As the sun rose in the sky, the dreary morning mist faded from the harbor of Tarannidorn, and though it was still chilly, the sun's touch was a great comfort to the masses laboring to achieve their master's commands, though it didn't little to alleviate the frenzy of activity.
The town's dockside was shaped in a great 'U', its bay protected by elongated tendrils of land, which had played no small part in the ports many successful repulsions of Etruscans in the past. The small entrance into it was currently filled with a dozen great ships of war, mighty things, standing proudly in contrast to the ragged fisherfolk dwellings on the coast.
In contrast, the rest of the harbor was filled with a motley assortment of ships of every kind. These were mostly conscripted by the God-King's forces, boats of fishermen and merchants, now being loaded to the brim with men, horses, and supplies. They were not all islander, either; many were noticeably Cadean, or Qaylu, or even Jadisi in design.
Those last ships had caused some difficulty on their seizure. Fine ships with vast cargo and excellently maintained, they belonged to the obscenely wealthy Gold Cartell of Jadis. This alone was enough to cause disquiet among the Mardochians; it was well known that those who threatened the trade of the Gold Cartell would not live to do so again. When the Jadisi merchants complained to Oromis in person, and threatened him with the wrath of their principality, he shocked his followers further by throwing them in the dungeon. One does not provoke the Cartell in that manner; But Oromis had made it clear that he had no fear for the coin counters. Now, these ships were docked along with the rest, comandeered by the invasion force.
Oromis himself watched the chaos from the deck of the Pheonix, the largest warship he commanded, able to see from this vantage point all the going-ons in the harbor. He could see that the larger ships, the ones used by the main army, were beginning to draw out of port, clearly ready to depart, while the smaller, sleeker ones of the second army were still loading up. The soldiers of that force were relatively lucky; since they would depart only later, at sundown, they would have more time to pack supplies, and wouldn't have to rely on forage and defections like his army would.
"We'll land somewhere in upper Grandell," he had told general Astra before he had left. "We can exchange communications by ship once you've revealed yourself and taken Tolos."
The plan was that the main army would set sail first, making no secret of their departure. Let the rats race across the Gap and squeal to the Prophet on his false throne of the oncoming storm. Once they'd left, however, Duke Perinhold would seal off communication between the Isles and the outside world. Not a hard task, truth be told, considering how they'd conscripted nearly every vessel in the isles which could float to transport the army. At any rate, the secondary force would continue to prepare until nightfall, at which point they would also set sail, this time under cover of darkness and secrecy.
"We're making history, here," he had continued. "Make sure we're the ones who will write it."
"Of course, your grace. If you say my Grey Winds must take Tolos, then we will take it."
"Keep an eye on General Astra," he later told Selana Jalek (the leader of the Night Hunters, whom he had placed under Astra's command) in private.
"I... What, sire?" the Islander had asked, surprised. "But you-"
"Put her in command of a quarter of my army, yes. She's a capable leader, and she hasn't given me reason to distrust her. But still, watch her."
That Astra hadn't given him reason to distrust only made him more suspicious. He had no idea what she wanted, and that made him suspicious. Common wisdom would say that she and her company were after gold, but they had abandoned lucrative contracts in the Empire to come serve him. Perhaps she was fighting for his ideals... But somehow, he doubted there was such a thing as an altruistic mercenary.
And yet now he was entrusting the very success of his war to her. It was a roll of the dice; he could only hope she wouldn't decide she liked the Prophets gold more. Even now, as the last preparations for departure were being done, being dependent on another like this irked him.
"Sire, the last of the army has embarked," Wolong told him. Oromis had arranged for the Qaylu to travel on the Pheonix as well, so that he was available for consultation should a landing port prove difficult to find.
"Good. Then let's not waste any more time."
Wolong hesitated. "If we would just delay our departure by an hour, we could avoid major supply problems down the line..."
"There will be no delay, Wolong," Oromis said, a smile on his lips. "I'm not staying in these wet, frigid, and miserable isles one minute longer." He gave a nod to the Pheonix's captain, who went to the edge of the forecaslte, leaning on its railing.
"To home!" the captain barked, the old war cry of the Mardochians sailing off to war.
"To home!" came answers from his lieutenants, who set themselves to work raising anchor and lowering the sails.
Oromis drew Reingunger for the first time in a century, admiring the beauty of the blade. It was a massive sword, as large as a man, yet it was light as a feather. To him, at least- Those who didn't have his curse were consistently incapable of lifting the thing higher than a few feet. On its blade, etched in gold, were the words:
Never a memory.
Satisfied by his blade once again, he raised it high in the air, and it burst into a plume of flame which continued high a hundred feet. The sword itself could only set itself on fire, but Oromis could shape the natural laws of the world nearly at will. It was a signal to the other captains of the main army, who similarly raised anchor. He supposed a mundane flag signal would have worked just as well, but it wouldn't have had the dramatic impact he so enjoyed. He had of course made sure that the sky was clear when he had done so; It wouldn't do to burn down his own sails.
As smoke still drifted from the fire's scar, he felt the ship lurch forward, as the great sails came rolling down, emblazoned by the flaming sword on a green field that was his personal sigil. All over the harbor, ships followed suit, and as they sailed out of the harbor, he felt a cheeriness he hadn't known in a century, the faint shrieking of silence barely audible at all. This time, Etruscan, I will be the victor.
"Now," he told the Qaylu general, "The real fun begins."
April 10th, in the Year 3650 of the Tolosi Calendar
A pleasant landing. Foes both near and far away. Waiting for orders.
Myranda drained the last few gulps of Coromic pale ale from her wineskin as the Blade of God beached itself on a stretch of sandy coastline. Discovering the cask of dwarven brew within the ship's hold was the most exciting thing that happened during the five day crossing from the Hamrock Isles to Etruscia. The whimpering, cringing Captain Angus Dimbick, self-proclaimed "finest sailor in the God-King's fleet" and eldest son of Lord Osmund Dimbick, was nearly weeping with joy as he watched his crew toss rope ladders over the sides of the ship. Sailing across the Gap, and presiding over something more dangerous than a banquet in his father's castle, had completely unmanned the Mardochian. Clearly, he was eager to feel solid ground beneath his calfskin boots again.
Shaking her head at the man's blubbering and putting her wineskin back in its place, Myra thanked the gods above and below that the rest of the Blade of God's crew was more competent than their captain. Otherwise, Oromis' precious army might have ended up on the bottom of the sea. As she trudged through the pandemonium spreading across the fore-deck, Myranda made sure to nod gratefully at the captain's elven helmsman, a bitter old sea-dog named Sheldras "The Dour" Farnath, and he gave her a half-hearted wave before putting a clay horn to his lips. He blew three long blasts, and four dozen sailors stopped what they were doing to pick up the two gangplanks laying on the ship's poop deck. Myranda didn't envy the elf his task. He was trying to coordinate the disembarkation of gods knew how many people without any assistance. Myra took a deep breath, pausing for a moment to bask in the feeling of the midday sun on her skin, even as something her deceitful ex-lover, Pajaan Farimi, told her drifted into her thoughts.
"There ain't no such thing as an easy disem...dismem...ehhh, what was it again? It was a damn mouthful. Oh, that's right. Ain't no such thing as an easy landin' or sommat," she muttered to herself, and Myra's mud-colored eyes drifted up to the cloudless blue sky overhead. Was Pajaan looking up at this same sky from Clan Miridon's holdings in the kingdom of Nerwains? Was he thinking about her? About whether or not she was alive somewhere and plotting her revenge? Part of Myranda hoped he wasn't. The surprise of her sword punching through his traitorous guts would be all the sweeter that way.
Putting that delightful thought aside, the elven warrior pushed a few sailors out of her way and waited for the group of Blade of God crew-members struggling with the wider of the two gangplanks to set it down. The Blade of God was an old ship, but it was unique in that it had not one, but two gangplanks. One was wide enough for three men to walk down side-by-side while the other was substantially wider. This larger ramp was specifically designed to bear the weight of soldiers accompanied by their mounts, which is why Myra and the rest of the Forlorn Hope were gathering around it. They might be a "last resort" platoon but they were still Gray Winds. That meant they'd be spending a fair amount of time on horseback. Truth be told, Myranda hadn't ridden a horse in many years, and she was more than a little concerned about the prospect of getting back in the saddle.
When she'd been captain of the White Hands, the elf had viewed horses as both a luxury and a burden. They could carry a wounded mercenary and a great deal of loot, but they also required constant attention and pooped everywhere. If the orders she'd received last night were any indication, however, Captain Elias expected his new lieutenant and her platoon to remain in the saddle until they reached the watchtowers near Tolos. The mere thought of clumsily bumping her horse into someone important and making a spectacle of herself made Myra wince.
Still, orders were orders.
Thankfully, Captain Elias hadn't told her when or how she'd be getting her valiant steed so she could continue walking on her own two feet for now. Leaning over the ship's railing while the sailors continued fighting with the gangplank, Myra took a closer look at the white sand beach spread out before her. According to Sheldras' grumbling, this place was once a smuggler's hideout, though how Captain Dimbick knew about it was a mystery. What wasn't a mystery was its strategic importance. This beach was about a day and a half to the north of the Widow's Tears, the river straddled by the city of Tolos, and the army would move south as soon as everyone was off the ships. The only other remarkable feature this beach possessed was the scattered pieces of what looked like a statue made of bluish-gray granite. A colossal elf's head, which glared at the rowdy sailors swarming around it, lay on the far side of the beach while a single arm pointed uselessly at the sky a few feet away. There was no sign of the rest of the statue or any indication as to who who might have built it.
As she stood there staring at the frowning elf head, a polite cough from behind made Myra turn around...and she let out an uncharacteristic squeak as a huge black horse with a white diamond-shaped mark on its forehead stuck its muzzle into her face. The smell of horse was overpowering and pungent.
A humorless, unpleasant chuckle came from somewhere to the horse's right.
"Me apologies, lieutenant. I thought ye was payin' attention," the slender, fair-haired man holding the horse's reins drawled in a southern Tolosi accent as he walked around the beast. "I didn't think the bastard would be that strong after all the fightin' he did down in the hold. Big bastard nearly kicked two o' the other horses in the head, he did. Anyways, he's yers now, compliments o' General Astra. A proper imperial grayhoof this one, and ye couldn't find a better warhorse in all o' Tverios. The General didn't think any o' our smaller, lighter horses would be able ter carry ye inter battle, ye see. Oh, and Captain Elias told me ter tell ye that the Forlorn Hope is gettin' off the ship first since we're one o' the smaller platoons." Scratching the back of his long neck, the man spat over the side of the ship as the sailors finally set the larger gangplank down with a loud bang and said, "Also, I've been wantin' ter talk ter ye about something, if'n ye have a moment...lieutenant."
If she was being completely honest, which she typically was, Myranda wasn't fond of Trooper Typhus Rommath. At all. He was rumored to be one of the finest riders in the entire platoon, and she knew he'd be needed when it came to assaulting the City of Kings. Still, she didn't like the wiry, soft-spoken mercenary. There had been several moments aboard the Blade of God when she'd caught him looking at her like he was trying to find the perfect place to stick her with his fat-bladed skinning knife. Myranda would see him whispering furtively to other platoon members, but the man would shut his mouth and move away when he saw her approaching. And there was something about the Tolosi sellsword's pale gray eyes that reminded Myra of a monstrous crocodile she'd seen in an Etruscan lord's menagerie shortly after the Battle of the Celebron Fields. At least Trooper Maladar, the elven man with the mismatched eyes, was open about his disdain for Myranda. She was used to that. Typhus, on the other hand, did his best to conceal his feelings and simply gave off an air of unpleasantness and indifference whenever she spoke to him. Frowning and taking the horse's reins from Trooper Rommath, Myranda gestured towards the gangplank before leading her new mount towards it while Typhus and his horse followed.
Glancing behind her at the crush of people trying to gather their personal effects before disembarking, Myra called out as loudly as she could, "Oi, Forlorn Hope platoon, let's get off this fuckin' boat an' onto dry land! Meet me at the giant elf head an' wait fer further orders!" Myranda hoped they could hear her over the din of the busy ship, though she knew there was little else she could do. Where was Trooper Pyral when you needed him? Gripping her horse's reins tightly, Myra urged the massive warhorse onto the gangplank and started making her way down as slowly and carefully as possible.
As she walked, Myranda wondered what Typhus could possibly have to say to her. Was he having second thoughts about following an elf with a reputation as dark and bloody as hers? Or was it something else? The two mercenaries led their horses cautiously down the ramp for awhile when Captain Dimbick, his beautiful silk sailor's jacket streaming after him, rushed past them and flung himself bodily onto the beach. "Oh, Most Holy and Divine Oromis, God-King and Emperor of All, thank you for granting us safe passage across the treacherous sea! You are truly the most wondrous and forgiving of all..." the Mardochian howled, though the rest of his fevered prayer was drowned out as several people began arguing with the Blade of God's crew about why they, and not the Forlorn Hope, deserved to be first off the ship. Still, as Myra and Typhus continued plodding towards the shoreline, the elven warrior could see Captain Dimbick's eyes darting to and fro as if waiting for someone to applaud his display of faith. Some people would do anything for a little attention.
"The good captain seems ter think we had a rough time out on the water, eh?" Trooper Rommath said in his bland, inoffensive voice and Myranda grunted her accord. The "good captain" was ridiculous and about as useful as a tankard of Hamrock Isle's beer. The elf held her tongue, however, until the twosome managed to persuade their horses to wade out into the shallow water surrounding the boat.
"I've been thinkin' that Captain Dimbick missed his true callin'. He should've been a minstrel or a member o' some mummer's troupe. I ain't never seen actin' so good in me entire life. Ye'd almost think he was a ship's captain until he opened his fool mouth," she said, and Typhus' eyes narrowed slightly as if he was suddenly offended. Myra stuck her tongue through one of the gaps in her teeth as she watched an expression of pure hatred trickle across the human's lean face. Wonderful.
The two swords-for-hire finally made it to the shore, streams of warm saltwater running off their soaked clothes, and they paused for a moment to get their bearings. Thankfully, the massive stone head wasn't hard to spot. As they reached the rendezvous point, however, Typhus said, "True, true. Still, it could've been worse fer the stupid sod. He could've been born a stinkin' long-ear, eh?"
And there it was. Like stepping in a pile of horse shit while wearing your new boots. The ugliness was finally out in the open. This man, who hailed from the southern reaches of Tolos just like Myranda, was racist against elves. Baring her teeth in a strained grin and leading her reluctant mount into the shadow of the statue's head, Myranda said, "I see. So, that's it then, eh, Trooper Rommath? Ye got yerself a problem with me kind. An' here I thought ye'd have a bit more origi...orginal...here I thought it wouldn't be anythin' so fuckin' predictable. I guess the next question is what are ye gonna do about it, hm? Are ye gonna keep makin' yer little comments an' starin' daggers at me until I finally decide to beat the crap out o' ye? If'n ye can't stomach servin' under me then go talk to Captain Elias. I'm sure he'd be happy ter send ye ter another platoon." Personally, Myranda would be immensely happy to see Trooper Rommath become another lieutenant's problem. She was a new officer in a company of veteran sellswords. Things were going to be hard enough without her own men making life more difficult.
Typhus just shrugged his shoulders as if they were arguing over nothing and said, "I ain't got no quarrel with ye personally, lieutenant. Ye should be glad fer that. But I need ye ter know the truth. Like ye said back in Taranidorn, it ain't no good startin' a relationship with lies an' all that. An' the truth is ye made yerself some enemies with that little speech. Some folks, an' I ain't about ter name names so don't ask, think it was a little high-handed fer a long-ear. Especially one with yer reputation. Yer kind ain't in charge anymore except in the fuckin' Empire. Besides..." The man paused for a moment, his gray eyes wandering lazily over to the other Forlorn Hope soldiers struggling down the gangplank with their mounts, and finally said, "Ye laid a hand on me good friend Major Bayaz. I grew up with Aliden in the south o' Tolos an' he's always looked out fer me. What kinda man would I be if'n I didn't do the same, eh? He's the one that got me inter the Gray Winds in the first damned place. So know this, elf, if'n ye fuck with him again there's gonna be trouble."
Trooper Rommath snapped to attention and, after tying his horse to a nearby tree stump, walked towards the other members of his platoon to help them with their steeds. And, as if he'd been summoned by the faint sound of drums beating in the back of Myra's head, the first soldier to reach the stone head was none other than Trooper Larius Pyral, his jowly face turning a nasty shade of red as he fought to control his horse.
"Is everything well, lieutenant? Typhus looked upset when he came to help me off that accursed boat, and he said something about 'keeping that damned elf away from me.' I...erhem, well, that is to say...you must forgive him, Lieutenant Tavellan. He's a capital man, truly. Capital, I say!" Larius said breathlessly before he was forced to stop talking in order to focus on keeping his steed from yanking him off his feet. His horse, a spirited beige mare with bronze-colored hooves, seemed amused by her elderly rider's distress.
Myranda grimaced and took the reins out of Larius' trembling hands before tying his horse to the same stump as Trooper Rommath's mount. She wordlessly did the same with her own steed. Running a hand through her unkempt hair, the elf said, her voice as cold and deadly as a winter storm, "I'm sure Trooper Rommath is a great man, Trooper Pyral, but what he said ter me wasn't what I'd call 'capital.' It was insubordinate an' I'm tempted ter make an' example o' the racist fuck. I can unnerstand hatin' someone, believe me. Especially if'n they've caused as much pain an' sufferin' as me. But hatin' someone just 'cause of what they are is somethin' else. I need this bastard ter follow me orders or it might cost the whole bloody lot of us our lives. Maybe I should talk ter Captain Elias once he comes ashore about gettin' Trooper Rommath set up in another platoon. Let someone else deal with him."
Larius wiped one gnarled hand across his sweaty brow and said, "Oh dear, oh dear, Lieutenant Tavellan, you don't need to do that. I'm sure I can convince Typhus to calm down if you just give me a little time. The thing is...oh dear, well, I'm afraid this is Typhus' last chance. He's been moved from platoon to platoon over the last few years, but none of the other lieutenants want him. His temper, not to mention his tendency to uhhh...erhem, "make free" with captive women, has gotten him into a great deal of trouble over the years. Even Major Bayaz, his childhood friend, is getting tired of his behavior. Listen, lieutenant, I agree that his opinion of your people is terribly narrow-minded, but I can understand where he's coming from. You see, both Trooper Rommath and Major Bayaz grew up in a small town in the southernmost province of Tolos. I believe the town was called Halfhill or something. Anyways, the Margrave of the South, whose name escapes me at the moment, was given a trio of cannons by the Emperor many years ago. They hadn't been tested yet, and his Imperial Majesty wanted the margrave to see if they could be used safely by the Imperial Legions. Well, the margrave decided to kill two birds with one cannon. Halfhill had an unfortunate reputation for providing succor to those who sought to undermine the Emperor's rule, especially the group known as the Headsmen. These vagrants would ride into Halfhill, hold the townsfolk hostage until they resupplied themselves, and then leave. Every now and again one of the villagers would join them, but..." Larius stuttered to a halt as Myranda held up one scarred hand and fixed him with a stony, emotionless gaze.
Taking a deep breath, Myranda said, "Let me guess, Trooper Pyral. The cannons worked an' blew up Halfhill, but Trooper Rommath an' the delightful Major Bayaz managed ter escape somehow. Is that about right? Now, they hate elves an' blame us all fer the loss of their families an' homes." The elven warrior didn't need to see Larius' rapid nodding to know she was correct. Pinching the bridge of her crooked nose and clenching her teeth, Myranda valiantly resisted the urge to punch something or someone. This was just like being back in the bloody White Hands. You knew the betrayal would come, but you didn't know from what direction. Would it be the major whose grandfather you were partly responsible for killing? Or maybe the soldier you ordered to watch your back would instead decide to gut you with his skinning knife?
Glaring up at the granite head looming over her, Myranda said, "Is there anythin' else I should know, Trooper Pyral, since yer feelin' so talkative this afternoon, eh? Maybe one o' the others is actually an Etruscan spy with orders ter kill me afore we even reach fuckin' Tolos? Or maybe one is an orc wearin' a really fuckin' good disguise? Hm?" The fact that Larius nervously plucked at his mustache and looked at the ground made Myra want to smack him.
"May I speak freely, Lieutenant Tavellan?" Larius asked quietly, and Myranda nodded.
"During our last campaign, we...well, we were headed for Parthage, you see. The captain knew some wealthy nobles in the City of Silver, and we were all looking forward to laying down our weapons for a week or two. We, erhem, we stopped at the ruins of Fort Liburnum on the way to Parthage to purchase more supplies from the caravans gathered there. As we were preparing to continue to the city, however, a she-dwarf pimp named Svetlana asked Captain Astra if she could travel with us because she was also going to Parthage. The captain agreed and Svetlana, along with her seven whores, joined us for the remainder of the journey. The thing is...these women were all elves, lieutenant. Beautiful elven whores. They called themselves Svetlana's Seven Sugars. Their whole gimmick was to dress up like margraves, high priestesses, and noblewomen so a man might feel like he was...well, like he was fucking some influential political or religious figure. It was surprisingly effective. I must admit I found them..." Larius said, though he stopped and cleared his throat awkwardly when he saw the grim expression settling on Myranda's face.
"I suppose I won't bore you with the details, Lieutenant Tavellan, but Svetlana was making a great deal of gold by servicing our company. About halfway to Parthage, however, one of the dwarf's most popular girls disappeared and nobody could find her. The last two men to enjoy this particular whore were none other than Aliden Bayaz and Typhus Rommath, according to Svetlana's ledgers," Larius said and, despite herself, Myranda felt her blood run cold. She wasn't the most intelligent woman in the world, but it didn't take a scholar to realize two plus two made four. Or that two elf-hating men plus one elven whore was the perfect recipe for one dead, missing whore.
"Captain Astra told Svetlana she had no proof of foul play by Major Bayaz or Trooper Rommath so nothing was done. Besides, whores run away all the time," Larius said, and he scratched at his balding head before looking over his shoulder. The rest of the platoon was almost to the stone head, and Typhus was strutting along at the front of the group. "By the time we reached Parthage, however, only two of Svetlana's girls remained and they were terrified. The she-dwarf demanded that Captain Astra take action, though the captain refused to do anything without evidence. Svetlana left the next day after swearing to avenge her missing girls. I think...I'm afraid it's entirely possible that-"
"That I got me an elf-killer in me platoon. Gods above an' below, Larius. It's true, innit? Nothin' is ever fuckin' easy. Guess I'll jest have ter keep both eyes open, won't I? Now, I want ye ter keep this quiet and see if ye can find Captain Elias. I want ter see if he's got any orders fer us now that we're ashore. Go," Myra snarled and Larius saluted before dashing off into the gathering crowd. As soon as he was gone, the elf sat down and leaned against the comforting bulk of the fallen statue's head. Despite everything she'd learned, a wolfish grin spread slowly across Myranda's gaunt face. It was just like being back in the White Hands. It was just like being home.
