Part 2
-You were up on that tree-
-
‘Known’ Aken hierarchy*
During the two hundred years war**
Based on information found in the Imperial Records
Patriarch Mardoth, the ‘Molded’ | the Aken 17th ruler of the Elders
Matriarch*** Unexo-Toon | the Aken 17th Amaltur
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Elders of Galith
Permanent Council
Nizurgo (29th Amaltur, Zana’koon)
Zargatoh (34th Amaltur, Khix’roon)
Hegenazeg (35th Amaltur, Yiggi’moon)
War Shamans – Generals
Operated away from Galith & were elevated during wartime
General Ruakanoh (1st Sarco-Carasta) ****
General Suharto (2nd Sarco-Carasta)
Grogoceq (Suharto’s Acolyte)
Sercogez (Ruakanoh’s Acolyte)
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*The Aken while not asexual –one could argue quite the opposite, they rarely procreate –or at all- due to an extreme lack of females of their own species. Their numbers are always nearer to a complete extinction than not, but due to their uncanny ability to multiply their original bodies with lesser variants/copies, they maintain a steady population into their cities.
An Elder of Galith –usually a very skilled Bonemancer- could eventually become the Patriarch, if the old patriarch perished somehow. To reach elder status though, first an Aken female must choose one of the older and more skilled Aken males to be her partner, and then a vote is held to fill one of the empty positions. If such a position isn’t vacant, the Aken must wait for its turn. Not a traditional marriage by the human, or the dwarf standards -the Zilan left room for maneuvering, whilst the Gish have no such concept, the Aken Matriarchs could always pick another partner, the moment they felt dissatisfied from their current partner. To avoid this humiliating demotion in status from the loss of their Matriarch partner, the Aken males were usually willing to allow the much sought after Matriarchs to indulge themselves freely. Without a Matriarch’s favor, no Aken could become an Elder, or eventually the Patriarch.
**Only partial official records survived Wetull’s destruction pertaining to the conflict with the Aken, known as the ‘Plague Isles campaign’, or the ‘War for Sibara’. 18 centuries into King Ninthalor’s reign, after twenty three years of disagreements and tensions between the local Zilan and Aken, a war broke out after a sudden armed Zilan expedition in 1793 IC took over the city (organized by ships of the Imperial Trading Company). The localized conflict birthed an all-out war before 1798 IC for control of the distant island chain for both races that would last until 2005 IC, ending with the treaties of High Priestess Edlenn in 2008 IC that were co-signed by Queen Baltoris.
The Elders of Galith, already embroiled in the ‘Endless War’ against the Lords of the Alafern, had initially dispatched Zargatoh to the islands -a controversial Galith Elder, in order to find a diplomatic solution. Zargatoh, the leader of the belligerent expansionist faction in the rigid Aken hierarchy (they advocated a lunge away from the set-in-stone borders of Mistland), is considered one of the most talented Bonemancers in Aken history, a true dark-arts savant & innovator. Zargatoh is also regarded as a dangerous avant-gardist for his extensive use of more than one self-copies/constructs of himself (doppelgangers), an experimental, previously banned practice, who still went against the Aken religion and customs of ‘small controlled stables’. With time and maturity the mind-leash on each construct (more so a doppelganger) waned and it needed constant vigilance to maintain it, or even a mind-wipe.
Zargatoh didn’t believe, or care about any of that. The latter practice mimicked by his cadre of supporters (Suharto, Grogoceq etc.) soon after. Zargatoh was also perhaps familiar with the Zilan Empire’s limitations and intricacies through his own personal experience near Raza Sapthan, the mythical pre-imperial Zilan sorcerer Kallister, who had travelled to Mistland centuries before the First Era. The younger Zargatoh had acted as the esteemed Zilan visitor’s guide.
