Arcane Exfil

One group of monsters by the breach, another by the doorway, and not enough ammo to deal with either – oh, if only the situation were conducive to a happy ending. Cole checked the AKS in his hand. Well, maybe they did have enough ammo to deal with one of the groups, but only if isolated. “Man… Fuck the demons.”

“Hell, we shoulda taken the King’s deal.” Miles shifted his grip on his shotgun.

“Amen to that,” Ethan said. “What’s the plan, Mercer?”

Their best bet was to push through one side – likely the breach side, since they’d already been in the mud with them, but how long would that take? The ones pushing in from the suite would undoubtedly shaft them before they could take down all three.

The window maybe? Nah, that was still solidly a fuck no. Another breach? They wouldn’t have the time. The service corridor? Shit, it might actually work now. Tight quarters were usually a death sentence, but Cole had already trashed the monsters’ rifles. All they’d need to do is send rounds down the corridor, then potentially blow past a doorway if they still needed to run.

“Service corridor. One long chokepoint.” The AKS felt too light in his hands – he’d kill for his M7 or even a good ol’ M4 right about now.

“Fuck it,” Ethan agreed.

Cole backed up to the service corridor, keeping his AKS trained on the hallway connected to the main suite. The damn things should be coming in right about now…

The gunfire hit like a thunderclap. The fuck? Those were Celdornian rifles, but much greater in volume – too much for the two who’d had rifles earlier.

Cole immediately dropped into a crouch. He fought through the pain in his left hand as he opened the door to the corridor behind him. Miles’ remained still in his peripheral vision – he still kept watch over the breach.

Something massive hit the floor in the main room, the impact rattling the walls hard enough to shake the entire suite. Another crash followed alongside a shriek that lasted a good microsecond before being cut off. It was just gone, like someone hit a mute button.

The sustained fire kept up for maybe a couple seconds, eight shots in total – two for each monster out in the suite, maybe.

More shots cracked from the breach behind them; more shrill, abruptly silenced cries piercing through the deafening booms. This had to be the castle’s guards responding to the alert. Who else could the monsters be fighting? Who else could they be dying to?

The gunfire ceased, but the tinnitus was pervasive as ever. Man, he should’ve grabbed one of those steampunk-looking ear pros from the range when he had the chance.

Through the ringing, a long whistle carried from the entrance. An answering whistle echoed from behind the breach.

Thank fuck. That was basic communication – position check between units. The monsters that had threatened to overrun their position barely a minute ago were nowhere to be found, likely shot dead by the mysterious benefactors whistling to each other. Unless this was some sort of convoluted 4D chess play, they might actually have backup.

“Lieutenant?”

Cole maintained his line of sight. “That you, Fotham?”

“I should think so, unless these fiends have some rather brilliant strategy in mind. For what demon, having mastered our arms at last, would not immediately set about reducing its own kind to ruin? ”

Yeah, that was Fotham alright. He had a good point; if they were another batch of those skinwalkers, why would they kill each other? Why waste time yapping instead of pushing in to finish the job? False flag? Doubtful.

Might as well see what had happened. “Alright, hold fire; we’re coming out now.”

The scene that greeted him as he stepped out of the hallway made their earlier firefight look like a paintball match. Their 5.45 and 7.62 had punched clean holes; the guards’ rifles had torn entire chunks out of the monsters instead. One by the door was basically bisected, its torso opened up like someone had taken an Apache’s chain gun fire chest-on. The fancy furniture hadn’t fared much better – looked like a recreation of the lobby scene from The Matrix, but with artillery instead of small arms.

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Fotham stood in the center of a formation, flanked by the bearded guard from the Scrying Pane. Only when they lowered their weapons did Cole finally allow himself to relax.

Miles whistled as he emerged from the hallway. “Great fuckin’ timing.”

Guards moved around the room, shoving and twisting their swords into each corpse.

The bodies were barely recognizable as the ‘knights’ that had forced their way into their suite earlier. Whatever glamor they’d used had completely failed, leaving only their true, fugly forms sprawled through the wreckage.

