Courage Plumb

Moment later, Q7 was still looking skyward when Q1 emerged from the darkness. His supervisor said, “Make ready for early departure. We leave for Village #94 now rather than in the morning. Everyone needs to be ready in fifteen minutes. Do you understand?”

  “We leave for the village in fifteen minutes,” said Q7. Upon hearing the confirmation, Q1 strode back into darkness of night. Q7 looked to the nighttime sky one last time. Lanterns flashed to yellow glows throughout the encampment, slowly interrupting the darkness. The Crimson Guard readied for the forced relocation of another village in their deliberate conquest of Centage.

 

  Gryph nudged Talon, “Time to wake up Sunsculptor.”

  Talon snapped to attention. He spent the night in restless sleep. Fearful that he might oversleep, he woke every half-hour to check the time. Nearby, Daks snored deeply, obviously not feeling the same angst as his younger friend.

  “Is it that time?” asked Talon rhetorically.

  “If we want to arrive at their encampment well before dawn, then we need to leave now. Once the sun begins to rise, so will the guards. As I understand, your plan revolves around surprising the Crimson Guard at their most vulnerable time – two hours before sunrise. To answer your question, Talon, it is that time.”

  Talon stood and nodded in agreement. He walked over to Daks and nudged his friend, “Let’s go.” Daks rolled over and attempted to sleep longer. An impatient, and still groggy, Talon said, much louder this time, “Get up. Time to move.”

  The lanky, red-haired boy sprung to his feet in a crouched position. His head swiveled in an exaggerated fashion. With fist clinched, he held his hands in front of face. Phrases spilled form his mouth: “Let’s go, Talon. I’m ready. They can’t hurt me. Where is everybody else? What’s taking so long? Time is wasting. Let’s get moving.”

  “Oh, Daks, quit it,” muttered Talon.

  “I just wanted to ready,” rambled Daks. “Are you ready? It’s now or never.”

  “Stop,” demanded Talon. “I am not in the mood for your silliness.”

  “Before I walk into my demise,” said Daks, “I plan to laugh. How else am I going to go along with this cuckoo plan?”

  Even Talon snickered at Daks’ assessment of their situation. “I guess you’re right,” said a grinning Talon. “We might as well enjoy the day. This plan either works and we witness a phenomenal event or it fails miserably and … well, it ends poorly.”

  “So true,” said Daks. “I don’t think a laugh this morning makes any difference on the outcome.”

  “Nor do I,” agreed Talon. “Come on, let’s find the others and finally test this concoction.”

 

  Q7 grabbed his bag and hastily walked toward the edge of the encampment. He began to direct the CGs in forming the Protectorate’s primary marching formation – three columns. Following Crimson Guard protocol, two sections of the company marched upon the village while one section remained with the camp. This prevented a rogue attack on an unguarded encampment during their relocation marches. Further, the one section at the encampment provided re-enforcements should the village counter with any resistance. In Q7’s long tenure with the Crimson Guard, re-enforcements were needed only once – a strange encounter with Village #59 eight years ago. Thus, the protection of the camp seemed more a formality than actual need, but the Protectorate follow their protocols vigilantly.

  Q7’s organization of the guards came to halt. He heard one the three sub-commanders yell, “Three sections march, torch everything.” SC1’s deep voice reverberated throughout the bivouac. The Crimson Guards forming ranks ran to their respective gear. The nearly organized columns quickly dissipated due to the newest order: burn everything not carried by the guards.

  Q7 groaned inwardly at the newest command. This is ridiculous, he thought. I wonder how many of the other guards agree with me, but they are just too frightened of retribution to do anything but follow directions. Once before, Commander Lupier gave this same order: “Three sections march, torch everything.” It resulted in two weeks of foraging for food and sleeping without shelter. Of course, the high-level supervisors never endured such hardships.