Zargatoh and his cohorts fought an excellent campaign in Plague Isles against the Imperial Forces for about forty years, completely cut off from reinforcements and with a collapsing support back in Galith, where the upper echelon of the Aken hierarchy had started suspecting Zargatoh had provoked the war and then used it to further his and Suharto’s experiments –through the relaxation of rules due to casualties.
To mitigate the spread of these negative reports one of Zargatoh’s constructs (or even himself) returned to Mistland -using a Cofol merchant ship to reach Galith and finally Nascra-Ilme its capital. Facing stiff opposition by the other two Council Elders Hegenazeg and Nizurgo, but also the 1st Sarco-Carasta, General Ruakanoh, who at the time had trouble holding back the home-fronts against the cunning Alafern and the growing population of the Varg, the crafty Zargatoh proposed a critical strike against the Zilan mainland to either draw the King’s wyverns away from the Plague Isles easing Suharto’s effort, or completely take out the Zilan intelligentsia that vacationed at the picturesque island of Nureria.
While the daring strike was to fail eventually, some of Suharto’s war-constructs used for the invasion performed above all-expectations elevating Suharto’s status, but also that of his patron. The heavily-mutated hybrid soldiers that made it across the deep ocean were still considered a very blunt and brute approach, antithetical to the more thoughtful Aken character and while lauded publicly, Zargatoh’s ideas and faction gained little favor with the Aken patriarch Mardoth.
The latter found no usefulness in this costly leap to the new but very distant realms to pick another fight, when they couldn’t bring their many older enemies to heel in their own homeland. ‘We have humans here, even more to the east, yet we largely ignore them. To pick a fight against the dragon-riders of Wetull for an island few of us will ever behold in our lifetimes, reminds me of the story of the clever Aken explorer. In his attempt to prove he could skirt around Nigbau’s night hunters, he headed further south into the Wyvern Lands wearing a corpse’s skin to fool the wyverns and make the Alafern abandon their hunt. The Alafern did, but the hapless Aken got himself eaten soon after by a Hydra near the Sludge Lake. Teasing the god of Luck for no reason, is naught but an invitation to an even greater calamity.’
So as soon as the treaties were signed, Zargatoh, Suharto and his talented Acolyte Grogoceq, were ordered back to the homeland to assist with domestic affairs. Sercogez (Ruakanoh’s acolyte) was sent in their place with the help of human ships to control the Isles. Those of their doppelgangers not destroyed after the Onyx Wyvern’s purge (officially very few, none for Zargatoh, or Suharto), were ordered to return with them.
But they didn’t.
***Amal-Tur, Old Imperial translation of the Aken homophone word for the female leader of a house, a Matriarch. Nossetur is the word used for Patriarch. Despite the name, a Matriarch’s chances of conceiving a child are extremely low.
****Sarco-Carasta, the flesh engineers/crafters, were specialized in war Bonemancers, quasi-religious heads (to the Painted God) and therefore Shamans, of the Aken society. Instead of producing slave constructs used for work, or pleasure, the Shamans specialized in healing and war, depending on the circumstances. They stood just below the Elders of Galith (the academic and scholar members of their society) in station and during wartime were considered equals. They served as generals. The Aken Council was splintered in two factions, those wanting to continue the war against the ancient Alafern and those wishing for an end to it, or a dash towards ‘unexplored’, or ‘mature’ for the taking territories.
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‘Three’ was restless. Tin called the Nerot Brill ‘Three’, on account of now having six different Three’s to bother himself with, two pairs of William’s, one Baldrick –in his third iteration-, plus three different constructs named Percival, Hard and Hoskuld. After a while it all turned confusing even for him… ehem, to remember um… who was who.
Yep.
“More knights,” Brill said to the coughing to expel some of the phlegm from his esophagus Aken. “Nice armour.”
“We won’t engage them at this point,” Tin murmured peeking behind the tree at the riders passing them by.
“Attack the crews,” Brill noted slowly, his stiches bleeding through the lumps on his skin, where broken bones had to be replaced with others and the new flesh hadn’t fully integrated the foreign material causing inflammation and carcinogenic growths. “Kill the church leaders.”