The purple gore splattered throughout the room would probably render it – or perhaps even the entire wing – unusable for a while. Some of the bodies had limbs and parts hanging by muscle fibers – literal threads. But that wasn’t even the worst part. That handedly went to their uncanny faces, frozen in horrid expressions. Shit, it’d probably belong in some creepypasta hall of fame.

The plan had been to push through to the service corridor, but now he had a bigger concern: Mack.

“The infirmary –”

“Already secured,” Fotham answered. “It seems all the demons consolidated here, to see you dead.”

“How many did you get?” Cole asked.

Fotham pointed to the four new smears sitting around the suite’s living room. “Four here.”

Another guard approached, coming from the direction of the breach. “My lord, we’ve slain three demons in the other chambers. No sign of further intruders.”

Seven total, then. Plus the six they’d killed earlier, that meant all 13 fake knights had been eliminated – unless there were more infiltrators hiding around. “Yeah, looks like you got all the ones we found.”

Fotham nodded. “Now then, Lieutenant. I believe we should get you and your team to the infirmary. That arm needs attention, and I imagine you’d like to check on your friend. I trust you can explain how this began?”

“Yeah.” Following Fotham out the door, they walked past patrol after patrol of castle guards. “Started around midnight; we got a knock at the door – your knights, supposedly. Said that His Majesty had summoned us. Urgent business, couldn’t wait.”

“Most urgent indeed, that they might bypass proper protocol.”

“Yeah, that’s how I knew. Y’know, I probably wouldn’t have been able to tell otherwise if not for the question of their presence. Why were they even here? They knew every detail of palace etiquette, responded perfectly to each question, even adjusted their approach when I pretended to cooperate.”

“Hell, coulda fooled me,” Miles added. He kept his weapon down, but kept a hand near his weapon’s ejection port – probably to ghost load it.

“Mhmm. Complete discipline ‘til the alert, anyway,” Cole continued. “Then they dropped the act; started banging on the door. The moment that door went down, they went on the offensive. Weird thing was though, even after their facade dropped, they used tools like humans would – guns, swords, magic. Didn’t use ‘em great, but the fact they could use ‘em at all…”

“Most troubling indeed.” For the first time since Cole had met him, Fotham’s aristocratic polish cracked. “We’ve heretofore encountered cunning demons, yet naught like this. We’ve learned them to be creatures of instinct, at times with the intellect of any predator, but of instinct nonetheless.

He shook his head, continuing, “That they should comprehend our weaponry is disquieting enough. This… is new. Never before have we observed demons possessed of such faculty for… mockery.”

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“Skinwalkers,” Miles suggested.

“More like uhh…” Ethan rubbed his chin, stalling. Searching for the right word? Finally, he settled. “Mimics. Though it looks like they’ve skipped the treasure chest and grimoire evolutionary phase.”

“Mimic? Hah, perhaps it may fit – unsettlingly well. I must concede, though an affront, their craft is disturbingly fine. A jest at our expense…”

Cole’s shoulder burned as the adrenaline started wearing off – sharp, stabbing pain whenever he moved it. Torn ligaments, maybe? His forearm felt like it was wrapped in barbed wire, static shooting through his fingers when he tried to make a fist – nerve compression. He shifted his weapon to a one-handed grip, his left arm hanging damn near useless. Even gravity hurt like a bitch; the shoulder was definitely fucked up, maybe even dislocated.

Thank God they’d just arrived at the infirmary.

Thank God Mack was safe.

There he was, still in his bed – still breathing, still alive. Apparently, the demons hadn’t even bothered touching the infirmary; they probably wrote off Mack as a non-issue given his condition and instead gathered their forces just for them. Still, it was a relief to see the man safe and sound – with 4 guards watching over him like guardian angels, at that.

One of the healers – not Elina, some older woman – immediately made for Cole’s arm. “I’m Dr. Halloway, and it shall be my honor to see you mended. My lord, if you’d be so kind as to sit…”

“Cole Mercer.” Cole dropped into the indicated hospital bed, keeping his eyes on Mack. “Thanks, Doc. My arm – a demon gripped it pretty damn hard. I’m lucky it didn’t take the arm clean off.”

