by Aaron Dennis
“Scultonians?”
“Followers of Scultone, God of Death.”
“This gets more and more convoluted,” Scar complained.
“Welcome to war my friend.”
There was little more to be said on the matter. It was indeed convoluted as all war efforts are; the hopes and wishes of fallible men, who understand little outside their own world view. The sun was starting to set. Having left the bridge miles behind, the land gave way to a slight decline. Shrubs grew more sparsely, and the climate was yet dried. The flat buildings of Eresh were visible on the horizon, and the nearly invisible trail Labolas had followed was leading them straight into town.
“How come no one knows if Sahni is a man or woman?” Scar asked once curiosity got the best of him.
“Khmerans appear androgynous.”
“What?”
Labolas rolled his eyes in mock desperation, “Their men and women look alike. It’s always hard to tell which gender they are.”
“Oh, well, then never mind,” he laughed. “What do we do in Eresh?”
“Well,” Labolas said and paused to take a deep breath in deliberation. “I think it best to try to send Relthys some help, but we will acquire another mode of transportation to Tironis. I’m guessing you’ll want to know all about Scultonians, Gyosh, and Khmerans anyway, am I right?”
“You know me so well,” Scar joked.
Chapter Ten- The rebellious son
A frown worked across Scar’s face. Eresh guards riding on backs of strange animals approached. They held spears and their brown, leather helmets kept their eyes hidden. Late in the evening as it was, the riders gave an ominous impression; shadowed, emotionless faces.
“Captain Sulas, is that you, you old hound?” one of the guards asked from atop his humped mount.
The man raised his head a bit. The archer recognized him and smiled. Labolas then took a few steps forward and stroked the fuzzy snout of the sandy, brown creature upon which the guard patrolled. It made a croaking growl of a sound then spat at the ground. Scar was revolted by the smelly beast.
“It’s me, alright,” Labolas answered.
“You mosey into Eresh with the Ghost of Zmaj?” the guard asked.
While the archer smiled, the other guard walked his mount into Scar’s personal space. The two creatures—Scar and the mount—looked into each other’s eyes.
“What the Hell is this thing?” Scar finally asked.
“That, Brandt, is a camel,” Labolas replied. He then corrected the previous comment, saying, “This is not the Ghost of Zmaj. He is Brandt of Alduheim.”
“Balderdash!” the man laughed.
“I assure you. I have a writ from Gilgamesh himself, so if you’ll kindly let us on base, we need to procure a ride to Tironis as well as request assistance for a damaged cart. Our former mode of transportation was compromised on our way to the capital.”
“Bandits?” the other guard asked.
“Unfortunately, yes. No one was harmed, well the bandits were harmed, but none of us. If I can get to the requisitions department, I would like to send assistance. They are not too far from here on the main road between the Iles and Lake Aims,” Labolas explained.
The guard pondered while scratching at the scruff growing on his throat. “Well,” he deliberated. “I guess you can take that up with Chief Master Sergeant Olan, but he needs to be registered as a Kulshedran guest in order to be on base.”
“Of course,” Labolas happily acquiesced. “This way.”
He half turned to Scar and motioned with his head to follow. Scar maintained his gaze on the camels until he could no longer afford to keep his head turned. He followed Labolas beyond a tall cactus and into Eresh. While walking along the dusty path and then onto a packed trail that was perfectly leveled throughout the whole of the town, Scar started asking questions.
“Why all the commotion? What is this registering business? How come–” his barrage was cut short when the guard rode up noisily behind them.
“Whoa, now. Hold, girl,” he said to his mount. “Captain.”
“Yes?”
“I forgot to tell you. Before you leave, make certain to stop in at the mess hall. There is someone who would certainly like to see you.”
“Who is it?” he asked in earnest.
“The Master General of Strategies,” the guard answered, laughed, and rode away still laughing.
Labolas was left standing with a scowl on his face. Scar raised an eyebrow in wonder.
