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22. Cultist Threat
🕑 Added 2024-07-18 07:34:21 +0000 UTCAn early knock came at Mark’s door. The hurried acolyte spat out words at a hundred miles a second as he explained Henric had returned with the two acolytes in toe.
He didn’t waste time, throwing on his coat and reaching the gates as Henric led the acolytes and their horses into the inner walls. His gaze first planned to the weakly and sickly-looking Callum, but he was hauled straight through the gates and to Mira’s healing cabin.
“What happened?” Mark said as he watched them carry Callum away.
“Imperator,” Henric saluted. “More than I wish to discuss out here. Can we talk in your cabin?”
“Of course,” Mark nodded and turned his gaze to Erin. “Are you okay, Acolyte Erin?”
“I am. Thank you for your concern, Imperator.”
“Considering the circumstances, I hereby commute the rest of your sentence. I believe everyone will be in agreement that getting kidnapped by Cultists is more than enough of a punishment for the crime you committed.”
“Maybe not everyone,” Erin said under her breath, but Mark let it go.
“Henric,” he turned from the girl, gesturing for him to follow as he turned for his cabin. Acolytes were already taking their reins and leading the horses away as Henric followed.
***
“Okay, Henric, what’s so important is that it requires privacy?”
“It’s the cultists,” The Arms-Master said, rubbing his face with a warm, damp towel Mark had been provided for refreshment and sipping from a tea Mark had boiled. “They’re building a fortified camp barely a mile from here. And they’ve got a small army of about fifty well-armed men. Not to mention a half dozen horses.”
“And you’re sure we’re their target?”
“Positive. There’s nothing else around. Not to mention they were greeted by friendly ferals. They’ve likely been told all about what you’ve been doing here.”
“Me? I suppose I do deserve the blame,” Mark chuckled.
“This is serious, Imperator.”
“I’m aware. They acted faster than I had expected. But fifty men is a number I can work with. Besides, much worse is coming, and we need to sharpen up.”
“Y-you’re excited about this?”
“I wouldn’t go that far, Henric. But we’re certainly not ready to deal with wargs. Preparing this place for winter will require baby steps. A small cultist force should do nicely. At least after I’ve weakened it a little.”
“So, you knew this would happen? I sure hope you’ve got a plan,” Henric ground his teeth.
“Not quite. But I did suspect something similar might. Besides, a lot has happened while you’ve been gone. I’ve recruited tribunes, as I said I would. And now they are recruiting people to help them. I think I’ll call it an Atlas Pyramid.”
“Sir, please. Be serious… They might not be alone.”
“Lighten up, Henric. I’m being perfectly serious. If we can’t defeat this little band of cultists, we’ve got no chance of surviving what’s ahead. Perhaps this is a blessing from the God-Lord in disguise.”
Henric took out his flask, poured the remnants of it into his tea, and gulped it down. “Praise the God-Lord, I dearly hope you’re right. Even if my wife doesn’t speak to me anymore not speak, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to taste a real woman again before I die. And please, tell me you have a plan.”
“I’ve got a few ideas. You haven’t forgotten I can shoot lightning from my hands, have you?”
“Of course not,” Henric huffed. “But there’s a small army of them.”
“Even better. That means this is a chance to really prove ourselves. Show the ferals around here that not only do the cultists not scare us, but we can kick their butts.”
“You’re really high on these feral tribunes, aren’t you?”
“Look around, Henric. That’s what we have available to us. Ferals. We prove to them that we aren’t going anywhere, and we’ll have a lot more loyal to us than the handful I’ve recruited so far.”
“And what about the cultists? What if they recruit more men to their cause.”
“One big difference between us, Henric. We’ve got a just cause. They’ve got a sick god that prays on innocent girls.”
***
Mark sat stiffly on the horse, his legs gripped tightly and his grasp on the reins firm. He had ridden a horse a couple of times when he was a child—at a petting zoo his parents had taken him to a few times. And never touched one since.
