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Present Day, The Conglomerate, Outer Shrublands

Iron Heavy Infantry Corps

The Heavy Infantry Corps of the Iron legion had started approximately seventy years prior, prior to the Nomad wars, in the Eastern Scrummages of the fallen-folk. The war had lasted a dozen years, an expansive and resource-draining plague on The Conglomerate, back before the Godhand system had been properly established, and a Federation, led by a loose-ended group of Province leaders that were much too infatuated with personal gains than ensuring the victory of the nation as a whole. After a crushing defeat at the hand of a cluster of Drake troops used by the Titan Region clans in the east, the much smaller army of the Iron nations had not only to conjoin, and stop internal conflict, and instead focus on the tribesmen of the Great Expanse. Specific regions of north Mercus had recently delved into long-ranged weaponry, not bows and arrows, but instead a mixture of gas-propelled and magic-sensitive firearms, that would later be known as ‘rifles’. Using the miraculous skills of the Blacksmithing clans in the south, they had managed to cross long-ranged, gas-propelled rifles, as well as traditional armaments offered by the inhabitants of the Urs Woodthicket. This fusion between old and new, technology and magic, birthed the Three Orders of the Iron Nations, and later the birth of the Conglomerate as a joint force, led by a God-elected superior, tasked with leading the alliance to victory.

“Steele,” the fourth platoon’s captain barked at him.

Steele’s gaze tore from the weapon in his hand to the man beside him, young as well, sodden brown hair speckled on his thin face, green eyes piercing from underneath the wisps of hair. He wore the traditional corps’ under-garments, thin layers of muddy, brown garments, with warm mutton wool underneath, to help combat the biting cold.

And yes, the cold was nigh-unbearable- the fire in front of him, which a good ten soldiers congregated around, flickered, and the sprawling mess of snowflakes which suddenly increased, shook him down to his bones.

“What is it?” Steele growled, a little too aggressively. The cold angered him; more than the shortages of supply, or the reasoning from the new Godhand, Thoron.

The captain’s eyes widened slightly at the hiss, and he patted down the fluttering golden ribbon that blew behind him, attached to his right shoulder. “The troops,” he nodded to the shoddy looking tent pitched next to a gnarled tree, the outcrops of a withered woods stretch, “Lugging around heavy machinery and one-hundred-and-fifty-pound enchanted plating in two-foot-high snow has torn them apart. Lakar says we’re being stalked by mountain hounds; we’re missing two men two-days into this, Steele.”

Steele bit his tongue a bit, his brown, near-black eyes staring into the snow, trenches of mud splattered here and there. And then he turned to the fourth platoon captain, Orldis, famous within the ranks for killing a water serpent on an eastern tribe’s territory, which would be comprehendible to most, except from the fact he had done it with his bare hands in the middle of a typhoon. Those green eyes of his reflected something harsh, that melted away the stretches of snow around them, “We continue.”

Obviously, Orldis had not received the message.

“Now.”

He had opened his mouth to say something, but silent rebuttal spilt out, and he grunted, saluting and trudging round, barking commands to tired soldiers who didn’t look up.

His joints aching in complaint, Steele slowly stood up, his heavy armour creaking, and he strapped the Heavy chain gun to his side.

Glancing into the frozen pond to his right, he looked at the grizzled man who looked back, looking twice as large despite being over six foot four. Armour like Dragon skin, shoulder plates two curved hunks of metal, curving upwards, with little spiked garments lining the sides. A huge chestplate, the kinds two foolish children could hide behind, curving round his burly waist to the back, where spikes jutted out his spine. Gauntlets, curved intricacies painted all over in gold, mixing nicely with the silver design, chiselled squares at the joints. Hanging over his crotch was his undergarment, a silver-red tunic, the embraided Snake head, reared back for strike with its tongue flicking out.

“Leave the tent,” he reared back, picking up the helmet from a tree stump, “Bring only weaponry and rations.”

