After Downfall

Ⅰ

Raindrops plinked off rusted metal frames hiding beneath foliage as Sherman glided silently through the undergrowth. Water glistened on the helmet atop his head, which normally reflected sunlight like a mirror. Today though, it was smudged with mud. He breathed deep, taking in the unmistakable scent of summer rain. Glancing up at the sunlight peeking through the treetops, his quickened his pace. The first part of the plan hinged on cloud cover, but southern storms could be fickle. The blade extended in his right hand glowed a dim sage green, noticeable only if one looked directly at it.

The forest path before him hove in and out of view as the vegetation threatened to overtake it; trail upkeep in this part of the forest was seemingly on the back burner. The large shape of a building materialized in the distance — Sherman stopped to take a knee. The leather straps on his breastplate creaked as he stretched, limbering up for the task ahead. He rolled the sleeves of his hoodie halfway up his forearms, taking care not to damage the cloth. It was a gift from his father, who received it from his father. He examined the three white lines that comprised the logo — bits were flaking but it was holding together. This hoodie had been worn by his father and grandfather in their battles, and always seemed to bring luck. In truth, Sherman figured it was the sword, but it never hurt to wear it just in case.

Eyes on the building ahead, he veered off the path and stole up a dilapidated metal fence on the perimeter of the complex. The massive brick warehouse was surrounded by wooden outbuildings, the fence encompassing the whole production. Sherman examined it, noting the pre-Downfall construction.

“Could just poke a hole in this piece of junk,” he thought, scratching his facial hair.

Shaking his head with a sigh, Sherman brought his blade in front of him and knelt before it. He closed his eyes, breathing slower and slower until he almost didn’t breathe at all. His senses flooded with information, images portrayed in green outlines flashing in his mind. He could see the animals of the forest, rushing away from him as the sword’s power tugged at their senses. In front of him, the complex was also alive with animals, only these walked on two legs. They patrolled the perimeter and rooftops, slept inside the wooden huts, ate and chatted at tables inside the warehouse. A group of them were stood at attention in front of what appeared to be a large stage on the other side of the warehouse. A figure was pacing animatedly on the stage, probably drumming up what amounted to an inspiring speech.

Sherman shook his head slightly. “For those about to die…” he muttered.

He honed in on his target, a huddled mass of people somehow lodged under the floor of the big building.

Sherman opened his eyes, taking time to pool the energy he’d gathered into the blade. The broadsword, normally a dull green in color, began to shine emerald. The muted glow turned into a gleam as the sword picked up a hum, metal vibrating from the stored energy. Shouts erupted from the other side of the fence— the light must have been spotted.

“Little late for that now, pitiful fools,” Sherman said, chuckling to himself.

He’d been taught not to take undue enjoyment in battle, but when it came to enemies like this, he let himself enjoy it.

Aiming the tip of the blade at the building on the other side of the fence, he directed the point away from the mass of people under the floor. The thump of boots against dirt and mud grew louder as the guards tore towards his position. It was time.

Sherman took in a huge lungful of air, expelling it in a measured breath. Summoning venom in his heart, he spoke, and the world cracked.

“DECIMATE”

The sky lit emerald green, rain and clouds shearing away in a radius around the compound. Green energy crackled at the blade’s point before exploding toward the building. The beam atomized the fence before continuing through the brick warehouse wall. Where once was brick was now open, dusty air. The green energy arced through the warehouse, erasing two guards and a staircase before taking the back wall with it. It exited the building, striking the muddy ground some twenty meters behind the structure. The emerald mass of energy pooled into the ground, collecting into a ball just above the surface, growing smaller and smaller until…

A light brighter than the sun’s exploded in dead silence from the impact point. An ear-shattering crack followed, as a maelstrom wind rampaged out in all directions. Pieces of wood from the surrounding huts mingled in the air with tree limbs. The warehouse roof sheared off, valuable sheet metal disintegrating under the force of the explosion.

Sherman blinked, working his jaw to pop his ear drums. The wind dissipated, leaving bits of wood, metal, and brick to fall where it may. He took a small scroll from a pouch tied to his belt. Unrolling it, he bit his thumb, drawing blood. Inscribing the necessary letters on the page, he set it on the ground before stabbing the paper with the tip of his blade. The paper rustled with unseen wind, then dissolved into green motes of light that shot into the air. They congealed in the now clear sky above, forming a word. “GO.”

The forest beyond the compound exploded with activity. Soldiers in mottled green and gray tunics rushed over the flattened fence. They wielded steel pikes, which were now leveled at those stunned compound inhabitants that managed to keep themselves alive through the explosion. Sherman stepped over what remained of the fence, wiping dust from his pauldrons. He removed his helmet and began cleaning mud from it. It was styled after Roman coolus helmets, although he figured the Kevlar his was made from was likely lighter.

