Serial
32: Safe country
December
22nd, 32 S.D. 04:22 Sventa, Central Plains
Koter reached for a knife, the same ornate one he’d almost used to kill her in the storehouse. As quickly as his hand swept over the holster on his thigh, so too did it suddenly halt. Before he ever grabbed the handle, his movements froze. Tilting his head back, he took several short breaths through his nose. He closed his eyes on the last sniff as he inhaled long and deep. His palm flexed open while his fingers danced wildly about, like they were tempted to draw the weapon. Even so, he seemingly refrained. Koter balled up his fist tightly, but his arm fell loosely to the side. Righting his head again, he opened his eyes while he cracked a wily smile.
“Heh,” he said as he shrugged. “Guess my time is up.”
Losha simply stared at the officer. She was trying to gather enough seras to launch one last attack. Though she was exhausted and felt ready to collapse on any given instant, Losha poured every bit of focus she had left on Koter. If she could push him over the edge into the river somehow... It was cruel but...
Though her mind and soul were totally fixated on her opponent, she neglected to notice the approach of several seras frequencies coming from Sventa. When Koter dismounted his horse, Losha all at once seized and tensed with a subtle gasp. Panic and confusion streamed into her, wondering whether his actions constituted a thread; she readied her retaliation almost reflexively. It was completely lost upon her that Koter was about to withdraw for real this time.
Behind her, distant shouts echoed; a group of lights floated, their fine, bright points growing with every moment. A patrol? She only then recognized their frequencies as she looked rearwards. Turning back to Koter, she saw that he now walked over to the fringe where the ground sharply sank into the Sholat River. At the very precipice of this fall, he stood there until the Sventa soldiers came. On horseback, half a dozen sharpshoots surrounded them. Each carried a lantern on their belts and a rifle on their backs.
“Stay where you are!” one ordered at both Losha and Koter.
“Do not move!”
“Who are you? Why are you here?”
Obviously her mission was not known among anyone except for WOLFWIND and Boz. Without her Wolf of War pelt, Losha wasn’t very recognizable either. Before Losha could explain anything, however, Koter spun around swiftly, spreading his arms out in a wide, extravagant gesture.
“I am Field Lead Koter Henron, or as you Sventa would better know me, the Velhast Hound. That woman before you though...” Koter said pointing both of his index fingers at Losha. “...is Losha Holvate Sventa, the Wolf.”
For a brief instant, the Sventa soldiers sat speechless; their eyes furtively shifted across each other. Then, without hesitation, they hurriedly moved in front of Losha, brandishing their rifles.
“Freeze, Henron dog!” the leader of this unit said as he steadied the sights of his gun.
“Hmph... a dog, sa?” Koter mused. “Well, look at who is barking.” He shook his finger at them, as if to reprimand.
“I said stay where you are!” the chief soldier shouted. The soldiers pulled the hammers of their guns back, waiting for the merest sign of aggression from Koter. Yet before they even realized it, he had already stuck two digits into his mouth; his cheeks billowed right before he blew. Remembering what effect his whistle had on people, Losha quickly threw her hands over her ears.
“Cover your ears!” she cried, but by the time she had warned them, it was too late.
Though at first they heard nothing, they were soon gripped by waves of paralyzing nausea and debilitating disorientation. Moaning and clutching their heads they slumped and slouched over their saddles. One fell off his horse, yet even on the ground, he weakly tried to aim his rifle at Koter. Despite being a mere three meters away, he could not get a good lock-on. His vision swam from side-to-side, churning about like a drunken dream. The gun trembled, the barrel rattled as he took the best shot he could make. The bullet whizzed harmlessly over Koter’s shoulder, an event the officer hardly acknowledged. While the rest continued to swoon, Losha removed her hands and looked up at Koter.
“Losha!” he said loudly, pointing at her. “We will finish this later. Until then, you and I cannot die.”
And with that, Koter took one step backward. Gravity sucked him down, immediately stealing him into the depths below. The last thing she saw of him was his hand extending towards her, singling her out with its finger. This too vanished over the gap but shortly. Scarcely a second thereafter, a splash was heard. Losha rode her horse over to the spot where Koter had fallen. Cautiously, she leaned out, searching the waters. She could see nothing within the currents though, just the surging strength of the river. For a moment, she thought she saw Koter’s hunting cap bob above the surface, but the morning’s darkness left her uncertain. It could have been anything, a mistake even.
