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Guest
Guest
It is
And another thing, perhaps you already saw it, but there's only three 'chapters'... the idea behind this is, that if you'd read only the 'Futility' chapters, or only the 'Illuminati' chapter, or only the 'Legends' chapters you'll get the same story, from three perspectives and a third of the size of the whole thing.
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Legends : Tribal Invasion
Prologue
“Legends are like the light of dawn. Different every day, but always the first light.”
– Nomad Saying
Luther wiped his forehead, and studied the nearest tribal, a bulky man facing the door in front of them, with straps of metal attached to one another crudely using little pieces of leather. He wore a, probably metal, helmet, covered by a gecko pelt, and the man’s face was covered by several purple tattoos. The tribal smiled, revealing a row of teeth, sharpened into triangles. Luther quickly looked away at the other tribal, who on his turn was staring at Luther. He diverted his eyes and focused on the doors. Right now, there were two questions dominating his thoughts, ‘Why did I let them talk me into this?’ and ‘What son of a bitch designed these gala-uniforms?’. It itched like hell, and in his personal opinion the designer had been a little overreacting regarding the usage of gold. The Order’s insignia alone weighed nearly a pound, added to that were NCR’s and the Wright’s family shield.
The two guards moved and Luther directed his attention at the doors, which were now opening. Rather slowly too, apparently, Meijers found like protocol a bit too much. Internally Luther laughed. The Order had known for a long time that the tribal general Leihcam was actually named Meijers, due to his accent. Leihcam knew that, The Order knew he knew and pretended they didn’t know, Leihcam knew they were pretending they didn’t knew and pretended to believe they didn’t knew… of course, The Order knew that, so everyone knew. On his background little was known, but the fact that he was from New California and therefore a probable capitalist, he had his price and it didn’t take the Senate too long to convince, mister Wright, The Order’s and NCR’s council and General Gandja that war would be significantly more costly than negotiations.
The doors had opened, revealing two long lines of tribals, creating a corridor to a stage in the back. Covered mainly by a large black cloak was a blond man, whom’s measures, to say the least, unusual, his torso was abnormally big compared to his face, which was narrow, his age, impossible to guess. Luther spoke the ritual tribal words of greeting, and an old man, next to Leihcam’s throne answered them. Then Leihcam spoke. “We are honoured to meet you here, in our humble city, but disturbing news has reached our ears. Before that, I and my most important and respected shamans have had some disturbing visions. I hope you don’t mind that we, for the sake of certitude and tradition, submit this to our ultimate test.”
Luther nearly sank through the ground as he slowly shook his head, he felt five years of negotiation slip away and could already guess who NCR and The Order were going to blame. One of the old men stood up, dressed in some seemingly randomly selected pieces of cloth and carrying a wooden rod, decorated with countless shiny rocks and feathers. Another stepped forward with a bowl of organs from small animals and handed it to the elder, who held it above his head, shouted a couple of tribal words, then threw the content on the floor. He pointed at the organs and shouted some more tribal sentences at the surrounding tribals, who started mumbling in excitement.
Luther trembled as Leihcam stood up and dropped his cloak. It revealed the reason for his unusual measurements, a slim version of Brotherhood Power Armor, it’s metal glinted and on the chest were two separated laurels, surrounding a cracked cogwheel. Along his side hung an impressive sword, a razor sharp blade with a black edge on one side, a ripper blade on the other. Leihcam stepped forward and lifted the blade. “I am afraid, mister Luther, that the omens are not good.”
Legends
“Sometimes the world itself seems to meddle in her history.
At those events the fabric for legends is weaven.”
- Templar Teaching
Fifty years of age, Narg reduced the letter he found on a Klamath Falls bulletin board to little more than a small ball. He tossed the plea for help into his fireplace and looked around his cottage.
His eyes rest upon La’Kir, his old weapon, a so called Super Sledgehammer. He found it hard to believe that now, on this age, thirty years after this warrior’s cowardice forced the Brotherhood of Steel to destroy the Enclave, and itself in the process, someone sent out a cry for help to ‘the legendary Narg’.
How could he? It hadn’t been him! If he had set his fears aside back then and dealt with the Enclave personally, listened to Hakunin’s prediction that he’d grow to be fifty years old, perhaps his tribe would have still been alive, and Chitsa, beautiful Chitsa. Then this plea for help would have been answered by Narg and the Brotherhood. And they just wouldn’t let him forget! By singing their songs, and telling their stories of the ‘Legendary Narg and his Steel Knights’, they constantly reminded an old man of the biggest lie in the history of the planet.
“Come, friend, just one more day of Bloodshed.” La’Kir seemed to call out to him from it’s place next to the door. And exactly what would he be able to do? What if Hakunin was right, which, oddly enough, wouldn’t be the first time, what if Narg was indeed meant to die at the age of fifty, this year.
Narg left his cottage and stared down the hill it was built upon, into a seemingly endless forest, a part of the most fertile strip of land in New California, one that could’ve, no, should’ve been the home of his people.
The frustration overwhelmed him and in an outburst of pure, primitive rage he cried out an old Arroyan battlecry, as he had done countless times since his last birthday. “Where are you, Death? Why won’t you come and claim your prize!?”
Silence was the only answer, and Narg cried out the same sentence again.
Completely unexpected a sharp pain stung through Narg’s chest, causing him to lose his balance and stumbled back. With his back against his home he fell to the ground. Ahead of him air seemed to gather and take shape, the shape of a man… Colours were added.
A relatively young, blond man with empty, white eyes appeared, clad in a silverish grey, perfectly seamless tunic. The pain intensified as the apparition stepped forward and looked down on him. Dark irises appeared in the figure’s eyes, accompanied by a mocking grin as he extended his hand and touched the old man’s chin.
The pain got unbearable, although Narg didn’t feel the hand, the pain in his chest made him wish for swift and if necessary, dishonourable death. The transparent figure smiled satisfied, as he saw Narg roll up in a ball, as though that would ease the pain. Just as quickly, the smile turned into an insane grin and the apparition’s eyes seemed to show nothing but hatred.
“A prize!?” A monotonous voice echoed through Narg’s head, which felt like it was going to make it blow up. “Delusional fool! Remain here, on your puny, insignificant hill, and I will guarantee you forty more years. You will grow demented and feeble. Or, go to Modoc and meet me on it’s walls!”
The apparition vanished and the pain in Narg’s chest faded. Narg stayed down on the ground for nearly an hour, resting, before inelegantly crawling back to his feet and making his way back into the cottage. He picked up the paper ball and sat down in the only chair there. After staring at the text for a while he got up again, walked towards the door and took La’Kir from it’s hinges. “Come, friend, just one more day of bloodshed.”
Lyam evaded the blow and leapt forward, to get past his opponent’s defences. Kevin smirked, for his had anticipated the move and could now feel his sword impacting on Lyam’s neck, who fell to the ground and started to breath noisily. “I’m a farmer, not a friggin’ tribal!”
Kevin’s grin broadened as he stuck his wooden sword in the ground next to him and extended his hand to help his friend back up, who gratefully accepted the gesture. “Maybe, but there’s ninety thousand of them heading this way as we speak, tribals who cannot afford to have Modoc in their backs on their way south. And quite frankly, Lyam, not even you believe a shovel will do much good in a war, nor will fire arms once those motherless bastards manage to get on the walls.”
Lyam gazed around the training area, caught between the third and fourth, final wall. He sighed. “Do you remember the time this used to be a farming community?”
“Oh yes, quite vividly too.” Kevin hissed. “I also remember those tribals raiding our town, I remember those tribals burning our crops, I remember those tribals raping our mother’s and sisters, or taking them with them, and I recall deadly wounded Ghouls seeking shelter here. Face it, Lyam, it may not be Modoc anymore, but NCR is protecting us!”
Lyam sighed again, more dramatic than the last time. He and Kevin were probably the only ones in this stronghold that were actually born and raised here. Most left after Modoc joined the NCR, others left when the word of the tribal invasion reached them. A lot of people started to call the town Fort Modoc.
And it was a fortress. Right after Order City and The Citadel in Nevada, the town was the biggest stronghold within known territory, the most fortified position in the whole NCR. And Kevin was right, Modoc did make the most logical first target for the tribals, for although it had less than four thousand people, not just soldiers, but people defending it, if they’d simply pass it by they’d be forced to wage a war from two sides.
Lyam rubbed his nose to keep himself from sneezing, he’d been coming up with a cold, and cursed at the thought of Order City. “What the hell is taking The Order so long!?”
“Last rumour I heard in the officers mess is that they’re still too preoccupied with the Steel Plague.” Kevin answered, referring to the remainders of the former Brotherhood of Steel, that had amassed an army of mercenaries and raiders and started the siege of Order City two months earlier. People were starting to loose faith in their Order, which was meant to replace the Brotherhood and detain the Plague.
Alderon cursed the damn horse, the damn saddle, but most of all, the damn bastard put in charge of Modoc. What the hell had possessed Gandja, probably the most skilled tactician in the new world, trusted with the defence of the entire New California territory and all it’s resources, to put that ego-tripping son of a bitch named Darion in command there!?
Suicide run, scouting mission, it didn’t seem to make much of a difference to that guy. The Legion! Scouting! A hundred and forty of The Order’s, NCR’s and New Reno’s finest, by decree of the senate removed from Darion’s command and put under Alderon’s, sent out to look for signs of an army that was at least six weeks on foot away from Modoc.
A young, NCR lieutenant, Hume, directed his horse to walk alongside Alderon’s and saluted. “Quite a day, eh, commander?”
Hume barely managed to keep him face straight as Alderon gazed at his second in command as though he were on fire and continued. “Clear weather, we can see much farther today.” He ignored Alderon’s by now, among Legion-ranks, well known ‘tell-me-something-I-don’t-know’ expression. “We’ve spotted a small encampment five miles ahead, approximately five hundred and fifty tribals.”
Now he finally got his CO’s attention. “What do their banners look like?”
”They have one, a yellow eagle on a somewhat green field.”
Alderon gazed at the horizon. “That’d be Onra, Leihcam’s second man… that’d mean their frontlines are already behind us!” He exclaimed shocked, those tribals were less than five weeks away, probably four.
Hume nodded. “They’ll be in Modoc within four weeks.”
They left a few men to wait for the scouts, while the greater part of the group, over a hundred men, left in a hurry to get to Modoc. After little over an hour, they came across the first signs of tribals, an enormous caravan, crossing the path of the horsemen. Alderon took his Wakazashi blade, which had been hanging across his back and made a couple of quick gestures to his men, who then reformed into a triangular formation, so they could drive a wedge into the caravan.
Alderon ducked to stay out of a throwing axe’s path and cut into the hind legs of one of the Brahmin, which went through it’s legs and started screaming, and biting at the tribals. Hume nearly decapitated a tribal that was trying to flee. In less than two minutes The Legion had fought it’s way through the caravan and spread out, heading back to Modoc.
After three days, over sixty miles away from Modoc, Narg came across one of New California’s new northern settlements. Everywhere around him he could see the signs of the nearing war, abandoned farms, often burned so the tribals couldn’t plunder them, abandoned houses and paranoid, nervous people. Defeat had itself wrapped around these people like a cloak, Narg thought.
As soon as he had reached the top of the hill he could see the small settlement in all it’s glory. Little over thirty building, mostly primitive and deteriorated, although some structures showed some signs of a somewhat more advanced design. The buildings were all built around a square, with a bar or inn in the centre.
Narg massaged his swollen knee to lighten the pain. His right shoulder hurt, a dull pounding feeling, but that was nothing more than another memory of a stray bullet, one he could live with, but the knee wouldn’t take him much further without an icepack and some rest. “You’re an old man.” He told himself. “There’s no sense in denying that.”
He stumbled down the hill and once again wondered whether he should get a horse or Brahmin. His mind welcomed the idea with open metaphorical arms, but his heart was still set on dismissing it. He was the Legendary Narg, whether he liked it or not, who could walk all nigh and fight all day. It’d be an enormous boost for morale if he’d arrive in Modoc on foot.
“Good Lord!” People would say. “That old man came all the way from Klamath on foot!” And others would reply. “Of course, that is Narg, he never rides!”
But his mind made a compromise and decided to get a horse, the leave it somewhere in the forests near Modoc, let’s say five miles away, and walk from there, so he’d still arrive on foot… no one’d noticed.
The bar was crowded, but due to the fact that most guests were just passing through the barkeeper still had a number of rooms available. Narg paid the man, took an icepack and climbed the stairs. Once in his room, he sat down on the bed and pressed the icepack against his knee. He had been downstairs long enough to know that the majority of the guests were deserters. Narg rummaged around his bag a bit and dug up the letter and carefully folded it open, then smiled. The text was huge. Narg had never been much of a reader, and Gandja knew that very well.
Back downstairs Narg carefully listened to the ongoing conversations from his seat at the bar. A group of young men drew his attention in particular.
”Did you hear what Leihcam did to Cliffhaven?” One of the deserters said, referring to a smaller stronghold further north, along the coast. Narg moved closer to the group. “I heard that he told them to open the gates and then they’d not be harmed. They didn’t comply and three days later his army just walked over it, right through one of their walls. He had all the officers and a third of the soldiers tied to metal poles, upside down, poured a bit of oil over their feet and then lit them! His tribals killed or captured all families, except two of them!”
