Tristan
October 29, 1786, Realm Timeline, The Danube, between Slovakia and Hungary
They reached the other shore after half an hour of rowing. No one except Cedric had ever rowed before, and he was keeping an eye on the other shore, bow in hand. Dorian was also in the front, serving as a shield for the others. Once they landed, Cedric used his magic to untie the vines, making the raft look like a few fallen trees, and the proceeded southward, keeping the same formation.
"We should have buried those people," Isolde said after a while.
"It's harder than it sounds," Tristan said, recollecting the battles he had been a part of, where he was assigned that chore, alongside other low-ranked soldiers. "Burning them would have been easier, but that risked attracting attention. How do you deliver those poisons on Earth?"
"By artillery or from the air."
He means from the flying machines... Outworlders were the more terrifying the more he knew about them.
"The world is messed up," Cedric said. "Like me."
"You're looking better by the day," Tristan said. It was a bit true; the points Cedric had invested in his physical stats had made him less flat, building some muscles.
"Not really, but thanks, sir."
"May I ask why you didn't bring the guns, sir?" Aldric said.
"You told me we can't take advanced tech outside the Protectorates, remember? Tristan said. In reply, Isolde waved her phone. "I didn't think of that. Oh, kay? And why have you taken it with you in the first place?"
"To text with friends. Mass is boring. Sorry, sir."
"From now on, you'll pay attention to the Mass! It's an order."
"But it's in Latin, Sir!" Isolde protested.
"Then learn Latin! What's the big deal?"
"Sir, may I suggest sneaking in silence?" Max said.
"Shush!" Tristan hissed, stopping as the elf raised his hand. "What's up?"
"Two groups of people," Cedric whispered, pointing to the left and right. "About half a mile on the left, farther on the right, moving away fast. There are Elves on the left. I feel the scent. On the right, there are also horses."
"How big are the groups?"
"Dunno, Sir... Big. Dozens in each group."
"I detect dirhams on the ones on the right," Max said. "Turkish silver coins."
"I know what a dirham is. It's the Tatars," Tristan said.
"In winter?" Isolde asked.
"Yes, the Kingling convinced them to work all year round."
"If I picked up their scent, the Elves could smell us too," Cedric said. "Maybe we should move on, sir."
"Are they moving?"
"No... Wait! Two of them are coming toward us, very fast. What do we do?" Cedric asked.
Tristan rubbed his nape for a few seconds. "If we run, they'll know we detected them. If we stay, they'll scout us, then either leave or approach... Do you speak Elvish?"
"The one from Earth, but it's fictitious."
"Try it."
"They're almost here," Cedric said.
"Don't make hostile moves if they don't. Dorian, Pops."
The old Chinese man was already taking a forward position, and Dorian followed suit. The rest moved behind Tristan, who tightened his grip on the spear but kept it pointed down.
The two Elves appeared one after another, one in front, the other slightly obliquely behind. Both males, shorter than Cedric by almost a foot, but still taller than anybody else, still looking eerie and pale, but less squared than Cedric's, and almost human. They had no weapons, but Mana swirled around them.
Definitely dangerous...
"M-Mae Govannen!" Cedric saluted.
The elf in the front stared for a couple of seconds. "Who are you?" he asked in German.
"Outworlder Scouts," Tristan said.
"Outworlder Elf," Cedric said.
"You work for them?"
"We work together," Cedric said.
"You smell like a baby," the elf said.
"I'm young..."
The elf nodded. "Go back. Nothing to scout; all was destroyed. Next time, don't keep a war form when talking. Hunt well."
"War form?" Cedric asked.
Suddenly, the elf's shape changed, growing taller and wider.
"Elves… can change?" Cedric asked.
The elf shifted back to his former shape, making a movement to leave.
"Wait!" Tristan blurted.
The elf turned and stared at him.
"There are Tatars that way," Tristan pointed his hand. "Watch out."
The elf raised his head, sniffing. "They are," he said, running back toward the place they came from.
"Thank you," the other elf said before following his companion.
"Not exactly best buddies material, but at least they didn't try to eat us," Max said. "How did you know they were not with the Kingling, sir?"
"I know his allies, and Elves are not among them."
"So... texting Sandra. We met a group of elves and noticed a group of Tatars," Isolde said. "She says: tell my baby to take care. I guess that would be you, Sir. Take care."
"Thanks," Tristan sneered.
"You still have a signal?" Cedric asked.
"Barely a line, but it's still going through."
"Should we turn back?" Aldric asked.
"I want to examine the Tatars' tracks first. Then, I'll decide. Keep the formation."
They moved again, with Cedric in front, and kept going for ten or more minutes.
"Do you detect anything?" Tristan asked.
