every one of them. They got more bodies on the Frontier than any other nation on the Frontier. That’s why they got people willing to die for the cause, because they know there will be others to take their place once they fall. Seen it first hand myself when three such ‘patriots’ shot my daddy dead, then saluted while I shot them in return, because they thought they was doing their Republic a service, that I’d return to the fold once the traitor who led me astray was no longer pulling my strings.

  Ridiculous is what it is, but logic and critical thinking ain’t high on the list of your average Qink’s priorities.

  And make no mistake; these are most certainly Qinks, with the evidence right there before my eyes as they cross the 90-meter mark while running headlong towards the rock formation. Can’t rightly describe it, because Qinks are a varied bunch they are, almost as varied as Euro types. Least that’s how I see it, though lotta folks of various different colours seem to have trouble telling the difference sometimes. I ain’t blaming them, because I’m the same way sometimes, but these folks don’t got a whole lot of similarities among them. Some got fair skin, pale as Tina’s even, though with a cooler undertone that leads folks to calling them yellow. Others are tanned dark, not as dark as say Errol or Sheriff Patel, but enough so I have trouble picking out their features even with grayscale Darkvision to help me along.

  Some got big, round eyes, others thin slanted ones. There are lithe, skinny Qinks, and big, burly Qinks. Some got clean shaven features that only rarely need the touch of a razor, while others got great, flowing beards that would make Uncle Rigsby nod in appreciation. I see thin, pointed noses, and wide, flat ones, as many rounded heads as there are egg-shaped ones. Most are short, but a couple stand outs are easily taller than I am, and not by a small margin, and while it seems like most got pointed, narrow jaws, there are almost as many square ones in sight.

  What I’m getting at is that to my eyes, the Qin don’t much look like one unified nation, but they sure act like it. They fight in perfect tandem as they make their approach, working in small groups to push forward and fight back against the encroaching tide of Abby. They don’t just hold a position as they run either. Each group is slowly shifting to the right as they go, cycling out the Vanguard holding the rear and letting them catch their breath up front. All the while, the folks in the middle stand stock still atop their Floating Discs, letting their allies pull them along as they run across the rugged badlands. Would explains how they covered so much ground on foot, because if they took turns running and resting, they could cover as much or possibly even more ground than a proper horse.

  Would be hard on the runners of course, because even with breaks, it ain’t easy running 50 klicks in a day, nor would I care to do it more than once a month, much less on consecutive days like they have.

  That’s what I see. Tired, ragged Qink Vanguard who coming to the end of their rope, but Aunty Ray sees different. “They’re children,” she gasps, her eyes no doubt filling with tears as the scene unfolds before her. “Some can’t be much older than twelve or thirteen.” She ain’t wrong, but ain’t like them kids are fighting on the front lines. They’re reloading Maoser magazines and Sick-Boom tubes for others to use, and there only like 5 or 6 of them. The others are women, slim and petite ones, but no less fierce for it as they give Abby what for with an almost casual disregard for their own lives. More than once, I watch one Qink keep on trucking along as a Swarmling launches itself towards them, but rather than dodge, block, or even fighting back, they continue to reload their weapon or whatever it is they do while relying on their partners to cover their backs.

  And not for nothing, most of the time, it’s what happens. See, given how their Aetherarms are sorely lacking both in terms of quantity and quality, the Qin Vanguard have taken it upon themselves to learn how to kill Abby not with guns, but spears instead, which is the weapon of choice for most in this group. The odd thing is not how effective they are, and truth is, they’re doing much better than I thought, but the fact that ‘gun’ and ‘spear’ is the same fucking word in Qinese, which is probably what led them to favour the weapon in the first place.

