Chapter 2 - The Fool's Errand

Fifty leagues west of the battlefield, in Capitol City, a bright red phone rings, and a groggy Chancellor of the Eastern Realms stirs, rolls over, and picks up.

“What is it,” he says, eyes still closed. There is yet no hint of the sun’s impending arrival through the darkened glass of his chamber window. Out of the earpiece comes a muffled, tinny voice, and as he listens, the Chancellor’s face awakens with anger like a heating element beginning to glow. The more he hears, the more he comes to, frustration filling him, and by the time the tinny voice is done giving its report, the Chancellor is standing at the side of his bed, one hand in a fist and the other clenched around the receiver. He opens his mouth to speak, but he pulls it away from his ear, takes a deep breath, and slams it down, cutting off the line.

~

Centurion, crouched at the mouth of a cave a little more than a hundred yards from the smoke-settled trench, winces and pulls the radio’s earpiece away from his ear, setting it down, not the least bit surprised.

“What did he say?” the Commander says in a harsh whisper, leaning forward.

“Nothing,” Centurion says with a quiet shrug. He picks up rest of the survival radio equipment and begins to stow it carefully in its hard leather case.

“Nothing!? Really?” the Commander says, a little anxious and little too loud.

Centurion ducks and brings a quick finger up to his lips, looking furtively around. Hearing nothing, he snaps the rivet buttons of the radio case closed and shoves the device back into his ruck. “He accepted the call, heard what I had to say, and hung up,” he says, turning to the Commander. “Respectfully, sir, it might have been better if you had called your father. I can’t imagine he appreciated hearing we lost the easternmost trench-line from me.”

The Commander furrows his brow and squints. For a moment, he appears to hear his First Guard and actually consider it. “Oh, I don’t care,” he says finally with a wave of his hand. “All this is fake, anyway. No one actually dies on the front lines between Realms,” he says.

Centurion tilts his head slightly and again looks around for any more sign of the enemy. “That may be true, sir, but the soldiers don’t know that while they’re in the simulation. To them, their lives are on the line and their friends are dying alongside them, too. Just because they’re all actually at home wearing headsets doesn’t mean their experience is any less—”

“Ok, ok,” the Commander says, throwing up his hands in mock surrender, shushing him. “I get it.” He looks away, annoyed.

Centurion shakes his head and puts a firm hand on the Commander’s arm. “I don’t think you do, sir.”

The commander yanks his arm away.

“Anyway,” Centurion says, getting up and hoisting his ruck onto his back, cinching the straps. “We can talk about this later. We have to get out of here.”

~

A handful of minutes up the mountain, amid the moss and predawn dew, are Goodman, the Master, and Leftenant Giles. They are seated around a pile of ash that the Master lit into a fire last night but Giles had the good sense to put out as soon as he saw it. “What are you thinking!?”

—sir!” he said, catching himself. The Master, too tired to care about being challenged, simply sat where he stood, mystified.

They slept through the evening and most of the night; a thick and frigid fog woke them, rolling over the ridge.

“So,” the Master says, still not getting it. “Those soldiers down there weren’t really there? They were a simulation?” Giles and Goodman nod in unison, even though Goodman didn’t know it either until last night.

“The hologram, sir, if you want to call it that,” Giles says, “is fairly advanced. The soldiers feel the full physical experience of combat, but it’s more of a training exercise than anything else…so Regional Commanders can get leadership experience and the enlisted personnel can prepare for battle, should the day ever come.”

“Huh,” the Master says, leaning back as if hearing it for the first time even though it’s the third time he’s asked Giles to explain it. “But you’re not a hologram?” The Master pokes Leftenant Giles on the arm, inspecting him. “And nor was your regiment?” he says.

Giles and Goodman share a look like a pair of parents, and Goodman takes the baton. “Sire, Leftenant Giles and his regiment were selected by special order of the Citadel to audit the battlespace. Every time there is an exercise like this, one regiment is chosen to be on location. For quality control.” Goodman looks expectantly at Giles, who nods.

“That’s right, sir. Except my regiment bolted for the High Hills—I’m assuming as soon as they saw enemy troops coming our way.”

“And they weren’t real, either.” the Master says, but it is more of a question. “The enemy.”

Goodman puts his face in his hands.

“They’re certainly not supposed to be, sir.” Giles says. “But you and Goodman are covered in cuts and bruises from those explosions and that’s not supposed to happen during an exercise—especially when Regional Commanders are actually on location,” he says. “There are loads of precautions for that kind of thing.”