”Do you know why he did that?” Narg asked as he took the final step towards the table and rest his hands on it.
Another looked up. “Because he’s a sadistic, bloodthirsty savage.”
Narg shook his head. “No. He did that so that people like you’d hear about it.” He caught the gaze of the last speaker and raised his hands. “Hey, no offence, son. I know you’re gonna say that you left ‘because it’s hopeless’, but it was Leihcam’s intent to make it look hopeless all along. And with each soldier that leaves, the situation starts looking more hopeless for those staying behind.”
”You sound like you admire him.” A third youngster spat.
”But I do. The man’s a great tactician. You have to admit that no one believed anyone could unite the northern tribes, but he did it. And if you’d give him resources like The Order’s, then place him on a battlefield with General Gandja on the other side, I wouldn’t know on who to bet.” Narg explained. The deserters weren’t all ‘equally happy’ with his speech and the third stood up.
”You looking for trouble grandpa!? Why don’t you get your ugly ass out of here before you loose it!” He exclaimed angrily, his face red of anger.
”I’m heading for Modoc, getting in my way is helping Leihcam.”
Another kid got up and put his hand on his shoulder. “Bryan, no!” He hissed.
Bryan swatted away his friend’s hand as if it were a fly and made his way to the door, turned around, pointed his finger and shouted. “You and me, outside, right now, old man!”
Narg followed the boy outside, many more followed them and formed half a circle. The barkeeper sighed and wiped his forehead clean, relieved that the troublemakers were taking their fight outside.
”I really have to ask you to reconsider this.” Narg said as he saw Bryan pick up a large, pointy metal pole. He loosened La’Kir’s holder.
Bryan grinned, lifted the pole over his head and charged at Narg, who quickly took a step back and caught the pole with his hammer, then, even faster, lower it and wiped Bryan’s legs away from under him. Bryan stood up and thrusted his rusty spear at Narg, who hit it aside with his sledge again. Bryan tried again. The pole bounced of the hammer, which was coming down, straight back into his own heart. Bleeding from a large chest wound he passed out.
Narg stepped back and swung his black sledgehammer back over his shoulder as the other deserters hurried to help Bryan. One of them stared at La’Kir in awe and mumbled Narg’s name. Quickly the old tribal made his way back into the inn, upstairs to his room. Next morning at dawn he’d get a horse and leave.
Jaric scratched the back of his neck as he made his way around the campsite. Hiding in the protective shadows of the trees as carefully as possible he made his way to the nearest raider… to Jaric, it really didn’t matter, since these guys weren’t Raven, and whether she’d been defenceless or not, if they were, he would’ve left. And he hated himself for it. His father hadn’t sent him away for nothing, he was a coward, a disgrace to his name, both of them, but somehow, those twisted, fatalistic Yakuza ideas which occupied his father’s mind, had gotten into his too. He had managed to get behind the raider… Desperately tried to recall was Kevin had thought him… between the third and fourth rib, so they don’t make any noise when they’re going down. Slowly he uncovered his hunting knife, hesitated, then, with every shred of will power in him, he killed a man for the second time in his life. For a second he thought nausea was going to overwhelm him, as the hard and sharpened steel cut it’s way through soft flesh.
The woman, facing him, saw the amazed raider sink to his knees silently, a small stream of blood making it’s way through his lips. She kicked the raider closest to her in the groin just as he was going to look behind him, then reached under her grey cloak and surprised the raider with a slid throat. The last raider jumped back and tried to run of, to regroup with his pall, who turned out to be laying face down in the sand, with a knife sticking out his back and a pale boy sitting by him. He changed his direction, but suddenly felt a sharp pain in his leg and tripped. The woman jumped on his and thrusted her Wakazashi blade through the raider’s heart. She looked at the man’s leg and saw the narrow throwing knife sticking out of it. She looked back at Jaric, who was still sitting on his knees next to his first, or second, victim, his hands covering his eyes.
She pulled out the knife and tossed it in the sand less than a feet in front of Jaric. “Hey…”
Jaric looked up, his eyes as good as empty. “What?” He hissed as he got back on his feet and picked up the throwing knife.
“You throw like a girl.”
Jaric grinned, then started laughing, if only his father had heard that one, until he remembered his hunting knife. Still chuckling he pulled the knife out of the body, the sharp edges on the back tore loose some flesh, and wiped it of on the dead raider’s jacket. Last time, he hadn’t even had the heart to get close to the body… Dad was right, you really do get used to it. Was he crazy too?
“No really, you throw like a girl. Who taught you to throw like that”
Jaric chuckled again. He realized the two of them had a somewhat different perception of ‘throwing like a girl’. Jaric shrugged. “I was… panicking…”
The blonde woman nodded. “Taking that in regard, you still threw pretty good. Who taught you?”
He shrugged again. “My father, so it’s not just the teaching, it’s the genes mostly.”
“Where are you going?”
“South, were else would anyone go.”
“North.”
Jaric was sincerely surprised by the answer, and in no way tried to hide it. “What the hell would anyone want to do there!?”
“Delivering a message…
“To whom?”
“Not Leihcam.” The young woman answered, clearly not interested in saying any more on the matter. She tried to change to course of the conversation. “And who is it who was so chivalrous to help a damsel in distress?”
Jaric grinned as she used that expression. In the few fairytales he heard, girls weren’t the ones doing most of the killing. He took one step forward and bowed theatrically. “Jaric Lysle Rigger, and might I enquire your name?”
“Seanna.”
“Is that a real name?”
Seanna shrugged and wandered around the campsite. “It’s the name I go by.” She said, once again not planning on elaborating. If there was one thing incorporated in Jaric’s heritage other than his hand-eye coordination it was his mother’s ability to tell how people were feeling, and sometimes, almost what they were thinking. Although this girl seemed vulnerable, Jaric got a cold feeling, a gut feeling, that if he’d ask too much, she’d consider killing him.
She turned around suddenly, totally unexpected, and the evaluating look in her azure blue eyes made Jaric take one step back, instinctively. “Do you have some means of transportation?” She asked out of the blue.
Jaric nodded.
“I don’t care what it is, I want to buy it. Another raider got away with my wagon.” She said as she searched her backpack and dug up a handful of jewels. “Name your price.”
Jaric shook his head. “My bike’s not for sale.” He replied.
The evaluating look returned. “Reconsider.”
“No.”
She cursed softly, then looked at Jaric. “Anything.”
Jaric could make a pretty good guess at what she meant by that, but wouldn’t budge. That was the only thing that had any real value to him, which he was afraid of using. The three throwing knives his father had given him, the hunting knife Kevin gave him, they’re all prized possessions, but he hated using them. At least the bike Kevin built him he dared to use. He shook his head again. “Listen… if you really need to go north, I’ll take you there… At least I’d be travelling in a direction of which I know what to expect.”
That was true… Never, never had Jaric been further to the south than Klamath Falls, although he had been north quite often and far. Seanna thought for a while, then nodded.
Illuminati
“Our future is knowledge, hidden from us by ourselves.”
- Illuminati philosophy
Nakur stared into the distance, nothing could bring him from his concentration, and Lujan knew that. He decided to wait and looked down the marble balcony at the beautiful indoor gardens, most likely the only flowers within miles. His view moved to the garden’s gate, bronze bars with runes and tiny images engraved on them. He looked at the centre of the garden again and moved his eyes away from the roses, onto a big and purple, Lotus-like flower, which was blooming. Yesterday, it hadn’t been blooming and he concluded the same thing as Nakur, a member of the Illuminati was nearing. Somehow, he couldn’t completely lose the feeling of regret, somehow he felt this was one of the last times he looked at these gardens. He could guess the place of his nearing death and decided to follow Nakur’s example.
Lujan’s mind stretched out over the wastelands, south… in the distance behind him he could see the temple ridge vanish into the morning’s fog. He found a trail heading south and followed it, towards a bright white light in the distance, which he recognized as Nakur. Nakur moved slowly, following a dirt-bike. Lujan recognized one of the two people on the bike… the boy, or young man, Jaric Rigger, the son of a raider captain who operated not too far away.
He felt words, Nakur’s words. “They’re close… they will arrive at the temple tomorrow, in the evening… tomorrow morning if they don’t stop.”
Lujan preferred not to use his mind speech, however just send out his agreement in the form of an emotion. Nakur seemed to laugh at his hesitation to use his telepathic speech… Lujan used to stutter before he was brought to the Illuminati Templars… he never had to talk again, since among one another the Templars simply used telepathy.
“We need to decide on our formation.”
Lujan gave in. “You need to.”
He could feel Nakur nod. “Garl will be our Eyes, Vintar the Soul, you shall be our Heart and I will be our Voice.”
Lujan agreed.
“Call the others.”
He found himself back on the balcony. Vintar, the oldest and shortest member of the Templars, and in theory their leader, was already standing behind the two of them. Lujan looked at Nakur, who was still looking down on the boy and the Illuminati, then turned to Vintar. “We must c-call the o-others.”
Nineteen Templars had gathered in the main hall of their temple and were standing in a perfect circle, with one gap in it. Nakur entered and filled the gap. “My brothers…” He started. “and Sister.” He added to a dark-haired tribal woman, a distant relative of him. “Some of you may have already found out about this. An Illuminati is heading our way, accompanied by the son of Lysle Rigger… We all know what the presence of an Illuminati means, it means that this temple will soon be inhabited by others, that all or most of us will soon do what we have been preparing for since we entered this circle… die. But right now we need to decide whether we can let the raider come near our temple.”
Vintar’s thoughts took over. “You have already been told our formation… Garl, how will the eyes judge?”
Garl, a slender man who had been a raider too, far away from the temple, in areas visited by none of those in the room, answered. “I will submit him to a test, to see if he is worthy.”
“We will leave this matter completely in your hands, brother.” Nakur’s regular voice returned the Templars to reality.
“Not too impressive.” Jaric mumbled as he stared up the road at the rocks ahead of them. He wondered why the hell Seanna had directed him to a cliff… he had assumed she was trying to get help somewhere, but there was noone here. Some roses grew along the dirt path, and Jaric knew that he had lied to himself… he had never seen such flowers before.
Seanna got of the bike and looked at Jaric, who claimed to look like an idiot with a narrow sword hanging from his belt, but was in fact proud of the gift… although he’d probably be afraid to use it. Her attention was diverted by a soft humming sound. As she turned to look at the cliff she was just in time to see an armed man pass through the solid stone. His clothes were white as the snow, further north, though a lot of his clothing was covered by plating, a silver armor, mostly resembling a medieval harness. Seanna took of her cloak, which by now was covered with stains, varying from dirt to blood and motor oil.
Jaric gasped as he saw the clothing she had been wearing underneath it, other than her shoes and a tunic she wore nothing under it, and the fabric of the tunic was extremely thin, shining through. Jaric admired her figure, and hardly noticed what Seanna was doing, namely turning her cloak inside out, nor did he notice that the armoured figure slowed down for a second. Seanna simply ignored the stares of both men.
Somewhat disappointed Jaric, and Garl, saw Seanna’s body disappear under her cloak again, which now looked completely different. It seemed to have turned into some form of grey robes, with purple stitching. Along the ends of the sleeves and the lower area small, shiny symbols and runes had been sown into the robes.
The armoured figure moved closer again, until he was less than fifteen paces away from Seanna, who looked confused. This was not what she was told would happen, he was supposed to meet her… noone was allowed to come within fifty paces of the temple without meeting with a Templar first, and his or her permission too. Slowly the Templar drew his weapons, two short swords, used mainly by some Yakuza, and took one step closer, threatening.
Ignoring Seanna’s warning Jaric jumped of the bike, letting it fall on it’s side and slide into a small ditch along the trail. He grabbed on of his throwing knives and took position between Seanna and the Templar, attempting to look dangerous. Garl took another step and stared at Jaric, past his swords and Jaric’s knife, straight into his eyes. Jaric got dizzy, he felt like someone or something was rearranging his thoughts as though they were old boxes, stored in an attic, his mind, and dropped his knife. He felt strange… there was fear… and there was something trying to hide the fear from him… then he snapped.
Screaming like a maniac he grabbed the sword Seanna had given him just days before and charged at Garl, who stepped back and shifted his body into a defensive position. He used both his swords to catch the narrow sword, which’ intend seemed to be to slice his skull in half. Now he knew a light sword like that would never do that much damage… but then again, Jaric seemed incredibly motivated. Without any concern for his own safety or defence, Jaric swung the sword at Garl’s throat. Garl caught the sword again, but his arm was pushed out of the way and Jaric’s sword grazed past his knuckles.
“Do something before I have to kill him!” Garl sent out his thoughts to Nakur. Jaric fainted.
”Some Illuminati would call him a berserker.” Vintar mumbled using his normal speech.
”And you don’t believe in that sort of thing?” Nakur asked.
”I believe it’s got something to do with psychology, perhaps a way to override fear, he fears fear, so…”
”That’d make him a berserker?” Nakur chuckled good-heartedly.
Vintar moaned and turned away from the tribal and wandered towards a sofa, the sofa with Jaric’s motionless body on it. “His memories… As a kid he used to wander around dark tunnels just because he was afraid of the dark… does that sound like fearing fear to you?”