He glanced at the helmet, long, flares of red streaked on either side, a grilled, removable visor, with three curved horns jutting out the side, curving backwards. It looked devilish in his mammoth hands, that blank darkness behind the grills peering at him with a blankness that gave nothing away. When he slid it over his head, and warm flames flickered to life from behind the grill, one could mistake it for immediate death. But despite that fire roaring within the helmet where his eyes laid, no howls of pain erupted. The soft hearth that glowed, seeping out of the thin gaps riddled in his visor, signalled his nobility within the Corps, as Elite General of the Heavy Infantry Corps division of the Steel Order. Not only that, but his four stripes painted in lustrous gold on his right pauldron signified his four years of duty, making him not only the least experienced Elite General in the history of the Heavy Corps, but also the youngest General, at only nineteen. This of course wrought controversy, especially at the speed at which he gained military expertise; but after his tutor, master and uncle, the prior Heavy Corps General had passed the title to him after his death, despite being against the regulations of the Corps, he had gathered the position, with the help of his family’s influence across Mercus and even Dermus.

With the lighting of the soft fire, he flung on a cape which also laid on the stump, and twirling with wicked contortion, it attached itself to his back, buckling itself. Two long separate ribbons, reaching from his neck to his heels, the edges cropped with crystal patterns, signias elegantly embraided across its black velvet material.

After the four platoons, forty soldiers, had entered the thickness of the woods, the weather had only worsened, and as the sky darkened his visor only burned harsher, allowing him to keep clear visage of his troops. They moved in their four groups, a good couple hundred of meters between each platoon, with a few runners in between the clusters, wind swirling at their lightly armoured feet as they sprinted and darted in between the huge trunks of the woods.

“I can’t believe we’re trekking into the Urs Woodthicket hunting for a bloody witch,” Captain of the first platoon, which Steele currently supervised, Gerald Potterlok grunted.

“Whatever the Godhand commands,” Steele murmured, walking round the circumference of a huge, broken tree. His armour creaked as he did so, pauldrons grinding, braces squeaking and gauntlets groaning with metallic resonance. The others behind him, similar armour on, although much less extravagant.

“Something warped happened back there, in the Iron Isles,” Gerald said with a hushed tone, adjusting the rifle on his shoulder.

“Warped?”

“Gorr Ironthrawl, the most powerful Godhand in a century, who ruled for over thirty years without fail, suddenly dies of ‘magical corruption’? I’m pretty sure he didn’t use magic anyway, he’s a machine king, much like Thoron.” Gerald pointed out, readjusting his helmet.

Steele opened his mouth to return with whittled subterfuge but the words slid back down his throat, “I don’t see why Thoron would kill his brother; they were particularly fond of each other last time I heard.”

Gerald paused, and then shrugged shoulders, “I suppose so; whoever rules, it doesn’t really matter to me, still gonna be gunning down rogues.”

Steele shook his head, eyes cold, “It does affect you though doesn’t it? When was the last time a Crusade was called? When the Timorian Gunslingers were called? We’ve never worked with the Timorians before, and yet here we are, working with Witch hunters, hunting for a witch in the middle of freezing woods.”

“Why we looking for a damned witch then?”

The Witch will help; this one in particular, General Steele. It will help with not the Crusade, but what will follow in the west, against the greater enemies: Galgorians. We need to find it Steele, we need to find one of the seven weapons of the Lords of Timore.

The rugged words of Thoron’s advisor, Sneglar resonated in his mind.

“I don’t know, I just follow the orders of the Godhand,” he lied.

Gerald opened his mouth to return with something, but a call sounded, ringing from their right sounding from Platoon 2 it sounded like.

“WITCH!” It shouted, a mixture of panic and fear rippled throughout the ranks of men, and that call that ruptured the silence of the men had stifled the trudging of their boots in the snow.

A few seconds of recollection as Gerald’s head snapped right, leaning forwards, his cape tipping over his shoulder as he nearly fell, and then his face, twisting round, was illuminated by the flaring light which spilled over the entirety of the woods. Steele’s eyes watched through the filter of the fire, the small, burning orb shoot above the canopy of the trees, a smoke trail behind, before exploded into a ray of red ripples that illuminated the fear in Gerald’s green eyes.

Another followed, this time closer, also red, and then another one- the closest out of the three. The men of Gerald’s platoon, stopped movement recognising the flares shooting upwards, and jogged forwards, splitting off into two smaller groups, forming a semi-circle around Gerald and Steele, taking out rifles and chain guns.

