Chapter One

17:45, Two Days Ago

Near Boiling Springs, PA

“To believe that the day started with a mock-riot in Harrisburg,” General Aaron Williams muttered to himself. The sun had finally broke free from its shroud of dense, grey clouds, for the last few hours before nightfall, and the end to the war seemed to be in sight at last. Off in the distance, carried by the breeze, he could hear the pealing of the church bells, summoning in the faithful to worship. Aaron’s mind drifted back hazily, prodding at his memories like a blind man hunting for landmines. So long ago, almost like last week.

Twelve years ago, a Guardian named Adrian McNair, with a handful of apprentices, months away from graduating into the Order, got an idea into their heads that the artifacts held by the Guardian Order, artifacts taken from dangerous cults and similar, would be best handled if used for power, for strength. The next thing anybody knew, over a dozen families were killed, burned alive, and the mentor and apprentices went on the run, taking what relics they could and vanishing into the wilderness. Then there came stories from the outer regions, scrambled reports of Wiccan circles, necromancers, and other harmless groups suddenly growing more powerful, more dangerous, and equally alarming, individual patrols going missing on the borders. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together, and the Guardian Council declared-

“General Williams? Is everything all right?” asked a white-armored scout, glancing over at him with a hesitant expression. Aaron snapped back to the present and nodded, brushing the snow from his dusty brown hair. He looked back over the 120 assembled troops behind him- some lounging against the bulky Armored Personnel Carriers that had carried them this far up the mountain, some crouched around a roughly assembled campfire, cleaning their equipment, or fiddling around in their helmets, but all their armor was individually painted. Some were painted with golden Celtic knot work looping around on their green chest-plates, and another bore white stripes streaking down across a deep earthen brown set of plates. As a group, weather-beaten and worn by years of war, the only thing that could possibly seem to associate the wild lot before him together was a small crest- two crossed hammers and a stylized bear’s head- etched onto their right shoulder plates. The emblem of the 45th Heavy Infantry division.

“Alright gentlemen,” Aaron started.

“And ladies,” interrupted a tall, grey-armored woman, her long black hair tied back in a bandanna. Aaron grinned, and nodded.

“Yes, Meg, and ladies. Either way, we’re at the point of no return here. Stormhaven is somewhere up ahead, and we can’t take our APCs up there, the trees are too thick. We’re going to have to push through on foot,” Aaron said, his steel-grey eyes sweeping over them all. Silence fell, before a hesitant voice piped up, towards the back.

“Request permission to speak, sir.” Aaron half-smiled and nodded, and Martin stepped forward from the troops, his face a portrait of nervous energy, before he continued. “With all due respect, sir, wasn’t the plan to meet up with General Morian and the Fourth?” Aaron’s half-smile faltered, and sank.

“That was the plan, yes, but I received word on the way up that he ran into some trouble near Mechanicsburg. One of McNair’s ‘prentices riled up the Pictsies there, and they got nasty, so the Fourth had to intervene before a college got flattened. He reported that their approximate ETA was one and a half hours, minimum,” he said, his jaw clenched. A few of the troops before him winced, but Aaron held up his hands in a conciliatory manner. “I know, it’s great potential for ambush. And we have no idea about what’s waiting for us out there, whether it’s really McNair, or one of his minions, or merely a dead end. But our intel reports that McNair has been pushed to hide out in Stormhaven. A few months ago, we sent a squad out to investigate, and only one man came back, driven mad. All we got out of them was ‘walking shadows’, whatever that means,” Aaron replied, and the smirks and grins shrunk down, replaced by somber, grim determination.  

“So what will we do then, you lot? Will we let Haven squad’s sacrifice go in vain?”

A low rumbling “No” came from the assembled Guardians.

“Will we let our families wait back in Caelum, to see this war dragged on another decade?” The resounding “No” was louder this time, more affirmative.

“Will we let McNair and his crew stand untried for their crimes against the nation?” The deafening roar of defiance that burst from the group shook the treetops, sending a dusting of snow tumbling down on them. Aaron grinned and rested his hand on his belt, and looked one last time over his troops.

