by S. Nileson
Bayah violently jerked at the reins and commanded the horses to return. “We must leave hastily and not risk getting caught in the fighting.”
“What fighting?” Archer asked. “It’s over now.”
“Until the smoke settles we can’t be sure,” Stah responded. He readied himself for any danger by dropping his right hand on his axe and covering it up with his brown rugged cloak.
A single rider appeared from behind one of the burnt buildings, gesturing to some hidden troop behind him of his discovery and pointing at the wagon. Along with a few dozen other horsemen he galloped towards the merchants.
“It’s too late now,” Bayah said, pulling at the reins and halting the wagon’s retreat. “We can’t outrun them with this wagon or even with these horses unburdened.” He dismounted and stood still, awaiting the horsemen with a readied stance where he too had his axe ready and concealed under his brown cloak.
When the horsemen arrived and halted their advance, encircling the wagon with a casual stride, Bayah greeted them. “Good day, friend.”
The captain of the troop rode a grey steed with patches of darkened grey fur over his body in no describable pattern. The horsemen wore chainmail armor covering their entire bodies, spiked steel helmets and a black tabard with crimson red trimmings bearing the imperial symbol of the eye. The captain alone wore no helmet and had his chainmail hood dangling from the back of his neck. His eyes were sinisterly dark in the sun which gave him an evil look when coupled with his shining bald head. He hummed at Bayah’s greeting and continued to guide his horse around the wagon, critically studying it.
“We are Kolian merchants from Fort Rash,” Bayah said. As he put his left and only exposed hand into his cloak a wall of shiny-tipped spears were aimed at him by the riders. “It’s just paper.” He slowly pulled out a folded parchment from within the cloak and handed it over to the closest masked rider, receiving no response which caused him to simply keep holding the note and dropping his hand to his side.
“Kolian, you said,” the captain asked, his voice deep and threatening and bearing the mark of a long military career with many orders issued. He directed his horse next to Bayah, having the merchant uncomfortably look up at him. “In this part of the world there’s little difference between a Kolian and a spy.”
Both Bayah and Stah grazed on their teeth at the accusation. Archer felt the tension rise and their bodies stiffen at the insult, but none of them acted.
“You will come with us to the camp where you will be questioned. If you prove not to be spies then you will be released.” He looked at one of the horsemen and offered a quick nod. At the gesture the rider dismounted and approached Bayah with a set of chains to bind the travelers with.
The insult of the accusation and their abrupt stop was bearable by the proud Kolian, but the chains proved too much to tolerate and Bayah finally spoke up, “We’re not wearing those, Gallecian.” His voice was firm with determination and his posture no longer neutral. Archer could sense Bayah’s grip on his axe tighten under the heavy cloak. The riders seemed to him oblivious of the concealed weapon.
“Chain them,” the captain said, “and make certain the bonds are tight and uncomfortable.”
When the rider approached Bayah turned and swung a large axe at his head, decapitating him in a flash. “I said we won’t be chained.”
Blood spilled on the captain’s face. “Kill them!” he shouted.
At their captain’s command the riders attacked, their formation lost in the heat of the moment and their spears proving too slow to seriously wound the three travelers.
“Archer, make to the woods,” Stah cried, parrying a spear with his axe and flinging a throwing dagger at one of the riders attacking him. The dagger bounced off the steel visor harmlessly but staggered the rider. The short halt was enough for Stah to jump and wound his foe with a wide swing of his Kolian axe.
Archer ran to the woods, parrying and dodging the spears directed at him. A few pierces cut his leather armor and tested its usefulness. Archer later came to knew that his armor deflected many wounds that fight and might have saved his life. Commanded by their captain, the riders in pursuit momentarily abandoned their chase of Archer, allowing him to reach the woods, to focus on the two Kolians. From between the trees Archer saw the two Kolians valiantly fight and fall to the shiny spears of the Gallecian riders. Once the Kolians had perished the captain ordered several of his men into the woods in pursuit of Archer, and Archer ran further in.
7
On foot seven Gallecian soldiers pursues a tattooed man. Their heavy armor weighed them down and their pace was kept slow and even. As in most Gallecian troops, the soldier with the most time of service took command, unless they were officers or given exclusive authority over the troop, breaking the ancient tradition.
One of the Gallecians ordered four others to diverge into groups of two in an attempt to encircle their target and cut his retreat. The other two continued after Archer alongside their temporary captain.
The veteran looked ahead and saw a trail of dust and gliding dead leaves leading to the pursued and followed it as hastily as he could manage with his heavy outfit. His eyes periodically wandered off at the general direction of the two groups he had ordered to break off. In one of his checks he lost vision of one of the coupled soldiers and assumed their path led them away. He continued to run with each breath growing heavier and exhaustion slowing him. He was older than the others, by a decade or so, and his youthful vitality long gone. He ordered the other two ahead and attempted to hide his true intention behind the command. He wanted to catch his breath without alerting the others of his condition. Without revealing any sign of awareness of how tired their captain was, the other two young soldiers obeyed the command and disappeared into the thick brush ahead.