Sherman sat on a chunk of building that had extricated itself from the structure during the blast and set to work undoing the straps of his breastplate. Now that the rain was gone, the humidity was coming on strong. The planet had made great strides with the elimination of the global warming crisis, but a southern summer was still not to be trifled with.

“Legatus!” a shout rang out from inside the building.

Sherman grunted as he stood, careful not to do so too quickly. Channeling power through the sword was easier the more a user did so, but large amounts of energy still sapped strength. Sheathing his blade in his back scabbard, he picked his way across the ground, avoiding rubble. He stepped through the perfectly-cut hole in the wall, careful not to touch the edges which were still glowing hot. Sherman surveyed the interior, observing his men rounding up the remaining enemy to be lead outside.

One of his soldiers was prodding a captured man forward with the butt of their spear, leading him in front of Sherman. He stepped in front of the procession, causing the soldier to grab the prisoner and toss him unceremoniously to the ground in front of the Legatus. The soldier stood at rapt attention, spear perfectly perpendicular to the floor. Sherman cast a glance at the soldier, although he couldn’t see their expression. Every man and woman in his task force wore helmets fashioned like his with face shields. Sherman thought it was a little creepy, which is why he approved their use.

Sherman tossed his helmet to the soldier, who caught it in their free hand. He turned his attention to the man on the floor, who was sprawled in a heap. Sherman squatted on his heels and regarded the person before him. His enemy wore a padded tunic with a beaten sheet metal chest piece, connected to metal pauldrons. His head was covered by a metal helmet with an attached face mask, held together by leather straps. The white face mask was adorned red paint marks that resembled scratches.

Sherman rose, grabbing the man by the straps of his chest plate, and hauled him into the air. The prisoner, who had been feigning weakness until then, was obviously shocked by Sherman’s strength, and began struggling to escape his grasp. With a snarl, Sherman slammed the man face first into the stone floor. The prisoner groaned, stunned by the sudden impact. Sherman rolled the man over with his metal-plated boot, nodding grimly. Soldier and prisoner alike had frozen, every eye on the most powerful man in the room.

“This, kiddos, is what the scum of the Earth looks like. My only regret is existing under a mandate of mercy against filth like this,” Sherman spoke, voice ringing out through the building.

The prisoner’s mask had cracked and fell away with the impact, revealing the face below. Now visible was a gruff looking man, wincing with pain. Emblazoned on his cheek was a bold tattoo of a fist in black ink.

Sherman hauled the man to his feet, then slowly spun him around to make sure every soldier could see the tattoo.

“Slavers.” Sherman let the word reverberate. “If you ever have doubts about what we do, remember we fight the worst our world has to offer.”

He shoved the prisoner back to the soldier, who tossed Sherman’s helmet back in trade. With a salute of the spear, the soldier led the slaver outside.

Sherman realized a figure had appeared next to him, standing silently with arms crossed. He raised an eyebrow at the newcomer, dusting his hands of slaver essence. The figure removed a helmet only slightly less shiny than Sherman’s, revealing a head of gray hair and an immaculate mustache.

“Always a scene, Legatus,” tutted the mustachioed man.

Sherman snorted. “Primus Saul, if I would’ve known you’d be leading the strike team, I’d have made a bigger boom,” he said, eyeing the older man.

The Primus’ lips disappeared in one of his patented disappointed frowns.

“If you’re done showing off for the troops, sir, we’ve secured the target,” said Saul.

Sherman sighed, following the Primus who had already turned and started walking. Saul was one of a few veteran warriors who believed tactics trumped raw power, and resented those like Sherman who had access to both. Sherman didn’t mind, the man would fight the fight all the same.

Sherman had a thought. “Primus Saul, where is Hadrian? I thought he’d be leading today,” he asked.

The Primus turned to Sherman, face blank as stone. “Not sure, sir. This was short notice for me.”

Now it was Sherman’s turn to frown. The thought evaporated though, as the two came upon their destination.

A large metal door on rollers covered the floor. Two soldiers with sledgehammers were alternating blows against a massive lock holding the door shut. With a clank, the lock blew apart. The soldiers each grabbed a handle and began to roll the door back. Sherman and the Primus peered into the dank gloom below. Sherman heard the Primus suck air over his teeth in a hiss as they got a good look at the contents.

A mass of humans, near twenty in number, huddled together in their own filth. Each and every one was bone thin and shivering. They shielded sunken eyes from the sudden light, whimpers escaping cracked lips.

Sherman searched deep down for his most soothing voice.

“Folks, I’m Legatus Sherman with the Special Task Force of the Southern States Coalition. You are being liberated. You are captives no more,” he said, talking softly but loud enough to be heard.

Sherman turned to Saul. “Let’s get medical in here. Don’t have the soldiers remove them until they examine our new refugees. We don’t want to shock their systems.”

The Primus nodded, turning and barking orders to the surrounding soldiers. Sherman rubbed his temples, trying to prevent the headache he could feel coming on. He gathered his equipment and headed for road outside the compound, stopping only to admire the wreckage his attack had wrought on the wooden stage in the courtyard.