Nakur shrugged. “It’s a weird kid.”
”Yeah? Well I’m probably older than you are!”
Nakur and Vintar turned around surprised and saw Jaric trying to sit up. He looked around the circular room, which’ walls had for the biggest part been hidden by bookshelves, except for a small area behind a wooden desk, which was covered by a banner, a white banner with a purple eye on it, surrounded by a triangle formed from three swords in the same colour.
”Welcome to the land of the waking.” Nakur smiled and picked up a long object from the desk, a simple metal sword with a dark handle. “You can have it back if you promise not to attack Garl again.”
”Then you’ll need to promise not to mess with my mind anymore.”
”Jaric!”
The three men looked at the door opening, while Jaric’s hand was still hovering halfway towards his sword. Jaric looked stunned, Nakur grinned sheepishly and Vintar suppressed a smile.
”I-It’s goo-od to see you’r-re okay.” Seanna stammered, embarrassed by her own behaviour. Nakur’s grin broadened and Jaric looked more puzzled than he did the minute he passed out.
The old man decided to save the day. “Ah, novice Seanna, should you not be preparing for departure?”
Grateful for Vintar’s intervention Seanna nodded and backed away out of the room, Vintar followed after hitting Nakur on the back of the head with the palm of his hand in an attempt to get rid of the grin. In vain.
Nakur tossed the sword towards Jaric, who barely managed to catch it clumsily and fell back, embracing his sword, of the sofa onto the grey carpet.
Nakur pulled the young raider back to his feet with one hand and looked at the sword. “It’s not the best choice for someone like you.”
Jaric looked puzzled again for a second, then realized what Nakur was talking about and blushed. “I can’t help it, I try, but I can’t… it’s only happened twice before and not even my father knows.”
Nakur shrugged. “It’s a rare… disease. But there’s benefits to it too, although it’s downright dangerous in fire fights, when it comes to good old hand to hand combat berserker’s have certain advantages.”
”The old man said something about departure… where are you guys going?” Jaric asked, trying to change the subject.
”Modoc, our presence there has been requested.” Nakur answered, suddenly, all signs of amusement left his face and the tribal looked like an old man too.
Somewhat shocked Jaric stepped back. “By whom? Why? That place is gonna be trampled by tribals, no offence, soon… what could possibly be the use of ‘requesting’ your presence there!?”
”Stalling.” Nakur replied coldly. “We need to hold of those tribals as long as possible. We need to assure that the town does not surrender. We need to try to win or at least even out the odds.”
”Who requested your presence?” Jaric asked again.
Nakur gazed into the white banner and let his mind wander through it’s fabric. “We have.”
Jaric stared at the cavern in disbelief… he couldn’t see it, but it was there. Two tall pillars with several lights and monitors on it seemed to be keeping up the illusion of solid stone, while in fact there was a cavern. A vault, a small vault, true, but it was a vault. Over the past day he had seen a lot of incredible things, beautiful, lush gardens in what Nakur called ‘hydroponics bays’ and technology that contradicted with everything else he had seen… a massive arsenal of primitive weapons, and he had heard stories and explanations that defied all that was real.
Jaric found it hard to believe that these people were all telepaths, that they could all speak to one another without actually speaking… if he hadn’t felt it for himself. Seanna, nor Nakur had been willing to reveal anything regarding the identity of the driving force behind these ‘Templars’. All he knew was that, according to Nakur’s explanation, they were big. I’d not be surprised if somewhere along the way entire raider clans would temporarily start raiding other territories, merely to ensure that we arrive at Modoc in time. Nakur had said… Part of Jaric wanted to get back to his father and ask him about that, but eventually, after a long conversation with the elder Vintar, who had to age to be Jaric’s grandfather, he decided to follow the ‘Templars’ and, off course, Seanna to Modoc.
Nakur circled around his subordinates like a hawk, checking their armaments and clothing… Jaric appreciated the attempt to make the ‘Templars’ fit in with the rest of the wastelands, but the fact that the majority was wearing black clothes now, with long trench coats, kind of made him wonder whether the ‘Templars’ sense of fashion got stuck one or two decades ago… That wasn’t too unrealistic an idea.
The tribal Templar stopped next to Jaric, who didn’t seem to be in a too comfortable position, with a larger, two handed sword strapped to his back. Sure, Nakur had managed to convince him that in case of another attack, he’d be a lot more effective using that weapon, Jaric wondered however whether the weight’d weigh up against the benefits. Comfortingly the young telepath lay his hand on Jaric’s shoulder and smiled. “Let’s go.”
The group, or caravan if you will, travelled for days, south east. They crossed strips of desert as well as reforming forests and even some grasslands. Jaric was surprised to notice, on the second day, that they’d have been following some sort of trail all along, hardly visible. He was even more amazed to hear from Nakur that the ‘trail’ let directly to Modoc’s main gate, amazed enough not to believe it.
On the third day the came across of a small group of raiders… Jaric never saw them alive. The three, young raiders, obviously kids who founded their own little clan, were lying on their backs, their eyes wide open and bleeding from the corners, looking at clouds drifting by.
After another day they came across a nomad camp, a small town made up out of small tents and huts, surrounded by a round, wooden palisade. Several children left the camp just as the group approached, and seemed to be carrying weapons. Two men left the protection of the village, riding on some creature Jaric had never seen before, however heard about. It was said, that further to the east and north, a creature named ‘horse’ survived the war. The two horsemen rode straight into the path of the travellers and got of their creatures there. Jaric was just wondering why the hell two men would try to stop twenty other men and two women on their own, as he heard Garl’s voice echo through his mind.
“They’re decoys, they’re trying to keep us here while others are surrounding us.” The templar’s voice said, leaving Jaric to wonder how he had recognized it… he had never heard Garl speak before, and still he knew.
Anxiety started to overwhelm the raider, and it won terrain when he heard Nakur’s answer. “Try not to harm the children.”
Immediately the three Templars in front of Jaric pulled out their weapons… not the primitive ones he had, seen, but normal fire arms, and started firing at the two nomads ahead of them. Most of the others started shooting at targets only they could see, or sense, and Nakur lead Jaric and Seanna away from the centre of the group.
The tribal didn’t say a thing, but Jaric knew he wasn’t allowed to help… not like he actually had a lot of experience regarding his .223, but still. The Tribal ran of into a small group of nomads that had just come out of town, to help Garl, who had dropped his 9 millimeter and was now elegantly dancing around inside the heart of the group, using his two short blades to creature a choreography of death.
He heard the sound of something large dropping and a surprised scream from Seanna. As fast as he could he turned around only to see another nomad, clad in their typical leather armors and animal pelts, dead, bleeding from the corners of his eyes and his ears, like the raiders they’d come across the day before. “Thanks.” He mumbled, convinced whoever helped him could hear him.
Seanna looked paler than usual as she walked across the battlefield, carefully keeping at least ten feet between her and the nearest dead body. Under any other circumstances Jaric’d smiled, or even laughed, at the route she was taking, but not this time. He looked at the battlefield, with the dead and some even mutilated bodies of well over thirty nomads, the scared faces of children and the nervous faces of old men that were now standing guard on the palisade walls. He looked at the Templars and was even more shocked that before.
Nakur, who was unhurt, looked at the dead bodies and the palisade with a cold professionalism in his eyes, probably working on decisions. Whether or not to kill the remaining witnesses? Possible changes to the training program?
Vintar, the old monk, was also looking at the dead bodies, looking for survivors, in his eyes a mixture of shock and pride over his Templars’ thoroughness could be seen. Torn between the joy of knowing how much help they’d offer at Modoc and the grieve of the deaths of well over two dozens of people that could’ve lived on, if they’d just not taken the shortest route.
Garl, who was checking the armors and clothing of the soldiers, trying to determine whether these nomads would’ve attacked them if they hadn’t come near their camp as well, whether they’ve been getting help from the tribal leaders.
All the Templars were practically unhurt, some didn’t even have a single stain on their clothes, let alone tears in them. Only one had a long cut across his arm, nothing deep or serious, but the Templar seemed ashamed of it.
A bit reluctantly, Jaric followed the Templar caravan to Modoc, trying not to talk to Nakur, or pay attention to Seanna’s mumbling about primitives.
Futility
”If hell had a name it most definitely would be Oregon
- Will Santadio
Small columns of sand and dust swirled up around the traveler’s Brahmin-leather boots as the wind increased in strength and speed. The young, disavowed ganger shielded his eyes from the brightness of the sun, which had just reached it’s highest point. He would have preferred to remain in the relative safety of the northern woods. Unfortunately though, some people, including him, wouldn’t be able to live very long without the proper supplies... and since life was the reason he moved there, it wouldn’t make much sense not to go out for supplies. Besides, what do those measely five hundred yards through sand mean to a real survivor.
Santadio knew the answer... inconvenience.
The blond traveler held a richly decorated, probably ceremonial, spear in his left hand, which he now basically used as a walking stick. If’d William had buried him, it’s previous owner would’ve turned around in his grave. When would those damned tribals finally learn that charging at a pissed off mobster, with a hangover, and a shotgun for that matter, that early in the morning, was a very, very bad idea.
Will glanced at the small town that lay ahead of him and it once again occurred to him how badly the site was chosen, although better than most towns. A mere two miles to the west and five hundred yards to the north, and the town would’ve layn in a corner protected on one side by the woods and fertile ground, and on the other side, the ocean. Nevertheless, it was the only safe place in the wastelands Will knew of. Not even Dante would be able to track him down all the way to a nameless, meaningless little settlement.
Also, the settlement still didn’t look all too impressive. It was nothing but a couple a dozen or so crude buildings, mostly along the alleged Main Street, a few reinforced tents and some caravans, or campers. At the entrance to the “Main Street” was a typical western style gateway, about fifteen foot high and wide, with a small crucifix nailed on top of it, all build between two five foot high walls. The fact that there wasn’t a door in the gateway really didn’t disturb anyone. Not like a door would’ve done much good... even if it were closed at night and one needed to get in, one’d simply walk around one of the five foot high walls, which both stretched out a mere thirty feet.
Will sighed and commenced his trip across the patch of desert... by the time he got halfway, he was already cursing and swearing over the little rocks and sand in his boots.
Once at the gate, he leaned against one of the low walls and removed his left boot, and shook the rocks and sand out of it before putting it back on and repeating that entire sequence for his right boot. Halfway through the process of putting his right boot back on, he noticed there was noone in the streets. Will searched the street for any signs of life, but found none... none other than the three people in the town ‘restaurant’, which wasn’t much more than a glorified trailer with a long bar in it. He made his way to the end of the street, stuck the spear in the sand and opened the trailerdoor.
Lucy was there, Will’d never asked, but merely guessed she was fifty years or something like that, of course, she’d kill herself if it were the only way to stay with her beloved trailer/restaurant. Gary, or old man Svenson was there, looking down a bottle of booze’s neck, as usual, and a third person. Although this man had made it a profession to hide in the shades, he’d been seen when Will entered town a few minutes ago already. He wore a long trenchcoat, like Will’s and completely unsuitable for the New Californian and Oregon climate, only his was black, where Will always preferred earth shades. He wore a complete suit under the trenchcoat, the likes of which Will hadn’t seen since he left Reno, and a pair of sunglasses, which would’ve been more suitable for the climate, weren’t it for the fact that he was standing in the darkest corner of the trailer. His hair was long and black, pulled back, into a long ponytail, which hung down about three inches below his neck. He removed his glasses, and revealed the only real similarity between him and Will. Cold and almost eerie, brown eyes.
Half a second later a SIG-Sauer came to life.
About a quarter of a second after a shotgun did the same.
Anthony Clerichuzzio, one of Will’s former colleagues, was slammed against the wall by the rough dozen of tiny bullets that found their way into his chest, shoulders and stomach. For a fraction of a second the wounds were obscured by a red cloud, followed by Anthony’s gunshot. The fourteen milimeter bullet tore the prewar ‘microwave’ straight of the wall and tossed in the opposite corner of the trailer. Lucy was half on her way to a safe spot below the counter when she realized it was over. Gary’s bottle of booze was knocked over, pulled along by the weapons’ slipstreams.
Will lay his shotgun aside, on the counter and paced over to Anthony. He kneeled next to his old friend, his only regret being unestamating Dante, and lay his middle and index finger in the wounded mobsters neck... Anthony wouldn’t live much longer than two more minutes, and wouldn’t wake up. Will stood up again, took a step back and then kicked against the mobster’s head as hard as he could with his right boot. It produced a satisfying, breaking sound as it snapped to the left.
Lucy looked up at him, still in a half-crouched position, and wondered what would happen next. She had heard the stories about her father, how he defended her mother against two raiders, killed them, and couldn’t stop. He killed her mother, simply because his urges were stronger than him... They still called the tree from which they hung her father, although there wasn’t much of it left anymore, Victor’s Tree.
He didn’t kill her. He didn’t kill her. Thank God. He didn’t kill her.
Almost like a robot, without any trace of emotion, he walked about two barstools away from his shotgun and sat down. The next fifteen minutes he focused on the menu hanging behind Lucy, who thought he was trying to decide and started talking about all the great choices and todays special.
