Presented by the Atomic Sleepwalker

Earl’ Summer, Se’enday, 1341 (Later)

I am finding it harder and harder to believe that Arkan and Wynellia are musicians like they claim.

The way they moved today…I guess I hadn’t really thought about how real those guns and blades on their belts were, or how well Arkan and Wynellia knew how to use them. And Kent, that sword of his, but that’s hardly a surprise to find out that a soldier for the Dragon knows how to fight. Not surprising like Torrent. I still can’t believe what she could do. I’ve seen mancers before, of course. The sisters didn’t like it, but we would teach each other cantrips and pretend we knew how to hex each other. I’ve never seen someone who really knows what they’re doing, aside from street performers, and what they do isn’t real anyway.

I’m sorry, I’m all over the place again. It’s just that it’s like the first night all over again. I can’t breathe, I can’t sleep, and I feel like any second the Regesians are going to come bursting out of the woods to kill us all.

I’ve been bombed, shot at, forced out of my home, and been made a refugee. I’ve watched men, women, and children butchered in the streets. But this is first time I really felt like I’m in over my head.

Let me back up.

When I last left off, I had just left the tavern with Wynellia, Sir Kent, Torrent, Brother Xiao, and Arkan. Torrent had her documents, Kent had his sword, Arkan had his guitar, Wynellia had her axe, and Xiao had his prayer beads. I had nothing.

It won’t do me a whole lot of good to describe how we got from the tavern to the south side of the city, where the big gates are. By then, most of the fighting had moved to the north side of the city, so it was actually kind of quiet. The airships were still overhead, so we had to stay under cover, and every few minutes a firebomb would go off a few blocks away, but other than that, you almost wouldn’t know our home had been invaded.

I mean, you’d have to ignore the rubble and carnage, but still.

I wasn’t sure where we were going—I mean, I knew we were trying to get to the gates, I had overheard that much—and every time I tried to ask, somebody would shut me up. Xiao and Wynellia were nice about it, but the rest just hissed at me.
We were almost to the gates, maybe about a block away, when we ran into the rider.

The thing was even bigger on the ground, black and bat-winged and drooling, sitting in the middle of the ruins of a bombed-out house. It was still in its bridle, and there was a Regesian tying down an anchor cord. Arkan was in the lead, and when he turned the corner and saw the rider, he put up a hand for us to stop, but it was too late. The thing had our scent, and it turned towards us, snuffling with its dripping dog snout. We all froze, us and the Regesian, as we waited to see what the creature would do.

It screamed.

Everything happened at once. The Regesian started to pull his short blade from its sheath. Arkan drew his pistols. Wynellia and Sir Kent charged, covering the fifty feet in less than six seconds. Xiao turned and grabbed my arm, pulling me down behind a piece of fallen masonry. Torrent didn’t move.

At least, it didn’t look like she was moving. I looked closer, and I could see  that she was quivering, her hands clenched into fists, her nails digging so hard into her palms that blood was dripping from her hands. Her lips were moving, like she was praying, but of course I couldn’t hear what she was saying.

The beast leaped forward, but it was still tied, so it came up short, struggling against its bridle. Bullworth and Wynellia were on it then, hacking and slashing at its legs, its wings, anything. Bullworth was like a man made of iron, shrugging the thing’s bites off of his armor. Wynellia dodged under and around, slicing at its underbelly.

Arkan aimed carefully with his pistols, and fired two shots. There were two sharp cracks that were loud enough to cause my ears to ring, even with the damage that shell had done the day before. I saw blood blossom on the Regesian’s tunic, and he stumbled forward, the sword tumbling from his hands. He hit the ground, face first, and didn’t move.

Wynellia and Bullworth had gotten the black thing back up into the only standing corner of the house. Things looked good, so of course that’s when everything went wrong. A pair of Regesians appeared from behind the house, jumping at Wynellia and Bullworth and forcing them backwards. They were the rest of the thing’s crew, of course, but we had no way of knowing that then. We might have been more careful if we knew those creatures could carry three.

Arkan aimed and fired again, but he missed. One of the Regesians threw a handful of soot at Bullworth’s face, catching him in the eyes. The big knight stumbled and tripped over the charred remains of a stool. He was barely able to get his sword up in time to catch the Regesian’s thrust, and he shouted, desperately, “Torrent!”

That’s when everything exploded.

