Chapter 1 - In The Trenches

Heaving, Goodman sits with his back against the boarded trench wall, dirt and bullets raining all around him, smoke in his eyes. The M-16 rifle at his chest, cold and black, has yet to be fired. Goodman’s white-knuckled hands grip the stock and barrel, shaking. He looks left and right, peering through the din, deaf to all but the ringing in his ears. Leaning, he strains, hoping to catch sight of the Master through the throng; hurried soldiers whir past him, their faces set alight by the fright of war. Goodman’s face, too, is the picture of terror.

“Master! Master!” he calls, but the sounds of his shouts are immediately drowned out. Coughing up soot, he throws his head back; with welling eyes, he curses the sky.

~

The Master, some fifty yards down the line, is at the helm, barking commands. “Leftenant Giles! Where is the rest of your regiment!” He calls, looking down from his perch atop the trench.

Leftenant Giles, a portly old curiosity collector with his cap on crooked, stands at attention, rigid as a board, quivering. “We—we—” he begins.

“Speak up, man!” the Master says.

“We—they ran for the hills, sir!” Leftenant Giles clenches his teeth and squints his eyes, preparing for the worst.

With a breathless gasp, the Master drops his jaw and his eyes go wide with rage. After a beat, he climbs down the embankment, seizes Leftenant Giles’ lapels, and gives him a violent shake. “Which hills?” the Master says, spittle flying.

Giles’ countenance pales. “Sir—I—” he says.

“Which hills, gory-dammit!” A tear rolls down Giles’ cheek.

“The High Hills, sir,” he says, choking back a fearful sob.

“The High Hills? Are you sure?” the Master says.

Giles’ nods, and the Master, fuming, thinks for a moment before letting go of Giles’ uniform and giving him a soft slap in the face. “No crying on the battlefield, Leftenant Giles. Leave that at home,” he says, smartly tugging on his button-down top.

Leftenant Giles gives another quick nod and dries his eyes with the back of his sleeve, relieved. When he looks up, the Master is already ten paces away, marching off in the direction of the HQ tent where the Commander sits.

~

Goodman, having caught his breath, stands on wobbly knees. The ringing in his ears, now abated, is a high, faint whistle. “Excuse me!” he says, coughing again. “Does anyone know where the Master has gone to? The Master of the Raisón?” But none answer; each passerby is wrapped tight in their own troubles, stricken by their own sorry states. They barely take note of him. Goodman sighs, and so with nothing but a guess to guide him, he clears his throat and steps into the trench-traffic.

~

The Master, bound for the HQ tent, barrels down the mud-packed plankway, shouting indiscriminately as he goes. “Out of my way!” he says. “Make a hole! I have a message for HQ!” Soldiers and sergeants alike are quick to accommodate. At the sight of Amadeus of Montelaine, Esteemed Seventeenth Master of the Raisón, they leap to the left and right, out of his projected path of travel.

“Is that?—” they say as he passes.

“Was that?—” they whisper as he walks by.

“Yes,” they conclude.

“Wow. I didn’t know he was here.”

“Neither did I.

The Master just charges along.

~

The HQ tent, pitched near the middle of the trench, is a hot box of tough green canvas with two flaps for a door and a cutout window. Inside are a pair of cots, travel case of documents, and metal-frame desk at which the Commander of the Regional Army sits to make decisions, pen in hand. Next to him stands Centurion, the First Guard, swooning and sweating in the heat. Two Royal Guardsmen, on loan from the Citadel, guard the entrance. Though displeased to be on the front line of the war, they are nonetheless thankful not to be stuck inside the tent with the man they are charged to protect—the spoiled son of their boss, the Chancellor of the Eastern Realms.

Rifles at the ready, they stand, shifting their weight from one leg to the other, when a low-ranking messenger-soldier runs up to them in a panic, out of breath.

“Sir! Sir!” he says, almost forgetting to salute them. He raises his right hand to the edge of his eyebrow and stands stiff as a plank, waiting.

The Guardsmen look at one another and then back at the soldier, bemused. They return his salute and they all drop their arms. “What is it?” They say. But the soldier, still at the position of attention, is mute. “At ease, soldier! Deliver your message!”

Haltingly, the soldier relaxes and tells them the news.

~

Goodman’s boots, slippery in the mud, are making it hard for him to keep up with the relentless flow of soldiers. Intermittent flash-bangs and flying bullets kick up the soil surrounding the trench and send it high into the air to pelter down on them in gravelly showers. Marksmen, lined up along the edge take aim, fire, and are replaced with another as they pause to reload. Here and there, wounded fighters lay bleeding and crying out, tended to by medics. Stinging smoke and the stench of death fill the air. It is worse than Goodman ever imagined, and he has to find the Master.

~

The Royal Guardsmen are as perplexed as they are stunned.

“There’s no way,” the taller one says. “He wouldn’t.”

“It’s true, sir,” the messenger says, nodding. “He’s heading this way now.”