  That and the fact that pointy sticks have been in use for so long it’s practically in our DNA. I’m talking all of humanity mind you, not just Qinks, but they certainly make spears look good as they stab, sweep, and strike in a flurry of blows to kill Abby en masse. They got some Spells to them too, Elemental Strike Cantrips lighting up in a flash of Fire or Lightning with every blow, or lashing out with Echoing Strikes that send their targets flying away, only to erupt in a squelch of force as the Cantrip takes effect a few moments later and tears them apart from inside out as the penetrating force erupts from within. A few Spellslingers with juice left in the tank throw up Dragon’s Breath to emit conical sprays of Frost to slow their pursuers, while others send out streams of Acid from their palms, utilizing Caustic Spray to good effect amongst the hordes of Abby that overtake their allies and clump up real good to show exactly why the First Order Conjuration Spell is banned by the Geneva Convention.

  That’s the general gist of it all, but there are a few stand out exceptions among the crowd. There’s one fella with a glowing Magical Sword, no doubt Conjured with a Spell, though the glow only appeared when he ran into range of my Detect Magic Spell. Then again, I could’ve guessed it was magical going by how it cuts through Abby flesh like butter, leaving vast swathes of gore and corpses behind him with every circuit around the centre. Then there’s the girl who standing at the forefront of the group, still within the outer circle but apart from the crowd so she can swing her ball and chain to strike from mid-range using the Living Whip Cantrip.

  They’re a cut above the rest, but there’s one lithe fella or lady whose performance astounds even me as they dart in and out of the Abby horde and range far beyond the protective circle of his or her allies to really get stuck in. Got no weapon in hand and moves a lot like Carter, with long, bounding leaps, and ninja flips except theirs are somehow faster and more direct, with less hang time between each Jump. It’s almost like they taking really long steps kinda, their legs pumping quick as a blink as they dive into the crowd only to send bodies flying with pummeling blows before emerging unscathed a second later and making their way back to the safety of their allies.

  All of which makes for a valiant effort to be sure, but pales in comparison to the work one man does. An older man, that’s all I can tell, because I refuse to believe there’s a kid younger than me who can fight like he can, moving in burst of speed I can’t even track and lending a hand to whichever group is in need. All I see is this unarmed man move, in a way similar to the other younger fella, except the difference is like night and day in a way that’s difficult to describe.

  You ever seen someone who’s mastered their craft? Someone who has got one task locked down pat? Don’t matter how simple it might be, it’s gonna look impressive. Could be the sailor who effortlessly ties his boat up at the docks using only one hand and a casual flick of his wrist, or the factory worker sorting parts on the assembly belt without having to look, or the construction working falling into the rhythm as he hammers nail after nail into the wall without slowing down even once.

  Take that level of casual competence and put it into someone who kills Abby, and that’s what I’m seeing here. Man looks like he’s taking a stroll, with head upright, arms at his side, and robes fluttering behind him as he shows up wherever trouble is a brewing only to solve it with a single strike. Hits one Swarmling and sends it hurtling back into the crowd, where it explodes in a spatter of gore that kills at least three more Swarmings around him. Moves to the next group and sweeps his leg in a wide arc, scything through five Abby in on go as he moves on without a second glance, because he’s gotta hustle to grab a sixth Swarmling mid-air to stop it from killing another Qink. Stops it easily as grabbing a child, and sends it hurtling into the ground with a casual flick of the wrist, before moving on with steps that look light as a feather but send up whole dust clouds around him each time his boots touch the ground.

  While crushing Abby underfoot with every step along the way.

  All of which is so impressive it took me this long to realize he’s got a whole bunch of tentacles dangling from his chin in place of a beard. They’re an ugly purple-red hue, like a giant bruise, all fleshy, twitch tendrils dangling from everywhere he ought to have hair except for his head which is bald as can be. Don’t carry no weapon, but wears a golden robe that marks him as an elite among elites, a Qin Republic Battle Monk who’s trained his whole life to turn his body into a weapon.

  Course, I can’t make out the colour of his robes or tentacles as I’m seeing everything in grayscale, but I remember this Innate well. Was stood to the left of my mother’s brother the one and only time I seen him, way back when I was but a young pup of twelve. My daddy told me what this man was, but aside from that, never really explained what it meant, so I wrote it off as more Qink propaganda. Turns out, maybe I was wrong, because this tendril faced Monk is the real deal, though I’m pretty sure a Bolt will still kill him dead.

