War Children

2001 short story by Jonathan Hicks

Fifteen years before Episode IV – A New Hope

With a bellow of fury and eyes like that of a madman, Redd Garmich swung his blasterstaff in an overhead arc and down on the head of the unfortunate Janite soldier who had confronted him. The body, helm split in two, staggered and fell, joining the bodies that made a red and blue carpet between the huge 'V' that made the breach in the wall.

"Forlorn!" Redd cried, his blasterstaff swinging from side to side as he tried to keep the press of soldiers back. "Forlorn!"

Behind Redd other attackers came, their own blasterstaffs swinging and cutting down the defenders who were already falling back under their onslaught. Blue tabards stained with red fell, whilst the full blue body armour of the attackers shone wetly with the blood of the fallen.

Redd's own armour was dented and stained, covered with dirt and grime, split in several places where the defenders had tried to slow him with their own small weapons and blasters. Even his own men kept a fair distance from him - his weapon swung so wildly that they were in danger of being sliced themselves. As he pushed the point of his blasterstaff through the belly of a blue-clad soldier, Redd lifted his shield arm and looked back at his men.

"The breach is ours!" he cried as his men rushed forward, flowing past him like a stream of blue water and pushed on into the defenders of the wall. Redd pulled his blasterstaff free and lifted it, screaming and bellowing his rage and emotion.

Parabolic charges fell from the sky and the attackers were covered with small explosions. Heavy shields were lifted to ward off the attack but still men screamed and dropped to the ground, gripping wounds or staring with the blank eyes of the dead.

Shrapnel slammed into Redd's armour, just above his left knee, and he wobbled at the impact. Redd looked at it blankly and then back up at the swarm of men that were pouring through the breach. The wound already forgotten, he joined the flow with his blasterstaff held high.

Although this was the only breach, the wall was dark with figures as they fought. The Shieldwall (as it was known to the invading army) was fifty yards high, stretching for almost the entire length of the island of Oronori, from the Northern Mountains to the Southern Range and protecting the city from the violent sea that separated it from Woron. It was covered with blue tabard defenders as they tried to push the blue armoured Janos Executioner attackers from the wall, trying desperately to stop them from passing over it and into their realm. Heavy launchers of the attackers sent proton charges over the wall to fall into the ranks of the defenders waiting for them. The defenders sent clouds of explosives back in response, the shrapnel capable of piercing the heaviest armour. Siege towers drifted forward only to be put to the torch, ladders were erected to be pushed back or covered in burning liquids. Grappling hooks were cut and men were kicked, stabbed and shot from the wall as they clambered over the parapets. Repulsor vehicles were shot down as they attempted to fly over the wall.

Screams echoed. Shouts of desperation, cries of victory, howls of mad laughter even joined the noise. The ringing of metal and the screams of blaster bolts were the loudest reports, multiplied into a cacophony of sound by the hundreds of battles, both huge and personal, that spanned the wall.

And then, out of the fog that hung in a high, visually impenetrable shield of its own on the side of the Shieldwall that faced the sea, came the sound of a howling louder than any man's scream or any weapon's thump. After the howl a great whoosh seemed to part the mist and a ball of solid energy, as tall as a man, went flying at an impossible speed to the wall. It slammed into the rock and mortar, splitting the aged stone and sending defenders falling from the parapet. The split widened and the wall seemed ready to collapse.

And collapse it did. After another intense howl that sent defenders running with their hands over their ears, another ball of light came flying from the mist. It slammed into the same place the first one had and the wall cracked, creating a huge 'v' shaped gap that Redd and his men had swarmed up and over, the bewildered and shocked defenders easy prey as they tried in vain to staunch the flow of men. Those not crushed by the collapsing wall took defensive positions in small groups but were overwhelmed by the attackers.

The Shieldwall had no gate along its length and this gap, created by whatever force had flung such huge balls of destruction, was now the only entrance. Blue armour ran to the gap that the first attackers had pushed through to try and hold the breach, turning into a squeeze that created a huge crowd of soldiers trying to force their way through the Shieldwall. More and more men streamed over the rubble but Redd knew that the battle was far from over.

Behind the wall was the Long City, ornate buildings that stretched along the wall itself, feeding and housing the citizens that made their home here on the Industrial Island of Oronori against the side of the Shieldwall, smoke twisting from chimneys and windows and doors barred against the approaching storm. Even now the doors were bursting open and the occupants were running with whatever they could carry out of the thin city, screaming and crying out their anguish. Some dwellers already lay dead from the barrage of shot the attackers had sent over the wall. Some buildings were in flames, others crushed or damaged. Most stood tall, the taller ones actual towers or small castles. These flew the blue flag of Janos, a two-headed beast with wings spread, the crown of the Emperor-Priest above it. As Redd watched some of the defenders started to head towards the towers but most dropped their weapons and fled.

