Path of Their Own Ch. 01

"The league will now go into recess. Return in a zetran."

The grumbling and growling collection of leaders and ambassadors rose from their seats and started filing out of the hall. All save for Empress Chaylee. She remained in her booth, waiting until the others left except for one man in a dark coat with a hood drawn over his head. He approached the young royal and took a knee before her without a word.

"Investigate the Count, find out his reason for riling the league as he has," she ordered, and he nodded. "Also, start sending men to Galaeus' army, to the Son himself if need be. Find out if the demon threat is drying up."

The man stood and bowed before his Empress added, "And try to find my sister, she hasn't written in some time."

He pressed an open hand over his heart, and then turned on his heel. Chaylee couldn't even hear his footfalls as he bee-lined for the door while pressing a hand to his coat's collar. The light around his body shimmered and glistened like a sun's mirage over a dark surface before he vanished from sight.

This left the Empress alone as she sunk into her seat, her thoughts focused on the state of her country and storm she suspected to be coming its way.

.....................

Sitting as they were, Michael could feel the warmth from Mila's soft, light brown fur that covered her Nekonian body. An earthy scent from her rust-colored hair graced his senses as he rested his cheek on her head. One of his arms was draped across her shoulders as she leaned against him with a soft purr humming in her throat. Lifting a canteen full of cool mead, he toasted to the setting sun and took a drink. Relaxing with a sigh against the tree at his back and letting his bare feet soak in the cool waters of the River High, he passed the canteen to her and she happily accepted.

It hadn't been very long since he had come to this world, but he already felt settled. His black hair had grown out, the short crop on his head turning his once-defined Mohawk into merely a strip of longer hair down the middle of his scalp. A thin beard started to claim his face; interrupted only by the four, scabbed-over claw marks running from the left side of his jaw to his cheek bone. His 101^st Airborne tunic was still in decent shape for now, and his newly-crafted leather pants were serving him quite well despite how hot they could get on sunny days. But most of all, the spark of life that had fled his eyes during his time in the army had finally begun to return.

Things had happened fast around here but as far as he was concerned, it was for the best.

Mila finished sipping the honey-alcohol in his canteen and screwed the lid back on. She passed the container back to him and sighed while closing her eyes. Snuggling her body against his, she wordlessly moved her right hand to his belly just above the belt line. A devilish smirk formed on his face and his hand slid down over her back to the base of her tail in response. Not a word was spoken, but none were needed.

One of Mila's feline ears perked up to a distant rumble, then it caught Michael's ear as well. Both of them looked downstream as that sound picked up, then dropped off, and then picked up again. Though it was foreign to the ears of any Raskan, to a soldier in the army it was instantly recognizable. Michael removed his hand from his mate's hip and shifted it to the holster stitched into the leg of his pants. He undid the knot that kept his 1911 pistol in place and readied himself to draw at a moment's notice.

Mila took the physical cues and grabbed the M14 rifle lying on the ground beside her. She drew her legs in close and adjusted her sitting position to steady her aim on whatever may be coming upstream. If anything went wrong, the river here was wide, but it wasn't deeper than one's knees. She could easily escape and run back to her camp and warn them of any threat headed their way, but that wouldn't be until after she and Michael wreaked havoc upon whoever came to ruin the end of their day together.

"That's a vehicle," Michael said, breaking the silence between them, "and it's moving fast."

"One of your world's mechanical wagons?" Mila questioned, and he nodded while standing up.

"Yeah. Keep the rifle ready, but don't get jumpy. They could be friendly."

She acknowledged his direction before backing up and bracing herself against the tree. Adopting a stance he had taught her, she steadied her supporting arm against the bark and kept rifle pointed toward the river with the safety on. The vehicle drew closer and she could start to hear its similarities with the Hercules that had brought Michael to Raska. The roar of an "engine" as it burned flammable fluids in a steel pipe to move many stones worth of weight at great speeds across ground, water, or even through the sky.

If one was coming through the forest right now, it meant another Human plane had come. That more Earthlings were now stuck on their world.

Necela help them, she thought as her grip relaxed on the Earth-weapon in her hands.