You can do this. Just don’t fall off.
He held his breath as he rode. Mark was fairly certain that Atlas knew how to ride a horse and really didn’t want to make a fool of himself.
“Here,” Henric jerked his head as he pulled up to a patch of pines and dismounted.
Alright, steady now.
Mark slid to the side, keeping his foot on his stirrup, and lowered himself down. Wait, that’s it? I really rode a horse and didn't fall off? He went to throw his arms up in celebration but stopped himself short as he spotted Henric’s gaze.
It’s just dismounting a horse. Be calm. Act natural.
Mark flashed a dumb, broad grin.
“You okay?”
“Lead the way, Arms-Master,” Mark pointed, trying to pretend his awkwardness was imagined.
Thankfully, it seemed lost on Henric for the most part. His was still noticeably jumpy and not entirely convinced Mark could deal with their cultist problem.
Mark followed closely behind as they crept through the forest, their figures touched by ribbons of light passing through the snow-capped canopy above.
He had been tempted to bring Reida—his new tribune—along for the raid. He wanted to see her in action. Not to mention that an accomplished archer would be a valuable asset for the mission he had planned. But had decided not to at the last minute. Not yet, at least. Once he had a better feel for what they were dealing with, then he could ease his tribunes into it.
Henric held his crossbow at the ready and waved them onward, pointing out a couple of sentries in the distance as they neared.
There were a couple of the cultists walking through the forest, but they were easily avoided. And soon they reached the oak Henric had sheltered behind.
Most of them were hanging around their camp. Busy digging trenches and preparing more spikes for them. There was a lot of work to be done, but their pace was impressive. Especially considering they didn’t have a cheat like Mark’s lightning bolts to down trees.
“See what I mean?” Henric said, pointing out the workers. “There’s no doubt they’re building a war camp.”
“This is perfect,” Mark muttered as he watched the group.
“I’d rather be left alone.”
“You need more faith, Henric. And this little group of cultists have walked straight into our lap. They’re almost making it too easy.”
“Don’t go getting too confident, considering we’re outnumbered twenty-five to one.”
“We’re not going to sit here and fight them, though.”
“We can still turn back. Rally everyone we can and do this properly,” Henric pleaded as he whispered.
“No. Bad idea. We take them head-on in our current state, and even if we win, we’ll take losses. And we can’t afford to have what few numbers we have dwindled down further. We stick to the plan.”
“What you’re suggesting—there’s no honor in it. To use cowardly tactics against those beneath you makes me ill.”
“Melodramatic much?”
Henric’s lip curled into a snarl. “We’re officers of the Imperium, Atlas. And you’re talking about using dishonorable tactics against a bunch of bottom feeders. Uncivilized savages. It makes us look weak.”
Mark sighed. “Wrong again. Getting half our forces killed or hiding behind our walls because we don’t have the manpower to face them front makes us look weak. I’m about to show every feral in the region that I’m not afraid to go smack the big guy in the balls while all his buddies gather around.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Henric grumbled.
“Just go ready the horses. When you see me running, get ready to book it for the fort.”
“What do you mean, book it?”
“Run. Like, flee as fast as we are freaking can.”
“You get stranger by the day, Imperator,” Henric stared into Mark’s eyes for a moment. “Ahh, bless the God-Lord. At least your insane antics are entertaining. And I’m not about to die here listening to the endless preaching of some self-righteous Imperator whose only words are memorized passages from the Book of Laws,” Henric said.
“Sounds like I touched a nerve.”
Henric just shook his head as he crept away.
I really can’t tell if that man hates me or loves me. Maybe both. Alright, back to work.
Mark turned his eyes to the camp. He needed to find the right target. The horses were tied together, and if he aimed for them, he could probably take their mounts out in one shot. But he was trying to avoid a siege, not an open battlefield, and he doubted a few horsemen would make much of a difference.
The men chopping trees were too spread out. Maybe he could take a couple of them out, but there had to be a better target.