The doctor took some notes while a younger guy handed him some strange colored drink – another potion. “For the pain, sir.”

Cole eyed the mixture. Yet another mystery drink. There was no way of knowing what passed for painkillers here, but these folk seemed to know what they were doing. Fuck it. He downed it in one go.

The effect was immediate – pain fading to a dull throb as warmth spread through his chest. Then came the floating sensation, like the edge of a really good morphine dose but without the complete mental fog.

Fotham pulled over a chair, settling down beside them as the woman carefully removed his sleeve and started with regular checks – pressing specific points, testing range of motion.

“Agh,” Cole grunted. “Shoulder’s dislocated.”

The doctor nodded, jotting down a note. “Indeed it is. Your arm has suffered much, and this shoulder joint fares no better. The ball has been forced from its proper place – a dislocation, as you’ve pointed out. Fortunately, that alone appears to be the extent of your mechanical injuries.”

Cole almost felt like sighing, but he wasn’t out of the woods just yet. If anything required internal imaging or surgery, he’d probably be fucked. How would they even diagnose any deeper issues?

“Before I restore the joint, however, we must first tend to these other injuries. Now, I shall guide a flow of mana through your veins to better understand your condition. Do remain still, and pray, resist not; any disruption might obscure what I seek to uncover.”

Huh, so that’s how they got by without imaging. She channeled a trickle mana into Cole’s collarbone, directing it through his injured arm until it reached his fingers. Warmth flowed along his bloodstream – no issues with just the trickle.

“The numbness in my fingers is probably nerve compression,” Cole offered. “Woulda crushed my arm completely if I hadn’t used strengthening and barrier magic.”

“A wise precaution indeed, Sir Cole,” the healer replied. “You’ve certainly spared yourself a graver injury, though what remains mustn’t be ignored. I shall now increase the flow of mana. Pray, remain still.”

The first anomaly presented itself almost immediately. The warmth of mana snagged near the shoulder joint, faltering sharply at the back of the joint and consolidating there. That confirmed the dislocation, alright.

The healer inserted new mana past that, starting with the upper shoulder instead of the clavicle. His biceps and triceps seemed perfectly fine, but faltered again near the middle of his forearm, right where the demon had gripped him. The warmth congested, creating a dull ache where the flow faltered. “Another obstruction,” she observed.

“Swelling, hematomas, I’m guessing,” Cole offered.

“Accumulation of blood, yes.” Dr. Halloway intensified the mana flow, directing it toward the blockage. The warmth pressed harder until – fuck – it burst through all at once, sending a rush of sharp relief down his arm. “There – the flow resumes, though the tissues remain inflamed. I’ll heal this momentarily, but first, allow me to check for any other obstructions.”

She ran the mana through Cole’s arm again. “The bone itself remains whole, fortunately. No scattering, no cold voids – the hallmarks of fractures are absent. I find only bruising here, no breaks to the structure.”

“And bleeding? Internal, I mean.”

The healer inclined her head. “Hmm. Were there ruptured vessels, the mana would stagnate completely. Here, it flows, however diminished. The swelling arises from strain alone, not internal bleeding.”

The healer’s smile as she looked up was probably one of the most reassuring things he’d seen today. “The finer structures remain sound. This confirms what I suspected – the damage is superficial. Now, let us address these injuries.”

The healer began her work. A blue glow graced her hands, warmth spreading into Cole’s forearm as he turned to Fotham.. “These Mimics – I’m guessing these demons are new, then?”

Fotham sunk into his seat. He looked like he at least retained a modicum of composure, but Cole didn’t need telepathy to know that he was dealing with the potential end of the world. “Yes” was all he could say.

“Well, I sure am looking forward to a shapeshifter shanking me in my sleep.” Not the best thought, but hey, at least he could move his fingers now without a bombardment of static.

His delivery also seemed to lighten Fotham’s mood a bit. “Ha! A fair concern, and one not without merit. Though perhaps… Such an illusion – if indeed it is an illusion – would demand a steady flow of magical energy to sustain. A costly trick, I’d wager. Hmm…” He stood from his seat.