Light started shining through the trees as the vehicle closed in on their spot. Mila could hear a frightened, or perhaps excited, yelp as it came speeding around a bend in the river and into their line-of-sight. Michael visibly relaxed the moment he had a visual, his hand coming off his sidearm and lifting to wave at those inside the Jeep. The engine's roar died down in response and it rolled to a stop across the river, close enough for them to see who was aboard.

"Mike-cull, Mila!" shouted the cheery voice of a green-haired Elf as she waved excitedly from the front seat.

"Celia!" the Neko called back with a grin, slinging the rifle over her back with one hand and returning the greeting with the other. Michael stopped grinning however. Picking his boots up off the ground beside him, he waded into the river and headed straight for the vehicle with his shoulders stiff and a serious look eliminating the joyous expression he had only seconds ago.

"Galen?!" he called, and Mila shifted her focus.

Celia was sitting in the young soldier's lap, but he wasn't as lively as she was. His body was shaking and both his arms were drawn to his chest like he was either freezing or in serious pain. Even from across the river, the Neko could see when he turned toward Michael how pale he was. And in that moment, she started running to catch up to her mate.

"Galen!" Michael yelled just as the driver of the vehicle stood up on his seat and held up hand for them to slow.

"Calm down. He's okay. Overuse of his magic tricks is taxing his body right now; but he needs to get to your village so he can rest."

Both Michael and Mila slowed their worried sprinting through the river, though they still moved with haste. When they got to the other side, they both went straight for the young paratrooper in the Jeep's shotgun seat. Celia shifted herself more onto her love's knees to give Michael room as he took hold of the Private's jaw to keep his head up and facing him.

Eyes barely open, Galen weakly smiled at the Sergeant and spoke in a feeble voice, "I'm good, Michael. Just need to... get to the stash."

"The fuck happened to you?" He looked to the new soldier in the tiger-stripe tunic with the shortened sleeves. "Who are you?"

The man leaned on the metal frame of the windshield, his chin lifting slightly as he introduced himself. "Staff-Sergeant Flaxon, First battalion, Seventh Marine Regiment. I came in on a helicopter in the forest here a week back."

Michael's scowl lifted. "You're the one who ran off into the river."

Flak nodded. "That was me. You must be Sergeant Polson."

"That's right, and this is Mila." Michael motioned to the Neko beside him. She raised her hand in greeting, though Flak couldn't help his narrow glare as he observed the rifle strapped to her back. Giving his head a quick shake, he rid himself of the hostile look and forced himself to have a friendlier one.

"Nice to meet you both," he said, turning his attention to his fellow NCO. "You two can call me Flak, everyone does. Now hop in and give me directions to your village. Galen's in bad shape so the sooner we get him there, the better."

"Understood," Michael responded, turning to Mila and offering a hand to help her climb into the back. Her eyes were wide at the prospect of riding the mechanized contraption, though she hesitantly took his hand and climbed in. When the two got settled in the seat behind the pintle supporting the fifty caliber machine gun, Flak threw the Jeep in gear. The rear tires kicked out on the sand of the river bank but quickly got traction and the vehicle started moving.

"Just follow the river for a little less than quarter mile," Michael explained over the engine noise. "There's a trail meant for merchant wagons that leads straight to the village."

"Simple enough," Flak said as he shifted gears and sped up.

When the engine RPMs started climbing, Mila's hand latched onto her mate's. He looked over to the Neko and saw how she was white-knuckling the frame of the vehicle. Her eyes were locked forward and her body was rigid with her face spelling terror. This had Michael raising an eyebrow as he looked to the front seat. Hugging onto the sickly-looking Galen, Celia was almost giggling with the wind blowing through her hair. Between the bumps in the river bank and the speed, she had a joyous smile stuck to her face that seemed to stir some sort of life in her soldier to make him grin.

Galen must not be in very much danger if she's this relaxed.

"Kretz!" she cheered before Galen whispered something to her, after which she corrected in English, "Fast!"

The Staff-Sergeant in the driver seat leered at her, but then chuckled while shaking his head. The trail Michael had spoken about came into view and he dropped the vehicle down a gear. Mila seemed to relax as they slowed down for a turn, but then the engine roared and the rear tires kicked out again. As Flak swung the back end around the corner and sped off down the trail, Celia shrieked with laughter whereas Mila's claws dug into Michael's hand. Giving a sharp wince, he grumbled under his breath as blood was drawn.

