The ACROS rAIDERS
•••• Prologue ••••
Birth of Acros
Alignment 26, Year 269
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“Out of my way!”
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Milos had crossed over the border into Ghent hours back, and he’s already parading down the cobblestone streets of their capital. His valen mount races down the winding street, the large, deer-like creature still running as quick as it did when they left the ambush in Valko.
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A voice calls out behind him. “Hey! Get back here!”
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He caught the attention of a few of the Ghentian guards, but needs to press forward. He doesn’t have time to explain the urgent matter.
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A bullet wound is still fresh in his left flank, and bayonet lashes are licked over his skin. His uniform is tattered and bloodied from battle. He’s thankful for his mount’s endurance, he’d have collapsed from hunger before he reached the Ghent-Valko border if not for her.
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After weaving through the bleached-stone buildings of Ghent’s capital, he halts at the courthouse’s large doors. He leaps off his valen’s saddle, pounding on the door.
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“Let me in!” he shouts. “Let me in! I need to speak with Lady Amala! It’s urgent!”
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The valen mounties finally catch up and restrain him, his consciousness starting to fade.
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“Help,” he mumbles. “We need help.”
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“This guy doesn’t look too good,” one guard says.
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“Let’s get him to the infirmary. We can question him later.”
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Milos’s consciousness fades in and out as he’s carried away. Wet wounds are licked over his body, his life-force still slowly dripping from him. He fights his fading consciousness; he needs to hold on to speak with Ghent’s leader.
Everything is magnificent white in the infirmary, not a spec of dirt in sight. Doctors tinker at desks, too engrossed in their work to look up when Milos, groaning along the way, is brought in and placed in a cot. White silk curtains line the tall windows that come just short of reaching the room’s high wooden ceilings. Beyond the windows is a clean, lush courtyard, Ghent’s hilly farmlands rolling away from the city in the distance.
The Ghentian medics go to work on Milos, one feeding him some kind of warm, clear liquid. It tastes salty, though somehow feels comforting to Milos.
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“Who is he?” a woman’s voice calls out.
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“We haven’t gotten any information from him, Lady Amala,” the one medic replies. “We haven’t been working on him for long. He seems to be a soldier of some sort — armed to the teeth, musket, revolvers, a couple bayonets.”
Milos sees the woman towering over him. She’s heavy set and older, short brown hair flecked with grey peaking out from under a brown fur cap. Furs wrap around her, not in a magnificent way like furs are worn in Valko — dyed and fragile, but in a fierce, proud way, the Ghentian way — kept in their natural beauty.
“I’m Commander Milos Jeremiah,” he says, hissing as his wounds are stitched up. “Leader of the Valkoean rebellion.”
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“A Valkoean rebel,” she remarks. “The leader of the Valkoean rebels? What happened, why are you here?”
“One of our new forts near the Valko-Ghent border was ambushed while I was visiting. I-I’m afraid I’m the only survivor. I fled, I knew it was the safest to come here, they wouldn’t dare track me over the border.”
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“Why do you need to talk to me, then?” Amala asks. “You got your protection.”
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“It’s because—“ he gasps as an alcohol doused rag is wiped over the fresh stitches, “—we need Ghent’s help. The rebels can no longer do this alone.”
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Her eyes widen and then her brow furrows.
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“Help?” she asks. “Ha! Valko is a common enemy of ours. The war is over, but the hatred is strong as ever.” Sadness flickers in her eyes, her tone growing soft. “I’m afraid we can’t help, even if we wanted to. My men are still weak from the war, Ghent needs all of the manpower we can get. Valko’s border is still on edge…” She goes silent for a moment. “But I might have an idea.” She glances around at the medical staff. “Once he’s well enough to get around on his own, send him up to me,” she tells them. “We will talk in private then. Make sure he gets well.”
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It takes a few days for the medics to release him, but they cautiously send him up to speak with their leader. Lady Amala’s office is grand — the walls of the octagonal room are lined with bookshelves, save for the the wall at the back. The back wall boasts a large window, draped with silk curtains, expressing the capital of Ghent’s grandeur. Vincent’s harbor can be seen from the window, encompassed with its rocky cliffs, the bleached-stone buildings of the capital crawling up streets before meeting with the leader’s office.
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Milos recognizes Lady Amala behind the room’s desk, but there’s a stranger next to her — a burly man donned in extravagant furs.
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“Greetings, Lady Amala,” Milos says with a polite dip of his head.
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“Milos, take a seat.” Amala gestures in front of her desk at a cushy chair. “This is General Genrich with me today - he’s my right hand man.”
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“Hello, there,” Milos greets, dipping his head at him as well.
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Once he gets settled in the cushioned chair, Amala speaks up again. “So, you came seeking Ghent’s aid, correct?”
He nods. “Yes, ma’am.”
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“What did you have in mind?”
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“Anything. Munitions, men, whatever you can spare.”
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“We don’t have any supplies to waste on Valko’s affairs!” Genrich asserts.
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“General Genrich, hush!” Amala growls. “While I appreciate my advisor’s opinion, we can’t jump to the obvious conclusion right away. It’s smart to think things over.” She looks back to Milos. “As you know, Valko took our main supply of the chemical ethner when they stole our land around Kip Lake in the Ghent-Valko War. The newer borders that have been reconstructed put our country at a disadvantage. We can only rely on ethner for our steam technology being imported from Imperial Trice, so half of our military has been switched to work off of gunpowder again. It’s been a harsh blow on us, after relying on the steam technology for so long, so we have no munitions or men to spare at the moment.”
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Milos frowns. “I understand. You said you had an idea that might work, though, correct?”