The captain held his knees and put his weight on them, taking deep breaths and regaining some motivation to continue pursuing the tattooed man. Loud screams ahead alerted him and brushed the exhaustion away. He rushed towards the sounds, fearing his captain’s punishment should he ever uncover his abandonment of his small troop.
He jogged ahead, nearly stumbling on a fallen tree’s branch and stirring much dust, and reached the grim site of two dead soldiers. The ones who had guarded him just a few moments ago were impaled by their own weapons, one with a spear fastening him into a tree, its shaft dug deep into his chest, and the other had a severed arm laying a few feet away from his body with a short sword imbedded deep into the back of his neck. A few white feathers were scattered near the grim site which he quickly dismissed as a natural occurrence in a forest inhabited by several different kinds of avian.
His fear of punishment by his superiors grew and he desperately followed the trail of broken branches and heavy footsteps until he reached his target.
Archer stood ready, waiting, with a short blade in hand. The sword was of foreign make to the Gallecian, but he never doubted its sharpness and quickly unsheathed his weapon, a standard Gallecian steel sword with little effort to decorate it other than a crimson-trimmed leather strap used to improve its wielder’s grip.
“In the name of the Emperor I command you to surrender,” the Gallecian said, earning himself no response from the armed man.
“What Emperor?” a voice behind him whispered.
While quickly turning to identify the source of the words the Gallecian’s life was ended, but not before he saw a large white wing flashing before his eyes.
Part II: Trickles Ahead
Chapter 6: With Cunning Deceit
‘To you, my friend, there is nothing I need to ask of you, for I know how well you will care for my children.’ Letters of Sol: to Warchief.
1
It was early in Gallecia, and that meant empty streets. The wind blew through the pleasantly cool city and carried the smell of sweet bread in the making. Some birds sang and roosters crowed from the farms beyond the black walls. Yet in the throne room there was no such serenity.
An
echo reverberated within the walls of the castle where the Emperor stayed. “You incompetent fool!” it said. The sound of a wrathful slap on bare skin followed.
“How dare you allow them to escape? How dare you fail me again?” Malus was infuriated by the news he had just received from Gullveig.
Humiliated and beaten, Gullveig looked at the Emperor with much spite, barely holding herself from sounding her true feelings, and said, “They were aided by a Walkyrien.”
Malus looked at Teeban, who stood silently in the corner, observing his protégé. “See what incompetence I have to endure. How can one manage an empire with such servants who fail at even the simplest of tasks?”
The humanoid dragon offered only a smile in response, standing still in his white robes which dragged behind him whenever he walked.
“Gullveig, I gave you command of this mission as a test to see if you were competent enough to take Daphne’s place as leader of the Silver Stags.” He anxiously walked to and fro ahead of the throne. “Do you have any idea where they might be now?”
“Deep in Parthan territory.”
“Then why did you not follow them!” shouted Malus, with great rage that echoed through the halls even more violently than his previous shout.
“I did not want to further complicate your situation with Partha.”
“Why do you test my influence so? Are the Parthans not my subjects like all others in Nosgard? Do they not bow to me like everyone else?”
“Forgive me, Emperor, for I am ignorant in the subject of politics.”
“And many other things it seems.”
“Give me another chance,” the Silver Stag pled, bowing her head even lower as she knelt.
“If you fail me once more, you and your sisters will be executed.” He turned his back on her and looked at the courtyard from his large window, where Gullveig’s band remained. “There is no place for the weak in my empire.”
“Thank you for your kindness,” Gullveig forced herself to say.
“Remove yourself from my sight at once.” Malus rudely gestured at the Silver Stag.
Gullveig stood up, with wounded pride and much contempt towards the Emperor whom she was only bound to by the love and loyalty she had for his father. Started leaving after offering a quick formal salute.
“One more thing,” said Malus to the departing warden. “Never doubt the span of my influence again.”
Gullveig nodded and left.
“You handled this perfectly,” Teeban said, maintaining his menacing smile.
“I find it important to always remind my subjects of their station. They must be scolded and punished at every failure and made to crave my approval.” Malus looked at his advisor intently and said, “Thank you for teaching me how to lead in my late father’s stead. I do not know what I would have done without you.”
“I do what my heart tells me is just and true.”
Malus clenched his fists and struck at an imperial flag hung on a silver stand. With a violent clang it fell on the floor, stand, flag and all. “How dare the Ichneumon Order spit on my father’s name so?”
“They think themselves dragon hunters.” Teeban laughed menacingly. “You know well that they seek to create a rift between us.”
“I will allow no such rift to be made. Will you help me prevent it?”
Teeban smiled and nodded.
2
Commander Chordus Cestus was no longer the man Duke Constantine had confined in back when he had supported his election as the leader of the Peacekeeper Core. When the Demigod Emperor Servak fell many of those who served him loyally in life proved incapable of doing so in death. Commander Chordus Cestus was one such man, but he had never been given the opportunity to truly choose whom he served. He was faithful to the Peacekeeper cause, in a way, but his aversion to war and strife blinded him, as Duke Constantine later declared.