“Like a ship dashed against the rocks,” he said, grinning.

He made his way to the forward command post in the tree line across the road from the compound. It was always impressive how fast his people could throw up an encampment. He beelined past the med tent and supply wagon to the makeshift stable, spotting a shiny black coat last in line. Sporting a handsome saddle, the horse was the tallest of the bunch. Using the stirrup as leverage, Sherman swung onto the saddle, scratching the big beast on its cheek. He removed his sword scabbard from his back and slid it into the custom-made slot on the saddle behind him. Grabbing the reins, he guided the horse onto the main road and set off in the direction he’d came from that morning. He yawned into the back of his hand; this was much better than walking.

Ⅱ

The fortified perimeter of the Southern States Coalition compound rose from the trees like a castle wall, although one made of heavy steel plating. Sherman patted the horse’s neck in thanks for a pleasant journey, then lightly kicked it into a trot. The main thoroughfare into the compound was lined with rows upon rows of ballistae, all aimed down the road toward him. The bolt throwers tracked his movement as his horse brought him to the main gate, a huge production with the required number of spikes to seem menacing. Now that the rain had ceased, the afternoon sun beat down relentlessly. Sherman rose in the saddle, spreading his arms wide.

“INVICTA!” Sherman shouted, voice booming through the field surrounding the fortress.

No more than a heartbeat passed before the massive metal doors began to creak open, stopping just far enough apart for him to ride through before closing behind him. A booming cheer rose from a crowd of people waiting on the other side, opening up to reveal three figures atop horses. Sherman urged his horse forward, riding through the crowd toward the riders. Outstretched hands from those townsfolk assembled craned toward Sherman, who leaned this way and that to grasp a hand here, or clap a hand there.

Sherman stopped short of the riders, observing the three before him. The rider on the left was slouched in his saddle, seemingly bored. A wide-brimmed sun hat perched on his head and smoke from a thin cigarette obscured the man’s eyes. He wore a curious dagger on his waist, one longer than seemed practical. Sherman knew the dagger was glowing gray, although it appeared to have a dense fog localized entirely on the scabbard.

The rider on the right beamed a smile at him. Her beauty took Sherman’s breath away, as it did every day. Her golden hair gleamed in the sun light, almost as bright as her citrine eyes. She wore a short javelin strapped to her back that emitted a warm yellow glow. She held two fingers to her heart, blushing slightly. Sherman smiled and returned the gesture.

The figure in the center seemed to be carved from stone. His massive frame sat astride a giant of a horse, one bred specifically for his considerable bulk. The man’s silvery mane flowed down his shoulders, with a beard to match. The robes he wore were colored in various shades of green, and even as flowing as they were could not hide the muscles below. Sharp jade-colored eyes shone beneath bushy brows as the man stared at Sherman.

Sherman once more rose in his saddle, executing a skillful bow to the three riders.

“Legatus Sherman reporting from field,” he said, tone serious. “Mission successful. Opposition removed by force, captives rescued and receiving treatment now. Primus Saul overseeing bivouac and return to base.”

The man in the center nodded.

“Legatus, your report is heard,” the man said, voice deep and gravelly. “The assembled council thanks you for your service today. Debrief will take place in one hour. Dismissed.”

With that, the two male riders turned their horses and made their way down the cracked concrete street toward the large courthouse that served as the fortress’ headquarters. As Sherman set his horse to meander after them, the lady rider wheeled hers about to walk in step with him. They rode in silence for a moment until they were out of hearing range of the crowd that had yet to disperse behind them. Sherman was the first to break the silence.

“Well,” he said, smirking, “it certainly seems like the old man is getting used to the admin gig.”

His companion rolled her eyes. “You aren’t the one that has to listen to him grumble all day, Luke,” she said, smile turning into a playful frown.

“I guess that’s true, Rae,” Sherman said, guiding his horse closer to hers.

She glanced down, blushing again as she noticed their proximity.

“You’re getting too bold in public!” Rae said, trying to hide her smile but failing.

Now it was Sherman’s turn to roll his eyes. He guided his horse into a proper spacing.

“There, Magister Helia. Can’t be seen fraternizing with a subordinate, I suppose.” Sherman cast a sassy look her way with this, and they continued down the street.

Thirty minutes later, Sherman stood in front of the mirror in his washroom as Rae wrapped her arms around his torso from behind. Freshly showered, he was carefully guiding a straight razor through a thick lather of soap across his face. Bright emerald eyes shone back at him through the mirror. His back was wet from where Rae’s still-drying hair touched it as she rested her head against him. He hummed a tune under his breath, one his grandpa used to sing.

“Generals gathered in their masses… just like witches at black masses…”

Rae gave him a squeeze before releasing him.

“I’ve got to go get ready for the debrief,” she said. “Don’t be late, okay?”