The Master nods, suddenly thinking back on the lifeless body of the Royal Guardsman he was pinned under after the HQ tent was blown to pieces. Tenderly, he touches the cut on his forehead and winces, but his fingertip comes away dry. “So do you think someone is after the Regional Commander?” the Master says, eyeing Giles.

Goodman looks up at Giles too, not having considered it.

“I’m not sure, sir,” Giles says, looking in turn between the Master of the Raisón and his Assistant. “Who would want to do him harm?”

“I don’t know,” the Master says, folding his arms. “Maybe someone who doesn’t like the Eastern Chancellor. I hear there’s plenty of them.”

“I—wait—who?” Giles says, leaning forward.

The Master cocks his head. “The Chancellor of the Eastern Realms.” He looks at Goodman and then back at Giles. “The Regional Commander is the Eastern Chancellor’s son,” he says.

“Ehh, that’s a little far-fetched, sir.” Goodman says.

“What, that they’re father and son?”

“No, that anyone would even be able to know where we are—much less get out here undetected with actual munitions. Whether someone wants to harm the Regional Commander or not, the Army of the Citadel is nothing if not scrupulous about keeping the physical locations of their war activities top secret. No one knows. I doubt even the Chancellor knows.”

“So…” Giles says. “There’s nothing that would make it possible?”

“Oh I’m sure there are a number of things that could make it possible,” Goodman says, pausing to think. “But they’d all be considered high treason and punishable by a swift death.”

For an instant, it looks as if Giles is about to say something but he puts a finger up as if to shush himself; his face goes white like a sheet and his eyes glaze over a bit. He rocks back and forth for a moment, and a slight moan comes out of him.

The Master raises an eyebrow at him, and after an awkward moment of silence, Goodman and the Master look at one another in mutual, silent acknowledgement that Giles has, for lack of a better way to put it, gone weird. They look back at him, trying to read the pudgy curiosity collector. On the outside, he’s just a little more fidgety; on the inside, his blood pressure has nearly doubled.

At length, he clears his throat. “Gentlemen,” he begins, now quite shaky, his hands clenching his thighs. “I have something to divulge.”

THREE WEEKS AGO

Deep in the heart of the historic district of the ancient Realm of LaVelle squats a portly curiosity shop run by a sad and portly man named Marcelius Giles. He sits, snoring in the dark, dusty corner of his shabby little rented room, surrounded by thousands of collectible trinkets each more peculiar than the last. Aside from his wife who likes him less and less every day, they are his best friends.

The counter behind which he slumbers is an oak-framed, glass-paneled cabinet. Like most of the store’s infrastructure, it looks as if it could splinter and shatter all over the floor at the drop of a pin, pulling everything around it into a calamitous crash that one day may mark the end of Marcelius Giles’ pitiful life. On top of the glass is a freshly torn envelope with a postmark not two days old. Though it was hastily opened and read multiple times, the blood-red Seal of the Citadel’s Army, which is painfully visible in the center, was all Marcelius needed to see.

The letter is a Summons to Audit the upcoming Royal Battlespace Operation, with a time for expected arrival at the processing station less than a week away.

Marcelius is lucky to be sleeping; he has not caught a second of shut-eye since the letter arrived, and he has yet to tell his wife, who, if Marcelius’ suspicions are correct, may in fact be delighted to hear the news. His dreams at the moment are of better, older days, when things were—

ding!

The old brass bell over the door is jarred awake and Marcelius jumps up, eyes instantly open but unseeing. He clutches his chest and catches his breath, struggling to come to. He has to reorient himself in the awful reality that is his every waking moment.

When he does, a black-clad customer has entered the shop and is making his way to the counter with deliberate, authoritative steps of heavy heels on the hollow, wood floor.

~

Centurion is less than pleased with his and the Commander’s pace away from the trench, but he understands why. His boss, the spoiled first son and heir of Antoni of LaVelle, the Chancellor of the Eastern Realms, is not, nor has ever been known for his bravery or brawn.

“Come on, now,” he says, urging the Commander onward, who has stopped yet again to catch his breath.

“This pack is heavy!” the Commander says. “I didn’t sign up for this!”

Centurion reaches him and pulls his canteen out of his belt, handing it to the Commander. “Respectfully, sir, that doesn’t really matter at the moment.”