“What, you got something?” Cole exhaled through his teeth. Dr. Halloway’s magic now had the tissue in his arm wriggling around, like a damn chestburster ready to pop out and say hi. As futile as ignoring it was, he tried anyway.

“Our nullification fields, yes. We use them to suppress magical interference.” Fotham motioned the bearded guard over. “You there – organize a team to fetch what nullifiers may be spared from the dungeons and laboratories. Test every soul in the castle, starting with those here in the infirmary.”

The knight offered a shallow bow and moved to assemble others.

Turning back to Cole, Fotham’s tone softened, though his words retained their bite. “Now, you’ll remain here. This is now the most secure location at our disposal. And you… Well, you have the look of a man who’s had sport enough for one night. I’d not burden you further. Rest well; we shall discuss further on the morrow.”

“Yeap,” Cole winced as Dr. Halloway finally popped his shoulder back in.

Fotham prepared to leave, but Ethan called out before he could take another step toward the door. “Wait! We gotta grab what’s left of our gear. If any of it survived.”

“Could use some of them rifles y’all got, too,” Miles added. “And them ear pros, while we’re at it.”

“I’ll see to it.”

“His Majesty approaches!” The call came from outside, followed by the sharp sound of boots hitting tile as guards rushed to position. The patrol outside the infirmary doors snapped to attention.

King Armonde entered with his personal guard. Their brigandine wasn’t the usual scaled armor Cole had seen on regular guards – the scales had some iridescent sheen he hadn’t seen before, reinforced with some silvery metal that was probably mithril or some other fancy fantasy material. High-end shit, undoubtedly. Wouldn’t surprise him if those scales came from an actual dragon or something equally legendary.

Fotham bowed deeply. “Your Majesty, a most timely arrival. I believe I may have devised a means to unmask these infiltrators.” He relayed the same plan he’d given the bearded guard.

That got the king’s attention real quick. “Very well. See that it’s done swiftly.”

He turned his attention to Cole and his team as Fotham left. Despite sobering up a bit from his slumber, the half-elf king still looked like he’d aged a decade since their first meeting, which couldn’t have been more than what, twelve hours ago? “Lieutenant, Sergeants. I’m relieved to see you well after the recent incursion.”

“Could be worse. S’pose we oughta be glad we ain’t headin’ out in body bags,” Miles said, deadpan. He didn’t mince words – not at all – and Cole couldn’t really blame him. At least his tone was polite enough to avoid trouble, if only just.

Cole braced, but nothing happened. Of all the reactions he could’ve expected, regret wasn’t one of them. Accountability even less so. “A tragedy, were it so. It was no failure of your own that placed you in such danger. You have my word on that.”

Whether it came from genuine concern or just the cold calculus of keeping his best assets alive, at least the King gave enough of a shit to say it. Words were cheap, even sincere ones. But it was more than he expected.

“Though you were not yet sworn to the service of Celdorne, you fought as if you were,” Armonde continued. “It is no small thing to rise so readily against an enemy that sought to unmake you ere you might render a decision. Few men would have done so, and for your valor, you have my deepest commendation.”

Words like these were nothing new, or so Cole thought. Polished speeches from polished men, always meant to rile up a crowd, instill purpose; instill a sense of honor. But be it through authenticity or tact, the king’s words somehow felt different.

“Though I cannot restore to you the night, I would extend to you the morrow. I will not intrude further, nor would I think ill should my kingdom’s shortcomings weigh upon your thoughts. Rest, and be untroubled by imposition or demand.”

Armonde turned to leave, but the truth was, Cole didn’t need another night to think it over. At this point, Celdorne didn't even need to sweet-talk them with a quid pro quo or burden them with unsettled debts.

These demons had made it pretty damn clear what they thought of Earth’s finest crashing their party. Honestly, it was pretty smart of them to try and eliminate the kingdom’s heroes before they became a threat. Too bad all they’d done was make it personal – and now they’d learn exactly why trying to kill them early was the right instinct.

“Your Majesty – no need to wait ‘til tomorrow. We’re in.”