Laurence brushed dirt and broken twigs off his jerkin, still galled at the removal of his rank insignia. He understood why it had been taken off, of course. It went with the great purge of their regimental identification. Pennants were changed to be stereotypically bandit-esque, formation flags were made flat colors rather than the flamboyant designs they held previously, and a hundred other small changes. They’d been given new decorations, garish ornaments that a bandit raider would no doubt think looked intimidating, strips of red cloth or bones dug up from the mortuary just before they crossed the sea. One man had a pair of skulls tied to the neck of his current mount. The decoration was odd mostly because it was only afforded to one horse of the five or even six some men had been given. Before any engagement soldiers had to swap the silly baubles to the mount they would be riding into combat upon.
Finished tidying his uniform up, Laurence absentmindedly re-counted the arrows in his quiver as he surveyed the area around him. He could be anywhere in the League, from the way his environs looked: dense, scrubby forest; terrible for the horses, and full of all sorts of disquieting animals and insects. It was not somewhere a cavalry officer liked to be, and part of Laurence’s brain was constantly filled with the fear that he and the scores of men surrounding him would be set upon by an ambush of infantry, and no doubt cut to ribbons. The men didn’t seem to share his trepidation, most of them looking overjoyed to be about to go back where they belong: not on boats or in taverns, but in battle on horseback.
It had been only a few hours after their landing and disposing their section of costal watchtowers that the outriders had reported a camp in a valley, serving three or four hundred soldiers at the most. An excellent target of opportunity to be sure, almost certainly a training exercise or some such, and placed perfectly for an ambush they surely would never expect. The camp was pitched in the center of the wide, shallow valley, a few minutes ride from a ford of the small river at the nadir. The area around the camp was flat and grassy, and partially surrounded by a semicircular edge of the forest that Laurence and his battle were currently occupying.
Bayaz had raced ahead at Laurence’s orders, leaving the rather routine engagement to his superior officer. Laurence, after surveying the area for himself, split his forces in half, one section at each corner of the semicircle. Captain Calib, the only female officer in the Winds besides the General and the newest-promoted captain had command of the other half, and was awaiting Laurence’s signal to begin. With a brief sigh of preparation, he sauntered to the front of the unit, still half a hundred yards from the tree line and unable to see their target, and made ready to begin.
There were to be no speeches, not this early before the battle. Laurence wouldn’t have been able to make one even if he thought it would help. He was filled with the same noxious cocktail of simmering rage, pumping adrenaline and pant-shitting fear that came before any action, and such emotions did not make for a rousing speech, at least not from him. He simply spurred his horse forward, and behind him two captains and their lieutenants made last-second preparations before following him. He crashed through the brush at as close to a gallop as the terrified steed beneath him could manage, nearly being brained by a low-hanging branch he had only seen for a second. He broke through the trees, and saw the camp, just down a slight incline four hundred yards away or thereabouts. The maximum accurate range for the veterans of the Winds while at a full gallop was somewhere between five and six hundred meters with good conditions. Conditions were perfect today, the sun blazing above and no wind to speak of, and as Laurence readied his first shot he heard the twang of a hundred bows behind him and watched his loosed shaft join the first dark cloud of missiles race towards the camp, the occasional arrow dipped in pitch and set alight providing bright stars in the black mass. As he readied his second shot, he watched the first group impact on the tiny figures he was galloping towards and wreak havoc.
The Winds had, of course, many nuanced ways of coordinating non-visually over long distances. An arrow with a fuse could be fired, a skilled bowman able to make it only ignite at the zenith, the place most visible to other units and least visible to unprepared enemies. Whistles and birdcalls could be used when subtlety was required, and horns when it was not. In this case, however, none were necessary. Laurence’s half was to be the first to act, and the trample of seven score horses and the shouts of their riders would do just fine as a signal. Laurence turned his head slightly after firing his second shot, and saw Calib’s host break from the trees, also firing as they raced for the river instead of the camp.
This charge continued for what felt like hours, shafts flying in less order, creating a trickle of black rather than the arrow tsunami of the first volleys. Laurence watched tents catch aflame and soldiers run in all directions, most towards the river and away from the apparent threat with the rest of the unfortunate mass stumbling away from the devastated camp any way they could, some being trampled by the scared camp horses fleeing in terror. A few soldiers came out in good order, accompanied by enemy arrows that caused almost no casualties, a few dozen mounted in close formation with shields held competently. Veterans no doubt, eager to try and meet the Winds in grips and cause any casualties they could. They drew the attention of most of Laurence’s group, and were scythed down without incident, riders and horses alike spilling dead on the turf.
Laurence raised his blue banner and pointed to the right, and behind him several larger banners mirrored the gesture, and like clockwork the winds turned, and with a pair of waves to the right began to circle the remnants of the camp at around a hundred and fifty meters, perfect distance for their bows. Calib made a similar gesture, turning around the camp and slamming close range volleys into those soldiers fleeing to the ford, leaving none alive.
At this point, the matter was decided, despite the no doubt large number of enemy soldiers still in the flaming ruins of the camp. Laurence and Calib completed three rotations around the camp, the arrows lessening as targets became fewer and fewer. After the third rotation and the almost complete cessation of loosed missiles, Laurence raised the black flag from his quiver of banners, and pointed towards the camp, placing his curving willow bow in its holster as he drew his sabre, its silver curved length dancing in his hand as he twirled it out of habit. Laurence turned towards the camp and kicked his winded mount into a gallop once again, charging towards the charred establishment at full pace. The men behind him turned as one, and the yelling that had subsided after their break from the treeline returned, the fear and anticipation of close combat. This would be where most of the casualties came, but it was a necessary action to ensure silence and confusion within the enemy leadership.
Laurence entered the periphery of the camp and turned his horse to the side, tucking his winded mount behind a tent and stopping her furious charge with gentle gestures. It was always good to look like one participated in the charge, but Laurence had a responsibility to survive, and he could not risk his death in a melee that was already well decided. He dismounted and took a seat upon an overturned barrel, trying to ignore the foul stench and horrifying sight of the dozens of dead men lying all around him. Glancing around to ensure no living enemies remained, he leaned his sword upon the barrel within his easy reach, and grabbed a flask of wine that sat upon a stool near him.
He finished his drink, planning his next move, and before he was half done the sounds of combat ended, replaced with the sounds of plunder and celebration. Laurence threw the flask aside and, deftly stepping over the corpses of men likely a decade younger than him, sought out Calib. The camp was no doubt recent recruits, mustering or training in preparation to serve as garrisons or reinforcements for the expected offensive southward. It was a good sign, certainly, but it did make the guilt at victory cut through the adrenaline and fear for the first time in a long time. He had just ordered the death of hundreds of farmer’s sons and young husbands. It the curse of the officer: the burden of greater responsibility, and the inability to distract himself with the after-battle plunder.
He found Calib at the far side of the camp nearest the river, peering through a spyglass across the waters. He made a note of making his collection of arrows particularly loud, and she removed the glass from her eyes and turned to face him, saluting formally and immediately. She was not the same breed as Claes, that was certain. As tall as him, masculine and well-muscled, she looked as a female soldier should be all accounts look. Her skin was worn and dirty, her brown hair cut short, her visage scratched and serious looking. A bruise was clearly forming above her eye, and he wondered if she had had a run in with a tree branch like the one he had managed to avoid. Before he could fight to keep the chuckle within him, she spoke, all business.
“Six riders made it across the river, sir, but I’ve just seen the last of them felled. No news will be reaching Tolos, of that we can be sure.”
Her voice was deeper than most, but still clearly feminine. Laurence returned her salute and smiled at the good news. The lack of enemy fugitives would let Laurence give his men the time they would expect to plunder and celebrate, and let the horses rest. He was glad to not have to chase riders down in a mad rush.
“Excellent work, Captain, truly. You’ve done the Winds a credit, and I will make sure the General hears your accomplishments in their entire.”
“Thank you, sir. Will we be moving out immediately?”. He could tell she did not want to, trepidation creeping into her voice.
“No, Captain. We’ll re-mount in two hours. Let the men drink, and plunder, but ensure they remain able to ride at full speed. I’ll have Mordin collect arrows and fetch the baggage. That will be all.”
Another pair of salutes, and their business was completed. Calib walked off, her gait marred by a very slight limp. Laurence did the same, and after entering one of the few intact tents, fell into a chair and kicked his feet up, the recessing fear and excitement leaving nothing but fatigue.
Aksel Dehli had taken to counting the droplets of water leaking through a crack in his low stone ceiling, dimly refracting the low torchlight before splashing down into the slowly growing puddle. Hundreds of thousands of identical droplets had accumulated in that same depression in the uneven dungeon floor. In his oppressively damp cell, Aksel could only imagine that it was a similar buildup of moisture in his own lungs inducing his worsening cough.
It had been sixteen days – or around that time. With no natural light anywhere to be seen in the dungeon corridor his cell was located in, the only way for the young man to understand the passage of time was by counting his meals, served roughly once a day. Sixteen days since he had arrived in Tolos, looking to escape those pursuing him. Sixteen days since his mother was murdered in front of his eyes, him left in the street with lifeblood leaking out of multiple wounds.
He was rescued out of that predicament; rescued right into this new one. He would survive his wounds, for his new captors had stopped the bleeding, stitched and wrapped him tight. His dirty fingers went to his red stained bandages. He traced the pattern. Just under his left shoulder to a shallow one that led to his second lowest rib. Across his chest and up to the right side of his collarbone. He didn't need to look at his back to know that the one there was the deepest. Recollection of each day in this dungeon blended into the next, but the sixteen day old memory was burned into his mind with searing clarity.
It all doesn't seem real.
He had been betrayed by the elven nobility in Tolos the same way his grandfather had been. Worse, it was his own brothers, fellow monks of the Tolosi Pantheon, that had given him up to his persecutors. Was it because three parts out of his four were human? Just elf enough to tend the faith but not enough to be an actual brother. He could never fit just right despite his lifelong dedication to the Pantheon, prayers offered daily to gods of order, justice, storms, harvest, seas, poetry and everything else whether it pertained to his own life or not. Yes, he was selfless and humble; he had to be. Arrogance was born of privilege, and privilege he had not.
Deep within his own world, Aksel didn't hear the approaching footsteps until they were near outside his cell. That would be daily bowl of pap. Every day, the clattering of a half full tin bowl brought him out of his introspection. Boiled water, grease and oils and everything too rough to even make it into the sausages. The first two days he was unable to keep it down. Bland enough but with stomach turning textures. After kicking the contents of his stomach to the side of his cell for a second time, he took a different approach for the third day. He picked out the bits of bone and chewed out the marrow – just like pig ribs when he was a kid, right? Tossed the teeth and cartilage in the waste bucket and slowly sipped the broth. The young monk would never look at his captors. It was some sort of pride not to play the dog, whimpering with wide eyes bleeding to his master. Aksel wasn't a proud man. He wasn't trying to prove anything, but he was indeed strong. He would keep his sanity and his humanity. A lifetime of experience steeling himself against degradation lie with him in that cell.
He stared at his bare feet, at the mud and grime underneath his overgrown toenails. The calluses were just starting to form from hours of anxious pacing over the first five days. With soles bloody and raw, Aksel soon learned to indeed keep the blood pumping through his legs, but only in small increments at a time. His eyes shifted from his feet to the stone floor, following the cracks spanning to either side. They darted up at the receding sound of footsteps walking away from his cell. No clatter?
No food?
The usual spot – just outside the cage door, close enough for the prisoner to reach and replace with an empty bowl later – contained no bowl. In its place was a small bundle of oddly pristine cloth. Out of habit or of suspicion, Aksel crawled over to the door and reached between the same two bars to the same spot. He pulled in the bundle and unraveled the meticulously folded material. Inside was simple white stone ring and a small note.
It read: “Your key out. We will find you at The Lucky Mummer. - T, J”
How would this ring serve as a key? And who were these people writing the message. What did they want with Aksel? Why were they sending him to an obscure bar on the edges of Tolos? A million questions bounced around his young, blonde head as he slipped the white ring onto his hand. It was too large to fit on either or the appropriate fingers, so Aksel selected his right middle finger to house his possibly saving grace. He stood up, studying his cell's door for any indent that matched the face of the ring – two curved arrows, one twice as large as the other. He tried to fit the ring into every crevice he could find in the entire cell. Nothing seemed to match. It was a terrible fit to the door's keyhole, the only thing he thought would make sense.
He didn't understand. This must be just a trick, something to give him a small glimmer of hope before sending him crashing back down to the reality of his grimy cell with its leaky roof and gruesome food. Aksel slammed the ring into the cell door in frustration. Out of nowhere, a shockwave ripped through the air and launched the young man across the cell to crash into the opposing wall. Aksel's ears were ringing, and he seemed to be hallucinating. It almost looked like the barred door was blown completely out of its frame. No, he wasn't seeing things; the punch from the ring had not only opened the door to freedom, it had virtually bent it in half. Bewildered, the monk slowly rose to his feet, his wide eyes never leaving the mysterious stone ring.
Voices rang through the corridors, and Aksel knew his time was fast shortening. The guards would be at his cell soon. The only blessing afforded him in the moment was the fact that the layout of the hallways amplified echoes throughout the entire dungeon. He knew that this would only confuse the guards for so long, so he took off running, the adrenaline coursing through his body nearly allowing him to forget his still-wounded feet.
He ran blindly through the narrow passageways, turning any direction that felt right, making sure that these turns took him away from the sound of voices behind him. Heart beating, he knew that his luck had to run out soon, but as soon as that thought crossed his mind, He saw the distinctive glow of natural light.
Splitting pain erupted in his entire arm, and Aksel thought that he might have broken his hand. No shockwave had come this time, just an ordinary punch.
What is going on with this ring? Was that first time just a coincidence or did I do something wrong this time?
Ironically, the door was already unlocked, and Aksel's punch served to swing it wide open. The room was empty except for a desk with a finely crafted, steel guard's dagger splayed over an unfinished letter to one of the guard's wives. The young man stashed the dagger in his ragged tunic. He climbed up onto the windowsill and looked out, seeing that he was three stories up but with large bushes directly underneath his perch. Muttering a quick prayer to the Tolosi god of birds and all creatures flying, Aksel Dehli dropped out of his jail and into the afternoon daylight.
With no further incidents, Aksel arrived at the tavern known as The Lucky Mummer. He looked around, self-conscience about his comically ragged appearance. Luckily, word had not reached the city proper of an escaped prisoner. Before he took more than half a dozen steps into the establishment, however, he was grabbed by arms that seemed too large to belong to a human. He was carried up a flight of stairs and bundled into private room. The large man sat him down in a chair and pulled out the dagger hidden in Aksel's tunic. In front of him sat two men, indistinguishable save for a minor height difference.
The taller man dropped a large purse heavily on the table, the familiar clinking of coins resonating in Aksel's ears.
“You have languished under political oppression for far too long, Master Avalusk,” began the shorter man.
Avalusk!? How could they possibly know? Who were these people?
“Our witless Prophet has tolerated foolishness for far too long. It is time for a new Tolos to be born, and in the wake of its impending rise, an entire new world. Find a doctor for your afflictions and purchase what supplies you need before departing the city. And do make haste. Oromis has returned to our earthly plane, and you are going to aid him in his conquest. We will be in contact.” With those few, short sentences, the meeting was over. The brute of a man once again took Aksel up into his massive arms and tossed him out of the private room, followed by the dagger. With no other options available and nobody else to turn to, the young monk set about following his orders.
The most important men in the city of Tolos were gathered around a single table, in the heart of the Camerenae, the largest and most magnificent structure perhaps in the entire world, a marvel of archetecture from which was ruled the city, the Etruscan lands beyond, and even the entire League. The table was a semi-circle in shape, with the venerable Prophet Aedus II at the apex, flanked on both sides by the administrators, generals, and political power brokers who ran the League. In this manner, they could all see and interrogate the ragged man before them as equals.
"Speak, then, messenger," the Prophet said slowly, "deliver your message in full for all these lords to hear."
The messenger looked pale, his face devoid of color, crippled with fear at delivering news- bad news- to the most powerful men he knew existed, including His Holiness himself. "Y-yes, your Wisdom," he managed. "It's the, ah, impostor claiming to be the Holy Oromis. He's landed in Laon."
"And how did he manage that?" asked Fadric, Duke of Lafferand, raising his thick eyebrow. "He would need to have quite the force indeed to seize Laon so quickly." Others nodded in agreement. Laon was one of the most important ports of the Gap's coast, certainly the most important in Grandell. Its defenses should have been more than sufficient to hold off an attacker's force long enough for them to send a host to relieve the siege, unless they'd badly underestimated the Pretender's strength.
"He didn't need to," the messenger said, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Count Leoric surrendered the port without a fight, and swore to serve the Pretender." Seeing the darkening faces of the men in front of him, he added: "Of course, I, being loyal to the True Oromis, and his Prophet, rode for here as fast as I could."
Hoping for a reward, Lafferand thought, unimpressed. "You did well," he said instead, "thanks to you, we know exactly where the Pretender is. We must set out at once and throw him back to the sea."
"Is that truly wise?" the Prophet Aedus asked, and the others hushed in an awkward silence. The Prophet's word was divine law, of course; but Aedus was no longer in his prime, and his wits had dulled with age. It was a common belief that Lafferand was the one holding the League, his competence as Chief Minister unmatched. But tensions had grown high between the two in recent years, Lafferand's favoritism and use of his position to increase his personal fortune causing Aedus to increasingly attempt to rein him in.
Attempt to rein him in; the Prophet was simply not very good at political maneuvering, and proved to be more of an irritation than anything else. Still, all the good lords around the table were sworn to serve His Holiness, so Lafferand only nodded somberly, replying: "It's the only wise course. As this traitor Count has shown, the longer the Pretender remains on our soil, the stronger he will become. We must ride out and crush him now, before his army grows greater still."
The Prophet still looked doubtful. "Battle carries its risks. Either side can carry the day."
"Only one side can win this battle," Lafferand answered. He smiled pleasantly. "With knights as valiant as ours, there is no doubt of the outcome."
"Hear hear!" some fools shouted, deaf to irony.
"He set sail with thousands, by all reports," Aedus continued, refusing to let go. "With Leoric's defection, he might have as many as ten thousand."
"We have nearly that number gathered here already," Lafferand countered, unimpressed. "Another ten thousand marches north as well, courtesy of the King of Rozarria. And we'll no doubt rally many more on our march west. We're likely to double his number, at the very least. We were planning on marching south to push back the orcs in any case; we might as well pass through the Pretender first."
"The Mardochians are rabble, your Wisdom," the grizzled commander of the garrison spoke up. "They have no true knights, nor warriors. We'll make mincemeat out of them in pitched battle."
"Perhaps," the prophet said, dithering as he always did. "Who would lead this army?"
"Your Wisdom, you should lead it yourself," the young Duke of Tridatera said boldly. "Under your direct command, the men will be inspired to fight with righteous fury!"
Aedus looked as if he'd just swallowed something unpleasant. "It would not be seemly for a man of my position to lead men into battle. Surely-"
"You speak foolishness, Tridatera," Lafferand cut in briskly, feigning outrage. "It is not the place of a man of faith to lead men into battle. There are many capable and battle-tested generals here who could crush the Pretender with ease. For His Wisdom to risk battle himself, where he could be hurt or, Oromis forbid, killed..."
Aedus shot him a look he no doubt thought was venemous. "I believe I can speak for myself, Rozarrian," the Prophet said icily. "The young duke's suggestion has merit."
"This is a rash idea, Your Wisdom. You simply cannot-"
"I am Prophet! The voice of the immortal Oromis, father of mankind, and it is not your place to tell me what I can and cannot do, Duke!" Aedus looked about as angry as Lafferand had ever seen him in his six years in Tolos; good. "I will lead the army in person, and crush this Pretender like the blasphemous vermin he is!"
"As you say, your Wisdom," Lafferand said, trying to keep his expression blank.
"If I may," the messenger asked hesitantly, still there, "my travel here was long and arduous. Will I be recompensed for my expenses?" "The Duke Lafferand will see to your reward," the Prophet said, waving his hand in Lafferand's direction. "Speak to him later. For now, you are dismissed."
"There is also the matter of the other foreign invasion," Aedus continued once the messenger had left. "News has been trickling north from Merida, slowly but surely. By all reports, King Pelicar intends to give battle to the Orcs."
"Will the nobility follow him?" a nobleman asked. King Pelicar was infamous for his feud with the nobility of Merida: His decade long reign had seen nearly incessent rebellions and civil wars.
"Perhaps, perhaps not. I intend to make sure they do." He beckoned to one of his servants. "Boy! Bring me paper and a quill!" He turned his gaze to the lords on either side of him in turn. "I will write every single one of them if I have to, and promise them the wrath of Oromis if their feuding gives the orcs victory. Where's that damn quill?"
* * * * * *
Hours after the meeting, Duke Lafferand rested on the parapets of the Holy Quarter, admiring the view of the polluted Tears, and the smell of shit and decay emanating from the pile of rubles they called a city. Truly, the cultural brilliance of the northerners was unmatched.
"Well, that could have gone better," Tridatera said as he came to join him.
"Could it?" Lafferand asked, cocking his head.
"You were just publicly chastised by the most holy man in the League. I don't envy your position."
Lafferand smiled mischievously. "You should. Appearances are deceiving." For half a second, he considered elaborating on that point. The young duke of Tridatera was a useful tool in the politics of the holy court, and despite his age, he showed a great deal of acumen in the game they played. He reminded Lafferand of himself when he was that age, over a decade ago. But then, that was precisely what kept him wary of the young nobleman.
"What news?" he asked instead.
"There are reports of bandits up the Tears. Nerwainese, maybe. You know how the clans are."
"No doubt they're taking advantage of the chaos for their own gain," Lafferand said, unperturbed. "Any word from the forces of the coast?" A dozen minor barons were on the march east from their castles on the coast, he knew.
"None. I doubt the bandits would be bold as to attack armed men, but..."
He nodded. "Yes, we can't rely on their aid. Even if they're left alone, with the chaos the ruffians are making, they'll be slowed, at the very least, and will arrive to late to leave with His Wisdom." How tragic. Though the reinforcements were not numerous enough to truly make a difference- perhaps two hundred altogether, and raw recruits at that- Aedus would need every sword he could get. Not that Lafferand really cared what His Wisdom needed. "It is what it is. The bandits, whoever they are, should steer clear of here, so it's not really our concern for the moment." Prodded by his paranoia, he amended: "Still, it pays to be vigilant. Tell the Commander to double the watch. I'll fund the hiring of more guardsmen if that's required. Anything else?"
"Not really. A half-blood Tolosi by the name of Dehli vanished from the dungeon, to the stupification of the guards. No sign of forced exit. They're at a loss for an explanation."