“Who–” was all Scar managed to say before his friend threw a hand up to disregard the question and made off in a huff.
Scar trotted behind. The late evening wind was chilly and the military town was an oppressive sight. Unlike Oros, there were no gas lamps, just the occasional torch in a sconce mounted on squared wooden posts, or high up next to the doors on the flat roofed buildings. They walked for another minute or so before Labolas gave any kind of a reply.
“Firstly, Eresh is a military base, really. It functions as a town, but there are strict rules, regulations, and procedures; standards of operation, you see? This is especially true if you’re not Kulshedran or part of the military. If you’ll take note, the guards patrolling are all looking at you.”
“Well, that’s nothing new, is it?”
“Secondly,” the archer added after a pause. “Registration will only take a minute, and you can do that in the building adjacent the requisitions office, and finally, who is the Master General of Strategies? Right? He’s…well…someone with utterly too much concern for my wellbeing.”
A smile played on Scar’s lips. He raised his eyes to the horizon. Two spots of widely spaced, faint orange light glowed in the distance. They were not far from two battlements on the Satrone-Sudai border. Labolas came to a halt before a very long building with several doors all down the front of the stonework.
“That door. In there is the registration office. Just walk in and tell them who you are. I’ll be in to find you in a moment. This shouldn’t take long.”
Labolas walked down the path along the building and entered another door. Scar shrugged to himself. A mahogany frame outlined the mahogany door. Numbers were carved into each of the doors. The one before him was labeled as 17.
“Well, he appears a bit ruffled, doesn’t, he?” Scar asked aloud while looking at the door labeled 18.
Upon entering the door prescribed by his friend, Scar found himself in a barren office of sorts. There were no tables or chairs on his end of the room. The large, rectangular office was separated by a row of counters instead, and at the opposite side was a woman who did not look Kulshedran. She was dark and thin with black hair, which was pulled tight behind her head. Bags hung below her dark eyes. She was obviously a woman overworked. As Scar approached, covering the stone tiles of the floor, he noted her odd attire; a light robe that draped loosely over her thin physique. No one else had worn anything like that. It was buff colored with an ornate pattern of bright flowers rich in blues and reds.
“What do we have here?” she spoke with a strange inflection.
It was as though she stopped suddenly between each word.
“Uh, yes. My name is Brandt…Captain Sulas brought me into town. I’m supposed to register,” Scar answered upon arriving at the mahogany counter.
“Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir,” she said and fumbled around a desk with drawers before pulling out parchment and a quill.
“Your name,” she said impatiently.
“Brandt.”
“Your full name, Sir.”
“Just, just Brandt,” he stammered and looked around conspicuously.
“No, no, Sir,” she argued. “I need your full name.”
“I don’t, I…Brandt of Alduheim?”
She looked up from the paper to meet his gray eyes. The arching of her thin black eyebrows and furrow between them indicated she was skeptical.
“Well, it’s either that or the Ghost of Zmaj, and I don’t like the latter!”
&nb
sp; “Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir. Brandt of Alduheim,” she accepted begrudgingly. “And what is your tribe?”
“No tribe, just Brandt of Alduheim,” he said. That forced a huff of exasperation from the woman. Scar could not hold back a chuckle. “I’ve no intention of being difficult, but if you’re going to doubt every word I say, this isn’t going to work,” he affirmed.
“Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir. No full name, no tribe, and to which outfit do you belong?”
“I don’t follow,” he replied in exhaustion.
She raised her voice, asking, “Which military outfit? What unit?”
“No unit. I’m just here with Captain Sulas. He’s getting us a ride to Tironis. Look, I’m just passing through!”
“Very well, Sir. What is your business here?” she asked and returned to her paper.
“You’ve got to be kidding! I just told you what my business is! Nothing!”
“Please calm down, Sir.”
“Oh, I’m calm. I’m calm,” he replied and leaned onto the counter with his hands.