I heard a rumbling, and at first I thought there were more shells incoming, but then I realized it was coming from under our feet. We all froze, even the Regesians and the monster, as tremors shook the ruins on the street. Then a geyser of water erupted from under the floor of the house, tearing a hole in the floor and ripping through what remained of the ceiling. The Regesians were caught in the deluge, thrown backwards by its force. Wynellia grabbed Bullworth and helped him to his feet, and the two of them started to run.

I could see the Regesians gathering themselves through the mist. Then there was a creak, and the house, already weakened by the firebombs of the night before, collapsed onto its ruined foundations. Their screams were silenced quickly–not even the most savage Northman can survive good Gate’s Pass architecture.

We all sat there for a few moments, stunned. I think we were all looking at Torrent. I know I was.

The rest of it is still a blur: making it to the gate, Torrent showing the guard something from the document case, the gate opening, all of us tumbling onto the path towards the Stone Forest, towards the coast, and away from my home.

Earl’ Summer, Sixday, 1341

Evening. We’re settling down for the night, so I figured I write a little. I talked to Wynellia Silverhammer for the first time today. Actually sat down and had a conversation with her, I mean. She’s with Arkan. They’re both a few years older than me, maybe six, seven years. Not as old as Bullworth and not nearly as old as Brother Xiao, who looks like he’s about sixty. I can’t tell how old Torrent is. She’s got white hair, cut real short, but not a lot of wrinkles around her face. She doesn’t say much. She spends most of her time praying and reading the documents she’s had since before we left Gate’s Pass.

When I told Wynellia my name, she said she had met a man named Harvest back as Gate’s Pass, and was I any relation? I told her no, that that’s a name the orphanage gives foundlings. I explained to her that there are only four last names in the orphanage: Flower, Summer, Harvester, and Frost. It’s based on what time of year they find you. Most folks’ll change their name once they get out, but a few can’t be bothered, so you’ll run into some Frosts and Summers and Harvesters. I’m not related to any of them, as far as I know. But then again, I’m not related to anyone, as far as I know, so that’s what that’s worth.

Wynellia asked me how I got my first name, and I told her that the sisters named us alphabetically. The first kid is an “A” name, the second one is “B,” and so on, until they get to “Z” and start back over. I was brought in after Jon, so I was a “K” name. Lorra came in after me.

I asked Wynellia how she got the name Silverhammer, and she told me it was a royal name from up north, even further than Regesia. I asked her if she was royalty, and she said yes, but then Arkan came over and told Wynellia to making fun of me. I think she was kidding, but it’d be nice if she was royalty. I’ve never met royalty before.

Okay, when I left off, the church was destroyed and I was holding a kid who’s name I had never even bothered to find out, and I was probably going to die without knowing it. I tried to think about the safest place to be in an invasion. First I thought of the garrison, because I figured there would be more guards there. Then I thought that if I was invading a city, I’d want to attack the garrison first, especially if I was attacking from the air. The garrison was probably smoldering rubble by now. So I thought about where I would want to be if I could be anywhere, and all I could think of was how badly I wanted a beer. I had never had beer before, and I didn’t want to die without tasting it. It was stupid, that that was all I could think of.

I thought too long. A pistol ball hit one of the big stone blocks beside me and sprayed chips of rock everywhere. I cradled the kid and started running, just moving, anywhere but there, dodging and weaving around the blocks as best as I could. All I could think about was how much like the games we used to play at the orphanage this was. We’d pretend to monsters and chase each other around trees, or, more likely, since we were always inside, chairs and beds and tables. All I could think about was stupid stuff, like kids games and how I didn’t know the name of the girl in my arms or how I had never had a beer. All I could think about was stupid stuff.

I was running past an open doorway when a big pair of arms snaked out and grabbed me. I started to yell, but a hand clamped down on my mouth. I was spun around and brought face-to-face with a Gate’s Pass guardsman. He was pale, and streaks of blood had dried on his face, but I had never been so happy to see those colors. He held a finger to his lips and let go of my mouth. I let out a long sigh and looked around.

It was a tavern. There were about two dozen people, all huddled together away from the windows and doors. The guardsman closed the door gently, keeping an eye to the peephole. I sort of stumbled towards the group. It was mostly children and old people, covered in blood and dust and looking about as tired and shocked as I felt. There weren’t any other guardsmen, but there were a few people that still looked alert and healthy. There was a skinny guy with long hair, drawn back into a ponytail, and a mustache with the ends twirled up. He had a guitar slung on his back and a pair of clockwork pistols tucked into a wide leather belt. This was Arkan Baes, but I only found that out yesterday.