Will could care less, but not much. He focused on the words, tried to form them inside his mouth... Ever since he saw Dante kill half a family, in front of the eyes of the other half, simply as a result of paying the ‘ensurances’ too late, Will hadn’t been able to speak after killing someone, even if he knew that like himself, like Anthony, that person had no real family. It was something psychological, something that just wouldn’t go away.
With great effort, lacking patience and a voice that sounded like the inside of his throat was made out of sandpaper he finally managed to produce a few words. “Shut up!”
Will laughed as Gary tried to pick up another one of the hot hamburgers. Thirty minutes ago Lucy had thrown a blanket over Anthony and pulled him behind the bar, then pushed down a provisorically made garbage chute into a large dumpster next to the trailer. Will’s mood improved. He laughed even harder as Gary, who had now covered half the piece of meat with napkins, failed to bite through the meat. Will grinned. “They’re a bit hard, aren’t they, Gar?”
”A bit!?” The old man muttered in his usual soft voice, somewhat insulted, then help up the hamburger and slammed it into the table... “You can bludgeon a Super-Mutant to death with these!”
Lucy shrugged and flipped another burger around on the grin. “If you’d brushed your teeth every day as I told you years ago, you might have been able to chew it, you old coot.”
”If you’d learn a bit about brahmin perhaps you could buy the actual meat instead of the leather next time you get to Klamath!” Gary retaliated.
The door opened and a dark blond young man, barely old enough to shave, entered the cafeteria. He knew he always to talked to him, and he knew where the kid lived, but still Will had to dig deep in his memories to come up with the child’s name.
”Hey, Jerry! Get over here!” Will called.
Jerry raised his hand to greet and sat down next to Will. “So, did ya take the job?” He asked.
Will raised an eyebrow, and Lucy looked pained.
”What job?”
Jerry’s expression became a exact copy of Lucy’s and jumped to another stool, one farther away from Will and Lucy.
Lucy sighed and lay down the knife she’d been using, then leaned over the bar. For a second it seemed like she changed her mind and was going to back away again, but then finally spoke. “We need a sheriff, Will. Not forever, but right now, we need someone to maintain, run and represent this town. I don’t know what you’ve heard during your trip here, but there’s almost two hundred thousand tribals heading for Fort Modoc... and we’re expecting quite a few here too... on top of that, there’s deserters in the forests north and east of here... People are afraid to come out of their houses, and most people here never even saw a gun before in their lives... let alone use one.”
Will moaned, rest his head on his arms and stared straight down at the bar. He was troubled by the fact that these people automatically assumed that a disavowed ganger was a good ganger, although he himself had a higher body count so far than Anthony, not counting Anthony. Besides... there’d be no way this town could be defended against as much as five tribals, let alone fifty or five hundred. He really didn’t know what he was thinking, but apparently, some part of him still could make the decision, as he heard his own voice. “Just don’t call me Sheriff.”
”Hello!?” Jerry exclaimed as they walked through probably the most terrifying thing he had ever seen in his life... A forest... And not one of those sad post-nuke collections of tiny trees, oh no... countless and countless of huge trees, hogging up just about all the light. He could still hear himself ask to be deputy... and he cursed the memory.
”You’re wasting your time.” He heard Will, more than he saw him. The three flashes of fire proceding three loud bangs were quite visible though. Just as the third shot had faded away his hands reached his ears, and immediately turned around. Again he heard a shot, and his hands started their trip up to his ears again, when suddenly he realized he hadn’t seen the blast. He heard footsteps head in the direction of the gunshot and he saw Will’s earthtones pass by him. He followed. When he got closer he saw the small hole in Will’s trenchcoat’s sleeve, though no blood. Ahead of them another young man, in a dark uniform stood up. Something silverish glinted on his right sleeve. Three bars, behind a hammer, surrounded by laurels. When he got even closer, he could see the lower bar wasn’t a real bar, but looked more like a small scoped rifle... He didn’t recognize the insignia, however he could guess the man’s profession... a sniper.
The uniformed figure stepped forward and smiled as he dropped his sniperrifle. The smile vanished as at exactly the same moment Will raised the SIG-Sauer he got of Anthony’s corpse and moved a little to the right, fast.
The soldier immediately complied and took a step to the right, away from his rifle, and raised his hands up to the same level as his ears. Suddenly recognition flashed across his face as he looked at Will. “Senator!?”
Will didn’t answer, instead made another movement with his weapon, this time meant for Jerry, who immediately ran to pick up the sniper rifle. From what he had heard over the past two days, there were four factions envolved in the upcoming war. An enormous band of tribals, although he didn’t believe their numbers’d come anywhere near two hundred thousand, versus New Reno, NCR and The Order. He barely knew anything about The Order, but since NCR had councillors and New Reno Bishops, he figured it to be safe to assume The Order was lead by a Senate... and obviously, he looked like one of their senator. He decided to keep his identity to himself and studied the deserter. Brown hair and blue eyes, not much older than Jerry... Apparently, The Order’s recruiting more people than is good for it.
”Where’s your camp?” Will mumbled, deliberately, so it would cover up most of his New Renoan accent and gripped the weapon more tightly.
The recruit seemed to think, then made a quick movement with his head to his right. “About forty minutes away from here, sir.”
”Well? What are you waiting for? Order’s in writing, in threefold?” Will asked a bit agitated. Judging my the smile on the recruit’s face he’d probably made a joke the kid expected... Jesus, he hadn’t even said he was someone else and already he felt like a liar.
They entered a clearing in the forest. The recruit stopped, Will stopped right behind him and Jerry sighed in relief as he felt sunlight on his skin. Ahead of them, several more people in the uniforms of The Order were checking their tents, while dozens of green-uniformed NCR and un-uniformed New Renoans were unloading tools of a caravan wagon... Looked like they were gonna work on a small fortified position. Three Republical soldier grabbed their weapons and paced over to the newcomers, readying their weapons.
Just as a small red dot found it’s spot on Will’s forehead someone started yelling at them, or the deserters. Two deserters dressed in much the same uniforms as their prisoner stepped in between the NCR soldiers and Will. The one aiming for Jerry lowered his weapon.
One of the new Ordereans stepped forward, and Jerry got a closer look at his insignia... This one had three ordinary bars, however the entire emblem was gold-coloured and one the background it seemed as though a big footprint had been weaven into the uniform, in a slightly different shade of black. The officer started talking.
”Permission to speak freely, sir?”
Somewhat overwhelmed Will nodded.
”What the fuck are you doing here, sir? It’s way too dangerous here for any member of the senate, and I’m sorry to say that if you were sent to ‘retrieve us, you’ve been sent in vain.”
Will was just about to speak as the officer continued. “And sir, we know what The Order does with deserters. I have seen colonel Darion demonstrate it! This is a hopeless war sir, Modoc will fall, as will the entire civilized wastes and finally, eventually, the City, sir.” The officer stretched out his arm and moved his open hand past the scenery. “That sir, is the best we may hope for after this battle has been waged.”
”Perhaps...” Will replied, decided to say what he had to say before telling them who he really was... they wouldn’t kill him as long as they thought he was one of their leaders, or so he hoped. “But aren’t all wars hopeless? And what do the people that realize that do? They say it’s hopeless, making it hopeless for others through leaving the battle. Men, that could’ve at least stalled the war for one hour can be the difference between life and dead for the people they are sworn to protect.” Will shrugged. “But that doesn’t matter to you, does it? And even if it suddenly did, what difference would that make now... you’ll never be back in Modoc in time.”
The officer grinned. “Exactly sir, our thoughts exactly... What difference does it make?”
Will realized he should have chosen his words more carefully, but continued. “May I at least direct you to another location, somewhere you could still mean a difference to the people you’re sworn to protect, even if it’s not quite as many?”
The officer looked at Will, who still hadn’t had the nerve to explain he wasn’t their senator... his attitude had slightly changed... If they survived this... they’d find out about him when they’ve returned to their home. Luckily, none of these thoughts showed, and the officer turned around the the half set up campsite, pulled out a .223 pistol and fired in the air. “Okay! Pack it up, people! We’re leaving!”
Illuminati
”Is not the essential difference between a mentor and an apprentice that the mentor realizes he is in fact also the apprentice, although the apprentice does not yet realize in fact being a mentor?”
- William of The Illuminati
The two minds skinned over the wastelands, away from the city... in seconds they crossed the distance to their subordinates, a distance that would take them two more days. Two more days without complication, at least, none on their part. They found the mind they were looking for... the Soul.
Vintar froze. Lujan felt a stinging pain and Garl went blind. Garl stubbled over a rock, slipped and fell on his back. Lujan carefully made his way to the nearest three and rest his left hand against it, as he pressed his right hand against his chest. Vintar drifted of into nothing.
“He is old.” The leader of the two minds spoke.
”Nakur choose correct.” The second voice carefully resisted. Yamu never knew which personality he was dealing with, and he knew the First Illuminati tended to get out of control over his second personality in troubled times. A warrior and a telepath, two minds in one body, insane, made him the second worst choice for leadership of the Illuminati, in his eyes. He only knew that hadn’t it been William, it would have been Nakur, a warrior and a telepath, one sane mind, would in some ways be worse.
”I’m me, Yamu.” The leader said on a comforting tone, sending the proper emotion along, just before heading of into nothing, towards Vintar.
Lujan used his telepathy to suppress the pains in his chest, and Seanna sat down in front of Garl in the lotus position, she helped him to get in the same position. Garl’s now dead eyes closed and the female Illuminati took a small silver box out of his sleeve, opened it and lit it’s content. She had heard that in cases such as these, only two sensations remained, smell and touch. The incense did it’s work as she held his hands, not aware of Jaric’s more or less jealous stares.
Nakur and his distant nice lay Vintar against a nearby tree, within Lujan’s line of sight, and the other Illuminati started to make up camp. Although they were actually planning to walk one more hour, you never knew with Illuminati.
Vintar, who had never been in direct contact with The Illuminati, panicked at tried to look around only to see nothing. No light. No darkness. Nothing. To his left and right however, there seemed to be something, beings, hiding in nothing.
”Why did you bring a berserker?” Yamu’s mind asked. Yamu had been known althrough the Illuminati as the one that detested every minor breach of The Illuminati’s rules, especially those envolving violence. He had been the Templar’s worst nightmare since day one, protesting to them even being allowed to wear the symbol and identify themselves with The Name, or a name, for that matter.
William’s mind remained in the background, to keep Vintar from noting his amusement and out of sheer curiosity.
”I... I do not know.” The old man replied, embarrassed by the fact that even as a telepath he couldn’t keep his voice straight in times like these.
”You convinced him to come! We have seen and heard it! And you know we cannot send you back again... whatever happens, you will die in the upcoming battle.” Yamu would’ve hissed in real life. He knew very well he wasn’t threatening, and knew very well that even if The Illuminati would kill Vintar it wouldn’t be considered as breaking regulations, since Vintar’s death is a part of another rule... No Templar may outlive all his fellow warriors twice.
The old monk remained silent and William came forward. “You are two days away from Modoc. One day away is the Legend. Templar help is needed though.” The words were immediately followed by images.
Hume fired at the opening again. A small spear, or large arrow, landed up straight in the dust before the boulder his was hiding behind. It had been a full day since they were ambushed and had to seek shelter in a canyon. The tribals kept shooting down their arrows and occassionally the Legion managed to take one out. But victory didn’t last long. They’d seen their banner, Onra’s banner... a group that had travelled ahead even further ahead.
The men tired, and in the evening, the tribals started to storm the canyon. There couldn’t fit many more people in the canyon’s entrance than three next to each other, so initially, it was a simple matter of mowing down the damn tribals with their firearms. However, noone needed to remind them that guns need ammo and ammo was about a mile away from here, with the corpses of eleven members of the Legion and over a hundred dead or crippled horses.
It had become a heroic fight, the Legionairs wiped out wave after wave after wave, but the tribals kept coming. Alderon told them Onra was a fatalist, but noone could’ve possibly been that fatalistic, and the Legion was driven back into the canyon even deeper. Hume fired at the opening again and heard a dry clicking sound... he had shot the last bullet of the Legion a mere second ago, and it missed.
”What our strategy, sir!?” He yelled at Alderon, as both men drew their swords.
Vintar’s eyes open rapidly, as did Garl’s and Lujan got back to his feet. The old monk’s eyes darted from one Templar to another and immediately, eight Templar’s got up and accepted the firearms of the other twelve. Nakur, one of them, led the seven into the forests without saying a word. Jaric looked in between the trees and saw nothing... Just as he decided to go take a look, Vintar stepped in his path and held him back.
We wait. And then we fight. Those words kept surging through his mind, time after time after time after time. Alderon’s words. He allowed himself a quick glance at the mayor, and didn’t like the sight of it. He was white all over his face, whiter than NCR’s walls, and his leg was wrapped in shreds of his own uniform, as well as those of his own men. The broken of shaft of one of the tribal arrows stuck out his thigh. The mayor was drifting in and out of consciousness and kept mumbling nonsense, trying to keep himself awake. If he’d go to sleep now, he’d never wake up, whether it was gangrene or a spear.
”Sir!” A young New Renoan soldier called to Hume and pointed down the canyon. Another group of Tribals charged at the crudely fortified position, and immediately six Legionairs surrounded Alderon, their swords ready. Hume envied them, he wanted to prote
- Far from finished, therefore still fairly confusing.
