Nothing was going the way Rowan had planned.
She had appropriated six of the most elite rebel fighters, all kinetics, for this covert mission. And Joel, of course, for any magical requirements. He was a talented bastard. She tried not to remind him too often. His head was already big enough.
The team had watched the concentration camp for a fortnight tracking the changing of the guards, the ratio of sentry to prisoners, and any defenses or specifics that might come into play. The squad had even planned for an assortment of different complications and outcomes.
They'd done operations like this before, but usually blind. This time, Rowan had the blueprints. She'd stolen them, along with the ones for all other revolting places like it in the region, from the head architect. She'd spied on the spineless beady-eyed man for a while afterwards, his comings and goings, his jobs and his women, but he'd never reported the maps missing. You could always trust a coward to act cowardly.
Knowing the exact layout of the camp had bolstered the squad's spirits. This would be one for the win column.
But now, Rowan wasn't so certain. She was actually pretty sure, looking around, that she'd managed to get herself into the shit. Every precaution she'd taken had been undone in an instant. Now, the sun was up, she was surrounded and there was no one around to help her. Rowan was royally screwed.
It had all started out just fine.
Under the cover of darkness, Rowan and Rask had climbed the stone wall on either side of the posterior gate up to the sentry stations. The rest of the team had waited, hidden a good distance away. The windows, bereft of glass, gave the guards a 360-degree birds-eye view of the land. As she peered into the room, she found two burly bowman, attentions drawn outwards towards the inky black night beyond the gloaming light cast by the torches.
She'd snuck into the back of the lookout, taking the first sentry from behind, drawing her knife across his throat and spilling his blood in an instant. As he let out a gurgle and slumped to the floor, the other guard turned, alarmed, and dropped his bow. He fumbled to draw his sword, but before he could let out so much as a whimper to sound the alarm, Rowan had already gutted him with her knife: into the soft belly, pulling through the intestines and up into the sternum to silence his beating heart.
Her dagger dripped blood, but fortunately the gushing spurts hadn't so much as splattered her black leather boots. She wore a black studded-leather, full-armor body suit and a black cloak with a hood covering her platinum blonde hair. She had paid a handsome sum for the suit – the tanner had worked in the leather until it was supple and silent. It was an indulgence, but it had saved her life more than a few times. It was more expensive than anything else she'd ever owned except perhaps her Karkuri swords. Rowan didn't own much. She didn't need much.
She expected Rask to make an equally quick business of dispensing the men in his tower, so when she peered over to the second lookout, she was pleased to see he was only a few seconds behind her. She was satisfied with his progress, but her pride would have pricked had he surpassed her. Rask held the last guard in a hold from behind, choking him, the rebel assassin's strong arms a human trap. With one hand he held the archer's head, twisting and snapping his sturdy neck with a muffled crack. Sagging into Rask, the guard was softly lowered to the boards. Rask stood tall and waited for the signal from Rowan to continue.
They both scanned the camp. Behind the gate were eight more guards. It would have been nice if the guards had been exhausted, but Rowan had planned the invasion to occur right after a shift change so that no one would be noticed missing for a while. That meant these Empyrean FF Guards would be minutes into their watch, not asleep though perhaps still a bit groggy. Ideally, it would take longer for the rest of them to catch on.
Rowan wiped her knife on the wooden structure, cleaning it and stowing it back in her boot sheath. She climbed through the window facing the camp, sitting on the sill, legs dangling, as she pulled out her two arced and matching Karkuri swords – beautiful, bent and gleaming blades that mirrored each other. Rask followed suit, instead drawing his sturdy short sword.
Rowan and Rask locked eyes. They dropped from their ledges in swift, coordinated movements, two birds of prey falling from the sky and landing silently behind their targets, her Karkuri like talons sinking into the dirt. Rowan came up from her crouch moving the blades in an upward sweep, crossing her body and using the momentum to slice through the first guard's midriff, cleaving him in two. His torso fell to the ground as she moved on to the next soldier, rolling forward, her swords catching him like a hook to his calves and pulling him down with a thud. A stab and he was bleeding out, shiny red blood pooling on the sand. He held his innards as if he could hold his soul inside his body and sagged into the relief of death, letting go of an impossible task, his eyes closing.
The other watchmen were slow to galvanize, pulling weapons loose in a confused panic.
It was too easy really. Like drowning rats in a sack, she thought.
Rowan weaved through them, stabbing and slicing. She was a tornado, sharp blades cutting them to ribbons elegantly, even through their leather or chainmail armor. Kinetic energy coursed through her body, her training intermingling with the flow, as she entered a pirouetting dance of death in their midst. It was as if, when she moved, her anger and hatred disappeared, the world outside her arena of battle vanished. All there was -- a cold and calculated meditation of dodge, spin, thrust, flip, jab, trip, gut. The adrenaline buzzed through her limbs as she breathed – in and out, strike, in and out, parry – methodically. Clean, quick kills. She would never be a butcher, hacking limbs and reveling in pain, but an artist, dispensing swift justice.
