Arcane Exfil

Three weeks of staring at the same view of Alexandria’s rooftops, and today, freedom.

Not that their suite wasn’t comfortable – they’d lived like kings. Well, probably not on the same level as King Armonde, but even then it wouldn’t change the fact that they had been birds in a cage. Outside was a real city, one that gave them exploratory blue balls.

Cole’s watch read 8:55, give or take. After three weeks around magic, baking in alien fields and being subjected to another planet’s magnetic field, it was anyone’s guess how far off it really was. Probably not that much, though, given the sunlight coming through the library windows. Should be about time for the 9AM bell to ring.

Of course, Miles couldn’t just wait patiently. He hadn’t stopped pacing by the window, until now. “Hey, there’s that car again.”

Cole leaned back in his plush seat. “Man, you’re tripping. Celdorne ain’t advanced enough to have cars. Besides, I’ve been staring out these windows every day. Nothin’ but carriages and those weird-ass horses.”

“Trippin’? Why don’t ya come see for yourself, then? Look – Warren’s getting out.”

Cole hauled himself up and joined Miles at the window. Mack and Ethan had their faces plastered along the glass as well.

Cole glanced down at the vehicle. Sure enough, it was a car. Not as pretty as a Model T, but getting there. It looked like someone had started with a horse carriage, stripped away everything unnecessary, and rebuilt it around a combustion engine. But unlike any engine Cole had seen before, it had wiring that snaked from a brassy – aerochalcum – container of mana crystals to runic arrays etched into the metal. Whatever the runes did, it probably replaced components, given the compact nature of the setup.

“Well, looks like you weren’t bullshitting,” Cole said. He turned to glance at the others. “You know what this means, right?”

“That we could make a fortune introducing assembly lines?” Mack asked.

“Among other things.” Cole grinned. “Looks like they’ve got the basic concept down, but there’s gotta be a reason we haven’t seen these before. Must cost a fortune to build.”

“Them crystals, for one. Sure ain’t cheap.” Miles stepped back from the window. “And all them runes? Hell, no wonder we haven’t seen much of ‘em.”

Ethan nodded. “Those runes could be doing anything. Not to mention how hard it’d be to even make them – considering we know nothing about making runes in the first place.”

Cole hummed. It was true, but that didn’t deter him. “Exactly my point though. Sure, the magic stuff’s expensive. Enigmatic, yeah. But that could change if we study ‘em. Mass production would be perfect.”

Mack had already caught his excitement. “Shit, if they’re already mixing magic with machinery, I bet we could optimize the whole system. 50 crowns a month ain’t gonna be shit by the time we’re through with runes.”

“Magic tech startups,” Ethan mused, staring out at the street. “Though I’m willing to bet those Istraynian expeditions are where the real money is. Literally, and for technology.”

“If you can get past the demons,” Miles snorted. “And whatever else crawled out of those ruins.”

The door opened. Warren stepped in with a slight smile, brighter than the poker face that colored his introduction yesterday.

“Gentlemen. I trust you’re ready for your tour of OTAC?”

“More than ready,” Cole said, moving away from the window. “Three weeks is a long time to stay cooped up.”

“It commands attention, does it not?” Warren tilted his head toward the window.

“First one we’ve seen,” Cole said. “Didn’t even know Celdorne had cars.”

“The Forëa Series 8.” He sounded like a guy flexing his new Porsche. “So you’re familiar with autos? You’ll get a proper look at it shortly. It shall be our transport to OTAC.”

Cole followed Warren down the castle’s grand staircase, the bell ringing once they reached bottom. The morning sun caught the polished marble just right, making the whole entrance gleam like he’d just opened up a legendary loot box.

“‘Bout time we got to see the front gate,” Miles muttered behind him. Their suite might’ve been cushy, but nothing could ever be more cushy than freedom.

The Series 8 waited outside. Up close, the engine setup made a lot more sense. The engine compartment was exposed, but clean. Instead of a radiator, it must’ve used ice and wind magic, based on the blue and green etchings. Core was still just an internal combustion engine though – not much difference on the outside aside from the runes, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it did something like replacing spark plugs with fire magic, or used wind magic for pseudo-turbochargers.

“I assure you, it rides with a grace surpassing any coach I have thus encountered,” Warren said.

“That’s a high bar,” Mack said dryly.

Warren scoffed, “Indeed, it might have seemed unlikely in the past decade, but we have made great strides in both our roads and the undercarriage design since.”

Cole hopped in the car. The soft leather on his ass and a single look at the road was all he needed to know Warren wasn’t kidding. He hadn’t paid much attention from the suite windows, just assumed it was cobblestone like any other Victorian city.