  The CGs around Q7 began grabbing the supplies and piling them. Anything that was to remain in the encampment needed to be collected into one vast pile. Within minutes, the scurrying guards grabbed and piled almost every item in their bivouac: food, tents, lanterns, sleeping pallets, and personal memorabilia. Essentially, the guards piled every item not immediately helpful in harming another person. All weapons, however, the guards carried with them.

  “Three sections prepare to march,” bellowed SC1. The sub-commander’s directive meant “stop stacking supplies, form marching columns with all three (not just two) sections.” The company of Crimson Guards immediately complied. With robotic efficiency, the nearly three-hundred guards scurried to their places.

  The guards moved in to position for departure. The lines quickly took shape and the company waited for their instruction: March upon the village.

  Commander Lupier climbed atop the pile of jetsam and addressed these guards. As his custom, the commander often provided a few words of encouragement for the entire company before its final surge into a village.

  “Sheath your weapons.” His voice bellowed through the encampment. All guards complied. The clearing flashed into darkness as three-hundred light sources dimmed. The only light now provided came from their many torches carried by the guards – a common practice when marching at night.

  “Extinguish and dunk your torches.” Q7, who carried a torched, followed the atypical instruction. The Crimson Guard always marched with torches at night – at least until this night. Nevertheless,Q7 and the other torchbearers dunked their torches in their respective water pouches. Dunking the torch consumed any embers that might remain after simply extinguishing the flare, and it also ensured absolute darkness. Without eliminating the flames, flickers of light remained. The timing of this decision, however, was odd. Q7 knew guards seldom dunked their torches because the torch needed to completely dry before being re-ignited. Given the current directive to march through the darkness,Q7 thought it prudent to have an accessible light source other than glowing weapons. The squad leader focused on an object in the distance to keep his countenance from revealing his astonishment at the unusual directive. Without the glow of their weapons or the light of the torches, darkness overtook the company. Only Lupier and a few of his closet cronies still held torches. With only a few light sources, the guards murmured anxiously. They feared the darkness.

  “Who is afraid of moonjackals?” shouted the commander. The murmuring ceased. Q7, like every other member of the Protectorate, often heard tales of moonjackals. These creatures were said to prowl the forest only during the night. They were considered bloodthirsty creatures that disemboweled for pleasure. Every guard heard tales of those who strayed into the forest alone, and, then, the moonjackals shredded the wayward individual. Q7 longed believed these moonjackals were more myth than reality. To begin, no one ever saw the creature, and accordingly, no one knew its appearance. Some reported seeming the beasts dart here or there, but the descriptions were limited to “maybe similar to jackal.” Hence, the creatures received their name. Q7 silently questioned how the animal could escape detection. The unknown appearance, however, shrouded the animal in even more mystique. The low-level squad leader also noticed the supervisors only mentioned the creatures when they wanted seize control of the situation – just as happened this time. Further, these tales essentially eliminated any thoughts of desertion. To leave the group meant becoming susceptible to the moonjackals, while staying with the Crimson Guard offered the safety from these invisible predators. Thus, Q7 noted, fear fueled these tales, which then resulted in the Protectorate maintaining better control over its guards. Without outside verification, he concluded the creatures were fictitious, but his body still tensed at the very mention of “moonjackals.”

>   Lupier voice again chided the guards as he bellowed into the predawn darkness, “Who is afraid of moonjackals?” The guards murmured; they assumed the commander wanted them to respond with a courageous scream, but some fears are too entrenched to taunt its existence.

  The guards, even the supervisors, grew increasing uneasy in the darkness. Without the torches or glowing blades, darkness enveloped the guards.

  After a few tense moments, Lupier shouted, “Unsheathe your weapons.”

  In great relief, the guards slid their glowing blades from their respective scabbards. A soft hue re-emerged over the group as the glowing weapons illuminated the nighttime. The anxious guards calmed as light, once again, pierced the blackness.

  “Lead the way toward the village, Qs,” bellowed SC1. The Squad Leaders moved to the front of the columns in reverse tier level. Q7, as the one the lowest-tiered squad leaders, led the first, and most insignificant, column.