Why had he done that? If he wanted to escape, there certainly were better options. Was that fool showing off again? He’d freeze to death before long. His seras frequency evaded her, just like when he stalked, thus she couldn’t even confirm where he was roughly, or if he were yet alive. Regardless of their status as mortal enemies, Losha felt her heart drop along with Koter.
To her, there was no Sventa, no Henron, only people all too unfortunate to live in this skewed world. Even if he had tried to kill her, his own death wasn’t something she actually wanted. Granted, Koter was a brash young man with an inclination to kill others if that meant fulfilling the hunt, Losha had already pledged herself to create a more peaceful Central Plains. That meant ending this petty war with as few deaths as possible. Losing anyone, friend or foe, was always a step in the wrong direction, by her measures at least. She sighed heavily as she glanced up at the moon. Koter was quite tenacious though. Perhaps he’d live.
Eventually, stirring to their senses, the Sventa soldiers recovered themselves. Shaking their uneasy heads, blinking harshly, they returned to normal. The leader came to Losha’s side and saluted.
“Ver Holvate,” he began. For a moment, he eyed the armband she wore that identified her as an irregular agent. “What are you doing here? We thought you were still at Lake Lada...”
“I am unable to disclose that, but rest assured, my tasks here have brought this war closer to an end.”
“What about the enemy? He was just right here.”
“He jumped,” Losha said. “The river has taken him.”
“I see...” The solder turned to the horse Koter had left behind. “At least Henron is short one steed then,” he muttered with a smirk. “We came here after seeing an unknown flash of light, but the situation seems to be under control. No Henron are in the vicinity, correct?”
“No,” she replied, but as she said this, her body fell forward against her horse. Everything ceased for a moment, lost in a black instant. It felt as if she had gone away. Had she fainted? She seemed somewhat fine a second later though.
“Are you alright?” the leader questioned, his face frowning in concern as he reached out to grab her elbow. “Are you still under that strange, dizzying spell?”
“No, I was not affected. I believe I am fine. I believe so,” Losha said in a shallow voice. “I... was injured, but I think I can manage.” Yet she really couldn’t. A great and tiresome weight pressed upon her. The flow of her mind all at once grew lethargic and labored. As her eyes wafted loosely, she saw the world dim until it faded away entirely. At some point in all of this, her consciousness slipped, abandoning her to a vast void.
Later that morning, before most of the third division had even risen for breakfast, Harle was already awake, dressed, and prepared for a most important encounter. His sister’s disappearance had left him with an ever present dread. He had long feared that she had gone off to war without his or her father’s consent. The highest degrees of his apprehension ever imagined her getting killed or maimed on the battlefield, and perhaps they wouldn’t even discover that much. Perhaps she’d simply be consumed by combat...
But things hadn’t turned out like that, not yet. Only in the past few days had the third division received word of what had happened at Lake Lada and the incredible feats his sister had supposedly achieved. Even with the official accounts, the very idea seemed baffling impossible. Losha, a mystic master of lightning and ice? A wolf-like warrior who had alone upended Henron? Every time he ran over the details, he couldn’t reconcile these descriptions with the fair, gentle woman he knew Losha had become. He couldn’t understand how the Wolf of Sventa and his sister truly were one and the same being.
Although he would have liked to say he thoroughly knew Losha, the fact of the matter was that he’d been out of her life longer than he’d played a part. She had changed in more ways than simply maturing. She’d never exactly revealed what her “art” was or what sorts of things it made possible. Harle wondered just what sort of power Losha held. On one hand, he remained quite cross that she had by stealth joined the fray. He duly resented the fact that no one even had a clue as to her whereabouts save for the recent news. Nevertheless, he conversely considered her side. If she truly believed she had the ability to alter the course of the war, Harle knew she was only doing what she felt was necessary and right. Though he could not agree with the secrecy and mystery of her methods - both of which had caused their family grief - at the very least he understood how she must have viewed her own actions.