Sherman stopped shaving and snapped to a sharp salute, razor flinging soap at the mirror. Rae laughed, caressing his back with a trailing hand as she left the suite.

Shortly after, Sherman emerged dressed in his formal attire. A voluminous top coat of jade green embroidered with gold detail billowed behind him as he strode through the building. Under the coat were light fabrics in mottled shades of green, which tightened about the wrists and waist. The metal plates on his boot heels clicked as they struck the decorated marble floor, ringing out through the quiet of the courthouse. His broadsword was belted to his waist, emerald green light emitting through the scabbard.

The Legatus strode through the empty halls, observing the hanging paintings and tapestries as he always did. A myriad of images were depicted, from a white-haired general directing his troops across a river, to a grieving soldier in disbelief as he holds his dying opponent in his arms. He stopped in front of a framed photographic portrait of a severe looking man, a hand inside his blue military coat, with stars on his shoulders. This was his favorite piece of art in the building, one that gave him the inspiration for his warring name. Sherman pondered the image. He wondered what the man would have to say were he here now.

Sherman continued through the building as a bell outside rang, signaling the closing of the gate as night fell. Townsfolk began filtering inside, evening chores at hand. Sherman wove his way through throngs of people and found himself in the main lobby of the courthouse, a grand affair with an ornate marble floor. This open space was a perfect meeting ground for important folk, but also served as a reverent space to observe what was once their world.

As he moved about the crowd, giving smiles and handshakes as needed, he noticed a gathering of youths crowded around something against one wall of the room. With a small smile, he meandered over quietly, careful not to disturb them. The closer he got, he could hear an elderly voice emanating from the center of the group. Sherman leaned against the wall at the edge of the group, just able to make out the old man’s words.

“…and so,” the wizened voice was saying, “with the gluttony of the world threatening to end all life, those who had hidden since they were hunted near extinction around the founding of this country made themselves known once more. They, along with their allies in other lands, enacted their doomsday plan before society could destroy the world for good.

“Weapons of great power were conjured using magic. Not parlor trick magic, but real magic, of the Earth. Magic of this kind always existed, see, but after the wielders were vilified by those who feared anything they couldn’t understand, it went underground. Like I said, these weapons were forged with the elements of the Earth, each taking a different element and granting the user control over it. The weapons were then cast out into the world, sent to find those who could wield them for good,” the old man paused here to catch his breath.

One girl took this silence to ask, “But sir, if the weapons were sent to those who could use them for good, why are we at war? The Reds…” She trailed off, sounding frightened.

The old man cleared his throat, then began again.

“That is the story of human kind, young lady. Greed, arrogance, ego. A lust for power, and a healthy dose of prejudice against those who are not of the same group. A few truly good people can hardly make up for a populace who will not emulate them.”

“Now, where was I? Ah yes… The magic wielders used the rest of their power to cast a ritual that decimated society as we then knew it. We still don’t know much about it, although it wreaked holy havoc on everything those people took for granted. Electronics stopped working altogether, which was the biggest setback initially. Soon it was discovered that firearms no longer functioned; it was speculated that something in the molecular function of gunpowder and similar elements changed, rendering it inert under the conditions it normally would have exploded under. Society reverted back to the Pre-Industrial era overnight.” The man stopped to cough. “And that, kids, is where we leave off tonight,” he said, drawing groans of disappointment from the youths.

The crowd dispersed, chatting animatedly about history, leaving Sherman leaning against the wall across from the storyteller he could now see. The old man had a beard down to his waist, and thick glasses perched upon a crooked nose.

“Well, has it changed since you heard it last?” the old man asked, not looking at Sherman.

He chuckled, the man wasn’t nicknamed Herodotus for nothing.

“Same as ever, old man,” Sherman said. “When are you gonna get around to training a new historian?”

The old man turned to Sherman now, eyeing him over his glasses.

“When are you going to hang that weapon up and start studying?” he asked, a hint of a smile on his lips.

Sherman shook his head, grinning. He clapped the old man on the shoulder gently, then took off at a brisk walk across the room as he realized the meeting was about to start. He turned down a brightly lit hallway with a pair of doors at the end.

He arrived in front of the ancient wooden doors that led to the council chambers. Symbols of old were embossed on the wood, a set of scales and a book of law. Two guards flanked the doors, steel spears gleaming in torch light. The wore pieces of plate armor over black fabric that seemed to drink the light. Helmets painted with the same material covered their heads, giving the illusion of flatness where depth should be.

Sherman didn’t slow, intending to stride right in until a spear flashed across his vision. The guard on the right had angled his spear across the threshold, denying Sherman entry. The other guard immediately spun toward his counterpart, ripping the spear from the man’s hand while simultaneously planting a forceful kick into his sternum. The guard flew into the wall behind him, crashing to the ground, groaning in pain. The soldier left standing tossed the other man’s weapon to the ground, then knelt before Sherman with his spear laid on the floor.

