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Flowing like black liquid marble, the river poured ever outward, coursing along the cavern tunnel like obsidian blood through an artery of stone. It had persistently wended its way like this for centuries, slowly carving through the rock like a captive digging through his prison walls with a straw. Arcing upward to a curved ceiling hardly more than four feet above the current of the river, the exposed portion of the tunnel wall illustrated how much progress the dull scalpel of nature had made in the years of its existence.Nevertheless, as long as snow melted and rain fell in the world above, nothing would halt the dark water’s inexorable progress or its natural flow.
Within the consuming darkness of the tunnel, a shape seemingly as black as the water itself broke the rolling surface of the river followed by another and another. They were just small dark domes at first, indistinguishable from the roiling crests of flowing liquid. But they did not flow with the water; they stood against it, fluidly, as if made from the very element from which they surfaced. One by one the things fully emerged from beneath, revealing bone-white death’s heads that grinned fiendishly in the darkness. Eyes that normally echoed the blackness of the minds behind them now glowed a demonic crimson.
The Wraiths had come.
Water cascaded from their monochromatic armor, as silent signals were issued back and forth among the men; although, over the steady reverberating roar of the river, they could have yelled to one another and not been overheard. Assault rifles were removed from water-proof cases, which were deftly folded into small squares and returned to pouches on their belts.
The time had finally arrived for the war to be brought to the Deserters.
Thirty yards up ahead, light blazed from an alcove on the left, etching the rocky ceiling above the flowing river with reflected rippling light.
The Wraiths’ first objective.
Collectively, the platoon slithered to the left wall, save two. That pair moved to the right wall, out of sight of the alcove, and submerged to the jaw, their weapons held flat-wise, directly below eye level.
The other ten approached the edge of the recess, the grinding whir of generators quite audible over the rush of the water.
The floor of the alcove stood a full two feet above the surface of the river, a guardrail running along most of its length. The ceiling was cut several feet higher than that of the river tunnel’s; work-lights casting their beams indiscriminately along the rocky roof.
And amongst the illumination, shadows shifted and moved.
There were guards here as well.
General Klain grinned silently behind his bony façade. He would have expected nothing less.
Furtively, Klain motioned for Kriech and Kutte to move to the other side of the alcove. They complied, submerging slightly and hugging the wall directly beneath the floor of the recess. Within seconds, they were on the other side, fully prepared for the order to attack.
The order could wait, Klain thought. For now, he wanted to savor the moment. The next few seconds would herald the beginning of the end for their resilient and all too auspicious enemy. From here would signify the finale of the war and the dawning of the greatest age mankind had ever known.
Despite the common belief that the colossus of a man had no heart in which to feel emotions, Klain could not help but feel a pang in his chest, like an icicle piercing tundra caked in hoarfrost.
The end of the war. The end of what he did best. The end of what he enjoyed, what he reveled in, what he lived for.
Masked by the permanent lipless grin of the dead, Klain’s lips curled back in a smile. If this was to be the end, then he would make such an end as would be told and retold among the hundreds of generations to follow.
So let it begin.
With a casual flick of a pair of fingers, General Klain began to write history.
The next few events happened so quickly and so effortlessly, had Klain not been a witness to his men’s work before, he would have thought he had dreamt it all.
Beneath the water, Kriech interlocked his fingers, providing a springboard for Kutte who shot from the water like a trained seal. At the same moment, Krach swung beneath the guardrail and shot out every work-light in the alcove, plunging the cave into its natural darkness.
Darkness, that is, for the Deserters, but not for the Wraiths. And certainly not for Kutte.
The Wraiths flocked beneath the guardrails, gripping the cold metal with wet gloves and hoisting themselves up, eager to join the fray should Kutte require assistance.
He did not. Of all the Wraiths, and therefore, of all the Monarchy, Kutte had no equal when it came to the dark. The sunbursts of exploding lights were still burning white in the retinas of the Deserter engineers when Kutte systematically threaded through the generators like a green snake in a sugar cane field and dispatched all four men before any one of them could mount a defense. The last of them managed only a gasp at the sight of twin scarlet eyes staring through the darkness. Then the eyes were gone, and the man saw nothing but black.
Signaling for the two back-ups to move from their position against the tunnel wall and join them, Klain finally heaved his bulk from the water, the guardrail straining noticeably under his weight. “Nicely done, Kutte,” he growled in appreciation with more than just a little tinge of envy. “The rest of you. We have to act quickly if we wish to maintain the element of surprise. Prepare to shut these generators down. Krawall and Krach will set explosives rigged to blow should someone make it past us and attempt to restart them. The rest of you, cover the entrance and the tunnel.”
His men set to work in the dim light that still leaked in from down the corridor to the next chamber. As Klain watched them, he found his cheeks were starting to burn from grinning so much. And, as he stood there, covering the entrance to the generator room, he could feel a similar burn beginning to course through his bones. He had felt it before during other campaigns. Campaigns in which they had not only triumphed but had decimated. Nothing could touch them. And just as then, he and his men would sweep through like the Biblical east wind, destroying all and sparing nothing. They were untouchable. Invincible. He could feel it.
Illustrating a rapidity that pleased the general, Krawall reported that all was in readiness.
Nodding in acknowledgement, Klain motioned to the rest of the team to form up. “Here’s where it gets interesting, gentlemen,” he said. “Beyond that door, we have no idea what awaits us. We have no blueprints. No floor plans. We have but sketchy estimates as to the size and strength of our enemy. Though we have surprise on our side, our foes are extremely quick to adapt. Simply put, the strategic advantage does not lie with us. But we will nevertheless teach these Deserters something they have not yet learned.”
With a sharp nod, Klain signaled to Krach.
Krach acknowledged, deftly throwing the switches to shut down the massive, whirring, pulsing machines.
The Wraiths waited and watched collectively as the generators finally whined to a grinding halt.
Lights in the chambers beyond slowly flickered and died, plunging the world into an oily blackness as an eerie silence seeped into the air.
Twenty-four ruby embers blazed with ravenous bloodlust in the dark as Klain’s voice permeated the void. “Even Shadows,” he growled, “should be afraid of the dark.”
***