“Uhm… yep.” Tin nodded. “A knight is more difficult to kill due to all the armour. It is just not as productive…ahm, beneficial. Aye.”
“Nice armour.”
Tin grimaced and glanced at the sullen construct. “I gave you all the good pieces… not easy to find whole armours with all the looters plaguing the fields. Eh… criminals… lawbreakers. Bugs… they are… Ah, like vermin, yes.” Tin grunted and paused with one eye closed, the other ogled, on his sweaty face. The latter ravaged by spasms and ticks due to lack of sleep, and severe blood-poisoning.
He was on the mend thankfully.
“Hmm.” Tin murmured and turned around to stare at the dark trees to their south. “The head spotted someone heading here.”
“Hunters?”
“Maybe… um, eah… order them to attack those robed cretins,” Tin grunted and turned to walk south following the forest path back towards the river.
“A distraction,” Brill ‘Three’ noted hoarsely.
“Aye... ahm… that’s it. Yes. So don’t go in at the same time.”
“Now?” Brill asked and got up.
Tin stared through the head’s eyes –he’d left it on a tree to check the path for any surprises- but the angle wasn’t favorable as this unknown group of hunters traveled parallel to the small trail and inside the treeline. Why not use the path, um? Sneaky... Hmm… “Yep. Now… if you can, take out the Assayer, then the machine crews. This is your priority.”
-
Sebastian ‘Oats’
Seb/Bastian
The ‘Squire’
Brother Sebastos
Seb’s scimitar slashed diagonally at the construct, hot blood spraying out of the ghastly chest wound and not a second later Brother Carlson arrived with a drawn-out howl, his bastard sword coming down alike a cleaver. The blade caught the construct at the right shoulder. It split the chainmail, broke the clavicle bone, shattered the scapula and sliced down through flesh and bone at least a foot.
The Construct went down to its knees letting go of Sebastian’s mauled throat and the squire stumbled to the side covered in gore, under the sound of horns that had sounded the alarm.
“Find out what’s going on Sir Brack,” Priest Flucht ordered the Templar and moved to assist Sebastian, just as Reinhart arrived.
“Damnation! Is this a real construct?” The young Inquisitor asked and Brother Carlson who had put a boot on the butchered Lorian’s back to extract his bastard sword, replied hoarsely sounding quite miffed.
“Let me guess,” Carlson taunted heaving the blade up and down with both hands to get it out. “The fact he kept running wit a big ole hole in his throat and a sword stuck on his back gave it away?”
Reinhart stepped back to avoid getting blood on his clothes and furrowed his brows. “Eh,” he managed to say with a crook of his mouth.
“The other went down easier,” the heavy-breathing Brother Falco murmured and stooped to get his shortsword out too, while Flucht examined Sebastian’s gore-covered face briefly and declared he was fine.
Brukel’s arrival with the horses soon after ended their silent inspection of the killed construct.
“They are attacking the machines,” the Reverend stated from the saddle. “We have to order everyone to move faster and notify Dumont to bring more soldiers forward.”
“No. We might damage the platforms,” Luikens said coming back. He had run away earlier and Sebastian glared at him annoyed, while Flucht reasoned in a more diplomatic undertone.
“You have to hurry up Luikens. Leave some of them back, if it comes down to it.”
“We’ve enough crews,” Luikens argued.
“At this point, aye we have. But this might change fast. Sacrifices are in order.”
The Assayer grimaced and then nodded. “I’ll need someone to get me on a horse,” he added and Brother Carlson turned to Brother Falco.
“Get the Assayer on that saddle friend,” he told his scowling colleague. “I’ll look to find a spare horse.”
“Falco can ride with me,” Luikens said and Carlson pursed his mouth.
“Uher provides,” he added in a chivalrous manner, lessened by a sly smirk. “You heard his holiness.”