I saw a pretty girl sharpening an axe. Well, most of it was axe. There was a big spike on the opposite end. She was wearing some kind of tunic with markings I had never seen before; they looked like religious symbols, but I didn’t recognize them. That was Wynellia, of course. She says the axe isn’t just any axe, it’s a weapon passed down through generations of her family. But then Arkan heard her and told her to stop lying again.

There was a fat priest, bald, with the thickest black beard I’d ever seen–that was Brother Xiao, of course. There was a big man, no, huge, almost six and a half feet tall, wearing a thick leather breastplate and a giant sword. I would find out the next day that he was a Knight of Aleria, bound to Torrent in ways I still don’t fully understand. Last, there was Torrent herself. Still the short hair, still the ageless face. She was poring over some documents, the same ones she keeps bringing out now.

I passed the kid to an old woman. She seemed like she could use a friend. Then I walked over to the bar and pulled myself a beer.

That’s all for tonight. I can’t believe it’s only been two days, but tomorrow I should have enough time to finish the story about how I got out of the city.

Kellan Harvester was a young orphan who became a refugee during the Night of Knives. He joined Arkan Baes, Brother Xiao, and the other founding members of ASE and Agent Six. It is believed that he was a founding member as well, although he did use a different name. Presented here,  for the first time, is Kellan’s complete journal. Hopefully this will serve as an excellent supplement to the drier historical writings.

-Adrian Doyle, Archivist

From the Journal of Kellan Harvester

Earl’ Summer, Fifth Day, 1341

I’m no good at this kind of thing, but I figure this is important and somebody has to. I mean, in twenty years, if we make it through this, people are going to know. I’m the only one who cares enough, I think, but it might just be that I’m the only one who really knows how to read and write. The others can, I think, especially the fat priest and skinny guy with the guitar, but they didn’t have the sisters at the orphanage breaking switches on their backs to make them do their lessons.

Anyway, I was able to scrounge up some paper and ink, and I’m going to do my best to keep track of everything that’s happened over the past few days as best as I can remember it. It’s still hard to comprehend—I mean, it’s been two days since the attack, and I don’t think I’ve actually gotten it yet. Maybe writing will help me put everything in order.

Okay, yeah, I’m all over the place. I already said I’m not very good at this. But I’ll try, for posterity, and so I don’t go crazy. I feel like I might, sometimes. I wake up sweaty and breathing so hard I think I’m about to have a heart attack. It’s like my body knows it’s real but my mind doesn’t.

The Regesians attacked two days ago. At least, we all think it was the Regesians. They looked like Northmen, at any rate, all pale and blond, and they were flying the flag that they do up North, the one with the fist squeezing the snake? That one, it’s like their religion or something. The fat priest says that the Regesians are all zealots or something, that they’re ruled by this High Priestess or something, and they all think that their god wants them to kill a bunch of people and take their land. It doesn’t make much sense to me, but I’ve never been very good at understanding religion, even at the orphanage.

It was in the middle of the night when everything started, when everything caught fire. I remember hearing this bang, and when I woke up, I thought it was daylight because the dorm was so bright. But then some of the other guys were at the window, and I looked out and saw that everything was burning. Everything. There were all these people running into the street, trying to get to shelter, I guess, and that’s when I saw the riders.

I had never seen anything like them, big black beasts with these huge 20-foot wingspans. They looked like bats with dog heads, all slobbering jaws and eyes glinting from the flames. It took me a second to realize that there were riders, that there was a Regesian on the beast’s back throwing firebombs at the city.

I didn’t know what to do. I think I was in shock. But then some of the sisters came into the room and started telling us to run. I remember thinking that I couldn’t run, I didn’t have my shoes, but this one sister, Constance, grabbed my arm and pulled me, hard. She was saying something, but I couldn’t hear her, it was so loud.

She kept pulling, and I followed her and the rest of the boys down the stairs. We saw the girls on the way down, and the rest of the sisters. Nobody said anything. Some of the little children were crying, but even they were quiet, like they were scared enough to cry, but even more scared of making too much noise.

We made it to the cellar, and Sister Charity closed the door and barred it. It was totally dark—nobody had brought anything to light a candle with—and some of the children started to cry for real now, even some of the older ones. I tried to find Lorra—she’s a friend of mine, sixteen, like me, but I couldn’t. It was too cramped, and it was hard to hear over the crying and the explosions from the street.

We stayed there for hours. We didn’t have anything to eat or drink, and nowhere for anybody to take a piss. Some of the little kids wet themselves. Some of the bigger kids did too. By the time we got out of there, it stank.