“Legatus, please forgive my partner’s ignorance. He just attained this post last week and was overeager, he didn’t realize you were among those to be granted entry,” the guard spoke, clearly expecting punishment to be meted out.

Sherman watched all this impassively. He glanced toward the guard slumped against the wall. Stepping over to him, Sherman carefully removed the helmet covering his head. Sherman sighed, then shook his head. The man, or boy, rather, had a soldier’s figure that belied his youth.

“Soldiers are getting younger and younger, it seems,” Sherman muttered.

He turned back to the kneeling guard.

“Rise, Centurion,” Sherman ordered. “Call for medical for your partner and request a replacement.”

The guard rose, saluted, then turned to a system of levers and pulleys that ran heavy cord along the walls and ceiling. Pulling a select few in order, bells could be heard chiming in the distance. The guard then opened the door for Sherman, closing it behind him as he stepped through.

The war room was well lit by torches and candles, its central location in the building allowing no windows. Helia and the two men from the welcoming committee were arrayed around a large table holding a mess of maps and other papers. She glanced up as Sherman entered. She wore a serious face now, although still managed to sneak a wink in his direction. The smoking man was draped over a couch, a fresh cigarette between his lips. The gray-haired man spotted him and swept around the table, arms outstretched. Sherman’s face broke into a grin, and the two men embraced. The larger man clapped Sherman on the back, then held him at arms length to look him over.

“Well, ya look okay boy,” the man’s gruff voice fought down emotion. “Wasn’t worried about it at all.”

A crackly laugh from the couch interrupted the reunion.

“What Dane is leaving out is how much he bored us by fretting over your mission, Luke,” a husky voice said from under the cloud of smoke.

The man in front of Sherman, Dane, turned to the smoking figure with a dark expression.

“Magister Lawrence, we’re on council business. You’d do well to not let personal familiarity override professional conduct,” Dane said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

The slim man sat up, tipping his sun hat back to reveal gray eyes flecked with white.

“Caesar, I’m not sure who you’re talking to, because it couldn’t possibly be me,” Lawrence said, puffing smoke with each word.

Helia cleared her throat loudly, casting a glare toward the two. Caesar frowned and walked back around the table to the papers he’d been looking through when Sherman had arrived. Lawrence returned Helia’s stare for a moment before scoffing and crossing the room to stand on his side of the table. Helia shot a glance at Sherman, who grimaced and rubbed his neck awkwardly.

Sherman cleared his throat, then addressed the council.

“Magisters Caesar, Helia, Lawrence. Legatus Sherman reporting,” he said, wracking his brain for the proper reporting protocol.

Caesar returned the greeting. “Legatus, the council will hear your report.”

After detailing the raid and its successes, the three council members mulled over the information.

Lawrence broke the silence. “So, the intel was accurate then. More and more slavers popping up every month, targeting vulnerable populations moving between countries. Not good,” he said, chewing the butt of his cigarette.

Helia nodded, frowning. “It’s concerning. They seem to have organization, which means someone is backing them in some way. The Reds are the most likely option — chaos only helps their cause.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Caesar said, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “We’ll destroy them utterly, no matter how long it takes. They’re abhorrent, totally unnatural.”

The assembled nodded their heads in agreement. Though they argued about many things, that was one they were of one mind about.

Sherman cleared his throat, then ventured, “So, any news from the coast?”

Caesar glanced up at him, then to Helia. She had picked that moment to start studying something very interesting on the ceiling. Caesar sighed.

“Not asking how you know everything, just gonna piss me off I figure,” he said, voice entering a level of gruff previously thought impossible.

“Guess you’ll hear about it anyway soon enough,” he continued. “The Blues rejected the offer. They don’t see what they stand to gain by allowing access to the sea ports other than more trouble from the Reds in retaliation.”

Sherman frowned, this was not good news. The Blues, their nickname for the Coastal Alliance Force — due to the blue blade wielded by their chief, Poseidon III— were neutral in the war. The CAF thought that by staying out of it, they could profit from both and come out stronger than either. What they didn’t realize, Sherman mused, was that if the Reds, a stateless force who shunned law and order, were to defeat the Southern States Coalition, they would come for the CAF next.

“That’s… short-sighted,” Sherman offered.

Lawrence nodded. “Damn right. Reds are gonna walk over them without us. Shoot, only reason the war is still going is our tactics, I mean—”

He was cut off as the evening sun suddenly shone down on them. An explosive noise blasted through the air, as wood and stone rained from the ceiling. Sherman held his arms over his head and peered through the dust at the ceiling, or what was left of it. Massive holes had been blasted in the roof, leaving only a smattering of wooden supports behind. He caught sight of a flash of movement, immediately followed by a bright flash of red electricity.

“DOWN!” he shouted, unsure if anyone could hear him.

