The webgate in front of me hummed and churned. Its blue arches warping light and space at the centre, generating a white hue. Only one glows, the other two forever lost. One, torn apart in a desperate attempt to keep the Dogs from coming in while the other lays silent. Forever dark when it used to be the brightest. A loss that not even I can shake off

  The broken one maintains my attention. I was the one who made it happen; I was the one who ordered my men to destroy the gate if we lost the city. The second one, I’m not sure how that is turned off; perhaps the people in the Crystal Kingdom destroyed their webgate when all else is lost. They sacrificed a sacred artefact for the Empire to survive. I commend them, even if it wounds our pride. How we are so desperate to destroy what was given to us by the Gods. It has to make someone wonder if we are truly worthy of their gifts if we are incapable of taking care of them. Maybe, we should never be given them in the first place. No, best not dive into that line of thought. Wars have an unnecessary and unkind cost to them, I should know better than cast doubt on who we are.

  This room is dull, always void of art and colour compared to the rest of the cathedral, which houses those magical beauties. I see why that is the case; this place is a tomb of the past. These portals, devices that used to strike me in awe. Now makes me sombre, guilty of the choices I’ve made. Some say those gates were common during the Forgotten Era, that a lowly peasant could just walk into them and go home at a moment's notice. But to see them like this, guarded by the church and only allowing a few people to go through. A commodity of the past becoming a sacred artefact of the present.

  Two Pretorian Guards stand at the ready by the entrance of the webgate, while a nun prays at the right side of the arch. Chanting and singing hymns for the Gods to give our guests a safe passage. Before I was given access to the church to stand before the great gates, I had some helpers fit me into my new armour, a symbol of my authority. Handcrafted to fit me and me alone. Black plated armour with gold trimmings, my helmet and chest plate donning the Empire’s crest and a symbol of a slain dragon. A remarkable feat of artistry and armouring, it is armour that provides ample protection while being light and movable.

  However, the armour doesn’t serve a practical function. Not anymore. It won’t protect me from the Dogs and their new weapons. But even if it doesn’t serve me as armour, it has a use. People need a symbol, an idea to cling to when they march into certain death. This armour is the bulwark against the Dog tide and their relentless charge. The troops need hope, a future to fight for. That is what my armour represents

  It is the armour every kid dreams of wearing; it is an armour of status and power. The armour of heroes and legends. Yet it is no different from typical issued armour. I don’t feel powerful; I don’t feel that I can move mountains with a thought or an idea. I am just a soldier, one who will have to cross enemy territory to calm my soldiers down and hopefully to convince them to get back to fulfilling their duty.

  The light of the webgate ripples, changing to a dark brown colour. Antlers emerge from the portal, nearly touching the tip of the arch. A hand so big that a close fist is almost as large as a horse's torso, touches the ground. Its knuckles are scarred and full of calluses. A moose-like face pierces the portal, the qwell smiles as they slowly enter the cathedral. Careful enough as to not have its lumbering body bump or damage anything.

  Qwells are large creatures, on average being ten feet tall from hoof to the top of their antlers. Walking on all fours, their monstrously large hands supporting their enormous bodies. Their hind legs are small, while they can theoretically stand up straight. Doing so will only cause physical harm to themselves. But despite all of that, they are hulking creatures, their body and arms well defined by muscles. It wouldn’t be uncommon for anyone to mistake male and female qwells as one or the other. They do all look the same.

  This one is larger, a mature bull of their species. He must be around fourteen feet tall, and from the looks of things, they are old for their kind. Their right cheek is missing bits of flesh, exposing their teeth. Their arms are missing fur, exposing their thick hide.

  ‘General.’ It greets with a low bellow, their Ocinian accent thick and rough to the ears.

  I straighten myself in their presence. ‘An honour to meet you, I heard you are arriving, but I didn’t catch your name.’

  The qwell licks their nose ring. From my understanding, the nose ring is a staple of qwell culture. Usually indicating their eagerness to mate, or if they are going to go through rut. Each ring has a different meaning, but I am unaware of every one of them except for the common two.

  ‘Kall me Kaptain Gir’ad. I kan tell that you are heading off to battle.’ He breathes out. I try to not pull a face as the odour of chewed-up vegetation seeps into my nostrils.

