Prologue

St. Mary’s City, MD

22:45 PM

            Only a few streaks of light stood out against the darkness of Quimby Lane. Far off in the distance, a dog barked, lost amidst the uniform rows of square, blocky houses. Along the curbside, faded green recycling bins were lined up, mildly salt-stained around the rims. The gentle breeze blowing through was tinged with the distinctively sharp scent of the sea, and even from here, the distant roar of the waves crashing down on the coast like artillery fire could be heard. The paint-stripped streetlamps flickered on and off at random, cloaking half the street in darkness, while intermittently carving out chunks of the street in golden pools of light. Tonight seemed to be just like any other night, to most of its residents, except for number 23, at the end of the cul-de-sac, where it hunched over the other residences defensively like a wolf over its food.

            The neighbors all agreed, in private of course, that the folks who lived at 23 were a queer lot. There had always been strange people living at number 23, it seemed, always keeping to themselves, away from public view, yet, according to those all-knowing curmudgeons that almost every neighborhood has, even their smallest actions broadcasted their strangeness. Most notably was that as soon as the new tenants moved in, they had loaded in lots of large, bulky crates, drably painted and each marked with a stylized silver cross, and strings of numbers and strange writing were scrawled on each crates’ sides. As if this was not suspicious enough on its own, the truck they were unloaded from was a sleek, black military-grade Hummer, splattered with mud around the bumpers, and strange, deep scratches ran down the side and across the hood. Needless to say, it took a few weeks for the gossiping to die off to an unpleasant murmur, but that incident insured that overall, the folks living in number 23 were left to their peace.

            Tonight, however, would prove to be different. As midnight drew nearer, a gentle mist began to form, wafting around the lamp posts like a lady’s silk scarf. One by one, the homes on Quimby Lane shut down for the night, leaving their immaculately cut lawns cloaked in shadow, but at 23, a single candlestick flickered from behind the house’s glazed panel window, standing sentry against the cold night. For about ten seconds, everything could have been mistaken for another peaceful, normal, boring night. Then, he arrived.

            There was a sound in the air like a kitten on steroids, rumbling and sputtering sporadically, growing louder and closer, when a low, murky form hurtled out from the shadows, and rumbled up the street. As it flashed under the beams of the street lamps, a few details could be picked out: the dull gleam of matte black armor plating, the piercing shine of exposed metal, and the blurred spokes of wheels pushed to the limit. The roar lowered to a gentle purr as the biker slowed to a stop in front of number 23, and shut off the engine with a click. The man stumbled off his bike, and sank to his knees with a muffled moan, before peeling off his helmet, and throwing it to the ground.

            The man’s face was deathly pale, glistening with sweat in the dim lighting. His shock of vivid red hair bristled in the breeze, dampened with sweat and a bit of blood trickling from his scalp. His icy blue eyes glazed over for a moment, before focusing in on the iron cross hanging from the door. A grim smile crossed his face for a moment, before he reached for a pouch on his belt strapped over his body armor, and scrabbled around before pulling out a thin, flat square of plastic, aimed it at the door, and touched his gloved thumb to the center. The faded green door hissed for a moment, and the oily sound of bolts sliding out of position could be heard briefly, before the door swung open silently, inviting him further in. With a grunt of exertion, he scooped up his helmet from the lawn and limped up to and through the door, before it closed shut behind him with a gentle click. Aside from the hybrid motorbike out front, the night returned to its usual pattern.

            As the armored biker stepped through the door, he was instantly enveloped in an orderly chaos. To his left, in what was once the living room, racks of hung-up suits of armor were set up in staggered columns, and broad riot shields were stacked up against the overstocked bookshelves. To his right, in the family room, the futon was shoved off to the side to make room for a handful of medical cots, all of which were occupied by bandaged forms, while white-uniformed medics tended to their wounds, stopping at one or two to offer reassurance. One of them glanced up at him as the door hissed shut behind him, and shot to his feet.

            “Martin, what happened?” Martin winced, and tried to shuffle forward, but collapsed to his knees, and pain shot across his face, as he clasped a hand to a cracked portion of his armor, its support vest slowly staining red.