"Nothing so far," Cedric said. "May I ask why you ordered me to salute them in Quenya?"
"That being?"
"The made-up language."
"Because they expected you to address them first. Greeting them in English or German would have looked weird. We established from the start that you were not from here, but still an elf. And that obliged them to think, and defused the tension."
"Smart thinking, sir!"
"Yeah, smart's my middle name..." Tristan said absently, listening around. "This is strange... The forest is too silent. Are you sure there's nothing suspicious?"
"Sorry, sir!" Cedric blurted. "Now that you've mentioned... There are very few birds, and no animals. No boars, wolves, deer, nothing."
Tristan clenched his fist. "Bleep!"
"What's wrong, sir?" Isolde asked.
"Is the forest cursed?" Emilios asked.
"No. It means there are more Tatars around. These folks eat anything and are good at hunting. If there are no animals, it's because they were eaten or they ran away. And why would there be many Tatars near our border? I'm telling you: they plan a raid."
"This scouting thing is cool," Aldric said. "I got a level and a point in Intelligence and Knowledge. Thank you, sir."
"Aren't Tatars supposed to stay on the plains, Sir?" Isolde asked.
"Last famous words," Tristan said.
"So, it's a no?"
"Yes, it's a no. They go everywhere. We must hurry; I want to inspect those tracks already."
"I think we've found them," Cedric said barely half a minute later, scrutinizing the ground.
"Spread around, leave about thirty feet between us, and comb the area. See if you find anything of interest."
The group split into individuals and smaller groups. Isabella kept near Pops, and Max near Aldric. Tristan, Cedric, and Dorian went on their own. The search went on for half an hour, and it was boring. Max and Emilios began complaining.
"Found something," Cedric said, picking up a horseshoe from a pile of freshly fallen leaves. Hearing him, everyone gathered around.
"Never saw anything like it," Tristan said, taking the object from Cedric and turning it around to have a better look. "It's really soft..."
"Rubber horseshoes," Isolde said. "It looks new."
"How?" Max asked. "There are no rubber trees around here."
"There are lots of plants that have rubber," Cedrin said.
"Better be that, 'cause if the Rebels managed to dig for oil, we're in trouble," Aldric said.
"Why?" Tristan asked.
"You can do a lot of advanced stuff with it."
"Like that poisonous gas?"
"Bleep!" Aldric gasped.
"There are two oil fields less than two hundred feet deep in this part of the world," Isolde said. "Sandra told me. I asked her how come we have gas for the choppers. One is near Krakow, in the protectorates, the other in Valachia."
"Which is allied with the Kingling," Emilios said.
"I think we have our answer. Oh, kay, folks, that's enough scouting. We found out a lot of things in a very short time. Text Sandra: the Tatars might mount a raid into the Protectorates. They have poisonous gas—can't be a coincidence. They have access to... what the dwarf said."
"No more signal, sir; we have to go back."
"Move," Tristan ordered, starting to jog at a faster pace than before. There was an inner gut feeling of urgency he couldn't explain. "Isolde?" he asked five minutes later.
"Zero... We should be in range by now."
"Sir, stop!" Max blurted. "The Dirhams are back. More of them. There!" he pointed west.
"How far?"
"A mile?"
"I don't smell anything," Cedric said, "and the wind is blowing toward us."
"Maybe you're sensing a trove, Max," Tristan said.
"They're moving. Parallel to us."
"Pops says the wind is wrong..." Isolde said, checking her phone.
"Ask him to explain."
"Says he has an Air affinity; he's a sort of wind mage. The wind is wrong. Like... pasteurized. His words."
"I don't feel any difference," Tristan said.
"So... assuming the Dirhams are the Tatars," Tristan said, "but you don't smell them. Can they mask their scents?"
"I don't know," Cedric said. "Bleep... The elves are back too!"
"Where?"
"Same direction... Crescent pattern... I think they're ambushing the Tatars. What do we do?"
"We run to the raft," Tristan ordered. "Fast!"
A burst of air hit his face while he took the first steps. Pops yelled something. Isolde didn't have the time to translate, but the meaning was obvious; they were moving faster. Pops had cast a speed buff on them.
Noises of fighting, shots, and screams ensued. When they reached the water, the first Tatar stragglers arrived and hit them, literally. A horse bumped into Dorian, who was projected into a tree. The Tatar fell and ran away; the horse stayed behind, shaking its head in befuddlement. The other few riders ignored them.
"I think the Elves are winning," Cedric said. "Are you OK?"
"Yeah... just a bruise on my ego," Dorian said, rubbing his shoulder.
"You mean on your photo," Isolde said.
"Ego, 'cause I saw it coming and thought I could duck."
Pops began shouting, gesturing wildly.