- A Self-Insertion (TWICE)
- Only here to crank up the post count.
And another thing, perhaps you already saw it, but there's only three 'chapters'... the idea behind this is, that if you'd read only the 'Futility' chapters, or only the 'Illuminati' chapter, or only the 'Legends' chapters you'll get the same story, from three perspectives and a third of the size of the whole thing.
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Legends : Tribal Invasion
Prologue
“Legends are like the light of dawn. Different every day, but always the first light.”
– Nomad Saying
Luther wiped his forehead, and studied the nearest tribal, a bulky man facing the door in front of them, with straps of metal attached to one another crudely using little pieces of leather. He wore a, probably metal, helmet, covered by a gecko pelt, and the man’s face was covered by several purple tattoos. The tribal smiled, revealing a row of teeth, sharpened into triangles. Luther quickly looked away at the other tribal, who on his turn was staring at Luther. He diverted his eyes and focused on the doors. Right now, there were two questions dominating his thoughts, ‘Why did I let them talk me into this?’ and ‘What son of a bitch designed these gala-uniforms?’. It itched like hell, and in his personal opinion the designer had been a little overreacting regarding the usage of gold. The Order’s insignia alone weighed nearly a pound, added to that were NCR’s and the Wright’s family shield.
The two guards moved and Luther directed his attention at the doors, which were now opening. Rather slowly too, apparently, Meijers found like protocol a bit too much. Internally Luther laughed. The Order had known for a long time that the tribal general Leihcam was actually named Meijers, due to his accent. Leihcam knew that, The Order knew he knew and pretended they didn’t know, Leihcam knew they were pretending they didn’t knew and pretended to believe they didn’t knew… of course, The Order knew that, so everyone knew. On his background little was known, but the fact that he was from New California and therefore a probable capitalist, he had his price and it didn’t take the Senate too long to convince, mister Wright, The Order’s and NCR’s council and General Gandja that war would be significantly more costly than negotiations.
The doors had opened, revealing two long lines of tribals, creating a corridor to a stage in the back. Covered mainly by a large black cloak was a blond man, whom’s measures, to say the least, unusual, his torso was abnormally big compared to his face, which was narrow, his age, impossible to guess. Luther spoke the ritual tribal words of greeting, and an old man, next to Leihcam’s throne answered them. Then Leihcam spoke. “We are honoured to meet you here, in our humble city, but disturbing news has reached our ears. Before that, I and my most important and respected shamans have had some disturbing visions. I hope you don’t mind that we, for the sake of certitude and tradition, submit this to our ultimate test.”
Luther nearly sank through the ground as he slowly shook his head, he felt five years of negotiation slip away and could already guess who NCR and The Order were going to blame. One of the old men stood up, dressed in some seemingly randomly selected pieces of cloth and carrying a wooden rod, decorated with countless shiny rocks and feathers. Another stepped forward with a bowl of organs from small animals and handed it to the elder, who held it above his head, shouted a couple of tribal words, then threw the content on the floor. He pointed at the organs and shouted some more tribal sentences at the surrounding tribals, who started mumbling in excitement.
Luther trembled as Leihcam stood up and dropped his cloak. It revealed the reason for his unusual measurements, a slim version of Brotherhood Power Armor, it’s metal glinted and on the chest were two separated laurels, surrounding a cracked cogwheel. Along his side hung an impressive sword, a razor sharp blade with a black edge on one side, a ripper blade on the other. Leihcam stepped forward and lifted the blade. “I am afraid, mister Luther, that the omens are not good.”
Legends
“Sometimes the world itself seems to meddle in her history.
At those events the fabric for legends is weaven.”
- Templar Teaching
Fifty years of age, Narg reduced the letter he found on a Klamath Falls bulletin board to little more than a small ball. He tossed the plea for help into his fireplace and looked around his cottage.
His eyes rest upon La’Kir, his old weapon, a so called Super Sledgehammer. He found it hard to believe that now, on this age, thirty years after this warrior’s cowardice forced the Brotherhood of Steel to destroy the Enclave, and itself in the process, someone sent out a cry for help to ‘the legendary Narg’.
How could he? It hadn’t been him! If he had set his fears aside back then and dealt with the Enclave personally, listened to Hakunin’s prediction that he’d grow to be fifty years old, perhaps his tribe would have still been alive, and Chitsa, beautiful Chitsa. Then this plea for help would have been answered by Narg and the Brotherhood. And they just wouldn’t let him forget! By singing their songs, and telling their stories of the ‘Legendary Narg and his Steel Knights’, they constantly reminded an old man of the biggest lie in the history of the planet.
“Come, friend, just one more day of Bloodshed.” La’Kir seemed to call out to him from it’s place next to the door. And exactly what would he be able to do? What if Hakunin was right, which, oddly enough, wouldn’t be the first time, what if Narg was indeed meant to die at the age of fifty, this year.
Narg left his cottage and stared down the hill it was built upon, into a seemingly endless forest, a part of the most fertile strip of land in New California, one that could’ve, no, should’ve been the home of his people.
The frustration overwhelmed him and in an outburst of pure, primitive rage he cried out an old Arroyan battlecry, as he had done countless times since his last birthday. “Where are you, Death? Why won’t you come and claim your prize!?”
Silence was the only answer, and Narg cried out the same sentence again.
Completely unexpected a sharp pain stung through Narg’s chest, causing him to lose his balance and stumbled back. With his back against his home he fell to the ground. Ahead of him air seemed to gather and take shape, the shape of a man… Colours were added.
A relatively young, blond man with empty, white eyes appeared, clad in a silverish grey, perfectly seamless tunic. The pain intensified as the apparition stepped forward and looked down on him. Dark irises appeared in the figure’s eyes, accompanied by a mocking grin as he extended his hand and touched the old man’s chin.
The pain got unbearable, although Narg didn’t feel the hand, the pain in his chest made him wish for swift and if necessary, dishonourable death. The transparent figure smiled satisfied, as he saw Narg roll up in a ball, as though that would ease the pain. Just as quickly, the smile turned into an insane grin and the apparition’s eyes seemed to show nothing but hatred.
“A prize!?” A monotonous voice echoed through Narg’s head, which felt like it was going to make it blow up. “Delusional fool! Remain here, on your puny, insignificant hill, and I will guarantee you forty more years. You will grow demented and feeble. Or, go to Modoc and meet me on it’s walls!”
The apparition vanished and the pain in Narg’s chest faded. Narg stayed down on the ground for nearly an hour, resting, before inelegantly crawling back to his feet and making his way back into the cottage. He picked up the paper ball and sat down in the only chair there. After staring at the text for a while he got up again, walked towards the door and took La’Kir from it’s hinges. “Come, friend, just one more day of bloodshed.”
Lyam evaded the blow and leapt forward, to get past his opponent’s defences. Kevin smirked, for his had anticipated the move and could now feel his sword impacting on Lyam’s neck, who fell to the ground and started to breath noisily. “I’m a farmer, not a friggin’ tribal!”
Kevin’s grin broadened as he stuck his wooden sword in the ground next to him and extended his hand to help his friend back up, who gratefully accepted the gesture. “Maybe, but there’s ninety thousand of them heading this way as we speak, tribals who cannot afford to have Modoc in their backs on their way south. And quite frankly, Lyam, not even you believe a shovel will do much good in a war, nor will fire arms once those motherless bastards manage to get on the walls.”
Lyam gazed around the training area, caught between the third and fourth, final wall. He sighed. “Do you remember the time this used to be a farming community?”
“Oh yes, quite vividly too.” Kevin hissed. “I also remember those tribals raiding our town, I remember those tribals burning our crops, I remember those tribals raping our mother’s and sisters, or taking them with them, and I recall deadly wounded Ghouls seeking shelter here. Face it, Lyam, it may not be Modoc anymore, but NCR is protecting us!”
Lyam sighed again, more dramatic than the last time. He and Kevin were probably the only ones in this stronghold that were actually born and raised here. Most left after Modoc joined the NCR, others left when the word of the tribal invasion reached them. A lot of people started to call the town Fort Modoc.
And it was a fortress. Right after Order City and The Citadel in Nevada, the town was the biggest stronghold within known territory, the most fortified position in the whole NCR. And Kevin was right, Modoc did make the most logical first target for the tribals, for although it had less than four thousand people, not just soldiers, but people defending it, if they’d simply pass it by they’d be forced to wage a war from two sides.
Lyam rubbed his nose to keep himself from sneezing, he’d been coming up with a cold, and cursed at the thought of Order City. “What the hell is taking The Order so long!?”
“Last rumour I heard in the officers mess is that they’re still too preoccupied with the Steel Plague.” Kevin answered, referring to the remainders of the former Brotherhood of Steel, that had amassed an army of mercenaries and raiders and started the siege of Order City two months earlier. People were starting to loose faith in their Order, which was meant to replace the Brotherhood and detain the Plague.
Alderon cursed the damn horse, the damn saddle, but most of all, the damn bastard put in charge of Modoc. What the hell had possessed Gandja, probably the most skilled tactician in the new world, trusted with the defence of the entire New California territory and all it’s resources, to put that ego-tripping son of a bitch named Darion in command there!?
Suicide run, scouting mission, it didn’t seem to make much of a difference to that guy. The Legion! Scouting! A hundred and forty of The Order’s, NCR’s and New Reno’s finest, by decree of the senate removed from Darion’s command and put under Alderon’s, sent out to look for signs of an army that was at least six weeks on foot away from Modoc.
A young, NCR lieutenant, Hume, directed his horse to walk alongside Alderon’s and saluted. “Quite a day, eh, commander?”
Hume barely managed to keep him face straight as Alderon gazed at his second in command as though he were on fire and continued. “Clear weather, we can see much farther today.” He ignored Alderon’s by now, among Legion-ranks, well known ‘tell-me-something-I-don’t-know’ expression. “We’ve spotted a small encampment five miles ahead, approximately five hundred and fifty tribals.”
Now he finally got his CO’s attention. “What do their banners look like?”
”They have one, a yellow eagle on a somewhat green field.”
Alderon gazed at the horizon. “That’d be Onra, Leihcam’s second man… that’d mean their frontlines are already behind us!” He exclaimed shocked, those tribals were less than five weeks away, probably four.
Hume nodded. “They’ll be in Modoc within four weeks.”
They left a few men to wait for the scouts, while the greater part of the group, over a hundred men, left in a hurry to get to Modoc. After little over an hour, they came across the first signs of tribals, an enormous caravan, crossing the path of the horsemen. Alderon took his Wakazashi blade, which had been hanging across his back and made a couple of quick gestures to his men, who then reformed into a triangular formation, so they could drive a wedge into the caravan.
Alderon ducked to stay out of a throwing axe’s path and cut into the hind legs of one of the Brahmin, which went through it’s legs and started screaming, and biting at the tribals. Hume nearly decapitated a tribal that was trying to flee. In less than two minutes The Legion had fought it’s way through the caravan and spread out, heading back to Modoc.
After three days, over sixty miles away from Modoc, Narg came across one of New California’s new northern settlements. Everywhere around him he could see the signs of the nearing war, abandoned farms, often burned so the tribals couldn’t plunder them, abandoned houses and paranoid, nervous people. Defeat had itself wrapped around these people like a cloak, Narg thought.
As soon as he had reached the top of the hill he could see the small settlement in all it’s glory. Little over thirty building, mostly primitive and deteriorated, although some structures showed some signs of a somewhat more advanced design. The buildings were all built around a square, with a bar or inn in the centre.
Narg massaged his swollen knee to lighten the pain. His right shoulder hurt, a dull pounding feeling, but that was nothing more than another memory of a stray bullet, one he could live with, but the knee wouldn’t take him much further without an icepack and some rest. “You’re an old man.” He told himself. “There’s no sense in denying that.”
He stumbled down the hill and once again wondered whether he should get a horse or Brahmin. His mind welcomed the idea with open metaphorical arms, but his heart was still set on dismissing it. He was the Legendary Narg, whether he liked it or not, who could walk all nigh and fight all day. It’d be an enormous boost for morale if he’d arrive in Modoc on foot.
“Good Lord!” People would say. “That old man came all the way from Klamath on foot!” And others would reply. “Of course, that is Narg, he never rides!”
But his mind made a compromise and decided to get a horse, the leave it somewhere in the forests near Modoc, let’s say five miles away, and walk from there, so he’d still arrive on foot… no one’d noticed.
The bar was crowded, but due to the fact that most guests were just passing through the barkeeper still had a number of rooms available. Narg paid the man, took an icepack and climbed the stairs. Once in his room, he sat down on the bed and pressed the icepack against his knee. He had been downstairs long enough to know that the majority of the guests were deserters. Narg rummaged around his bag a bit and dug up the letter and carefully folded it open, then smiled. The text was huge. Narg had never been much of a reader, and Gandja knew that very well.
Back downstairs Narg carefully listened to the ongoing conversations from his seat at the bar. A group of young men drew his attention in particular.
”Did you hear what Leihcam did to Cliffhaven?” One of the deserters said, referring to a smaller stronghold further north, along the coast. Narg moved closer to the group. “I heard that he told them to open the gates and then they’d not be harmed. They didn’t comply and three days later his army just walked over it, right through one of their walls. He had all the officers and a third of the soldiers tied to metal poles, upside down, poured a bit of oil over their feet and then lit them! His tribals killed or captured all families, except two of them!”