His imposing chest, and less than pleasant smell, forced her to push her chair back with her feet. The wood creaked against the stone floor.
“Where is this Captain Sulas?”
“He’s in the requisitions office,” Scar barked.
“Okay, Sir. Have him come in here and vouch for you.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes, Sir. Very much, Sir. Without the approval of an officer, I cannot register you, Sir.”
Scar grumbled, turned about, and marched back out onto the streets of Eresh. He looked up at the moon. Wispy clouds obscured it from sight, but its glow made the clouds into a gorgeous fog of light. He took a deep breath to regain his composure, laughed at the registration fiasco, and headed to the next door. Labolas popped out and they almost bumped into each other.
“Done?” the Kulshedran asked.
“No,” Scar pouted.
“What’s the problem?” Labolas chuckled.
“Your whole ridiculous registration process. She said you have to vouch for me.”
Labolas patted his friend’s arm, let a smile flicker across his face, and shook his head, saying, “I’m having difficulties in procuring rides as it is. Let’s handle your mess first then we can straighten everything else out.”
They walked back into the registration office. In the place of the strange woman was an old Kulshedran. His grizzled hair yet held specks of black throughout. Upon entry of the travelers, he produced parchment and quill. Before they so much as approached his counter he asked for a name.
“Brandt,” he barked. “Where is the other woman?”
“I don’t know, Brandt,” the Kulshedran replied. “What’re you doin’ here?”
“I need to register, so I can walk around this blasted town. This is Captain Sulas. I–” he was saying when the old man disappeared from view by quickly walking behind a wall.
Scar threw his hands up in resignation and turned to Labolas while a commotion of wooden drawers being opened and closed ensued. He then shook his head and stormed over to the counter to try and have a look at was happening in the back.
The old man hopped back to the counter causing Scar to recoil, tossed a rolled up parchment with a red ribbon around it on the counter and said, “Here ya’ go. Keep that on ya’.”
“That’s it? No name? No tribe? No, no, no outfit?”
“Nope,” the old man answered then reclined with hands folded over the leather tunic covering his paunch.
Scar snatched the document and turned back to Labolas who said, “Well, that wasn’t too difficult. What were you moaning about before?”
“Never mind,” he retorted emphatically. “Let’s just get the Hell out of here.”
The mercenary stormed out of the building with Labolas right behind. The oddity of the town was starting to ruffle Scar’s feathers. He and his friend met eyes for a moment then Labolas shrugged implying resignation. They walked into the requisitions office, which was a replica of the registration office, right down to the old Kulshedran behind the counter.
“You work here, too, huh?” Scar chuckled.
The man at the counter raised a gray eyebrow in wonder. The stern look on the man and the ensuing silence made Scar feel uncomfortable. He turned to Labolas, who was gazing at him with a look of bewilderment.
“Maybe you should have a seat, friend,” he said. “I think you’re getting worse for wear.”
Scar looked around. There were no chairs.
“What, on the ground?”
Labolas paid him no heed and approached the mahogany counter.
“Captain,” the man acknowledged. “What do you need?”
“Transport arranged to Tironis,” he replied with little patience.
“You’ve filled out form eleven?” the Kulshedran asked.
“You know damn well I filled it out. I just gave it to you five minutes ago!”
“No need ta’ shout,” the man grumbled and vanished behind a row of wooden drawers.
“What the Hell is going in this place?” Scar complained.
Labolas remained silent. Instead of acknowledging his friend, he undid his hair, ran his fingers through to break up some knots then tied it back in place. By the time he finished, the Kulshedran toddled back over to the counter.
“We haven’t got any carts travellin’ in or out anytime soon,” he said.
“Horses?” Labolas asked.
“No horses.”
“Where are they all?” he shouted.
“Lemme check,” the man said and started to go look, but Labolas gripped him by the sleeve of his leather tunic.