Now that was curious. "Have the guards search the cell for a hidden passageway. But discreetly." The city might very well come under siege soon: in fact, he was counting on it. If it did, the existence of such a tunnel would be all they needed to wake up one morning with their throats slit.
He was interrupted in his thought by the creaking sound of the gate opening, and the thunder of hundreds of riders departing. They would group with the main body of the host in the city, he knew, camping out in the uninhabited ruins. Then they'd make for the dockside, and cross the Tears, and no longer be his problem.
The column of knights winding its way through the gates of the Holy Quarter was awesome: emblazoned with the golden sun of Oromis, mounted atop great warhorses, they rode on, the cream of the Etruscan nobility. It was a scene taken from the songs, even down to the setting sun, the dying glow of which making the golden cloaks of the knights seem to shimmer.
Tridatera had the same thought. "They ride to glory," he said, breathless.
Lafferand snorted. "They ride to death. Dusk, not dawn." He looked back at the Camerenae. "I have to deal with the mess they're leaving behind. Stay and watch if you want."
Laurence crouched in the brush, his sore rear leaning against a felled tree. His target sat, squat and decrepit, off in the distance, down slight from the copse he had stopped in. Tolos. It was a beautiful city, despite itself. Even in its withered state, grey with age and war, it managed to look stately. A city worth capturing, he supposed.
"Spyglass, Calib."
He held his hand out to his left, and a metal cylinder deposited itself in his grasp. Laurence peered through the device, adjusting his aim slightly before his gaze fell on the field of stars glinting in the afternoon sun. An army, and a large one at that. Laurence was never good at estimates, least of all from this distance, but eight thousand seemed a fair assessment. Such a host was nothing but bad news for Gordon and their new God, but at least it was not his business.
"They look fine enough, sir. Can they fight?"
Major Bayaz was sat against a tree, his spyglass already to his eye, gazing thoughtfully down at the grey sprawl. His intonation broke the quiet, like a knife through fine silk. Laurence knew he had no need to be quiet: there was not a soul around for the better part of three miles. Even concealing themselves in the copse was likely unnecessary, unless some damn fool down there decided to look at their exact position with their own glass. Regardless, it just didn't seem right making noise and showing oneself when trying to remain unseen, no matter how pointless. Laurence responded in kind though, the magic rule of quiet broken beyond repair.
"I certainly hope they can, Major. I hope they're every mean, crafty, dangerous whoreson in the city. Let God deal with them, I say."
Laurence's two companions chuckled slightly, and as he joined them he lumped back against the log, his sight of the city now blocked by some sort of speckled bush.
"No matter how tough they are, it's good news for us. They'll be off in a day, maybe less, and with them gone the General can snatch the city as soon as she likes."
Laurence passed the brass tube back to Calib, who pocketed it and in its place produced a flask, from which she drank copiously. Everyone in the army knew Calib's habit, but Laurence had never once seen her anything less than needle sharp, so he figured it wasn't his business. While she drank, Bayaz spoke in a quieter voice, less self-assured and certainly more respectful. Laurence braced himself.
"Colonel... do you really think that bandit can be trusted?" His gaze was half pleading, half accusatory, clearly searching for an ally. Certainly, it would have swayed weaker men. Or the less loyal. Calib just looked confused.
"He's talking about our new recruit, Lieutenant Myra Tavellan.". Calib's face morphed from confusion, to surprise, to understanding, to a sort of stoic worry. The scar on her left cheek danced with every contortion.
"I understand what you're thinking, Aliden, and I don't blame you. When I was seven years old, the Winds executed my father."
Perhaps Laurence should have been more subtle. The pronouncement certainly had an impact, but perhaps not the intended one. Too late to change things now, he continued.
"I still don't know if he did what they said he did. All those years ago, I couldn't believe it, but I know now soldiers sometimes act mad. They killed him, and that was the end of it. I didn't quite know what to do. I nearly got myself hanged trying to stab the General to death."
Laurence was starting to wonder where he was going with all of this. He'd certainly not talked about this to anyone in a long time, but for some reason he had felt it was a good time to bring it up. The only way through was forward, now, and Laurence was not one to quit something he'd started.
"Anyways, I got over it. The world isn't fair, and I had to realize that. I just found something else to trust, and I made it through. I know you hate her, and I've got no reason to fault you for it. But, I'm sure there's things you want more than revenge."
The Major, quieted by the impromptu story, only nodded.
"We've all got something like that. If we didn't, we'd be growing potatoes rather than soldiering. Hold on to that, whatever it is, and don't throw it away for revenge."
Laurence sighed, his tone shifting from somber reverence to a more neutral pragmatism. "As for trust: do you trust the General".
A firm nod, confident this time. Aliden's mouth opened slightly, but Laurence silenced him with a gesture.
"I do too. She's never steered me wrong, and she hasn't you either. She trusts Lieutenant Tavellan, and that's all that matters. What we think doesn't matter, not once the General makes up her mind. Remember that, Major, and there'll be no problems."
The Major nodded, and stood up, striding back to the horse he had hitched a number of yards away.
Laurence and Calib stood in unison. She spoke carefully, clearly not sure what to make of the previous scene. "I'm sorry to hear about your father, Colonel. The Major seemed to take it to heart, at least."
Laurence looked back at the city one more time, and strode after his subordinate. "Calib, I honestly have no idea if he did or not. Thank you, though.".
Claes, on the forecastle on her particular transport, caught sight of land. It was just a speck at first, a shimmer on the horizon. Its apparent insignificance did nothing to dull the relief she felt at its arrival. Her journey had been even worse than she had feared, a nighttime storm blowing the arrayed ships with the force of an angry god, tossing them on the waves for hours. Claes never started counting the amount of times she had vomited, and that had been for the best. The land now was clearly visible. She could make out the inlet they were going to land in, and if she squinted she could see the remnants of guardtowers, confirming the completed work of her van.
It was an hour and a half until her ship pulled into the inlet, and the General was the first off the vessel. She left the unpacking and the terrible job of leading the horses from their wooden prison to her subordinates. She was too busy getting off the floating hell and onto dry land. She walked down the gangplank and into the shallows with a wobbly step, and after a moment of fumbling did her best to look as in-control as possible. She stuck her chin out confidently and stood up straight, walking onto the beach with long strides. One barely-contained wave of nausea made her realize she didn't really need to walk anywhere. She stood in her place on the beach, turning to the sea to pretend she was surveying something. If someone really needed to talk to her they could come to her, she figured, at least for the next few minutes.
Night of April 10th, in the Year 3650 of the Tolosi Calendar
A lovely sunset. Words. Waiting. The Warfather. Marching with the dawn.
Myranda Tavellan sat at a table on the top floor of the watchtower, her brown eyes staring out at the setting sun through a large hole in the side of the building. A beautiful conflagration of searing oranges, sultry reds, and gloomy blues surrounded the sun as it dropped towards the horizon. The elf leaned back in her chair, which groaned beneath her weight, and returned her attention to the map of Etruscia spread across the table. Despite the deaths of every Etruscan soldier in the tower, this map remained pristine and unsullied. Well, unsullied by blood and viscera, though Myranda felt the handwriting marking the various landmarks and points of interest was a bit much. Why did the 'r' in 'Lyvresse' need so many ridiculous flourishes and swirls? Evidently, the old sayings about Etruscans and their obsession with all things gaudy and ornate were still true.
Snorting loudly, Myra picked up the map and smirked as she considered her position. Not bad, not bad at all. No doubt everything was proceeding according to General Astra's grand design.
Roughly an hour after reaching the smuggler's beach, the Forlorn Hope platoon, accompanied by three penal battalions, had been commanded by Captain Elias to ride south and take control of several watchtowers known as the "Four Sisters." These towers not only provided the Etruscans with a charming view of the sea but also allowed them to see potential threats coming from the north and south. There was a good chance the soldiers manning the Four Sisters had already sent a runner to the City of Kings to tell their masters about the fleet of ships sailing south, apparently heading straight for Tolos. Unbeknownst to the Etruscans, however, this was only one part of Oromis' army. While the God-King's diversion kept the enemy occupied, General Astra's forces continued disembarking and, if Trooper Pyral's gossip was to be believed, certain platoons were already harassing the Etruscan army. Supposedly, Colonel Laurence and Captain Calib had attacked an Etruscan training camp in a nearby valley, which the map referred to as the "Broken Cleft," less than an hour after the Gray Winds made landfall. Myranda wasn't sure if this was anything more than the boasting of eager soldiers, though Larius was quite excited about it. The elf seemed to recall Trooper Mogdan mentioning Trooper Pyral's obsession with Captain Calib during their journey across the Gap. The old sellsword's ardor notwithstanding, if General Astra's troops had struck a blow against the Prophet so soon after arriving it was a testament to the fiery-haired woman's efficiency and planning skills.
Meanwhile, the Forlorn Hope platoon, riding alongside their allies in the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Penal Battalions, reached the Four Sisters a few hours past midday. The captains leading the red sashes had received orders while still aboard the Blade of God to take down the two northern towers, which left Myra and her mercenaries to deal with the ones further south. After listening to Trooper Pyral's suggestions and taking her own observations into account, Myranda had ordered Troopers Stantus "The Shank" Folant, a boisterous Tolosi lancer, and Vashara Maladar, sister of Tlaloc Maladar, to lead a group of ten Gray Winds each to slaughter the Etruscan soldiers stationed at the southern towers. Considering how ramshackle and unkempt the Four Sisters looked, Myra had been confident there wouldn't be much resistance. For the love of the gods above and below, the southernmost watchtower, the one she was sitting in at this very moment, had a giant hole in it! Obviously, the maintenance and protection of the Four Sisters wasn't high on the Prophet's list of priorities, and Myranda intended to make these soldiers pay for his negligence. Still, knowing how quickly a battle could turn from an assured victory to a brutal rout, the elven berserker had hidden herself and five other Forlorn Hope members behind a nearby sand dune to act as reinforcements if necessary. She needn't have bothered. Twenty Etruscan soldiers were sent screaming into the afterlife and not a single convict or hired blade was wounded. Sadly, and unsurprisingly given the condition of the watchtowers and the lack of men occupying them, there hadn't been much in the way of plunder. There had been a few choice items, however.
Like the black silk bag Myranda was currently pulling out of her orange belt pouch.
Grinning as she laid the map back on the table with one hand and upended the bag with the other, the elf whistled appreciatively as a full set of highly polished playing tiles clattered onto the wooden tabletop. These tiles weren't anything like her badly carved, handmade shale set. Oh no, these had obviously been given as a gift to one of the dead Etruscans because not only were these tiles made of whalebone but the images painted on them were wonderfully detailed. Few mercenaries would have thought to look behind a chamber pot for dropped valuables, and Myra knew if Dagmar Colwen hadn't found a bottle of wotka in the same place back on the Hamrock Isles she wouldn't have bothered. She was certainly glad she had. Glancing once more at the breathtaking sunset, Myranda decided it was high time to see how her platoon was settling in. Apart from the men the elf tasked with watching the horses and keeping the area around the Four Sisters free of enemies, the other members of the Forlorn Hope were trying to sleep on the watchtower's lower level.
Maybe somebody would be awake enough for one game of tiles?
Myranda started collecting her new tiles and was nearly finished when she heard the sound of someone clearing their throat coming from the nearby stairwell. The elf turned and saw Trooper Tlaloc Maladar, his mismatched eyes shining in the dying light of the sun, standing at the top of the rickety wooden stairs leading to the watchtower's bottom floor. Unexpected. Frowning and picking up the last tile, which was adorned with the image of a roaring white lion, Myranda watched as the southern elf strolled towards her and stopped when he reached the table. Some people might claim the wiry mercenary was standing a "respectful distance" away. Myra would just call it "standin' far enough away that I can't hit him with me sword if he pisses me off."
Trooper Maladar smiled, the expression surprisingly lacking in scorn and disdain for once, and said, "Hail and well met, Lieutenant Tavellan. How does the evening find you, hm? Well, I trust?" Definitely an unexpected way for the tattooed sellsword to start a conversation. Myra knew Trooper Maladar despised her almost as much as Trooper Rommath did. Maybe more.
After deliberately putting the bag of tiles into the appropriate pouch, the hulking elf folded her arms across her chest and said, "Well enough, I s'pose, Trooper Maladar. I'd thank ye fer askin', but I'm tryin' ter unnerstand why yer even talkin' ter me. We both know ye hate me 'cause I don't come from Xohic...Xichic...from the southlands like yerself and yer sister. Ye said as much while we was crossin' the Gap. So, what do ye want, aye?"
The other elf brushed a strand of dark hair away from his angular face and frowned at his commanding officer like he was trying to decide what to say next. Myranda honestly couldn't care less. The sooner this was over with, the sooner she could check on the others and go to sleep.
"I...I wanted to thank you, lieutenant," Trooper Maladar said as he leaned against the table and bowed his head, the red tree tattooed across his face shifting visibly as his smirk gradually faded. "During our attack today, you gave my sister a chance to lead men into battle. You're the first one in the Gray Winds to do that. Vashara is a gifted tactician and a competent fighter just like our father was. But we were recruited by General Astra less than six months ago. Nobody trusts us because they don't know us or our customs. We ended up getting moved from platoon to platoon until we finally found ourselves in the Forlorn Hope. So...thank you, thank you for giving Vashara a chance to prove herself. I doubt she'd ever tell you herself, but I know she is grateful for this gift. You will not regret it." The southern elf paused for a moment, and then he slowly held out his hand to Myra as the corners of his lips twitched upwards. It was the closest thing to a genuine smile Myranda had ever seen on Trooper Maladar's face. Tonight was definitely a night for the unexpected.
Considering how well the fighting had gone today, the elven warrior decided she could bring herself to clasp Tlaloc's hand. The tattooed sword-for-hire might be an arrogant bastard, but he was an arrogant bastard under her command. The least she could do was try to be civil with him. "Well, yer welcome, Trooper Maladar," Myranda said as she shook the other elf's hand. "But ye shouldn't be thankin' me fer what yer sister did. She not only did her job but she did it well. I couldn't have asked fer a better assault on these towers. Now I know I can rely on her if'n I got somethin' important that needs ter get done right. Say, I don't suppose they teach ye how to play tiles down in the southlands, eh? Me father taught me how ter play when I was young so I'm sure I can explain all the rules an' such ter ye."
Tlaloc dropped Myra's hand so fast it was insulting. Shaking his head slowly, even as that obnoxious grin slithered across his face once more, the southern elf said, "Ahhh, no. No. Thank you, lieutenant, but I don't think I could do anything of the sort with a northblood elf. Forgive a proud southblood for having prejudices, but one well-coordinated attack against twenty poorly-equipped humans does not impress me. It certainly won't bring down the Sun Gates of mighty Tolos. You did well today for a weak and coddled northblood yet do not assume this makes us equals. And it certainly does not make us friends. Besides, we are in the middle of enemy territory and you want to play games? That seems...foolish, Lieutenant Tavellan. Very foolish." With a proud toss of his head and an immaculate salute, Tlaloc turned and stalked down the stairs, leaving an annoyed and thoroughly exasperated Myranda behind him. Like every "northblood" elf, Myra had heard tales about the haughty and bloodthirsty elves found in the kingdom of Xochimilco to the south. The stories detailing how rude and unpleasant they were apparently contained more truth than fiction.
Yawning widely, Myra followed Trooper Maladar down to the watchtower's circular lower level. The Forlorn Hope platoon was scattered everywhere in various positions of repose, each soldier snoring contentedly and drooling all over their bed rolls. One man, Trooper Viator Tabex, was using a pile of wadded up and bloodied Etruscan tabards as a pillow. It was faintly hilarious seeing the golden sun of Oromis shining brightly amidst a white field while a sellsword slobbered all over it. Another Gray Wind, whose snores were so violent it was a miracle the entire watchtower hadn't collapsed, was using an unpleasantly yellow cloak as a makeshift blanket. Myra was certain she'd seen the leader of the Etruscan soldiers stationed at the Four Sisters wearing that cloak right before Vashara Maladar threw him out a window. As she watched Trooper Maladar lie down on his bed roll and curl into a ball, Myranda grinned crookedly. Although there hadn't been much looting after the attack, the Gray Winds had apparently found some useful odds and ends once they'd dragged the last Etruscan corpses out to sea. Myra had amassed a variety of "tokens of war" since she first joined Kurdan's Sabers and, while she'd been forced to leave many behind over the years, most weren't nearly as useful as a cloak or a pile of discarded tabards. Still, they were mementos that reminded her of the countless battles she'd witnessed over the course of her long, bloody life. At the moment, apart from her brand new tiles, Myra was carrying a scrimshaw carving of a kraken, a child's rattle, and a small wooden elk figurine with a missing antler. That last one had come from Mervyn's Crossing.
Grimacing at the thought of her betrayal, the elf scratched at her right ear and began to walk cautiously towards the door, trying not to step on anyone with her sabatons. She'd nearly made it when she heard a rustling sound coming from somewhere to her left. Looking in the direction of the noise, Myranda found herself gazing into the pale green eyes of Vashara Maladar, who'd propped herself up on her bed roll to get a better look at her superior.
Swiping a few blonde dreadlocks away from her round face, Vashara smiled groggily and said, "I thought I heard someone stumbling around in the dark. Someone besides my fool brother, that is. Did he speak to you, Lieutenant Tavellan?" Not wanting to make any more noise than she already had, Myra nodded and Vashara rolled her eyes. "Then he has stolen my words from me like a wretched red-tailed monkey steals fruit. He can be such an annoyance at times. Well, I shall speak as I wish no matter what he has or has not said. Thank you for allowing me to lead part of the assault today, lieutenant. You will not regret it. May all the gods look upon you favorably, northblood."
Before Myra could thank the heavyset elf, however, Vashara lay back down and began snoring as if she hadn't woken up at all. Tlaloc apparently hadn't heard anything since he was still dozing on his own bedroll. Pinching the bridge of her nose as she pushed open the door and stepped out into the warm, balmy night, Myra tried to recall if any of the stories about southbloods mentioned how insane they were. Because the Maladars were clearly out of their minds.
Myranda took a deep breath, inhaling the salty tang of the sea and the scent of grass crushed underfoot, and allowed her gaze to wander across the slope where the Four Sisters stood. Even though she hadn't participated in the attack on the watchtowers, the elf was glad the Forlorn Hope's first battle had gone so well. Morale was a tricky thing when it came to hired blades, and Myra was becoming more and more aware of how precarious her position was. While she knew it was highly unlikely any of these mercenaries could best her in battle, the last thing Myranda wanted was to end up standing before General Astra while men like Typhus Rommath and Aliden Bayaz bayed for her execution. She needed more allies like Vashara Maladar, Vladimir Mogdan, and Larius Pyral to avoid getting court marshaled for any perceived, or actual, slight. Especially actual slights. As her eyes darted up to the starry sky overhead and then out towards the water, the elven warrior saw something moving down by the shoreline. What was that all about? Could it be the enemy? A flush of joy, anger, and something almost like need colored Myra's scarred face as she hunkered down and crept towards the place where the waves met the sand. She was just about to draw her longsword when she recognized the squat, bearded form of Vladimir Mogdan standing over what was obviously a corpse.
Blinking in shock, Myranda let go of her blade and stood up to her full height so she could see this bizarre scene in its entirety. The dwarf was chanting in a guttural language the elf didn't recognize with his eyes closed while straddling the body of an Etruscan soldier. The dead human's throat had been torn out. Pieces of sharpened driftwood were driven through the man's hands, anchoring him securely to the beach, and Vladimir's heavy bearded axe lay atop the carcass. It was a little surprising to see the weapon's iron blade dripping with blood, because the dwarf was one of the Gray Winds Myra held in reserve during the assault on the Four Sisters. What in the name of the First Emperor's hairy balls was going on?
The dwarf's eyes snapped open and he smiled up at his concerned lieutenant. "Ahhh, Lieutenant Tavellan, have you come to join me in my prayers to the Warfather? I was just about to ask Geishra to bestow his gifts upon my old, tired eyes. I am certain the Eternal Fire would rather hear the pleas of a lieutenant than the whining of a weary soldier," he said cheerfully as if he wasn't standing over a staked corpse in the middle of the night.
"Is that what this is, Trooper Mogdan? Some kind o' ritual or sommat?" Myranda asked, though the gray-haired dwarf scoffed and waved his hands at her like a teacher chastising a dimwitted pupil. The gesture also showed the hired blade's fingers were red up to the knuckle. Was he dipping his fingers into the blood oozing out of the dead Etruscan soldier's throat? Or was he doing something worse? Was there anything worse than that? Unfortunately, Myra could think of a few things. She'd done several of them.
"Please, please, call me Vladimir or Vlad, lieutenant. And yes, I'm calling down the blessings of Geishra upon myself and my weapon. You need the blood of a slain human to entice the God of Gods, and I just happened to find this runt lying out here all alone. I guess someone forgot to drag him all the way out into the water. By the way, I wanted to thank you for keeping me out of the battle today because I haven't spoken to Geishra in some time. I must have the favor of the Flame God if we are going to attack the City of Kings. Now, are you certain I cannot tempt you to join me? Geishra is always looking for more warriors to join his congregation," Vladimir said and he shrugged when Myranda shook her head before closing his eyes tightly.
Myra, curious about this mysterious and bloody religion she knew nothing about, sat down a few feet away from the dwarf to watch. While the elf claimed to worship the Tolosi gods, the truth was Myranda didn't even know the names of half the elven deities apart from Grim Bardolon, the Tolosi divinity of warriors and violence. Not that she actually believed praying to a god or goddess did anything. There were times when she wondered if they existed at all. It would certainly explain the state of the world.
"Oh Geishra, Warfather, Eternal Fire, and God of Flame, I paint the blood of my enemies upon my eyes," Vladimir intoned, now speaking in Common since he had an audience, and he drew a single bloody line across his eyelids. By the dim light of the stars and the crescent moon, Myra could see the gore dripping down the dwarf's face as he continued to commune with his god. "Let me see the weaknesses of my foes so I might send them howling to your great pyre. Let me see their strikes before they make them so I might offer up their souls to your endless glory. Let me see paths and ways to victory my adversaries cannot so I might rend them limb from limb!"
For the second time that night, the old dwarf's eyes opened and Myranda let out a startled squawk as she stumbled to her feet. Vladimir's eyes were blood red and his pupils were black as pitch! The elven warrior reached for her sword, but Trooper Mogdan said, his voice deadpan and soft, "The orders you are waiting for have arrived, lieutenant. Go forth and bring death and sorrow to these foolish humans. I know you will not disappoint." The elderly mercenary slowly raised one arm and pointed at a spot behind Myra, and she glanced over her shoulder as the sound of someone shouting her name reached her ears. "Lieutenant Tavellan! Where is Lieutenant Tavellan?! I must speak to Lieutenant Tavellan at once!" the voice cried out over and over again in the darkness.