  Q7 looked briefly over his shoulder. He saw the three sub-commanders and Lupier toss their torches into the supply pile. Flames quickly spread, engulfing the company’s supplies. The bonfire burned bright as the company marched toward their next destination.

  Q5, who marched next to Q7, asked the much older man, “Why did they do that?”

  Q7 looked upon the baby-faced supervisor who looked no more than twenty years old and answered with an authoritative intonation, “When marching with three sections, the supplies cannot be guarded. If left unattended, the enemies of the Protectorate might take and benefit from the supplies.”

  Q5 looked sideways toward his much older companion. He knew Q7’s answered reeked of Protectorate lingo. Q5 twisted his lips as he asked, “Really?”

  Q7 knew the other squad leader wanted the “unofficial” answer.

  More casually, Q7 whispered to his companion, “It also provides an incentive for the company to reclaim the lost supplies at the next village.”

  Q5 nodded. Now he understood. By burning their supplies, Commander Lupier wanted the guards to raze the next village in an effort to re-supply themselves. The Commander, however, initiated this course of action under the guise of needing three sections of guards rather than just two. Q5 thought, the commander does know how to motivate people.

 

  Daks trailed Talon into the kitchen, where Gryph and Rose were already readying for their early-morning departure.

  The sun-sculptor retrieved three vials from his bag. They contained the three elements needed to dissipate a glowing product: ice from atop Five-Point Peak, sand from the mouth of Dry River, and blood from the heart of Sporadic Island’s red kite. Ready to mix the substances into the desired concoction, Talon walked toward the kitchen to make final arrangements. Daks followed close behind him. Talon took out a hand-sized bottle and handed it to Daks. He unloosed each of the vials, and one at a time, he poured them into the bottle. Nothing extraordinary happened. Talon secured the lid to the bottle and swished the mixture together. Once again, nothing extraordinary happened.

  “Are we going to check if it works?” asked Daks. “That is what we planned last night. Gryph found a glowing spoon in the house. See if you can make it dissipate. Did you really make a spoon? Oh, that seems pointless.” Daks paused, “Get it, pointless. A spoon has not points because it’s round.”

  “I get it,” snickered Talon.

  Talon held the bottle to his eyes and looked at its contents. He quietly wondered whether this substance would really work. While he believed in its power, he recognized the lingering disbelief within him. The others gathered around, eager to the see the results. Gryph peered over Talon’s shoulder. Rose squeezed beside her brother to see the effects. Daks stopped laughing at his joke and looked intently upon the demonstration.

  “Here goes,” said Talon. His hand squeezed around the metal lid and began to twist.

  Boom.

  The outer door to Crag’s house burst open. Violet, with sweat dripping from her forehead, dashed into the room. “They are on the move,” she said. “Right now, the Crimson Guard is marching toward our village.”

  “But it’s the middle of the night,” retorted Gryph. “They never march at night.”

  “Well, they are tonight,” demanded Violet. “Three columns are marching down the road that leads to our village. They will enter the village in twenty minutes, maybe less.”

  “Our whole plan,” began Talon, “revolves around encountering them before they reach our village. We need the concealment of darkness. Once they reach our village, lights will reveal us. Also, we need to surround them, which can only happen at their encampment. How are we going to surround them now? The entire plan rests upon us surrounding them and surprising them while most are sleeping.”

  “Talon,” said Gryph authoritatively, “the best of our plans are as fickle as a butterfly’s `.”

  Talon said nothing. He knew not what to say. Talon did nothing. He knew not what to do.

  Rose, however, grabbed the bottle from the kitchen table and fully loosed the lid. She took a swig from the reddish, non-descript liquid and bolted toward the door. She stopped at the threshold and announced, “My destiny waits. Who runs with me to make right the wrongs?” Rose did not wait for a response; she bolted onto the dimly lit village path.