Instead, it looked like crushed stone – had to be at least three different grades getting progressively finer toward the surface. The whole thing was sealed under something that gave it a uniform, pale finish, though the granite aggregate was still visible beneath. Maybe the design and color wasn’t intentional. But if it was, the Celdornians were a whole lot smarter than he’d initially given credit for, even on top of the shit he’d seen in their relatively advanced infirmary.

The road past the exit opened up into wide, tree-lined boulevards, almost like a copy of DC’s federal district. The late Alexander must’ve been one hell of a globetrotter – a smart one at that, seeing he’d basically cherry-picked the best parts of major cities back then to design Alexandria.

Granite facades and classical colonnades breezed past – classical revival. A lot of marble, a lot of columns, but with a not-so-subtle hint of gilded grandeur.

“You’re familiar with OTAC’s duties?” Warren turned his head toward Cole.

“Yeah, somewhat. You guys hunt demons, but I take it that’s only the tip of the iceberg.”

Warren nodded. “Indeed. We do not serve under the strictures of His Majesty’s Armed Forces. Our work is carried out by small teams, sent to act where precision is required. Of late, we have been tasked to retrieve artifacts from Istrayn – items of little known purpose, yet of incredible import. At other times, our charge is to eliminate greater threats or secure what must not be lost.”

“What kinda threats we talking about?” Mack asked.

“Demon commanders. Cultist cells. Yet I dare say you’ll find our expeditions no less demanding; the ruins are deep within the enemy’s territory.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Cole exchanged with the others. Different package, but the core mission still sounded awful familiar. “Sounds like our kinda work. Small teams, surgical strike.”

“Is that so?” Warren’s tone held an inflection at the end. “Then you understand. What service have you rendered in this ‘United States Army’? Assassinating enemy commanders? Securing artifacts?”

Cole tilted his head. Close enough. “Yeah, something like that. But we weren’t fighting demons, that’s for sure. Mostly desert and urban ops.”

“Perfect,” Warren said. “The Istraynian Wastes are much the same. Desert ruins. City remnants scattered throughout.”

Cole sighed. “More desert, huh? Wonderful.”

“Consider it…” Warren paused, “…playing to your strengths. Though unlike human adversaries, demons have little nuance – perhaps none at all. They are driven by pure malevolence. They have no morale to speak of; their retreats governed only by the tactical reasoning of whatever commander controls them.”

“Death machines that don’t give a damn when they’re shot at. Well ain’t that lovely,” Miles muttered.

“Just means we can’t predict them like people,” Mack said.

“Eh, I don’t know about that.” Cole shook his head. “They’re smart enough to pass as humans. Presumably, they can also look the part without uncanny valley type shit. They can think like people, I bet. More like… uh, Ted Bundy though – like a psychopath, rather than any normal person. Creative and crafty as they need to be, with no limits on morality.”

The car turned onto the main road through the city: four lanes in each direction, separated by a tree-lined median. Painted lines separated carriages from cars. One of the intersections had lights that cycled between a simple green and red, with the hues fading like timers.

“A psychopath, yes. Aptly put,” Warren agreed. “Though they may ape the habits of men – perhaps speaking as though reason guides them, or pleading for their lives when exposed – they remain what they have always been: creatures of malice. Soulless demons. Beneath the facade lies neither conscience nor compassion. Against such malice, neither can we entertain such ideals.”

Then, the Series 8 entered downtown proper. The wide streets turned into something almost paradisiacal – perhaps even to the point that it could’ve convinced Bob Ross to paint his first city.

Warren gestured at the crowds. “For their sakes.”

The first thing Cole noticed was a father teaching his kid how to count change at a stand selling some pretty tantalizing skewers. Next was a couple by a fountain, sharing the happiest smiles he’d ever seen. It was the quintessential apocalyptic movie preface: normal people living normal lives, completely oblivious to what lurked beyond – hell, even inside their walls.

Cole could only nod along. “Yeah, for their sakes.”

“They look happy,” Mack said quietly. “Probably don’t even think about what’s out there.”

Warren’s reply was confident. “As it should be.”

It was a simple trade; a logical trade. He got his hands dirty so the world could stay clean. But fighting against demons? Difficulty aside, it was almost refreshing. No moral gymnastics needed when fighting against pure evil.

The cultists, on the other hand – that was the real tragedy, wasn’t it? Demons merely followed their nature, like rabid dogs. These specimens, au contraire, had tasted of knowledge and life but had chosen damnation regardless. That was the thing about free will. It allowed the perversion that was absolute betrayal.

To look upon your fellow man and willingly sacrifice them to entities of pure malevolence… shit, Judas’ silver seemed almost quaint in comparison. Cole didn’t know which was harder to stomach: that they were once human, or that they’d willingly abandoned that humanity.

“Check that out,” Miles said, nodding toward the docks coming into view as they exited the downtown area.