”Do you know why he did that?” Narg asked as he took the final step towards the table and rest his hands on it.
Another looked up. “Because he’s a sadistic, bloodthirsty savage.”
Narg shook his head. “No. He did that so that people like you’d hear about it.” He caught the gaze of the last speaker and raised his hands. “Hey, no offence, son. I know you’re gonna say that you left ‘because it’s hopeless’, but it was Leihcam’s intent to make it look hopeless all along. And with each soldier that leaves, the situation starts looking more hopeless for those staying behind.”
”You sound like you admire him.” A third youngster spat.
”But I do. The man’s a great tactician. You have to admit that no one believed anyone could unite the northern tribes, but he did it. And if you’d give him resources like The Order’s, then place him on a battlefield with General Gandja on the other side, I wouldn’t know on who to bet.” Narg explained. The deserters weren’t all ‘equally happy’ with his speech and the third stood up.
”You looking for trouble grandpa!? Why don’t you get your ugly ass out of here before you loose it!” He exclaimed angrily, his face red of anger.
”I’m heading for Modoc, getting in my way is helping Leihcam.”
Another kid got up and put his hand on his shoulder. “Bryan, no!” He hissed.
Bryan swatted away his friend’s hand as if it were a fly and made his way to the door, turned around, pointed his finger and shouted. “You and me, outside, right now, old man!”
Narg followed the boy outside, many more followed them and formed half a circle. The barkeeper sighed and wiped his forehead clean, relieved that the troublemakers were taking their fight outside.
”I really have to ask you to reconsider this.” Narg said as he saw Bryan pick up a large, pointy metal pole. He loosened La’Kir’s holder.
Bryan grinned, lifted the pole over his head and charged at Narg, who quickly took a step back and caught the pole with his hammer, then, even faster, lower it and wiped Bryan’s legs away from under him. Bryan stood up and thrusted his rusty spear at Narg, who hit it aside with his sledge again. Bryan tried again. The pole bounced of the hammer, which was coming down, straight back into his own heart. Bleeding from a large chest wound he passed out.
Narg stepped back and swung his black sledgehammer back over his shoulder as the other deserters hurried to help Bryan. One of them stared at La’Kir in awe and mumbled Narg’s name. Quickly the old tribal made his way back into the inn, upstairs to his room. Next morning at dawn he’d get a horse and leave.
Jaric scratched the back of his neck as he made his way around the campsite. Hiding in the protective shadows of the trees as carefully as possible he made his way to the nearest raider… to Jaric, it really didn’t matter, since these guys weren’t Raven, and whether she’d been defenceless or not, if they were, he would’ve left. And he hated himself for it. His father hadn’t sent him away for nothing, he was a coward, a disgrace to his name, both of them, but somehow, those twisted, fatalistic Yakuza ideas which occupied his father’s mind, had gotten into his too. He had managed to get behind the raider… Desperately tried to recall was Kevin had thought him… between the third and fourth rib, so they don’t make any noise when they’re going down. Slowly he uncovered his hunting knife, hesitated, then, with every shred of will power in him, he killed a man for the second time in his life. For a second he thought nausea was going to overwhelm him, as the hard and sharpened steel cut it’s way through soft flesh.
The woman, facing him, saw the amazed raider sink to his knees silently, a small stream of blood making it’s way through his lips. She kicked the raider closest to her in the groin just as he was going to look behind him, then reached under her grey cloak and surprised the raider with a slid throat. The last raider jumped back and tried to run of, to regroup with his pall, who turned out to be laying face down in the sand, with a knife sticking out his back and a pale boy sitting by him. He changed his direction, but suddenly felt a sharp pain in his leg and tripped. The woman jumped on his and thrusted her Wakazashi blade through the raider’s heart. She looked at the man’s leg and saw the narrow throwing knife sticking out of it. She looked back at Jaric, who was still sitting on his knees next to his first, or second, victim, his hands covering his eyes.
She pulled out the knife and tossed it in the sand less than a feet in front of Jaric. “Hey…”
Jaric looked up, his eyes as good as empty. “What?” He hissed as he got back on his feet and picked up the throwing knife.
“You throw like a girl.”
Jaric grinned, then started laughing, if only his father had heard that one, until he remembered his hunting knife. Still chuckling he pulled the knife out of the body, the sharp edges on the back tore loose some flesh, and wiped it of on the dead raider’s jacket. Last time, he hadn’t even had the heart to get close to the body… Dad was right, you really do get used to it. Was he crazy too?
“No really, you throw like a girl. Who taught you to throw like that”
Jaric chuckled again. He realized the two of them had a somewhat different perception of ‘throwing like a girl’. Jaric shrugged. “I was… panicking…”
The blonde woman nodded. “Taking that in regard, you still threw pretty good. Who taught you?”
He shrugged again. “My father, so it’s not just the teaching, it’s the genes mostly.”
“Where are you going?”
“South, were else would anyone go.”
“North.”
Jaric was sincerely surprised by the answer, and in no way tried to hide it. “What the hell would anyone want to do there!?”
“Delivering a message…
“To whom?”
“Not Leihcam.” The young woman answered, clearly not interested in saying any more on the matter. She tried to change to course of the conversation. “And who is it who was so chivalrous to help a damsel in distress?”
Jaric grinned as she used that expression. In the few fairytales he heard, girls weren’t the ones doing most of the killing. He took one step forward and bowed theatrically. “Jaric Lysle Rigger, and might I enquire your name?”
“Seanna.”
“Is that a real name?”
Seanna shrugged and wandered around the campsite. “It’s the name I go by.” She said, once again not planning on elaborating. If there was one thing incorporated in Jaric’s heritage other than his hand-eye coordination it was his mother’s ability to tell how people were feeling, and sometimes, almost what they were thinking. Although this girl seemed vulnerable, Jaric got a cold feeling, a gut feeling, that if he’d ask too much, she’d consider killing him.
She turned around suddenly, totally unexpected, and the evaluating look in her azure blue eyes made Jaric take one step back, instinctively. “Do you have some means of transportation?” She asked out of the blue.
Jaric nodded.
“I don’t care what it is, I want to buy it. Another raider got away with my wagon.” She said as she searched her backpack and dug up a handful of jewels. “Name your price.”
Jaric shook his head. “My bike’s not for sale.” He replied.
The evaluating look returned. “Reconsider.”
“No.”
She cursed softly, then looked at Jaric. “Anything.”
Jaric could make a pretty good guess at what she meant by that, but wouldn’t budge. That was the only thing that had any real value to him, which he was afraid of using. The three throwing knives his father had given him, the hunting knife Kevin gave him, they’re all prized possessions, but he hated using them. At least the bike Kevin built him he dared to use. He shook his head again. “Listen… if you really need to go north, I’ll take you there… At least I’d be travelling in a direction of which I know what to expect.”
That was true… Never, never had Jaric been further to the south than Klamath Falls, although he had been north quite often and far. Seanna thought for a while, then nodded.
Illuminati
“Our future is knowledge, hidden from us by ourselves.”
- Illuminati philosophy
Nakur stared into the distance, nothing could bring him from his concentration, and Lujan knew that. He decided to wait and looked down the marble balcony at the beautiful indoor gardens, most likely the only flowers within miles. His view moved to the garden’s gate, bronze bars with runes and tiny images engraved on them. He looked at the centre of the garden again and moved his eyes away from the roses, onto a big and purple, Lotus-like flower, which was blooming. Yesterday, it hadn’t been blooming and he concluded the same thing as Nakur, a member of the Illuminati was nearing. Somehow, he couldn’t completely lose the feeling of regret, somehow he felt this was one of the last times he looked at these gardens. He could guess the place of his nearing death and decided to follow Nakur’s example.
Lujan’s mind stretched out over the wastelands, south… in the distance behind him he could see the temple ridge vanish into the morning’s fog. He found a trail heading south and followed it, towards a bright white light in the distance, which he recognized as Nakur. Nakur moved slowly, following a dirt-bike. Lujan recognized one of the two people on the bike… the boy, or young man, Jaric Rigger, the son of a raider captain who operated not too far away.
He felt words, Nakur’s words. “They’re close… they will arrive at the temple tomorrow, in the evening… tomorrow morning if they don’t stop.”
Lujan preferred not to use his mind speech, however just send out his agreement in the form of an emotion. Nakur seemed to laugh at his hesitation to use his telepathic speech… Lujan used to stutter before he was brought to the Illuminati Templars… he never had to talk again, since among one another the Templars simply used telepathy.
“We need to decide on our formation.”
Lujan gave in. “You need to.”
He could feel Nakur nod. “Garl will be our Eyes, Vintar the Soul, you shall be our Heart and I will be our Voice.”
Lujan agreed.
“Call the others.”
He found himself back on the balcony. Vintar, the oldest and shortest member of the Templars, and in theory their leader, was already standing behind the two of them. Lujan looked at Nakur, who was still looking down on the boy and the Illuminati, then turned to Vintar. “We must c-call the o-others.”
Nineteen Templars had gathered in the main hall of their temple and were standing in a perfect circle, with one gap in it. Nakur entered and filled the gap. “My brothers…” He started. “and Sister.” He added to a dark-haired tribal woman, a distant relative of him. “Some of you may have already found out about this. An Illuminati is heading our way, accompanied by the son of Lysle Rigger… We all know what the presence of an Illuminati means, it means that this temple will soon be inhabited by others, that all or most of us will soon do what we have been preparing for since we entered this circle… die. But right now we need to decide whether we can let the raider come near our temple.”
Vintar’s thoughts took over. “You have already been told our formation… Garl, how will the eyes judge?”
Garl, a slender man who had been a raider too, far away from the temple, in areas visited by none of those in the room, answered. “I will submit him to a test, to see if he is worthy.”
“We will leave this matter completely in your hands, brother.” Nakur’s regular voice returned the Templars to reality.
“Not too impressive.” Jaric mumbled as he stared up the road at the rocks ahead of them. He wondered why the hell Seanna had directed him to a cliff… he had assumed she was trying to get help somewhere, but there was noone here. Some roses grew along the dirt path, and Jaric knew that he had lied to himself… he had never seen such flowers before.
Seanna got of the bike and looked at Jaric, who claimed to look like an idiot with a narrow sword hanging from his belt, but was in fact proud of the gift… although he’d probably be afraid to use it. Her attention was diverted by a soft humming sound. As she turned to look at the cliff she was just in time to see an armed man pass through the solid stone. His clothes were white as the snow, further north, though a lot of his clothing was covered by plating, a silver armor, mostly resembling a medieval harness. Seanna took of her cloak, which by now was covered with stains, varying from dirt to blood and motor oil.
Jaric gasped as he saw the clothing she had been wearing underneath it, other than her shoes and a tunic she wore nothing under it, and the fabric of the tunic was extremely thin, shining through. Jaric admired her figure, and hardly noticed what Seanna was doing, namely turning her cloak inside out, nor did he notice that the armoured figure slowed down for a second. Seanna simply ignored the stares of both men.
Somewhat disappointed Jaric, and Garl, saw Seanna’s body disappear under her cloak again, which now looked completely different. It seemed to have turned into some form of grey robes, with purple stitching. Along the ends of the sleeves and the lower area small, shiny symbols and runes had been sown into the robes.
The armoured figure moved closer again, until he was less than fifteen paces away from Seanna, who looked confused. This was not what she was told would happen, he was supposed to meet her… noone was allowed to come within fifty paces of the temple without meeting with a Templar first, and his or her permission too. Slowly the Templar drew his weapons, two short swords, used mainly by some Yakuza, and took one step closer, threatening.
Ignoring Seanna’s warning Jaric jumped of the bike, letting it fall on it’s side and slide into a small ditch along the trail. He grabbed on of his throwing knives and took position between Seanna and the Templar, attempting to look dangerous. Garl took another step and stared at Jaric, past his swords and Jaric’s knife, straight into his eyes. Jaric got dizzy, he felt like someone or something was rearranging his thoughts as though they were old boxes, stored in an attic, his mind, and dropped his knife. He felt strange… there was fear… and there was something trying to hide the fear from him… then he snapped.
Screaming like a maniac he grabbed the sword Seanna had given him just days before and charged at Garl, who stepped back and shifted his body into a defensive position. He used both his swords to catch the narrow sword, which’ intend seemed to be to slice his skull in half. Now he knew a light sword like that would never do that much damage… but then again, Jaric seemed incredibly motivated. Without any concern for his own safety or defence, Jaric swung the sword at Garl’s throat. Garl caught the sword again, but his arm was pushed out of the way and Jaric’s sword grazed past his knuckles.
“Do something before I have to kill him!” Garl sent out his thoughts to Nakur. Jaric fainted.
”Some Illuminati would call him a berserker.” Vintar mumbled using his normal speech.
”And you don’t believe in that sort of thing?” Nakur asked.
”I believe it’s got something to do with psychology, perhaps a way to override fear, he fears fear, so…”
”That’d make him a berserker?” Nakur chuckled good-heartedly.
Vintar moaned and turned away from the tribal and wandered towards a sofa, the sofa with Jaric’s motionless body on it. “His memories… As a kid he used to wander around dark tunnels just because he was afraid of the dark… does that sound like fearing fear to you?”