"So you hate riding in a truck," he said in a pained voice.

The Jeep drove over a small rock and bounced, making her razor grip tighten up even further.

"I've never moved so fast before. He'll kill us!" she hissed.

"No, he won't," Michael assured her. "Just relax and watch the woods pass by, we'll be back at the village in five minutes."

She bit her lip and tried to turn her attention to the passing brush, forcing her mind to focus on something other than how easily this transport could lose control and end them all. She tried to take comfort in how carefree the other passengers were but the air whistling past her ears kept her on edge.

How amazing their world must be for instant, speedy transportation to be so common place; such a thing would be revolutionary in Raska. The practice of using the travel time to measure distance would be meaningless when a machine could move at a walking pace or faster than any bird. The use of Michael's "imperial" measuring system would make sense, the system of "metric" even more so. Focusing her thoughts on that concept rather than the swift death she rode on, Mila managed to loosen her grip as to not perforate her mate's hand completely before they returned home.

"So where'd the Jeep come from?" Michael asked, looking up at the Fifty on the pintle.

"A Herc crashed out on the plains this morning," Flak answered, his grip tightening up on the steering wheel as the image of its wreck came to mind. "Supply transport loaded with all sorts of shit. Camp supplies, food, water. Couple of pallets were loaded with weapons and ammo. And of course there was this thing. None of the crew survived though, they were killed on impact. We buried them, salvaged what we could, and burned the rest."

"What happened to the Hercules itself?" Mila asked, trying to distract herself even as her eyes still focused on the woods.

Following along the best she could in the conversation, Celia heard the question and shivered as she hugged onto Galen. In a timid voice she answered with the Nekonian word, "Drakiin."

"Dragon?!" Michael repeated, his alarmed tone making Flak frown.

"Black one with glowing, blue eyes. It flew in, made a lightshow in the sky, then swept down on the Hercules. It pulled out the plane's cargo before it melted the whole fucking thing into a puddle and used magic to carry it off to God-knows-where. Nobody got hurt, but we sure got an awful fright out it."

The Airborne Sergeant ran a hand through his hair and breathed out. Mila wasn't kidding when she said Dragons existed in this world. If one came to his village, he could only hope they had the firepower to kill it or drive it off.

"What happened to Galen to make him so sick?" he then asked, trying to get the thought of fighting a myth off his mind.

Flak sighed and tilted his head forward as he took the Jeep around a bend in the trail. "Overuse of a parlor trick he learned recently. He can make things disappear and reappear at will and he used it to store a platoon's worth of weapons and ammunition. Now it's hurting him and if he doesn't offload soon, it could apparently kill him."

"Elven conjuration," Celia said to Mila in the Nekonian language. "A Tree Elf spell Galen got from Atzlar when we met. He only fully grasped it yesterday morning and used it to store away too much today."

Galen, you brash fool, the Neko thought.

"That your village up ahead?" Flak asked, and Mila looked to see the wooden walls of her home standing proud in its clearing. There were warriors filing out of the gate as they approached, all of them carrying weapons and wearing every piece of salvaged armor they had. No doubt they were coming to investigate or fend off the approaching monster that rumbled through the woods.

"That's our home, yes," she answered. "You can leave this machine at the gate, my people won't touch it. We know better than to meddle with Earth things."

"They better," Flak muttered as he drove across the clearing and pulled up to the village entrance.

Warriors approached to challenge him the moment the Jeep was stopped. Upon seeing the familiar faces in the back seat however, their attitudes changed. Flak hadn't even killed the engine before the greeting party went from cautious warriors to curious cats piling in around him. A crowd had quickly begun to gather outside of the gate as the Willher people drew in to get a look at the latest Earth-gift.

Noting the Marine's scowl at the Neko tribe, Michael climbed out of the Jeep and barked some words in the local language. Many backed off, others walked away completely to go about their business. With Mila and Celia's help, the Sergeant then pulled Galen out of the Jeep's front seat and started walking him into the village.

"Does your wagon need guarding?"