-
The Nerot Unit came out of the woods mostly from the thicker east side of Hunter’s Path and attacked the rear and middle of the convoy. The machine crews along with the Deliverer platforms were placed in the procession’s center and while the Golden Spears soldiers pushed back their attackers, the engineering crews suffered casualties. Brother Dumont rushed forward reinforcements to fight off the Nerot warriors and Sir Aryan Verhagen’s Templars got involved as the whole convoy was ordered to march double time. Men and animals struggled forward under constant attacks by the Nerot, who despite suffering casualties as well, kept coming back.
Marcel Flucht sent a runner to Sir Albert Kosters’ men-at-arms to inform him of the ambush, but the Golden Spears cavalry wing had gotten in a scrap of their own in the meantime about four kilometers ahead of the main body, just as they arrived at the junction. Vellers Inquisitors had easily pushed aside the Khanate scouts guarding the east edge of the Maple Grove –this was part of the engagement fought in the center- and then headed for the path leading to the Crimson Forest junction, where the Hunter’s Path met Reb’s Trail. The moment they stepped out into the open, Tika-Phanti’s Cataphracts charged at them and Vellers men –they had come out of the woods on foot with most of their horses still at the rear- got mauled badly.
Fighting tenaciously half-inside the trees and half-outside, the Inquisitors stood their ground for a while in a losing affair, until Sir Albert Kosters riders arrived at the junction, noticed the raging battle and then struck at the backs of -the easy to discern from the Inquisitors- Phanti’s Cataphracts.
Afternoon
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Inquisitor Martin Bauman
“Here Martin!” Vellers roared for assistance as he’d been cornered by two Cataphracts that were now hacking at him from the saddle and the tensed Bauman swung the loaded crossbow towards the 2nd Brother’s position. He blinked, burning sweat running down his mail coif and the sight of Brother Timothy’s brains splattered on the old maple’s trunk rattling him. Then he pressed the lever and the crossbow jumped in his hands as it released its bolt.
It struck the Cataphract under the shoulder blade with a dull clang and the man shuddered losing control of his scimitar. Bauman dropped the crossbow next to a tree and stepped forward unsheathing his longsword. He heard the thudding of hooves over the sounds of battle, everything distorted because of the trees and twisted about, barely caught sight of a mountain of armoured flesh smashing on his left side. The next moment the Inquisitor was hurled three meters away with a pained grunt and hit the soft ground hard.
Bauman coughed, ears ringing and mouth flooded with blood and stood on a knee to watch with blurry eyes, the Cataphract halting half a dozen meters away, before turning his horse around. Bauman heard the strange hissing, when his ears popped and lowered his eyes on his chest where a piece of broken lance about a meter in length had sprouted. Blood sprayed out from the wound and the mangled plate creating a red mist, some of it had already painted the shaft a darker crimson red.
Uher’s mercy, the badly hurt Martin thought and the Cataphract tossed the useless shaft away to reach for a three-headed flail. He watched in slow motion as another Inquisitor on foot rushed his distracted opponent in the chaos and punctured the Khanate knight’s sides with a warspear. A strong heave, Brother De Hove could always handle all manner of weapons, and the fatally wounded Horselord was unceremoniously unhorsed.
“Bauman,” Sande De Hove rustled getting his own sword out. “Can you stand?”
“Reckon, I’m done,” Martin grunted, each rugged breath sending more blood out of his mouth and nose.
“Uher shall decide this brother,” De Hove retorted and flipped the sword to stab it down with both hands in order to finish off the Horselord. “I asked whether you can stand. A man should die on his feet.”
Alas, Brother De Hove’s skills didn’t include sugarcoating.
So Bauman faltered trying to find his footing with a groan of pain. “Aye,” the Inquisitor managed to say and then immediately collapsed.