Nakur shrugged. “It’s a weird kid.”
”Yeah? Well I’m probably older than you are!”
Nakur and Vintar turned around surprised and saw Jaric trying to sit up. He looked around the circular room, which’ walls had for the biggest part been hidden by bookshelves, except for a small area behind a wooden desk, which was covered by a banner, a white banner with a purple eye on it, surrounded by a triangle formed from three swords in the same colour.
”Welcome to the land of the waking.” Nakur smiled and picked up a long object from the desk, a simple metal sword with a dark handle. “You can have it back if you promise not to attack Garl again.”
”Then you’ll need to promise not to mess with my mind anymore.”
”Jaric!”
The three men looked at the door opening, while Jaric’s hand was still hovering halfway towards his sword. Jaric looked stunned, Nakur grinned sheepishly and Vintar suppressed a smile.
”I-It’s goo-od to see you’r-re okay.” Seanna stammered, embarrassed by her own behaviour. Nakur’s grin broadened and Jaric looked more puzzled than he did the minute he passed out.
The old man decided to save the day. “Ah, novice Seanna, should you not be preparing for departure?”
Grateful for Vintar’s intervention Seanna nodded and backed away out of the room, Vintar followed after hitting Nakur on the back of the head with the palm of his hand in an attempt to get rid of the grin. In vain.
Nakur tossed the sword towards Jaric, who barely managed to catch it clumsily and fell back, embracing his sword, of the sofa onto the grey carpet.
Nakur pulled the young raider back to his feet with one hand and looked at the sword. “It’s not the best choice for someone like you.”
Jaric looked puzzled again for a second, then realized what Nakur was talking about and blushed. “I can’t help it, I try, but I can’t… it’s only happened twice before and not even my father knows.”
Nakur shrugged. “It’s a rare… disease. But there’s benefits to it too, although it’s downright dangerous in fire fights, when it comes to good old hand to hand combat berserker’s have certain advantages.”
”The old man said something about departure… where are you guys going?” Jaric asked, trying to change the subject.
”Modoc, our presence there has been requested.” Nakur answered, suddenly, all signs of amusement left his face and the tribal looked like an old man too.
Somewhat shocked Jaric stepped back. “By whom? Why? That place is gonna be trampled by tribals, no offence, soon… what could possibly be the use of ‘requesting’ your presence there!?”
”Stalling.” Nakur replied coldly. “We need to hold of those tribals as long as possible. We need to assure that the town does not surrender. We need to try to win or at least even out the odds.”
”Who requested your presence?” Jaric asked again.
Nakur gazed into the white banner and let his mind wander through it’s fabric. “We have.”
Jaric stared at the cavern in disbelief… he couldn’t see it, but it was there. Two tall pillars with several lights and monitors on it seemed to be keeping up the illusion of solid stone, while in fact there was a cavern. A vault, a small vault, true, but it was a vault. Over the past day he had seen a lot of incredible things, beautiful, lush gardens in what Nakur called ‘hydroponics bays’ and technology that contradicted with everything else he had seen… a massive arsenal of primitive weapons, and he had heard stories and explanations that defied all that was real.
Jaric found it hard to believe that these people were all telepaths, that they could all speak to one another without actually speaking… if he hadn’t felt it for himself. Seanna, nor Nakur had been willing to reveal anything regarding the identity of the driving force behind these ‘Templars’. All he knew was that, according to Nakur’s explanation, they were big. I’d not be surprised if somewhere along the way entire raider clans would temporarily start raiding other territories, merely to ensure that we arrive at Modoc in time. Nakur had said… Part of Jaric wanted to get back to his father and ask him about that, but eventually, after a long conversation with the elder Vintar, who had to age to be Jaric’s grandfather, he decided to follow the ‘Templars’ and, off course, Seanna to Modoc.
Nakur circled around his subordinates like a hawk, checking their armaments and clothing… Jaric appreciated the attempt to make the ‘Templars’ fit in with the rest of the wastelands, but the fact that the majority was wearing black clothes now, with long trench coats, kind of made him wonder whether the ‘Templars’ sense of fashion got stuck one or two decades ago… That wasn’t too unrealistic an idea.
The tribal Templar stopped next to Jaric, who didn’t seem to be in a too comfortable position, with a larger, two handed sword strapped to his back. Sure, Nakur had managed to convince him that in case of another attack, he’d be a lot more effective using that weapon, Jaric wondered however whether the weight’d weigh up against the benefits. Comfortingly the young telepath lay his hand on Jaric’s shoulder and smiled. “Let’s go.”
The group, or caravan if you will, travelled for days, south east. They crossed strips of desert as well as reforming forests and even some grasslands. Jaric was surprised to notice, on the second day, that they’d have been following some sort of trail all along, hardly visible. He was even more amazed to hear from Nakur that the ‘trail’ let directly to Modoc’s main gate, amazed enough not to believe it.
On the third day the came across of a small group of raiders… Jaric never saw them alive. The three, young raiders, obviously kids who founded their own little clan, were lying on their backs, their eyes wide open and bleeding from the corners, looking at clouds drifting by.
After another day they came across a nomad camp, a small town made up out of small tents and huts, surrounded by a round, wooden palisade. Several children left the camp just as the group approached, and seemed to be carrying weapons. Two men left the protection of the village, riding on some creature Jaric had never seen before, however heard about. It was said, that further to the east and north, a creature named ‘horse’ survived the war. The two horsemen rode straight into the path of the travellers and got of their creatures there. Jaric was just wondering why the hell two men would try to stop twenty other men and two women on their own, as he heard Garl’s voice echo through his mind.
“They’re decoys, they’re trying to keep us here while others are surrounding us.” The templar’s voice said, leaving Jaric to wonder how he had recognized it… he had never heard Garl speak before, and still he knew.
Anxiety started to overwhelm the raider, and it won terrain when he heard Nakur’s answer. “Try not to harm the children.”
Immediately the three Templars in front of Jaric pulled out their weapons… not the primitive ones he had, seen, but normal fire arms, and started firing at the two nomads ahead of them. Most of the others started shooting at targets only they could see, or sense, and Nakur lead Jaric and Seanna away from the centre of the group.
The tribal didn’t say a thing, but Jaric knew he wasn’t allowed to help… not like he actually had a lot of experience regarding his .223, but still. The Tribal ran of into a small group of nomads that had just come out of town, to help Garl, who had dropped his 9 millimeter and was now elegantly dancing around inside the heart of the group, using his two short blades to creature a choreography of death.
He heard the sound of something large dropping and a surprised scream from Seanna. As fast as he could he turned around only to see another nomad, clad in their typical leather armors and animal pelts, dead, bleeding from the corners of his eyes and his ears, like the raiders they’d come across the day before. “Thanks.” He mumbled, convinced whoever helped him could hear him.
Seanna looked paler than usual as she walked across the battlefield, carefully keeping at least ten feet between her and the nearest dead body. Under any other circumstances Jaric’d smiled, or even laughed, at the route she was taking, but not this time. He looked at the battlefield, with the dead and some even mutilated bodies of well over thirty nomads, the scared faces of children and the nervous faces of old men that were now standing guard on the palisade walls. He looked at the Templars and was even more shocked that before.
Nakur, who was unhurt, looked at the dead bodies and the palisade with a cold professionalism in his eyes, probably working on decisions. Whether or not to kill the remaining witnesses? Possible changes to the training program?
Vintar, the old monk, was also looking at the dead bodies, looking for survivors, in his eyes a mixture of shock and pride over his Templars’ thoroughness could be seen. Torn between the joy of knowing how much help they’d offer at Modoc and the grieve of the deaths of well over two dozens of people that could’ve lived on, if they’d just not taken the shortest route.
Garl, who was checking the armors and clothing of the soldiers, trying to determine whether these nomads would’ve attacked them if they hadn’t come near their camp as well, whether they’ve been getting help from the tribal leaders.
All the Templars were practically unhurt, some didn’t even have a single stain on their clothes, let alone tears in them. Only one had a long cut across his arm, nothing deep or serious, but the Templar seemed ashamed of it.
A bit reluctantly, Jaric followed the Templar caravan to Modoc, trying not to talk to Nakur, or pay attention to Seanna’s mumbling about primitives.
Futility
”If hell had a name it most definitely would be Oregon
- Will Santadio
Small columns of sand and dust swirled up around the traveler’s Brahmin-leather boots as the wind increased in strength and speed. The young, disavowed ganger shielded his eyes from the brightness of the sun, which had just reached it’s highest point. He would have preferred to remain in the relative safety of the northern woods. Unfortunately though, some people, including him, wouldn’t be able to live very long without the proper supplies... and since life was the reason he moved there, it wouldn’t make much sense not to go out for supplies. Besides, what do those measely five hundred yards through sand mean to a real survivor.
Santadio knew the answer... inconvenience.
The blond traveler held a richly decorated, probably ceremonial, spear in his left hand, which he now basically used as a walking stick. If’d William had buried him, it’s previous owner would’ve turned around in his grave. When would those damned tribals finally learn that charging at a pissed off mobster, with a hangover, and a shotgun for that matter, that early in the morning, was a very, very bad idea.
Will glanced at the small town that lay ahead of him and it once again occurred to him how badly the site was chosen, although better than most towns. A mere two miles to the west and five hundred yards to the north, and the town would’ve layn in a corner protected on one side by the woods and fertile ground, and on the other side, the ocean. Nevertheless, it was the only safe place in the wastelands Will knew of. Not even Dante would be able to track him down all the way to a nameless, meaningless little settlement.
Also, the settlement still didn’t look all too impressive. It was nothing but a couple a dozen or so crude buildings, mostly along the alleged Main Street, a few reinforced tents and some caravans, or campers. At the entrance to the “Main Street” was a typical western style gateway, about fifteen foot high and wide, with a small crucifix nailed on top of it, all build between two five foot high walls. The fact that there wasn’t a door in the gateway really didn’t disturb anyone. Not like a door would’ve done much good... even if it were closed at night and one needed to get in, one’d simply walk around one of the five foot high walls, which both stretched out a mere thirty feet.
Will sighed and commenced his trip across the patch of desert... by the time he got halfway, he was already cursing and swearing over the little rocks and sand in his boots.
Once at the gate, he leaned against one of the low walls and removed his left boot, and shook the rocks and sand out of it before putting it back on and repeating that entire sequence for his right boot. Halfway through the process of putting his right boot back on, he noticed there was noone in the streets. Will searched the street for any signs of life, but found none... none other than the three people in the town ‘restaurant’, which wasn’t much more than a glorified trailer with a long bar in it. He made his way to the end of the street, stuck the spear in the sand and opened the trailerdoor.
Lucy was there, Will’d never asked, but merely guessed she was fifty years or something like that, of course, she’d kill herself if it were the only way to stay with her beloved trailer/restaurant. Gary, or old man Svenson was there, looking down a bottle of booze’s neck, as usual, and a third person. Although this man had made it a profession to hide in the shades, he’d been seen when Will entered town a few minutes ago already. He wore a long trenchcoat, like Will’s and completely unsuitable for the New Californian and Oregon climate, only his was black, where Will always preferred earth shades. He wore a complete suit under the trenchcoat, the likes of which Will hadn’t seen since he left Reno, and a pair of sunglasses, which would’ve been more suitable for the climate, weren’t it for the fact that he was standing in the darkest corner of the trailer. His hair was long and black, pulled back, into a long ponytail, which hung down about three inches below his neck. He removed his glasses, and revealed the only real similarity between him and Will. Cold and almost eerie, brown eyes.
Half a second later a SIG-Sauer came to life.
About a quarter of a second after a shotgun did the same.
Anthony Clerichuzzio, one of Will’s former colleagues, was slammed against the wall by the rough dozen of tiny bullets that found their way into his chest, shoulders and stomach. For a fraction of a second the wounds were obscured by a red cloud, followed by Anthony’s gunshot. The fourteen milimeter bullet tore the prewar ‘microwave’ straight of the wall and tossed in the opposite corner of the trailer. Lucy was half on her way to a safe spot below the counter when she realized it was over. Gary’s bottle of booze was knocked over, pulled along by the weapons’ slipstreams.
Will lay his shotgun aside, on the counter and paced over to Anthony. He kneeled next to his old friend, his only regret being unestamating Dante, and lay his middle and index finger in the wounded mobsters neck... Anthony wouldn’t live much longer than two more minutes, and wouldn’t wake up. Will stood up again, took a step back and then kicked against the mobster’s head as hard as he could with his right boot. It produced a satisfying, breaking sound as it snapped to the left.
Lucy looked up at him, still in a half-crouched position, and wondered what would happen next. She had heard the stories about her father, how he defended her mother against two raiders, killed them, and couldn’t stop. He killed her mother, simply because his urges were stronger than him... They still called the tree from which they hung her father, although there wasn’t much of it left anymore, Victor’s Tree.
He didn’t kill her. He didn’t kill her. Thank God. He didn’t kill her.
Almost like a robot, without any trace of emotion, he walked about two barstools away from his shotgun and sat down. The next fifteen minutes he focused on the menu hanging behind Lucy, who thought he was trying to decide and started talking about all the great choices and todays special.
