The Marshall Chronicles
His Last Wishes
In the crypt of the subway tunnel, Commissar Alistair Lorne heard the Guard.
Their footsteps reminded him of music. Rubber soles scraped like a finger caressing a guitar string, sharp and hallow throughout the platform. Young leather chaffed in a startling contrast of trumpets playing underwater. When it dissipated, the shoestring tips, made of penny-brass, chimed against the floor because the strings draped out from their knot. Rust Maracassed underfoot.
Heronimov's 13th separated the shadows and crossed the platform. Alistair counted twenty-five men, adorned with Warmaster Heronimov's eagle head on their shoulder guards, sifting towards him. Seven limped over fallen debris, favoring either leg. Their visors looked busted and cracked. Fatigues were frosted gray from cement dust. Rifles hung loose on shoulder straps, glittering with scratches, and electrician's tape rolled tight over their muzzles.
The closest soldier saluted Alistair. "Heronimov's 13th reporting Commissar Lorne."
"Where's the Warmaster?"
He pointed towards another subway entrance. "Him and his retinue are coming eastward, along the city power grid." His voice strained. "He deployed the 104th Armored to keep Machinedramon busy, but frankly, I don’t think its working."
"And you?" Alistair asked.
"We traveled by train. Colonel Rienne thought Machinedramon wouldn't notice a couple freight cars coming out of Puppetmon's ruin. About quarter mile in the colonel's car imploded like a mushroom and derails the rest of us. We thought waiting still wouldn’t attract to much attention." The soldier shook his head. "The Mechanorimon came down on us like a hailstorm in fast forward."
"Who's in charge?"
"Colonel Rienne died in his train car. We had Lieutenant Arnold; a Mechanorimon pulled him apart. Some sergeant tried to form us up in some hospital, turns out the place was crawling with the damned things looking for the Dig destined, and he died shitting."
Alistair cocked an eyebrow. "Shitting?"
The soldier looked at him. "Heart attack inside the john."
"Any living officers?"
The soldier offered his gloved hand. "Corporal Umberto Hemming."
Alistair shook it. "Commissar Alistair Lorne."
"So if you don’t mind me asking Commissar," began Hemming, "What's so important here that costs seventy of us?"
Alistair frowned. "Only Warmaster Heronimov's would know."
"Let's hope we live to find out."
Formalities done, Commissar Lorne and the fragments of Heronimov's 13th waited for Warmaster Heronimov's. They spread along the subway platform. All the debris: the ceiling fragments, rail spikes, cement, and broken glass settled on the platform. Like an invisible wall, the clutter reached towards the cold-steel tracks, yet disappeared where it would hang over the railway edge. Alistair gazed until tunnel darkness consumed his vision. Four bodied soldiers stripped debris from the light flares and relit the burners, casting a blushed glow, their shadows growing against the wall. Hemming was directing other men to scalp for gear.
Alistair crossed to him. "Find anything?"
"A couple flares inside an aide station." Hemming said. "One of the guys just got a working med kit, and that should patch up five of us."
"If there's anything I can do—"
"I know Commissar. I know." Hemming bowed his head. "Doubt that anything but Master Heronimov can help us now, but since we're here I guess we'll die standing."
"Nonsense."
Hemming gazed down the subway tunnel. "Hell, I'd give up my rifle to hear that damn Chihuahua of his."
"That's Priest Chihuahua to you Corporal grub." Boomed an alien voice. "And I'll put that rifle to better use than in your hands."
Alistair turned. Standing amidst knee-high rubble stood Priest Gaurulan, Warmaster Heronimov's chief advisor and friend, concern stretched across his graying muzzle. The Were Gararumon dusted his silk-steel body armor free of ceiling dust. One paw gripped the handle of a war hammer. The head was the size of an infant, old runic displays glowing faint in the light flares, and charged the air with static. Gaurulan's cobalt eyes passed Hemming and settled on Alistair. He began rasping to himself, what Heronimov called the Priest's treasured laugh.
Gaurulan crossed towards the two men. "Commissar Alistair Lorne. Such a pleasuring face mixed with these grubs." Hemming absently blew the lupine a kiss, which he ignored and continued. "I take it my messenger delivered the print-map as instructed?"
"As soon as he walked into my office. Didn't leave as he entered though, with all those Gumballs weighing down his pockets."
"Gumballs today, Candied Worms tomorrow." Gaurulan smiled. "Reminds me of my childhood days."
Hemming grunted. "Except we have electricity and indoor plumbing."
"Watch it Corporal grub." The Priest growled. "Or I'll use this hammer on you instead."
"What else are you using it for?"
Garlan's eyes widened. "For the enemy of course." Alistair and Hemming exchanged glances. "You mean you don’t know why you're down here?"
"No." They answered flatly.
"Oh for the Guardian's Graces." Muttered the wolf. "Warmaster Heronimov wanted to talk to you personally Alistair, and he's even given a dutiful job to these grub troopers of his."