Lawrence dove into cover behind the couch. Helia grabbed Caesar and heaved his considerable bulk through the door into the hall behind Sherman. Sherman leaped toward Helia as she stood now stood in the center of the room, having lost all momentum after throwing the large man. His arm stretched toward her, world coming to a crawl. His fingertips were a hairsbreadth from her robes when everything went black.

Ⅲ

Sherman’s ears were ringing. He opened his eyes in a squint, coughing as dust filled his lungs. Something heavy was pinning him to the ground. The table. It had taken the brunt of the blast, half of it slamming him into a wall. He reached a shaky hand to the hilt of his sword, grasping the leather grip. Power flooded into him. Eyes flashing a bright emerald, he commanded the Earth. Vines ripped out between the stones on the floor and wall, shifting the table off of him.

He looked at the sky, clearly visible now that the roof had been completely blasted away. The setting sun cast a blood red light above him. A figure floated in the sky, almost a hundred feet above the fortress. They wielded a wicked sword, one that gleamed scarlet red. Multiple crimson blades made of violent electricity floated in the air around the figure. Sherman watched as the figure gestured to the ground, causing one of the floating swords to speed toward that point. Sherman couldn’t see the impact but the blast he heard explained everything.

A sudden realization sent him into a panic. He frantically searched the rubble of the council chambers until he came upon the prone form of Helia against the opposite wall. He rushed over, collapsing to his knees in front of her. Gently, he moved her long hair from her face, then checked for a pulse. A smear of blood from a cut on her head obscured some of her features.

“Still strong, so she’s just stunned…” Sherman muttered, checking for wounds.

More blasts sounded outside. The wreckage of the door into the hall outside was ripped from the hinges, a broad form shoving through followed by shouts.

“LUKE? RAE? QUINN?” Caesar’s voice boomed through the wreckage.

Sherman called out, Caesar rushed to them.

“She’s hurt, dad,” Sherman said, voice strangled with emotion.

Caesar grasped his shoulder tightly. “I’m here, Luke. I’ll take care of her, you go do your duty.”

Sherman swallowed his fear and anxiety, nodding an affirmative. He rose, drawing his sword, which now glowed bright emerald, matching his eyes. With a deep breath, he channeled energy into conjuring more vines, building a hasty staircase to the roof. He paused as a pile of debris in the corner of the room shifted.

“Thanks everybody, I’m fine. No need to worry,” grumbled Lawrence, climbing out of the rubble. The man’s hat was nowhere to be seen, revealing a shaggy mane of salt and pepper hair.

Caesar paused from wrapping Helia’s head in strips of fabric ripped from his robes.

“Glad you’re with us, Quinn,” he said, nodding in approval. “Please, help Sherman.”

Sherman blinked at that, brought back to the task at hand. Explosions were still shaking the building, and screaming could be heard outside. He raced up the staircase of vines, not bothering to check if Lawrence was following. He could rarely see him in battle anyway.

Atop the roof, Sherman wasted no time. Massive chunks of earth ripped away from the ground below, floating in the sky around the compound to form a mine field against further attack. He guided a platform of dirt and rock to his position, then hopped on. The sky wasn’t his favorite place to fight, but right now a distraction was needed. He forced a path through the floating islands of earth, closing it behind him. The figure wielding the red sword was waiting, arms crossed.

Sherman pulled his platform to a stop just beyond the shield of earth. Closer now, he could make out the figure in more detail. The man wore no shirt, revealing a broad chest filled with muscle and marked with scars. He wore crimson trousers that billowed in the breeze, tucked into black boots. On his head he wore a horned helm with a slim slit in the faceplate to see through. A blood red cloth was draped over the horns of the helm, falling onto his shoulders.

“Attila…” Sherman breathed, teeth gritted.

The man in bathed in red observed Sherman as though he were a mere insect. Sherman steeled himself, then set the earthen platform on a collision course with the floating man. Attila pointed lazily, two red swords streaked from their positions toward Sherman. He gave a curse and lept into the air. The swords slammed into the platform, blasting rock and dirt in every direction. Sherman willed his energy through the sword, and the platform reformed under his feet. He knelt, fingers on the platform, and shot through the air. He set a blistering pace, weaving through the sky as the lightning blades flashed toward him. Sherman glanced at his enemy, unsurprised to see the crimson swords reappear over Attila immediately after impact.

He focused solely on survival, leading the bladed artillery away from the fortress. The red crackling energy from the swords seemed to leap out towards him as they got closer and closer with each shot. Finally, he saw what he’d been waiting for. Mist seemed to coalesce on his platform, coating his skin before immediately sloughing off in the wind.

Sherman changed trajectory directly towards Attila. Wind tore at his face, eyes watering as he ripped through the sky toward his target. Attila whipped a hand up, sending every sword directly at Sherman’s platform. The violent, arcing electricity of the crimson swords converged at five different angles, all moments from impact. Time slowed to a crawl as Sherman gritted his teeth in anticipation, holding his emerald blade at the ready. The red swords were a foot from the platform when a sudden fog appeared directly in front of Sherman. The red swords skated across what seemed to be a dense curtain of moisture, redirecting each away from Sherman.

