Azaleen shifted a hopeful gaze to him. “And that might be?”
“My scouts have uncovered more vaults in the Chattahoochee-Oconee Forest area, along with a ghost town that sprang up after the War of Ruin, only to become uninhabited sometime later. They are on their way south with truckloads of supplies, ammunition, medicine, and some tech gadgets they aren’t familiar with. Looks like the preppers emerged, keeping their vaults for storage, and built a new town of log houses. Can’t say what happened to them after that.”
“That’s good, Mr. Shaw,” Azaleen heartily approved. The story wasn’t a new one. The years after the war had been rife with conflict and rampant with epidemics, or so her parents told her. She recalled that her first steps had been taken inside Grandpa Wynn’s vault before the family moved permanently to the surface.To think, this entire kingdom has been stitched together in my lifetime,she thought in wonder.What would Father do?
Education Secretary Rosalind Keane interrupted her contemplation. “I propose we send out a decree that all libraries in the kingdom secure their books in the nearest bunker for safekeeping. I don’t trust the Iron Realm barbarians. They care nothing for literature. If they can’t shoot it, burn it, or fashion it into metal, it’s of no use to them. We must preserve civilization.” No one was fooled by the overweight elder’s colorful attire or the sentimental locket hanging from a chain around her neck. The respected teacher lifted a defiant chin, ready to take on an artillery brigade single-handedly to safeguard knowledge.
“A very prudent idea,” Azaleen concurred. “Sabine, will you compose letters with instructions? I’ll have them sent out at once.” Her aide nodded.
Azaleen didn’t believe every citizen of the Republic was a barbarian. Surely, artists, poets, musicians, and book readers lived there too. She recalled years ago, when Verdancia was still on speaking terms with the Unity Party administration, that they had shared some of the same values. Their countries had traded goods, information, and goodwill.It’s Irons—the rustin’ Dominion Party and their expansionist policies.
“Now, let’s talk strategies,” Azaleen stated, turning the conversation to tactical warfare. “General Stark, I give you the floor.” She glanced at Eldrin, who’dremained appropriately quiet. “Listen closely,” she whispered. “You’re about to learn a lot.”
Behind her, Sabine quietly slipped out to attend to the letters. A servant entered with a tray of beverages. The meeting continued until the sun sank in the west and the lamps were all lit.
Chapter nine
The Cypress Gambit
Northwest Verdancia, the same evening
General Roderic Calder sat on a folding stool, knees set wide, outside his tent in a pasture two kilometers from Bethel Springs. Frogs croaked out their songs, accompanied by katydids and crickets. The height of the grass and the profusion of saplings testified to how long the cattle had been absent. He poured another cup of coffee and set the tin pot back in the embers of a low-burning campfire. Dusk hung in the sky like a curtain waiting to fall.
Roderic checked his pocket watch: 7:50 p.m.—almost time. He took a moment to study the sterling silver heirloom, which still kept perfect time after nearly two centuries. Etched on the cover flew the proud falcon, a jagged mountain as its backdrop. Flipping the timepiece over, he read the inscription—By Honor, We Rise.He tucked it back into his uniform pocket.
“General, sir!”
Straightening, Roderic glanced up at his adjunct trotting through the rows of tents, his boots flattening any grass that still dared raise its head amid the orderly chaos of ten thousand soldiers, their mounts, and machinery. Only then did he notice the laughter, insults, and murmured conversations of the camp, the whinnies and clangs, as a thousand tendrils of smoke rose in tight swirls into the darkening sky.
Lieutenant Jerry Rushing slid to a halt, snapping a quick salute. His sun-kissed ginger curls wilted with sweat around an angular jaw rough with stubble. “I’ve got the latest scouting report.”
The young officer thrust a small scrap of paper at Roderic, who unrolled it.
“They’re camped fifteen miles north of here, following the old highway route, just as you predicted, sir.” Rushing’s breath heaved, causing Roderic to wonder how far he’d run with the missive in hand.
“Excellent news, Lieutenant.” Roderic tucked the note into a pocket. “Round up the senior officers. It’s time to put our plan into action.”
A thunderous boom split the calm air, accompanied by a column of fire and a broad cloud of smoke. A few pebbles, splinters, and ashes rained down on the camp, startling the horses and drawing gasps of awe from the troops. “The bridge?” Rushing asked as he gaped at the fireball.
“I sent a demolition team as soon as we arrived,” Roderic said, and took another sip from his tin cup. The campfires and the last ribbon of red in the west were now the only light. The general glanced at Rushing. “My officers?”
“Yes, sir! Right away.” Snapping out of his blast-induced trance, the lieutenant rushed off to collect Calder’s senior staff.
Roderic tossed the last dregs of his coffee into the fire, making it sputter, sending sparks fleeing. He wasn’t worried about disturbing the locals; Bethel Springs had been deserted for years. Now it was nothing but crumbling buildings with tattered billboards, a sad reminder of an era long since lost.
In the next few minutes, he’d be making the most significant decisions of his lifetime—more monumental than choosing a wife or a career, both of which had been picked for him. But Lord Thorne Calder wasn’t here to call the shots this time. Success or failure rested on Roderic’s shoulders alone.
One by one, the colonels and majors opened stools, taking seats around the campfire, albeit not too close. They needed the light; the heat they could do without.
When the last one arrived, Roderic spoke to them with the authority of his rank and the title he was heir to. “Gentlemen, the moment of truth lies before us. General Garcia’s force—eight times our own—has been spotted. They willovertake us on the morrow, but we will have laid a trap that will, at worst, cripple them, and, at best, end this war before it’s begun. The bridge was just destroyed, and they’ll be forced to cross the Cypress Creek swamp.”
“What about General Longstreet?” asked Major Hawk-Eye McKinley. He was a big man, around forty, with a large family back in Stonevale. Roderic found him to be a competent field officer, if a little cautious. Prudence had its place, only not here and now.
“We’ve received no word from Longstreet,” he replied calmly. “His forces will either arrive from Marchland or they won’t, but we can’t wait. This is the moment to strike. If we do not, there’ll be no other opportunity to stop the Iron Army’s advance on Tupelo, and eventually Marchland and Stonevale—even Nelanta. It’s now or never, gentlemen. We either go down in history as heroes, like the Spartan Three Hundred, or as cowards like Neville Chamberlain, who appeased and conceded, allowing a tyrant to grow nearly too powerful to contain.”
His officers stared at him with blank eyes. Roderic forgot that, while experienced military men, most hadn’t access to libraries such as the one at Highcrest Hall, nor the inclination to read the histories. Yet he was determined that his name would be recorded in a book that others would study for generations to come. That book would not label Roderic Calder a coward.
“So, we proceed with the plan without him, with only our ten thousand?” asked Colonel Dexter Pickering, the pallor of terror veiling his face. The old gent, a friend of Lord Thorne’s, had been awarded his rank through political connections and had never seen actual combat. Roderic feared he might suffer a heart attack before fighting began.