Chapter Eight: Into the Deep

Chapter Eight: Into the Deep

Chapter Eight: Into the Deep

Tom was awake well before dawn. In the early morning hours Garth had roused all the soldiers from their tents. Grumbling in the long suffering manner that only soldiers can manage, their tents and equipment were packed in short order. Now they mostly lounged about, waiting for the less experienced members of the unit to get their things together.

Jane Tolsa, the village mayor, stood in quiet discussion with Elensfield and the leader of the Guards attached to her village. Garth prowled about the square, barking orders at anyone moving too slowly for his liking. The Idealists from the Academy and the Schools and the first timers all looked resentful at being scolded by a common soldier, even if he was an officer, but no one dared talk back to him. Even the Guards stepped lightly around him.

These blissful hours were the coolest of the day, but Tom saw more than one face beaded with sweat as they hurried about the village square. Nerves. The entire expedition waited, strained, like a neck waiting for a knife.

All too soon Elensfield finished his discussion with Tolsa and called the unit to order. Garth echoed him even more loudly and firmly. The unit swarmed about like bees, seemingly haphazard, following an interminable dance, but soon enough they stood in neat ranks, spears resting on one shoulder and shields at hand.

Elensfield stood by centre-column to address them. For the next six weeks we will range the Deep Green. For some, this will be your first time. You will be scared. You will not run and you will not hide. Trust in your brothers and sisters. Our purpose is not to simply wander about until we are attacked. These are called Reapings for a reason. We will hunt. And we will not turn back for deaths or injuries. Elensfield swept his gaze slowly up and down the column. So, keep your boots on step and your eyes on patrol.

"Officer Woolgreen, you have the march," Elensfield called. He and Clairvine moved to the front of the column, while Gracefield and Kawlstone took the rear. Markhart moved to the middle of the column, settling in beside Garth's second in command, a tall, hard looking woman called Marefield.

Garth stood to the side of the column. His eyes ranged over them, performing one final inspection. He gave himself a curt nod.

"Unit twenty seven, forward march!" he yelled.

The column marched north out of the village square, more or less in unison. Within minutes they had cleared the village centre, that close packed knot of houses forming the heart from which villagers bled into the fields each day.

They marched past those same fields, the fallowgrass standing in neatly kept rows, thick and green and swaying in the slight breeze. It had a strange, incongruously sweet smell - at odds with the pall of fearful anticipation hanging over the unit.

The soldiers looked grim, like a man told to shovel shit and, knowing there was no one else to do it, that it was best to just get it done. The Guards were alert, eyes roaming about endlessly, resplendent in their green armour as the first rays of dawn began to rake them. Tom supposed that having Ideals, with skills specifically geared towards combat - not to mention training all day, every day - would make one a lot more sanguine about walking into a forest full of monsters. Even if every single soldier, student and volunteer died, the five of them would probably be fine.

All the student Idealists had a look about them somewhere in between the soldiers and Guards. Scared with the knowledge of what they were facing, and not yet confident in their skills to protect them. Also bright, knowing that they all had skills that would likely see them through, so long as they kept their wits about them enough to use them. The combination made them look feverish.

The non-Idealist students and volunteers all looked much the same: anxious but expectant. Not quite hopeful, and not quite excited. They warred with themselves. Tom knew he looked the same. They knew that they were the most likely to die in the next six weeks, but they also had been driven here, for one reason or another, because the high likelihood of death was preferable to never manifesting.

In the distance, over green fields tamed and manicured and civilised, the towering tops of trees slowly came closer. They made a great smudge, long as the horizon, taller than the walls of Wayrest, almost gold at their crown with the dawn light, and sheltering shadows beneath their boughs. It seemed every hue of green in the world was pressed into the vista, but it was the ominous dark shades for which the forest was named that drew the eye.

Leaves leeched light from the air, and tyrant trunks tangled the space below, making a prison of the view. One into which they willingly marched. If imprisonment was the death of choice, then the wooden gaol was perfect for Tom. He had but one choice left. Manifest, or die.

The column quickly reached the treeline. Every man or woman bowed their head and braced themselves upon breaching it, as if plunging into an icy wind, and not a sheltered forest.

Tom noted only a marginal difference between the slowly lightening sky outside and the forest within. It was good, really, marching into the Deep this early. It made it feel less like giving up all the light of the world. Not a great deal of it reached the forest floor.

This close to the edge of the forest the trees were smaller, and the undergrowth wild and unchecked. After a few days, as they moved into the older growth, the bushes and shrubs and saplings would be increasingly replaced with gnarled roots and ridges of earth and deadfall.

The column slowly wended its way into the gloom. The pace was leisurely, after their march, but no less exhausting, as they had to hack through stubborn shrubbery and navigate around obstinate trees. Those near the front were rotated regularly to the back of the column. They eagerly took the chance for rest.

Those not occupied with hacking apart greenery or finding a path forwards suitable for a hundred people split their time between glancing fearfully at their surroundings, and listening with wonder to the multitude of birds singing with the rising sun.

Animals and monsters couldnt follow Ideals, but some had abilities similar to skills. Mostly those living and breeding in high mana density environments like the Deep. It was already notoriously difficult to get a boar to accept when it was dead; this boar would probably ignore wounds until it was killed outright. Not an easy task for something that weighed more than four horses, and probably the carriage too. Even worse, the fact it had an ability made it very likely the rest of the sounder would too.