It was as Redd watched the nearest tower he saw a silver-armoured figure atop the low wall, arms held high. In one hand he held what appeared to be a shining book.

Redd started to move for cover, his voice ringing in his ears as his helmet, which covered his whole head except for a T-shaped cutout he could see and speak through, dulled his voice.

"Warchild!" was his cry as he flattened himself out behind a pig's trough.

The silver-armoured figure kept the book high in the air and lowered his free hand, palm out. The attackers who had not heard or ignored Redd's warning stared with confusion at the figure, expecting a cry of defiance or a demand from the lordly apparition.

All that came from the figure was madness. Bright, roaring fire erupted from his upturned palm and sprayed across the street where the attackers were pouring through. It swept away those in its path, covering them with flame that seemed to stick to their armour, burning exposed flesh and cooking those encased in the metal that was meant to protect them.

Screams of pain and the stench of charred wood and flesh assaulted Redd's senses as he lay flat. He could feel the heat of the fire as it washed over him and the trough caught ablaze, the water immediately bubbling and churning as it boiled, the surface sticky with the viscous, burning fluid that still poured from the hand of the silver-armoured figure. A burning, black conical helmet bounced past Redd as he pushed himself to his feet, the heat from the trough becoming too much for him. He ran to a low stonewall as the fire swept away from him and for a moment he thought the assault had been slowed, might even fail. He crouched, panting and cursing, as he considered his options.

A familiar face appeared from behind the far side of the building that many of his men had sought refuge in and which was now starting to burn brightly as the 'Warchild' concentrated his attack on his enemy's refuge. It was topped with the conical helmet of the bolthrowers that accompanied the Janite Executioners but it had a long flowing mane of white hair at its peak. Instead of blue armour the man wore a blue chain mail shirt, which hung to his knees.

Their eyes met and the newcomer smiled.

"Cuthred!" Redd shouted, motioning for the man to join him, his eyes on the huge bolthrower the man carried. "Here!"

Cuthred slid in next to Redd as the Warchild stopped his onslaught. Janite torches staggered and fell in the street, stumbled from hiding places and buildings. The screams dwindled and the only sound now was the crackling of the huge inferno.

"Well done," Cuthred said with a wry smile. "You appear to have garnered the attention of a Warchild."

Redd ignored his friend's remark and gestured with his thumb towards the tower the silver attacker stood on. "Can you stop him with that?" He pointed to the bolthrower.

With an expression that showed indecision, Cuthred looked over the wall quickly to calculate the distance. He ducked back down lest the Warchild saw his scrutiny and shrugged. "I am not sure. Can a weapon like this hurt a Warchild? I might miss, and then his attention is on us."

Redd nodded. "Then there is one solution."

Cuthred raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"Do not miss."

There was a moment of confusion as a noise like that of a thunderclap shook the wall and caused the ground to tremble. Shouts of alarm could be heard accompanied by the sound of falling masonry. Cuthred risked another look over the wall just in time to see the silver figure gesture with his hand, a bolt of blue lightning bridging the distance to slam into the ranks of men that pushed through the wall. Half of the already burning building had collapsed from the impact of the first bolt.

"I will have to aim," Cuthred hissed with anger as he watched men stagger blindly as flashes slammed into their ranks. "I will try to hit the energy pack that feeds the weapons in his hands."

"I will give you your moment," Redd said with intent as he ran the length of the wall at a low crouch. He got to the end of the wall and got to his feet running wildly toward the base of the tower. He raised his blasterstaff high above his head, his round shield held protectively in front of him, his legs pumping as he ran as hard and as fast as he could.

The silver Warchild looked down on him as a man would stare at an insect. He flicked his fingers, his mouth moved wordlessly in pointless incantation, and he lifted his book high above his head for effect. Although the weapons he used were made by mortals, the image he portrayed as a powerful magician-like figure had enormous psychological effect.

Cuthred stood up, levelled his bolthrower and took aim. Heat and smoke washed across him, the wind causing him to alter his aim slightly. He knew the Warchild's attention would be drawn to Redd for mere moments and so he took in a deep breath of rancid air and tried to relax.

