The Iron Pillars

Chapter 20

Trackenkaken awoke with a start when the door to his quarters flung open and the doorknob collided with the wall. He squinted into the darkness, but found himself unable to see anything. 

"General, you've gotta get up! Now!" Brant's voice shouted, shattering the peaceful silence. 

With a grunt, Track wiggled out of his sleeping bag. "What is it?" 

"We've got a horde of Alcontean soldiers coming in from the north!" 

Track's eyes widened. He hurried his movements and turned his lamp on. When he glanced at the grandfather clock above the door, he frowned. "This late?" 

Brant shrugged. "They've got Albatross, god of endurance with them." 

The Innutukian grabbed a gallon jug in the corner and placed the opening to his lips. He poured a mouthful of water down his parched throat. "That'll be fun." he muttered. "Same sort of numbers as we saw with that blade god?" 

Brant shivered before nodding in affirmation. "It's hard to even comprehend a force so large." 

Track coughed. "Yep. Alright, get out so I can gear up. How much time do we have?" 

"At their current pace, I'd say it'd take them an hour to get to the temple. Fifty minutes 'til they'd be in range of sniper fire." 

"Good. I can have the men up by then, but you keep an eye out anyway." 

Brant spun to exit the room, and Track shut the door behind him. The Innutukian tugged his wrinkled sleeping shirt off his torso, nearly bumping into the wall as he did so. His pants came off next. 

After five minutes of scrambling, he had successfully put on his combat gear. Thick plates of Innutukian rubber covered him from head to toe, separated perfectly at the joints to allow complete flexibility while only leaving small patches of vulnerability. Lusterless indigo in hue, the armor also served to accentuate polished bronze highlights like the broad shoulder-plates and thick vambraces. 

On Track's belt, a pair of sheathed daggers hung from his right hip. On the other side, he sported a leather supply bag. Below that, each of his calves had a holster strapped to it, occupied by an uzi each. Finally, he had a bulky rifle strapped to his back. 

He glanced at himself in the mirror, his sleepy hazel eyes lacking the energy another four hours of sleep would have given them. Several scraggly hairs peeked out of the usually neatly kept beard lining his well-defined jawline. With a sigh, he slipped a shiny bronze helmet over it all. Now only a glinting black visor stared back at him in the mirror, fastened above a removable plate over his nose and mouth. After straightening his uniform one last time, Track turned and stepped through the door. 

Track's footsteps thudded down the hallway. He flipped every light switch on as he passed it. Ignoring the curious heads peeking out of doors behind him, he continued on until he reached the captains' room. With no hesitation, he entered. 

He knelt and shook the nearest captain. "Get up." he said, "Prepare yourself and your legion for battle." 

The man rubbed his groggy eyes and nodded. After Track repeated the process for the other three, he exited and descended into the courtyard. 

Brant and Ace stood at the bottom of the stairway, and they frowned at Track. They both squinted at the visor for a few seconds before the general realized it was the uniform throwing them off. 

"It's me, Track." he muttered. 

They silently nodded. 

"Now," the Innutukian began, "I'm no expert on the Alcontean religion, but given recent events, it seems like something I should know more about. How many gods are there?"