            “News from the Front. Vital news,” he sputtered. “No time for treatment, just- the generals…” The medic saw the look on his face and wrapped an arm around him, hoisting Martin to his feet. Within minutes, he was taken through to the kitchen, where three armored figures were huddled around a map, marked off with thumbtacks and post-it notes, and held down on three of its corners by steaming mugs. One of them, a barrel-chested man with curly graying hair, looked up with weary green eyes at Martin’s approach, and hissed inwardly as he took in his injuries. Martin hastily pulled himself into a formal salute, staggering a bit as his heels clicked together.

            “General Reynolds, Lieutenant Martin Williams reporting for-”

            “Martin! Good to have you back. What news from the Front?” Reynolds cut him off, gesturing him to an empty chair. Martin sank into his seat gratefully, and took a few moments to breathe before he responded.

            “Stormhaven has been breached. Morian and my father have taken Stormhaven.” The pregnant question hung in the air painfully, before suddenly giving birth to a flurry of newborn questions.

            “How could that happen? What happened during the siege? How did they break through? How many casualties?” The other two generals would probably have continued on like this for hours, but finally Reynolds silenced them with a wave of his hand.

            “Ross, Stark, enough. Williams has been through enough without you two hounding him.” General Howard Ross, a towering man built like a bear, with a dark bristly beard like an oversized bird’s nest, was lost for words, and stepped back from the council table. Stark, on the other hand, a trimly-built man, with a silvery goatee and deep-set hazel eyes, clad in battered, peeling crimson-and-gold armor, simply glanced over at Reynolds and nodded, before looking back to Martin.

            “Very well then, lieutenant. At your own pace then. Could you tell us what happened exactly?” Stark relented, and gestured for Martin to continue with a vague flick of his hand. Martin paused a second to catch his breath, and began.

            “After months of constant sweeping, we managed to isolate Adrian McNair’s base. The arrogant little prat took Stormhaven, of all places, as his central base. Thankfully, we managed to keep his beasties away from the main cities, but even so, we were slowed down on the march against Stormhaven by having to send out outreaching squads to secure the smaller towns. By the time we reached the mountain, the storms bustling overhead finally burst open. That’s when… it happened. Twenty men gone.” A brooding silence fell, as the three generals thought on this, and Martin gathered breath again.

            “What happened?” Stark asked at last, his lilting tones seeming to dance in the air.

            “An ambush,” Martin said. “At least 500 Wraiths materializing straight out of the rocks, on both sides, along with a few dozen Shadow-stalkers. We lost half of the First Cohort within minutes. By that time, the rest of the division had already formed up into a shield wall, and was being battered away on all sides.” Ross’ beetle-black eyes hardened behind the protection of his beard, and either a very brave or foolhardy man would have openly noted that tears hovered just at the brink of being let loose.

            “How could- they were trained for those sorts of conditions. Hang it all, I trained several of the cohorts myself, they were my lads,” he muttered, glancing over at Reynolds. Reynolds waved aside his unspoken question with a gentle gesture, and turned his attention back to Martin, and motioned for him to continue.

            “Your men did well, sir. The remnant of the First still managed to slow down the Wraiths long enough for the rest of the formation to form up and hold them back. My dad kept the second cohort from panicking, and ordered them to push through to Stormhaven. We cut our way through the Wraiths and Shadow-stalkers, and edged our way up to the North wall, and pressed up against the gates, right up until Morian’s shock troops showed up and blew the gates off. After that, it was fairly short work.” Martin smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His eyes looked hollow, sunken, as though he had not slept for days. His battered black armor was stained with blotches of crimson, mostly focused around the ragged crack in his abdomen plating. Ross recovered from his suspended grief long enough to ask one last double-question.

            “How did it end, and what happened to that traitorous wretch?” he growled, and his eyes fixed onto Martin, almost begging him for the end to the war he craved.

            “After we breached the gates, Morian and my dad practically raced each other in, and their troops surged through, cutting down every last demon-spawn where it stood. The few actual human mercs that were there put up very little fight, given the circumstances. That’s when we broke through to the “throne room”. Gah, it was so…” Martin froze up, and shuddered uncontrollably. Reynolds grimaced, and reached over to Martin, shaking his shoulder gently.

            “Forget the details of the room, lad, I know. Just tell us what happened,” he said soothingly, keeping his eyes locked with Martin’s, silently encouraging him to go on. Martin sighed, and looked down at his lap, before continuing.

