Acclayne Book 1: The Game Begins

Cleggston re-read the instructions on the small bit of crumpled paper that he had been given. Just hours ago the page had been crisp and white, now it was wrinkled, torn and smudged from overuse. The now smeared writing said this:

'Your squad are to remain stationed in Vallaylii until further notice. The other three squadrons will move on ahead to Corthus as planned. You will locate Giflyn Ferntill; a well known arms dealer, he has vital information regarding enemy movements. Any information gathered is to be forwarded immediately to myself and the Palace. Use excessive force if necessary.

Sergeant P. Filing'

Cleggston grimaced; he hated force of any kind; never mind excessive. By rights he shouldn't have even been in the military, how he had been promoted to squadron leader he'd never know. He sighed, returned the paper to his jacket pocket and took a long, desperate drag of his cigarette.

He was twenty-three. A young, naïve twenty-three. He fancied himself a poet; though refused to let anyone read his poetry for fear of not only being mocked, but of being found out. He was twenty-three, a poet and hopelessly in love with his childhood friend Pim. Cleggston was, by Glakyrian standards, your average man; tall, robust and with just a slight podge in the middle. His face was handsome in a fresh, innocent way; with a broad smile and friendly brown eyes. He had a penchant for literature; a flair for the arts; was sensitive and kind and about as yellow-bellied as they come. Now, as previously mentioned, most of these traits were common to your average Glakyrian male- which was why most of the army, including Cleggston's squad, was made up of female recruits. Pim was one such recruit.

In a misguided attempt to woo his potential mate, Cleggston had joined Pim in signing up for the Cortharen army. A vegan pacifist, the army was against everything Cleggston stood for but being a hopeless romantic, and fearing separation from his soul-mate, he believed that sacrifices should be made.

Army life did not suit Cleggston; he was as out of his depth as a swan in a puddle. On the other hand army life suited Pim down to the ground and she moved quickly up through the ranks. It was after one such promotion that Pim met, and inevitably fell for Pomfrey; another senior officer who happened to be twice her age.

Cleggston put on a brave face around Pim when he learnt of her impending nuptials; yes he was familiar with Pomfrey, yes Pomfrey was a complete bad ass and no the age gap probably wouldn't be much of a problem. Cleggston was heartbroken, he mooned over her for months afterwards unable to eat or sleep properly; though his poetry output was phenomenal. He simply could not compete with Pomfrey; not least of all because she was a woman. All of these years and not once did he realise that while he was chasing women so was his best friend; and having more success than him to boot. He had never stood a chance.

Now here he was, standing outside The Bloody Rose in Vallaylii, his squadron of unruly women – and one man; he mustn't forget Cloy or he'd have him done for sexism – sat inside. They were doubtlessly drinking themselves stupid while he waited outside for this Giflyn Ferntill feller, all under the orders of the very woman he'd been trying to impress. It was a fine mess he'd gotten himself into.

It was as Cleggston was re-reading his paper yet again, and admiring Pim's strong, uniform handwriting that Giflyn Ferntill breezed passed him unnoticed and entered the pub. He sat himself down at the bar and nodded to the barman; who nodded back – the silent understanding that Giflyn was looking for his usual tipple of Glako Strong Ale. It was not the most refined drink that could be found in Vallaylii but he maintained that it put hairs on his chest. His wife agreed that that was true enough but that it was the barrel of the stuff that was forming around his middle that he should be more concerned with. Giflyn supped on his ale regardless; a petulant attempt at marital rebellion. With this in mind he eyed the army women across the room. Years of training had hardened their bodies and their protruding muscles were visible beneath their uniforms. He smiled appreciatively at them before continuing on with his drink. He'd always had a thing for a woman in a uniform.

Hazel slapped Floss across the back. Hard. There was no malice in it, rather Floss had managed to choke on the last of her pint while laughing at some inane thing Dexi had come out with. The three women were brutish, excessive and daft respectively and had been teamed with several quieter girls, and Cloy, with the hopes that they might balance each other out and make a half-decent squad. Suffice it to say that the ladies didn't think much of this arrangement and they thought even less of their team-mates and corporal; who refused to drink with them.

“I think you mean 'flagrant' Dex, not 'fragrant'.” Floss managed once she had recovered herself.

“That's what I said: flagrant disregard for team morale. We should all be bonding right now.”

“I wouldn't mind doing some 'bonding' if you catch my drift?” Hazel eyed Cloy in a way that made him feel distinctly uneasy.

“I know. It feels like we've all just been chucked together without any thought as to whether or not we'll actually be able to work together,” Floss waved her empty glass in the air at the barman. “I mean, team dynamic.”

“What team dynamic?”

“Exactly!” she laughed and nodded over to where the rest of their squad was sat quietly drinking glasses of water and barely speaking to each other. “Dynamic my ass.” She muttered, slurping at her drink – barely giving the barman time to put the glass down in front of her.

“Ah, who needs 'em anyway? Right Cloy?” Hazel punched him on the shoulder affectionately. He winced in response. “Sorry Chick.” She laughed deeply. Hazel was a big woman in that she was exceptionally tall; and just as broad. Though she had been this way from a young age she still was unaware of her strength and so often did damage without even realising it. Aware of her clumsiness she still managed to exude a confident air of sexuality which was evident in her dirty laugh and her soft throaty voice. Well, in that but also in her ravenous sexual appetite. Hazel had had more sexual partners than hot dinners and had left every one of them heartbroken. Or just broken...either way. If Cloy hadn't been such a chicken he'd have contemplated having her done for harassment.

“I'm amazed that you deaned to sit with us Cloy.” Dexi scoffed and flicked her short blonde hair off of her face.

“Excuse me?”