As he considered things more carefully though, he realized that she had formed herself into a principled and persistent person. Harle recalled the discussion they’d had with their father, how adamant and direct she could be. When one examined her core, her drive, her ideals, they would note her commitment and conviction. If Losha honestly proved capable of all those astonishing deeds mentioned in the report, the decisions she’d made may have been justifiable, much to his frustration. Her deceptions had been the source of stress and sorrow for the Torom of Holvate, yet for Sventa it had meant salvation. His mood, as a result, was nothing short of a conundrum, a conflict of equally opposing sentiments. He was sure to smile and scold her simultaneously when they next met...
At any rate, at an hour when he shouldn’t even have been awake, Harle walked about the fort, alert and ready for the coming day. Such earliness on this date was hardly without warrant however. He’d been summoned last night by the army’s Special Tactics Operator, Boz Delte Sventa. Harle remembered the name being tossed around beforehand. In his memory, he seemed to have heard it only recently. Undoubtedly, he’d gleaned that name from his last meeting of the Tabran. As he and Fautna had brought up the subject of the new Gandian rifles they wanted to introduce, the representative of the Torom of Delte spoke of her uncle, Boz. Eventually, through their discussions, the Tabran elected to have him head the distribution of and training for the guns. Harle himself was unsure what precisely Boz’s purpose in the army was, but he gathered he had a unique role and performed several exclusive duties.
Harle had read about some so-called special operations being run by undisclosed units in the documents he and his father possessed. Maybe Boz was the officer responsible for such matters. The missive he’d received last night had been extremely short and deliberate. Just as well, it really hadn’t told him much of anything. Boz requested Harle’s presence that morning for a private discussion about his sister. That was all he had gathered. Harle knew not what to expect of their coming exchange, but every bit of him prayed he would hear no ill news of Losha.
There were a few officers and soldiers milling around now as they went about their pre-dawn work. In a few hours, the third division would bustle with war energy, as if a machine throttling up. For now though, all things stood quietly at bay, waiting for the flurry. A number of fellow Sventa stopped and saluted Harle as he walked towards the fort’s basement. Though he was only ranked a Field Lead and lead no more than 14 of his own soldiers, he was always shown an almost overwhelming display of respect. He was the Torom of Holvate’s representative in the Tabran, and in terms of political influence, in all of Sventa he was technically only second to his father. Range Leads and Core Leads greeted him crisply, and even the Prime Lead always gave him a nod. It was odd to see these things occur around him. Really, none of it would have happened had his uncle not passed away months ago. Even so, Harle now held a mighty power of his own, not unlike Losha perhaps.
Heading along his way, Harle went down a flight of stairs and suddenly felt the embrace of winter’s air. At first he thought something might have been exposed to the outside, but he quickly surmised that the basement was simply really cold. Descending, he moved below, brushing past the visible vapors of his breath. Everything shrank into blackness as he traced his hand against the wall, testing each step ahead of him. Once he hit the bottom, Harle noted light coming around a corner. He turned and thankfully saw the corridor was rather well-lit by several active lamps embedded across the wall’s length.
He gave pause for the briefest moment; it didn’t seem like anyone was down here with him. Like a grave, not even the scantest whisper escaped. Despite the profound silence, Harle carried on, searching for the room Boz had specified in his writing. To his left, a host of doorways lead to various compartments; none were labeled, however, except one. On an engraved copper strip, the title “TACOPS” sat etched above one portal. Harle’s Gandian was only passing at best, but he saw what the psuedo-word meant to convey. The door remained closed upon his arrival, so he knocked on it as he came before it.
“Come in,” said a voice, and thus Harle did. “Harle Holvate Sventa,” Boz said in a rather open office; he sat behind a wide wooden desk with a litany of articles scattered in front of him. He had not said Harle’s name with the intonation of a question, but rather as a fact. Several lamps were affixed at different points of the room, a necessity given its windowless nature. Compared to the rest of the basement, it didn’t have the feel of a dungeon. Still, the temperature made Harle wish he’d brought his coat.
“Please, have a seat,” Boz offered as he shuffled the papers in order. As Harle took up his chair, he noticed the edge of something circular sticking out from underneath a pile, a large coin, a disc, or perhaps a medallion. Boz, however, brought the attention quickly to their discussion. Though he didn’t salute Harle, he bowed slightly in his own chair and smiled.
