The Old City

0.63: One Resilient Bastard

Seneca couldn't feel his left side. The bombardment had come from above. How had it come from above?

He looked up and saw figures flying there, thousands of meters in the air, dropping cannisters of explosives all over the battlefield. Indiscriminate. Evil.

"Form up!" he shouted at his remaining men, several of whom were in shock. He slapped the nearest one to wake him from his catatonia and screamed even louder. "Up, soldier! Get every livin' man here immediately. We need to make a concentrated shield, or we'll all die from those explosions."

The man looked at him with dead eyes but seemed to hear the message. He meandered over to another and mimed for him to go to Seneca, then to a third man, and a fourth. In a few moments, blessedly absent from the bombings, nearly half the battalion had mobilized under him.

Seneca took out his brush and painted a great seal, about five meters in diameter, and had all of them stand within it. He gave them the spell to chant, and they began, helping to fuel the great shield. Explosions still rang out across the battlefield.

They grew closer and more thunderous until they were right overhead. Seneca looked up in horror as one of the cannisters fell directly on top of them. Would the shield hold?

When the bomb made contact with the shield, it shattered, spewing a gaseous compound everywhere and catching light. The crack in the air popped Seneca's eardrum, but he kept his hands on the seal, and it held. Thank the gods, it held.

As the explosions slowed down, Seneca had a chance to breathe. He didn't realize another officer was trying to talk to him until he was tapped on the shoulder.

Oh yes, my hearing's out.

He couldn't understand what the soldier was saying, but looked when he pointed to his stomach. There was a gaping hole in Seneca's side, the size of a fist. It must have happened hours ago, but he couldn't remember. He knelt, suddenly feeling the loss of blood and tissue. His head swelled, but he fought to retain consciousness.

"Hold the line," he told the soldier while gripping his side. "We will not move from this spot, and I will not release the shield until the other team has destroyed their camp and dealt with those bombers."

The man looked at him like he was mad, fear and respect mingling in his dumbfounded stare. His eventual report would state his shock that Seneca had survived with that wound, his disbelief that Seneca could move at all, let alone rally their troops and cast spells. The report would include the following excerpt:

"The sergeant shouldn't have lived, but that was the sergeant for you. He did things no one else could. That's why we trusted him so much. That's why we fought so hard for him. And why, when he needed us, we shook out of our stupor and fought, desperately, to keep him alive. He was one tough son of a bitch, and we all wanted to be a little more like him."

The Huron House

The voices were hushed, but Alaria had learned to hear through walls years ago.

"She was definitely involved," whispered Morgath, one of the attending girls.

The gossip was nothing new. Sometimes it was annoying, but it served a purpose. Alaria loved hearing what these girls had to say. It told her everything she needed to know about what information had reached which corners of the Path, and how people were interpreting it.

"That crazy guy came after her and a client," Morgath continued. "I'm sure it was a scorned client."

"Mistress Alaria wouldn't sleep with a werewolf! She only serves humans." Andys had always been her favorite. Even if she was misguided, Alaria appreciated that the girl defended her.