Chapter 8

Estoc had forgotten how good it felt to be in the company of another lance of Armorites. For the past three days, she and her three lance-mates had been putting their armored frames to the test – sprinting along the winding paths of the coast to reach the Everwhite Forest to reinforce the beleaguered sylvan forces that were holding the passes against the orcish horde. The reports from refugees and carrier pigeon and crystal orb were all uniformly of disaster, terror and woe.

“These orcs know their business, don’t they?” Goodberry Riverwine – call sign Raptor – spoke over the magic crystal. “Twenty plus ships, nearly five thousand warriors, doing a forced landing in under a month?”

“Those numbers aren’t close to accurate, I’m sure,” Merrydew Kestrelwing – call sign Trebuchet – added. “Remember, panicking civvies always jack numbers up, way up, doubly so when they’re fighting cav. Double counting and shit.”

“Cut the chatter, armorites,” the lance-leader, Darlingjig Twirldancer – call sign Warhammer – spoke up. His armor started to slow in the crystal view that Estoc was peering at. He was clad in armor with a heavy left besagews to protect the vulnerable armpit of his armor, while the right arm carried an immense ... well, warhammer, as befitted his name. The besagews could retract to expose the mana-tipped explosive micro-crossbow launchers, and his back was vented with heavy mana-flare jets. It befitted his rank as the lance-leader, as he was in the heaviest armor, standing nearly nine feet tall and topping in at close to three hundred pounds. Estoc grumbled.

She hated being technically in what the Armotie Corps referred to as a ‘half-plate’ which was bullshit. Her armor could stand up to any big lumbering assault-

“Something’s ahead, Trebuchet, anything on scopes?”

“I’m reading five heat sigs, I think they’re civveis.”

“Everyone, off the road,” Warhammer barked.

Trebuchet thumped backwards, her shoulder mounted boulder lobbers tucked down low, while Raptor and Estoc both hurried into the bushes, kneeling down as lightly as they could. It took Warhammer a few seconds more to find a place to duck down. Despite the time of year, the whole place was dusted in snows, enough so that Estoc was glad for the warmth of her armor’s interior. Steam vented from the hound bascinet of her armor’s helmet, while more steam trickled from around Raptor’s shoulders. She hoped the misting in the air wouldn’t draw any eyes.

Around the snow dusted bend came a family of stag elves, their horns glinting in the air, their belongings artfully tucked against their back, their hooves bare and bloody. They looked terrified, glancing back over their shoulders. Warhammer stood, holding up his hand as he moved forward. The stag elves all froze, their furred legs tensing, their tiny deer-like tails twitching in fear. “Whoa, whoa, calm down, we’re from the ARC, we’ve been sent to reinforce the line at Staghorn Pass. What’s up ahead?” Warhammer’s voice was firm and gentle – while Estoc leaned back in her seat.

She, of course, could have gotten way more intelligence. Probably from the cute little stag-elf girl at the back of the group. Hey baby, did you grow those antlers this winter, or are they from the last one?

“T-There’s a lot of fighting at the keep, but last we heard, the orcs aren’t besieging it,” the stag elf’s patriarch spoke for his whole family. “But we want to get out of there. We don’t want our stories to be stories of death and suffering – no, we’re going to make it to the savanna, and the Worldtree, and sing songs of love and fellowship.”

‘ ... right,” Warhammer said. “Go on, get moving. We’ve got an appointment to keep with some green and ugly.”

The elves looked on in mutual incomprehension as the Armorites emerged from the woods and advanced forward.

An armorite lance on the move, when they needed to push themselves, could cover the same amount of land as a coterie of elves on horseback, and arrive without being utterly exhausted. Warhammer put that to the test, driving the entire lance to high risk maneuvers – cutting through the woods rather than taking bends in the roads, scrambling over rocks and leaping over small rivers. The effort left Estoc trembling and sweating in her cockpit, her wings buzzing with impotent frustration and terror – that many near spills left her flight anxiety kicking up as if she was some rank newbie. But the end of the day came at the same time as the end of the line as they emerged from the forest and headed up the foothills and to the high, narrow mountain peaks that stabbed up between this portion of the Everwhite Forest and the north. The fortress ahead of them was elf made and beautiful, even from a distance, even in the gathering twilight. Stone and magic ice, high towers, fluttering banners, and with enough raw magic radiating from it that it set off every sensor on her armor.