  Talon grabbed the bottle and gulped a drink. Violet and Daks each followed his example. All three ran from the house, trying to follow Rose’s distant shadow. Once the others left, Gryph lifted the bottle and drank the last remnants of its contents. He grabbed the three empty vials and placed them inside the glass bottle. Gryph walked toward the dying fire and threw the glass into the flickering embers. The bottle sizzled, and then whoosh – white smoke billowed from fire. Letting the smoke clear, Gryph examined the once-again dying fire. Nothing of the bottle or vials remained, save the bottle metal lid. “The flight of a butterfly,” spoke the mapmaker in a barely audible voice. Gryph trotted toward the door; he hoped to catch up with the others. As he cleared the building’s threshold, he heard the latch behind him. Crag, he thought, does not intend for us to return.

  Gryph stepped on the village path and noticed the unusual nighttime fog descending upon the village. He looked into the hazy village and saw Talon disappear into the mist. The sun-sculptor ran toward the Protectorate’s recently constructed road. Gryph took one last look over his shoulder at the cobbler’s residence and followed his youthful companions.

 

  Q7 marched at the front of company’s third column. The Crimson Guard utilized long, thin lines of soldiers when marching in at-risk situations. These long columns shielded those in the back with the “expendables” placed at the front. The vertical formation necessitated attacks from the front, which suited the Protectorate’s plan. If any enemy attacked from the side, the long line of guards could easily overwhelm them. Any attack from the rear required unachievable stealth since the attacker must remain hidden while an entire column marched by or sneak upon the columns from the rear. Either way provided little chance of success. Additionally, the most formidable guards were placed in the rear of columns in effort to protect the commander and sub-commanders – who also marched toward the end of the lines. Due to this arrangement, guards quietly spoke of column leaders as “enemy fodder.” If attacked from the front, only low-ranked and low-skilled guards were sacrificed, and they were easily replaced. Further, guards noted for their “disservice” often received the unwanted promotion to column leader. Q7 served in this “honored” capacity for almost two decades.

  As a veteran of about twelve “relocation marches,” as this foray was called, Q7 never saw a village mounted an actual threat. Typically, however, a few radicals attacked the columns, but these efforts lacked substance. Nevertheless, Q7 marched with utmost attention to his surroundings. While these villagers posed no threat to the company, it only took one well-shot arrow to fell a guard or one silently thrown spear to end his life. Column leaders knew they functioned as shie
lds for others, and without constant vigilance for wayward attackers, the shields might serve their purpose. Accordingly, the shrewd column leaders survived by preventing attacks rather than flushing them out. Most never lived long enough to develop this savvy.

  Q7 looked into the distance and saw a nighttime fog slowly shrouding the dimming lights of Village #94. They were getting close; he eagerly looked forward to their arrival. The tree-lined road offered camouflage to potential attackers; the village conversely provided safety to the guards. The village lights, open space and unobstructed sight lines thwarted guerilla-style attacks.

  “Sabers, release,” shouted the closest Division Leader. The Sub-Division Leaders repeated the command to ensure full compliance. Q7 moved his already unsheathed glowing blade to the front of his body. This command indicated their imminent arrival. The guards presented their sabers as a show of force. The shimmering weapons encouraged compliance to those who saw three hundred unsheathed glowing blades tromping toward their village. With each step, Q7 felt more relief. The hue from the weapons illuminated the road, which made traveling much easier. The safety of the village waited. Additionally, he fretted at the possibility of drawing his sword toward another person. As a Common Guard, Q7 cringed at the training sessions that required the slaughter of animals. The idea of his blade sliding into a living thing’s flesh nauseated the man. His refusal two decades ago to dismember a pig, and accordingly, his refusal to follow a direct order, thwarted his professional career. Some higher-level supervisors still called him by the derisive nickname bestowed upon because of his refusal - - “pig lover.” The name meant to remind Q7 of his shortcoming – abhorrence for spilling the blood of a “worthless” pig. Even after all the years, Q7 still could not intentionally mar another living thing. Whether the cause was fear, cowardice, or something else, he knew not. Consequently, Q7 spent the last two decades successfully relying upon the intimidation of his glowing saber.