“All right then, lads, load up, then,” Aaron said, keeping his voice steady. “First cohort, you’re with me. Second, Third, follow close. Keep your shields close, and your pikes at the ready. Though we walk through the valley, we shall fear no evil! Onwards!” The unloading area became a flurry of activity and color as the troops opened up the APCs and pulled out shields and equipment. Perhaps, Aaron thought to himself, this might go quicker than expected.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

As the sun sank below the horizon, shadows crept freely from every desolate stump, every leaning tree. Each outstretched tree branch looked like a gnarled claw reaching out to shred unwary travelers. Every dank, hollowed stump seemed to belay its emptiness. Despite the growing darkness, the First cohort, followed by the Second and Third, stormed on through the deepening shadows.

All of them carried a boxy man-high shield, rimmed and reinforced with strips of steel, and they clutched a long, harpoon-like spear in their other hand. Their helmets, battered and dented, the remaining paint clinging to the metal in patches, bobbed gently with each step. Altogether, the cohorts looked like a knobbly porcupine-armadillo hybrid, with their rounded shields overlapping like scales, and the bristling spears angled outward sparking tentatively. The forest air was uneasy, with the muffled sound of clacking armor plates and tramping boots.

Up ahead, Aaron’s mind was racing, as they marched along. Behind his helmet’s emotionless, reflective visor, his gaze was restless, flickering over the barren landscape around him, searching for any sign of hostilities lurking around the literal corner. The smooth sheets of snow all around them were textureless in the rising shadows, a flat, endless white stretching out in all directions, broken up only by the angular, dead-looking trees with bare branches twisting everywhere. The only sign of any life in the forest was scattered animal tracks in the snow, and briefly, he had spotted a shambling grizzly bear pause to watch the column of armed and armored Guardians troop on by, and stumbled off to find easier prey. Everything seemed to mark up a perfectly normal night, except at the back of his consciousness, Aaron felt that something was wrong.

Within his helmet, his field of vision was lit up blue, with holographic analysis systems weaving between the dead trees, the shattered stumps of marker stones scattered alongside the path, and the falling darkness in the winding road ahead, searching each for any sign of hostile activity, or matching the catalogue of missing artifacts. Aaron could hear the nervous chatter of his cohorts over the shared communications link in their sealed helmets, fuzzy with interference, and contemplated giving an order for silence. Through the air circulation filters, he could smell the almost metallic tinge of snow and ice, but there was something else, pungent and rancid, like a bear had left its meal to rot. Then with a flash, his mind made a connection- interference on the comm. link.  Rotting. Something was jamming their communications. Trap.

That’s when a shadow peeled itself off from a tree up ahead, and a blade materialized in its grip, jagged and dark like an oily icicle. Its body was like smoke, formed into a vaguely human-shaped body, with decaying rags wrapped clumsily around its upper torso, and heavy-looking iron gauntlets strapped on over its forearms, engraved with faintly glowing runes. Within the depths of its head, two cold blue lights stared at him, giving it a vaguely confused expression. Aaron stumbled forward, and raised his shield before him.

“Blast, Shadow-stalkers! Shields!” Aaron roared, and all hell broke loose. More shadowy figures seeped out from the darkness around them, and rushed at the armored column en masse. The Guardians locked their shields together into an impenetrable wall, and the two forces clashed in an explosion of crackling electricity and flashing blades. Everything fell into chaos, as the years of training and combat experience kicked in, and the Guardians pushed onward, shields raised high and stabbing at everything in range with their pikes.

Behind the shield wall, everything was a blur of motion. Aaron jammed the butt of his pike into the snow and unsheathed his narrow-necked sword, jabbing it over the shields between the pikes at the whirling, ghost-like forms of the Shadow-stalkers. They came rushing at the locked shields, either impaling themselves on the pikes before vaporizing amidst sparks of electricity and ear-piercing shrieks, or slamming themselves up against the shields, clawing and hacking away at whatever they can over the tops of the iron-rimmed shield wall. Everywhere Aaron’s blade flickered out, another Shadow-stalker exploded, and two more rushed out from the shadows to take their fallen brother’s place.

Suddenly, a block of Stalkers charged at Aaron’s line, formed into a wedge, and smashed through the shield wall, blades windmilling and carving down Guardians left and right. Aaron found himself on the ground, his shield splintered, his sword just out of his reach, and his visor shattered. Distantly, he could hear the screams and yells of the rest of his cohort fighting, and dying. Right above him, an icicle-like blade clenched in the smoking gauntlets of a Shadow-stalker, its narrow tip leveled above his chest, tantalizingly hovering in the air for a moment, before plunging downwards.

