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Helaine Ducot looks up from the paperwork cluttering her desk when someone knocks on her office door.
“Yes?” Her irritation at the interruption is clear in her voice. Her assistant, Duncan Wrout, opens the door enough to stick his head in. “Doctor Neil McAlsie is here for his two thirty appointment.” “McAlsie?” Helaine frowns, trying to place the name. “The archaeologist,” Duncan prompts, “The one researching the towers.” “Oh,” Helaine groans, “Him. Might as well send him in.” Duncan’s head vanishes. A moment later, the door opens wider to admit a sixty something man and two young women. The man, although slow moving and nearly bald, is respectably dressed in a new suit and dress shoes. The young women cause Helaine to suppress another groan. The first is petite with long white blonde hair braided after the east continent fashion. A single streak of black starts in the center of her forehead and disappears into the braid. She is wearing a sleeveless, fitted, black leather vest which reveals the tattoos on either shoulder, black jeans belted with what appears to be a martial arts black belt, and old slip on shoes. The second is taller with long, wavy blonde hair worn loose and long, crimson fingernails. Her outfit consists of a grey sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, shredded blue jeans, and biker boots. She also has a richly ornamented sword in a battle harness across her back. Both young women have an unusual, intricately designed earring dangling from their left ears. Helaine forces herself not to stare, but has trouble thinking of what to say. The man saves her the trouble. “Good afternoon, Ms Ducot. My name is Neil McAlsie. I appreciate your agreeing to see me so quickly.” “Good afternoon, Doctor McAlsie,” Helaine stands and extends her hand, “Are these your... assistants?” Neil shakes her hand firmly. “After a fashion. May I introduce Amy and Stacie.” Helaine manages a polite nod to each, but is slightly unnerved by the two sets of cold, hard, blue eyes fixed on her. She drops back into her chair, indicating for her guests to sit as well. The man does, but the young women remain standing. * * * The clock in the dashboard reads seven fifty-seven when Helaine parks outside the massive stone structure known as Gemstone Palace. She gets out of her car and approaches the main door to find four people waiting. Three, she identifies as Doctor McAlsie, Amy, and Stacie. The fourth is another young woman. This one is a little taller than the other two, although wearing an identical earring, and has shoulder length black hair. She is wearing a short, tight, blue t-shirt, black track pants, and worn running shoes. As Helaine gets closer, she discovers her to also have cold, hard, blue eyes. “Good morning,” Doctor McAlsie calls, “I’d like you to meet Lexa.” Helaine manages a polite nod before fumbling for the proper key. She notices Stacie is still wearing the sword and Amy is carrying a beat up backpack. Finally, she comes up with the key she needs and unlocks the door. After ushering them inside, she closes and locks the door carefully.
Coming up on the snow season meant my unit had a full season of training. The snow season truce prevented any action along the borders. We lived in huge, poorly constructed and maintained barracks and trained incessantly.
Few know much about the shield maid corps now. To enlist as a shield maid required passing an initiation. Most other units will take a warm body in a uniform. Those who survive basic training ship out to the front and may or may not return for the more advanced training to become an officer. For the majority, army life was that simple. The shield maid initiation is a series of tests designed to weed out any imposters. The first requirement was verification by a touch healer that the candidate was indeed female and a 'maid'. Touch healers are so much more rare now, but even then I knew little about the workings of their abilities. The second requirement was some strength of arms. Batches of candidates were assigned to battle each other in tournaments which were judged by the uppermost commanders of the corps. It was extremely rare for one who lost their tournament battle to be judged worthy of continuing to the third test. I was such an exception, having had, in the first round, the misfortune to be set against a general's daughter with advanced training. I had no hope of winning, but just enough training to prolong the battle to the bell. The judges decreed I had potential and passed me along. The third test was a set of puzzles in various forms. Words, numbers, colours, mazes, interlocking rings... finesse and intelligence were required to solve the required three quarters of all presented puzzles. Few candidates have ever solved all of them. Of those doing the initiation with me, only one other managed the feat. The fourth test was the most subtle and again involved a variant of touch healer, the ones who dealt with illnesses of the mind. Shield maids must have Potential. What a nebulous concept Potential is. It can refer to psy gifts. It can refer to an extraordinary destiny. It can refer to sheer determination to succeed. Some candidates have a combination of those. Some only have one. None are told exactly what Potential they have. Part of being a shield maid is learning that for ourselves. By the time initiation was over, the snow season truce was in effect for the year. Of the hundred or more candidates going into the first test, only a score of us remained, just enough for a training class. We were sent for uniforms and haircuts, assigned to barracks and an instructor. Everything was training. Everything was discipline. From rolling out of bedrolls before dawn to dropping into them late at night. The score of us did everything together, rubbing away the frictions between girls from all stations in life and counties of the kingdom. The past came to mean nothing between us. Only our present, our chilly, exhausted, incessant day in, day out routines. By the end of snow season, we knew each other as well as we knew ourselves. We had been rubbed raw and rebuilt, ready to take on active duty as shield maids. The first battle of the blossom season was to be a decisive strike against our neighbours to the west. Our unit was to spearhead an attack against a border fort which had been rebuilt during snow season. Instead, later blamed on poor communications, we ended up behind a cavalry unit and saw little of the failed action. Through the next year, we would be on the wrong end of strange orders and confused communications. While we saw some battle, none of it was anything like we'd been trained to expect. Some began to curse at us, claiming we'd been favoured by an upper level general. Others thought we were cursed. So it went for two more years. Snow season saw us in increasingly advanced training. The other three seasons saw us caught on the fringes of the action no matter where we were sent. Worse, whatever potential each of us supposedly had, none of us were able to establish what it was. If any of us had psy gifts, there was no evidence. Unless one of us was destined for extreme obscurity, there was no sign of anything extraordinary. The determination we went into our first year with deteriorated over subsequent years until, by the end of our third year together, many were thinking of resigning or requesting to be transferred. What we'd found ourselves in the midst of wasn't even close to what we'd signed on for. We were ordered to one last battle, one intended merely to be a limp last effort at taking a border village before the snow season truce came into effect. There was no value to the village beyond a few potential recruits for the general army. There was no strategic value to the land, nor were there exploitable resources left. Placed behind a battle weary unit of regular foot soldiers, there was little chance of us seeing much action. Officers were few on the field and orders were to take the village, if possible, with as little loss of life as possible. I doubt orders for the other side were much different, although it was a defensive battle for them. They had evacuated the villagers and, in all, it was to be little of anything. We went out, dispirited and disillusioned, and the half hearted battle began. Suddenly there were twice as many opponents on the field, but these new soldiers were fresh and dressed in uniforms no one had ever seen before. They fought with abnormal strength and determination and the regular army units fell around us, slaughtered to a man. But these new soldiers, these unheard of strangers, didn't engage us. When we tried to engage them, they backed away. We found ourselves surrounded. And then we were nowhere at all.
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AuthorAlexandra A. 'Lexa' Cheshire is the author of numerous novels and short stories published through Howling Wolf Books. Lexa is a wife, mother, cat owner, and music lover. Archives
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