"If you mean dying to get ridiculed by a Chihuahua, I'm all for it." Hemming blurted.
Gaurulan smiled. "What else are grubs for?"
Before Hemming could answer, heavy footsteps began cascading down the subway stairwell. Alistair recognized them like blood-kin. Steel-armored boots stung the ambience with crisp notes, their vibrations fascinating the burners to flutter their flames. Hydraulic pumps gasped in the respite. Realizing the noise, Troopers straightened themselves, rifles at attention, brushing their hard armor free of dust. Hemming and Gaurulan and Alistair watched Warmaster Ian Heronimov descend.
Lord-Militant of City 13, the Warmaster had donned accordingly. Light caught the gold trim of his shoulder guards and gave the illusion of personal transcendence. His steel-webbed Martyr Knight Garb was polished obsidian marble, carved from once glorified statues, opaque in any reflection. His tapered Oath Rosettes fluttered in an unfelt wind, their tails ashen with city sand, and some displayed fresh tears along the ancient parchment. Hydraulic pumps vetted steam from the indents of his boot soles. The display made Commissar Alistair frown.
"I didn't realize this mission would be so special." He said. "Should've brought my own ceremonial armor."
Heronimov's grizzled beard split and bellowed in laughter. "No need Alistair, this occasion is on me alone."
"And your body guard, where are they?"
The laughing died. "They are with their God Smith now." He replied matter-of-factly. "Some are still alive up there, somewhere." He pointed to the ceiling. "Those who are serving their Warmaster's last wishes."
"Last wishes?"
"The map Alistair, give him the map." Gaurulan whispered.
Following the Priest's order, Alistair pulled the parchment from his satchel belt. Heronimov took it from his outstretched hand and rolled it open, studied the design, and rolled it closed again. His steel eyes glanced down the tunnel shaft. For the first time, Alistair Lorne could see clouded fear inside his mentor's face, locked behind the beard, maybe for good reason. He began to stride away from the group.
"Talk with me Alistair." He whispered.
Hemming stepped forward. "Warmaster Heronimov, Corporal Hemming, 13th Heronimov Guard. What are our orders?"
The man slowed, looking around at the contingent of other Troopers standing attention. "There are survivors?" He grunted to Hemming's nodding response. "Then you are luckier than the 104th."
"Sir?"
"There will be time for orders later Corporal, but I must speak with Commissar Lorne first."
Hemming nodded and let Alistair go. The Commissar walked to Heronimov and kept his stride until they crossed the tunnel, hidden behind towering pieces of jagged debris. The Lord-Militant paused, sampling the subway echo-silence. "Do you know why you're here Alistair?" He began. "In this place?"
"To defeat the Dark Masters, their Viral Digimon, and the Watch, and the Fire Wall's Taint. We have a duty to distinguish them."
"And the taint, what do you suppose that is?"
Alistair grew hesitant. "Evil."
"Really now?" He chuckled. "From all those books you've been reading, I'm not surprised you think Evil is man."
"I don’t understand…"
"I unearthed something in Lyth Forge, something that still requires better words that I can describe," His face darkened. "So terrible it took Leslie away from me."
"Gaurulan said your wife died in an accident."
Heronimov chuckled. "Leslie was being herself again." He began. "She took me on an expedition deep into the Lyth Catacombs, showed me all the runic details of the Foundry's Founding and the people who prayed to the God Smith. And, I guess, by happenstance we stumbled across an unmapped section, hidden underneath a fake cement coffin."
"An unmapped section of a Catacomb?" Alistair leaned closer. "And hidden underneath an existing one?"
"I remember the tomb being bald. Not a rune scripture anywhere, except in the floor's center: a small circle with a red solid center. Leslie must've accidentally pressed it. Those next seconds are days in my eyes and would haunt me until today. The image of Leslie in the clutches of one of them."
"Them?"
"The things." Heronimov whispered. "The its. But whatever the name, they weren't tainted."
Alistair's eyes widened. "Something untouched by the firewall?"
"Probably." He answered. "But the important issue is this place at hand. You see, the map Gaurulan gave you," Heronimov unraveled the map. "I believe that it's another tomb hidden inside this subway tunnel."
"Then we are here to defeat this together then."
The Lord-Militant shook his head. "We are not."
"You and Gaurulan?"
"No."
Alistair's hesitance grew. "The digidestined then?"
"No. Only me Alistair."
"Why on this digital plane would you do that? We could defeat this threat together."
"How long have you been my student Alistair, four years?" Heronimov spoke. "And for those years I've taught you what I could possibly teach." He paused to gaze down the subway tunnel. "Now I must let you go and pursue your own life while mine will end in this tunnel."
"You can't be serious!"
"Please Alistair." His steel eyes glistened. "If you followed me you will die. For your last assignment, please follow my last wishes, as a friend."
Alistair turned away from him. "I will return Heronimov." He spun back and pierced into Heronimov's eyes. "But your last wishes are my foremost concern."