“We’ve got the go-ahead. Come on, Armorites, we’re nearly to stable and a chance to refresh,” Warhammer said.

“Thank the gods,” Trebuchet groaned.

“I hope the elves are pretty,” Estoc muttered.

“Have you ever met an elf that wasn’t pretty?” Raptor muttered, her voice amused.

“She’s got a point,” Trebuchet chimed in.

“Cut the chatter, girls,” Warhammer barked. Then, after a moment. “Seriously, Estoc, have you seen an elf lately.”

“Okay, fine, pretty and down to jam me up her-”

They reached the gates, which were rattling open. Elves in armor stepped out – mostly high elves in chainmail codpieces and bikinis. Estoc, who had been hanging out with goblins and humans for a while, blinked as her brain short circuited for a bit. She forgot just how... blatant elves were. An arctic elf with chalk white skin, dark purple hair, and elegant features advanced towards the lance. He was tall, slender, had a spear of shimmering, magically hardened ice, and a bow of crystal and moonlight lashed across his back, and was otherwise clad in nothing but high boots, gloves and a thong of bright red fabric.

“Welcome to Fortress Strigamax,” the elf said, holding his hand out to Warhammer, who took it and shook – showing off the skill the armorite had at controlling his armor. “We’ve been hoping for your arrival for days hence.”

“A pleasure to be here, Commander Iceflow,” Warhammer said. “My lance has been pushing hard the past few days and we could use baths and food. I could use a sitrep on enemy hostiles.”

“ ... you mean ... you ... wish to hear about the horde?”

“That is correct, sir.”

“Ah, yes. Well. Come!” Commander Iceflow turned and gestured airily for them to follow, while Trebuchet muttered in a direct line to Estoc.

“He’s pretty,” she said.

“Oh fuck off, Treb,” Estoc said, chuckling as a pair of stag elf girls walked over, flanking her armor and taking her arms.

“This way, honorable armorite,” one said, gently. “We’ve brewed up some warming baths, with fairie sized tubs.”

“It better not just be another soup bowl,” Estoc muttered under her breath.

Estoc groaned in perfectly carved, perfectly shaped mobile bathtub that was set down in the corner of the room next to a crackling fire. Trebuchet was moaning in pure pleasure as she laid on her belly on a small desk that had been whittled to her shape, while an elf masseuses used his pinkie to gently rub her back.

“Oh, Montressor, you’re amazing,” Trebuchet muttered.

“And do you need anything, my lady Estoc?” the masseuses asked.

“Nah, I’m good, man,” Estoc mumbled. “How many drugs did you put in this water?”

“ ... it’s magnesium sulfate, you dumb bitch,” Trebuchet said.

Estoc lifted her hand to flip Trebuchet off – but then the door to their room clacked open and Warhammer came buzzing in, dressed in his uniform and holding a stack of tiny papers under his arm. He landed next to the tub, smirking down at Estoc, who did not mind being oggled by her CO if said CO was a hot girl, so she glowered at him, her arm tucked over her breasts.

“You mind?” she asked.

“Well, if you want, I can leave the briefing for after the next orc attack,” Warhammer said. “Here’s some intelligence that Scopes got us using a scrying pool, with some notes from Commander Iceflow.” He held out a dossier to her. She took it, regarding the carefully reproduced sketches. The orcish base looked charmingly stylized, almost like a living cartoon, in the neat little drawing style of the fairies who worked at Scopes. She frowned, noting the lumber yard, the barracks, the strange alter with a giant stone skull on it. She jerked her chin.

“What’s the fuckin’ skull building?” she asked.

“Unknown,” Warhammer said. “But they appear to be establishing a large number of ... well, I almost want to call them pig farms, to feed their troops.”

Estoc frowned, flipping a page. Dozens of big burly looking cow men were heading into a mine, several emerging with sacks on their back. “Didn’t take them long to start mining,” she said.

“They’re going after whatever magical minerals are in the area, and centralizing them at their town center,” Warhammer said, looking down at his own copy of his dossier. “But those are what the locals are call peons – we think they’re a servile or slave caste of the orcish horde.”

“Big fellas,” Trebuchet said. “They can’t be that big, Scopes is fucking the scale again, right?”