-
The Nerot warrior, an Issir wearing Khanate armour, stepped out from behind a tree and cut off the screaming engineer’s path. The hunted man yelped and raised both arms to protect himself whilst trying to stop. It didn’t help him much as the construct that hoisted a large wood-cutting axe swung it with both arms and chopped both the engineer’s arms above the wrists, afore the axe’s bit sunk into the man’s face. The top part of his head exploded in a splash of gore and broken pieces of skull, brains and skin with hair still attached on it, rained on the charging Sebastian.
The construct snapped with both arms to yank the axe back, just as the roaring squire leaped over the collapsing engineer, through the red mist, and brought his longsword down grasping at the handle with both hands.
Sebastian crashed on the construct next, fresh gore splashing his face and snarling mouth. He used the jammed sword to keep his balance when the construct buckled to the ground, only letting go to roll on the leaf-covered earth and unsheathe the scimitar.
The adrenalin and righteous indignation at the carnage he’d just witnessed fueling the young squire’s resolve.
“Praised be Uher, he who set all things aright!” Sebastian bellowed and hacked at the attempting to stand, despite the sword buried in his head construct. A severed at the elbow arm dropped between them. “May all thrive under the Gods Father Light!” He chanted furious and severed the construct’s other arm off as well with a timely chop.
“Bastian!” Reinhart yelled a warning and the squire twisted about determined, parried the sneaking up on him construct’s slash –another Issir, this one wearing local armour and wielding an army sword- and retaliated with a savage cut of his own. The scimitar carved a deep wound on his opponent’s protruding chin, detaching the lower part of his mouth and teeth, but after staggering back a couple of steps, the construct –now sporting another gruesome wound- came at him again.
“Cast aside the wickedness of the weak!” Sebastian hummed and sidestepped on instinct, months of rigorous training and multiple daily sessions with Sir Thor and Sir Luppe paying dividends now. Sebastian had never missed a day of learning. Whether it was arms, or riding, letters, then reading and chanting psalms. Uher had reached and had plucked the former stray orphan from the streets. Offered him a chance to serve and become something useful. He wasn’t going to squander it.
The construct missed and the squire opened up a deep gush with the scimitar on his opponent’s right side. The curved blade exposing the Construct’s bloody ribs. Always moving Sebastian rounded the slowed-down creature, raised the sword with both arms and hacked at its exposed back with all his might.
The force of the blow broke his blade, but left the front part of the sword deeply wedged in the shuddering construct’s spine. The Issir-looking man collapsed on his face and the chanting Sebastian stabbed him again with the broken sword right at the nape.
Gaze at the aberrant heathen hanged from the butcher’s meak.
“By all that is holy!” Reinhart exclaimed and halted beside him, brandishing an elegant longsword with an ivory grip, its pommel adorned with a finely crafted Uher’s Ankh. “Goodness gracious, Bastian,” the young Inquisitor apprentice added with a gasp -Reinhart was set to be officially inducted as a full brother after the battle- his voice filled with awe. “You fight like a demon!”
Breathing heavily and smeared with blood, Sebastian shot a disapproving glance at the pristine Reinhart. A silent stare, heavy with judgment.
“I meant to say like a saint, of course,” Reinhart quickly amended with a nervous smile. However, his expression twisted into a grimace of anguish, when the desperate cries of the wounded reached his ears. The skirmish was winding down, as Dumont’s soldiers had successfully pushed back the constructs. Sadly, two of the Deliverers’ crews had been lost, but the remaining civilians and engineers of the Order -now highly motivated- had intensified their efforts to get the machines out of the forest path.
“Move them animals!” Falco yelled, pulling at the leading mule’s cheek-straps hard to get it going. The wheeled-platforms weaved and bobbed over the disturbed dirt road. Placed timber snapped under the weight and soft earth turned to mire from the humidity of the approaching river.
The junction was close, but not close enough.
A tired Sebastian returned near Skipper, his horse was tied behind one of the Deliverer’s and Brukel rode near him, the priest’s robes covered in dirt and drying up gore.
“You need to head back to Sir Thor,” the priest said, but Sebastian set his feet stubbornly.