  ‘I am,’ I reply as calmly as possible. Even if it is hard to talk to a creature of immense size and strength. ‘I’m heading off to deal with a certain problem that requires my attention. Though in all honesty, I thought a Qwell Commander was going to meet me here, not a Captain.’

  Gir’ad huffs, ‘a miktake, nothing more. But I did bring two hundred of my men to fight for the Empire.’

  ‘Is that so? I suppose you are already briefed on what you will be dealing with?’

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  ‘The wolfkin? I heard mukh about the kle’van, a problem whikh demand we deal with now, rather than never.’

  I nod to him. At least we have something we can agree on. ‘I’ll be honest to say that I didn’t plan my defence with your soldiers in mind. Especially not when such a large number of qwell are coming to the Empire’s aid.’

  ‘Our aid will only be temporary, General. We kame here to fight and kill their leader in one final battle and leave if we win. The elders are reluktant and worried about bringing the majority of our Da’hkin here, even when they are very young. Our help will be limited, but we will fight for the Empire either way.’

  Young soldiers? I don’t like the sound of that, though free aid is free aid. I can even use their efforts to either slow down the Dogs or at least cause enough damage to their war effort.

  ‘Your men under your control, are they going to be a problem?’

  Steam rushes out of Gir’ad’s nose; he lowers himself so he can look me in the eyes directly. ‘We are bred for war, General. They are young, but they kan fight! I doubt the wolfkin will be able to handle a proper Da’hkin kharge. Not when the young are nearing rut!’ He laughs to himself.

  ‘Don’t doubt them, the Dogs are a lot more resourceful than you can imagine, and I bet they will cause you some issues.’

  The qwell raises a brow before licking their nose ring. It seems they are surprised to hear me urging caution to them. ‘Aye, I will. Now tell me about them, will they talk?’

  ‘They will talk if it’s about battle conditions. Though, unless you want to waste their time, don’t expect them to surrender if given the option.’

  ‘And their king?’

  ‘Competent, and extremely dangerous. Name’s Marak, if you care to know.’

  ‘Killing two Pretorian Guard type of threat?’

  I stay silent, not wanting to give away something secret. I suppose rumours of Bunker Hill will spread far and wide, especially if a ship from the Dragon Fleet was also slain that day. I shouldn’t focus on how bad the news being out is; right now, the war is my priority.

  ‘Ah, a killer.’ The qwell says to themselves to answer their own question before continuing. ‘Marak, the wolfkin, they are far more unique than what I expekt from their kind. Half-blind too!? There is komething unordinary about him, and I want to know.’

  ‘He is a Dog, the only thing special about him is that he is dangerous, and you should not underestimate him or his forces. A lot of good men and women die undermining him and his kind, don’t make the same mistake.’

  Gir’ad frowns, though it dies down as he realises that I am not talking down on him but giving him a heads up. There is something strange about this qwell, something that feels off. I expected a lot of yelling and fist banging on the ground, yet he comes off as calm. Inquisitive, even though I can’t deny that their presence is terrifying.

  ‘We won’t undermine him. Though before we head off to begin our hunt. I need to know their general lokation.’

  ‘They are located down south of here, we call it the northern front in case you feel confused. If you want some pointers for his exact location or a rough estimate. Rerth, Maldrix, and Fort Phirehammer are good places to start. The Dogs move around, and you are more likely to encounter their scouts before facing their main force.’

  ‘Do they follow any doktrine that I need to know?’

  ‘They copy us mostly; however, they do have a new weapon. A handheld ballista that can pierce through armour. From what I gather, they are calling these new weapons crossbows. From our engagements with them, they seem to have pretty small formations that are spread out. Some Dog Commanders might prefer some different strategies, but with Marak. I think it is fair to expect them to prefer to engage you up close and personal.’

  Gir’ad nods, thinking about the information I’ve provided him. ‘Thank you, that will be all I need. Talk to you later, General.’

  I nod to him as he leaves through the portal, ducking his head to not hit the top of the arch. For a quick meeting, it is surprising how smooth it went down. I just hope they deal with Marak soon; hopefully, they get to him before the others meet their fate.

  I can only hope.