The Guardsmen, still skeptical, eye him closely, but in the next few seconds, a growing sense of dread fills them. There is a real earnestness in the boy, and if he is telling the truth… “You’re certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Master of the Raisón is in this trench?”

The messenger nods vigorously.

“And that he happens to be coming this way?”

“Mm hmm! Yes, sir. That’s right.”

The Guardsmen exchange worried glances, alarm on both of their faces.

~

Goodman, now running on pure adrenaline, has kicked it into high gear and left his rifle behind. And instead of simply keeping up with the flow of foot-soldiers, he is shoving them out of his way. “Master!” he shouts. “Master!” But none of the faces streaming past him have belonged to his boss, and neither—thankfully—have any of the faces he has seen at the medic stations, those missing a limb, or an eye, or worse. Each time he passes one, he is at once relieved and frightened not to see the Master.

He is thus rushing along when suddenly, out of the tumult, a word catches his ear and he stops to wheel around, just in time to be sent sprawling onto the ground by the soldier behind him.

Inglorious, he belly-flops to the floor of the trench and is nearly trampled by a dozen muddy boots—a mammoth of a soldier, who happens to be standing nearby, deftly reaches down, picks him up like a wet paper doll, and pulls him to the side, away from the current of soldiers behind him. Goodman wipes the muck from his face and catches his breath.

“Thank you,” he says, spitting some gravel out, panting. His whole front is plastered with mud.

“Ain’t no problem, sir,” the big man says, wiping his own hands on his pants. “You done took a good fall.”

Goodman nods, embarrassed. “I heard someone mention the Master of the Raisón,” he says. “That’s why I stopped.”

“Well, the Master of the Raisón, you say.”

Goodman’s eyes widen with hope. “You saw him?”

“Yeah, I saw ‘im. We all saw ‘im. He came this way not two minutes ago.” The big man says, pointing in the direction Goodman was headed. “Sayin’ he had a message for HQ,” only it comes out as aych cue.

Goodman’s heart rate picks up sharply. “That way?” he says, pointing.

“Yessir,” the big man says, but Goodman is gone before the word is out of his mouth.

~

The Master glimpses the tips of the gilded spearheads of the Royal Guardsmen before he sees the HQ tent behind them. Rushing, he weaves through the remaining bodies before him and darts through the open flap door of the green canvas tent. The Royal Guardsmen watch with widened eyes as he enters and they share a glance of worry before returning to the position of attention.

The first thing that the Master notices is the stifling heat inside the tent. Though it is shaded from the sun, the air is sweltering. So much so that it nearly has him on his heels, but he does not falter. “Commander!” the Master says, standing erect and sending up a jerky salute, sweat already beading on his brow.

The Commander, a thin, bespectacled man with a reddened face, is seated before him at a rickety metal desk with a smattering of papers at his elbows and a pen in one hand. Centurion, the First Guard at his side, is a strong, stout soldier with a mean look in his eye and a scar across his cheek. The two were expecting him, but when the Master barges in, the Commander nearly topples back in his chair and has to grab his metal frame desk to steady himself. His pen flies out of his hand onto the ground, followed by a fluttering of papers. Centurion steadies the commander and then stoops to collect them. It is a moment or two before they each regain their balance.

When the scene is again settled, the Master restarts his message. “Commander,” he says, still holding his salute. “I need to report a missing regiment.”

The Commander, ignoring him, still has his head down and is sorting out the smattering of papers that flew off the table.

The Master waits.

Finally, the Commander looks up and returns the salute. The Master is overjoyed to lower his arm. “Sir, I need to report—”

“Yes, Amadeus. I heard you the first time.” The Commander interrupts.

The Master is shocked to hear his given name from a stranger, even a relatively powerful one. “Sir, how—” he says.

“How do I know that you are Amadeus of Montelaine? Esteemed Seventeenth Master of the Raisón?” the Commander says, his voice dripping with sardonicism. “Do you not think it is the purview of a Regional Army Commander to know when the efforts of his war have been jeopardized?”

At this, the Master furrows his brow and his head tilts.

“Oh, you don’t know?” The Commander says. “Interesting. I suppose what the people say of you is perhaps true, then.”

The Master, now wholly confused, is at a loss for words.

“Amadeus,” the Commander begins again. “Are you not aware that according to the Eighth Statute of the Holy Scrip, Realm Masters are strictly forbidden from engaging in or endorsing war activities?”

The Master’s eyes go slowly wide as if something horrible is dawning on him. “Sir, I—”

“You did not!” the Commander says, slamming his fist onto his desk, rattling it. “Even more interesting. And are you also not aware that transgression of the Eighth Statute is punishable by immediate removal from one’s station?”

The Master, whose heart is now racing, takes a step back and bumps into the two Royal Guardsmen, who have since entered the tent and posted up behind him. He looks up at them but their gazes are fixed forward.

The Commander steps around the desk and approaches the Master. “As Regional Commander of the—”

A holler and a commotion at the tent door cut him short, and they all turn around to see Goodman come sailing into the tent, manic with energy.