“I can help here,” he told Brukel.
“Very well. Head for the front of the convoy then,” the priest decided. “See to stay near Luikens and Flucht. Take Reinhart to back you up.”
Sebastian grimaced and glanced at the approaching Reinhart, the mounted Inquisitor busy examining the edges of the forest with nervous eyes.
“What about you priest?”
Brukel shook his head. “I’ll check up on Brother Tanner. They keep harassing his soldiers.”
“How many are they?” Sebastian queried and Falco, who had managed to get the mule going in the meantime, replied hoarsely.
“The brothers claim these are same heathens from before. A guy Carlson had cut down fer sure, came back with his arm re-attached!”
“Aye!” Another Golden Spears soldier exclaimed through gritted teeth. “Fully breathing milords!”
“So what? Praised be Uher! We’ll cut them down again,” Brukel retorted and glared at the frowned soldier. “Keep your eyes open here Falco. Sebastos, you’ll either get back to Sir Thor, or you’ll get on that horse and ride to the front of the convoy!” He warned Sebastian next and the latter puffed out, afore he jumped on Skipper’s saddle.
“Most of the men have no idea what we’re facing,” Sebastian griped to Reinhart some minutes later, their horses trotting by the long row of machines, wagons and animals. Dumont’s soldiers marched next to the spooked crews as well with their weapons drawn. The convoy slowly stretching out more and more, as injured men and broken wagons with supplies and ammunition were left behind.
“We can’t just tell them,” Reinhart explained, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “It’ll turn a heroic exodus and win, into something less palatable.”
So what? The people should know the truth.
Sebastian glanced at the young Issir. “Eh,” Reinhart continued. “You’ve read the story, surely heard a bit of it by now. Everyone says you’re smart. Anyways, the Aken were but briefly mentioned. The much-more known around these parts Zilan assumed their role as the top boogieman. We won against them, but we run from the Aken. When the surviving records were compiled, Reinut didn’t like what he read, or feared this could potentially negatively affect his later reputation and ordered the stories scrapped. It wasn’t unjustifiable. The Zilan are monsters. They do eat people and use foul magic, same as the Aken. Nobody liked the Imperials and the Lorians weren’t too interested to learn about the Old Realms. But for Veturius that is.”
“You used present tense,” Sebastian noted. “Are there still Zilan in Wetull?”
He’d heard some of the monks talk about the King beyond the Pale Mountains.
“Brother Bastian, you’re a learned man,” Reinhart taunted. “There are.”
“And Wyverns?” Sebastian queried and Reinhart shrugged his shoulders.
“That’s the word. The rebel princess works with them,” he finally said, breathing out.
“Why?” Sebastian couldn’t understand how a princess of Kaltha could do that. “She should have strived to help us here. Is the princess that greedy and desperate to take the throne that she’ll side with our enemies?”
“A good lineage can produce bad fruits and I used the term good, loosely here,” Reinhart replied sullenly and stopped his horse near that of Sir Aryan Verhagen. The Master Templar watched the leading oxen-drawn Deliverers hurry down the path towards the junction from atop his majestic warhorse.
“Vellers almost reached the junction,” Verhagen told them, when he spotted Reinhart. “Are you on a stroll Disciple? Enjoying the country perchance?”
“We fought hundreds of constructs to get here Master Aryan,” a chastised Reinhart replied with a blush.
“I find that hard to believe,” Verhagen grunted not convinced. “Anyways, Vellers got himself in trouble and Sir Kosters had to intervene. If this here drags out, we might have to spend the night in the woods and we can’t afford it. We have about three hours of good light. We need to make the most of it.”
“I don’t think anyone could sleep under these conditions, Master Aryan,” Reinhart replied smartly and the Templar’s eyes behind the visor turned cold.
“There shall be no sleeping Kelholt,” Verhagen rustled. “And no stops. We’ll be at Reb’s today, even if we have to fight through the Khan’s whole army.”
