Chapter 67 – Unexpected Promotion

“Prepare to go again!” called Kairon. “One minute!”

They were located about two hours outside the city, far enough that its glow was but a smudge in the distance. The pitch darkness of night was only broken up by the gentle illumination of the stars and moonlight above.

That darkness was precisely why Kairon had them all walk so far. Operation Shakeout needed a fair test.

In front of him, the warriors had been broken into three packs of around thirty each. At the head of the leftmost of the trio, Boney and three Red Claws waited. The night was just visible enough that Kairon could make out their forms. Not that he needed to with Boney’s pulsing leash. Wrath was practically running off him like a sieve.

“You heard master! Prepare!” yelled Boney. He surveyed the packs around him, then looked to the other claws leading the middle and right ones. The imps might have been physically ready, but the dust, mud, and debris covering their forms made them quite the sight. Or it would have had it been daytime.

A chorus of grunts and affirmations came from the ranks of warriors, their bodies still slick with sweat from the last run. Yet, Vorathrex had been conditioning and working them hard. Even the newer ones were recovering quickly, displaying the endurance they’d been building.

“Status?” asked Kairon.

Boney gave the group one last check, before wheeling around and banging claw to chest. “Ready for drill!”

Vorathrex and Nod had chosen to stay in the city, leaving Kairon as the only leadership with the contingent. He was fine with that. At least someone could get some rest today. Cupping his claws over another yawn, he tried to discern how late it was.

Two hours to dawn, maybe? This would likely be their last run. If they had to, they might be able to squeeze in one after, but he’d rather avoid that.

“Alright. Remember! Keep your focus on your fist head. Fist leaders, your focus is on the Red Claw you are assigned to. That’s the chain. With it, this works. Without it, well… We’ll have a repeat of last time.”

Kairon had considered using pack leaders like Fang in the mix, but so far no other warriors quite seemed ready for the role. And of course, Fang was absent—his fists were on scouting duty with the clans.

At his words, winces and hisses came from the warriors. More than a few were sporting new bruises as a result of tonight’s training runs.

“We do better!” snapped Boney. “Right?”

Beside him, fist leader Ram straightened. “Yes! Better! We follow close!”

Other huffs and grunts came from the masses. The city’s warriors were as tough as they were proud. Tonight was just another challenge to overcome.

“Also, keep in mind that today is rather calm,” added Kairon. “When we do this for real, it won’t be.” He paused to let that sink in.

No questions came. Just the breaths of imps and the shuffling of clawed feet in the hellscape terrain. “Boney. Do the claws know the new chain based system?”

“Yes!”

“Good, good.” After the last two runs had shown only marginal improvement, Kairon had come up with a more refined process. One that better utilized the night prowess of his elite task force.

The gathering was in a small clearing between the winding, corrupted stumps of trees that littered the wasteland. Turned over logs, piles of debris, and scattered bones made the terrain perilous to traverse in haste at night. Even more so when you had a city lord demanding an all out charge from three different angles.

It was exactly that task, however, that they needed to master. And fast.

Kairon drew in a deep breath, before giving the command. “Begin!”

Orders were shouted, pack leaders organizing their lines, before the Red Claws let loose their howls. Like wolves, the silence of the night was shattered by their high pitched calls.

Dust, sand, and dirt were kicked up as the ranks moved out. Immediately, the elite of his warriors set off. Three groups split into twelve, each following a single Red Claw.

From the front, the system began.

“Soft Left!”

“Jump!”

“Duck—hard right!”

Different instructions were called out, with the imps spacing out their lines more and more to make it more clear who was calling to who. The claw at the front was responsible for navigating the terrain. It was up to them to use their hard earned night training and senses to discern which obstacles needed relaying, and which the training grounds had prepared the warriors to adapt to. A careful balance.

Before this, Kairon had left them as the three larger groups with four claws responsible for each. Like ferrying sheep. But that had been a mess, and no matter what they altered it wasn’t working. He was fairly certain that this method would perform far better. A more focused chain for each warrior.

As he watched, a slow smile began to press at his lips. The improvement was immediately evident. With a snap, he called up Sovereign Eye to inspect the drill closer. Flying to their location, he let the stars and moon be his guide. Finding the twelve ranks flowing like water, he witnessed their training take hold. The sight of his creation—no, his army—was… intoxicating.

As the warriors pushed through the thickening tree line, they didn’t slow. Instead, the lines of imps shifted. In mere seconds they’d dashed through enough darkness to make a true charge viable. In mere minutes, Kairon could even refer to it as a tactical relocation.

All the while, the howls piercing the night grew and grew. As the warriors did well, the Red Claws demanded more. Faster and faster. He spotted Boney dropping to all fours, clawed hands and feet digging into the pitch black terrain. He stopped running, and began prowling.

Oh my. He’s never done that before…

Behind him, his line of warriors took no heed. They simply followed their leader, ranks on either side doing more of the same.