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She nods, hesitantly looking over to General Genrich.
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“What is it, Lady Amala?” Genrich asks.
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“There’s a group of vigilantes in Ghent,” she explains. “The Sunbell City Guild. We can hire them to aid the rebellion. They’re fierce, they have the skills you need.”
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“Lady Amala!” General Genrich exclaims. “I mean no disrespect, but you’re genuinely considering that? They’re vigilantes, like you said, we’ve been trying to shut them down. We can’t just send them in anyway, Valko will not tolerate our interference and retaliate! Our people will lose faith in us sending those… those… hounds to help the rebellion!”
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“You will soon be in trouble if the rebellion fails in Valko,” Milos tells him with narrowed eyes. “High Priestess Tapscott has gone mad."
Genrich snorts. "High Priestess? Is that what that failure of a solider calls herself now?"
Milos ignores his remark. "Surely you’ve heard of The Black Gloves, General?”
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He nods. “The Castist extremist group. That’s Valko’s problem, though.”
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Milos shakes his head. “You only know of Chancellor Enzo from the Ghent-Valko War, but you didn’t know his loyal deputy. Since Chancellor Enzo’s death after the war, Tapscott has taken rule, and she’s heralding The Black Gloves as saints now. Anyone who won’t practice Castism is being sentenced to death, entire villages disappearing overnight from mass executions. Followers of the Soharist Pantheon are disappearing in the thousands. High Priestess Tapscott is too proud of a Castist to stop when the rebellion is defeated. She will be preying on the rest of Harkive after this as well. She is a threat to Soharism, she wants it eradicated. She knows you are weakened from the war Chancellor Enzo waged on you, I’m afraid you’ll be next. You will be fighting in this war either now or later.”
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General Genrich scowls. “We will save our strength for later, then. Gadias will protect us from that false god Castus and his wench Tapscott. The god of war and strength is on our side, not theirs this time.”
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“Commander Milos, all we can offer is this group of vigilantes if they’re willing to comply,” Amala tells him sternly. “I’d love to offer more, but it’s impossible. General Genrich is right, we need to build up our armies if this is true.”
Milos dips his head. “I understand. I appreciate any help we can get.”
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“What are your plans when High Priestess Tapscott is taken down?” Lady Amala pries. “Will you be the country’s new leader?”
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Milos nods. “Yes, ma’am.”
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Amala ponders for a moment. “We can spare some extra munitions on one condition.”
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Milos’s heart leaps, though he tries to keep cool. “Of course. What would that be?”
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“I ask you to return Ghent’s land around Kip Lake to us once this is over.”
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“Yes, of course,” Milos says. “We can arrange that.”
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“And I trust that Valko will be a strong ally at the end of this.”
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“I’ll call the scribe in,” General Genrich says. “We will write up a treaty, and conditions of our new alliance.”
Amala nods. “Great idea.”
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They write up a short agreement between the new allies, sloppily signing the bottom with a quill, and ending off with an official ink stamp.
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“We will get a messenger swift to communicate between the two of us,” Amala says. “You can head back to your headquarters, and we will let you know within the week what we are able to send.”
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Milos nods. “I’ll be back off to Hightower Harbor in Valko. We’re close by Ghent’s border on the eastern coast, so if you need a conference with me again I can be here within a day’s time. I look forward to hearing back from you.”
It takes nearly the full week, Milos anxiously staring out from his tower’s balcony in Valko the whole time, the pine trees dwarfed around him. His recovery is going well, Ghent’s medicine working miracles on his injured body.
Hightower Harbor’s large fortified walls wrap around the island, the red stone contrasting against the dark pines. Men are busy work ants below Milos’s balcony, piling up carriages of dirt to fortify the wall. He watches them, pride whelming in his chest. The fortifications are going to be complete ahead of schedule, and Valko wouldn’t dare face Hightower Harbor’s gun lined walls with their navy alone.
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The harbor stretches out beyond the fortified walls, the rebel-ship filled waters leading to Valko’s mainland.
Determination fills Milo’s veins. The people of Valko will one day be free again, and High Priestess Tapscott’s tyrannical rule will come to an end.
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His heart leaps when he sees the messenger swift fly through the treetops of the island’s pine forest. The swift perches itself on the balcony’s rail, ruffling its feathers after the long, fast flight. It prunes its flight feathers, keeping its back turned to Milos to expose the tube containing the note. He snatches the note, crumbling the plain wax seal. The wax falls to the floor as he rolls the message open, his heart racing.
Commander Milos,
Our trek out to Sunbell City was a success. We have an elite group of nineteen men ready to be at your disposal.
Milos frowns. Only nineteen?
Their expertise lays in raids. I know it doesn’t seem like much, but they can handle anything. They’re known for conducting assassinations, train heists, caravan raids, and the likes. They’re used to traveling in small teams and using their wits to their advantage. They’ve ran circles around my best men, do not underestimate them. Use them however you see fit. Most of these men are money motivated, so keep that in mind.
We need to keep this quiet. Valko cannot know that we are aiding the rebellion, and my citizens cannot know we are recruiting the help of the Sunbell City Guild. My reputation and the safety of my people are on the line.
Per our agreement, to keep a close leash on them, they will answer to me. I will provide whatever resources I can to them, but again, that will be limited. The group will also be delivering the first package of munitions and medicine, more is to come soon.
Expect these men to reach Hightower Harbor in two days’ time. They will be arriving under the code name The Acros Raiders.
Signed,
An Ally
Milos grows uneasy, lowering the note to stare out through the pine forest and the lake beyond.
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“Gadias, please let these men be the answer,” he prays. “I don’t know how much more my soldiers can take.”