Dum Vivam

     Sergeant Caspian stood in the kitchen of Goldie’s Revenge arguing with the bar owner as blocked the doorway to the basement stairs. The woman stared up at him, shoving her forefinger into his chest. “I know what I heard. And, I’m telling you, it’s going to stop right here and now.” She shoved the point of her half-inch fingernail into his sternum. He grabbed her finger and held it in place. She struggled to pull it back, “let me go.”

     “Ma’am. You will stop,” he practically threw her hand away.

     “I don’t care who’s down there. This is my bar. Not a torture chamber. Either you go down and put an end to it or I will.”

     “My orders are clear. Back away from the door now, ma’am,” Sergeant Caspian ordered, his body tensed.

Mihi Inimicus

     From the backseat of the Iago Citadel, Commander Dante calmly watched his surroundings. The drop-off center’s rear loading dock doors gaped open, though the dock was completely empty. Lieutenant Musgrove disappeared into the warehouse. A few minutes later, he exited, clothes laden arms topped with two pairs of shoes. When he reached the car, he tapped the backdoor with his foot and nodded. Dante pushed open the door and was nearly buried in the stink wafting off the pile as Musgrove dropped it in the seat.

     “Not sure if I got you the right size, sir. Not a fucking tailor,” Musgrove said.

     Dante grunted. He dug through the offensive pile, holding up various articles before dropping them. “We need a place to hide the car and prep.”

     “Got two options. There’s a bridge with some abandoned buildings west of here. Plenty of privacy, longer walk to Hell Hill. Or, a couple blocks north, there’s a car park, less privacy, shorter walk. Up to you, sir.”

Umeris Suis

     “Rector Jameson, why haven’t you been relieved?” She listened to his answer while bobbing her head up and down, “I see. Unfortunate. Can’t be helped. Have the Order assemble in full garb along the route. Send my attendants with the duty Scribus and Clericus to Sentinel Cemetery. Tell them to bring everything. That’s all,” Celatrix Verna said into the handset. Hanging up the old fashioned phone, she smiled to the Silvans and whispered, “too soon, you know? Weren’t we just here with his father?”

     “Seems like it,” Jason whispered back.

     Marcia bowed her head and gripped Jason’s sleeve, she softly added, “I get the physics of how. I don’t understand the why.”

Certa Arcani

     Karman Tunnel ran parallel to the currently dry Paradise Aquifer, in which generally flowed the runoff and floodwaters from Iphigenia. The highway and the aquifer flowed on an east-west axis through Sanctuary City toward the old capital. Staring over the aquifer, using the highway lamps to see, a kneeling Commander Dante carefully watched for any sign that he should abort the night’s maneuvers. He followed the 5 minute rule by waiting an extra two minutes before making his way through the brush alongside Paradise Aquifer. He staid in the shadows of the great water oaks, the natural sound barrier was meant to dull the noisesome traffic but actually served as walls in a corridor for the winds rushing down from Iphigenia. The early evening brought a chill that intensified each gust of wind that cut through his jacket. For the umpteenth time that day, Dante cursed the unsavory politics forcing him take covert actions. The commander of Camp Polkner, the desert hell of Poterit Dan’s military-prison system, was sneaking through roadside brush on the way to a clandestine meeting on the outskirts of Sanctuary City. He ground his teeth, but kept moving. He had a schedule to maintain.

Liceat Mihi

     Whipping the Iago Citadel through Sanctuary City’s evening traffic, Lt. Musgrove watched the mirrors for signs of a tail. He used every evasion method he could recall from his questionable youth, and after 30 minutes of borderline reckless driving, he resumed his regular driving habits. As ordered, he drove into eastbound traffic headed for the Karman Tunnel. Once inside the tunnel, Musgrove hit his emergency flashers and slowed down. At the midpoint of the tunnel, he stopped the car, and popped both the hood and the trunk. He waited for a break in traffic, then climbed out. From the trunk he removed two emergency triangles, which he spaced out behind the car to give oncoming vehicles a warning. He tapped on the rear driver’s side window, nodded to Commander Randle Dante, Sr., and then went about the business of tinkering with the engine. The moment Musgrove’s head disappeared behind the hood, Dante slipped out of the passenger side of the Citadel. The commander walked against traffic toward the nearest emergency exit. While Dante disappeared through the tunnel door, Musgrove recovered the emergency triangles, closed up the Citadel, and then drove off. Musgrove had his orders: drive around aimlessly and in two hours return to the drop off point.

Proelio Lacessere

     The perfectly manicured lawn, well-tended vegetable garden, and mature orange trees sat in stark contrast to the overgrown hedges in front of Patrick Field’s house. After 15 minutes of pacing the backyard, Santos’ stomach made the decision for him. He chose the plumpest, juiciest looking orange he could reach, and ripped it out of the tree. As he began the annoying task of peeling it, Brimley popped her head around the side of the house.

     “What are you doing, soldier?” she yelled in the deepest voice she could manage while stifling laughter.

     Startled, Santos nearly dropped the partially peeled orange. He spun around, holding the orange down by his thigh. “I should ask you the same thing,” he growled. “You’re supposed to be guarding the front.”

