The Queens Service Pt 01

Chapter 1: Jailbreak

It was dark out, somewhere before midnight, the moon a sliver of pale yellow radiance. Warm, humid air was occasionally interrupted by a pleasant breeze. It was the kind of night where you wanted to be out on the tavern's balcony, savoring the last beer of the day.

A man was laying on the crest of a hill, barely visible amid maple trees and undergrowth. He was looking through a spyglass toward a structure in the valley below. As he watched, another man slid into place beside him and the first man spoke without turning. "Sergeant Thatch. Report."

"They have sentries posted at both entrances," Thatch said, pointing toward the ruin. "And on the roof. All green troops, from what I can tell. I've seen prisoners coming and going on the far side. They're always accompanied by guards, typically two of them."

"Just two?"

Thatch nodded. "The men are ensorcelled, sir. I tried talking to one, but he just looked at me all fish-eyed. Gave me the chills, and I don't mind saying it." Thatch scratched his head, wrinkled his nose, and grunted. "Lieutenant Pike, if I may..."

The lieutenant collapsed his spyglass, meeting Thatch's gaze. "Continue."

"I have concerns that a successful exfiltration will be complicated by our targets' mental state."

Pike put a hand to his face and rubbed his hands for a moment. "I know the Scout Corps enjoys the technical language for reports, Thatch, but four syllable words are above my pay grade. In simpler terms?"

"Even if we can reach them, those men are broken. I don't know what they've done to them, some kind of witchcraft or torture, but what if we can't snap them out of it? They might not be fit to travel."

The lieutenant nodded. "I've been chewing on that one myself. I wish we knew what they had them doing in the forest. But I can help them travel, if not much more. At least long enough to retreat to our forward camp. I'm afraid it's need to know," he said, sensing the scout's question. "But leave that part to me. I just need you to find a route in and out. Agreed?"

Thatch nodded. "I'm ready, sir. Just say the word."

"Good man."

Pike gestured to someone out of sight: one finger up; a fist; a circle with his fingers. There was rustling from the undergrowth, then a lean man in black and gold uniform came stumbling up toward the pair. "Someone said you asked for me, lieutenant?"

"I did. What's your name, son?"

"Jonathan Becker, Adept of the Imperial Demolition corps." The man saluted sharply, nearly overbalancing as he did so. He stumbled a few feet down the ridge, caught himself on an outstretched branch that half-snapped under his weight. In the warm quiet of the night, it sounded like a gunshot.

"Adept Becker..." Lieutenant Pike fought to keep his tone even. "This is a covert operation. We are eight leagues into enemy territory, conducting a highly volatile rescue operation. Without the support of my superiors, who have deemed the retrieval of lowborn prisoners a non-priority to the war effort."

Becker paled.

"I appreciate that you have volunteered for the mission," Pike continued, "And I understand that it's outside the scope of your usual duties. But I would also appreciate it if you could maintain noise discipline for the duration. Do we understand one another?"

"Uh, of course, sir." Becker swallowed hard. "Apologies."

"Excellent. Where are we with the charges?"

"All ready to go, lieutenant. Tell me where to place them. I have a simultaneous remote-trigger prepared - as soon as we're out, the whole place is ruins." He frowned, glancing down at the tumbled-down fort. "Well, more of a ruin than it currently is."

"And you have these charges stored..." Pike asked, gesturing vaguely with one hand.

"Did they not tell you?" Becker asked

"Let's assume that they did not."

"I'm a mage, not just an engineer." He patted the bulging satchel slung over his shoulder. "I have a supply of explosive runes, all linked to a spell of my own devising." Becker grinned, a hint of mania creeping into his expression. "They just need to be placed against key supports. Then, the minute we're out?" He wiggled his fingers. "Boom."

Pike eyed the bag leerily. "You're sure they'll be until then?"

"Perfectly safe, sir."

"And you've gone over the plan with Sergeant Thatch?"

Becker nodded. "Four times already, sir. He was... concerningly insistent."

"We're out here on our own, son," Pike said, his voice hard. "It's the details that'll keep us alive. Go over it one more time." He pulled out a silver pocket watch, squinting at it in the moonlight. "Study up, get some rest if you can. We move in two hours."