The Commander throws back his head and chugs water like the amateur he is.

“Those artillery blasts last night were real. Someone is playing with actual, live rounds out here and until we’re far enough away to get rescued, we have to keep moving!”

The Commander caps the canteen and thrusts it back into Centurion’s hands. “I heard you the first time!” the Commander says.

“Did you?” Centurion says, and there is real heat in his voice this time.

The Commander, seething at the retort, points a finger in his First Guard’s face. “You watch it.”

Centurion takes a long, slow breath and lets the steam dissipate. “Yes, sir,” he says. “But we really must get higher up the mountain.”

The Commander takes a step back and gestures with his hand as if to show the way. “Then let’s go!” he says.

Centurion looks at the Commander with his first twinge of genuine disdain and takes off up the path at near twice the pace as before. He had bloody well keep up, he thinks.

~

The black-clad customer isn’t wearing black at all, but a deep, deep purple. His suit, which is tailored to a T, fits snug over a linebacker’s frame, tall and broad. Marcelius tries to read his face but it’s obscured by a pair of large round-lens shades and a bandana. Out of sheer intimidation, he takes half a step back, but the stranger reaches up and pulls his shades and face-covering away. Instantly, Marcelius is more at ease, but he can’t say why. The stranger has a familiar look to him—but not familiar enough to place. He clears his throat.

“Might I interest you in any of my wares, traveler?” he says, acutely aware that he’s just sounded like a merchant in any number of video games, of the like he detests.

“Traveler, huh?” the customer says.

Marcelius, embarrassed, shrugs. “I…well—” He gestures at nothing.

“It is well, merchant,” the customer says with a knowing, warm grin. “Worry not.”

Marcelius chuckles, at once nervous and on-edge.

“No. I am actually here to give you something,” the man says, and reaches into the breast pocket of his suit jacket to produce a small envelope. When he places it on the counter between them, Marcelius can not only see that there is an object inside the size of a peach pit, but that it is glowing, pulsating, red. Like a Christmas tree bulb that’s being dimmed and brightened, dimmed and brightened.

“The Citadel has sent me here to make sure that you get this,” he says, lightly tapping the envelope. “And to make sure you know that it is imperative that you bring it with you to the processing station next week and into the battlefield where you will be performing your audit.”

Marcelius, surprised and amazed, looks up at the stranger and back down at the envelope. He points at it. “Is this…” he says, real glee in his face. The stranger nods.

“It is a homing beacon, yes. You are to get it through the processing station by swallowing it the day before, and you must not lose possession of it for the duration of the exercise. Do you understand, Leftenant Giles?”

Excited beyond belief, Marcelius nods and pockets the envelope, smiling as wide as ever.

~

Goodman and the Master, to say the very least, are flabbergasted.

“And you took the gory-damn thing!?” they say, almost in unison. Goodman, beside himself, stands and begins to pace. “Do you have any idea who that was!?” he says. He brings his hands to his face and the Master shakes his head. Giles, ashamed for all the right reasons, none of which he knows, shrugs and throws up his hands. “It was—it—how I was supposed to—”

“How were you supposed to know not to take a homing beacon from someone you’d never met!? Into a Field War Exercise!?” Goodman says.

Giles hangs his head and sighs.

The Master looks at Goodman. “Wait. You know who that was?” he says, pointing at Giles as if the flashback they just heard is somehow taking up physical space between them in the air.

Goodman, astounded, turns to the Master. “You don’t!?”

The Master shrugs with all his might. “I know I wouldn’t have swallowed a homing beacon, but I haven’t the slightest clue who that person was!” He looks between Giles and Goodman, who takes a moment before sitting back down beside them.

“That—and I could be wrong but I do not think I am—was Antoni the Second, of LaVelle.”

“No…” the Master says. “Wait—the Regional Commander?”

Goodman almost nods but shakes his head. “No. The Regional Commander is Henry of LaVelle,” he says. The Master gives him a confused look. Goodman continues. “I’ll explain. Antoni of LaVelle is the Chancellor of the Eastern Realms. He's in the Citadel in Capitol City. His firstborn, Henry, is the one out here somewhere, assuming he isn’t dead already. Antoni the Second, Henry’s younger brother, was born after of course, but when they were both children, their father had their names switched because apparently, he liked his second son better. He thought it would change who the heir to the chancellorship was, but it didn’t. It just made Henry embarrassed and sort of made the whole family look bad. Rumor has always had it that Antoni the Second is just waiting for Henry to fail. Or fall down a well.”