One by one they all fell to her swords.
At the end, all eight men lay dead. Massacred in minutes. The grounds were painted crimson.
Rask, rippling brawn, scruffy stubble and messy hair under his hood and black plate armor, pouted at her as if to say, why didn't you leave me a few? If you wanted them you should have been faster and stronger, trained harder, her eyes responded. Still, his posture was all taut and readied muscle, an arrow knocked in a bow, ready to release.
Rowan and Rask pulled the bodies, one by one, into the shadow cast by the wall.
When they were done, Rowan moved briskly towards the massive wooden door. It would have held up against an army's battle ram, so thick was the slab of timber. She lifted the metal weighted latch, one that normally took the strength of three men to move, with an exceptional ease. Rask hardly balked as he joined her to twist the dead bolts free.
She pulled a rock from the pouch in her belt, then. It was rectangular and fit in her palm. It had a rune etched into its grey and otherwise smooth surface. The image looked, to Rowan, like a few squiggles and lines making up a bridge, but she didn't speak Runic.
She talked into the rock. "All clear. Move. Fast."
Then she held it to her ear and listened. A second of static and then, "Yes, ma'am."
That cheeky little bastard. Joel knew she hated when he called her that. Even if the men had heard him call her Rowan, it would have been more acceptable.
"That's Commander to you, mage."
She could hear him smiling on the other end of the rock as Joel responded, "Yes, Commander." His brazenness showing in the facetious tone, just how very young he still was at twenty-two. She was the same age, but she felt so much older.
The first thing she wanted to do when she saw the brat was to slap that silly grin off his adorable face. But she had other things to worry about right now. She'd have to come up with a different way to reprimand him later, in front of the others, and remind everyone of her unquestionable authority. She liked it when he teased her if it was just them, but her age, gender and title meant that she could not suffer any belittlement in front of the rebels. She respected her people and took their concerns and suggestions under advisement, but at the end of the day, she had to be seen as a strong and undeniable leader. There was little room for negotiation in the chain of command when orders could mean life and death.
Rowan had felt immediate relief as Joel sauntered up to her, the rest of the soldiers behind and readied, all thoughts of smacking him immediately lost. They'd sprinted from a cluster of trees and skirted the wall until they'd reached the back entrance.
He winked at her and she frowned at him. While everyone else was fully armored in studded leather and plate mail -- all black and entirely practical garb for an infiltration -- he had chosen to wear a blue shirt and beige pants, leather straps across his body and swords slung on his back, with metal pauldrons and knee pads that were more for show than safety... and a cocky grin.
Damn it, Joel, she thought.
He was a distance fighter but there was nothing between him and a wayward arrow or a surprise melee attack and that drove her crazy. She'd talked to Joel about it before, but he was stubborn and unless she remembered to order him to wear armor directly before any mission, he always staged a silent protest. He was a confident scoundrel and he felt more comfortable in his regular clothes, but she was determined to win this argument eventually. He'd feel her wrath... later, when they got through this.
They'd made their way to the main building silently, fleet footed towards the jail cells in the basement. At 4:30 in the morning, most guards not on duty would be sleeping like babies instead of milling about. The training grounds were empty. They had an hour to free the Tainted and help them escape before the sun rose above the hills to the East and made everything more difficult. An hour, she hoped, before the enemy caught on.
Everything was still going as planned when they had slipped into the main building, taking out the few measly guards they encountered along the way. The body count was rising, but Rowan didn't care. These men, they deserved worse deaths. The FF hunted the Tainted down, sniffing them out like they weren't even human beings, so she'd hunt them right back.
The squad arrived at their destination, making their way along the hallway of prisoners. There were big cells with groups of segregated people piled together – all women in one, all abled-bodied men in another, old men in one, female children in another, male children in the last, like with like. Most of them were sleeping, huddled on the cold, stone ground. They were nothing more than skin and bone, skeleton limbs askew, emaciated heads shaven. Cheap, rough-looking, filthy sacks were all that hid their frailness. It smelled awful, waste piled in the corner where the latrine had been designated. Clearly the FF cared so little about non-magicals that they didn't even afford them basic human rights.
Rowan's stomach roiled at the conditions in which the Empire was keeping these poor people. She nodded at Joel. She always let him do the talking. He moved first to stand in front of the bars where the strong men were being held. "Everyone wake up," he whispered to them, crouching and placing his finger to his lips to signal for quiet. Some of the prisoners seemed confused, some immediately alert as they came to. One descended into a fit of coughing, the sound an incessant wheeze and rattle carving through the stank, still, air of the passage.
"We're going to release you and your families. Help us get everyone out." Joel's hand clasped a ghost key that he slipped into the lock as he spoke.
"If they catch us we'll be slaughtered," one of the men, cowering in the corner, whispered.