Wondering how Vladimir heard the shouts before she had, Myranda turned ...to find absolutely nothing. The old dwarf was gone and there was no sign he'd ever been there. Even the slain Etruscan soldier had vanished.
While not as strange as vanishing dwarves and foul rituals, seeing Sweet Thond hobbling towards her with two sheets of parchment in one hand and a wad of glow moss in the other wasn't something Myra saw every night either. The pinkish glow moss, which gave off a faint light of the same color, was an essential ingredient in many Etruscan ales so Myra knew it by sight. And it tended to grow near saltwater and the sea was the biggest body of saltwater in Tverios. It also made sense to use it instead of wasting precious lantern oil. At any rate, watching the balding Jadisi man scurrying along made Myranda smile despite the night's strangeness. She'd been certain Sweet Thond and the other convicts in his battalion were working with the Mardochians responsible for coordinating Oromis' diversion. Most of the other penal battalions were. Yet, as the two friends shook hands, Myra noticed Sweet Thond didn't look well. His face was drawn and every move he made seemed sluggish and uncoordinated while his eyes never seemed to settle.
Wheezing as he released Myra's hand, Sweet Thond offered the pieces of parchment in his left hand and the elf took them gently as she said, "Sweet Thond! It's great ter see ye, me friend! Are ye alright? Do ye need ter sit down? Ye look like yer about to keel over."
Despite the obvious agony wracking his scrawny frame, the perspiring Jadisi grinned and said, "I don't need to sit down, Myranda. I mean, Lieutenant Tavellan, but thank you for the offer. I should probably return to my battalion now that I've delivered your orders. The captain of the Seventh Penal Battalion, Patrice Tressida, was commanded by Captain Elias to ensure you received these papers once the Four Sisters were under our control. Thanks to you, we accomplished the task faster than anyone could have anticipated. It would seem..." The Jadisi man paused and swallowed, his eyes narrowing, as he said, "It would seem fortune has favored you at last, my friend. I'm glad, lieutenant, truly. You deserve this." He didn't sound glad and Myra's brows drew together as she watched Sweet Thond struggle to regain some semblance of composure. Was he ill? And why did he stink of shit? Before she could ask, however, he snapped to attention and said, "I should return to my captain, lieutenant, before she sends someone out to retrieve me. That would...that would not be good. I shall see you in the morning." He turned around and shuffled away in the direction of the northernmost watchtower without another word.
Wondering what in the name of the gods above and below was wrong with everyone tonight, Myranda looked down at the two pieces of parchment and began to read aloud to herself. One of the sheets detailed what Captain Elias expected the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Penal Battalions to do once the Blade of God reached Etruscia's western coast. They were to aid the Forlorn Hope platoon in claiming the Four Sisters for the God-King, which is exactly what they'd done. The other sheet, however, contained the following message:
Lieutenant Tavellan,
If you are reading this then congratulations are in order. The Four Sisters have fallen, and I'm sure you were instrumental in bringing them down. Make certain your troops rest tonight, because I want them alert and ready to ride at dawn. Your platoon, and the three penal battalions who assisted you, will be moving south into the forest of Lyvresse. It will take most of the day to travel through the woods, but you must reach the southernmost thickets by nightfall. Once you have arrived, I want you and your battalion to prepare yourselves for combat. The red sashes accompanying you, who will obey your orders as if they were my own, should do the same. I intend to begin our attack on the Sun Gates the following day so it is imperative that everyone's weapons and armor are in order. I shall send further instructions as soon as I am able. We shall be victorious, lieutenant. The Sun Gates of Tolos will fall.
Sincerely,
Claes Astra General of the God-King's Armies Captain of the Gray Winds
Frowning and shoving the two pieces of parchment into one of her pouches, Myranda lumbered back towards the watchtower occupied by her platoon. So much for a friendly game of tiles. The elf was concerned about Thond, though. Something was wrong with the gaunt southerner, and he was obviously in a great deal of pain. Myra didn't have many friends so she felt compelled to look after the few she had. Maybe Captain Patrice Tressida would know more about what was happening? The convicts and sellswords had been so busy preparing for their respective assaults on the Four Sisters that they hadn't spoken to each other much. Proper introductions had been set aside for after the Four Sisters fell, though Myra had made the effort to learn the names of the three captains prior to the attack. Deciding to speak with Captain Tressida during their trek through Lyvresse, Myranda opened the watchtower's wooden door and immediately spotted Vladimir Mogdan sleeping at the bottom of the staircase. At least the confounding sellsword hadn't gotten himself lost.
"Thank the gods fer small favors, I s'pose," Myra muttered as she trudged towards the stairwell, her thoughts whirling about in a storm of annoyance, exhaustion, and concern. Gods above and below but she needed to get into a proper battle soon or she was going to go mad. Everything was so much simpler when she was fighting.
Meanwhile, in the Capora Valley, near the center of the southern Kingdom of Merida...
They'd been marching for a day when they finally reached Capora itself, and Cristobal was glad their trek was finally over. Force marching was never entertaining, and their path had been through hills and mountains. Some of the other soldiers in the King's army saw the settlement with contempt, the small town being barely worthy of the term, but Cristobal was born on a pig farm in a village so small it didn't have a name, so to him it seemed like a city. And that was before they'd settled in it.
The first thing they'd done upon arriving, of course, was to set up camp, and instantly the town had grown many times over. Where before it had had less than a thousand souls, now it was augmented with the entirety of the Royal army, which some said was over ten thousand in number. Cristobal wouldn't know, being just a regular conscript, but still.
"There's so many people," his boyhood friend and fellow villager Pedro had said, awestruck, and Cristobal had had to concur. Certainly, they'd been traveling with the army for some time, but it was usually on the march, and thus spread out, or divided into several smaller armies. Now, the entire army was camped in a single place, at the height of the secluded Capora valley. They were waiting for the orcs to climb the valley from the south, or so it was said.
"They'll be here sometime tomorrow," the vicious sergeant assigned to their group, Ferran, had said with the angry expression he always seemed to have. "But in the meantime, I want tents set up, fires lit, and watches kept. So help me god, I will have any in dereliction of duty flogged!"
That had certainly motivated them to be diligent, to say the least. But once the camp was up, they'd found themselves with nothing to do, but await the great battle that would determine the fate of the Kingdom of Merida. Some found ways to distract themselves, of course, notably with the townsfolk. A gibbet was soon erected in the town square by the order of the king, and from it hung fresh corpses with every hour. Thieves and rapists, they said, and Cristobal did not doubt it. Later, they'd finally been given weapons, real swords, thought rusty and ancient. Still, for farm boys who had never even seen a blade, it looked amazing.
"We're the King's soldiers now," Pedro said excitedly when they were in the tent, along with the dozen or so others they shared it with. Pedro was always excitable, perhaps making up for spirit what he lacked in stature. In any case, his small size and bold attitude had made him a target for the more mean-spirited men among them, as they had in their village, despite Cristobal's best attempts to protect his friend.
Around midday, Cristobal and the others in the tent were told to form up on either side of the makeshift road. Rumors were circulating wildly among the massed soldiers: A noble was supposed to be coming to inspect them. A duke, one said. The King, another corrected. The Prophet himself, another insisted, come down all the way from Tolos to lead the holy war.
They were still standing on either side of the path through the camp, uncertain of whether it was a joke or not, when their Sergeant came running, looking as anxious as Cristobal had ever seen the old hardass.
"The King himself is coming! Kneel, and show some respect, you dogs!" Sergeant Ferran barked at them. Cristobal remembered the words of his mother, before he had left:
"And if you ever meet the King, kneel. You always need to show respect to a King!"
At the time, he'd laughed it off. Mother, I'm going to be a foot soldier. What are the chances that I meet the King? He now found it considerably less funny. He knelt, along with the others.
He tried not to look up, as he heard the sound of trotting approaching, trying to focus on the rock in front of him. Despite himself, he couldn't help glancing up when the riders were in front of him. It was an awe-inspiring sight, knights taken straight out of the stories, their armor alone worth more than his family's entire farm, their shields emblazoned with two snakes intertwined, lunging for a crown.
The one in the front would be the King, he supposed, given that his armor was the fanciest, and that he worse a large, golden crown on his forehead. Here Cristobal was, kneeling in the mud in front of the most important man in the entire Kingdom, when he was born on a pig farm in a village so small it didn't have a name. He realized with a start that he didn't even know the King's name.
"A fine contingent of men-at-arms," he heard the King saying to another lord, and Cristobal swelled with pride. They were real soldiers, now. Eventually, the King had gotten far enough that Ferran let them get up and get on with "whatever you miserable worms do with your time", as he put it. Cristobal went to find Pedro, who was just as excited as he was.
"Did you hear the King? We're fine 'men-at-arms'," Pedro said giddily, though Cristobal knew his friend didn't know what a men-at-arm was any more than he did. "We're soldiers now, like I always said we would be!"
"You've got to be kidding," Ignacio growled from behind them. Cristobal didn't particularly like Ignacio, the latter being a mean veteran who held the new recruits in contempt. "Savior on Earth, you are some stupid shits. His Grace only said that to make you lot feel better. Green boys like you won't last three seconds of battle."
"You don't know what you're talking about!" Pedro said defiantly. "The King said we're soldiers, and Kings don't lie!"
"Speak when spoken to, runt," Ignacio said as he clobbered Pedro in the head. After that, he left, cursing under his breath.
"What an ass," Pedro complained when he was certain Ignacio was out of earshot.
"You shouldn't talk back to Ignacio like that," Cristobal chastised his friend. "He might be an ass, but we'll be stuck with him for a while, and he is a veteran. We shouldn't get on his bad side."
"All he's got is his bad side," Pedro muttered. Still, he didn't argue further, and they made their way back to the tent.
As the dark of night fell again, they gathered around a fire in front of their tent. The higher-ups had sent down meat- Real meat!- for the common soldiers. Some of those around the fire hadn't eaten meat for years. Cristobal himself was a little less amazed, having eaten pork since he was a child given his family's herd of swine, but even he had to admit that the smell of cooking beef was far better than that of the dry biscuits and stale bread they'd been left eating for the last week.
They were thirteen gathered around that fire, with many other fires in every direction, and everywhere men were feasting and reveling.
"Well, I haven't killed no greenskins," Ezio the Shitless was saying, "but I've killed dozens of men, and I figure orcs can't be all that different." He threw a glance at Cristobal and Pedro. "What about you green boys? You blooded?"
Cristobal hesitated for a moment. "Well, I've butchered pigs..."
Ezio snorted. "Pigs? Bah! That don't count. Men won't sit nicely and let you slit their throats, and that's not even talking about greenskins. Killing a man's an art, you see..."
"Oh, sure, you would know," a tall lanky man name Gonzar countered. "We've all heard about your prowess in battle. How long did it take for you to shit yourself, again?"
"No time, he shat himself before the fight even started," Ignacio said, a rare smile on his hardened face. "I know, I was there beside him."
"Shut up!" Ezio snapped. "You can't say that kind of shit in front of the green boys!"
Ignacio lost his smile, and his face became mean again. "Why not? They'll be dead by this time tomorrow, so it doesn't matter."
At that, there was a silence around the fire.
"We won't," Pedro said insistently. "We're going to win, everyone says so. We'll be heroes tomorrow."
"Oh, sure you will," Ignacio said mockingly. "Enjoy tonight's sleep if you can, green boys, because it will be the last you'll ever have."
* * * * *
As most of the camp went to sleep, in the command tent, the nobles continued to plan well into the night. Gathered around a rough-drawn map of the valley were some of the most important people in the Kingdom: Count Edinar, a young and enthusiastic vassal of the King; Baron Cameran, whose lands they were currently camped in, who'd been conscripted along with his forces into the army much against his will; the old Duke of Geracia, placed in charge of the Meridan horsemen for the coming battle. Others still were present, a dozen nobles of station high and low. They had all answered the King's call to arms.
King Pelicar knew these men intimately, having campaigned with them half a hundred times. They had been his stalwart allies since he had first assumed the throne, near a decade ago. He had mixed feelings about that: on one hand, he was confident in their competence, and knew they would not betray him. On the other, the fact that half the realm's lords- the half that despised him, to be precise- were absent was troubling.
Oh, they had made their excuses. Their wives were sick, or their lands plagued by ruffians, or the weather would delay them indefinitely, pray excuse us, Your Grace. But it was a pack of lies, and everyone knew it damn well. They had hated him and his absolutist policies since he had first assumed the throne. In fact, he had waged war on nearly all of them at one point or another. They hoped he would spend himself against Rusadir- perhaps even die in battle himself- so that they could increase their own power.
He was nonetheless confident in their victory, outnumbering the orcs three to one as they did, but still, the thought made his blood boil. When this quagmire was cleaned up, he would have them hanged, he swore to himself. Every last one of them.
"...We should send word to Admiral Ondore," the Duke of Geracia was saying. "Once we clean up the orcs here, we can use his fleet to cut off their retreat, and massacre the pack of them. Surely the prophet will understand the necessity of pulling them out of the war against the Jadisi."
Baron Cameran snorted. "'Once we win'? I'm sorry, my lord, but I wasn't aware that the battle had already been won. We should attain victory before dividing the spoils."
"It's just as unwise not to have contingencies for the aftermath of the fight," Geracia argued. "In any case, is there any real doubt as to the outcome of this clash? Our knights are the most valiant and skilled in all human lands, and this orcish 'king' rules over a rabble."
"Excuse me, my lords," King Pelicar interrupted, "but I feel in need of fresh air. You may continue without me. Pray excuse me."
"We are at your command, your Grace," Geracia said humbly as Pelicar swept his way out of the tent.
The stars were obscured by the light of the innumerable torches in the camp. He shivered for a moment, the cold spring air of night surprising him. It was rarely anything other than temperate in his Kingdom, even in the north. Then again, the last winter had proved to be a particularly harsh one across the world, with reports of great hardship from the northern kingdoms.
He wondered if the stars were the same as when he was a boy. A surprising thought- he did not care much for astronomy, and even less for nostalgia.
"Are you well, Your Grace?" Count Edinar asked, having followed him out. He was a good lad, with a promising future ahead of him. More than once, Pelicar had pondered the possibility of naming the Count as his heir, given his lack of any direct blood relatives to follow him.
"Not very," he said truthfully. "All those fools back there are certain of our victory, but I can't shake a dread feeling." He sighed. "I am above all weary, of all this fighting. Siege after siege, campaign after campaign, yet the bloodshed never ends. I am thirty-nine, Edinar, and though I have many years left, I'm old. Eleven years of reigning on the throne, and I feel all I've done is spill blood."
The Count was silent for a moment. "Perhaps that is so, Your Grace, but sometimes, it is-"
"Your Grace! My Lord!" a voice shouted from nearby. The man ran towards them, and the two guards guarding the command tent advanced forward to protect them. Recognizing the stranger as one of his scouts, however, Pelicar waved them off.
"Yes, what is it, man? I hope whatever it is, it is important enough for you to have skipped reporting to your captains first."
"The captain told me to report to you at once, Your Grace! It's the orcs. They've come earlier than expected. They're riding up the valley as we speak!"
"The orcs? When will they be upon us?" Pelicar asked, surprised. They weren't supposed to arrive until midday tomorrow, at the very least.
"A few hours, maybe. It's hard to say; they're mounted."
Suddenly sure of himself once again, Pelicar took on a commanding air. This was his element: proper war, not this waiting business. "Count Edinar, spread the word. Tell the captains to get their men up and battle-ready. We'll form up inside the camp, and march out to meet them."
"At once, Your Grace!" Endrin said, running off to do so.
"You," he said, referring to the scout, "Go in the other direction, and do the same. I want the entire camp up and about by the time I've finished briefing my generals."
As the scout left, and the camp began to rouse from its sleep, there was no doubt any longer in him. The battle had begun, and he would lead Merida to her victory.
* * * * *
As it turned out, Cristobal did manage to sleep, though not much. When the clamor woke him up, the sun hadn't risen yet, and the moon was still high in the sky, it's pale light emanating through the tent's entrance. For a moment, he lay there confused, wondering who all these people were, and why he wasn't in bedroom.
"Get up, Pig Farmer," Ignacio said as he drove his boot into Cristobal's rib, "the greenskins aren't going to wait around for you to get your night's snooze."
Cristobal yelped in pain and clutched his pained side, now fully awake. "What?" he gasped, "But, they weren't... they were supposed to-"
"Come during the day, yes. They changed their plans. Now, if you're done being stupid, get up before the sergeant sees you."
He dragged himself up from the ground, and set about searching frantically for his sword. He could've sworn he'd been sleeping beside it...
"Cristobald!" Pedro called to him, the old blade in his hand. "Your sword's here. Got kicked around, I guess."
"Thank Oromis," Cristobald said gratefully, breathless. A soldier, he had called himself, and he couldn't even find his own sword on the day of battle. "Are they here already? Are we under attack?"
"I have no idea," Pedro was saying, before he was interrupted by Ferran storming into the tent.
"You lot! Scouts have spotted the greenskins coming up the valley. Get your worthless hides out and form up in battle formation, already!"
As it turned out, forming up an army was not quite as simple as that. It took another ten minutes before they were in position with the rest of the army, on the outskirts of the camp, and some time more before they were finally given the order to advance. After that, it was a long tense march. Being woken up at that dismal hour, coupled with excitement and anxiety, made them loud and boisterous, and despite their best efforts, the sergeants could not keep silence in the ranks.
Though their formation was more alike to a mob than a proper infantry square, it was clear that he was in the front ranks, with only a single man in front of him. For the entire march, which in turn seemed to stretch on forever, he stared at him, a giant of a man, wielding a woodcutting axe. He memorized every detail of that man, his ragged leather tunic, his great beard visible even from behind. He was vaguely aware of Pedro marching beside him, his breath mingled with an uncharacteristic stream of prayer. Ignacio was behind him, pushing Cristobal forward whenever he began to lag behind.
Another thing that stuck with him was the noise. The jokes and boasting of his compatriots; the patriotic shouts and war cries; the distant thunder of cavalry, from the left. There was an unusual chill in the air, though it might have just been his imagination. In any case, they continued descending the valley, without so much as a brush in their way.
He did not know how long they had marched when he saw them. Long, he did not doubt, his legs aching. They were difficult to see at first, obscured by the treeline which began some distance ahead. Even when they left their cover, they were difficult to make out, but even then he could clearly tell they weren't human. Savior above, Cristobal thought, what are they riding?
* * * * *
"Neyrahns, your Grace. They are beasts that dwell in the Orkantor, near as savage as the orcs that ride them."
King Pelicar had to admit that they did look fearsome as they came into view. Though they were still distant, he could see that the orcs atop them were higher than some small trees. They were larger than horses, at the very least. "They're all mounted," he remarked. "Do we know if they have foot with them?"
The lords Edinar and Cameran looked at each other uncertainly. Finally, Edinar shrugged. "Impossible to know for certain, your Grace, but I do not believe so. For the orcs to reach here from Lucar so quickly, they must have left all their foot and siege equipment behind." "Call the army to a halt," he ordered, and his captain of the guard blew a long, mournful note on his trumpet. The host before him slowed to a stop.
As the orcs made their way towards them, Pelicar examined his situation, his position on a small hill in the back of his host offering him a complete view of the battlefield. He was accompanied in that position by his retinue, lords and knights of high standing. He hoped that by placing his elite in such a manner, he could discourage the common footmen from retreating.
A few dozen meters to the left of his infantry, his knights waited. From there, they could flank the enemy as his infantry pinned them down. What the strategy lacked in elegance it more than made up for in efficacy, he vouch for that after using it half a hundred times already. This was not his first battle.
"They've stopped, your Grace."
"Thank you, Count Edinar," King Pelicar said irritably. "I can see." They had indeed stopped their advance, coming to a halt in a simple line formation a hundred meters or so from their own army. "Can we perhaps fire a volley or two at them?"
"In this darkness?" Baron Cameran asked dubiously. "We could, but I doubt the moonlight's enough for these peasants to hit anything other than grass. We'd just be wasting arrows."
"Have the army advance again. Slowly." Another trumpet note, and the host was on the move again. If the orcs wouldn't take the initiative, he would, knowing from experience the importance of keeping your foe on the defensive.
After a few moments, the orcs turned their Neyrahns around and began a slow retreat. "What the hell are they doing?" Cameran asked.
"Stupid savages," Edinar swore. "They know nothing of war."
The King did not feel their confidence. Something wasn't right here. He felt a lurch in his stomach, a usual sign that he was making a mistake his conscious mind couldn't identify. Then he saw the knights, still far to the left. Up until then, they'd been marching along in good order, keeping up with the main army. Now, however, it looked like they got overexcited, and they were accelerating past the infantry. "The savior-damned fools! I didn't order a charge!" Pelicar said angrily. "Call the army to a halt!" Though the captain blew the trumpet dutifully, and the footmen stopped once again, the knights barely seemed to notice. If anything, they sped up, charing madly towards the orcish line, which was still retreating, though with increasing speed.
Several things happened in the next moment. The orcish riders split into two groups, left and right, with nary a sound or signal, riding fast in an arc around the charging knights. At the same time, they loosed a flurry of arrows on the knights. Few men could claim to be able to hit a target in the moonlight, and fewer still while moving at great speed on horseback, but the orcish arrows seemed to find their marks with deadly efficiency.
Being heavily armored, few of the knights were killed outright by the volley. However, many did fall out of saddle from the force of the impact, and others still lost their horses beneath them. These wounded were invariably trampled by their own comrades, still blind to their peril.
Still caught up in the moment, the knights continued undaunted. After a few cries of "Pelicar King!" and "Oromis guides!", they changed their direction towards the right-most orcish riders. But these orcs seemed to likewise be done with trickery, and they charged right back, screaming war cries, their great scimitars raised proudly as they did.
The impact was unlike any other, a thunder of clashing metal. The orcs had the initial advantage, their reptilian mounts ripping horses apart during the charge. But the knights were valiant and well-trained, and held their ground.
Until the left-most orcs slammed into them from behind, reaving a bloody path to join their kin.
* * * * *
Cristobal could only watch the spectacle ahead, powerless, horrified. The air was filled with the dying shrieks of horses and the screams of men as they were butchered. The knights and lords fought, of course, but they were attacked from every direction, and the orcs were possessed with a savagery he did not think possible, a lust for violence that surpassed all the stories told of them.
"...who wields the True Sword, defender of mankind, protect us in our hour of need," Pedro was whispering. "Shield us from the evil and tyranny of the unbelievers, and guide our blades..."
"Why are we just sitting here, watching?" the giant in front of him asked angrily. "We should get there and help!"
"You'll get the fight you want, idiot," a man nearby said acidly. "Look."
It took Cristobal a moment to make sense of what the man was talking about, the butchery in front of him too chaotic to make sense of. Then, he realized: the orcs were dispersing, leaving the killing field, their bloody task complete. As the rode away, he wondered if there were any left alive lying in that field. Not for long, however, as it occurred to him that he had more pressing concerns.