            “Most of the rookies threw up when they saw what happened, particularly once the stench hit them. The older ones, they pushed through, and mopped up any resistance. My dad pulled his troops out to secure the rest of the garrison, while Morian and his crew set about cleaning up the mess, when they found him. McNair.” Reynolds hissed inwardly, and stood stock-still, not taking his eyes away from Martin. Whatever happened will change the Order forever, he thought. Silence hung like a raincloud over the four at the drafting table.

            “Morian chased him down, but McNair put up a fight. The rest of his troops tried to join in, but he had a few tricks left up his sleeves. He did the usual monologue about how we were so foolish to dare to stand against him, when… it seemed like the whole air just shifted, and this… thing just stepped out of nowhere. Nothing like I’ve ever seen before, much less fought before. McNair pulled a runner, and Morian took after him like a greyhound. The beastie, whatever it was, tore the formation apart. It was huge, winged, like something out of a nightmare.” Martin sank in his seat, staring out into nothing as he remembered the horror he encountered hours before.  Reynolds stood frozen in place, his mind racing. If McNair escaped, or Morian was killed, then this campaign would stretch on longer, the troop strength would be drawn thinner, and inevitably, everything that they had fought for would collapse under the black tide.

“What came of it?” he asked hoarsely. Martin pulled out of his daze and nodded, acknowledging him at last.

“Those still left standing barely managed to hold themselves together, before it slammed down on us again. It knew we were about totaled, and reared back for one last blow, but then it just vaporized. All that was left was a pile of rusting armor on the floor. That’s when Morian came back, dragging along McNair by his cuffs. I don’t know what he did to him, but he looked like he had aged a decade. It’s over, he’s been captured. The war’s over.” Silence fell over the assembled generals, as the weight of Martin’s words hammered down on them like lead raindrops. McNair captured. War’s over. A weary grin crept across Reynolds’ face, hesitant at first, and then beaming forth like the light of the sun.

“Doc, get this brave one treatment, stat! Martin’s done more than what’s needed here,” Reynolds said. The white-uniformed medic came back in and helped Martin to his feet, before leading him back to the hastily-assembled medic bay. Ross looked up at Reynolds, and set his thumbs into his belt thoughtfully, before he finally spoke.

“What are we going to do with him, though? McNair, I mean,” he rumbled pensively. Reynolds glanced at him with an unspoken question, and Ross continued. “Executing him will do us no good, and only make him a martyr for any other outer garrison folks wanting to go rogue. And if we lock him up-” Ross continued.

“He’ll just worm out between his bars and stir up trouble somewhere else, right?” Stark concluded, and slammed his gauntleted fist on the map table. “Confound it all, we just can’t let the bugger go, not after what he’s done.”

“Well, there’s always the Knights, they’d take him quite willingly,” Ross said after a while, which evoked a snort of dark humor from Stark, and a hesitant silence from Reynolds. With the gentle clanking of armor plating, Reynolds straightened himself, and looked each in the eyes, before speaking.

“Gentlemen, I thank you for your opinions on this, but frankly, I feel we need to talk it out with Up Top before we make a decision. Ultimately, it’s the Almighty who already knows his fate. For good or ill, we must make do.” he grimaced, and scooped up his mug, decorated with “World’s Greatest Grandpa” in childish lettering, before taking a long sip, and his expression relaxed. “I do say though,” Reynolds continued, “that in reward for his services, Morian should be awarded McNair’s old garrison of Ironhelm, to the north. He’s well since earned it, and McNair won’t be using it now.”

“I’m all for that,” Stark cheered, and took a swig of his own mug, before he grimaced and spat a stream of murky fluid back into the cup. “Blast, the tea’s gone cold.” Ross snorted, and Stark shot him an icy glare, but Ross just ignored it entirely.

“Coincidentally, MacGordon and his squad finally checked in, out in Forks, Washington, of all places. He bagged that clan of necromancers out there, and is on his way back now,” Ross remarked, and Reynolds smiled.

“That Will is a good lad,” he said. “A bit headstrong, but a good man. I feel that one day, he may yet become one of the greatest of us all.” Ross nodded, with a weary grin breaking through his wiry bush of a beard.

“With McNair’s rebellion over, and the first peace in a dozen years, what’s the worst that can happen now?”