Sherman urged his platform on, building up blinding speed, and blasted through the fog curtain. Attila reeled in shock, holding out both arms for the first time and recalling his weapons. Only two reappeared above him, the other three still sailed through the air behind Sherman. Sherman was seconds from reaching the interloper, but Attila leveled his ruby red sword at him. Sherman realized this would be decided in milliseconds. He forced his platform slightly higher than Attila, changing the angle of his attack. Attila sent his remaining swords careening at Sherman, and at this range the impact was almost instantaneous.

The platform exploded, sending rock and soil in every direction. Attila looked frantically below him, searching for a body…

“SEVER”

A voice boomed above Attila, who turned in time to watch an emerald blade, erupting with savage green energy, be thrust into his chest. Sherman gripped the hilt with one hand, the other on the pommel, forcing the sword deeper. With a deafening crack, red energy ripped out of the wound in Attila’s chest. Sherman was thrown back, hurtling toward the Earth. He barely had time to watch his enemy become enveloped in an explosion that released a pitch black cloud with violent red lighting inside before he lost vision. The speed at which he was blasted back threatened to knock him out, but he fought unconsciousness. Just as he was sure he would slam into the earth below, a pair of strong arms embraced him, momentum carrying him down before slowing.

He blinked, twisting to see who had saved him. The face over his shoulder beamed a gorgeous smile, golden hair fluttering in the breeze beneath a bloody bandage.

“Rae!” Sherman shouted, jubilant.

She gave him a quick peck on the cheek before flying them back to the shattered courthouse. Rae set him down on the roof above the council chamber where Caesar was shouting orders to a group of Centurions. A faint but dense mist hung above the roof, where Sherman knew Lawrence was conducting affairs on the battlefield. From this vantage Sherman could see the main gate had been breached, allowing what seemed to be an entire company of Red soldiers inside. He could tell the battle was near over, as multiple large piles of masked bodies wearing crimson cloaks decorated the town square. Citizens leaned on bloodied spears, clapping each other heartily on the shoulders.

Sherman turned to Rae, or rather, Helia, who was flexing massive golden wings that shimmered in the dying light of the day. Her eyes were light an intense gold, and her javelin hummed as it moved through the air.

“Oh come on, how’s a guy supposed to compete with that?” Sherman asked, incredulous.

Helia laughed, a musical sound.

“I don’t see how you can,” she said, voice filled with mirth.

Sherman turned as a noise from behind caught his attention. The massive figure of Caesar was clambering onto the roof, having doled out enough orders to keep every soldier in the fortress busy for the next two weeks. He jogged to Sherman and Helia, looking worn and ragged but with a genuine grin on his face. Without a word, he gathered them both in a tight embrace, Helia’s wings enveloping the trio. Caesar pulled back, looking at them proudly.

“You kids give me so much hope for the future,” he said, gruff voice cracking with emotion. “In the face of this horrible attack, to see you two in action… It’s simply breathtaking.”

Caesar faced Sherman, saying, “Your grandfather would have been proud, too. Alexander only ever wanted to bring back the stability his society experienced, and I believe you’ll be the one to do it.”

Caesar grasped Sherman’s shoulder firmly, taking in the moment.

As Sherman looked into his father’s eyes, he was confused as they suddenly seemed to reflect a red light. Without thinking, power surged with him. Trees blasted out from the ground, growing up a blistering pace around them, curving up above the building into a makeshift shield. A cacophonous boom shook the ground as leaves and wood splinters rained down to the ground. The trio stared at the new leafy canopy above them, which already had a gigantic hole blasted in it. A cloud, black as night and emitting bolts of red lightning across its surface was floating in the sky, atop which stood Attila.

Or rather, what used to be Attila. The figure was now more energy than man. Blood red electricity coursed in and out of his body, burning his clothes away. Only the horned helmet on his head remained. Sherman looked closer, and noticed he couldn’t see the crimson blade Attila wielded. As they watched, that red electricity cloaked his body, concealing any trace of him. A wretched, grating voice crashed upon them from the figure above.

“Youuuu… you think moral superiority will save you… YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IS COMING!” The figure screamed, sounding as pained as it was furious.

With that, Attila threw his arms to the sky. Crackling, violent energy began coalescing above him, growing into a massive sword, resembling his crimson blade. The point was aimed directly at the fortress below. Sherman gritted his teeth, there was no way he could stop a blast that big. He looked to Caesar, the older man’s face showed he was thinking the same. He turned to Helia, only she wasn’t next to him anymore. He turned every which way, frantically scanning for the golden woman. He looked again to the growing mass of energy above him, and his mouth dropped open.

