Chapter 1207 — The Road to Counterattack Across the Wasteland

The giant eagle skimmed across the sky at the wasteland's edge, taking in everything unfolding upon the earth below. To Azmoor's eyes, what transpired upon these tainted lands seemed little different from his memory of them — the Great Wall still held back that devastating boundary, the polluted soil and mutated forests groveled across the domain of the ancient empire like scars upon the world, the radiance of the energy barrier cast its glow upon the distant clouds like a wall of light forged across heaven and earth, and the civilized world... the civilized world still lay on the far side of the mountains.

But when he focused harder to perceive through the giant eagle's sight, things that had never appeared in his memory swam into view.

He saw a "line" composed of scattered lights piercing the Black Forest and the banded plains along the Great Wall's edge. That line began at the southern foot of the Dark Mountains, where there were more lights still, great tracts of artificially leveled ground, and a fortress half-hidden among crags and trees; the far end of the line stretched almost to the foot of the Great Wall — and gave one the sense that it was still extending forward, still tenaciously pushing on.

It was a road — a road crossing the contaminated zone and closing upon the wasteland of Gondor, and that road was under construction.

Azmoor was somewhat surprised. Almost instinctively he steered the giant eagle a little higher, trying to cast his gaze farther — and his sudden movement set the royal eagle riders "escorting" him on edge at once. Several giant eagles followed him up in succession, loosing sharp, ringing cries; the riders on their backs gripped their reins nervously, the golden spired helms on their heads glinting with a tremulous light in the setting sun.

"Don't be so nervous, young men," Azmoor could not help laughing, and said softly. "I'm only an old man with one foot in the grave."

"Please do not make such sudden movements at this altitude, Master Azmoor," came the voice of the eagle rider captain from the magical device pinned to his clothes — a young fellow. "We are acting for your safety."

Azmoor only smiled and did not argue anything with the young warrior — when he first rode a giant eagle across this continent, the Morning Star Empress of two reigns before had still been a child. He had passed through storms, crossed mountains, skimmed over the vast battlefields between humanity's forebears and the dark subraces; he had been a honored guest of both humans and beastfolk, spreading the gospel of the God of Nature through court after court. The dangers and trials he had faced outnumbered all the eagle knights here put together.

They were simply worried that a "dangerous element" like him might do something out of bounds.

Of course, the riders were indeed worried about his safety — more than ever, at least until they reached their destination, no one in this party wished any mishap to befall him. Though for the whole of the past three thousand years the Morning Star family and the "Orthodox Sect" they represented had prayed daily for him to meet a peaceful end, from the day this journey set out, what they wished most was that "Archdruid Azmoor" might live to the very end.

Azmoor shook his head and leaned slightly forward on the eagle's back. The spirit-linked creature sensed his intent, and with a ringing cry a vaster expanse of earth unfolded in Azmoor's mind. He surveyed this field of vision far beyond the limits of human and elven sight, his gaze stretching east of the Dark Mountains, along the edge of the Great Wall — and at last he saw more lights.

It was another road crossing the contaminated zone of the Black Forest, at the very limit of the eagle's sight and almost wholly screened by trees. Had the twilight not been deepening into dusk, Azmoor might not even have noticed those faint glimmers rising above the treetops.

The aged ancient druid could not help drawing a breath at last, and said softly: "So Ansul and Typhon have finally begun their counterattack on the wasteland..."

"Master, Ansul is history," another voice, a young woman's, came from the communication device. "What rules the North now is the human Empire of Cecil — founded by the resurrected pioneer, Emperor Gao Yang Cecil."

"Ah, the Cecil Empire... I know of it, I had merely forgotten," Azmoor said faintly, a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "A resurrected pioneer, is it... I have heard the name Gao Yang Cecil, and I have heard tales of his deeds, and yet — Belantia, do you truly believe a man can rise from the dead after seven hundred years at rest?"

Empress Belantia's voice came through the device, gentle as the winds of nature yet brooking no doubt: "Yes, I believe he can — Master Azmoor, look at the road below you stretching toward the wasteland. Do you not think so?"

Azmoor made no answer, only gazed silently at those man-made lights that tenaciously traced a road through the Black Forest, as though gazing at the pioneers of seven hundred years ago, the Gondorians of a thousand years, and further still at the human forebears and elven missionaries of three thousand years and more ancient ages. After a long silence he softly broke it: "...He could well have risen from the dead..."

"...That is good to hear," Belantia said with a smile. "Master Azmoor, please sit steady. Once we cross the Dark Mountains we shall descend."

...

As dusk fell, the patrol and survey teams operating beyond the forward base's perimeter began returning one after another to the safety zone. With the last armed survey vehicle rolling into the base, the great gate reinforced with a steel frame swung shut; only the soldiers patrolling the walls and the searchlights slowly sweeping atop the watchtowers still kept vigilant watch over that dark, gloomy plain of filth in the distance, quietly awaiting nightfall.

Chief Architect Bruce Stonecliff climbed the iron ladder up onto the wall outside the camp. The thickened steel plates and steel frame groaned beneath his feet. There seemed to be a wind upon the banded plains that never ceased; these winds carried the reek of decay from afar, howling through the gaps between the walls and now and then raising a burst of spine-chilling shrill whistling — yet to the warriors long stationed at the various forward bases, such sounds had long since become commonplace.

Bruce Stonecliff crossed a short connecting wall. Beyond the wall ahead were many projecting curved structures; within the armored housings of those curves were mounted the most advanced Justice-II rail acceleration cannons and Imperial-II arcane torrent generators. The gleaming muzzles and solid, reliable focusing arrays of these "sweethearts" always brought the people living at the wasteland's edge an extra measure of security — and in a place where not even slimes cared to linger, such security was indeed most important.

The chief architect came to a sentry post set upon the wall. The two sentries standing guard in the steel shelter saluted him even as they kept their eyes on the contaminated zone outside: "Greetings, Chief Architect!"

Bruce nodded to the sentries and asked with some curiosity: "How long have you two been stationed here?"

"We've just come on shift," one of the sentries answered, his eyes never leaving the far side of the wall as he spoke. "Not half an hour yet..."

Bruce quickly waved a hand: "No, I mean how long have you been stationed at this base?"

The other sentry thought for a moment, then grinned, his teeth strikingly white against his somewhat swarthy skin: "Almost a year now — the two of us were in the second batch sent to this base. Our captain's been here two years longer than us."