* * * * *

Three figures descended the wooded slope, shadows beneath a midnight sky. Drifting clouds obscured the moon. Lieutenant Pike took up his position within a patch of vegetation just off the road, watching with grim satisfaction as Thatch ranged ahead. The man moved like a phantom through the tall glass before flattening himself against the moss-covered stone wall and slinking toward their targets.

Timing was everything here, but the pair had coordinated this maneuver countless times before. Pike drew the hunting bow from his shoulder, nocked an arrow, and aimed. The sentry was down before they could cry out, vanishing in a cloud of sulfurous mist. Their companion turned, mouth open to raise the alarm, just as Thatch's blade drew across their throat.

Guiding Becker behind him, Lieutenant Pike moved cautiously through the field to join their scout.

"Two down, sir," Thatch murmured. He was eyeing the small pile of ash each demon had left as though he expected it to move.

Pike nodded. "We can expect a few patrols inside - nothing extravagant." He sniffed, nose wrinkling at the smell. Not as bitter as he was used to, but still unpleasant.

It was always disconcerting, the way they died.

If they were dying at all,

Pike thought to himself. There was still so little they knew about their enemy, each class of demon a new terror to learn. Warbringers were the most familiar - great jagged brutes that comprised the bulk of demonic infantry, hellishly strong and irritatingly slow to die. Bladewings rose in dark clouds over the battlefield, harrying the empire's archers and artillery. Each breed had their own particular uses, as Pike had learned through blood and experience. Each was dangerous in their own way.

"Sir?"

The lieutenant looked up, blinking. They were waiting for orders. "You know what to do, Thatch - eliminate any non-humans you see, quick and quiet." He turned to the demolitionist. "Becker, follow behind him at a distance. Look for weak points, wherever the blast can do the most damage. Look at me," Thatch said, forcing the man to meet his eye. "You are

not

to place explosives yet. Assessment only. While you're doing that, I'll locate the dungeons and signal you. We'll meet at the stairs down and go together. Understood?"

Both nodded.

"One more thing - contrary to earlier intelligence, the monsters we're facing seem to be succubi. Explains why the men Thatch saw were addle-brained. I'm told they're not much in a fight, but you don't want to let them talk. Quick and quiet, before they know you're there." He wanted to say more. That they were ready for this. That everything was going to be fine. The words lay in his throat like a chunk of iron, too heavy to dislodge. "You have your orders," Pike said at last. "Move out."

* * * * *

It was all going according to plan. Pike located where the soldiers were being held, an ominous set of spiral stairs lined with guttering torches. Thatch had taken down a half-dozen sentries, vanishing each into demonic mist before prowling after his next target. Even Becker had managed not to trip over himself. By the time they reunited in front of the dungeon stairs, the mage had a crude map marked with several candidates for demolition.

Thatch detailed his sweep of the first-floor corridors. There was a barracks of some kind to the south that was best left avoided and a reinforced door that the scout had deemed of interest, but too risky to investigate. He'd also noticed a room containing a variety of glassware; the sergeant had made a cursory sweep for hostiles and found none, but the lieutenant's signal had prevented closer inspection.

Despite the danger they were still in, Pike found himself smiling. "When you've got doubts..." he whispered.

Thatch's mouth drew into a wolfish grin. "Call in the scouts."

Pike led the way down. He eyed the stonework carefully, wanting to avoid any moss or detritus that could make them slip, but the path down appeared to be well-worn and mostly clean. Part of him worried that it was too easy. That they might have been lured into a trap. Soldier's instincts had saved his neck more than once, but there was no sign of an ambush. Maybe it was just nerves.

Gritting his teeth, Lieutenant Pike slowed their pace as the stairs spilled out into a dimly-lit corridor. The walls were lined with iron cells. Thatch pulled a torch from its brackets, raising the guttering light to the edge and revealing human shapes within.

"This is it, sir," Thatch said. He moved down the corridor, examining the sleeping contents of the prison before finally coming to a black iron door at the end. Thatch looked up, his eyes meeting Pike's. "Sir... you're going to want to see this."

There was one man inside the cell, his beard and hair a bedraggled mess, but despite the squalor around them he appeared surprisingly clean. Pike stared, trying to see past the exterior. It took a few moments. He turned to Thatch, eyes wide. "Is that...?"

"Brooks? I think so, sir."