The orcs had split themselves left and right again. Raising their curved bows as their reptilian mounts thundered on, they let loose a hail of arrows. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, and Cristobal looked Pedro in the eye.
"I don't have a shield," he said numbly
"We shouldn't have left home," Pedro answered, echoing his own thoughts.
* * * * *
"Your grace, we need to advance!" Cameran pleaded. "The longer we sit here, the more men we lose!"
"We'd be playing right into their plan. Look, they're still extending to the far left and right. They'll envelop us at this rate. We need to be cautious-"
"My lords!" his captain exclaimed. "The infantry!"
It seemed the footmen had tired of waiting while they were skewered on place by arrows. A disorganized charge began, their formation dissolving to a mob as they ran forward madly, shouting and jeering as they went.
"Have they learned nothing!? Edinar, get down there and-"
"Your Grace!" someone shouted. "Behind us!"
Pelicar saw them then. Distracted by the footmen's foolish rush, he hadn't noticed that the orcs had continued their flanking motion, and now they were charging them from the back.
"To arms, Meridans!" he shouted as he drew his sword. "To arms! Throw these vile creatures back into the sea!"
* * * * *
Chaos. That was the only word that could describe it. It was a nightmare, one Cristobal could not escape. Carried away with the movement of the crowd, he had charged with the rest, figuring it was better to die in an honorable fight than to be skewered by an arrow or trampled to death. How wrong he was.
They knew something was wrong when the orcs did not shrink before the sight of their charge, as they had expected, peasant boys as they were. If anything, the greenskins were amused; some laughed, the chilling sound carrying over the storm of boots slamming on dirt. Their heroic charge began to slow, and their valor falter, even before the orcs charged in turn, howling their savage war cries. When the orcs were within a stone's throw's distance, they had halted; when the two forces collided, they were slowly stepping back.
He had thought the world had ended, at that moment. To his left and right, the massive beasts smashed through their pitiful line, wreaking bloody havoc. The giant died in the middle of an ineffectual swing of his axe, his stomach sliced open with a swing of a wicked scimitar. He saw Ignacio die horribly, torn apart by the claws of the lizard as it disemboweled him. And Pedro, little Pedro, who had been so eager to be a soldier, was crushed to death by one of the beasts in the initial charge.
Cristobal remembered the games they had played in the village, how they had cruelly joked that Pedro's short stature made him beneath notice, how they had pretended not to see him. The orc rider seemed to be playing the same game, apparently unaware that he had trampled anyone.
* * * * *
Pelicar raised his shield at the last moment, blocking the orc's attack. The force of the strong swing sent a shock through his body, and for a moment he thought it had broken his arm. While his foe recovered from the blow, the King used the opportunity to attack, stabbing the orc in the gut. The latter groaned in agony and anger, before looking at Pelicar... and laughing.
He realized what the orc found so amusing in the next instant. The Neyrahn his foe had been riding had gone for his horses neck, ripping through metal and leather to tear out flesh. His horse fell then, sending him falling towards the dirt. Pain shot through him. He could tell instantly that his horse had fallen on his right leg, by all appearances smashing it. He dragged himself out of the precarious position, letting lose a muffled cry of agony as he did so.
He had just enough time to see the mangled remnants of his leg before the Neyrahn was upon him again. Though it's rider was dead, it was still attacking ferociously. Feeling in the dirt beside him, he found his sword, and brought it up as the Neyrahn lunged. He shouted wordlessly as his blade impacted the thing's head. Though its scales were too resistant for him to draw blood, the impact of the blow stunned it.
Getting up on his left leg, he got into a kneeling position, the highest he could with his other leg broken the way it was. He swung again, bringing his sword down with all the force he could on the creature's head. If he could not use it as a blade, he would damn well use it as a hammer. Again and again he struck the beast in this manner, until it finally had had enough, and rode away to seek easier prey.
* * * * *
In the face of this hell, in the wake of seeing all his friends be butchered like the swine he had grown up tending, Cristobal did the only thing he could: he died.
Though he suffered no wound, he was paralyzed, his muscles locked into place. To his horror, his legs gave out, and he fell first to his knees, then face-first into the blood-soaked mud. After a moment, he felt a painful shock as another man collapsed on him, his open throat spraying blood all over him.
Some small, sane part of his mind screamed at him to throw off the corpse, to get up and run, to flee, to live. But it was powerless: he remained there in the mud, soaked in the blood of his countryman, unable to so much as blink his eyes. What will it take to wake from this nightmare?
* * * * *
A week ago, Pelicar dined in halls of gold. Now, he crawled through the muck of the battlefield, dragging along his useless leg. He did not know how the battle was going, though he suspected the answer was "poorly". It did not matter.
All he could think about was reaching the banner planted in the dirt ahead of him. The twin snakes emblazoned on it was his own crest, and that of his father, and his father before him. It flew from every corner of the kingdom of Merida, his kingdom. Well, except maybe for the castles of the whoresons who refused to acknowledge his supremacy.
The bastards. The dukes Rannon, Forozan, Limbeo, and the others... they were just as responsible for this catastrophe as the orcs. With their support, he could have mustered an army twice the size he had. Their inaction was to blame for everything. He cursed them silently as he continued to drag his way to his banner.
It was so close, now. He could touch it, if only he extended his arm...
And then his head was yanked up with rough force. Raising his hands instinctively, he was too slow to prevent the orc from delivering the coup de grace, slitting open his throat.
* * * * *
When Cristobal came to, the sun was already high in the air, revealing the carnage of the previous night. I'm alive? How?
Not daring to move a muscle, he strained his hearing. The first thing he noticed was the relative silence; absent was the sound of slashing and slamming. The battle was over, then. The second sound he noticed was the flapping of wings. Vultures, he thought. Come to feast on the banquet we've given them. It was with some disgust that he realized that one of them was eating the body of the man on him.
He had to move. He dragged himself in the mud, the body slipping of him as he went, the carrion bird flying off in surprise. Cristobal paused for a moment, and he almost couldn't hold back the tears. But the situation was too dire to cry over, so he kept quiet, and raised his head, slowly.
If there were any sights that could still shock him after the horrors of that night, it was that of the carrion field that morning. Aside from the vultures, there was no movement, only corpses, corpses as far as the eye could see. He could not hear the moaning of the dead: no doubt the orcs had already passed through, finishing off any survivors. But then, how did he...?
He looked down at his tunic, and began laughing hysterically, no longer caring about the noise. He was covered in blood and gore, they must have simply assumed he was dead already. Somehow, that seemed like the funniest thing in the world at that moment.
When he composed himself again, he took a good look around him, trying to determine the best course of action. A disturbing column of smoke drifted from the direction of Capora. He saw no better option that to walk in its direction: though he risked encountering the greenskins, he needed any supplies he could scavenge. Besides, he knew that it was on the way to his village, so he might as well stop by. Maybe he could make it to his home alive.
Truth be told, all he found in the ruins of their once-great camp was smoking ruins, corpses, and the corpse of the King, stripped naked except for his golden crown, and nailed to a post. "Your Grace," he said respectfully as he bent the knee. One always had to show respect to a King.
A neyrahn, mounts of the Orcs
Steps of the Battle of Capora 1. The orcs and humans assemble and stop in front of each other.
2. The orcs retreat and split into two groups; the Meridan knights charge in pursuit.
3. The knights are surrounded and massacred.
4. The orcs reform into two lines, and fire arrows. The Meridan foot charge again.
Every few minutes, Aksel looked at the road behind the teetering cart and strained his eyes in the dark, scanning for any figures that might be following him. He didn't figure that anybody would care enough to search for some random half-blood Tolosi elf, but nevertheless he was on edge. Because he had replaced the already rough-fitting door loosely in its frame and AVOIDED any violence on his way out, Aksel had given very little reason to worry about his personal freedom. Save for a possible connection to the imminent invading forces, one prisoner's escape would concern the higher ups as much as a missing breakfast. Ironically enough, that connection to the invading forces would come about soon enough.
Earlier that evening, the young monk had been approached by a small, cloaked man bearing a letter. Without a word the courier had disappeared, leaving Aksel alone in the road with a letter detailing his next move. In their usual mysterious manner, J and T had directed him towards the “Four Sisters,” a set of decayed watchtowers run by an inexperienced skeleton crew. The young man had been blessed with luck once again, for the oyster farmer whom he had asked about his destination happened to live on the coast, just past the Four Sisters themselves. For nothing but companionship and conversation, Aksel was to ride along with the farmer and his fine donkey in a wobbling but stable cart.
While the farmer, a graying man by the name of Jeremie, jabbered on about oyster recipes, oyster prices, oyster farming, Tolosi brothels, but generally oysters, Kjaerr concentrated on his peculiar new ring, only interjecting into the conversation with the sporadic “ahh” or “sounds delicious.” The stone ring was now distinctly more gray than it had been when he first saw it, there was no doubt. The contrasting lighting to the cell might have made a difference during the day, but it was night time now and the monk was sure that the ring had changed colors. Aksel rubbed it, poured warm and cold water over it, and even blew on it, but the gray color remained. Was that extraordinary impact simply for a single occasion? Aksel wouldn't accept that, for he still sensed power in the ring. There must be some way to activate that hidden power, and the young monk had a fair amount of time in a rickety cart to figure it out.
It had been nearly two hours of experimenting and oyster talk. Aksel knew how the best corner to sell oysters on and how to cook them into a stew, but he was no closer to solving the riddle of his ring. The lord of sleep was beginning to weight his eyelids and fog his thoughts when the half elf heard a distinctive sound that brought memories of pain and loss flooding back to him. A sound that signaled danger, that let you know that you were at a disadvantage in whatever happened next. It was the soft, thrumming purr of an arrow speeding through the early night's air. Aksel looked down at a quivering shaft sticking out of the splintered wood between his own legs.
“Git down lad! I'll git us outta 'ere!” The farmer cracked the reigns and his donkey sprinted as fast as its stubby legs would allow. Without a second thought, the young monk obeyed.
They were flying through the darkness, all thoughts of safety long since abandoned. They were rapidly approaching tree cover, but the frequency of arrows – three every few minutes or so – wouldn't let up. That meant that the bandits were on horseback which wasn't good news for the monk and the farmer. A horse was faster than a donkey on its own, but when the donkey was pulling a cart, the distance between the two was surely diminishing rapidly.
Aksel was ducking down below the rim of the cart, his hands covering his head. He had been fortunate thus far, but when an arrow lodged into the wood just above his left shoulder, the half elf felt the hand of panic tightly grasp his heart. The next arrow was closer. Much closer.
A sharp stinging pain shot through Aksel's hand, and he was sure that he was dead. The young monk had spend enough time studying under Grim Bardolon, the Tolosi god of war, to know that an arrow, most likely shot from a composite bow, would stick clean through a man's hand. Aksel was sure that he would look up only to find himself a ghost with a spectral arrow permanently pinning his right hand to his skull. What he saw instead was his stone ring, a faint white glow illuminating the rest of his hand.
I understand. It's ready now.
With prospective death snapping at his heels, the young monk couldn't help but smile. He had been given unearthly power, and the moment that it's mysteries unveiled themselves to him came only briefly before his death; before he would ever be able to use it. The ring would fall into the hands of bandits who would probably never understand its power, pawning it for a drink or even discarding it into some ravine when shinier jewelry outcompeted it for finger space.
But the death didn't come. In fact, the arrows had stopped completely. Aksel knew better than to be relieved, however. Jeremie reigned his donkey in, and when the half elf looked up, he saw why. The three probable chasing bandits had shepherded them right into their comrades. Four men with spears at the ready and long daggers on their belts grinned wickedly as they closed in. Jeremie's donkey spooked and darted sideways, tipping the cart halfway over and spilling the contents in the back – including Aksel – before the bandits. While three of the bandits moved to chase the cart, the bandit farthest the right approached the young half elf, his horrible smile revealing no more than four teeth. He was an ugly, wiry man with a hideous boil on his hook nose, but Aksel wouldn't be intimidated after surviving so much in the past few minutes.
Aksel thought back to evertyhing he had learned of combat during his studies Bardolonian studies. He's got a spear. He'll stab and I'll dodge right, bat it down with my left arm and punch right with my ring. Aksel executed his plan, dodging the stab that never came right into a swing from the spear. The shaft cracked the young monk in the head, sending him sprawling into the bushes. He rolled down a low slope, followed closely by by the bandit. As soon as the half elf came to a stop and was able to drag himself back up to his feet, the bandit came down off the slope, bundling him over. His spear had been lost in the fall, but the bandit already had his nasty looking dagger out of its scabbard. The dagger rose in the air, rusty point peering down into Aksel's eyes. The monk's body was pinned, but, thankfully, his right arm was free. Aksel's fist shot up and connected with the bandit's face, punching an arrow-shaped hole through the ugly man's eye. Heart pounding, the young man pushed his unsightly attacker off of him to stain the matted grass with freely flowing blood.
Aksel stabbed his stone ring with the bandit's dagger – it glowed white in response – and ran back up to the clearing; however, Jeremie and the other bandits were nowhere to be seen. The monk could only pray that his new, oyster-loving friend had escaped the pursuit in his wagon.
Though he no longer had the farmer and the cart, Aksel had only a small fraction of his journey in front of him; he arrived, dirty and bloody, to the Four Sisters well before dawn. They were truly a decrepit collection, missing stones and even gaping holes rendering the walls minimal fortification at best. As the young monk approached the watchtower he was greeted by a thin young man of average height and fair features set in a softly rounded face. His dark hair was short and well-maintained, shaved on the sides.
“You've not got the look of an Etruschan, mate; what's your business?” The young mercenary spoke in a respectful stately manner. If Aksel visualized the ideal soldier, Trooper Tahrez would be that. The monk could only imagine that this dedicated individual would wholly dismantle him in a fight. After explaining his situation and his connections, Aksel was taken firmly by the arm and brought into the tower. The mercenary proved to be surprisingly talkative, letting Aksel know that he was Trooper Anden Tahrez of the Forlorn Hope platoon, best in the Grey Wind Mercenary army, mate. The “mate” accompanying each sentence didn't annoy Aksel quite yet, but he was sure that wouldn't last long.
After passing over numerous sleeping mercenaries, each more intimidating than the last, until he found the most intimidating of them all. Her broad-shouldered frame was home muscles on corded muscles, and scars decorated a vicious wolf's face. Through dark, tangled hair, the young monk could tell that this brutish elf only sported an ear and a half. Immediately question the path that had brought him here, young Aksel Dehli, disenfranchised half breed, began to explain his situation to Myranda Tavellan, fearsome, menacing elf berserker.
Midnight on April 10th, in the Year 3650 of the Tolosi Calendar
Stranger in the night. A most well-informed halfbreed. Too tired to fight.
Myranda was more than a little annoyed.
She'd been in the middle of a wonderful dream involving Pajaan and a hungry white lion when a hand grabbed her shoulder and roughly shook her awake. Gasping and looking around blearily, Myra was surprised to find Troopers Pyral, Mogdan, and Tahrez standing in a semi-circle around the chair she'd fallen asleep in. Immediately, the thunderous cacophony of drums in the back of her head banished the last vestiges of exhaustion and confusion from the elf's mind. What the fuck was going on? Were these three here to kill her? And who or what was that shadowy figure hiding behind Trooper Tahrez?
Baring her teeth in a pleasant smile, Myra subtly clenched her fists as Larius grinned back at her and pointed towards Trooper Anden Tahrez. The young mercenary blushed, his pale, soft face turning an interesting shade of crimson, and moved aside to allow the stranger behind him to step forward. Clearly, the boy had found someone skulking around the Four Sisters during his patrol. And he'd brought the interloper to Myranda for judgement. Excellent. The boy had done well, but this also meant the elf wouldn't be getting back to sleep anytime soon. Running a hand over her scarred face, Myra took a deep breath and peered curiously at her prisoner.
Despite the irritating lack of torches on the watchtower's second floor, Myra knew the man standing before her was a halfbreed. His ears didn't have earlobes and were noticeably pointed, though there was a hint of roundness where his ears met his head. He also had that unique look only a mixture of human and elven blood could create. And Myra was something of an authority on such matters. Her first lover, Zenobia "The Blade" Quithas, had been a beautiful half-elven woman after all. Sucking on her teeth and frowning, Myranda listened as the halfbreed told his story, though her eyes never left the interloper's face. He'd been through quite an ordeal if even half of what he was saying was true. After what felt like hours, the intruder, whose name was apparently Aksel Dehli, stopped talking and a brittle silence settled over the circular chamber.
Leaning forward in her chair, Myranda let her large hands rest on her knees and licked her lips like a lioness trying to decide if she should devour her prey now or later.
"Well, I must admit, Aksel," Myranda eventually said, "ye tell a fine story. Ye should talk ter the whinin' arsehole of a captain who brought us here about formin' a mummer's troupe or sommat. Ye'd make a bloody fortune. Yer tale had a little bit o' everythin'. Escapin' from prison with the help o' some mysterious benfe...benefac...helpers, findin' a magic ring wot glows an' all, a helpful peasant an' even a fuckin' bandit chase. Very interestin', indeed. But, afore I decide what ter do with ye, first things first as me father used ter say. Trooper Mogdan?" The dwarf saluted crisply and waited for his commanding officer's orders. "Let’s get that glowin' ring off o' Master Dehli's finger, shall we? Ye can jest set it on the table fer now an' I'll take a look at it later. Be gentle, though. Ye can never be too careful with magic."
Vladimir grunted his accord and slowly pulled the ring off the halfbreed's finger. Thankfully, the dwarf didn't burst into flames or start howling as unimaginable agony ripped through his body. Letting out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding, Myranda watched the sellsword waddle over and place the stone ring on the table beside her. The hulking elf cracked her knuckles and tried to ignore how drained she felt. She needed to deal with this quickly so she, and the Gray Winds awaiting her decision, could rest up for tomorrow's ride. Yawning, the elf decided to do what any self-respecting mercenary faced with a situation like this usually did. Pass it on to someone above her in the chain of command. And she hadn't seen Captain Elias since the army's departure from Taranidorn so that only left one other option.
General Astra would be delighted to meet this far too knowledgeable halfbreed.
Smiling, Myra scratched at her missing ear and said, "Ye know, Aksel, all jokin' aside, yer damned lucky I'm not the one leadin' this army. If I was general, I'd probably kill ye. Yer friends, J and T, somehow knew ter send ye ter the Four Sisters on the same day they were taken from the Etruscans. That's not bein' well-informed. That's havin' eyes and ears in the God-King's army, which I'm sure Oromis won't appreciate. An' I'm sure General Astra will appreciate it even less. I'd jest as soon kill ye so ye can't give away our location an' whatnot ter the enemy. Still, let it never be said that Myranda Tavellan kills when she doesn't have to."
Unfortunately, people had been saying exactly that for years. And they would probably continue to do so until long after Red Myra was dead and buried.
Shrugging her broad shoulders and focusing her attention on the youngest Gray Wind in the room, the elf said, "Trooper Tahrez, I want ye ter take Aksel ter the smuggler's beach since yer the one who found him. Yer gonna present him ter the general an' have him repeat his little story. His fate is in her hands. Now, get yer horse an' move out. Ye should be able ter make it ter the general jest after sunrise if ye leave right away. And I want ye ter stay with her unless she orders ye ter return to us. Ye got all that, boy?"
Trooper Tahrez, who'd been smoothing down his dark bangs, jumped to attention and said, "As you say, mate! I mean, erhem, as you say, Lieutenant Tavellan. Come on, Aksel, we need to find out where they tied up my horse." Myra shook her head as Trooper Mogdan winked at her and escorted Trooper Tahrez and Aksel Dehli down the stairs. Settling back in her chair and allowing her eyelids to droop, Myranda forced herself back into wakefulness when she saw Trooper Pyral staring at her, his eyes glimmering nervously in the silvery moonlight streaming through the hole in the watchtower.
"Is there somethin' else, Trooper Pyral? 'Cause if not I'd like ter get a little sleep afore the sun rises. We got a long day tomorrow," Myra asked as she slowly reached out and picked up the stone ring from its spot on the table. Could it really grant the person wearing it the ability to take a blow and turn it back on their attackers with twice the power? It sounded ridiculous and terrifying all at once, and the elven warrior wasn't too keen on handling potent mystical artifacts. They had a nasty habit of ducking their wielders in the ass. Of course, this didn't stop her from putting the ring inside her orange-dyed belt pouch. Claes would definitely want to see this. More than likely, the general would try to incorporate ringn into her plans for the upcoming siege once Myra told her what it could do.
"Forgive me, lieutenant, but I'm not certain sending this Aksel fellow with Trooper Tahrez was wise. Anden is one of the newer members of the Forlorn Hope and he's far too friendly for..." Larius said, though he stuttered to a halt when Myra raised her hand wearily.
"Trooper Pyral, we all have ter be back in the saddle soon. Let's not make this more o' an issue than it already is. Trooper Tahrez might be young, but I'm sure that means he'll be eager ter prove himself ter the rest o' the platoon. He won't fuck this up. Besides, I got the halfbreed's ring, don't I? Truth be told, this ring is probably goin' ter be more useful than the man himself. The general will be glad ter have somethin' this powerful when we attack the Sun Gates the day after tomorrow. Now, I'd suggest ye get yerself downstairs an' go ter sleep while ye still can," Myra said, and the mustachioed hired blade saluted before jogging down the wooden steps. Letting loose another jaw-cracking yawn and slumping in her chair, Myranda finally closed her eyes once more. In moments, she was snoring contentedly and wondering how loudly Pajaan would scream if a lion was actually eating his ugly brown face.
Late Afternoon on April 11th, in the Year 3650 of the Tolosi Calendar
Riding through the woods. What is wrong with the convicts? Reaching the city.
"What in the name of the gods above an' below is that?" Myra asked as she guided her restless horse, whom she'd named Blackheart, towards a large, triangular pillar jutting out of the forest floor. The imperial grayhoof tossed his proud head and tried to rejoin the cluster of mounted Forlorn Hope members trotting southwards through Lyvresse. Myranda hissed angrily and yanked Blackheart's reins in the direction of the bone-colored spire. Typhus Rommath had claimed the imperial grayhoof was one of the finest warhorse in Tverios, though Myranda was starting to have serious doubts. Blackheart was an obstinate, disobedient, and smelly pain in the ass.
Still, Myranda wasn't about to let her horse's reluctance keep her from getting a closer look at this pillar, which seemed out of place amidst Lyvresse's flourishing, vibrant plantlife. Towering goldleaf trees, their honey-colored foliage shining like a Nerwainish milkmaid's hair, towered over brecilia trees covered in violet leaves while small, gnarled bushes with bright orange berries grew in clumps around their bases.
