Phoenix Rising

by Alec Peterson

  An hour later, the Witchhammers were led to the command tent. Their wounds had been bound and their bodies cleaned. They had been granted permission to keep both their armor and blades. The only concession they had been forced to make for their captors was that each of their swords had been peace bound with thin green ribbons.

  The tabby cat purred ecstatically underneath Sul’s fingers as he scratched under his chin and behind his ears. Sul reached over to a small end table next to his desk, removed a piece of thinly sliced dried ham and dangled it before the cat. The cat sniffed tentatively once before lunging out with a paw, snatching it out of the man’s fingers and devouring it whole. Sul’s lips curled up in a slight smile.

  “Good kitty,” The cat turned and looked indignant at the man’s patronizing tone. Then it meticulously cleaned itself, running one large paw over its scarred face. The man gently took the cat’s face in his hand and rubbed his thumb over the missing eye and scars across its face.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I failed you too.”

  The cat put both his paws on the man’s hand, pushed itself forward and began to lick Sul’s face, purring.

  “Captain” Atiya began, leaning her tall frame down to whisper in the man's ear, “Are you certain it is wise to allow the prisoners to keep their weapons?”

  Sul gently lifted the cat from his lap and placed it upon the ground. It huffed once and then curled around his feet, resting his large head on paws peering at the prisoners disdainfully.

  “One does not strip a Witchhammer of his arms and armor unless you seek to do them a great dishonor,” He regarded the group thoughtfully, “Now is not the time for shaming. Now is the time for diplomacy.”

  Atiya bowed her massive head, tucking a stray lock of auburn hair behind her curved horns and straightening.

  “Different faces, different races, different places,” Chirak tittered from its position, crouched like a feral beast at the Captain’s feet, “But all the same.”

  “Let us hope not,” Sul replied before standing, “I am Captain Drachaen Sul, I bid you welcome to the Phoenix Legion.”

  “This is an outrage!” one of the Witchhammers, a tan man with more than his share of a nose, roared, “I demand—!”

  “Oy!” A boot the size of an ox’s heart slammed into his back and sent him sprawling, “Shut your bloody gob and speak right to the Cap’n before I gouge out your eyes and skull fuck you to death!” A thick arm wrapped around the man’s throat, a second locked behind it and instantly the Witchhammers face flushed as he began to asphyxiate, “Cap’n Sir!” The unseen assailant barked, “Permission to skull fuck the prisoners to death, Sir!”

  “All in good time,” Sul replied calmly, “Release him.”

  “Yes, Sir!”

  The Witchhammer was dropped in a heap, gasping for air. He rolled over onto his back and gaped.

  “An elf?!”

  Not a lithe creature of the woods, the elf was easily six feet tall and as broad as a horse, with muscular arms and ham-sized hands. He was covered in scars, the most prominent being a large, puckered gash that might have come from a beast that bisected his face and colored one eye a pale blue whilst the other was a dead black. His hair was gray and resembled the bristles of a wild boar. He leered at the fallen Witchhammer and spat. “Piss on you.”

  “Gentlemen…and lady,” Sul amended with a tilt of his head, acknowledging the young woman that was among their ranks, “Permit me to introduce Sergeant Reaper Maul.”

  “Yeah,” Maul grinned, “Name used to be ‘Spine- breaker, eye-gouger, heart ripper’, but it wouldn’t all fit on the side of me tent.”

  The Witchhammer that had been assaulted was being helped to his feet, still coughing in an attempt to regain the ability to draw breath.

  “Do you drink the blood of your enemies? Are you descended from dragons?”

  A younger Witchhammer had spoken; Sul eyed him speculatively. A southerner by his tone and complexion, he couldn’t have been off the farm longer than a handful of years.

  “Naw!” Maul grinned, “Don’t need none of that here.”

  “Maul’s aggressive tendencies and combat abilities are more than sufficient without being further augmented by blood consumption,” Sul explained.

  Maul jerked his head towards the Captain, “What the Cap’n said!”

  “Sergeant.”

  “Sir!”

  “Thank you for your assistance. I do not believe that I shall require it any further for the present.”