  And if not? I got 23 more to deliver across 4 revolvers of varying power, plus 12 Blastgun shots from the Judges. Let’s not forget my Nanfoodle and Whumper too, though I get the feeling I won’t have time to unload all that many shots if he tries to take my head. Best move would be to take him out here and now, while he maybe 60 meters away, closing fast and utterly unaware of my presence up on the rock formation. Makes it easy to predict his path as he zips from group to group, so all I gotta do is pick my shot and put a Bolt through his head with the overpacked and incendiary Nanfoodle. Won’t matter if he really has skin like steel if I set him on fire first, and if he still manages to fight his way through a massive swarm of skittering Abby and make his way over here, then he deserves to take my life.

  Plus, now I got justification. This fucker works for the man who most likely ordered my daddy’s death, so maybe this here is a hit squad sent to collect my head.

  My finger is on the trigger as I aim down sights at my target and run my thumb down where the hammer would be if it had one. The True Strike Cantrip settles in all around me and I see the shot in my head even as I line it up, the variables falling into place as easily as turning a hand thanks to help from the Spell and my Portent both as I focus in on my target and nothing else. I will hit, because I must hit, since there’s no other way for me to win this fight, not against a veteran soldier who’s been fighting Abby with his bare hands for longer than I’ve been alive.

  But as I begin the exhale that will end with me pulling the trigger, Aunty Ray beats me to the punch.

  The magic glow of her Major Illusion unravels around us like leaves carried away on the breeze as she intones, “Mentem – Vinco – Veritatem – Flecto.” I conquer the mind, I bend the truth, a factual statement given in perfect Latin without so much as a hint of an accept. Wielding a Spell I barely understand, she brings illusion into reality within her target area of effect, one that sits some 40 meters from where she stands thanks to the Distant Metamagic Rod clutched in her hand. A chorus of wails sound out as a good swathe of Swarmlings just up and die, falling flat on their faces and rolling over onto their backs like they done given up the goat and figure there ain’t no point in going on.

  And in a way, they have. Whatever Illusion Aunty Ray threw at them using Phantasmal Force, they truly believed it, turning illusion into reality in one simple move that ain’t simple at all. That there is another show of mastery tonight, reminding me that the odds might not be so stacked against me once I convince her that the best thing to do is turn her Spell on them Qinks. No help for it though, because she only sees the young ones and doesn’t understand how they think, because those monsters down there would throw their children to Abby if they thought it’d bring the Republic enough of an advantage.

  Resisting the urge to shoot the monk regardless and call it friendly fire, I set to killing Swarmlings on the opposite side of where Aunty Ray’s Phantasmal Force is still doing work. Unaware of how their friends all died, a fresh wave of Abby run headlong into her deadly illusion and croak after a few steps in. Now Ferals are pretty stupid, but they catch on quick enough as the following survivors catch on to something amiss and scatter around the perceived limits of her Spell. Or try to at least, because them Vanguard are quicker on the uptake and turn on a dime to engage. The circle stretches out into an arc as they hammer into the Abby ranks while using the spell to guard their seemingly exposed flanks. Works a treat is does, because them dumb Swarmlings got a short memory and minimal self-control as they launch themselves headlong into the Phantasmal Force when they see what they think is an easy kill.

  Which again, looks and sounds simple enough, but for them Qinks to work it out so quickly and use it to their advantage tells me they got a real scholar in their midst, someone who not only identified the fairly unremarkable Spell in use in the blink of an eye, but also saw the opportunity laid out before them. That there is a shot caller, the unofficial role that some folks take up, the one that elevates them beyond being just a part of the team. Me, I ain’t much of a shot caller, I learned that much on my way up to Pleasant Dunes with Errol and Sarah Jay. Didn’t even have to get to town before I figured it out, which is why I ain’t in no rush to find me a new crew to work with, because even if I did, I ain’t one to take orders from no one, not easily at least.