In spite of the grim task ahead, Myra found herself smiling, and she made Blackheart stop in the pillar's shadow. As she peered intently at the ivy-shrouded construct, the elven warrior realized it had been too long since she'd enjoyed the simple pleasures of traveling through unfamiliar territory with nothing to guide her but her whims. While she still wasn't free to do as she pleased, Myranda wondered if she could convince Claes to let her spend a little time in Lyvresse after the Siege of Tolos ended. This place was breathtaking, and the elf wanted to see everything it had to offer. Of course, Myra would need to survive the upcoming battle first.
Pushing that dark thought to the back of her mind, the scarred elf looked closely at the pillar and quickly noticed it wasn't a single piece of white marble. Instead, it was composed of several white marble blocks, though the seams between the blocks fit together so perfectly they were almost invisible.
Unless you possessed an elf's superior senses.
Smirking and turning Blackheart around to rejoin her platoon, Myranda saw one of her soldiers detach from the group. The hired blade skillfully pulled his black-and-white spotted gelding to a stop beside Myra's larger horse. Whistling and tucking a sweaty strand of blonde hair under his cavalier's hat, Trooper Viator Tabex said, "Well, smack my ass and call me a Quaylu, Lieutenant Tavellan, I don't believe this! I think you've found an old Imperial marker stone. Some people call them waystones. The Empire built them to show travelers and merchants they were only a mile away from the City of Kings. They were supposed to be reassuring since this area used to be quite dangerous. Wendigos, bandits, and worse made their homes here in ages past. This is incredible! We've made excellent time, I must say. I suppose it does make sense, though. We've been following the northern route of the old Imperial Road since we left the Four Sisters."
The elf glanced at the human with one eyebrow arched. There was no way the Forlorn Hope, which was moving slower than it usually did so the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Penal Battalions could keep up, was so close to Tolos. True, Myra had set a hard pace and only allowed the group to stop when the horses needed rest or water, though she'd made numerous exceptions along the way. A mercenary with a full bladder was an unhappy mercenary, especially if they were mounted. Therefore, it seemed unlikely that a journey General Astra believed would last the entire day was almost over.
Overhead, a flock of crested sparrows, their red plumage and yellow crests flashing in the afternoon sun, chirruped happily as they darted in and out of the forest's canopy. Perhaps it was just Myra's imagination, but their warbling seemed to hold a note of victory as they flew into another part of Lyvresse.
Tilting her head to one side, Myra asked, "An' how do ye know all this, Trooper Tabex? More ter the point, I'm pretty sure the Imperial Road is long gone. After the Battle o' Havendall, the Tolosi nobles didn't want ter waste men an' resources keepin' the road free o' debris an' whatnot. I'm thinkin' they probably wanted ter put as many bodies between them an' the League as possible."
Viator pointed wordlessly at the ground beneath their horse's hooves. What appeared to be a cluster of white bricks made from the same stone as the pillar were barely visible through the carpet of fallen leaves. Each brick was marked with the dragon rampant, one of the oldest and most well-known symbols of the Empire of Tolos. Gaping in shock, Myra glanced up at Trooper Tabex before looking back at what could only be part of the Imperial Road. First Emperor's hairy cock, it still existed after all! The road that wound through the Empire like some immense, white serpent was leading the Forlorn Hope platoon to Tolos.
"That's definitely the Imperial Road, lieutenant," Trooper Tabex said, a grin that showed off the gap where his two front teeth used to be lighting up his face. "All those white marble bricks were shaped and fired across the Etrusceia River before being carried over by slaves. This was back when the Empire was still whole, of course. Now, I doubt the margraves would agree to work together on anything that didn't immediately benefit them. Greedy bastards. But, back before the Battle of Havendall, these bricks were used to form the northern, western, and southern routes of the Imperial Road. Quite a feat, eh?"
"I should say so," Myranda said as she struggled to keep Blackheart from bumping against Viator's horse. Maybe she should have named him 'Asshole' instead of Blackheart. The former seemed more appropriate. "But ye never said how ye knew all this, Trooper Tabex," the elf said once the warhorse finally calmed down.
"Well, lieutenant, my father was a Tolosi mercenary working for Belloc's Bleeders, but he fell in love with a camp follower after spending a year with the company. They ran away together and ended up living in the slums of Tolos. I grew up in and around the City of Kings so being back in Lyvresse is almost like coming home. I remember playing 'Find the Wendigo' here with my friends when I was younger, though we never found any," Trooper Tabex said as he and Myranda started to urge their mounts towards the retreating mass of the Forlorn Hope. "Anyways, that old saying about it being easier to pick up a sword than to lay it down turned out to be true. My father left when I was twelve years old. He wanted to recapture the glory days of his youth or some nonsense. I followed him when I was fifteen, left my mother in Tolos, and learned that he'd joined the Gray Winds after the Battle of Scipillar. By the time I found the company, however, the old fool had gotten himself killed in battle. I ended up getting recruited a few days later. Funny how life works, isn't it?"
After a moment of silence to contemplate the many mysteries of life, however, Trooper Tabex coughed pointedly and said, "You know, speaking of funny things, Lieutenant Tavellan, I'm sure the men would be just tickled if we could rest for a bit. Considering how close we are to the city and everything..."
Rolling her eyes and nodding, Myranda said, "Alright, alright, Trooper Tabex. If'n we're so close ter Tolos then we can afford ter make camp here an' wait fer further orders. Do me a favor an' tell the others, will ye? I need ter go an' let the penal battalions know we're stoppin'. Oh, an' if anyone asks, tell the lads they can make a fire. I know Trooper Pyral brought down some pheasants earlier, an' I heard Vladimir talkin' about makin' somethin' called torscha stew out o' 'em. Jest make sure ter keep the fire small and have a bowl ready fer me when I get back, aye?"
"I hear and obey, Lieutenant Tavellan!" Trooper Tabex said and, after sitting up in his saddle and saluting, he dug his heels into his gelding's side, which sent the beast cantering after the other Forlorn Hope members.
Grinning, Myranda paused to watch one of her favorite parts of leading sellswords into battle. The moment the captain gave the order to stop and make camp. It was like a wave of happiness and relief washed over the saddle-sore mercenaries as Trooper Tabex spread the news of Myra's command. With laughter and crass jokes filling the air, the Forlorn Hope dismounted quickly and tied their horses to any low-hanging branches they could find. Those who'd dismounted fastest were either stretching or emptying their saddle bags so they could begin working on the countless tasks essential to constructing a proper encampment. Trooper Tlaloc Maladar, aided by his sister, was propping up two canvas tents in the shade of a fallen goldleaf tree. Meanwhile, Vladimir was laying out his cooking supplies and asking Trooper Folant to gather brecilia tree leaves to add to the torscha stew. The massive Tolosi whispered something in the dwarf's ear, and the two hired blades burst into raucous laughter. Myranda chuckled to herself as she wheeled Blackheart around and rode off in the direction of the penal battalions.
Unlike the Myranda's platoon, the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Penal Battalions didn't have horses. Instead, they had a rickety wagon pulled by two ill-tempered marsh donkeys, which contained all their supplies and weaponry. This meant everyone, with the exception of the captain holding the donkeys' reins, was on foot. Myra had ridden back several times to ensure the battalions didn't fall too far behind, because she knew the convicts weren't capable of maintaining the same pace as her soldiers. No matter how slow the Forlorn Hope rode. In truth, the scarred elf was a little surprised to see at least a dozen exhausted red sashes plodding into the thicket where the Forlorn Hope was setting up camp. Clearly, the leaders of the penal battalions had no trouble getting their men to move with a sense of urgency. Not bad for three humans in charge of nearly sixty convicts. The leather collars around the criminals' necks, which were linked to one another by iron chains, made their speed all the more impressive.
After barely managing to avoid trampling a limping criminal, Myranda pulled Blackheart up beside the penal battalions' wagon and waved to Captain Gilliam Kraven, the barrel-chested Mardochian in charge of the Fifth Penal Battalion. Scratching at his poorly dyed leather armor, the human asked, "What's the game then, lieutenant? Are we finally stopping? Not that the lads are giving me any trouble, but if we have to go much further their little hearts are going to burst." He didn't seem too upset by the prospect.
When Myranda nodded curtly, the Mardochian pulled violently on the donkeys' reins, forcing them to stop, and bellowed, "Listen up, Fifth Battalion, you gutless bastards! Sit down and shut your damned mouths! We're stopping for now, but nobody is getting so much as a mouthful of food or water until the Sixth and the Seventh Battalions join us. Once they do, the other captains and my good self will start handing out rations. Until then, just keep quiet and nobody has to get a taste of my whip."
Captain Kraven waited until the wagon was stable before hopping down from his perch and pulling two carrots from the satchel hanging at his side. After taking a huge, slobbering bite of one carrot, the Mardochian tossed the other one to the marsh donkeys, and the two greenish-brown beasts began braying and snapping at each other hungrily. Fingering the leather whip clutched in his right hand, the Mardochian sneered as he watched the marsh donkeys fight. Myranda shook her head and urged Blackheart to move along, stopping him in the shade of a nearby brecilia tree. Cursing and treating animals poorly weren't ideal traits in a soldier, but a captain, any captain, should treat his men with a little respect. Even if his men were criminals. Captain Kraven seemed like an asshole. While Myra hadn't spoken to the penal battalion captains much before the attack on the Four Sisters, she knew Captain Kraven wasn't the worst of the lot either.
That dubious honor went to Captain Shen Longfoot of the Sixth Penal Battalion.
Captain Longfoot was quiet and subtle where Captain Kraven was loud and irritating. The Quaylu moved with the smooth, consummate grace of a warrior who'd seen more than his fair share of battle, his pale hand never far away from the gilded hilt of his takana. Myranda had never seen such a fine-looking blade in her entire life. And she was over two hundred years old.
His gorgeous sword notwithstanding, the first thing Myra had noticed about Captain Longfoot was the undeniable aura of danger surrounding him. He wasn't like those idiotic nobles who tried to look menacing for the benefit of their companions. From his tiny, pointed black beard to his hobnailed boots, the Quaylu captain gave the impression of being ready to kill someone at the drop of a hat. He just needed an excuse. Maybe the reason Myra disliked Captain Longfoot so much was because they shared this unfortunate characteristic. Grimacing and watching the Quaylu stroll over to the wagon with his battalion in tow, the elf was about to flick Blackheart's reins and move on when she noticed something unusual. All of the convicts in the Fifth and Sixth Battalions smelled like a camp latrine. They stank of shit, piss, and vomit. Obviously, they'd been walking for most of the day so they weren't going to smell like wildflowers, but this was far worse than anything Myra had experienced.
Unless you counted how Sweet Thond smelled when he came to see her the previous night.
Narrowing her eyes and dismounting carefully, Myranda started to walk towards the closest group of red sashes only to have Captain Longfoot intercept her. Up close, the man reeked of some kind of flowery, overpowering perfume. It was almost as bad as the stink coming from the convicts.
"No need to dismount, lieutenant," the Quaylu said, his weaselly smile widening as he pointed back towards Myra's horse. "I'm sure your own men need you more than we do. I heard Captain Kraven's shouting so I know we're stopping for the night. I am certain my men will enjoy the rest." As if to punctuate his statement, one of the red sashes in Captain Longfoot's battalion suddenly doubled over and vomited. Myranda looked over the frowning Quaylu's head and sucked on her teeth, her eyes darting from the puking criminal to Captain Longfoot and back. Something was definitely wrong here. First off, this man looked just as bad as Sweet Thond had, and there was enough sweat dripping off him to drown a wendigo. Myra also remembered seeing this man, a bear of a Mardochian with a ridiculously big nose, sitting with the Sixth Penal Battalion on the smuggler's beach two days ago.
If none of the convicts or members of the Forlorn Hope had been injured during the fall of the Four Sisters, what had happened to this man's right hand? It was gone. A bandaged stump was all that remained.
"Huh, that's odd, Captain Longfoot," Myra said and the Quaylu's gray eyes skittered away from the sick criminal and settled on the elf's face. "Yer men...are they sick or sommat? 'Cause they all smell foul an' that one is throwin' up. An', unless I'm rememberin' wrong, I was told none o' our troops were injured when we took the Four Sisters. Why is that pukin' convict missin' a hand? Did somethin' in the forest take it? Or are ye doin' shit with that fancy blade that ye shouldn't be?"
Patting the air as if calming a child, Captain Longfoot chuckled and said, "Your concern for the convicts is touching, lieutenant, but unnecessary. I'm sure Berwyn just ate something he found in the forest, that's all. He's a bit of an idiot, I'm afraid. As for his missing hand, well...erhem, you know, I-I think Captain Tressida m-mi-might be able to help you. She's very kn-kno-knowledgeable, especially when it comes to caring for men such as these. I think I see her and the Seventh Battalion walking into the clearing now. Allow me to fetch her for you, Lieutenant Tavellan." Before Myranda could stop him, Captain Longfoot sprinted towards the final group of criminals making their way through the trees. The elf frowned as she watched the Quaylu whisper into Captain Tressida's ear for a few moments and then walk off to tend to his own sickly flock.
After ensuring the Seventh Battalion was seated, Captain Patrice Tressida, a gray-haired Mardochian woman with a sizable gut straining the front of her hauberk, lumbered over to Myranda and stared up at her with eyes the color of filthy river water.
A thought suddenly occurred to Myranda. There were at least sixty red sashes and only three captains. Why hadn't any of these convicts tried to escape or cause trouble? She hadn't heard about any disciplinary issues during the assault on the Four Sisters or the trek through Lyvresse. She was glad this was the case, obviously, but it seemed odd. The elf placed her hand on the pommel of her black iron longsword as she waited to hear what Captain Tressida had to say. Something about the penal battalions just didn't add up. And this woman was at the heart of it. She was also the one leading Sweet Thond's battalion, and Myranda wanted to make sure the Jadisi was feeling better. Considering the state of the other battalions, she sincerely doubted it.
"Lieutenant Tavellan, I heard you had some questions about the convicts," the Mardochian woman said, a strained and condescending smile on her jowly face. "It warms my heart to know you have such...compassion for these poor souls. Now, as far as their unkempt and sickly appearance is concerned, well, consider the situation they're in. They face death tomorrow during the siege, and most of them know it. I am certain anyone would feel a little queasy and look a little pale under such circumstances. As for poor Berwyn, I believe he lost his hand at a very young age. He accidentally cut himself on some thorns while gathering firewood yesterday. Thus, the fresh bandages. Was there anything else you wanted to discuss, lieutenant?"
Myranda frowned and then shook her head slowly. This woman was lying through her teeth, and the elf knew it. She'd have an easier time wringing blood out of a stone than getting Captain Tressida to answer her questions. The Mardochian's sneer widened and she said, "You know, I used to be the warden of Blackwall Prison on the isle of Foghaven, Lieutenant Tavellan. I treat the men in my battalion the same way I treated the prisoners imprisoned in Blackwall. I've encouraged Captains Kraven and Longfoot to do the same. I've always believed it's my duty to not simply contain or lead sinful men but to prepare them for what comes next. Whether they die in battle, or in their cells, I want Oromis, may His light guide us all, to embrace their wayward souls. All men and women deserve a chance to see Paradise. However, the iniquities of the sinner must be purged for this to happen. Perhaps you'd like to join us for the evening prayer tonight, hm? I think the petitioner's lament fits this occasion nicely, don't you?" The overweight Mardochian's smile turned sharp as her eyes flicked down to the red sash Myra still wore over her armor.
Smirking and adjusting her criminal's sash to spite the overweight captain, Myranda folded her arms across her chest and said, "I appreciate the kind offer, Captain Tressida, but I think I'm gonna pass. Ye have enough purgin' an' whatnot ter do without me addin' me own sins ter the pile. Jest don't ferget what General Astra said in those orders she gave ye, eh? Yer ter listen ter my commands as if they were her own. So, I'm orderin' ye ter make sure yer men, and all the convicts in the other battalions, are ready ter fight tomorrow. I'd like ter keep them alive until we begin our attack on Tolos. Unnerstand?"
"I understand," Captain Tressida said calmly, though her eyes glittered with barely contained anger and disapproval. "I shall continue my work then and try to save these men from the horrors of the Abyss. The battle of the flesh is a terrifying one, lieutenant, but the battle of the soul is far worse. Regardless, I shall obey your commands to the letter. May I go now? My men are waiting for me."
Myra gestured for the Mardochian to leave, though she made no move to remount Blackheart. Almost as soon as she was back among the red sashes, Captain Tressida was accosted by Captain Longfoot, who'd been watching the entire conversation like a serpent watching a mouse. The rustling and muttering of convicts trying to get comfortable, along with the moaning of those who seemed especially sick, would have made it impossible for a human to hear what Captain Tressida said to her Quaylu companion. Luckily, Myranda wasn't human. The hefty Mardochian muttered something to the man about "running out of damned athnac berries. We need to keep these fools under our control. I want you to take three convicts into the woods and find more. Gather as many as you can, and remember the brighter the berry's flesh the more potent it is. Move quickly."
Wondering what 'athnac berries' had to do with keeping the red sashes under control, Myranda climbed into Blackheart's saddle and flicked his reins, eliciting a displeased snort from the beast and spurring him towards the Gray Winds' encampment. She hadn't seen Sweet Thond among the red sashes waiting for food and water, though the Seventh Battaltion was still staggering into the clearing. Part of her wanted to ride back and demand that the Jadisi be released into her care. She could probably do it, too. Unfortunately, all it would take was one missive from Captain Tressida to General Astra and Myra would have to explain herself. Myra needed to find evidence showing Claes something was happening to the red sashes, and the three captains were responsible. She'd save Thond and earn some goodwill from the general, which could only benefit her in the long run.
But the only clue she had was 'athnac berries.' "Athnac berries. What the fuck would berries have ter do with anythin'?" Myra mumbled to herself as she drew closer to the center of the glade where her men were handing out steaming bowls of torscha stew. The delicious smell of Vladimir's cooking was everywhere, and the elf's stomach groaned loudly. When was the last time she's eaten?
"Athnac ass!" Trooper Tabex's voice said from somewhere near her right elbow, and Myranda glanced down to see the man shaking with subdued laughter as he finished setting up his tent.
"What did ye say, Trooper Tabex?" Myra demanded and the Tolosi mercenary blushed.
"Sorry, lieutenant. I just heard you say 'athnac berries,' and it reminded me of a prank I used to play as a boy. You see, athnac berries, those orange berries we've been seeing all over the forest, are poisonous in small amounts. They make you shit. If you keep eating them, though, you start to sweat, shake, and vomit. And you crap constantly. I would slip a berry or two into my friends' porridge and laugh when they went running for the nearest chamber pot. I called it 'athnac ass.' Ummm, why were you mumbling about athnac berries? Did someone eat a few by accident? I swear I had nothing to do with it!" Viator said, though Myranda simply shook her head and dismounted from Blackheart, tying him to a nearby goldleaf tree and walking to the edge of camp.
So, these athnac berries were poisonous? Could Captain Tressida and the other penal battalion leaders be feeding the convicts these berries in order to "purge them of their iniquities" before the battle? It sounded insane, but why else would they need athnac berries? And what else could explain why the red sashes looked so sick yet their captains remained healthy? It would also be much easier to control a large group of dangerous men if they were too busy shitting themselves to cause trouble.
As she pushed aside a few branches, however, Myranda realized this issue would have to be dealt with later.
Tolos, the legendary City of Kings, was laid out before her in all its glory and splendor. Trooper Tabex had been right. The Forlorn Hope platoon and their allies were less than a mile away from one of the most powerful cities in the known world. Myra shaded her eyes with one hand and tried to find the impregnable Sun Gates. Unfortunately, the sun was shining right in her face, and the elf couldn't even tell if she was looking at the back of Tolos or the front. All she could see was the Camerenae. It looked...ominous.
"Gods above an' below help us all," Myra muttered, a grin brimming with both dread and excitement dancing across her face.
Claes sat in her command tent alone and miserable. The tent itself was pleasant enough, larger than three regular tents pushed together and graced with its own small fire, over which a pot of tea sat. She wasn't ill, she wasn't tired, she wasn't uncomfortable with her armor removed and replaced with more manageable trousers and a light, clean shirt. She was miserable the same way she always was before action, as little as she liked to admit it. In her mind, the imaginary vistas of victory and adoring crowds inevitably changed to endlessly repeating visions of disaster and failure. She had wondered if other commanders thought the same way, and she knew they did. Oromis was another story, one she would have to investigate for the sake of her sanity: if a man who declares himself a deity fidgets with anxiety then the shame that burns within her is unwarranted.
The anxiety was neither helpful nor appropriate: her plans had been set, they had been edited and approved by subcommanders, and were as she sat being dispatched to an army that had won her dozens of battles. She couldn't help it, though: her mind, with all the matters fixed and ready her mind, spurred by the natural fear and anticipation, raced along pathways of self-punishment. She glanced over to her wargear, piled neatly on the far side of the burning embers. An average-sized bow, rich dark wood inlaid with ornaments and decals, hung above a sturdy chain hauberk and a gleaming steel chestplate. The assembled protection made her look strange surrounded by the grey and brown of her soldier's lammellar, but a commander was expected to be richly dressed and easily identifiable, even if it meant wasting money on armor that would almost certainly never stop a blow. Looking at the armor only caused a fresh wash of foul visions, featuring blades or arrows slicing through the steel like butter and ending her once and for all, visions she beat down with sheer force of will as she removed the tea from the fire and drank deeply.
She wished Laurence was here. Or Gordon. But they'd been sent away to perform more important tasks than attend to her girlish worry. She would take Feena, or Cole, or Jessope, or Kilburn, or even Modeg, but they were dead. Volin was in prison, Scart was likely still in Tolosi service, Phisser and Lein were on the other side of the world, and Goth'Tal was on the moons for all she knew. She wondered what they would say, if she could confide in them, would they mock her? Help her, tell her everything would be fine, lash her to anger?
'No!'
Claes stood, throwing the half-full mug at the cloth tent floor. She would not be ruled by her emotions, she would not succumb to self-doubt or fear. She would stride like a lion and earn victory for herself. She strode out of the tent, her footfalls hard and rapid. She could feel her heart pounding, her breath speeding up. She exited the tent, and as she was battered by the sudden, frigid wind, she looked to the horizon. She couldn't see Tolos, their position was a handful of minutes ride to the field surrounding the town, but she knew it was there. Her doubts fell away, her visions of shame and defeat burning up in the searing orange flames of determination. She pictured the city walls littered with enemy dead. She envisioned the Royal Quarter billowing smoke. She could see in her mind the flapping grey flag with its bright white stars above the gatehouse, and she smiled for the first time in days.
She turned her eyes to the shining moon, and heard familiar footsteps approach her just as she was chastising herself for melodrama. Sim spoke, his voice clear in the quiet night.
"Come to get some air, General? I have too; even after all this time I still shit myself the night before. I'll be right as rain tomorrow, don't worry."
Claes' smile grew my a fraction. "I don't, Major."
"You're tougher than I am, then. I'll be on my way, General. Sleep well".