  Most of the other guards, however, longed to swing the blades at another person’s throat. They longed for an attacked that might justify their aggression, and thereby, soothe their appetite for blood, destruction, and death. The guards dreamed of their moment to “reveal their superiority” by “making an example” of a villager. The guards knew the first few villagers to display any resistance toward the Protectorate felt the brutal slashes of a glowing blade. These “examples” provided excellent motivational tools. The Crimson Guard blamed the blade’s recipient for “forcing them to respond,” while the villagers learned a vital lesson – the Protectorate does not tolerate dissent.

  Q7 looked the guards marching around them. He noted their glee. The guards gripped their sabers with giddy anticipation. They longed to swing their blade into a living person. Q7 felt sick, but he marched onward. Q7 longed to sheathe his glowing blade.

 

  Rose stopped running at the village’s edge. She stood on the road, just steps beyond the confines of their hamlet. She let the others gather round her, except for Gryph who they could see running toward them in the distance. The marching columns sounded only minutes away; their glowing sabers dazzled in the pre-dawn darkness. Daks looked at nothing but the approaching blades. The weapons flickered in the distance. He blurted, “Is this really going to work? I am not even sure if this concoction does anything, other than make my stomach hurt.”

  Talon addressed the small huddled band, “Ignore our plans. I am running toward the guards, and whatever happens, that’s what happens.” The other nodded in agreement, except for Daks; his eyes were still fixated upon the approaching guards. The shimmering lights glowed through the underbrush. The guards continued to move closer.

  “Just a moment,” said Daks, “How about Talon leads and the rest of us follow behind him – well out of sight? If this concoction does not work, at least then, we can disappear into the brush along the roadside before the guards see you. Why should all of us take this unnecessary risk?”

  “Do as you wish,” said Talon. “As for me, I run.”

  Gryph finally reach the huddled group. He breathed heavily and struggled to talk between his deep breaths, “What’s the plan?”

  “We run,” answered Talon. The rhythmic march of the Crimson Guard grew louder. The marching feet banged upon the ground. The glow of their weapons reflected off the trees that grew along the road. Once the Crimson Guards followed the final bend in the road, they would reach the village entrance.

  “Then we run,” confirmed Gryph. The balding, middle-aged man with a pudgy middle looked back toward their village, but the unusual nighttime fog fully obscured it. A thick mist hovered over the village, making it impossible to see. Gryph marveled at the site. The villagers referred to it as “moon mist,” which occurred once or twice a year. Standing just beyond its confines, Gryph could see no semblance of the village – only a hazy darkness that blanketed every sign of life. As Gryph looked down the road, the noticed the moon mist abruptly ended. Nothing obscured his ability to see the road’s first bend, which was faintly illuminated by the guard’s glowing weapons.

  Talon nodded. He began a slow jog toward the road’s initial curve. He knew not what to expect. He carried nothing, save the concoction derived via the Book of Epiphany. Rose trotted alongside her brother. She, likewise, carried nothing but the swallowed concoction. Violet jogged next to Rose, and Gryph – still breathing heavily – ran beside Talon but he barely matched their slow pace.

  Violet looked to her side, and then briefly gazed toward the road’s first bend. She knew that once they veered left, they passed the threshold for aborting their efforts. Why, she said, am I running toward the Crimson Guard, the Protectorate’s warriors? She looked toward the underbrush along the road. I could disappear into there. The guards would never see me, and they would never know I was even here. She looked intently upon the roadside haven. She thought of her parents. She doubted Gryph and, for a moment, abhorred Rose. She knew not why. The moment of decision arrived. She could turn and hide – and live.

 

  Q7 marched onward. He looked ahead and saw the final bend in the road. The village provided a haven, at least for him. He longed to be safe. The guards marching next to him guffawed beneath their breath. They anticipated resistance and chortled uncontrollable at possibility of death. They hoped the villager might try an attack – any attack. They longed for violence, which to their minds, came far too infrequently.

  26 courage plumb