Gerald tapped the tip of his sword into the snow, and something a pale blue shimmered, before it formed a semi-permeable shape around the soldiers.

Something a burning red, hotter than the flares, flashed, far ahead in between the contorted rows of trees, about two hundred meters back, and a horrifically bright bolt rocketed forwards slamming into them. The shield around them shook as the explosion rattled across the ground, splitting trees, fragments of wood showering over them, smoke bellowing into the air. Similar explosions echoed across the soldier’s frontiers, flames lapping in the trails of the shots.

“Shit,” Steele whispered. He rose his free hand in the air, and allowed energy to ripple across it.

“Flarus,” he uttered the spell, and a black bolt shot into the sky, a shockwave erupting behind it, the thing soaring higher and higher, before exploding, stronger than the others.

Unlike the red flares, which indicated immediate danger, black meant high danger of death- for soldiers to cease movement, and lay down supportive fire on a single frontier, avoiding shooting allies in the crossfire.

Gerald turned round, shouting with fortified effort, “Come on! Do it!”

A few moments and the troops shouted between themselves, spreading out, and then lined up, all four platoons, all forty soldiers opened fire, they’re chain guns rattling, louder than thunderstorms. The tree bark stood no chance despite their huge size- it ripped through, shredding apart the woods, laying into the area of the Witch.

There was an opening, most of them couldn’t see, but Gerald and Steele could, in between those inch-wide gaps in the distance, a stretch of open land laid, the beginning of a steep rolling hill, a cluster of rocks from which water spouted down. It was rocky, but open. Assuming the Witch wasn’t already within the ranks, tearing them apart, she must’ve been laying down fire from afar.

The fire rattled on, and soon the flame bursts from the Witch stood had ceased, and the troops were beckoned to stop firing.

Steele counted in his head, 10 seconds, 15, 20, 25, 30.

“Move forwards!” He shouted, and turning to a sound to his left, his eyes opened in relief.

“Well?”

The scout shook his head, “She must’ve retreated over the rocks, up that hill. The entire place is riddled with bullets and there’s a splash of blood across the sandstone by the lake.”

“What colour’s the blood?” He asked, the soldiers moving forwards, lugging their huge weapons.

The scout called before he disappeared into the shadows, “Red with a tint of cobalt.”

The flames hardened for a second and then he calmed.

“You know what that means,” Gerald said with a hushed tone, eyes staying forwards at all times.

Metal Witch. Damned wench.

Facing a metal Witch with a metal-armoured force was not a handicap Steele couldn’t afford. They approached the opening, where a tiny tributary floated down into the woods, a long twisting and branching opening available, dotted with boulders on either side.

A soldier, propping his foot on top of a boulder, waving his chain gun across the area couldn’t activate the magic in his fingertip fast enough to fire the bullets. A shape blurred into existence, and with a blurred enveloping flame, the soldier was instantly killed, a huge fire erupting through his body, escaping from his back. The metal armour on his body melted, his deformed corpse fell back, gun clattering out, his blackened face melded to the metal of his helmet.

The second platoon must’ve circled round, because from the east, behind the trees, gunfire rattled into her direction, but she was already gone, darting forwards, a blur of amber, disappearing into the trees.

The troops of first and second platoon couldn’t even aim their guns before she dropped from the canopy, and in that moment, almost floating down, with her ragged robes fluttering behind her, a huge wave of crimson red hair, eyes- like that of a cat’s- with stormy grey rage. That’s all Steele saw before flames erupted from her hands and rained down. Her eye’s met his, and something flickered across her face, like some warped kind of recognition, before he wrung his one hundred and fifty pound gun round, belt of bullets rattling, and simultaneously completing a combination of five spells and pulling the trigger to activate the storm of bullets which whizzed towards her.

She waved her right arm around, twirling mid-air, a crash of embers smacking into the first few bullets, evaporating them. She fell in between some Platoon two soldiers, on a fallen tree, crouching her palms extended. Liquid metal spurted out, sticking to three men who toppled in frenzied panic. More gunfire rattled at her, but she blurred again, darting towards a huge twisted trunk, twisting round it with her right hand, and flipping off, like acrobat. A soldier, shouting brought his massive gun down on her, like an axe, whilst simultaneously a soldier from behind had dropped his chain gun, and lunged with a short-sword, aiming for her torso. She butterfly kicked the knife out of the occupant’s hand, whilst also flicking her fingers towards the other soldier, the gun flying out of his hand, melted. The soldier leapt back, avoiding a lethal swipe of her small hand, ducking another kick over his head which was too quick to see. A soldier shouted something inaudible, hurling a crack of lightening towards her.