Aaron lashed out with the remaining half of his shield and smacked the blade aside, before reaching down to his belt and ripped out the knife from its sheath, ramming it up into where its ribcage should have been. It shrieked and fell back, clutching at the knife embedded in its side, and Aaron rolled to his feet, scooping up his sword and cleaved the Stalker in half. Its hollow gauntlets and ice-bitten sword collapsed to the ground as its body evaporated into the cold air, and Aaron peeled off his helmet, letting it tumble to the ground, now dead and useless weight. In the fading light, he could see the remnant of his cohort forming up with the rest of the second and third cohorts into another shield block. The ground around him was littered with the bodies of most of the First cohort, and a number of Stalker blades as well, and the snow was stained crimson.

More Stalkers were sliding in between the trees at an ominously slow pace, while further back in the shadows, legions of tall figures cloaked in black stood at attention, rust-spattered broadswords raised to their tattered hoods. Aaron spat at the ground, and raised his sword to his shoulder, his eyes blazing with a dangerous silver light.

“Cohorts, on me!” he bellowed, and he scooped up a shield from a fallen Guardian. “Lock shields, and prepare to form Testudo!” The cohorts shuffled forward with a ragged roar, and formed up around Aaron in an orchestrated movement, swinging their shields in front of and around themselves in a bristly box, their spears crackling with electrical charge. Swarms of Stalkers and cloaked Wraiths glided in over the scarlet snow and the scattered bodies, and clashed again against the shield block, but Aaron pushed forward with the rest of his cohort, hacking and stabbing at anything that got within the range of his blade.

For every Wraith or Stalker felled, Aaron and his cohorts pushed forward a few steps more, until the ground was littered with scattered blades and rotting piles of rags. They finally broke free from the treeline into a clearing with the open night sky above them. The moon was full and pale, gleaming down on the pure field of snow, and the sheer cliff side looming out over the forest, glowing a gentle white in the moonlight. Arrayed before them was a dark phalanx of Wraiths, fronted by a vanguard of Stalkers arching around them. Aaron’s attention wasn’t on the forces before him, but instead what was behind them.

“By all that is merciful, what have they done?” he muttered to himself, nearly dropping his shield. Carved out from the cliff side was a massive white stone wall, polished and glowing in the moonlight. Tattered silver banners fluttered limply from its ramparts, and even from here, Aaron could see the stonework arches carved into the wall, and into the cliff side behind it. Set into the wall was a set of towering, angular gates, and dangling above them, almost like a gruesome set of fuzzy dice, were helmets- hundreds of them. Stormhaven truly had fallen, and hard.

The fragile silence was broken by the clattering of armor plates and shields clacking uneasily, as the cohorts took in what was before them. The captain from the Second cohort shuffled up to Aaron through the massed cohorts, peeling off her helmet to reveal close-cut auburn hair, stern brown eyes, with a hint of worry, and a fine olive complexion.

“General, we lost nearly fifteen men from my cohort, and Davis in Third lost 12 back in the woods. We’ve got no more hostiles on our tail, but we don’t have the numbers for a Rim-shell. What are your orders?” Aaron paused, before responding back with a grim expression.

“Captain DiMarzio, ready your cohort for a Seraphim, pass it on to Davis. You know the drill. Battle creed in five. Dismissed.” Captain DiMarzio shuffled back through the remainder of the First to her own cohort, and Aaron knew that all eyes were on him now, making him regret for a split second that he had ditched his broken helmet. With a hesitant sigh, he stabbed his blade into the ground and sank into a kneel, his forehead pressed into the pommel, and his eyes clenched tight, and unseen to him, the rest of his cohort and the remnants of the Second and Third followed suit.

“O Lord our God, we come before you in this time of need,” he muttered, his voice soft and brittle. “Only you, oh Lord, know what will come of this night, so we ask you now… help us. Fight for us, and through us, for the Enemy is in force tonight. Deliver us from the grasp of the Enemy, and if it is your will, God, lead us into victory, for by you, all things are possible, but in all things, let Your will be done. We ask all this in the name of Jesus.” A rumbling “Amen” staggered through the cohorts as each Guardian finished up their own prayer, and Aaron got back to his feet, feeling the familiar warm sense of calmness and certainty fill him. He pulled his sword from the ground again, and reviewed the battlefield before him again.