~

Leftenant Giles, on the far end of the trench, sits with an unopened MRE in his lap, feeling sorry for himself and missing home. The tempo of the battle has slowed, and many of the soldiers around him have taken the opportunity to get some food in them, but Giles has no appetite. His regiment, having run for the High Hills without him, left him lonelier than he ever imagined he could be—and to make matters worse, he was yelled at because of it by the Master of the Raisón himself. Giles hangs his head in shame and breathes deep.

“Hey man, you gonna eat that?” A soldier near him says, elbowing him. Wordlessly and without looking up, Giles passes him his packet meal. Despondent, he leans back and closes his eyes, trying to remember a happier time.

~

“Master!” Goodman shouts, scrambling to his feet just inside the door of the HQ tent. The Master spins around. “Goodman!” He says, throwing up his hands before dashing over to Goodman to help him stand. “Where the bloody hell have you been!? I thought you’d been killed!” Goodman wraps an arm around the Master’s shoulders and gets to his feet, relieved beyond all measure to have found the Master.

The Royal Guardsmen just watch, mystified. For the second time, today, they’ve let someone in the tent without interrogating or remanding them.

“What the devil!” The Commander says, incredulous.

The Royal Guardsmen jump, embarrassed despite themselves and their distaste for their boss.

The Commander continues. “Are you two oafs charged to guard this tent, or not!?” The Guardsmen look at one another and their frustration boils over; they’ve had just about enough. In a blur, they stow their spears and are reaching for Goodman and the Master when the shout of “INCOMING!” is heard, and a mighty clap of thunder shakes the trench beneath their feet and rocks rain down around them.

In an instant, the air is black with smoke and red with flame, the HQ tent a tattered, flapping mess, strewn along the path of the mortar and away from the impact site not six feet away. In the aftershock of the blast, a silent, slow-motion chaos sets in, death at the door.

~

Leftenant Giles’ wakes with a start, panic all around him. The steady flow of foot-soldiers in the trench is now a frenzied stampede. He stands up, clinging to the side so as not fall in. “What happened!” he says, but none answer. He bites his lip and looks for his rifle. Someone must have run off with it. Damn bastards, he mutters, and checks the holster on his hip. The pistol his wife gave him is still there. He breathes a sigh of relief even though he’s never discharged it. He looks up and down the trench, and there suddenly comes a high, hard whistle overhead and mingled, muffled shouts of “INCOMING!” below.

At the sound, Leftenant Giles drops to the ground and covers his head with his hands. Less than two seconds later, a deafening bang rockets through the air and the ground below him trembles. A moment later, pebbles pelt the floor of the trench and the air is full of dust and stinging smoke. Leftenant Giles waits for a few minutes, and then rises to his knees, scared but unscathed. He stands, peering through the fog of battle, frozen. When the ringing in his ears subsides, all is quiet, the cries and shouts of soldiers laid to rest around him. The enemy is closing in.

~

The Master is the first to open his eyes. He is laying on his stomach; his legs are pinned down by something heavy. A trickle of blood drops from a cut somewhere on his face and he groans. He winces and tries to get his arms underneath him.

“Master,” Goodman croaks from a place close by. “Your legs are trapped. Wait for me.” The Master takes in a deep breath and a sharp pain in his side makes him cough. He looks over; Goodman is crawling towards him through the charred gravel, scraping along the ground. When he reaches him, he gets to his knees and heaves against whatever it is that’s got the Master’s legs immobilized. Once freed, the Master rolls over and takes a look. He brings a hand to his mouth. It’s one of the Royal Guardsmen.

“Is he dead?” the Master asks.

“I’m not sure, Master.” Goodman says. “But we have to get going. Now.”

Haltingly, Goodman and the Master help one another up and take stock of their condition. Aside from a number of cuts all over their bodies and the ringing in their ears, they’re able to move. They hobble into the middle the trench, away from where the HQ tent was minutes ago. Goodman scans the trench, wincing at a painful spasm in his neck. He gestures to a ladder on the side of the trench away from the enemy. “This way, Master,” he says. “We’ll have to make a run for it.”

The Master stops him. “Almost,” he says. “Follow me.”

~

Leftenant Giles sits waiting for his final moment to come, his head in his hands. When Goodman and the Master come up on him, he’s almost convinced they aren’t real. “Master!” he says. “Goodman!” He runs up to them with open arms, instantly in tears, sobbing. The Master, forgetting himself for a second, embraces Giles and then pulls back.

“What did I say, Giles!” he says.

Leftenant Giles chuckles softly and wipes his face. “No crying on the battlefield, sir.” He sniffles.

“That’s right,” the Master says, a slight smile on his face, too. “Now. Is there a ladder around here?” he says, searching. “Yes sir, over there.” Giles points to a half-smashed set of wood-plank stairs.

“Splendid,” the Master says. “Let’s get the harch out of here.” The Master makes for the shanty ladder and begins to climb up, Goodman hot on his tail. Giles begins to follow, and stops. “But…where will we go?” he asks.

The Master pauses and turns around, one eyebrow raised. “You don’t already know, Leftenant Giles? To the High Hills, of course!”