The boar continued gathering red particles in its bristly mane as it exploded across the clearing. Tom tried to steady himself with deep breaths. It looked like it would impact almost directly in the centre of the column, and the men and women there looked ready to run. Only Markhart and Marefield seemed completely steady.

Marefield was shouting something at the nearby soldiers, but between the crash of abused greenery and panicking first timers Tom couldnt hear her. Markhart simply jogged his grip on his hammer slightly and stepped slightly in front of the soldiers. Dense, silvery energy began to coalesce around the head, and a strange sort of whirlwind whipped around him before blowing out to either side. As it passed over the nearby soldiers and students their armour seemed to shine briefly, even in the low light of the forest.

Tom had heard the soldiers discussing the Guards in the unit on the march. Markhart apparently followed Hammer and Armour, not a particularly flashy combination as far as Idealists went, but undeniably effective. The small whirlwind was likely some kind of armour-strengthening skill.

The enormous boar was mere seconds from impact, and Markhart took another step forward and drew his hammer back and over his broad shoulder. Suddenly, a spear of bronze light shot forward and stabbed into the boars shoulder. It skidded, digging massive furrows into the loamy soil as it turned to face its attacker, squealing in rage and pain.

Elensfield stood in front of the soldiers near him as well, on the far left of the column, bronze light drawing into his spear and he cocked it back. As the boar turned to him after his first attack he thrust his spear forward, releasing another lance of metallic energy.

It squealed again, leaving Toms ears ringing as the second attack buried itself in its shoulders again before petering out. Its head was now more or less in front of him, but to attack it would take him out of formation. Not to mention it would likely kill him immediately anyway.

Markhart, being an Idealist, could rely on his enhanced constitution if something went wrong. He charged, swinging his hammer over his shoulder and slamming it into the massive boars rear haunch.

Silvery light flattened outward in a cracked plane from the point of impact, and the boars leg collapsed. Markhart gave a roar of triumph and circled, already charging another strike.

The boar recovered quickly, and began to turn back to Markhart, but was once again distracted by another spear of energy from Elensfield. Tom was impressed by their cohesion, working together seamlessly to keep the giant boar from slamming into their line and throwing the entire column into disarray.

The huge male charged off towards Elenfield, finally deciding that he was the bigger threat. Without its bulk blocking his view, Tom saw the rest of the sounder had caught up, charging in the lead boars wake, and threatened to punch several holes straight through their line. A spike of fear fired along his spine as he realised one was charging straight at him. He had only moments to prepare.

The boar was a juvenile, nowhere near as big as the lead boar, and just starting to come into its thick coat. Little red specks drifted along in its wake. It stood about as high as Toms chest, and its tiny eyes flared with mindless anger as it charged. Tom tried to block out the ringing in his ears and focus, but every instinct in his body was telling him to flee.

The first timer beside Tom panicked and ran. The charging boar veered from its course at the last second, its hateful little eyes locking on to the fleeing boy. As it blew by Tom, he struck out with his spear and drew a long line of blood all the way down its flank.

The enraged boar didnt even seem to notice. It clipped the soldier whod been next to the student, sending him sprawling, and continued straight through their line. It trampled the young student, bucking around in a tight circle and smashing two more soldiers to the forest floor with its wild flailing.

Tom recovered, turning to face it, hoping he wouldnt get charged in the back by another pig and knowing there was no other choice. The boar settled, tossing its head a bit, the young students limbs pinching and jerking and rolling obscenely as the boar stamped its hooves on his body.

Having vented some of its anger, the boars eyes flicked about, searching for the next target of its ire. They settled on Gad. He had also turned, being neatly on the other side of the hole the boar had punched in their line with its charge, and was now standing there gaping at the pig with wide eyes. There was a long, drawn out moment before he took a single, stuttering step backwards, and the boar exploded forward like a trigger had been pulled.

Adrenaline burst through Tom. He leaped in front of Gad as the nitwit tripped over his own feet and fell on his arse. He had but a moment to whip his spear around before the boar was on them. He swung it low and stomped the butt of it into the ground, pinning it under his boot.

The spear was violently snatched from his grip a split second before the pig smashed into him. Tom was thrown several feet and rolled several more before fetching up against a small tree. His shield had taken the brunt of the charge, but hed still broken several ribs. He looked up and saw that Gad was still alive, and struggling back to his feet.

The boar was now back in front of the column, wet, gurgling squeals pealing from it in an incongruously musical rhythm. The haft of a spear was jutting from its open mouth, blood running freely down its length. It stumbled about, and Gad stepped up to it hesitantly and bashed it on the skull with his hammer. It slumped to the ground immediately, a puppet with its strings cut.

Tom gritted his teeth against the pain in his chest. In fact, his whole body felt like it had been run through a mangler. He tried to stand, and his shield arm collapsed under his weight. Bright pain flared, and his mind skittered away from the sound of it snapping, sure it couldnt be related to his arm.

The forest swirled drunkenly around him. He felt wetness leaking down his side. He tried halfheartedly to rise again, but darkness swallowed him.