In the weak moonlight, he took note of the positioning of the Stalker-line, slowly advancing, with the boxy cluster of Wraiths folding out behind them. Perfect. Aaron tramped forward, carefully shifting the grip on his shield so that his thumb rested on an indented button.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” he began, as he stepped forward, the icy snow crunching beneath his boots. “I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.” The psalm carried back through the cohorts as they spread out into one large wedge. “Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.” Aaron was at a jog now, as the distance between him and the oncoming Stalker line grew smaller. The rest of his cohort was angled off to either side of him, with DiMarzio and Davis keeping pace with their own, their shields at the ready. “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.” The air rang with the words, as the entire formation was now charging at the Stalkers and Wraiths in full force, shields in front and blades at the ready. “Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.” Despite the cold, sweat was beading down Aaron’s face, and his breathing ragged as he hurtled towards the enemy line, his face a mask of iron determination and cold fury. He could visibly see the folds in the ragged bandages wrapped around the Stalkers’ torsos, the twisting, glowing runes on their gauntlets. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever!” Aaron shouted, before letting loose with one last burst. “SERAPHIM!”

Right as the wedge formation smashed into the line of Shadow-stalkers, Aaron jammed his thumb into the indented button on his shield, and his shield was suddenly alive with electrical charge, shooting off forks of blue lightning arcing out down along the shield wedge as the rest of the formation activated their own shields. The result was devastating- the Stalker line vaporized on contact with the Seraphim wedge, and the few survivors on the outer edge were carved down. Aaron felt the familiar prickly, cold sensation trickle down his spine, as he trampled over the rags and dented gauntlets from a felled Stalker, and the adrenaline kicked into full-gear. The white wall of Stormhaven loomed ahead of him, contrasted by the dark block of Wraiths clustered together, their swords aimed outwards like a pike wall. Seconds seemed to pass like hours, as Aaron thundered closer, his voice hoarse and his blade described a ragged circle as it swung into position, his gaze locked on the steady formation of Wraiths standing still, firm.

Aaron’s clean-cut formation halted into chaos, as they smashed head-on into the Wraiths. His blade flicked into action, smashing aside a Wraith’s broadsword before cleaving through its side, and then parrying a blow from another Wraith. Everything became a manic frenzy, as time seemed to speed up, and his focus flitted from one attack to the half-dozen potential next attackers, parrying and dodging and hacking and stabbing. When his vision cleared and time returned to normal, he found himself staring up at the carved gates of Stormhaven, both emblazoned with half of the Jerusalem cross. When he looked back, he found the remnant of the formation standing behind him, spattered with black ooze from exploded wraiths, standing amidst the fallen piles of black robes, spiked gauntlets, and rusted swords. His team had survived the charge, and this part of the battle was over.

Aaron felt the adrenaline drain from his body like barbed wire dragged through his veins, and nearly collapsed, stabbing his sword into the ground for support. He sank to one knee, shaking, and muttered a brief prayer of thanks.

“General Williams,” Captain Davis said, placing his ice-crusted hand on Aaron’s shoulder, shaking him out of his haze. “You might want to see this.” As Aaron staggered to his feet, supported by the strong arm of Davis, the sight of a thick silver mist wafting over the battlefield, and leaking out from the forest seemed strange, almost beautiful. When the mist was punctuated by hazy, ragged humanoid figures rising, formed from the mist, all over the battlefield, and marching in from the forest, Aaron saw what was happening, and spat an uncomplimentary comment on the situation.

“Cohorts, shield wall, stat! If we can hold out, then Morian and reinforcements will arrive, and we can take Stormhaven!” Aaron bellowed and pulled his sword from the snow, swinging it to the ready position with his shield in front of him. “Davis, DiMarzio, get your demo troops on those gates! Burnsed, Thorsson, join them, and blow those damn gates off!” The remaining Guardians leaped into action, with most of them joining Aaron in forming a shield wall, shoulder to shoulder, shields overlapping, while a handful of other troops scuttled over to the wall and busied themselves with setting charges on the hinge points.

Out across the field, the Stalkers from the forest joined forces with the risen Stalkers from the field, and glided towards the huddle of Guardians. As they drifted closer, Aaron watched as the mist enveloped the fallen Wraiths as well, and the tattered robes fluttered as their inhabitants began to reform. All was silent, except for Aaron’s breathing, which seemed louder in the stillness, and far off in the distance, but drawing closer, a sound like a thousand tortured geese being stabbed to death. Aaron felt a dull, heavy sensation inside, as the rest of the shield wall looked cautiously at one another, recognizing the sound. Reinforcements would never come, for the drone of Pictsie warpipes was drawing nearer.