Cole glanced that way. Huh. The sight was so alien it brought him back to reality. A team of minotaur dockworkers moved heavy crates – not quite shipping containers, but the kind that would’ve needed a forklift otherwise. Come to think of it, he hadn’t yet seen any goblins, orcs, or trolls yet. Either they didn’t exist here, or, rather classically, they were under the Demon Lord’s forces.

But as intriguing as the minotaurs were, they weren’t what fully caught his attention. “Those cranes,” he muttered as the Series 8 turned onto the elevated thoroughfare that ran parallel to the port complex. The road gave them a clear view of the docks below, separated from the actual port by a good hundred yards of clear zone and a short earthen wall.

The layout was fairly standard – lattice booms, winches, counterweights. But the booms should’ve buckled under those kinds of loads. Apparently the cranes just said fuck it. Probably had something to do with the shiny silvery metal they were made of, plus those purple-colored runes. Whatever they did, he couldn’t guess as easily as the blue and red elemental runes he’d often seen.

“Notice anything interesting?” Ethan asked.

“Yeah. Their stress tables must be crazy as hell.” Cole watched another load go up – this one the size of a full shipping container. Then, his eyes shifted towards the pulleys. “Eight-part line though. They ain’t tryna brute force everything with magic.”

“Alexandria’s port authority maintains exacting standards,” Warren explained, bringing them around a bend.

The operational areas below were clearly marked, with dedicated lanes for the minotaur teams and strict zones around each crane’s radius. Even from up here, the organization was obvious – not OSHA standard, perhaps, but nothing to balk at given the insane circumstances this civilization had to work with.

A sharp whistle cut through the air. One of the minotaur teams cleared a zone as a crane began repositioning.

“Yeah,” Cole agreed. “Pretty exacting, alright.”

“Celdorne’s craft stands above all others on Tenria,” Warren continued. “This is the work of the Office of Thaumaturgy, built on relics recovered during our expeditions. Yet all of it, every device and invention, rests upon the foundation King Alexander laid when this kingdom was born. That you hail from the same Earth as he… There is more to show you, though I suspect even our finest works may seem humble to your eyes.”

The port’s cranes faded behind them as the city bounds gave way to open farmland. Neat rows of crops stretched out on both sides of the road, dotted with barns and the occasional manor house. Kinda seemed like the old South, or maybe the English countryside, though neither comparison quite captured it. Either way, Cole had to snap a picture. For all of Celdorne’s marvels, the machines they’d left behind were no more impressive than this.

After a few miles of traveling at a moderate pace, Warren gestured to their first stop – a sprawling residential district that mirrored any suburban town back home. The houses were a healthy mix of everything from Colonial to Victorian. More importantly – at least to Cole, the neighborhood gave Hollywood Hills vibes. Celdorne definitely didn’t cut corners when it came to its Slayers.

“These are the personnel quarters,” Warren said. “Housing will be assigned to you once processing is complete. We’ve numerous vacancies; you will have the opportunity to select what suits you best.”

Cole frowned. “‘Numerous vacancies’, huh?”

“His Majesty believes in preparation.”

Cole relaxed his shoulders. For a second there he’d thought it meant the usual mission attrition – not bad under modern standards, but typically high for fantasy settings. But nah, apparently it was just the king making sure his premier demon hunters lived comfortably. Though… it did make him wonder about the other vacancies Warren wasn’t talking about. Slayers allegedly had a very high survival rate, but who knew if that was just government propaganda?

The road leading out of town brought them to more farmland. Past that and the occasional settlement stood... the fuck? The Great Wall of Flak Towers? Cole glanced at the back seat. Everyone else seemed just as dumbfounded.

The common image of a guard tower typically evoked some skinny structure with a ladder attached to it, accommodating a few men. These couldn’t be further from that image. These were brutalist monstrosities – massive constructs at least a hundred feet tall, with enough room for a dreadnought’s artillery.

Warren caught their reaction. “The Final Line. These walls endured for generations, unyielding, until we learned to master Istraynian concrete. By His Majesty’s will, they were strengthened. Yet by His grace, their strength has never been tested. I pray it remains so.”

A fine prayer, but a damn harrowing one in its unspoken implications. Even from a distance, the towers were massive as shit – and he’d seen the old G-towers in Vienna. The pale concrete had a sheen to it, kinda like the coating on the roads, though who knew if that was where their similarities ended – or began. The towers formed a line stretching beyond sight, stopping at the beach and extending to the horizon in the other direction.

As they crested a short hill, an expansive complex finally came into view – easily several square miles of military and bureaucratic infrastructure. The main headquarters stood at its heart, a tall E-shaped building that reminded Cole of the original War Department design, before the Pentagon. Various other facilities spread out around it, with the kind of setback distances and security measures that suggested some serious work went on here.

“Sheesh,” Mack grinned, sitting up in his seat for a better view. “Hell of an operation.”

“One befitting its purpose,” Warren replied. “Welcome to OTAC.”