When a Gallecian officer commanding a large force directed at Fort Pax met with the Commander, telling him of how her army surrounded the Peacekeepers and that an inquisition against anyone who had ever served the Peacekeepers was ready at hand, the Peacekeepers changed their stance towards the Emperor. Knowing the Emperor’s dark nature, the Commander understood that this would not only affect the Peacekeepers, but also anyone who the Emperor felt threatened by, for there was nothing to stop him from accusing his enemies of serving the Peacekeeper Core.
Commander Chordus, being a man of loose ideals, agreed to open the gates of Fort Pax to the Gallecians and avoid open war where his forces would be trapped within the fort, the Gallecians left to ravage the lands as they saw fit. He saw that there was no hope for the Peacekeepers to win such a war. The issue of Archer had been all but forgotten and Servak’s will considered fulfilled, for after Archer’s escape he made no effort to find him and no attempt to hold his companions from leaving.
“The Peacekeepers no longer oppose you,” a woman said. Manevra entered the throne room without announcement. She was the leader of the Gallecian forces prepared to assault Fort Pax, and one of the few generals whose ambition had been noted by Teeban. Manevra was of an age in which the rashness of youth would not be expected nor the burden of the years. Her hair bore a slight tint of red and was always bound and tucked into her shirt, as the warrior women of Gallecia often wore it. On her face she had a scar, a slash from a blade which nearly claimed her eye, and the shade of many days spent under the sun. She wore not the Gallecian chainmail typical of their military, but a masterwork plate armor she had inherited from her warrior mother. There were many dents on her armor, each with a story of its own, but none stayed for long as she always had it repaired whenever opportunity arose.
“Manevra, you did well.” With a simple wave, he dismissed the beautiful dancing girls entertaining him. Once they were all out, he asked, “Your casualties?”
“None.” Manevra, like her mother, never smiled or showed any sign of emotion. She always held a straight posture and a small frown on her face. When she spoke she spoke as few words as she managed and thought well before answering when unprepared.
His eyes grew wild with anticipation. “How so?”
“Fear, Emperor. Commander Chordus was a prude man who shied from battle.”
“So they will follow me now?”
“Not exactly.” She whistled and a Gallecian guard, clad in his white shining uniform, gave her a cloth-covered wicker basket. Manevra then removed the cloth, to reveal the contents hidden underneath. It was the head of the former Peacekeeper Commander, murky eyes still open in shock.
“A fitting end.” He smiled. “It matters not how you came to conquer Fort Pax, nor of how you intend to rule it. Yes, Manevra, I wish you to keep your forces there and have it used as a stronghold to hold the Parthans in check.”
“I shall make it strong for you, Emperor.”
“Now return to Fort Pax and rid it from every trace of those arrogant Peacekeepers. Raise the red and the wolf instead of that abominable eye.”
Manevra saluted the Emperor, by tapping her chest twice, and left.
“Summon Teeban immediately,” Malus commanded.
The guard immediately left his post.
Teeban received the news and reported to the Emperor a while later, making no haste in answering the summons.
Wearing a long white costume, dragging behind him as he walked and collecting dust, Teeban entered the throne room. He smiled and offered but a slight nod at the Emperor. Malus responded in kind.
“Fort Pax is ours once more, but we still need to capture this Archer boy.”
“Have you called me here just to inform me of this minor victory?”
The Emperor was mad at the condescending tone of his advisor, but he dared not risk the alliance between him and the Sky Wing and thus never retorted. “It was no minor matter. Not a single soldier was lost and we have the head of one of our enemies.” He pointed at the gift given to him by Manevra.
“Yet no news about the outlaws. You underestimate the danger they
pose. They cannot be allowed to roam free for long, not if you intend to avoid rebellion.”
“Then help me!” shouted Malus.
Teeban smiled and said, “Our help requires resources, resources we are not willing to spend considering the current economic situation of the Sky Wing.”
“Forgive me. I still know little of the Sky Wing.” Malus then stood up, removed Chordus’ head from the basket and placed it on a slab of marble serving as a table next to him. “What if we provide you with the necessary resources?” He looked at the head and started arranging its hair.
“Then we can come to an arrangement, but first I will need to return to my people.” While he walked away, the dragon looked back and added, “We expect to be paid in gold.”
“I agree to whatever terms.”
Teeban nodded and left, a tiny crack of a smile escaping him.
3
The sound of clashing steel echoed in the imperial training grounds. It was a daily routine for the Emperor to train with his mentor, a Turian who had devoted himself to Servak shortly after the Ancient’s War.
Malus was no match for the seasoned veteran, even when he held back to avoid wounding his student’s insatiable sense of pride. Duels were quick, lasting no more than seven clashes between weapons, regardless of the Emperor’s choice of weaponry. He chose to fight with two small blades, claiming that it provided him with the advantage of quickly ending the fight, a true claim for a true master - which he was not. It was the same way Servak had fought at first, before age made him slow and changed his preference to the long sword, the noblest of weapons.
“You are holding back. Do not patronize me,” Malus said in anger between two deep breaths. Sweat rolled from his forehead and fell freely on his tunic after traveling the contortions of his face.