She turned, seeing five more soldiers coming towards her, and the bolt less than a second from her. Something flashed across her face, and her hand swiped out, harshly, and a huge wave of crimson fire erupted, smashing a massive arc of cleansing flame which wiped out a good stretch of the east side of the woods. Black charred remains laid where she stood, and the massive shockwave of hot air which hit the remaining platoon two and one shook them.

She shuddered, eyes looking down to her fingers, black and cut, with flames rippling across them. Lips quivering, she opened her mouth, but couldn’t finish her sentence as Steele’ massive hand encircled her hair. She twisted round, a high-pitched squeal escaping, unintelligible, and was going for a kick before Steele roughly brought her down, slamming her two meters into the ground, cracks spreading out. Damage which would’ve killed a world-class mage didn’t stop her from vanishing and then appearing behind Steele, a trail of fire in her speeding footprints. She extended her palm, a fire igniting and fired, a huge blast, completely enveloping the huge figure, and the trees behind it, again a huge, shuddering explosion- complete overkill. She easily dodged the swipe of the sword from behind her, but nearly slipped, panting, from the trickle of blood over her right eye. She was about to turn away from the irrigated corpse of the General to face the others before something hot, unbearably hot, gripped her shoulder.

Slowly, uncertainty racking across her scarred, tattered face, and she turned around.

There he stood, his armour blackened by plumes of ash, but a fire, red and enraged, glowing within his helmet. He spoke, a voice like nothing she had ever heard, filled with such power and rage that it stopped her. His voice reverberated with an animalistic growl, “Stand down, and obey the word of the Godhand, or die grovelling in your own blood, Witch scum.”

Steele heard the clattering of whatever remained surround the witch. Gerald called his name. A few seconds passed, and then her eyes darkened, and she snarled, like a dog, and whacked his hand off her with a force that shook his body. She backed off, elbowing a soldier to her right, crumpling his helmet, his body sinking down, blood pouring from the cracks. But Gerald had appeared to her side, and all though something metal was forming in her palm, Gerald was faster, and he struck, a longsword piercing her thigh, then quickly raking it out, a fine arc of blood splattered across the floor. She whimpered quietly, falling to a knee, a grimace spreading across her face before Gerald grabbed her from the right, and a soldier wrapped his arm around her neck, struggling to keep her down. Another had manifested a shimmering chain apparition, and slung it around her other arm, drawing it out.

Despite this, she was already standing up, the large men around her straining. She bit and tore at the air, pure fury in her eyes, like a cornered Maw.

Steele rose his right hand behind him, a fist forming.

Dark energy rippled around his elbow, and as he approached he was prepared to kill her, finish her off- the wicked witch. The kind who had caused him pain; sorrow, who had been the fault of everything he had lost, the remains of what he had.

Beneath the flames of his helmet, something welled in his eyes, and for a moment his fist weakened. That’s when fear spread across her face; not the fear of death or defeat, the kind a child harbours when he sees his father leave to fight in a war for another king. Her eyes shimmered in the low light, the storminess of them quelled, and although her thin, red lips were contorted into a snarl, it was weaker now, the blood on her teeth somehow making her look scared. She had twisted her head round, long locks of hair, like a winding Mediterranean Sea of fire, covered most of her bloodied and bruise-ridden body. Steele knew Witches aged extraordinarily slowly, slower than Vampyres, but she only looked about seventeen.

And then he remembered his second sister. Like his second cousins, like his second family, like his second friends. Gone like the first, eradicated, like damned animals. Both families, real and fake; both dead or gone.

Rage returned and he snarled.

“May the Gods have mercy on your soul.” He whispered, and he brought his fist down so hard that the tree behind them cracked in half, the floor around them sinking a couple of meters. The birds left the canopy squawking, and the waterfall behind them dispersed as the boulders were ripped from their beds from a shockwave which split the clouds above.