"Let's scram," Max said. "Where's the raft?"
"Here," Cedric said, waving his hands over a mound covered in vines.
The camouflage was perfect; Tristan was only a few feet away and couldn't tell the raft was there. They struggled to embark and launch. Emilios went on last. It started raining, and the rain brought fog. It was thicker on the land than on the water, which, in theory, helped them keep a low profile.
"Row slower, let it drift, or we'll be forced to land on that island again," Tristan said. "We shall pass it. The crossing will be easier past the rapids as well."
"Sure, boss," Max said. He was the most energetic rower, if not the fastest.
The previous experience showed. Crossing the river took longer, but was smoother and more precise. The raft touched ground half a mile lower than the end of the island, just after the rapids, and in a small cove surrounded by fir trees. The air was colder, and their breath let out faint white plumes. Tristan was the first to jump down, stretching while stepping deeper into the copse. The rest followed after dragging the raft ashore.
"Signal?" he asked Isolde.
She sighed and shook her head. Cedric's hand rested on his shoulder a moment later, but Tristan didn't need the warning; he was seeing it with his own eyes, through the space between the trees. The fog had lifted. Half a mile on their left, tucked in the mountain, a small fort surrounded by a village was no more. The ruins were still smoldering. A small steam barge that also had a mast was pulled at a makeshift dock, and around it were Tatars, in the hundreds. Horses grazed freely.
They knelt, hiding behind the trunks.
"T-the r-raid," Max whispered.
"Maps," Tristan ordered, pulling his own plastified map from the backpack.
"Why?" Isolde asked.
"It's not the raid," Tristan said. "Raids are big. It's the rearguard, watching the crossing point."
"Where's the raid, then?" she asked.
"That's the..."
"Million dollar question?" Max suggested.
Tristan nodded. His mind was racing to find a reason for the incursion, putting together the details, and as it went on, things looked more and more terrible. A small raid was about five thousand strong. One that didn't penetrate very far, looting the cattle, taking slaves. A raid that left no witnesses was probably at least ten thousand strong, and aimed at big targets.
"The target's Pressburg," he said. "If it falls, Gyor follows, and then Vienna."
"But this means war with us," Isolde said confidently. Who was sane enough to fight against the Outworlders? That was what she thought, and it was painted all over her face and in the color of her voice.
"If the Kingling takes Vienna, he'll give you back Pressburg, and you'll think you won," Tristan snorted. "His dream is to destroy Vienna; he doesn't care about Pressburg."
"Bleep. I know why we don't have a signal anymore!" Dorian exclaimed. "The enemy is smart, right? They know how our phones work. There are metal towers that bounce the signal. I bet they destroyed the next one to stop the news of the raid."
"Isolde, Max, Emilios, Aldric!"
"Yes, sir!" all blurted.
"Keep your voice down, for bleep's sake! Take the raft, hug the shore. Land again two miles east. Isolde, Emilios, you're the fastest. Run up this valley—"he showed on the map. "Go north until you find some signal. You have until tomorrow morning; after that, it will be too late. Max, Aldric, continue with the raft ten, maybe fifteen miles; there should be an Imperial fort there. Ask them to send troops."
"Where?"
"Here. Any Tatar reinforcements must be stopped before they cross, and worst-case scenario, we get them when they cross back, and free the slaves."
"They take slaves?" Isolde gasped.
"Yes. Go."
The three erupted into action, smoother and faster than he thought possible. Aldric knelt, pushing the raft, and his ability to move rocks seemed to work on sand as well; it made a bump that pushed the raft into the water. Isolde jumped on first, Aldric and Max next, and Emilios last, swimming for a few seconds to push the boat further.
"What about us?" Cedric asked a minute later, when the raft was already well on its way.
"We stay hidden and— Bleep!"
"The fuck?" a voice cursed at the same time.
A man had appeared nearby, a roll of toilet paper in his left hand. He was skinny and wiry, his eyes the restless type, always on the move. In a blink, the man unsheathed a revolver, aiming it at Tristan. Chekhov's gun activated instinctively, a split second before the man pressed the trigger, while the gun was still on the move.
The shot whistled inches from Tristan's left ear, hit a tree, then a second, and bounced back. The Outworlder patted his chest incredulously, then looked at his hand, covered in blood.
"Shit..." the man mumbled, falling down, his eyes showing their whites, the toilet paper rolling until it rested at Dorian's feet.
"Hey, I'm not the weakest anymore," Dorian rejoiced.
For a second, Tristan wondered if a gunshot could be heard half a mile away. The answer was yes.
"The Tatars are on the move," Cedric said. A thin line, growing by the second as more raiders mounted, charged toward them, weapons drawn.