Curiously, he eyed the heart of the camp. There were a couple of ferals that he easily distinguished from the cultists. They wore tattered rags and rough furs as they stirred a huge clay pot. Walking by, a couple of the cultists came, and the ferals filled bowls from the pot and handed them to the men.
Mark remembered what Henric had said. The ferals seemed to know the cultists. They had greeted them like old friends when arriving, even hugging one another. Which made sense, they were likely the contacts that had called the cultists to come here.
There was no doubt that the cultists could be considered combatants, Mark thought, or worse, terrorists—considering the tactics they employed. But what did that make the ferals help them? Did feeding and spying for the cultists make them accomplices? Or did they deserve to be considered civilians?
The thought was stupid, Mark realized, and berated himself with a shake of his head. He wasn’t a green beret on foreign soil in the twenty-first century. These were freaking insane cultists trying to kidnap freaking babies so that they could give them to monstrous wolves that wanted to kill everyone. If these ferals were helping the cultists, then fuck ‘em. They deserved to die.
I wonder… He mused, staring at the pot. It sat atop a rather large pile of embers and a small flame at the heart of the camp. He counted sixteen cultists within a few yards of the pot. Some were sitting around, others talking and pointing at the fortifications. These men were clearly important.
You brought this on yourselves when you helped those bastards. Sorry, not sorry.
Mark raised his palm at the pot. In a flash, the crackling white and blue energy shot forth, snaking arcs of energy that whipped across several cultists as it thundered into the pot. The blast roared through the camp, sending a combination of searing stew and burning embers bursting throughout like hotpot shrapnel.
Two ferals who had been chopping trees only a couple dozen yards away turned to Mark and charged.
He narrowed his eyes for a second to make sense of the destruction, then turned to the two charging ferals and sent another blast of lightning thundering toward them. A flash and an angry crackle followed, sending the charcoal corpses ragdolling across the snow.
The suit was already starting to heat up from two quick succession shots and he knew several cultists were dotted throughout the forest. He had to leave now, and swung into a sprint.
Charging around a corner of trees, Mark came sprinting toward Henric who was already mounted, holding onto the reins of the spooked horses.
“Go, go, go,” Mark shouted, and Henric kicked them into a slow trot.
Okay, you can do this. You’re an Imperator now. Not some soft-handed tech kid!
Mark lined by beside the horse as it trotted through the snow and jumped. Through mostly luck, he managed to lace his boot through the stirrup and pulled himself up, sliding across its back.
The horse kicked into a gallop as it felt his weight, and all Mark could do was grasp hold of the saddle for dear life as it sprung toward the fort.
“Imperator, are you alright?” Henric shouted as he raced after.
“Not really,” Mark hissed as he tried to pull himself up and onto the saddle. “I’m barely hanging on here!”
Nearing the fort, they heard hooves at their back. Four cultists chased on horseback. Bows in hand.
An arrow whizzed past Mark’s head as he pulled himself upright, panting. Bastards!
Closing in on the fort walls, a couple of bolts flew back toward the chasing cultists, shot from acolytes stations on the walls. But Mark was pissed off now and gave a forceful tug on the reins—forgetting for a moment that he barely knew what he was doing. His horse neighed as it bucked back and turned sideways, rearing as Mark faced his pursuers.
Raising a hand, he shot an arcing beam of energy as one of the cultists loosened an arrow.
Thunder flashed through the sky, shattering the incoming arrow and flinging two of the cultists from their horses. The smoking remains of the two cultists rolled across the snow.
Seeing their comrades crisped, the two remaining horsemen pulled on their reins and turned in retreat.
Bolts followed them, impaling one of their necks, and the cultist fell limply from his horse as it ran. Stuck in his stirrup, the dead man’s body was dragged at the horse's back as it turned for the forest.
With the threat gone, Henric had slowed and pulled up beside him.
“Shall we collect these horses before they get away?” Mark grinned.