"I'll be damned," the lieutenant whispered. "The old marksman himself. Damn. I had thought..."

"Don't blame yourself," Thatch said, laying a hand on Pike's shoulder. "When he went missing after the ambush at Sirosene, we all thought he was done."

"We should have looked for him anyway," Pike muttered. "But we can fix it now. Let's get these doors open."

They continued examining the cells, and within several minutes they had picked or smashed the locks on the cell doors. Thirty-odd men were now milling aimless in the corridor, their eyes glassy, barely responding to their own names. Lieutenant Pike approached each man in turn, drawing a flash from his coat and forcing a drop down each prisoner's throat. Within minutes the group was blinking as though walking into sunlight, life flooding back into their faces. The men were shaken, but each nodded in understanding as the lieutenant detailed their plan of escape.

There was just one problem - Brooks' cell wouldn't open. The iron was far too thick to break through, the lock deviously difficult. Worse, the old soldier wouldn't rouse despite their words. He lay on his cot, slowly blinking, looking between Pike and the ceiling as though both were of equal interest.

Thatch was pacing, glancing occasionally between the stairs and the lieutenant. "Sir, I want Brooks free as much as any of us. Gods know he doesn't deserve this. But we're running out of time."

Pike shook his head, glancing at his pocket watch. "I'm not leaving without him. And there's over an hour before first light. Think about it, Thatch. There must be a key somewhere - this place isn't that large. Here's what we're going to do..."

It was a simple enough plan. Thatch would investigate the reinforced door he'd found earlier, which Pike had reasoned was the most likely repository for a key. With a little luck, he'd also pick up some maps or documentation that would aid in the war effort. Becker would use his map to place the explosives, leaving enough space that they'd have a clear shot to the exit. Pike himself would keep their newly-freed companions steady, girding them for the journey and gathering what intel they could offer. If all went well, they would simply free Brooks and race for the way out, leaving demons and rubble in their wake.

* * * * *

Chapter 2: Organic Chemistry

Jonathan Becker, Imperial Adept, was dolloping alchemical paste onto the back of a small piece of copper scrawled with arcane sigils. He pressed it against the wall, watching the stuff bubble as the old stone was fused to the runic bomb. Becker hummed softly, tucking the jar of paste away before sauntering toward the next location on his map.

He was having a wonderful time. When Becker had joined the Corps, he'd expected to pioneer new techniques in arcane and alchemical warfare. Too late, he learned that most of his time would be spent mixing blackpowder and adding it to a variety of mundane explosives. Fieldwork had consisted entirely of sieges: tedious, drawn-out affairs that dragged on for weeks or even months. All of the danger, none of the excitement.

When Pike had asked for volunteers on a clandestine mission, Becker had leapt at the chance. Exploration! Fieldwork! Behind enemy lines! True, this particular op had been more stressful than he'd anticipated, but Becker was confident the worst was past. Having seen Sergeant Thatch at work... well, he was glad the man was on their side.

And speaking of Thatch... Becker pasted his last explosive to a load-bearing column before peering around a corner, watching the scout sergeant's efforts. The man was still examining the door, ear pressed to the wood as he fiddled with the lock. Becker looked around at the empty halls and remembered the report Thatch had given earlier. Something about a room full of glass? Pike had instructed the scout to pick up anything relevant to their mission; surely that directive applied to both of them. The mage rummaged through his empty satchel as he crossed the hall, skittered past a line of broken statuary, and disappeared through the half-open door.

It took the man's eyes a few seconds to adjust to the light cast by a dozen-odd chemical lamps, hung at irregular intervals throughout the room. The halogen glow refracted from a dizzying array of alchemy equipment, bathing the room yellow-green light. Some tables were clean and organized, various glasswares stored in neatly labeled containers. Others were strewn with parchment and reagents, hastily scribbled notes and the charred remnants of experiments gone wrong.

Becker dove into the laboratory with gusto. He wove between a maze of tables, benches, and stools, examining vials filled with strange, bubbling substances and stuffing any writing he could find into his satchel. He was tempted to skim through whatever tomes were strewn about, but he didn't have time for thoroughness. Better to grab what he could and let the Corps sort it out on his return. Maybe there would be nothing, but then again, he might get lucky. Becker's thoughts raced, imagining the looks on his superior's faces when he returned with details of the demons' latest technological advances.