  “Are you certain Cap’n?” He gestured at the Witchhammer he’d nearly choked to death, “That one’s a right shifty bastard. I can rip off his arm and beat him to death with it, teach him some manners.”

  “If you kill him, what use is teaching him manners?”

  Maul shrugged, “Fair ‘nough,” he saluted vigorously but remained standing at attention, ready to serve his master’s will.

  “Forgive Sergeant Maul,” Sul explained, “His tenure in the War Pits left little time for matters of etiquette or protocol.”

  “He was in the Pits?” the younger Witchhammer gaped, “But he’s an elf!”

  Sul turned his bandaged gaze back to the young man, “What is your name, Sir Knight?”

  “Keiran, Sir. Of House Ehingen.”

  “Bannermen to the Daymorian nobility themselves,” His lips quirked in a brief smile, “You are a long way from home, Sir Keiran.”

  “Enough of this!” The Witchhammer that had been assaulted had regained his breath and his composure, “By the rules of war--!”

  “Do not presume to lecture me on the rules of war, Witchhammer,” Sul’s eyes flashed, “Whilst we are discussing it, however, which ‘rules’ would you prefer: those set forth by King Elloran during the Age of Might, or would you prefer the rules of war as proclaimed by Hierophant Corienth and the church of Imperius during its reformation into the Imperium during the Age of Storms?”

  The Witchhammer shut his mouth with an audible sound, “The rules of Corienth.”

  Sul scoffed, “How fitting, given that after his death those rules were ratified granting exceptional leeway and rights of ransom to officers.” He shifted his focus to the other knights, “The enlisted were not so fortunate.”

  Chirak threw back its head and laughed, “A cowardly lion! A cowardly lion! A cowardly lion!”

  “Enough, Chirak!” Sul admonished the creature.

  The violet-skinned creature turned and hissed at Sul but remained silent.

  “The Hierophant is now and eternal!” The angry Witchhammer howled back at the man.

  “Is he? He is a two-thousand-year-old mortal whose appearance ages and changes regularly?”

  “The lord of the gods great Imperius restores his body as he ages and changes his loyal servant into a form more befitting of him,” he spat into the earth, “As is promised to all his faithful.”

  “It’s astonishing what people will submit to in order to avoid assuming any responsibility for themselves,” Sul replied with a hint of sardonic humor.

  “It is promised to the worthy!” He screamed again before glaring at the other man, “Not heretics,” his eyes flickered to the woman and the young knight who had spoken, “Nor for those of impure blood or the wretched.”

  “A poorly veiled reference to those who are not as you are,” Sul’s lip curled in derision as he settled back into his chair, “Very well then. Custom dictates that the commanding officer identify himself so that formal negotiations may begin. You are he I assume?”

  The man stood erect, “I am Knight-Captain Parette—“

  “No, you are not,” Sul cut him off, his expression predatory.

  “How dare--!”

  “Your armor is of standard Daymorian design, but the plating is merely hardened iron, as is evidenced by the discoloration. Consecrated silver, which does not tarnish, is more traditionally used amongst knights of rank.”

  Parette moved to object, Sul silenced him with an upraised hand. “You bear no
heraldry upon your shield nor pommel and the leather of your scabbard is made of common hide, not full-grain leather, as would befit nobility,”

  Sul leaned in for the kill, “You are what is known colloquially as a ‘peasant-knight’. In Daymore, perhaps you could earn your way to a captainship, but hailing from or near the provinces as your accent indicates, you rank no higher than ‘Knight-Lieutenant’ at best. Perhaps you would like to take a moment to reacquaint yourself with the truth, Knight-Lieutenant.”

  Sul stood and poured himself a goblet full of water. The silence stretched on as he leisurely returned to his high-backed chair and took a measured sip before turning his attention back to the Witchhammers.

  “You have violated the third of the five most core tenants of formal negotiation under the Daymorian code: you have misrepresented yourself and your rank and therefore cannot serve as a spokesman to your unit,” He gestured to the guards flanking the Witchhammers, “Imprison them. Perhaps they will amuse the Taintbrood after we depart,” he turned his attention back to Atiya.

  “No, wait!” The young woman stepped forward, “I will negotiate in place of the Knight-Lieutenant!”