After a while, Sister Charity unbolted the door and slipped out to check around. She wouldn’t let anybody else go with her, and she told us that if she wasn’t back in an hour, we were all to go to the Church. I wanted to know how we would know when an hour went by, seeing as how none of us had a watch, but she ignored me.

An hour went by. It wasn’t exact, but I found Albert and made him count the seconds. He’s a really bright kid, has a real head for numbers, and he’s almost as good as a watch. I think it made him feel better to count it all off like that. Like it was something to take his mind off of things. After an hour, Sister Charity hadn’t come back. Some of the little kids started to cry again. We waited a while, at least another hour. She still didn’t show.

Sister Constance got us together, then. She told us that she was going to split us all up into groups, and we were all going to make our way separately to the church. She said it would be an adventure, like that time we all went out the Glianine Orchards, but nobody believed her. She put me in a group with Sister Patience and some of the little kids. I told her I wanted to go with Lorra, but Sister Patience told me that the bigger kids had to be able to take care of the little ones. If we all went together, she said, some of the children might not have anybody to watch out for them. I told her if it was all the same to her, I’d rather Lorra and I take our chances and let the Five-Faced God take care of the kids. Patience slapped me good, right on the jaw, and told me not to blaspheme. Then we had to leave.

Sister Constance opened the door, and we all squinted at the light. It was daylight now, and none of us could see after being stuck in the cellar all night. Then Patience told me it was time to go, and she handed me one of the damp kids. I grabbed hold of her tight and headed out into the street.

Damn. We’re moving again. The skinny guy and the pretty girl are saying something about heading south with the other refugees. The fat priest, the soldier, and the sister are packing up. I’ll keep writing when I get a chance.

Thanks to a combination of leash laws and drunkenness, my vacation was cut short. That means I have some new material. Older Sleepwalkers might remember a few fiction pieces I did to supplement the D&D campaign I was in at the time. I left the campaign, but a lot of the ideas were good, so I’ve retooled it a bit into this pseudo-history fantasy-espionage piece. I’ll try to provide regular updates. Enjoy!

Forward

Everyone knows that the organization known as the All-Seeing Eye was formed in Seaquin during the Regisian War. Everyone knows that the group, once a government body but now free to act somewhat independently, employs the best information brokers, bodyguards, and consultants on the continent. Everyone knows that they have become an integral part of the fabric of politics—any viscount or duke without at least one operator from the All-Seeing Eye is hardly considered to be important enough to warrant the wax on a seal of dismissal. Even their motto—“Our Work Is Never Done”—can be seen adorning plaques, badges, patches, and even street graffiti. Everyone knows what ASE is now—but its founding, rumored to be steeped in blood, treachery, and no small amount of good fortune, has been kept secret since the end of the Regisian War.

Until today. Now, using recently-unearthed official documents and groundbreaking interviews, archivist and historian Adrian Doyle has compiled the first comprehensive history on the origins of ASE, the impetus behind its creation, and its controversial founders, especially the early days of what is known only as Sanction Team. With Centennial celebration of the victory over Regesia approaching, the council in Seaquin declassified certain information, and allowed a number of archivsts access to what have been until now closely guarded state secrets. Now, the portrait of ASE’s early days, especially the mysterious and controversial Agent Six is, while by no means complete, at least less indistinct.

In this text, Doyle tells how an untrained and undisciplined group of expatriates destabilized an empire, sowed the seeds for one of the most powerful groups of modern times, and won a war. He tells how a wartime unit became a state security force, then later an independent contractor. He tells of triumphs, failures, and the most daring of exploits.

He tells of ASE.

This is their story.

Pallus Titus Porphicus XII, Wis.
Chief Archivist of His Majesty, the Honorable King Steppengard VII, Ruler of the Realm, &tc

Chapter I: The Line Is Drawn

In the year Owl 1341, the shadow of war had fallen across the world. High Inquisitor Harrovan, Baroness of Regesia, had declared a Holy War on the infidel Free Realms, sweeping out with an army of jackbooted zealots to plant the bloody banner of Regesia over the Seven Cities.

Her army was swift, savage, and seemingly invincible. Supplemented by mercenaries from the south and their own battle priests, the Holy Army of Regesia fielded a combined force of airships, biomantically-modified warbeasts, and shock troops that obliterated every force that tried to stand against them. The Night of Knives burned dozens of independent cities to the ground and turned thousands into homeless refugees. Within two months, the Holy Army had conquered Frejya; one month later, they conquered Iopos. It took half a year for the remaining Free Cities to mount any effective resistance, and by then, the mountain snows had melted, giving the Regesian Holy Army a perfect supply line stretching across the continent.