“Not necessary,” he affirmed. “Listen, just get us something we can ride to Tironis and as soon as possible. Also, while you’re at it, arrange assistance for a compromised merchant cart a few miles to the southwest between the Iles and Lake Aims.”
“You’ve filled out form seventy two?”
“Just get it done!” Labolas yelled and marched out.
Scar followed him out into the streets. A cloud of dust whooshed by, the whisper of the wind its propelling force. Grumbles of total exasperation echoed from both men. Guards slowly rode their camels in the vicinity.
“I don’t like it here,” Scar complained.
Labolas’s head shook quickly and tightly for a moment. He was arriving at his breaking point, but took a breath of cool air and resigned himself, again, to whatever was required.
“We should find lodging. I doubt anything is going to be resolved tonight,” the archer finally suggested.
Scar was not tired, aggravated certainly, but not in the mood for sleep. Labolas was totally exhausted, practically unable to keep his eyes open. He blinked a great deal and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. As they started to walk, the archer’s stomach gave a vehement protest.
“Bullocks, I’m starved,” he said.
“Aren’t you supposed to meet someone in the mess hall anyway?”
“Ergh, yes. I suppose it can’t wait.”
“Why so reticent?”
Labolas did not reply, but turned abruptly and started trudging across town. Scar followed, and the two passed more guards on foot, some other citizens of Eresh—mostly Kulshedran families, but also some Gyosh in colorful robes—and a scant few guards on camel back. The torch lights made shadows dance over all the buildings. From shrubs and cacti to benches and crates, all kinds of irregular shapes were cast in blackness on the surroundings.
As they approached the mess hall, Scar noted that it was not a building proper. It had a back wall, but the roof was an enormous, cloth drape held in place by several, tall posts. Lanterns placed low on many of the posts provided enough light to see all the tables and chairs under the large cover.
Chatter rang from the mess hall. The citizenry were gathered to eat and discuss trivial concerns. It was late, but not so late that everyone was in bed. Upon entering, Scar noticed a grizzled individual sitting alone w
ith a stone pipe smoldering from between his lips. For a Kulshedran, he was big, like the bandit they had fought too recently, and old without being feeble. The man maintained a fierce gaze on Scar, which enticed him to stop in his tracks. Labolas continued walking to the kitchen area built into the back wall. The cooks were quick to assist him.
As was customary whenever the mercenary made an appearance, the people in his vicinity grew quiet and started to stare. He didn’t give them any attention. There was something consuming about the old man instead. Before too long, the grizzled man looked away, but obviously not out of submission; he was busy perusing some parchments spread out all over the long table. Suddenly a voice jolted Scar.
“Brandt,” Labolas called, “I see you’ve made note of the general.”
He turned and asked, “That’s him? I can see now why you were hesitant to sit with him. He looks experienced, but then I’d wager a good general must be.”
“Let’s do this,” Labolas ordered and marched for the table while carrying a tray with meats, vegetables, and drinks.
Without so much as an introduction, Labolas pulled out a chair and sat down. He ordered Scar to do the same with an imperative glance. He obliged. It was a moment yet before the general acknowledged their presence.
“Captain,” the imposing man said.
“Sir.”
The man frowned; it was as though his hard countenance could do little else. Thin scars creased his left cheek. His bronze skin was exceptionally dark, and though he was covered by a green doublet, which poorly concealed a breastplate, his forearms showed as massive and gnarled. His knotty fingers rolled up a parchment, and he pushed more out of the way before removing the pipe from his mouth to speak.
“Did you procure rides to Tironis?” he asked.
Scar was impressed that the man already knew about their doings in town. Labolas vacillated by taking a breath and then pouring water from a pitcher into cups before replying.
“Everything’s being taken care of, Sir.”
“And this is the one, eh?” the general asked.
He stood up from his chair. When he did, Scar noted the man wore riding leathers, and his steel boots had spurs. He made tink sounds as he rounded the table and stood before the mercenary.