  Sul turned his attention back to the assembled Witchhammers, “Will you?” Sul asked thoughtfully. “Do you claim greater rank?”

  “I also rank Knight-Lieutenant, sir.” She replied.

  "Do you claim ties to higher nobility?” he pressed.

  “No Sir, I do not.”

  “Can you offer any justification as to why you should be permitted to negotiate instead of your superior officer?”

  “Only that I will not sully myself with lies,” The young woman looked back at the other Witchhammers, “And that I would lay down my life for my comrades. This I swear on my life and on my honor for they are one and the same.”

  A beat and then Sul slowly nodded, “Very well, that will suffice.”

  She hesitated, “Forgive me, my Lord—“

  “I am not a Lord,” Sul interrupted, “Nor am I descended from nobility. I am a warrior, a soldier of Daymore, and an officer. ‘Sir’ or ‘Captain’ will suffice. Identify yourself, Sir Knight.”

  “If you are lowborn,” Parette interrupted with a shout, “Then you have no right—!”

  “I do not require ‘the right’ to pass judgment upon you Knight-Lieutenant Parette, I possess the ability. I am above the mandates of your incestuous nobility and your withered Imperium. I answer to a higher law.”

  “Which is?”

  “Mine.” The air between the two men was colder than the empty space between the stars. “If you speak again, I shall kill you. Is that perfectly clear?”

  Parette said nothing and slunk back amongst his men. Sul returned his attention to the young woman, “Identify yourself, Sir Knight” he repeated calmly.

  “Sir Ceyrabeth Vallorin, Sir.”

  “Now that is a proper, civil greeting,” Sul nodded his head approvingly, “You may state your terms.”

  “Yes, Sir. I would like to have my fellow Witchhammers released without suffering any further harm.”

  “Perhaps you should refrain from riding several hundred pounds of mount and knight into a bog.”

  Ceyrabeth’s cheeks flared red and she glared sideways at the Knight-Lieutenant.

  “Ah,” Sul added, “You did not. When the order to charge was given, you did not follow into the trap,” His obscured gaze turned to the mud splattered on the hem of her cloak, “It was only after your fellows became mired did you enter the bog yourself.”

  “Yes, Sir. It is how you say.”

  “And promptly became mired as well.”

  A quiet sigh escaped her lips, “Yes Sir.”

  “Tell me; you’ve had time now to reflect on your actions. What would you have done differently?”

  Ceyrabeth thought for a moment, and then shook her head, “I do not know, Sir. I could not abandon my fellows to death.”

  “Indeed, you could not. You were in an untenable situation the moment your commanding officer allowed his wounded pride to dictate his actions. Given what you had to work with, you showed both courage and loyalty.”

  Ceyrabeth felt more color rush to her cheeks at the other man’s praise, “Thank…thank you Sir.”

  Sul nodded, “Now, bring me your sword.”

  She frowned, “Sir?”

  “Your sword. Bring it to me and the sword of your commander as well.”

  Parette opened his mouth to protest, then quickly remembered Sul’s threat to his life and shut it. Glowering at the young woman he handed over his sword, still bound in its scabbard.

  Carefully, Ceyrabeth approached the Captain. Atiya reached out with a large hand and collected the weapons from the young woman. Ceyrabeth frowned at both her eerily still expression and the strange puckered scars around her lips and eyes.

  Atiya presented the weapons to the Captain. He undid the peace binding around Parette’s sword and slowly removed the blade, examining it critically before rising to his feet, sword still in hand. The assembled Witchhammers moved away from him in alarm, but Sul merely gave the weapon a few measured test swings, tight and precise, and frowned in displeasure.

  “Poorly balanced,” he commented disapprovingly, “and only a partial tang.” He examined the owner of the blade critically, “Too many years guarding acolytes and apprentices. By the quality of this weapon, I can only assume that you have never served on the front line before…” Sul returned his gaze to the blade, “…against opponents who are permitted to fight back.”

  Sul frowned at the blade, running his hands carefully along the edges and then down the fuller, rubbing his thumb back and forth against the guard, “You take very good care of this weapon, Knight-Lieutenant Parette. Very good care indeed.”