The fate of the Free Realms was in jeopardy as the Regisian Holy War threatened to swallow the entire continent in fire, steel, and blood. Far away from the fighting, Seaquin, the smallest of the Free Cities, knew it would soon felt the cold gaze of Regisia fall upon them. Seaquin was small and ill-prepared for war, but it had the one weapon the larger Cities did not: time. When reports and refugees began pouring in from Seaquin, the Parliment took swift action, appointing Parliment member and hero of the Pirate Wars, Xavius Foebane, as General of the Army of Seaquin.

General Foebane acted quickly, calling up the military reserves and demanding volunteers. The results were greater than anyone could have hoped:  everyone—merchants, sailors, smiths, and countless refugees, displaced from their homes by Regisia and anxious to strike back—answered Foebane’s clarion call. In just under three months, Foebane had raised an army that would, in time, prove to be not only powerful enough to stall the Regisian advance, but to turn the tide of the war. To this day, it remains the largest volunteer army ever assembled.

Foebane had his soldiers, and with the Holy Army locked in desperate combat with Ryklos, Verbanu, and  Weal, he had the time to train them. But then the news came that had the potential to turn the tide of the war irrevocably toward Regesia. At that time, Regisia had signed a treaty with the powerful and notoriously isolationist Kingdom of Dassan, a major military power in the area, one that Seaquin could not hope to counter. For Seaquin to be able to stand against Regesia, it needed the manpower Dassan could provide. If the armies of Dassan joined with Regesia, the Holy Army would be unstoppable; if they joined the Free Cities, they might have a chance.

Foebane did not set out to create a formal intelligence bureau, but he did recognize the need for unconventional agents and tactics. When his own forces proved unable to meet the demand, he reached out into the boiling refugee community. And that’s where he struck gold. It was a ragtag group of thugs from a hick town in the North who not only volunteered, but succeeded beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. Patriots without a county, petty thugs, thieves, con men, and itinerant holy men–it was these men and women, thrown together by fate, that would form the foundation of the All-Seeing Eye.

They weren’t soldiers. They weren’t spies. They weren’t agent provocateurs. They weren’t even mercenaries, or professionals of any kind. They had no education with information gathering and had no formal military training. But they were not without experience. Like the rest of the refugees displaced by the Regesians, they had been bloodied during the Night of Knives. They had fought Regesian forces, and won. They had learned, through brutal confrontation, the beginnings of the unorthodox tactics that they would become their trademark during the war, tactics that Regesian High Minister Ku’hul Nam would later call “the basest, most vile, most deplorable, most dishonest techniques ever employed in wartime.”

Foebane saw in these refugees not only rage at what had been done to them, but a bond forged in the fires of combat. They were a team, and they were what he needed. Foebane granted them the unique rank of “Special Agent,” and tasked them with personally carrying out missions that “stood outside the bounds of traditional warfare.” Officially, they were known as a Seaquin Special Operations Sanction Team, a term they would carry with them for the rest of their career. They were the ones who decided on their famous code name: Agent Six, a name meant to confuse and intimidate the Regesians. They would waste their time looking for the first five, the newly-minted Agent Six reasoned.

The name was the first of ASE’s mind games, but far from the last. Many of the founding Special Agents were con men, and ASE was the biggest con of their careers. During the war, Regesian intelligence reports estimated that ASE employed over 2,000 Special Agents; they had 32. The ASE sigil, a watchful eye, was inscribed everywhere in Regesia, making it seem like the omnipresent Agent Six was everywhere. Even their name was meant to invoke fear and superstitious wonder in their foes–but that’s another story.

It is important here to note that governments have kept their own spies for as long as there have been secrets to uncover, which is to say, since the beginning of time. Seaquin was no exception; though smaller than most, the city-state had its own spies who were no less brave and skilled than any other. Sanction Team were not spies. They were not sent to gather intelligence. Their purpose was much more singular: force Dassan to renounce its treaty with Regesia by any means necessary. They were expected to bribe, blackmail, seduce, and assassinate their way across the continent, and there was literally no strategy or tactic that was considered taboo. By the end of the Regesian War, Sanction Team would be responsible for hundreds of deaths and millions of vicars of property damage. Giving the Special Agents of Sanction Team a target was considered to be a last resort comparable to a large-scale firebombing. Sanction Team was not assigned; they were aimed.

And so the group, an untrained and undisciplined team with no knowledge of diplomacy, politics, or even the most rudimentary basics of spycraft set out to pit two nations against one another.