Flak looked to the Willher warrior who had spoken to him, a muscled cat-man wearing a steel breast plate and tasset over leather pants. Pulling the parking brake and shutting the headlights off, he climbed out of the vehicle and nodded.

"Anyone touches this 'wagon,' or anything in it, I'll kill them," he warned, eyeing the gathered felines as he pulled his pipe from his pocket.

Frowning at the threat of life but understanding of the caution of another of Michael's kind, the warrior stated, "Then I will ensure no one touches it."

Flak grinned at the response. "Good man."

He strolled past the guard and into the village, stopping only a moment to look back and add, "There's another horse-drawn wagon that should be coming in later tonight. Come find me when it does."

The Neko pressed a fist to his chest and Flak took that as a salute. Entering the village, he kept near the torches lit along the paths to see as he packed his pipe, then used one of them to light his smoke. He started puffing away while continuing on among the tents and shacks of the Willhers.

He quickly noticed that, now that he was away from his new vehicle, few of the Nekos paid him any mind. There were children that awed at him, warrior-types that checked him over from a distance, but that was the most attention he received here. It was a nice change compared to when he had been in the Drow city, or even back in Vietnam. The kind of places where there was always some group watching or leering in his direction.

For that reason, despite the lack of a Human element, Flak felt comfortable here. Relaxed even. He could simply puff on his pipe and stroll along the path Galen's posse took to wherever they were headed like he was an just another face in the crowd.

Eventually they came to a tent that had a screaming eagle crudely painted above the door, and right away Flak could hear Galen chuckling aloud at the sight of it as he was carried inside. The Marine let out a cloud of smoke through his nose and snickered himself at the native tribe's attempt at emulating Old Abe's likeness.

Sucking back one last puff, Flak dumped out the contents of his pipe onto the ground and stamped out the ashes. With his craving settled, he crouched into the tent just as Galen made the first three crates reappear to his Sergeant's amazement. Lacking interest in the display, Flak instead scoffed when he saw how little room was available to them compared to what they had to occupy it.

The tent was, at best, only ten feet wide and only a foot higher than head-height at the peak. Using the bright, golden glow coming off Celia's body for light, he could see there were already four crates tucked away in the back taking up space. This tent would turn into a sardine can by the time they were done.

"We're gonna need more room," Flak declared, drawing the attention of the group gathered around Galen. "You only got four crates there and we're already getting crowded in here."

"How many boxes do you have?" Mila asked.

"Thirteen more in me," the Private rasped. "A lot more on the wagon."

"Wagon?" Michael questioned, raising an eyebrow as his mate's ears perked up and her attention shifted to the man in her doorway.

Flak nodded and took a knee. "Petra and a Dark Elf friend of Galen's have a wagon full of supplies that we pulled off the Herc. Food, water, coffee, cigarettes. More ammo, more machine guns, a dozen M72s. Camp and communication supplies, you name it. That plane was loaded and we weighed that wagon with as much shit as the horses could pull."

"Fuck," Michael said, rubbing the side of his head. "If there's that much coming, we will need more space. A cabin that we can lock up, at the very least."

"Then I suggest going and asking for one," Flak said, not caring about the condescension in his tone. "Galen doesn't have all night."

A nasty glare narrowed on Michael's face directed at the Marine, something that didn't go unnoticed by Mila. Before anyone raised their voice, she started crawling for the door. "I'll go. Teak or Sayn must have a place that they could spare."

Flak stepped aside to let her out before he shifted his focus toward Galen. "Alright, Private, start letting the crates out. One at a time, we don't need you killing yourself."

The young paratrooper wordlessly acknowledged the senior rank and lit his left hand into a glow. Seeing him ready his magic, Celia moved from his side to behind him and pressed herself against his back. Her bodily light intensified to match his with her arms hugging onto his chest and her chin resting on his shoulder. Both of their bodily lights flashed in unison and Galen suddenly took in a lungful of air as he stopped shaking.

With his Elf giving him that magical boost, he held out his arms and the boxes started appearing one after another. The first stack quickly reached the roof before he started another, which went straight to the roof again. Even with the two Sergeants restacking them in the back to get max use out of the real estate, available space ran out quick. The three soldiers and the Elf were pushed back until the only place left for them to sit was the sleeping area.