Metrics Of Ragnarok

Long Night

Achilles laughed wildly again at Atlas' expression. Hope had always been able to inspire temporary fear, and rightly so:

Achilles had always feared the hopeful. Because hope was a poison, and disease rotting the insides of its believers.

"How are you sure?" Atlas asked Hope.

"I'm not, I just believ–"

Atlas rolled his eyes. "That's enough."

Achilles tried to laugh again, but a thunderous dry cough took its place. As he coughed, thin, black veins revealed themselves around his body, all seemingly reaching for his neck. His eyes grew sunken, and he lay back into bed, growing quiet and unmoving.

Atlas watched with grimness, pitying the human giant.

"Let's go," he said to Hope, walking out of the room. "Valor, I intend to take a little out of your treasury, for upkeep purposes."

"Uhhhh...you, thief..." stirred Achilles' groggy voice.

Atlas nodded and shut the door behind him, setting his mind on the task at hand as he moved.

The castle itself was looking sick, with dried grass, cracked walls, and faded paint. And for the first time, this wasn't Achilles being tight with funds; it actually meant something.

Something terrible.

"Hey, um, Hope, can I ask for a favour?"

"Sure! What do you need?"

Atlas searched his coat and brought out a crumpled piece of paper, and handed it to her. "That's my food item list, and I won't be able to go to the market... unfortunately."

She stared at the paper and the horrendous handwriting on it. "You want me to fetch ingredients for you?"

"And cook too."

"...What?" she said, her glow shining a little brighter. "I'm technically a god, and you're sending me to run errands?"

"Spot on. I'm out of firewood too."

***

The MacMillan would be back– or arrive for the first time – the day after tomorrow, so he needed to start preparing.

Unlike the last four times, he would throw everything he knew about what it would do out the window, and plan like a real soldier.

Because it was getting annoying. Only once before had something been able to make him spend so many logs trying to kill it, and then, he was much more inexperienced.

After another damned journey, he arrived back at the ridge at the kingdom's border. The Xhosa were where they had been when he left, not even an inch off.

"Gather round," he said.

They all obeyed, without hesitation. He had begged Achilles for this group of people, instead of kingdom guards, because he would not have to deal with unhappy individuals here. The Xhosa simply recognised his prowess, and even if they didn't know him, they could respect him for that fact.

Once they had gathered in a semi-circle, Atlas dropped down on the snow and pulled out a large sheet of folded paper from his coat, and a pen too.

On the paper was a crudely drawn replica of their terrain, made by Atlas himself. No one would care about its quality, but he still felt ashamed.

"... I've fought the MacMillan before, and raw hack and slash doesn't work. To survive, not win, survive, we'll need to control the environment and–"

"Who or what is the MacMillan?" Gerrard asked.

"That's the name of the beast that's coming; it's not widely known because it tends to kill all who see it," replied Atlas.

"How do you know it would come? Most beasts don't follow logic, and there isn't any logic here for its hunt."

"Exactly, there isn't logic; that's why you should expect it. Just trust me, I know what I'm saying."

Nobody seems to agree with him, but they kept quiet nonetheless. It was possible, given the weird nature of the current world, but not likely that a beast would come just because some traveller in the kingdom had seen its face or figure.

"Okay. Now here is the plan. There are fourteen of us, and we are going to be split into three parts:

Anyone with better than average marksmanship will join the sniper elites, and will provide cover for the main fighters. Keep in mind, if you are in this group, you are not to leave your position to join the melee fight no matter what."

Consistently, they had done that, trying to salvage the hopeless situation, and it had been their undoing.

He continued. "If the situation goes south, retreat into the kingdom and wait with the kingdom guards. Matthew, you will lead this group.

The second group is melee fighters, consisting of the best of the best, led by me. Even when it goes wrong, we are expected to die fighting... There is no retreat.

The third, and most important, is the terrain control. You have the permit to join the battle once we are no longer able to fare on our own. And your job is to rig the environment: trip mines, tripwires, structured collapse, and so on.

I don't know your strengths too much, so I'll let you pick the groups independently."

That was a lie. He knew all their strengths and weaknesses, but what would he look like if he said he did? He hated explaining what he didn't want to, so it was better to let them hand-select.

The members of the Xhosa nodded, and Kael immediately took a leadership role. Atlas had the draft, but he was going to add details.

Atlas wouldn't know what Kael would say this time, since his directives were slightly different, but it would pretty much be the same thing:

Having the sniper elites on the ridge, to attract the MacMillan and then collapse it. And wire the floor with a lot of explosives and sharp objects.

But he didn't really trust it anymore. After all, none of this had worked the last time.

He sat beside them, pretending to pay attention, and grunted approvingly once in a while. About an hour later, they were done and ready to take point and watch the horizon throughout the night.

"No need," he said as Kael dismissed them to their watch points. "I'll take watch for the night; all of you should get a good rest."

Kael raised a brow. "You want to take the entire thing? It's too large for one man."

Atlas shook his head. "I know what I'm doing, and I'm sure you know I do. Don't ask questions I'd rather not answer; go to bed instead."

'Damn. I'm beginning to sound commanding; I need to tone down the regality.'

"Yes, lieutenant," Kael said and saluted, packing his things and heading for another shabby hut, one closer to the kingdom than Atlas' own.

Atlas knew none of them would actually sleep; they would just take point at their homes and hope for the worst.

Atlas took a rifle from one of the Xhosa as they left and looked through the iron sight.

It was going to be a long night...