Will could care less, but not much. He focused on the words, tried to form them inside his mouth... Ever since he saw Dante kill half a family, in front of the eyes of the other half, simply as a result of paying the ‘ensurances’ too late, Will hadn’t been able to speak after killing someone, even if he knew that like himself, like Anthony, that person had no real family. It was something psychological, something that just wouldn’t go away.
With great effort, lacking patience and a voice that sounded like the inside of his throat was made out of sandpaper he finally managed to produce a few words. “Shut up!”
Will laughed as Gary tried to pick up another one of the hot hamburgers. Thirty minutes ago Lucy had thrown a blanket over Anthony and pulled him behind the bar, then pushed down a provisorically made garbage chute into a large dumpster next to the trailer. Will’s mood improved. He laughed even harder as Gary, who had now covered half the piece of meat with napkins, failed to bite through the meat. Will grinned. “They’re a bit hard, aren’t they, Gar?”
”A bit!?” The old man muttered in his usual soft voice, somewhat insulted, then help up the hamburger and slammed it into the table... “You can bludgeon a Super-Mutant to death with these!”
Lucy shrugged and flipped another burger around on the grin. “If you’d brushed your teeth every day as I told you years ago, you might have been able to chew it, you old coot.”
”If you’d learn a bit about brahmin perhaps you could buy the actual meat instead of the leather next time you get to Klamath!” Gary retaliated.
The door opened and a dark blond young man, barely old enough to shave, entered the cafeteria. He knew he always to talked to him, and he knew where the kid lived, but still Will had to dig deep in his memories to come up with the child’s name.
”Hey, Jerry! Get over here!” Will called.
Jerry raised his hand to greet and sat down next to Will. “So, did ya take the job?” He asked.
Will raised an eyebrow, and Lucy looked pained.
”What job?”
Jerry’s expression became a exact copy of Lucy’s and jumped to another stool, one farther away from Will and Lucy.
Lucy sighed and lay down the knife she’d been using, then leaned over the bar. For a second it seemed like she changed her mind and was going to back away again, but then finally spoke. “We need a sheriff, Will. Not forever, but right now, we need someone to maintain, run and represent this town. I don’t know what you’ve heard during your trip here, but there’s almost two hundred thousand tribals heading for Fort Modoc... and we’re expecting quite a few here too... on top of that, there’s deserters in the forests north and east of here... People are afraid to come out of their houses, and most people here never even saw a gun before in their lives... let alone use one.”
Will moaned, rest his head on his arms and stared straight down at the bar. He was troubled by the fact that these people automatically assumed that a disavowed ganger was a good ganger, although he himself had a higher body count so far than Anthony, not counting Anthony. Besides... there’d be no way this town could be defended against as much as five tribals, let alone fifty or five hundred. He really didn’t know what he was thinking, but apparently, some part of him still could make the decision, as he heard his own voice. “Just don’t call me Sheriff.”
”Hello!?” Jerry exclaimed as they walked through probably the most terrifying thing he had ever seen in his life... A forest... And not one of those sad post-nuke collections of tiny trees, oh no... countless and countless of huge trees, hogging up just about all the light. He could still hear himself ask to be deputy... and he cursed the memory.
”You’re wasting your time.” He heard Will, more than he saw him. The three flashes of fire proceding three loud bangs were quite visible though. Just as the third shot had faded away his hands reached his ears, and immediately turned around. Again he heard a shot, and his hands started their trip up to his ears again, when suddenly he realized he hadn’t seen the blast. He heard footsteps head in the direction of the gunshot and he saw Will’s earthtones pass by him. He followed. When he got closer he saw the small hole in Will’s trenchcoat’s sleeve, though no blood. Ahead of them another young man, in a dark uniform stood up. Something silverish glinted on his right sleeve. Three bars, behind a hammer, surrounded by laurels. When he got even closer, he could see the lower bar wasn’t a real bar, but looked more like a small scoped rifle... He didn’t recognize the insignia, however he could guess the man’s profession... a sniper.
The uniformed figure stepped forward and smiled as he dropped his sniperrifle. The smile vanished as at exactly the same moment Will raised the SIG-Sauer he got of Anthony’s corpse and moved a little to the right, fast.
The soldier immediately complied and took a step to the right, away from his rifle, and raised his hands up to the same level as his ears. Suddenly recognition flashed across his face as he looked at Will. “Senator!?”
Will didn’t answer, instead made another movement with his weapon, this time meant for Jerry, who immediately ran to pick up the sniper rifle. From what he had heard over the past two days, there were four factions envolved in the upcoming war. An enormous band of tribals, although he didn’t believe their numbers’d come anywhere near two hundred thousand, versus New Reno, NCR and The Order. He barely knew anything about The Order, but since NCR had councillors and New Reno Bishops, he figured it to be safe to assume The Order was lead by a Senate... and obviously, he looked like one of their senator. He decided to keep his identity to himself and studied the deserter. Brown hair and blue eyes, not much older than Jerry... Apparently, The Order’s recruiting more people than is good for it.
”Where’s your camp?” Will mumbled, deliberately, so it would cover up most of his New Renoan accent and gripped the weapon more tightly.
The recruit seemed to think, then made a quick movement with his head to his right. “About forty minutes away from here, sir.”
”Well? What are you waiting for? Order’s in writing, in threefold?” Will asked a bit agitated. Judging my the smile on the recruit’s face he’d probably made a joke the kid expected... Jesus, he hadn’t even said he was someone else and already he felt like a liar.
They entered a clearing in the forest. The recruit stopped, Will stopped right behind him and Jerry sighed in relief as he felt sunlight on his skin. Ahead of them, several more people in the uniforms of The Order were checking their tents, while dozens of green-uniformed NCR and un-uniformed New Renoans were unloading tools of a caravan wagon... Looked like they were gonna work on a small fortified position. Three Republical soldier grabbed their weapons and paced over to the newcomers, readying their weapons.
Just as a small red dot found it’s spot on Will’s forehead someone started yelling at them, or the deserters. Two deserters dressed in much the same uniforms as their prisoner stepped in between the NCR soldiers and Will. The one aiming for Jerry lowered his weapon.
One of the new Ordereans stepped forward, and Jerry got a closer look at his insignia... This one had three ordinary bars, however the entire emblem was gold-coloured and one the background it seemed as though a big footprint had been weaven into the uniform, in a slightly different shade of black. The officer started talking.
”Permission to speak freely, sir?”
Somewhat overwhelmed Will nodded.
”What the fuck are you doing here, sir? It’s way too dangerous here for any member of the senate, and I’m sorry to say that if you were sent to ‘retrieve us, you’ve been sent in vain.”
Will was just about to speak as the officer continued. “And sir, we know what The Order does with deserters. I have seen colonel Darion demonstrate it! This is a hopeless war sir, Modoc will fall, as will the entire civilized wastes and finally, eventually, the City, sir.” The officer stretched out his arm and moved his open hand past the scenery. “That sir, is the best we may hope for after this battle has been waged.”
”Perhaps...” Will replied, decided to say what he had to say before telling them who he really was... they wouldn’t kill him as long as they thought he was one of their leaders, or so he hoped. “But aren’t all wars hopeless? And what do the people that realize that do? They say it’s hopeless, making it hopeless for others through leaving the battle. Men, that could’ve at least stalled the war for one hour can be the difference between life and dead for the people they are sworn to protect.” Will shrugged. “But that doesn’t matter to you, does it? And even if it suddenly did, what difference would that make now... you’ll never be back in Modoc in time.”
The officer grinned. “Exactly sir, our thoughts exactly... What difference does it make?”
Will realized he should have chosen his words more carefully, but continued. “May I at least direct you to another location, somewhere you could still mean a difference to the people you’re sworn to protect, even if it’s not quite as many?”
The officer looked at Will, who still hadn’t had the nerve to explain he wasn’t their senator... his attitude had slightly changed... If they survived this... they’d find out about him when they’ve returned to their home. Luckily, none of these thoughts showed, and the officer turned around the the half set up campsite, pulled out a .223 pistol and fired in the air. “Okay! Pack it up, people! We’re leaving!”
Illuminati
”Is not the essential difference between a mentor and an apprentice that the mentor realizes he is in fact also the apprentice, although the apprentice does not yet realize in fact being a mentor?”
- William of The Illuminati
The two minds skinned over the wastelands, away from the city... in seconds they crossed the distance to their subordinates, a distance that would take them two more days. Two more days without complication, at least, none on their part. They found the mind they were looking for... the Soul.
Vintar froze. Lujan felt a stinging pain and Garl went blind. Garl stubbled over a rock, slipped and fell on his back. Lujan carefully made his way to the nearest three and rest his left hand against it, as he pressed his right hand against his chest. Vintar drifted of into nothing.
“He is old.” The leader of the two minds spoke.
”Nakur choose correct.” The second voice carefully resisted. Yamu never knew which personality he was dealing with, and he knew the First Illuminati tended to get out of control over his second personality in troubled times. A warrior and a telepath, two minds in one body, insane, made him the second worst choice for leadership of the Illuminati, in his eyes. He only knew that hadn’t it been William, it would have been Nakur, a warrior and a telepath, one sane mind, would in some ways be worse.
”I’m me, Yamu.” The leader said on a comforting tone, sending the proper emotion along, just before heading of into nothing, towards Vintar.
Lujan used his telepathy to suppress the pains in his chest, and Seanna sat down in front of Garl in the lotus position, she helped him to get in the same position. Garl’s now dead eyes closed and the female Illuminati took a small silver box out of his sleeve, opened it and lit it’s content. She had heard that in cases such as these, only two sensations remained, smell and touch. The incense did it’s work as she held his hands, not aware of Jaric’s more or less jealous stares.
Nakur and his distant nice lay Vintar against a nearby tree, within Lujan’s line of sight, and the other Illuminati started to make up camp. Although they were actually planning to walk one more hour, you never knew with Illuminati.
Vintar, who had never been in direct contact with The Illuminati, panicked at tried to look around only to see nothing. No light. No darkness. Nothing. To his left and right however, there seemed to be something, beings, hiding in nothing.
”Why did you bring a berserker?” Yamu’s mind asked. Yamu had been known althrough the Illuminati as the one that detested every minor breach of The Illuminati’s rules, especially those envolving violence. He had been the Templar’s worst nightmare since day one, protesting to them even being allowed to wear the symbol and identify themselves with The Name, or a name, for that matter.
William’s mind remained in the background, to keep Vintar from noting his amusement and out of sheer curiosity.
”I... I do not know.” The old man replied, embarrassed by the fact that even as a telepath he couldn’t keep his voice straight in times like these.
”You convinced him to come! We have seen and heard it! And you know we cannot send you back again... whatever happens, you will die in the upcoming battle.” Yamu would’ve hissed in real life. He knew very well he wasn’t threatening, and knew very well that even if The Illuminati would kill Vintar it wouldn’t be considered as breaking regulations, since Vintar’s death is a part of another rule... No Templar may outlive all his fellow warriors twice.
The old monk remained silent and William came forward. “You are two days away from Modoc. One day away is the Legend. Templar help is needed though.” The words were immediately followed by images.
Hume fired at the opening again. A small spear, or large arrow, landed up straight in the dust before the boulder his was hiding behind. It had been a full day since they were ambushed and had to seek shelter in a canyon. The tribals kept shooting down their arrows and occassionally the Legion managed to take one out. But victory didn’t last long. They’d seen their banner, Onra’s banner... a group that had travelled ahead even further ahead.
The men tired, and in the evening, the tribals started to storm the canyon. There couldn’t fit many more people in the canyon’s entrance than three next to each other, so initially, it was a simple matter of mowing down the damn tribals with their firearms. However, noone needed to remind them that guns need ammo and ammo was about a mile away from here, with the corpses of eleven members of the Legion and over a hundred dead or crippled horses.
It had become a heroic fight, the Legionairs wiped out wave after wave after wave, but the tribals kept coming. Alderon told them Onra was a fatalist, but noone could’ve possibly been that fatalistic, and the Legion was driven back into the canyon even deeper. Hume fired at the opening again and heard a dry clicking sound... he had shot the last bullet of the Legion a mere second ago, and it missed.
”What our strategy, sir!?” He yelled at Alderon, as both men drew their swords.
Vintar’s eyes open rapidly, as did Garl’s and Lujan got back to his feet. The old monk’s eyes darted from one Templar to another and immediately, eight Templar’s got up and accepted the firearms of the other twelve. Nakur, one of them, led the seven into the forests without saying a word. Jaric looked in between the trees and saw nothing... Just as he decided to go take a look, Vintar stepped in his path and held him back.
We wait. And then we fight. Those words kept surging through his mind, time after time after time after time. Alderon’s words. He allowed himself a quick glance at the mayor, and didn’t like the sight of it. He was white all over his face, whiter than NCR’s walls, and his leg was wrapped in shreds of his own uniform, as well as those of his own men. The broken of shaft of one of the tribal arrows stuck out his thigh. The mayor was drifting in and out of consciousness and kept mumbling nonsense, trying to keep himself awake. If he’d go to sleep now, he’d never wake up, whether it was gangrene or a spear.
”Sir!” A young New Renoan soldier called to Hume and pointed down the canyon. Another group of Tribals charged at the crudely fortified position, and immediately six Legionairs surrounded Alderon, their swords ready. Hume envied them, he wanted to prote