He took some satisfaction in the fact that the silver figure looked up to stare directly at him, suddenly aware of his presence, as he let the bolt fly. The small missile sped towards the man and, before he had time to register shock or complete his attack, the point penetrated his chest and exploded. The silver armour was suddenly splashed with red and the book dropped from his hand, his body arcing back, his face showing pain and his eyes screwed tight. Then he fell, out of sight.

Cuthred roared his delight, but still he quickly lowered his huge bolthrower so that he could put his foot into the hoop at the front of it to pull the huge launching hammer back in his heavily padded hands. He cast continual glances up at his friend as he watched the warrior throw himself on men that had come out of the tower gate to confront him, and his smile grew wider as his own soldiers once again spewed down from the breach. They negotiated burning bodies and craters caused by the lightning that had seemingly flashed from the Warchild's fingers but these did little to slow their advance. The blue tabards that ran out to meet them were wielding their weapons with apparent lack of passion and were easily overwhelmed.

Now the defenders were fighting to escape, not to protect their precious Shieldwall. The overwhelming number of attackers that were now swarming over the wall as well as through the breach were pushing them back. Cuthred placed a fresh bolt from his hip quiver into his bolthrower and watched with fascination as some of the blue tabards, not willing to be skewered or bludgeoned, threw themselves from the wall to take their chances with the fall into the thatched roofs of the building below. He shook his head in wonder as men dropped from the wall in their dozens, ropes swung wildly down the side, men pushed their fellows out of the way as they forced their way down the wooden scaffolding or stone steps that covered the inside of the wall. Many men just dropped to their knees and placed their hands over their heads, their weapons stuck into the ground in submission. Some fought on, calling to their fellows to keep fighting but these men were cut down by blasterstaff or by bolthrower bolts from weapons toted by men dressed in the same attire as Cuthred. Men fell from the wall and, even as they raced to their doom and defeat, they still screamed their defiance of the attackers.

Cuthred breathed out as he watched. He realised that as he watched the fighting his breath had stuck in his throat. Those blue-clad men that surrendered or fled he ignored but he marvelled at the passion and the bravery of those that fought on to the death. He noticed, also, that not one of the men who continued the fight was an officer or an armoured Janite Executioner of the island. They were simple men in blue tabards that had taken the Emperor Priests oath to fight for their realm. He was amazed at their chivalry.

The battle had lasted two days. Two days of continuous bombardment, continuous streams of blaster bolts, of continuous clashing of blasterstaffs and shields. Two days of death and killing. The river that ran the length of the Shieldwall on the other side of the Long City would run red before the day was over.

But it was not the aggression of the men attacking that had breached the wall. It was not their passion for victory or their need to kill men of Janos.

It had been because the island of Oronori had suggested that the planet of Janos made peace with their Setnin Sector neighbours. Such cowardice could not go unpunished.

Redd suddenly appeared from the smoke and the dust as the din of battle began to die and the only voices were officers shouting orders and men pleading for mercy.

Redd suddenly appeared from the smoke and the dust as the din of battle began to die and the only voices were Janite officers shouting orders and soldiers of the island pleading for mercy.

Across Redd's unshaven face was a smile that told Cuthred that, maybe, the fight was nearly over.

"That was a damn fine shot," Redd chuckled. He looked down at his unclean armour as if noticing it for the first time and shook his head.

"It will take you a long time to get that armour clean," Cuthred noted. The tall man removed the bolt from his crossbow, now that he no longer needed to be prepared, and released the tense hammer.

"It will take even longer to get the stench of the Oronori cowards off it," Redd growled. He drove the point of his blasterstaff into the ground so that it was still to hand and took his arm from the shield hoops. With a long sigh he looked about him, at the devastation and the dead. Slowly he removed his helmet, the face underneath still young but defined along the jaw and the upper lip by a thin line of a well-trimmed beard. His hair, shaved to the point of baldness, was dark also.

"A hard victory, but a victory none the less," he said at the end of a deep breath. He turned back to his friend to see the man grimacing, removing his helmet and taking a deep breath of his own. "What is it? Are you not happy we have the first taste of our vengeance?"

Cuthred shrugged, his eyes on the body of a burnt and twisted man he did not know the name of. "I am an archer. I am too close to this death to be comfortable with it."

But Redd was still filled with the energy the battle had given him. "But this is glorious! The cowards fled before us and the wall is ours! With our passion we are unstoppable!"

Cuthred had seen Redd like this before, his eyes shining and his breath short after tournaments and training. He lived by the promise of battle and conflict, had been one of the first to lift his hand as the Chaplain Generals had asked for men to storm any breach, to lay down their lives in a forlorn attempt to secure a path past the wall. Redd was a child of a nobleman's love of war, of the power to see the enemy driven before him.