She listened to him go, and once his steps faded into the soft hum of the camp she re-entered the warm enclave. She slid into her bed, and she knew her fears did not matter. Her appearance did not matter, what Sim or anyone else though of her did not matter. What mattered was victory, and unlike the dozens of people that had been lost in the flow of time, it would never leave her.
Taking the port of Laon had been as easy as Oromis had thought it would be.
It was because of the good Count's defection, of course. That had simplified things greatly. Of course, he would have been able to take the city anyway, his fleet already in position to assault the dockside when the messenger returned with news of the Count's capitulation. But this way, he had been spared a great deal of hardship.
Some of his commanders, Wolong chief among them, had been incredulous, to say the least, when he insisted on parlaying with Count Leoric. They insisted that the man was unlikely to yield the city, that every minute they waited worsened their situation, that the gamble risked the success of the entire war. Oromis had had to split the table in half to quiet them, and remind them that he was a God-King in the room. They had gone along with it afterwards, though with grave misgivings.
He knew the Count would surrender the city, however. How, he couldn't rightly say, and that disturbed him slightly. For all his magical might, he could not foretell the future. Since setting sail, though, things were... different. Silence's screams had dwindled to almost nothing, much to his relief. But all of that was unimportant compared to the reality of his war, so he swept those thoughts aside.
In any event, there was still resistance in taking Laon, generally the more fanatically-minded nobles making a nuisance of themselves. Within a few hours, though, they were safely locked away in the pits beneath the keep, and his force had swelled to some six thousand.
So it was with some satisfaction that Oromis himself stepped through the gate of the town's keep, where the Count Laon made his residence. Now, though, the nobleman was on his knee, along with what Oromis assumed was the rest of his retinue.
"Up, up, I'll be having none of that," Oromis commanded, clapping twice, "Not from the man of the hour. Yielding the city has earned you the right to stand tall and proud." He threw a glance at the entourage around them; several dozen armed men sworn to either of them, far too many for his taste. "I wish we had the time to throw a feast in your honor, but we are at war. Is there anywhere more discreet where we can discuss matters of state?"
Count Leoric caught on quickly. "There is the audience hall, Your Grace," he said as he rose to his feet.
"Good. I don't need to tell you to bring only those whom you trust implicitly, as I will likewise do." He glanced back towards the men tailing him."Wolong, Lords Etcher and Dezco, you'll accompany me to observe and advise. Voldemaras, you should come as well."
They all bowed at the implied compliment. Soon, after some more dreary formalities, Oromis found himself in the rather unimpressive audience chamber with them, as well as Count Leoric, and two of the latter's relatives. Privately, Oromis had his doubts about their place there- in his experience, nepotism bred incompetence. But Etruscans were very insistent on their dynasties, and he supposed that if Leoric insisted that they were trustworthy, he would have to as well.
Together, they all planned their next course of action. Word was no doubt spreading fast across the land of what had occurred there. They'd made their gamble; it was time for the enemy to show his hand.
The main problem in making any kind of plan was the number of variables in play. The main question was, what would the King of Grandell do? Oromis did not know the character of King Theobald, only his reputation, that of patience and cunning. His forefathers had been among the prime supporters of Oromis's cause, and they'd paid dearly, having a quarter of their realm ripped away. But was King Theobald the kind of man who'd remember that, and take a gamble? Or one who'd take the safest path, and try to curry favor with the Prophet? Oromis could not say.
At least Theobald had so far stayed out of the conflict. He'd even barred passage to King Rozzaria's massive army, it was said, forcing the southern king to take the long way around Grandell, to the northeast. Perhaps King Theobald intended to wait and see, joining with the victor only after the contest had been decided. If so, Oromis certainly intended to put up a good show.
* * * * *
They spent a few hours arguing over the fine details of strategy. The Samni general, Voldemaras, argued that they should leave the city and fortify in the hills of Creac on the road to Tolos, and Oromis was inclined to agree. Though the three Grandish nobles were reluctant to vacate their dynastic seat, in the end they had to relent. After that came the endless business of logistics, namely that of moving an army not a day after it had stopped.
"We talk in circles," Oromis finally said. "The plans are drawn up, and there's no point fretting over them any more than we have. Fill the chamber with the nobles, courtiers, and the other riff-raff. I intend to remind them of a few things they've forgotten."
A bit of waiting later, and the noblemen of the Count's court were assembled on either side of the hall. First, he made a great show of commending Count Leoric, declaring him the most valiant and honorable lord west of the Nerwains. Then, he elevated Count Leoric to Duke Leoric, naming Laon an independent duchy, sworn directly to the crown. King Theobald would no doubt not appreciate losing one of his vassals in such a way, but Oromis intended to grant him his former lands, and then some, after attaining victory, as long as he behaved. It was better than anything the Prophet could promise him. Then came the time to make a public show of dealing with the prisoners who'd refused to acknowledge his divinity.
"Bring them in," Count Leoric barked to his men. The door of the audience hall opened, and in marched their dishevelled herd of prisoners, those regional nobles who had refused to accept him as their king and god. They assembled in a line before Oromis, siting on an elaborate seat from which the Counts of Laon ruled their fiefdom for centuries. Their time in the dungeon hadn't improved their health, Oromis saw; the nobles looked miserable and ragged. Yet in their eyes he could still see the glint of defiance, as they remained standing in front of him, their heads raised high.
Oromis leaned forward. "It's customary to kneel before a King, you know. Let alone a god."
"You're no god- merely an over-ambitious impostor of blasphemous arrogance," one of the lords, a minor baron, interjected defiantly. "The true Oromis will judge you harshly."
"Will he, now?" Oromis asked, amused. "Between us, a lot of the things they say of me in those oversized temples are just wrong. No, I'm afraid I don't control the rain, and I can't make cure your crops of blight. I can do this, however."
He waved his hand dramatically, and suddenly they were all forced on their knees. A chorus of snapping sounds, followed by howls of pain, told him that he had used perhaps a bit too much force. Oh well. "There you go, aren't you the nice little lords, on your knees as is proper."
He looked at them, locked into place on their knees, faces distorted with agony, and he flashed an amused smile. "An impostor, you say? Maybe; there are worse things to be called. Mayhaps you will think of some of them while you rot in the dungeons. I'll send healers to see to your, ah, wounds at a later date."
"First, though, I'll give you some time to reflect on the pain you currently feel. With any luck, it will help you remember, gratitude being a virtue I feel mortal men such as you seem to decidedly lack. Let there be no doubt in the minds of any: I have returned, and I will sweep away the decadence of the old Order." He motioned for the guards. "Toss this lot back into their cells. Tonight, we prepare. Tomorrow, we go to Creac!"
Some of the nobles in the audience edged away, he saw from the corner of his eye, no doubt rushing to send word to their master, exactly as Oromis had planned. Good.
Morning of April 12th, in the Year 3650 of the Tolosi Calendar
A time for killing. The glory of the Prophet. Fighting with legends.
The orders arrived before the first rays of sunlight reached Lyvresse's southern treeline. The courier, a pale-faced youth with the broad features and thick lips of the Mardochian aristocracy, had trembled like a guilty man facing the gallows as he handed the sealed letter to Myranda. The frightened boy mumbled something about "moving as quickly as you can and may the God-King protect us all" before wheeling his horse around and galloping away. The little bastard had forgotten to salute, though the elven warrior didn't mind. Niceties tended to fall by the wayside when there was killing to be done.
Myra had opened the letter quickly and woken Trooper Pyral so they could both examine General Astra's plan to take the Sun Gates. Less than thirty minutes after the twosome finished reading, the Forlorn Hope platoon had roused itself and finished preparing for the upcoming charge while Myra went to speak with the penal battalion leaders. In truth, the criminals' role was one of the most important parts of the general's scheme, which Myra found more than a little surprising. If they failed then the Forlorn Hope would have a difficult time completing their own assigned task.
Captains Tressida, Longfoot, and Kraven hadn't been pleased with General Astra's plans for them and their charges, but orders were orders. They always were, weren't they? Sneering at the thought, Myranda shifted in Blackheart's saddle and urged the imperial grayhoof forward a few steps. The elven warrior and her host of twenty-five mounted sellswords were standing just to the south of Lyvresse's vibrant treeline, a position that gave them an excellent view of the fertile plain separating the forest from the Etrusceia River.
Squinting in the predawn gloom, Myranda could almost make out the large clump of black dots moving rapidly away from Lyvresse and moving towards the Widow's Tears river. Captain Tressida and her men certainly didn't waste time. After taking their blunted iron weapons and grappling hooks from the supply wagon, the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Penal Battalions had immediately rushed off to set General Astra's plans into motion.
However, just before the red sashes began their mad dash towards the City of Kings, Myranda had spotted Sweet Thond struggling to remain upright amidst the heaving, sweating throng of jogging convicts and screaming captains. Since most of the criminals serving in the penal battalions were either Mardochians or Etruscan prisoners the dark-skinned southerner was easy to find. The Jadisi man's eyes were bloodshot and he'd managed to lose even more weight, which gave him the gaunt, haggard look of a beggar or a drug addict. When Thond saw Myra mounted on her massive warhorse, he'd smiled through cracked lips and waved at her before the tide of doomed men swept him away. He'd almost looked happy to see her again.
The memory of that smile made Myra bite her lip, her mud-colored eyes narrowing as she thought about what she could have done to change Sweet Thond's fate.
She should have done something, anything, to help her friend. It was as simple as that. Myra could have easily ridden into the Seventh Penal Battalion's camp and rescued her friend from the clutches of that crazed zealot, Captain Tressida. She would've been like one of those elven heroes her father used to go on and on about. So, why the fuck hadn't she done that? The elf knew why, and it was eating at her like a starving wendigo gnawing at a corpse bereft of meat. Myranda Tavellan was many things, including a murderer and a sadist, but she respected the chain of command. It was one of the few things the elf believed in with her heart and soul. Unfortunately for Sweet Thond, the Mardochian penal battalions had been ordered to obey Myra's commands as if they were General Astra's own, but the elven warrior didn't see this as an excuse to do as she pleased.
Myranda knew what happened when men used their authority, temporary or otherwise, to pursue their personal agendas at everyone else's expense. The insanity that had engulfed Kurdan's Sabers during the dwarven sellsword's sickness was created by ambitious morons trying to claim the captain's seat. They didn't care how their feuding and backstabbing might affect the mercenary company as a whole. Petty rivalries, rampant greed, and sheer stupidity nearly destroyed Kurdan's Sabers, though Captain Kurdan recovered before the company was completely ruined.
Abusing her position wasn't something Myranda did unless she had no other option. It was a last resort. The elf hated all the double-talk and underhanded dealings most sellsword companies got involved with. She preferred to handle her problems with a grin on her scarred face and her sword in hand. Things tended to be simpler that way. If she'd tried to take Sweet Thond away from Captain Tressida, and used her temporary power over the penal battalions as an excuse, it would've only been a matter of time before she was court-marshaled for conduct unbecoming an officer. And that wasn't even her most pressing concern. Myra had long ago lost track of the number of unsavory things she'd done in the name of keeping the White Hands together. She was used to it. No, she was more worried about someone like Major Bayaz or Trooper Rommath using an incident like this as an example of Myranda's unreliability and willingness to abuse her position. She was the newest lieutenant in the Gray Winds at the moment. Myra didn't know Claes Astra well, but she seemed like the type of woman who'd trust her veterans over some newcomer she met a week ago. In addition, antagonizing one's allies, especially without a good reason, was never a wise decision right before a major battle. Besides, if she was dismissed from the Gray Winds, Myra's horrible luck almost guaranteed she'd end up as a red sash in the Seventh Penal Battalion.
Of course, if that came to pass, then Myra would probably just kill Captain Tressida. Respect for the chain of command didn't necessarily mean you had to act like an utter fool. Especially when you might end up stuffed full of poisonous berries.
Frowning and scratching at her right ear, the elf was pulled from her reverie by Trooper Pyral lightly tugging on her white lion skin cloak. Blinking and glancing at the elderly hired blade, Myra followed the Tolosi's outstretched finger and saw the penal battalions were already across the Widow's Tears. The general's orders explicitly stated the Forlorn Hope needed to hold their position until the red sashes made it to the other side of the river since they'd be visible from the Imertian Walls of Tolos. Finally, it was time to get moving.
Cracking her knuckles and winking at Trooper Pyral, Myranda said, "Well, Trooper Pyral, I'd say it's high time ter sound the charge, eh? Make it nice an' loud."
Tugging at his bushy white mustache, the sword-for-hire nodded and placed the silver horn, which he'd polished thoroughly while waiting for the penal battalions to depart, against his wrinkled lips. Trooper Pyral blew three quick, deafening blasts and inclined his balding head respectfully towards his commanding officer. Myranda unsheathed her black iron longsword and, with a cry of mingled joy and relief, dug her heels into Blackheart's sides. Her platoon, which was arrayed in two lines behind their leader, roared lustily in reply and began to canter out onto the dew-soaked plain.
The rising sun sent spears of blazing color, like flaming bolts launched from a ballista, across the dark blue sky as the mercenaries coaxed their mounts into a gallop. The sound of twenty-four horses, and Trooper Mogdan's determined hill pony, thundering across the grassland was like an oncoming hurricane, powerful and deadly beyond reckoning. Myranda's sword glittered in the sun, and she kept it pointed at the walls of Tolos. Beautiful, it was all so damnably beautiful.
This was what the elven berserker had been waiting for since she'd first agreed to serve in Oromis' army back on the Hamrock Isles. A chance to take part in one of the greatest, if not the greatest, battles of this age or any other. This would be the day that marked the beginning of the Siege of Tolos. The time before the start of a campaign filled some men with dread and self-doubt as their thoughts turned to their homes, their wives, or their children. For Myranda Tavellan, the waiting was almost painful because the anticipation was so thick she could cut it with her longsword. She was like a glutton spotting a savory dessert that wouldn't be served until the end of the meal. Or an alcoholic rummaging in his purse to see if he had enough coins to buy his first ale of the night. Or a young whore, her eyes still wide and innocent, welcoming her first customer into her chambers. It was a breathtaking, euphoric, and all-encompassing feeling that haunted the elf's nights and stole the joy from her days.
And then the Forlorn Hope plunged into the Widow's Tears.
Refreshingly cold water splashed into Myranda's face as Blackheart raced across the shallowest part of the river and onto the opposite bank. The elven warrior smiled and gave a little salute to General Astra's impressive foresight. Part of the orders given to the red sashes commanded them to find a wide stretch of the Widow's Tears where the water wasn't too deep. Not only would this make their own crossing easier but it would ensure none of the Forlorn Hope's horses foundered during the charge. It worked flawlessly. All twenty-five Gray Winds, with Myra whooping happily at their head, reached the other side of the river and continued galloping towards the Imertian Walls.
As the platoon crested a grassy ridge, the hulking elf saw the red sashes ahead of them throwing their grappling hooks at the battlements, though most of the iron hooks fell short and had to be tossed again. Once they'd successfully forded the Widow's Tears, the general wanted the convicts to scale the stretch of walls nearest to the gatehouse and wreak as much havoc as possible while slowly pulling any defenders away from the Sun Gates. The further they pushed into the city itself the better. Of course, the criminals would leave their grappling hooks behind so the Gray Winds could reach the gatehouse, butcher any Etruscans inside, and open the Sun Gates for the rest of Claes' troops.
As Myra bounced up and down in Blackheart's saddle, she muttered a quiet prayer to Grim Bardolan, the Tolosi god of warfare and bloodshed, to keep Sweet Thond safe as he scaled the Imertian Walls. If the stories her father had told her as a girl were true, there were sections of these walls that were no taller than a man. Unfortunately, the gatehouse was located directly atop the Sun Gates, and the walls were highest around the legendary wooden portal leading into the City of Kings. Nothing in life was ever easy.
Sighing and hoping she'd get a chance to see her tiles partner after the siege, Myra reined her horse in and dismounted, her eyes drinking in the sight of the impressive barrier of bluish gray granite blocks standing between her and her goal. As she looked up to the top of the Imertian Walls, the elf saw the last of the convicts pull himself over the battlements before vanishing from sight. Ignoring the quiet pitter patter of drums in the back of her head, the elven warrior turned away from the walls just in time to see the rest of her battalion dismounting quickly, their eyes already darting from one grappling hook to another.
"Listen up, ye lot," Myranda snapped, her raspy voice straining to make itself heard while also keeping quiet. "I want ye ter start handin' yer mounts ter Troopers Folant, Tabex, and Gaius. They'll take 'em ter that ridge we jest rode over an' make sure they don't run off while we're busy gettin' these gates open. We'll need the horses again afore this siege is over, I can tell ye that much. Once yer mounts are taken care of, I want ye ter find yerself a grapplin' hook an' start headin' on up. Make sure ter give the rope a good tug afore ye start climbin' 'cause not all o' them are gonna be attached properly. Got it? Good. Let's get movin', ye runts, we got a job ter do!"
The hulking elf practically shoved Blackheart's reins into Viator Tabex's waiting hands as she began searching for a sturdy-looking grappling hook. The other members of the Forlorn Hope were already swarming around the towering Trooper Folant, who cackled and told filthy jokes as he gathered his companions' mounts, while the two smaller sellswords began pulling the beasts towards the ridge Myra had mentioned. Relieved of their horses, the Gray Winds started prowling around the base of the Imertian Walls, tugging at the grappling hook ropes to see if they were properly attached to the battlements. Almost immediately, several hooks were pulled down and the hired blades darted out of the way to avoid having their skulls smashed by the falling iron siege tools. Dying before the actual fighting started would've just been embarrassing.
Without warning, a body clad in an Etruscan tabard went flying over the walls. His head was missing and blood flowed freely from his appalling neck wound.
With the drums starting to beat louder and louder in her skull, Myra bared her teeth and yanked on the rope closest to her, which held firm after several more tugs. Considering she was bigger than most of the men under her command and her leg-guards and sabatons were made of black iron, the elf knew she needed a sturdy rope and a well-attached hook to reach the top of the Imertian Walls. As she placed one foot against the wall and pulled herself up, Myra tried to remember if she'd ever been bothered by heights. She couldn't say. The elven warrior noticed Trooper Pyral, who was starting his own ascent to her left, was sweating like a madman, his eyes fixed grimly on his destination while he muttered something that sounded like a prayer to Oromis. Clearly, the elderly mercenary didn't enjoy heights at all. Myra was just too eager to get to the fighting after all this waiting to worry about how she got there.
Grinning fiercely, the elf continued to climb, ignoring the occasional creaking of the rope, and she saw the rest of the Forlorn Hope platoon was already off the ground and on their way up. One clanking footstep after another, accompanied by the steady sound of her breathing, created an almost soothing metronome as Myranda's journey to the top of the Imertian Walls wore on. The morning breeze, which smelled of fresh grass and stone dust, ruffled the elven berserker's tangled hair as she finally pulled herself over the battlements. The sun was well and truly up now and, deciding to ignore the gorgeous view of Tolos to her left, Myranda faced her target. The gatehouse was a squat, ugly structure made of the same bluish gray granite forming the Imertian Walls, though the building wasn't in the best condition.
Smirking and brushing herself off, the elf unhooked her spiked buckler from her back and got it situated in her left hand while she waited for the rest of her platoon. By the time Trooper Mogdan, his stubby legs kicking furiously in the air, practically fell on his face coming over the battlements, the sounds of fighting could be heard echoing through the city proper. The Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Penal Battalions were on the move and doing an excellent job of keeping the Etruscans distracted. A few bodies, including one or two unfortunate red sashes, scattered along the walls were a mute testament to the criminals' abilities despite whatever methods their captains used to control them. Just another reason to make sure Captain Tressida and her sycophants paid for their crimes as soon as possible. If these men weren't suffering from the effects of ingesting athnac berries who knew how much more effective they'd be? And how much more dangerous.
Myra's musings were interrupted by the jangling sound of Trooper Rommath pulling several gold coins out of a purse hanging from one of the dead soldier's belts, though the human mercenary froze when he saw the elf glaring at him. "Now ain't the bloody time fer lootin', Trooper Rommath. Save that shit fer after we take the damned gatehouse. It ain't like these lads are goin' anywhere, right?" Myranda snarled and the sword-for-hire grimaced but did as he was told.
Clearing her throat, Myranda said, "Right, everyone made it up? Good. We need ter get our arses inter that gatehouse, then. I want three o' ye with bows ter stay out here after we go indoors ter watch fer reinforcements. Once we take care o' whoever is inside the gatehouse, another three o' ye will watch the doors on the other side o' the buildin'. I think we can also...Trooper Maladar, what the fuck are ye doin'?! Stop, ye fuckin' idiot, yer gonna get us all killed!"
But the southblood elf, his falchion drawn and ready, kept running towards the gatehouse like he was planning to take the building by himself. He briefly looked back at Myra, his tattooed face a mask of utter disdain, before kicking open the door and vanishing into the granite structure. Twenty-one shocked mercenaries turned to stare at Myranda. The situation might have been comical if she wasn't so angry. Grinding her teeth in frustration, the hulking elven warrior lowered her head and charged towards the gatehouse, leaving the rest of her platoon to straggle along behind her. She was going to make that arrogant son of a bitch pay for this. That look on his face might as well have been a sign saying 'Fuck you, northblood, I don't take orders from someone who isn't from Xochimilco.' Spitting over the side of the Imertian Walls and praying Tlaloc's pride wouldn't cost them this battle, Myranda said, "Troopers Vessarian, Calixto, and Munia, ye three are gonna watch this fuckin' door with yer bows, got it? Everyone else is comin' inside with me."
When Myranda and her platoon barged into the gatehouse, they were greeted by a rather unusual sight.
Trooper Maladar, his bronze falchion dripping with fresh blood, was standing over a dying soldier while several terrified and half-dressed Etruscans stared at him with open mouths from a landing on the other side of the room. So much for stealth, though Myra hadn't really believed they'd be able to open the Sun Gates without fighting somebody. The scarred elf started to walk towards Tlaloc, though she wasn't sure if she wanted to beat the crap out of him or move him back into formation, when the sound of heavy footfalls on the staircase behind the Etruscans stopped her in mid-stride. After a few moments of tense silence, a colossal man gently pushed his way to the front of the gaggle of soldiers on the landing. This particular Etruscan was huge, his muscular body straining the confines of his finely crafted leather armor, and an obnoxiously yellow cloak was draped carelessly across his shoulders.
The giant's red beard bristled as his stern blue eyes roved over the mercenaries standing on the other side of the gatehouse. With a surprisingly polite cough, the huge Etruscan laid one meaty hand on the shoulder of a stupefied man-at-arms with his pants around his ankles and said, "Tommen, pull up your pants and stop staring. I want you to go ring the alarm bells because we're obviously under attack."
"Yes, Watcher Herrod! Right away, sir!" the soldier said as he yanked his pants into place, buckled his belt, and dashed through the doors closest to the stairs. The muscular warrior, whose name was apparently Watcher Herrod, turned his attention back to the Forlorn Hope members cautiously fanning out and filling the gatehouse. The Etruscans were outnumbered two to one yet the red-haired man grinned and unslung an engraved iron warhammer from its resting place on his back. He let the hammer's head, which was forged in the shape of a roaring dragon, bang loudly against the gatehouse's wooden floor.