  “We’re required to make sure our weapons are cleaned after every battle,” Sir Keiran provided helpfully.

  “Of course. Dried blood is not conducive to the overall integrity of the weapon, to say nothing of Taintbrood blood,” Sul pressed the tip of the blade into the dirt and rested his weight upon it. “Inflexible,” He noted with distaste, “No give to the steel makes for a brittle blade,” he turned his attention back to the Witchhammers, “Quite the liability against the heavier weapons Taintbrood are known to favor.”

  “This weapon, however, is in exceptional condition, especially considering how poorly constructed it is. There is not a single nick on the edge, or a spot of dried blood within the fuller or encrusted upon the hilt,” Sul handed it to Atiya, “Atiya when was the last time you saw a blade in such a condition?”

  “When it was freshly made, Captain, and yet to be used,” She answered in her level tone.

  “When it was yet to be used,” Sul confirmed, taking the weapon back from her and casually tossed the blade at Parette’s feet.

  “You were at Velasgate. There is no other possible reason for a unit of Witchhammers in full regalia to be present in the Wilds. Ostensibly, I imagine your purpose was to ‘protect’ whatever mages the church had allowed off their leashes support the Witchhammer forces and yet I do not see your charges,” Sul adjusted his obsidian-colored uniform and retook his seat.

  Sul turned his attention back to the Mithrac, “Did our Sentinels observing the battle see any mages at the forefront when the army was being massacred?”

  “No, Captain.”

  Sul’s expression turned predatory. “Did they see any Witchhammers?”

  “No, Captain.”

  “And what conclusion do you draw from this?”

  “That the mages and Witchhammers were somewhere else,” She turned her eyes upon the assembled Witchammers, “Someplace away from the fighting.”

  “Someplace a great deal away, judging by the condition of their armor and, more tellingly, their weapons.”

  “It is possible that the mages somehow escaped the Witchhammers and in attempting to recapture them, they could not participate in the battle.”

  “Possible, if not for the fact that a group of mage
s could not outrun a full company of mounted Witchhammers on open ground. Even if they had horses of their own, the Witchhammers would have proved to be superior horsemen.”

  “Perhaps the Witchhammers murdered the mages,” The Mithrac woman speculated in the same, emotionless tone, her flat gaze measuring each of the knights in turn.

  Sir Ceyrabeth’s spine stiffened at the accusation, but it was Sir Keiran who called out, “We would never—“

  Sul held up a hand, “Peace Sir Keiran. I am perfectly aware that you did not murder your charges,” He gently undid the peace bind to Ceyrabeth’s sword and removed it from its sheath.

  “Better,” He commented, running his hands along the blade’s edge, “This weapon has clearly seen battle,” Sul held the weapon up and lightly rapped it with a fingernail causing the metal to ring, “Traces of cobalt,” he mused. He gripped the sword by the hilt and held it out straight, tip pointed at the woman, “The balance suggests the smith is used to working with denser materials and a lower center of gravity. It is Dwarven make then?”

  “Uh---yes!” Ceyrabeth replied wondering how in the name of the gods he had deduced that, “It was a gift.”

  Sul carefully ran his thumb carefully along the fuller, “’Tis a fine gift indeed. But I detect no evidence of mage blood on this weapon.”

  She frowned, “Sir?”

  Sul favored her with a slight smile and took another measured sip from his goblet, wetting his lips before speaking. “Before a major battle, mages will often consume a vast amount of wyrmscale to ensure the potency of their spells. It leaves a telling residue in the blood, traces of wyrmscale that could not be absorbed more fully into the body,” He gently sheathed the weapon and left the peace binding undone, “That residue would be present on this weapon had you run through a mage whose blood was that heavily saturated with wyrmscale. It is nearly impossible to clean off entirely,” He handed the weapon back to her and turned his attention to the other Witchhammers.

  “As for the remainder of you, your arms were thoroughly scrutinized before they were peace bound and returned to you. There was no wyrmscale residue on any of them,” Sul’s lips twisted upward at the look of extreme discomfort the Witchhammers exhibited at the knowledge that their belongings had been so thoroughly scrutinized.