  Even with Aunty Ray and Tina putting their full effort into the fight, I’m still holding back because I don’t much care if them Qinks die down there. Sure, I put Bolts into Swarmlings and light them up good and well, but I ain’t happy about it. Not only am I stuck saving a bunch of bastards who I’ll probably have to kill soon enough, I gotta use my most expensive ammo to do it, but ain’t nothing for it. The Compressor on the Whumper makes it fire a solid bar of Force, but it ain’t all that accurate at range, and even if I do want them dead, I ain’t far gone enough to shoot an enemy in the back.

  Not in front of my family at least. If I was up here on my lonesome? I might well have lit them up with Fireball by now, then hit them a second time just to be safe. Even if they ain’t my enemy, the Vanguard ain’t gonna stand idly by when I go looking for answers about my daddy’s death, so might as well get to killing them now rather than later. Ain’t nothing for it though, so I go with the flow and help these fools who I might one day gun down all the same.

  Between Aunty Ray’s Phantasmal Force and the purple tendrilled Battle Monk’s formidable prowess, the horde slowly dwindles in numbers, but only for a solid minute. Then Aunty Ray’s Spell comes to an end, and wouldn’t you know it, someone in the group of Qinks shouts something right quick and they fall into their circle formation once more. Happens so naturally it’s like they planned it, though I’ve no doubt they’ve all rehearsed these sorts of moves countless times before. Every last one of them is Vanguard after all. Man, woman, or child, it don’t matter one whit. If you a Qink, then you a soldier in their army, a life to be spent, and one that holds no value save for what their deaths might bring to the Republic as a whole.

  Which is why I’d like to see them all die a meaningless death, because that’s what they did to my daddy. Sent three shooters to sit up on the mesa where he buried the love of his life, the one place he allowed himself to be vulnerable and mourn what could have been. They wanted him dead for no reason except that they couldn’t understand why a formidable ‘Son’ of the Republic would betray them like that. Because that’s how they see it, because the people are the Republic, so any disloyalty to the nation is disloyalty to them all.

  Wasn’t like that though. My daddy just wanted the best life for me, and he realized early on that I’d be much better off being American. Least, the potential was there, and might well have come true if he were still around to see it through. Didn’t happen though, because the Qin Republic had him killed for no real reason at all, so it only seems fair if they all die pointless deaths too, and bring nothing back to the Republic they all hold so dear.

  Yeah. I hate the Qin with every fibre of my being. Not just because of what they took from me, but because with his dying breath, my daddy wasn’t thinking of me or my mama. No, he was all distraught with thoughts of the Republic, because I done and killed his countrymen in cold blood, his comrades in arms who he only wanted to save. That’s why he pushed me so hard, and why he pushed himself too. He wanted to be a Ranger, to embody what that meant, and turn me into a hero and shining beacon for all to look up to, but especially his countrymen. That was my role, to show his people that the Republic wasn’t everything it was made out to be and that we could transcend silly things like borders and nationalities to become one people of the Frontier.

  My daddy was a true patriot, a man who loved his people and wanted to free them from the ‘ideals’ of the Republic. Me? Not so much. They can all rot in hell for all I care, because they took my daddy from me and had the gall to expect a thanks. Lucky I haven’t gone down there to get some Frontier Justice for myself, but now I gotta contend with Aunty Ray’s pleading gaze as she waits for me to do something about all this. Tina too, though my sorta sister mercifully keeps her eye on the prize, plinking off shots with her Merlin 45 without making much of a difference at all, because for every Swarmling she kills, two more show up to take its place.

  That’s how they get you after all, which is why they’re called Swarmlings and not something else, like skitterbugs or whatever. There’s no winning this fight, not this deep in the badlands, but while I’m content to let it all play out, I can’t exactly justify my inaction when they’re bringing the swarm right up to us. Heaving as sigh, I stow my rifle and pull out my Wand instead, casting a Third Order Mage Hand as I go before settling in for the Ritual and working out the kinks in the plan unfolding in my head.

  Because much as I hate the Qin, I hate disappointing my family even more, and I done disappointed them enough this year. Now they’re expecting me to head out and save the day, so I suppose that’s what I’ll do, but you best believe I’ll be on my guard and ready to kill them all after the fact if they dare double cross me after the fact.