Myranda realized she was smiling back at Watcher Herrod, and her grin was so wide it was actually making her face hurt. The drums, which had gone quiet for a few moments, were suddenly thundering in her ears and she felt hot and cold all at once. This was it. This was one of her favorite parts of battle. When she'd still been Pajaan's lover, the elf allowed the cultured Jadisi man to drag her to several courtly dances in Clan Miridon's clanhold, though she'd rarely enjoyed the tedious, self-important affairs. However, she'd always been interested in how the various nobles picked their dance partners, because they always seemed to put a great deal of thought into it. For instance, a member of Clan Miridon might choose to dance with someone from a neighboring clan to show they were allies or shared a bond of some kind. On the other hand, a low-ranking clan member might offer their hand to a more influential kinsman in hopes of currying their favor. Of course, this daring maneuver left them open to potential rejection and public humiliation. Certain clan members only danced with men while others refused to dance with men. It was all very intricate, and, according to Pajaan, you could tell a great deal about a person depending on who they picked.
Myranda didn't have time for all that nonsense. She chose partners who would challenge her. Like Zenobia "The Blade" Quithas. Like Pajaan Farimi, now Pajaan "Goldenhand" Farimi. Like Claes Astra. Like Watcher Herrod.
"So, brigands," the fiery-haired Etruscan boomed as he leaned against the handle of his warhammer while the men under his command struggled to get into fighting stances, "you wish to open the mighty Sun Gates of Tolos, I assume? Well, know this, you gutless bastards, I am Watcher Herrod Eugal, and I have guarded this gatehouse for nearly ten years. I will crush every...last...one of you because I am the glory of the Prophet. His divine hands have blessed me so I may continue to do his bidding no matter what harm befalls me. Every man, woman, and child in this city will stand defiant against you, cowards, because the Prophet is with us. Soldiers of Etruscia, destroy these animals! For the Prophet and for Tolos!" With a hoarse cry, the Etruscans surged forward and the Forlorn Hope platoon met them, their shouted curses and howls of pain creating a maddening din that seemed to fill the gatehouse.
But Myra only had eyes for Watcher Herrod Eugal. The hero. The man who was clearly an inspiration to the blubbery, worthless degenerates staffing the gatehouse. He had to die. And she was going to be the one to do it. Who better?
Letting out a wordless, animal howl, Myranda hurled herself forward, shoving a shocked Trooper Maladar to the ground as she barreled into the fray, and lashed out at Watcher Herrod with her longsword. The "glory of the Prophet" batted the cut away with his warhammer's handle and went into a series of short, chopping strikes intended to bludgeon the elven warrior's defenses. The imposing Etruscan's craggy face was contorted in a grimace of concentration and his muscles bulged as he put his heavy iron weapon through its paces. The scarred elf thought it was hilarious. The human would have better luck trying to hit a candle flame or a fish in a stream. He was fighting Red Myra now. She didn't allow any blows to connect unless she wanted them to. Usually.
Ducking to one side and narrowly avoiding a clumsy backswing from an Etruscan soldier's shortsword, the hulking elf punched out with her spiked buckler and managed to pierce the titanic warrior's beautifully dyed leather armor. The red of the man's blood created a nice contrast to his pale blue armor. Herrod snarled in pain and tried to bring his warhammer down in a brutal, crushing strike. Cackling in delight, Myranda stepped aside and the blow slammed into the wooden floorboards of the gatehouse with enough power to smash several planks. Here was her opening. While Watcher Herrod was fighting to get his hammer out of the floor, Myranda was going to carve him up like a butcher with a fresh side of meat. At that moment, a wailing Etruscan with a bloody stump where his left arm used to be staggered between Red Myra and her prey. He'd have to die too, obviously.
The elf ran the one-armed soldier through with a single, practiced movement. His face screwed up into a look of dazed confusion as he slumped to the ground. The human's blood splashed across Myranda's face. His hot, cloying blood. His sweet, wonderful blood. It was like heated metal in her mouth. It was like the sweetest ale she'd ever tasted. From what felt like very far away, Myra heard someone muttering, "Thank you, thank you, thank you" over and over again. Who was that and why didn't they just shut up?
Oh wait, she was the one talking.
"I am the glory of the prophet, you long-eared bitch! You shall pay for every drop of Etruscan blood you and your dogs have spilled!" Watcher Herrod bellowed as he stormed forward, his hammer swinging towards Myranda in a classic scything attack. Myra avoided it by taking two quick steps back. Pathetic. The blood leaking quietly out of the wound she'd inflicted earlier seemed to whisper to her, telling her Herrod Eugal's secrets and hidden desires. He wanted her to kill him so very badly. His need was written all over his suntanned face. Myra's bloody, unwavering grin widened to the point where she thought her face might shatter like a pane of colored glass. The insanity of battle swirled around her as more Etruscans, including several who were wearing leather armor and armed with pikes, hustled down the stairs. They were greeted by the sight of their few remaining comrades being cut down by the Forlorn Hope platoon. The stench of blood was everywhere, an inescapable perfume so intense it was nauseating. The Gray Winds, seeing the reinforcements on the staircase, raced forward, leaving Myra and Watcher Herrod to finish their battle alone.
Holding up her buckler, Myranda threw herself bodily at Watcher Herrod, her shoulder slamming into his stomach with enough force to drive the wind from his lungs. The red-haired Etruscan managed to shove the elf away, clipping the side of her head with the handle of his iron warhammer. Pain seared through Myranda's skull like a familiar song whose words she couldn't quite remember. Oh wait, yes she did. "I'm gonna fuckin' kill ye, ye red-haired fucker! I'm gonna rip out yer damned guts and read me future in the pools o' yer fuckin' blood! Yer already dead. Ye jest don't know it yet!" the elven berserker roared in a mad, singsong voice as she took two warhammer blows on her shield, which forced her to her knees. Exactly where she wanted to be.
Giggling hysterically, the elf's sword whipped out and sliced through Herrod's right ankle. Shrieking in pain and despair, the Etruscan champion fell to his knees, his warhammer falling to the ground with a loud clanking sound, and Myranda sprang up, positioning herself behind him so her blade was resting against his throat while her shield guarded his head. It wouldn't do if someone else took her kill. "Now, Watcher Herrod, I'm confused. Can ye tell me who ye are again, hm? What yer fancy title is an' all that? I forgot in all this craziness, ye know," Myra whispered softly, her eyes narrowing when she saw the big man was whimpering and blubbering like a scared little boy.
"Pl-pl-please, milady, have mercy on me. I have a wife who is heavy with child and I don't..." Watcher Herrod started to say, though he stopped immediately as Myra dug her blade deep enough into his thick neck to draw blood. The elf could practically taste the Etruscan hero's fear. It was delicious, far better than any drink or food she'd enjoyed over the years.
"No cryin', ye big fuck, no cryin' now. I want ye ter tell me, jest like ye did afore we started fightin'. I want yer ter tell me who ye are, Watcher Herrod. Say it nice an' loud!" Myra screamed and the wretched Etruscan flinched like the coward he truly was. Funny how battle always seemed to reveal the truth about people. Just another reason why Red Myra loved what she did so damned much.
"I am the glory of the Proph-!" Watcher Herrod started to say, but he was cut off by Myranda's sword slicing through his sinewy neck. With a vicious yank and a loud snapping sound, the elf set down her shield while holding up the severed head of Watcher Herrod Eugal in her free hand. Myra let out a scream of primal victory as thick streams of blood cascaded down her arm and splattered all over her gaunt, scarred face. She looked like a demon from a child's storybook. Or something much, much worse.
"Here's the glory o' yer fuckin' Prophet, ye damned fools!" Myranda roared triumphantly, and the remaining Etruscans wailed in horror at this blood-soaked fiend who'd slain their champion.
Suddenly, a squirming, thrashing body smacked into Myra's back and knocked her to the floor. Not a very dignified end to her proclamation. Grunting in consternation, the elven berserker looked to her left and saw Trooper Rommath staring at her, a wide smirk on his pale face. He wasn't fighting anyone, though the hulking elf was certain he'd been in the process of overpowering a young Etruscan soldier armed with a shortsword and dagger moments ago. Obviously, the weaselly bastard had pushed his enemy into her, hoping the Etruscan might be competent enough to kill the inattentive elf. Ironically, the only thing keeping Red Myra from butchering the smug Tolosi where he stood was the bastard he'd shoved at her. Cursing loudly and snarling like a rabid animal, the elf rolled out from under the Etruscan and, ignoring his pitiful pleas for mercy, tossed Watcher Herrod's head aside. The other Forlorn Hope members had finished their own fights and were watching, many with unreadable expressions on their gore-splattered faces, as Myra calmly gutted the fallen soldier.
Silence descended on the gatehouse once again. Nearly twenty-three dead Etruscans, including their headless leader, lay scattered around the room. Some had been reduced to little more than piles of meat while others were still mostly intact. Only one of them was missing their head.
"What are ye lot standin' around fer, eh?!" Myranda shouted at her soldiers, the thundering drums in her head falling silent and leaving her hungry for more. More violence. More bloodshed. More death. For the love of the First Emperor, why did it have to stop? Baring her teeth and trying to refocus, the elf said, "I said I wanted three more o' ye with bows ter get yer arses ter the other doors, didn't I? We don't want more Etruscan reinforcements comin' up here ter fuck us up the arse. Move now afore I make ye move." Three Gray Winds, including a trembling and pale-faced Larius Pyral, sheathed their bloody swords and unslung their bows. As the archers walked carefully through the carnage, Myranda walked over to an old, rust-covered lever set into the wall beside the staircase and pulled it. It was the only lever in the gatehouse so chances were good it controlled the Sun Gates. The sound of heavy stone counterweights groaning as they moved slowly into new positions echoed throughout the gatehouse, and the entire building shook as the Sun Gates creaked open.
Wiping some of the viscera off her face and wondering where her shield had gotten to, Myranda saw Troopers Maladar and Rommath standing over Watcher Herrod's corpse. It took all of her remaining strength to resist the urge to go over there and kill those two. There would be time for that later. After all, you could get away with almost anything during a battle. Taking a calming breath, the elven warrior started searching for her shield in earnest. She would definitely need it before the Siege of Tolos ended. Myra tried to pretend she was so focused on finding her buckler that she didn't see the looks of disgust, horror, and fear on the faces of her "loyal" men.
As the sun gave way to the moon, most of the immediate matter requiring Oromis's attention had been dealt with, and he sat in on a chair in the luxurious visitor's chamber afforded to him, courtesy of the good Count. There was still a slight spring chill in the air, carried into the port from the sea, but...
"It's still more pleasant than the isles," he mused.
He'd just seen off a very annoyed Lord Etcher, who'd been very disapointed in not being put in charge of the vanguard of the army for the coming march. Let him pout, then, I have better things to do.
Or did he? Try as he might, he could not think of what to do. The plans were drawn up, the preperations were out of his hands, the books on offer here were meagre in quantity and quality, and he had no more interest in the... private amusements of mortals, of either sex, than he ever had. It was quite bewildering, in fact: Here he was, leading an army in war, and he was bored. More than that, though. He could begin to hear the shrill screech of silence once more, and was growing increasingly restless.
Eventually, he had had enough. He summoned Neranden, one of the younger sons of Perinhold who was acting as his squire. But Oromis had yet to need armor, and Reingunger did not stain the way other blades did, so the boy was left acting as a messager. "Go find the Colonel Gordon, of the Grey Winds," Oromis instructed. "Bring him here; I'd dine with him."
He couldn't see the Colonel refusing; with all the work being done, the detatchement from the Winds hadn't eaten since morning. As Naranden was leaving Oromis added: "Oh, and get the Samni, Voldemaras. And food for him as well, I suppose."
* * * * *
Jorge had too many things to do. Such a long detachment put unique pressures on a commander, above and beyond the usual duties. Not least of which was logistics [which Jorge noticed he pronounced in the same way as 'tapeworm' or 'leprosy'. He was thankful he had Agallon along; the man worked harder than anyone else in the Winds, and he doubted the army would survive long without someone of his talents. Even with the logstician's capable help, Jorge still had overall command, which meant on top of his own duties he had to assume those that the General would usually handle. He had to talk to village elders, conference with scouts, read reports from allied units and generally figure out not only where and when to be but exactly how to do it.
And now, he had to go have dinner with someone who at least claimed divinity. The bizarreness of the situation at least helped his frustration. Jorge Gordon, former farmhand and middling sellsword being invited to dinner by a man who was among the most powerful and influential people in the whole of the world. He had never spoken to his god: the General had done the lion's share of the talking during their pledge of fealty and service. He wondered what the man would be like. From his commanding officer Jorge knew full well how similar and different the public and private faces of public figures could be. The deity was certainly frightening in front of a crowd, but some part of Jorge [the same part that likes to dive from cliffs and break horses, no doubt] wanted to see how much of the pantomime was present within his ruler.
The guards at the lavish door eyed him warily. Oddly, their skepticism put him at ease. It would feel strange following a leader who did not take proper precautions, and if there was one thing the General had acclimated him to was high security and innumerable failsafe measures. He would have been more nervous if there weren't guards at the door, and while their whithering stares would have likely made an average man's legs quiver, they simply put a smile on Jorge's face.
He entered without knocking, not wanting to waste a God's time. He entered, but as soon as he stepped over the threshhold, he realized he had no idea what the precedent would be. A salute seemed wrong, especially since the Winds still used a salute from an enemy nation. Doing nothing at all seemed unthinkable, but he didn't know if he should kneel or incline his head or just try to double over from the waist. He did the latter, thinking it the most likely to please, but as soon as he overcame one stumble he hit another. He hadn't the faintest idea what to call a deity. He tried to think back to what the General had said when she pledged them to his service, but the fogs of time and the sea sickness he was cursed with at the time made it impossible. He trusted his gut one more time.
"Your Majesty, you summoned me?". He did not raise his head.
"Indeed I did," the God-King said amiably. He waved over the table he was currently sitting behind, which had more food on it than what most mercenaries saw in a week. "I confess that I know little of your illustrious company, a situation which needs to be rectified. Would you be willing to satisfy my curiosities, and enjoy the good cook's food as well?"
Not even waiting for the obvious answer, Oromis waved towards a third chair. "The Samni warlord, Voldemaras, will also be arriving shortly. We might as well all get to know each other before charging into the meat grinder. You can sit down, you know. As a policy, I do not converse with those above or beneath me. I'm not going to light you on fire for not following court protocol; another of my policies, as it happens."
Jorge straightened himself, slightly surprised at the casual tone of the deity. He appreciated the straightforward approach and the obvious accomodation of his less-than-courtly manners. His feelings towards the content of the God's speech were not along these lines. Oddly, the first thing he thought about, before addressing his more sensible worries, was 'Can this man read minds?'. He certainly hoped not, but his limited interactions with magic had left him more wary than most thought he should be. Regardless, he wondered if he should try to counteract it. He then realized that if his ruler could in fact read minds then he would know that Jorge suspected, and would no doubt just make things worse. Pushing unanswerable, disturbing lines of inquiry out of his mind, he silently made his way to the offered chair.
He sat down, and feared what was coming. Oromis had good reason to want to understand the Winds, but such lines of inquiry would make him walk a knife edge between loyalty and confidentiality to his General and fealty and honesty to his new God King. Not that there was anything particularly incriminating to hide, but his time as a provost made him very aware that everyone did something punishable at some point, and he knew he and his comrades would be no exception.
He smiled lightly, and spoke as politely as he could manage, trying to wrestle his still-prevalent eastern accent into submission. "I would be happy to, Your Holiness. I admit it has been a long time since I had the pleasure of a meal fit for royalty.". The last time had been at Lexicadria, and he doubted his new king would be happy to hear that particular story.
"Though, I certainly hope there will be no meat grinder. I am sure we'll triumph without significant bloodshed."
He awaited a response patiently, still not daring to meet the man's eyes.
Oromis smiled. "Idealism... From a sellsword. How refreshing." Pausing for a moment, he went on: "But back to your company. Oh, I've heard stories of the Grey Winds, most no doubt exagerated. Hundreds of battles won, entire nations toppled... Your company has been the most prestigious of its kind of what, a century?"
"I wouldn't call it idealism. I think we have good reason to be optimistic, though.". 'Well shit', a part of Jorge thought. 'He can read minds'. He wondered briefly what the General would do, and decided to try and keep his mind as blank as possible while still being honest with the God-King. Not that it would work: he was pretty sure such measures would only last a few moments before he dropped his guard. Regardless, he tried it.
"I wouldn't say that, my King. We've certainly had a hand in those things, but I wouldn't even claim major responsibility. There is only so much a few thousand horsemen can do. Though, the General is doing well by us, and we're certainly not hurting for wealth or glory, especially now that we serve you, my King."
He tried to hold the image of wrestling kittens in his mind firmly, but after a few moments of the mid-speech silence gave up the task as pointless. He wasn't cut out for this sort of thing.
"There will be wealth and glory aplenty to go around, true enough," Oromis conceded. "But in this world, those aren't hard to find for men with swords and hearts of iron. I wonder; why did your company cross half the world to serve me?"
Jorge had seen this question coming a mile away, and was in the know enough to answer it confidently, or so he thought.
" General Asta decides where the Winds go, as long as she pays us. We're being paid here, better than ever, which, in addition to the hundreds of us who see you as the one true God, explains why we have continued to serve. As for why the General decided to swear our fealty to you, I expect she thought that you would win, and wanted the Company to be on the winning side. I don't know the General all that well, your Majesty, but I would expect her motivations to be the same as most. She is not a particularly religious woman, but titles, riches, status and power have motivated decisions for millennia."
He hoped the being opposite would find the answer satisfactory.
He was wrong. "No doubt I can pay better than the elven lords of Tolos," Oromis answered drily, unconvinced. He took a bite out of a piece of bread. "What do men want?" he mused, more to himself than to his guest. He blinked, and turned his attention to Gordon once again. "Do you know what I want Colonel?"
Seeing Gordon struggle for an answer, Oromis contnued: "Peace." He examined the Colonel for a second. "I wonder if your General Astra can say the same."
"I can't speak for the General, your Majesty, but I doubt she would be adverse to peace, if she helps build it. Though, if you will forgive me, I have to say that a desire for peace may be unrealistic. Obviously, I'm not a scholar, but there has not been a lasting peace yet, no matter how much people want there to be. People will always disagree, I reckon, and disagreements will lead to conflict. Of course, the Winds will follow you until the end, as we have sworn, but I would beware a rule that stops violence with more violence: I could not call it peace."
"I am no scholar either," Oromis said once Gordon had finished, "but my opinion is hardly based on naivety; I've lived... existed, rather, long enough to see the old Emperors first raise Tolos from the swamp it was." He paused, and for a moment looked confused, before shaking his head and continuing: "In any case, what you say is true, peace in our world is impossible... for mortals. A king may conquer the entire world, but when he dies, everything falls to anarchy once more. But I am not subject to the same scourge of time. Once the world is united, I will be able to keep it so, hopefully in perpetuity."
"As to how I will rule... The fisherman who's been gutted, his wife and daughters raped, his house burned, suffered so because of the weakness of his lords. Violence is not the key to peace; fear is, and so it is by fear that I will keep the peace."
Jorge's mind briefy flashed with scenes of the imposing man in front of him choking on a walnut, or falling down the stairs, or slipping in his bath. It was all he could do to keep the involutary smile off his face. His composure restored, he replied after a moment to gather his thoughts. "But, what if the people don't wan-"
Swinging open the doors in a fairly aggressive manner, Norman entered the hall in which Oromis and Jorge were already engaging in a potentially uncomfortable conversation. The giant of a man was adorned in one of his finer tunics, which sported an eye catching deep purple color, with ornate embroidered patterns lining the collar and sleeves. Upon his shoulders rested the fur of an Arctic Bear, an animal commonly found in the northern tundras in Samnidall.
After making eye contact with the other two figures that were present, Norman politely lowered his head, shortly before raising it again. “My king. I trust you are in good health?”
"Ah, Voldemaras," Oromis turned. "Yes, though the question is moot, since I can't recall ever not being in good health. Oh, and I believe the rightful title is God-King. Or Emperor?" He smiled knowingly. "I can never make up my mind, and neither can anyone else, it seems."
Norman exhaled softly. "Pardon me, Emperor." he corrected himself, intentionally avoiding the use of the term "God". "It is my pleasure to be in your presence. May I seat myself?"
"Be my guest," the immortal answered, waving towards the seat next to Colonel Gordon. "There's plenty of food for all."
The Samni general promptly took his designated seat beside the Colonel. "I believe we have upcoming conflicts, do we not?" he asked, placing his elbows on the table and softly rubbing his forehead, chasing away a slight headache.
"The war? We've planned that to the smallest detail, and then planned it again," Oromis complained. "If I have to see another map of troop movements, I'm going to rip it to shreds. No, as I was just telling the Colonel, I think it would be best if we actually knew the men we were fighting beside. And, to be frank, I know little of the Samnidall; I've never been there myself, as hard as it is to believe, or even met someone from there before you. I'll admit that you've piqued my interest."
"I understand. My men have grown restless. Many of them seek revenge upon our enemies." Norman explained, casually placing various foods on the plate before him. "However, as for me. My family left with the rest of the Mardochians when they settled on the Hamrock Isles. Not to disappoint you, but I only carry Samni blood, and nothing more. However, knowledge of my origins has led to several Samni volunteers joining our ranks, many of which serve within my own brigade."
"Then it is them that I should have invited to dinner," Oromis quipped. "Ah, what a poor host I am, I haven't introduced you to the Colonel. Colonel, this is General Norman Voldemaras, whose exploits against the Etruscans in the previous wars you've no doubt heard of already."
Norman slightly bowed his head towards the Colonel. "Forgive me, Emperor. Despite not being one with the Samni culture, I still am a loyal general who has on more than one occasion defended our shores as we waited for your return. My men are among the finest in your army. I hope that makes up for my lack of culture."
"Of course," Oromis said, taken aback. "I don't doubt your worth, or that of your men." After an awkward moment's pause, he pressed on: "You arrived at an opportune time. Tell me, good General, what would you say is the key to peace?"
Norman shifted in his chair, pondering the question. "I personally believe that as long as a man disagrees with his neighbor, men will always desire to take up a blade or an arrow against one another. Men like us are not remembered for bringing peace. We are remembered for our victories, and ultimately, our defeats. I do not believe it will ever change. That's a very philosphical quesiton, and I can not say I am a terribly philosophical man."
Oromis smirked. "Very well, evade the question with nihilism. It is a discussion for us, ah, 'philosophical men', I suppose. But enough philosophy." He raised his glass of wine in the air. "A toast, to our coming victories."