“'Deigned'. She means 'deigned'. Course he did Dex, why would anyone want to sit with THEM anyway?!” Floss threw a look at the other table. They were ignoring them. She scoffed. She wouldn't admit it but there were only three of them, and Cloy, but five of the others and she was feeling left out. She didn't like it, no matter how boring the other table might have been, she still felt like she might be missing out.

“Quite right,” came a deep voice from above Cloy's head. It was Giflyn. Having been enchanted by the prospect of three raucous army women, not so much by Cloy, he had decided to join them. “clearly this is the table that everyone would rather be at. May I?” This question was directed at Floss, although by no means the biggest she was the clear alpha of the group. That and Giflyn was quite enthralled by her sizeable breasts.

“Sure thing.” She smiled smugly as their new friend sat down with them. “You know what we need, seeing as we're clearly the cool table?” she half slurred as Giflyn scooted his chair between her and Dexi. “SHOTS!”

When Cleggston had finished his bout of stress-chain-smoking , or rather; when he had smoked the last of his cigarettes, he decided to join the others inside. He had no idea what the man he was looking for actually looked like – he only knew that he frequented this public house. He may as well have something while he was waiting. Coffee perhaps, or a hot chocolate. One with marshmallows. Pushing the door open he clocked the majority of his squad sitting at the far end of the room, looks of undisguised disgust on their faces. Following their unified gaze he spotted the rest of his squad.

Hazel had successfully managed to mount the poor unsuspecting Cloy and now had her tongue down his throat and her hand in his pants. He didn't seem to mind too much. While next to them, and seemingly oblivious to their antics, Floss and Dexi were drunkenly arguing over the correct use of the word 'demure'. Neither of whom were, ironically enough, as they both sat there with their shirts unbuttoned almost as far as their stomachs. A rather drunk looking gentleman who was sat between them was helping himself to an eyeful.

“I think you'll find that a demure is actually a mammal.”

“A what? What the-?”

“It's a little monkey-looking thing.”

Floss gave a blank look and followed it up with a whisky chaser.

“Long tail, stripy...”

“Oh My Mother! You mean lemur!”

“No I don't- oh shit, do I?”

“Yes!” Floss giggled and Cleggston was horrified, if not a little aroused, by how her breasts jiggled as she did so. The man that was sat with them had clearly noticed as well as he rather unashamedly leant forward to get a better view.

Cleggston coughed loudly from beside the door. He coughed again when no one looked the first time. He eventually caught the eye of the man at the table. Not Cloy; he was unable to see around Hazel.

“Ah this must be the fabled Corporal I've heard so much about.” He raised his glass to Cleggston in a salute, who in turn nodded and made his way stiffly over to them.

“Corporal Cleggy! Nice of you to join us.” Floss slurred.

“Finally.” Dexi muttered just loud enough for him to hear. Cleggston reddened; through embarrassment or anger, he couldn't tell.

“Join us wont you?” Floss patted the seat next to her.

“I really don't think it's appropriate for me to be drinking with you Private.”

“Jeez you're such a killjoy.” Cleggston glared at her. “Sorry. You're such a killjoy... Sir.”

“That is it! On your feet private!” Cleggston bellowed and silenced the whole pub. Dexi sniggered into her hand as Floss tried, unsuccessfully, to pull herself up; managing instead to almost knock over the large table.

“Ah corporal, go easy on the girl – clearly she doesn't know what she is saying.”

Cleggston eyed the stranger angrily; who was he to tell him how he should handle his squad?

“Sorry friend I didn't catch your name.”

“My apologies,” he stood and offered Cleggston his hand; he ignored it. “Ferntill.”

“Giflyn Ferntill?”

“The one and...” Giflyn gulped nervously and as he did so his Adam's apple pushed uncomfortably against the tip of the blade that Cleggston was now holding up to his throat, “...only.”

Cleggston paced the dimly lit room. Ferntill had led them to a room beneath the pub, it was filled wall to wall and floor to ceiling with all manner of weapons; most of which were illegal. Cleggston decided in the interests of his mission he would overlook this; for now. He rubbed his forehead in frustration; Ferntill was singing like a canary, just not the tune he had been hoping to hear. So far they had learnt that Giflyn Ferntill was a regular at a brothel two streets away, which he part owned under a different name due to tax reasons; he was behind in both his house payments and his tax; he supplied unsavoury characters with weapons- no questions asked (although he did have an arms dealer licence so surely that was a grey area? He wasn't actually responsible for what they did with them was he?), he had had a fake ID when he was fifteen; he didn't put a lead on his dogs when in public and he had two almost certainly overdue library books somewhere at home. In short; Cleggston felt as if they had heard the man's whole bloody life story.

“Whatever it was I swear I didn't do it... unless it was that time when I-”

“Shut the hell up!” Floss smacked him across the face, “I am too hungover for this shit.”

“We aren't here for you. We need to know whatever you can tell us about Cholden.” Cleggston sighed; he knew what this was. It was a dead end. Another one. He was always being sent on pointless Intel gathering missions that never led anywhere. They never found out anything useful and any information they did gather was almost always useless. He suspected that this was yet another attempt to keep his unit busy and out from under the feet of the decent squads.

“Lady Cholden?” Ferntill asked.

“I don't know. Yes?” Cleggston pinched the bridge of his nose entirely exasperated with the whole damned situation.

“Why didn't you say so? I can help you out there... if you make it worth my while.”

Cleggston couldn't believe what he was hearing; he was finally, actually getting somewhere. At that moment he would have turned over all of the female members of his squad to Ferntill if that was what he wanted. Hell, he'd even hand over Cloy.

“Go ahead,” he said, waving his hand dismissively and sounding a lot more nonchalant than he felt, “what is it you want?”

Ferntill leaned forward conspiratorially. “Does The Twin-Blade mean anything to you?”