“I have asked you here to talk about your sister, Losha Holvate,” Boz said. Harle nodded, hiding his eagerness for information. “I have already sent a letter to your father and mother in Sevia, however, I thought it prudent to discuss and explain the matter personally to a member of her family. Do you understand what has happened so far?”
Harle clasped his hands together as he spoke. “To a certain degree, yes,” he admitted. “But only what we have received in the reports. Well, the rumors too.”
“I myself have only just arrived here at the third division, so unfortunately I cannot tell you if the gossip roaming around here is wild or not. I can, however, clarify the truth.” Harle wondered just what exactly he didn’t know about Losha. “Where would you like me to begin?” Boz asked.
“From where all of this started, her disappearance from the Sofos residence a few weeks ago. How did she get from Sevia to the front-lines of battle?”
“Sa, that,” Boz said, rubbing his chin. “She is a clever woman, your sister. Losha impersonated a Sofos soldier with the cooperation of Marila Sofos.”
“The Lady of Sofos?” Harle blurted.
“Yes, their matriarch. Losha convinced her to withhold one of her clan members, an ailing Zelin Sofos, from deployment. In her stead, Losha deployed herself under the guise of Dansha Sofos, a purely fictional Sofos.”
Harle had heard of Zelin in tidbits from his wife, Teiva. She suffered some debilitating disease, but the Sofos had to send fighters like her to support the war, healthy or not. It was nothing short of sensational that Losha had been able to sway such a notable figure as Marila into her dangerous and reckless scheme. Losha had indeed gone to great lengths in order to participate in the fighting, all without informing her closest loved ones. While Harle was immeasurably impressed in one way, he also felt betrayed. But the real question facing him was whether her plan had been worth it.
“After assuming that alias,” Boz resumed. “Losha entered our forces, the second division stationed near Lake Lada. Within several days of her coming, Henron attacked. Having read the report yourself already, you know the rest, I am sure.”
Harle shook his head affirmatively, but his eyes fell to the side. “But, is it true?”
“What do you mean?” Boz asked, cocking his head back in puzzlement.
“The things mentioned in the report: bolts of lightning, walls of ice, flinging men with a wave of a hand.”
“Sa, you speak of serialization.”
“Is that what she calls it?” Harle wondered, moreso to himself than Boz.
“On paper, her powers are hard to fathom. Rest assured though that every detail is accurate and verifiable by thousands of witnesses, both Sventa and Henron. We are not constructing illusions of the imagination. Serialization is no mere myth, like magic or sorcery. I would describe it as nothing short of a science, and Losha is a master in its field. Serialization changes the equation of war completely. All of its rules are broken, reshaped, rebuilt. Where we once thought our conical bullets would revolutionize battle, serialization effectively heralds a new dimension of combat, one neither we nor our enemies have yet begun to understand.”
“Is it really that bold?”
“Bolder perhaps. Examine these facts: two of their orders, half the Henron fighting force, are out of commission. The first was defeated by our new guns. The second was Losha’s doing. Consider that within a month, our command expects to finish operations against Henron.”
Harle did the math, working out the numbers. “Four months?” he breathed. “Shrieks, that will be the shortest full-scale war-”
“In history?” Boz finished. “Sa, as far as it concerns the Central Plains. Losha has reduced the scale and duration of our expected engagements by a full year.”
“Shrieks,” Harle repeated. To say he was shocked but spoke minimally of his reaction. Just what was serialization at any rate? Calling the image of his sister to mind, he could not possibly see where she hid all of that strength. As Boz had said, it didn’t translate well into words. Harle would have to see it with his own eyes.
Along these thoughts, he suddenly said, “I have to see her. I have to talk to her.”
Boz nodded. “I know this is a fairly sensitive family matter. Her return from such a long absence abroad only to take flight again... I did not intend to call you down here without arranging a meeting. You have not been informed yet, but she is now an operative under my close scrutiny. She has just returned from her latest assignment, and I as well need to see her for debriefing. However, she needs more time to recover...”
“Losha’s here?” Harle said as he swiftly came to his feet, pushing his chair backwards. “What sort of mission was it? What happened to her?”
Boz looked up calmly. “She has been in no condition to give us the whole story,” he said, rolling his hands together. “But make no mistake, I am certain she has, once again, single-handedly crippled our foes.”
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