The mage's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. His first thought was that Thatch had come to drag him back to the dungeons, but after a few seconds' consideration, Becker realized that Thatch never made noise when he moved; the man was almost supernaturally silent. But if it wasn't him...

Becker ducked behind a desk as the footsteps drew closer. They were coming from the other side of the room. He mentally cursed Thatch, wishing the scout had mentioned that the room had two entrances in his report. Would the other man hear him and come to his rescue? Despite his talent with explosives, Becker wasn't much of a combatant himself. He began mentally reviewing his spells that were combat-ready, grimacing at the shortness of the list.

Maybe they'll just leave,

Becker thought. The sound had stopped, so at least they weren't coming closer. Then there was the sound of rustling parchment and the clinking of glass, followed by the distinct

pop-pop

and sizzle of a burner igniting. Whoever was out there was getting ready to work, which meant they wouldn't be leaving anytime soon.

He had to move. Becker dropped to all fours, strapping his satchel tight against his body as he began to weave a slow, laborious path through the various tables toward the exit. He held his breath every time he passed into view, waiting for the sounds of discovery. After three minutes he was halfway to his goal. Becker paused, wiping sweat from his brow that was more due to anxiety than exertion. As he lowered his sleeve, it brushed against something on the table above him. Time seemed to slow as the vial wobbled, tipped out of its holder, and began to fall. It was too fast. Too close. Becker fumbled for it, clutching with nervous fingers. For a moment he had it, but the vial bounced off his palm, eluding his grasp and shattering on the floor. Amid the muffled stillness of the workshop, it sounded like a glass chandelier crashing into the governor's foyer.

Becker winced.

"Hello?" came a voice, distinctly feminine. "Is someone there?" A pause. "Calli, if you're skulking around my lab again, I swear..."

Not like this,

Becker thought to himself. He was frozen in fear, back pressed against the table, praying for Thatch to come and knowing the man was too far to have heard. Gods, there was a demon in the room with him. They were going to find him. And probably eat him, if you believed the stories. To make matters worse, the shattered vial had contained some kind of strange pink liquid. The substance was bubbling tepidly on the floor, a vaporous haze rising from the puddle. Too close to avoid it and afraid to move, Becker could feel the stuff snaking its way up his nostrils. He prayed it wasn't toxic. What a way to die that would be: inhaling poison in a demon's lab.

Thankfully, whatever had spilled appeared benign. Becker sniffed, trying to place the scent. Then he did it again. It was strangely aromatic. Earthy. Fragrant. As he continued to breathe in, Becker could detect individual flavors to the scent. No, that was wrong. It was more like a memory. He could smell the warmth of a day in late summer, wind rustling the branches, fresh wheat and apples on the wind. It was the smell of a woman's hair when you embrace her for the first time, knowing that you'll kiss soon and that there's no need to rush.

Becker was so focused on breathing in the strange scent that didn't realize how loud his questing inhalations had grown, nor did he recognize the sound of approaching footsteps. So it came as a surprise when there was a woman looking down at him, several meters away. Her silky white hair was tucked into a messy bun, a few strands falling to the side. Half-rimmed glasses framed her silver-blue eyes. Becker's eyes continued downward. He couldn't help notice how the woman's lab coat hung open, exposing a bodice that left little to the imagination. The plump swell of her breasts, the supple curve of her hips... His thoughts had grown muddy, congealing like a bucket of paint left to sit for too long.

Once Becker had finished his inspection it took a few more seconds for him to process the full picture, including her shapely ram's horns and the thin line of a tail hovering by her ankles. Then it all slammed home at once and the man scrambled backwards until his back was against a table, half-falling over himself, before pushing shakily to his feet. He looked around the room, noting with relief that his satchel was still with him. He was fifteen meters from the door. He eyed the distance, wondering if he should make a run for it.

"However did you get in here?" the demon asked, adjusting her glasses as she examined Becket. Her brows rose as she noticed the shattered bottle and its contents. "And you've been into my potions, too. Naughty boy..."

"Stay back!" Becker said, trying to project a confidence he didn't feel. "This whole place is mined. One step closer, and I'll..." The man frowned, unable to think of the word. It was right there, on the top of his tongue. His tongue... He ran it around his gums, trying to remember why this was important.