A solemn and lengthy silence descends upon them in the wake of the sobering revelation. The early morning fog is thinning around them and the sun is just peeking over the horizon to take the rest of it away. There is yet no birdsong to call it forth. Goodman is the first to speak again.

“Do you still have it?” he says.

~

Centurion sits on a rock with the map laid open on his knees, his ruck at his feet. The Commander, several minutes behind, is laboring his way up the hill, groveling and groaning the whole way. Centurion isn’t so worried. They’ve been creating enough distance between them and the trench and he’s had his eye on the Commander the whole time, even if the Commander doesn’t notice.

When the Commander finally reaches his First Guard, he nearly collapses. “You…bastard,” he says, on his hands and knees in the dirt. Centurion reaches into his pocket and tosses a protein bar down to him. “You should eat that, sir. Keep up your strength.”

The Commander grabs it and opens it like an animal. He can’t see that his First Guard is smirking to himself. In a few minutes, he joins Centurion on the rock and takes a gander at the map. “How much farther?” he says.

Centurion points to a place on the chart and the Commander leans in to read it.

“The High Hills? Why are we going all the way over there?” he says.

“That’s where the EXFIL point is.”

The commander just looks at him.

“EXFIL,” Centurion says. “For exfiltrate. As in, the place we’re going to get picked up and taken out of here. It’s in the High Hills this time around.”

“Ah, oh yes,” the Commander says. “I knew that.” The two of them share a look but neither says anything more.

~

Frantic, Leftenant Giles rifles through his pockets for the blinking red beacon. “It was here a few hours ago,” he says, reassuring no one. Goodman and the Master wait with their arms crossed. “Oh! Here it!—wait.” Giles says, pulling out a tightly folded piece of parchment from a small square pocket on his ruck. “I swear I had it in that pocket,” he says, fumbling with the paper.

Annoyed, Goodman takes it from him and opens it up, flattening it out. “Marcelius Giles,” he says, reading. He gives Giles a stern look before returning to the note.

“We found your gory-damn beacon and we think it’s a tragedy they let someone like you lead a regiment.”

Goodman, the Master and Giles all nod in unison. Astute. Goodman continues reading.

“We’ve decided it’s best that we take the beacon back to Capitol City and report you for your treason against the Realms. Enjoy the remainder of your time as Leftenant. Hopefully it will be as brief the time we wasted under your command.”

At this, even Goodman gives a strained look as if to say “well that’s harsh.” He folds the note back up and returns it to Giles, not wanting to touch it anymore. Giles takes it and puts it away.

“Well,” Goodman says, putting his hands on his hips. “What now.”

The Master looks at him, then at Giles, then back at Goodman. “This again?,” he says. “We go to the High Hills, of course.”

“Why though?” Goodman says. “If the regiment is headed there with the beacon, so what?”

“You’re right. I don’t care about the regiment. No one’s after them,” the Master says, and Giles nods. “But if the Regional Commander is out there somewhere, and that Centurion fellow too…where would they be headed?”

Goodman looks up and to the left, searching for a detail he’s just realized he forgot. “The EXFIL point,” he says.

“Which is…?” the Master says, nodding.

Goodman brings a hand to his mouth.

~

A two-ton quadcopter descends noisily about a hundred yards north of the easternmost trench-line, sending up cyclones of dust and dirt all around it. As it touches down, a grey landing bay door opens and the Chancellor of the Eastern Realms steps out and onto the ground, followed by a large man in a dark purple suit. Together they step around rocks and divots; when they reach the edge of the ridge where Centurion and the Commander made their radio call only hours ago, they peer into the distance at the trench far below them.

Blast-sites and craters dot it as far as they can see, smoke still seeping from them like ribbons. A handful of fires have been lit against the chill of the day, the enemy troops having made their camp there, satisfied in their victory.

The Chancellor, surveying the damage, gives the slightest of nods and turns to his second-born son. “What do the ship’s systems report?” he says.

Antoni the Second glances down at his watch. “It’s just as Centurion reported, sir. Total loss along the eastern line.”

“Have Henry or his First Guard made their second radio call yet?”

“No, sir.”

The Chancellor shakes his ancient head, and after a moment turns back to amble towards the aircraft. Following him, Antoni the Second pulls out a small handheld device and takes a furtive look. A single, flashing green light blinks on an otherwise blank screen.