And those howls…

Kairon wasn’t sure when his elite task force had picked up the habit. Listening to them now, he was struck by their ferocity.

And their direction.

It seemed as if the Red Claws could let the wind carry their calls where they intended. A dozen beasts of wrath, embracing the night as if it was their home.

That’s when it hit him.

Wait? Is… Is it happening? Now? Of all times?

The city lord went very still, intently focusing on Boney.

From above, Kairon observed something truly wondrous begin to take root. Tonight’s intentions were centered around battle preparation. That was achieved. However, it seemed something far more fascinating was taking place.

Boney’s connection thrummed with power, a sense of rage and violence like no other billowing outwards. It grew and grew, until, for Kairon, the howls of the night were replaced by the whispers. The plane’s voice of wrath.

And, to his glee, the warriors and claws didn’t shrink back. Rather, they dashed faster. They moved quicker. They flowed more confidently behind the chain. The crimson sheen around Boney’s body flashed to life, the leash of energy yanking at the corruption within the domain. It called for power, and Kairon, with an instinctive gesture, unclenched a metaphysical claw he hadn’t realized he was holding taut.

The war drums of the plane beat to life, their music thumping and rhythm taking hold of the entire wasteland.

A swarm of warriors ran, a dozen Red Claws howled, and one monstrous little creature roared. He’d defied the night that refused him sight, defied the domain which refused him strength, and now, in front of his master and fellows, defied the very plane that had shackled him an imp.

What happened when a city lord didn’t treat a wrath imp like a wrath imp, but like an elite task force leader that lived and breathed the night like air? When you took that leader, planted him like a seed, and provided him the proper water and sustenance to grow.

The answer unfurled out before him.

Evolution.

***

Rosk chewed the bit of honey thistle, before grunting and spitting it out on the forest floor. He leaned back, his giant form resting against the tree trunk.

Around him, hundreds of clans warriors made camp in the forest. Most were asleep, catching rest before what tomorrow might bring.

By his side, Senna’s tiny body slept. Like the ground was but water and she a fish. He never understood how that little woman managed to do that.

As it stood, they were the only two elders accompanying the massive migration. Gael, along with the non combatants, had stayed behind. She had insisted, saying that someone needed to be responsible for the goings-on while they were away.

Rosk was just considering if the old woman might have had other motives for that decision when his thoughts were interrupted.

A ghastly howl broke the night. Distant—at least a day’s travel away.

He paused, the simmering coals in the ebbing fire no longer feeling so warm. A touch of an insidious sensation nipped at his mind, the faintest sense of violent whispers pressing at his thoughts. They told him to fight. To battle. To rouse the clans and continue their march. For a moment, he nearly did.

Yet, just as the massive man made to stand, the emotions faded. The alien rage filled desires slipped from his body. In their place, an uncertain frustration was left.

Growling, Rosk lay back against his sleeping bag.

“I’m coming for you, wicked Valdren beasts.”

***

Vorathrex woke with a start. In his mind, three spheres of power floated. Like a cosmic solar system.

On the outside was he. A raging planet of crimson.

Next, closer inwards, a much larger sphere orbited. A voidful circle of purple, practically twice his size.

And in the middle, a tower of spiraling gold.

He, Sythara, and the fledgling.

The big demon sat up, the warmth of the wall forgotten.

“Something is… What?!”

Immediately, he strained his senses. Breathing in sharply, Vorathrex allowed the wind to flow into his nose. With it came the scents. Scents that told him what should and should not be.

It only took him moments to discern what they were saying. Eyes widening, he looked inside. At that place with the spheres of power. Before his very gaze, a crimson bead that spun and spun. One that smelled of wrath. That even just sensing had enough focused rage and violence that it made Vorathrex want to howl.

Only, what happened next stopped him short.

From the tower in the middle, a golden tendril peeled off. It rotated around that bead, flowing into it. The aura it gave off changed. From the wrath he knew so well to… something new. It still was of wrath, but also of that terrifying golden power.

“How did… It’s actually… And why… Why is it turning black?” he whispered. The massive general was wide awake now. Watching in horror as a color no demon’s power should ever be grew. A tainted, blackening tendril winked in and out of existence, before melding into a gold and crimson sphere of rage and power.

“Fledgling!” he roared, arms trembling with unbridled fury. “What have you done?! This is not how it should be!”

In the mostly deserted city, no answer came. Just the echoes of one oversized demon’s rage.

***

From within the citadel, Sythara turned in her slumber. Her tentacles flicked, several of her remaining shapes quivering. Opening one eye, she unfurled her shadowy bed of tendrils just enough so that she could see outside the tower.

“Oh. Oh my. Just what have you done now, my most interesting child?”

***

In another plane, a leather-bound book opened. The pages flipped unbidden. With a violent crimson light, a new name was written. Each letter flowed from one to the next, until all were a connected line of blood and script.

Boney The Night Caller — Rank 1