A captive beside him turned towards the scared man and spoke to him, his voice a low, coaxing rumble: "If we stay here, we will die slowly and painfully. If we don't escape, we are as good as dead, Darmin."
Darmin nodded, convinced of the fact that he would die in this cell or in the killing fires if he didn't grasp a hold of this chance. It was just a matter of how he wanted to die. He could see the sky one last time.
"We will do everything in our power to keep every last person safe and sound," Joel assured them. "No one is dying on our watch."
He moved down the hallway, unlocking the prison cells with the turn of his invisible key and a click.
People funneled out into the hallway, all eyes on Joel. When the last prisoner left their cell, Joel moved to the centre of the corridor. He smiled at them all and whispered words under his breath, conjuring the image of a tree, twisted and gnarly branches forming an elaborate crown.
They would have gasped if they'd not been stifled by the fear of being exposed. As it was, they stuffed their awe down to the soles of their feet.
"For Aman Solam," Joel spoke, in a hushed tone.
The name was an omen. The symbol was that of the old Aary Kingdom, an icon that had now been appropriated for the rebellion. The Tainted had held on to the emblem and the name, Aman Solam, to signify that there were still those alive strong enough to take the Empress down. The tree crown was tagged on buildings, hidden in locations, placed in corners, tucked in messages as dissident murmurings: there were guerilla forces gathering in secret, there were rumors of raids and warfare against the Empyreans, there were saviours in hiding.
But it was also Joel's magic that caught them off guard. Arcane magic was such a rare aptitude. Arcanists' abilities were powerful and uncommon, and all of the captives knew it, as the picture undulated in the air in front of them, crisp and vivid. With a team from the rebel forces beside them and a mage at their side, they had a real chance of escaping.
In one brilliant move, Joel had given the prisoners hope, faith and inspiration. It was this talent that Rowan envied more, even, than his arcane magic or his skill with numerous types of sorcery, his easy way of relating to anyone. People were an unsolvable enigma to Rowan. She always said the wrong thing, embarrassed herself or put her foot in it, unless she was giving an executive order. People adored Joel, were inspired by Joel. The Rebels followed Rowan because she was the strongest, the fastest, the most capable; they did not follow her because they loved her.
As the image dissipated, the Tainted gathered quietly around Joel, the rest of the team taking up the vanguard, the flanks and the rear, protecting the civilians.
Rowan was at the back as they prepared to leave, but one woman broke off the group before they started moving. Large puffy eyes dominated a gaunt face with hollow cheeks. She'd been crying.
"Please," she begged, looking Rowan in the eyes. She was clearly smart, realizing that Rowan, not Joel, was leading the mission. Most would have missed that. She must have been watching and analyzing closely. "The Captain of the Guard took my daughter only an hour ago when he came in from his shift. She's only four. And he... he likes little girls. I can't leave without her. Please. He'll do unspeakable things to my baby." She pleaded, tears welling in her eyes.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
The officer's quarters were in the opposite direction and up the stairs, past the mess hall and the armory. According to the map, the Captain of the Guard had the biggest office, right across from the guards sleeping chambers, making it one of the more difficult areas to sneak around in. It was a lot to go though, to gamble on, to make sure one little girl didn't get left behind.
It was a harrowing task, but she'd already made her decision.
"I'll get her," she agreed. "But the rest of you, you included," Rowan instructed, looking towards the mother, "will go on ahead so that you're well on your way in case they catch me and raise the alarm."
Joel looked like he was going to part the sea of people and move towards Rowan, but she signaled him to stop. "Joel," she said. "You are my second in command. Lead the civilians to safety at all costs. Do not wait for me. Do not return if I'm not at the port on time. Do you understand?"
He looked like he was going to argue, but her eyes were steel.
"Yes, Commander," he barked back. For once the remark wasn't laced with its usual playful tone.
She knew he disagreed. She knew he was worried. They'd been inseparable since they'd escaped from their own incarceration as children. Since then, they'd never been apart, not even for a mission. Joel knew Rowan better than anyone in the world, and he knew that underneath that calm exterior, this particular mission was like her very own flashback to hell. It went against his every instinct to leave her behind. She knew he didn't want her to be alone for this, but there was no alternative. There was no one else she trusted to get everyone out safely and to their destination.
She turned her back on Joel and the squad, moving towards the end of the hallway, glancing over her shoulder only to see Joel raise his arms and drop them, as the whole group -- freed prisoners, rebel soldiers, and the mage --became translucent, blending into their surroundings. Then she ran to the stairs, slipping into the darkness, a shadow cloaked in shadows.
She had intended to pay her compliments to the Captain of the Guard, personally. That much she'd carried out. Then, she was going to save the girl. Together, they were going to escape. Half an hour ago, that had all seemed plausible...
But now she was the only rebel fighter in the barracks, surrounded by an entire room full of Empyrean FF Guards – at least twenty, and one other mage – while trying to protect the little girl hugging her leg. No, this she certainly hadn't planned for – this was an unmitigated disaster.