Heronimov began to smile. The warmth involved was extinguished, his cold teeth the only presence of a dieing soul. "Thank you Alistair Lorne."
"What are your wishes Ian?"
"Take Gaurulan with you. He has served me for over twenty years inside my Retinue, and he will surely aid you in the years to come."
"Priest Gaurulan?" Alistair asked. "The Priest Gaurulan who'd never leave without you?"
"I have already asked him and he has accepted, with a little scrutiny of course."
The situation must be dire, Alistair realized, to convince the wolf priest not to follow his only disciple. It seemed impossible. "Is that all Ian?"
"Take these." Heronimov undid a satchel from his belt and pulled out two items: a blood-maroon crystal the size of his middle finger and a cobalt key card. "The crystal is rightfully yours by default. For some reason I thought you would be receiving this under better circumstances."
"What is it?"
"This crystal is from the future blood of your Digimon Partner. He or she will be apart of you for the rest of your days Alistair. A gift of the Guardians and honored by the Digidestined, this crystal is rare to any one to touch, and this rightfully belongs to you."
Alistair took the crystal from his open palm. "A digimon partner…"
"The card is the key to my estate." Heronimov injected. "I've told the house caretakers of the change in ownership. When I left they were cleaning your bedroom."
"Heronimov—"
"Dead men take no residence Alistair."
"I understand."
"And for my last official duty…" He began, "I, Ian Heronimov, Warmaster and Lord-Militant of City 13, promote you to Marshall." Out from another satchel pocket he produced the Rosette of Marshall Rank: A five pointed star with an eagle's head bursting out the middle. "For your years of service and being my student, Marshall Alistair Lorne."
The Marshall grappled his fingertips over the small Rosette. When it rolled into his palm, a sudden uncertainty washed over his face. He had dreamed of the reward for countless days, imagining a ceremony within Heronimov's Great Hall and banners shouting his new title to his guests who would come to celebrate, imagining the smile he would show after pinning it to his chest, imagining if, just for a second, his world stopping, but the cold smile from Heronimov boiled his creativity away. He seized the pin and stitched it to his lapel for time keeping.
"I wished a celebration party after this…" He whispered. "But this is a great honor Ian, thank you."
"That is all my wishes Alistair. You have been an excellent friend in these last years, but now we must part."
"I promise to take care of Gaurulan and the survivor's here."
Heronimov frowned. "My Trooper Guard?" He glanced at Hemming and the other Troopers. "Yes, take them with you. Make that Hemming a Sergeant when he gets out of this Marshall."
Alistair smiled. "Sure do Warmaster."
Nodding his head, Ian Heronimov shook Alistair's hand. He turned and passed through the so-called invisible barrier, dropping his girth unto the steel tracks with an ugly clang, oblivious to the startled shouts at the other end of the subway platform. A trooper called for his Warmaster. Heronimov ignored him. Instead he took six steps forward, his body beginning to wane in coal fog. Another two steps and Alistair could make out his brown, grizzled beard. Several more later, the man disappeared like the light, lost in darkness. Marshall Alistair Lorne saluted him, the Lord-Militant and Warmaster of City 13, his last respects.
Alistair walked back to Gaurulan and Hemming.
Gaurulan approached him first. "He's gone, isn't he?" Alistair nodded. "Then I guess your command is my humble bidding—Marshal Alistair Lorne?" His eyes surprised upon seeing the Rosette.
"What do you mean gone?" Hemming asked. "Without him we're sunk. Warmaster Heronimov's supposed to get us out of this hell hole."
Alistair thought about it and found the answer Heronimov would approve. "Is it really hell? I don't hear anything coming from outside." Then he smiled. "Get one of your able bodies to wander outside for a moment."
Hemming nodded. Both Gaurulan and Alistair watched him take two Troopers and proceed outside, mic beads chattering to one another. While the Troopers busied themselves, Gaurulan leaned to his new disciple.
"Are you ready for this Marshal?"
"Warmaster Heronimov placed his faith in me for all those years. It's about time I did as well."
Gaurulan nodded. "His wisdom will serve you well. I'm sure your Digimon Partner will think the same."
Alistair smiled. "Maybe. We'll have to get the grub when we come to it."
"Yes. One Corporal Grub at a time."
"Holy, take a look at these streets. It looks like one of those metal junkyards." Hemming mic.ed "And there's not a soul in sight right now. We could break for it to the closest tram station…"
Alistair nudged his friend in the side. "Set your sights on Sergeant Grub."
Another Trooper erupted, sending the entire bead in uproar. "Blessed Graces! The Digidestined! Look Corporal Hemming, the Digidestined are flying over head, oh glory for the Guardians."
"I think that would be our time to leave then Marshal." Gaurulan began. "Time to go home."
"You heard him Troopers. Keep Warmaster Heronimov in your hearts and let's go."
The Troopers saluted. "Yes Marshal Lorne!"