In the last light of the day, the sun had reappeared in the sky. With wings spread, Helia’s warm light bathed the Earth below. She floated behind and slightly below the red figure, who was focused solely on its final attack. She took her gleaming golden javelin, fell into a spin, then twisted upright and heaved the weapon at the crimson sword of energy. Waves of moisture shed off the javelin’s path as it silently arced into the collection of red power. The javelin speared the sword-shaped energy through the crossguard. There was a momentary pause as momentum caught up, before the crackling red sword folded in half, losing its shape before being sent shooting up into the sky at a blinding speed. It was only then that the ear-shattering boom from the supersonic weapon shook the ground below.

Sherman let out a whoop, throwing his fists to the sky in triumph. The form of Attila, now bereft of energy, looked to be man once more. He remained atop the black cloud, chest heaving. To Sherman’s dismay, he slowly pulled his crimson blade from the cloud beneath him, causing it to dissipate and leaving him floating in the air once more. His blade crackled to life with the red lightning, and he spun to face Helia. Sherman’s heart sank, her javelin might have made it to space by now.

With a roar, Attila blasted toward Helia, sword raised. She was fast, but at this range…

Helia simply floated there, golden wings beating, one arm held out, with a finger extended toward her enemy. A musical voice rang out from the heavens, immediately before the sky exploded.

“IGNITE”

Suddenly, it was midday. Every person on the ground was forced to cover their faces, lest they be blinded. A gale wind from above blew down upon them, forcing most to their knees. They were deafened a thundering crack, before the light began to fade.

Sherman squinted against the remaining light, grin spreading across his face. Helia beat her wings, floating in front of a mound of ash that was being carried along the wind. Attila had been eradicated. Her hand was held aloft, and a bolt of lightning sped toward it from above. With a rumble of thunder, her javelin slammed into her grasp. She held it aloft, saluting those below. A cheer rose from civilians and soldiers alike, returning her salute from the ground. She took off at speed, flying down toward Sherman. He held his arms wide open, welcoming her home. His heart was overfilled with joy. She alighted gently on the roof, running into his arms.

“This is it,” Sherman thought, “Screw politics, we can finally be together…”

As they embraced, their faces moved closer, to cheers from those watching below. Sherman looked into Rae’s eyes, which were twinkling with golden light. They moved in for the kiss, then…

Ⅳ

Alex’s head shot up off the pillow. He glanced around, groggily, before letting loose a guttural groan. He started ranting, accentuating each word with a punch into his mattress.

“HOW thump COME thump EVERY thump TIME thump SOMETHING thump GOOD thump HAPPENS thump IT thump ENDS thump UP thump BEING thump A thump DREAM?” He finished, panting.

Alex flopped onto his back, staring at the ceiling. He was used to vivid dreams, but that was one of the most intense he’d had. What was all that, anyway? Magic weapons? He scoffed, bemused. He wasn’t sure how his brain had even made that one up; he rarely played RPGs or games with magic. First-person shooters were easily better. He rolled over, eyes falling on his bedside alarm clock. It was flashing like it did when the power went out during the night. It read 12:00, which made Alex frown. Daylight was coming through his window. He picked up his phone, staring blankly at the screen. 10:28 AM?

He scrambled out of bed, muttering a string of curses as he threw on clothes while brushing his teeth. His dread mounted, this was not a good day to be late to work. Corporate was sending the compliance team… hell, they were probably already at the office. He ran to the fridge, buttoning his dress shirt as he went. Grabbing a jug from inside, he twisted the cap off and tossed it back, immediately spitting the contents into the sink.

“Why do they even make orange juice jugs in white?” he yelled, to nobody.

He wiped his face with a dish rag, only now hearing the TV in the living room. His roommate always left it on, annoying him to no end. With a sigh, he went to turn it off. Some talking head was spouting a doomsday rant about a solar flare that would be affecting electronics this week — Alex rolled his eyes. There was always something. He picked up the remote, pointing it at the TV, before realizing the TV was already off. His finger hovered over the button, not yet having pushed it. He stood there, momentarily frozen in confusion, before scoffing at his stupidity.

“I’m freakin’ losing it,” he muttered.

Alex grabbed his work bag from the couch, before turning to head down the hall to the front door. Before he could take a single step, a deafening boom shook the house. He didn’t even have time to be confused before something rocketed through the hall ceiling and into the floor. Alex stood transfixed, before holding his hands out to his sides in a what the hell gesture. Glancing about to an audience of none, he shook his hands at the smoking hole in the floor before returning to reality.

“Wha— how— WHAT IS HAPPENING?” he ranted, sanity hanging by a thread.

He inched toward the hole in the floor that he was sure his landlord would make him pay to replace. He peered over the edge of the smoldering carpet, mouth agape.

Resting some five feet below the subfloor of the house, having crashed through the roof and into the floor below, was an emerald green sword, glowing and pulsing with verdant energy.

© 2024 by Elisiah Lake

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