Cuthred looked about him and thought, if this is power, then give me a simple Jewel Mine. He ran his hand through his long blonde hair and rubbed his brown, overcast eyes.

He staggered forward as Redd slammed a huge hand on his back. "Enough of this, Cuthred," he said loudly. "We have won and now we have to make preparations to continue our glorious crusade against the Setnin Sector!"

The two men walked back towards the breach, Redd's hand still on Cuthred's back as if he guided him, and rejoined other blue-armoured soldiers who were shouting and singing, their cheers ringing all down the Shieldwall. The defenders were surrounded by Executioners and archers, their defeat evident on their faces as they watched the victorious men wave their arms and roar their happiness. Some watched with dejection, some with hate, and even more with fear as they pondered their fate.

"Enough!"

The voice cut through the singing and shouting and stilled it utterly. Men stopped mid dance, suddenly erect and stiff as if they had been turned to stone. Flailing weapons were lowered and eyes looked up to the top of the rubble that made the breach.

The figure that stood atop the ruined masonry was tall and powerfully built, his armour still clean as if he had only just joined the fight although his blasterstaff was bloody. The armour, full body with a helmet that was crested by a leering creature, was grey in a strange contrast to the blue armour the others wore but this only defined his position of control. A Chaplain General.

The men looked at their leader expectantly. He removed his helmet to reveal a man with the bald head of his rank and a face lined and marked with age. His moustache and beard were greying but, even though he was twice the age of the oldest man that faced him it was obvious he could fight as well as any of them.

"What is this revelry?" he bellowed. "This is a war, not a drinking tavern! You can sing and drink until your hearts burst when we have prepared for His coming, and not before! Commanders to me!"

And with those words the impromptu celebration was over. Soldiers, their faces again serious as if the battle still raged ran here and there, moving bodies, helping the wounded, and shepherding the prisoners away from the scene.

As Redd approached he noticed that only four of the five commanders that controlled this area of the attack responded to the Chaplain General's summons. He watched as each of them removed their helmets and bowed their heads in deference.

Redd's face suddenly took on the mask of worry. "I cannot see him," he whispered.

"What is wrong?" Cuthred asked, not hearing his friend's whisper.

"My father. The commander of the second wave. He's not there."

The General had also noticed he was lacking one other officer, evidently, as he looked about the area. Then he shook his head and started to talk with his men.

Redd pushed forward through the throng of soldiers. He forced the men out of his way and those that saw his approach moved quickly, looking at each other with concern as the blue-clad man pushed his way forward towards the Chaplain General. Cuthred followed, his own worry mounting as his friend was obviously beginning to appear desperate.

"Have the prisoners help with the expanding of the breach," the Chaplain General was saying as Redd approached. "Get as many soldiers this side of the wall as you can to secure the city and go through every house..." His sentence trailed off as the large form of Redd suddenly broke into the ring of men.

"Where is my father?” Redd almost bellowed. Cuthred placed a hand on his shoulder to calm him but he was ignored.

"Captain!" one of the officers shouted but the General took over his berating.

"What is this intrusion!" the Chaplain General roared, his eyes suddenly blazing as he cast his gaze over the man before him. Cuthred felt his body begin to sweat and it wasn't the closeness of the leather under his mail shirt.

"My father..." Redd started to say but faltered under the stare of his leader. The Chaplain General placed his gauntleted hands on his armoured hips and sucked in a deep breath.

"Who are you addressing, Captain!" he shouted. It wasn't a question but a demand.

"My General," Redd stammered and bowed his head. "My General, my father..."

"Is dead," the General continued to shout, "and would be disgusted by his son's lack of respect! Now, go and recall your group and begin to secure this city!"

Redd nodded and lifted his head. With expressionless face he snapped around and began to walk away.

One of the other officers grabbed his shoulder as he walked past and nodded to him. "Be at peace. He died well, Redd Garmich."

Redd's face showed no emotion. Only a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"I would have expected nothing less," he said.

War Children

2001 short story by Jonathan Hicks

Fifteen years before Episode IV – A New Hope

Histories – This Jonathan Hicks tale showcases the character of Redd Garmich, a character that’s been around since the early days of NHP. Garmich later became as close to being a friendly Janite as is usually possible, but still betrayed his friends in the Bad Religion story, based on the early 1990’s roleplay scenario games mastered by Jonathan Hicks.

Cast of Characters

Redd Garmich

Cuthred