     She glared at him. Aside from a couple bullies in grade school, she’d never wanted to beat the crap out of someone like she wanted to beat Santos. “Orders change. We’re moving out. Your Colonel wants to see you. Now. Looks like you’ll have to save the snack for later, sweetheart.” Brimley relished throwing the word, tone, and inflection back in his face.

Auxilio Egent

     The quaint groundskeeper’s cottage that had felt too large after Janice’s death was now stifling hot and much too small for Patrick Field’s liking. As a simple man who’d never longed for intrigue or life in politics, Patrick couldn’t believe that his young friend, Archel, the servant boy, was really a griffin, much less the new king. How in Mercury’s name did I get mixed up in this? Patrick wondered while staring at the trio blocking his doorway. Yesterday, the boy helped me bury Meranti in that open grave back of Sentinel. Today, I’m acting guardian and the boy’s my king. Oh, Janice. Would that you could tell me…what should I do? He sighed to himself and sat heavily into his recliner.

     “My help?” Santos asked in confusion.

     Archel answered, “the Kaiser trusted you. It’s a chance I gotta take, too.”

     “But…it’s true. You’re a griffin.”

Ea Condicione

     Jougs and Vorant timed the first smoke bomb for a few seconds after the first explosion blew up the shed in the backyard of the light blue one story house where they’d taken refuge. With the shed in flames and excess smoke billowing, they were certain the stalker bird would fly to the back. Any nosy neighbors would be sure to run to the side of the house to get a better look. The second explosion and smoke bomb would require precision timing and the perfect targets. Jougs carefully slid open the living room window overlooking the side of the house where the backyard gate stood slightly ajar. From the window he could see the edge of the flaming shed as well as any neighbors daring enough to investigate. Vorant knelt near the front door where he watched the street through the hole in the pane he’d broken earlier. The two men breathed easily, while they confidently waited.        

Manus Revinctus

Not only had Goldie lost her town and had her bar turned into recovery operation headquarters, but now she was being forced to cater to the Justices of the Antigone Courts. If this hadn’t happened because of mass destruction, she would have forced them to take a group picture to add to her wall. Most of the pictures were of locals, taken during town celebrations. A few, Goldie’s favorites, were prominently displayed behind the bar, over the rows of alcohol. These celebrity photos included sports heroes, authors, and one of her with Fintan the Bard. She, like most of the women her age, had once pined for the young one-eyed rascal. It wasn’t his way with words, oh, no. As an adventurer, he’d seen and done things. His worldly manner was majorly attractive. Goldie stared at the picture, fondly thinking of better days. Captain Prescott pulled her from her reverie.

Re Vera

Standing at the edge of the grove surrounding the Heart of the Seven Faeries were a handful of Mercs summoned there after Patrick Field had rushed the Phoenix Rose. Private Mack’s incapacitation by the cries of the Phoenix kept Field alive long enough for the groundskeeper to report everything he’d seen to Santos, who didn’t want to believe it but was duty bound to investigate. As such, Santos had run at top speed to the barracks north of the Heart where he grabbed the first men he saw, all Mercury’s Elite. The Regular Militia had been dispatched after the attack to protect Avalona and to maintain the borderlands.

     Santos stared at the seven bronze faerie statues forever dancing a circle around the fountain. Their right hands held up a giant carnelian stone shaped like a heart—not a cutesy Cupid heart, rather an actual bivalve human heart—and their left hands all held ancient bladed weapons: a cutler, an ensis, a ferrum, a gladius, a mucro, a pugio, and a sica. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, at first. Motioning to two of the Mercs nearest him, they cautiously approached the sacred fountain. The men circled it, looking every which way yet seeing nothing. Santos was about ready to call the effort off, when one of the Mercs stopped, tilted his head, and raised an eyebrow.

Atrox Animi

As in every Danian military building, pictures of President Scrub Thicket, Vice President Bonnie Peters, and the five regional CEOs adorned the wall opposite the main entrance. Commander Randle Dante, Sr. sat in the waiting room of Sanctuary City Medical Center. He wore his civilian clothes—a pressed grey polo tucked into starched black slacks with a thin black leather belt and polished steel-toed boots—as stiffly as he sat in the sea foam green chair. Draped in the seat next to him was a black trench coat, also in the seat was a grey canvas messenger bag topped with a plain black cap. He read through a stack of papers brought from Camp Polkner. Just because he’d been ordered for evaluation did not mean his work was done. The papers contained reports from every soldier involved in the incarceration and search efforts regarding escapee Kent Wheelock, AKA Prisoner 318.

     A wide-eyed young man, with a high-and-tight so high it was nearly a Mohawk, sat a few seats away drumming his fingers on the arms of his chair and alternating the bounce in both his legs. He watched a mute TV perched in the corner of the waiting room above a motivational picture of an enormous oak tree being struck by lightning, its caption read: POWER – With great power comes great responsibility.

Magna Fuga

     Kent Wheelock lay, unconscious, in a congealed pool of his own blood and bile. A poultice made from a falcon-regurgitated poppy covered his missing left eye. Fulco stood on the footboard of the collapsed bed in the corner of the dilapidated shack. The fireplace grating groaned as it was pushed aside by a bald old man who clambered up and out. Fulco cawed. Kent moaned, but did not move. From inside his fur-lined cape, the old man pulled out a long thin cloth. He knelt beside Kent, then lifted the young man’s head to wrap the cloth around the injured eye thus securing the poultice in place.