“Praised be the Five,” Reinhart replied respectfully and bowed his head. He waited for Sir Verhagen to ride away and then turned to the frowned Sebastian. The young squire had his attention drawn on a strange movement about twenty meters away, and on top of a huge Maple tree. “Darn it, I can’t stand these rigid motherfuckers. What is it Bastian?”
“There’s someone up on that tree,” Sebastian murmured, narrowing his eyes. “Stood on a branch for a moment and then jumped.”
Reinhart nodded. “Well, I wager he didn’t make it,” the Inquisitor-to-be finally decided, after he failed to spot whatever Sebastian had seen and pursing his mouth Reinhart added. “Which is a figure of speech obviously, since us Inquisitors don’t wager, Brother Bastian.”
“I’m well aware Reinhart,” Sebastian retorted a little frustrated with his arrogant tone. “It’s a sin. Did you just slip up there?”
“Hah. Of course not, my young squire. Was just checking up on you,” a peeved Reinhart mumbled –obviously lying again, which was another sin- and then they both watched in frozen disbelief a spear fly silently out of the woods, travel briefly in the air and skewer a mounted Templar right through the torso.
A robust silhouette emerged from the edge of the forest, clad in various pieces of armour. Even from twenty meters away, Sebastian instantly recognized who he was and a shiver danced down his spine. It was Brill, yet again restored in some mysterious way. The construct raised a beefy arm and pointed a finger at the aloof Luikens –the Grand Archivist was busy re-distributing a mule’s load to several other animals, under the watchful eyes of Marcel Flucht- and right behind him a lot more armed constructs appeared.
“Oh… shit,” Reinhart gasped and reached for his longsword, just as the silent mass of Nerot warriors charged at the front of the convoy.
Verhagen’s warhorse crashed on the charging constructs, five more Templars following right behind him. Broken bodies were tossed aside, lances snapped and stitched limbs detached. Sebastian rode against Brill with the cursing Reinhart at his side. He hacked at a construct sprinting towards the yelling crews and his sword clanged on a helm. The impact made Sebastian’s torso twist right and when he snapped himself forward again, bobbing up and down the saddle, Brill was but two meters away.
The construct had another spear in his hands and heaved it forward against the onrushing Skipper. The horse turned to avoid it, but got hit on the chest with a thud and shuddered, its legs buckling. The snarling Sebastian slashed at Brill, who dodged and moved out of the way. The next moment Skipper’s legs gave and Sebastian was tossed from the saddle with a yelp.
He plunged for the ground abruptly, somehow rolled on a shoulder at the last moment to avoid breaking his neck, and the hard tumble knocked the wind out of him. Sebastian skimmed on mire and rotten leaves for five meters, lost the handle of his sword and crashed on the legs of a construct that stood next to a thick trunk.
The squire jumped on his feet dazed, next to the also attempting to stand construct, went to punch the Lorian’s right ear, but failed and went back down on his arse again.
“Gah,” Sebastian grunted, his ears ringing and the ground still spinning.
The construct gave him a blank stare and then turned around to hurry after his comrades towards the convoy. With a desperate cry, the squire stumbled after him, paused a stride in and turned around to look for his sword. The sounds of heavy fighting swirled about him. Swords clanged and people yelled in panic, or rage.
Sebastian found the blade and went after the unnamed construct and Brill. The moment he stepped out of the shade cast by the last of the large trees, it was a sunny afternoon everywhere but inside the Crimson Forrest, he saw a half-furious half freaked out Reinhart had attacked the construct.
“Brill!” Sebastian barked at the young Inquisitor, who didn’t even look his way.
“Fuck off Bastian, I’m busy!” The mounted Reinhart cursed attacking the construct with heavy chops. Three times his sword had connected with the warrior’s head and had left a gory mess behind. “Just… fucking… die!” A snarling Reinhart growled trying to keep his horse from panicking from all the violence.
Sebastian hurried near him and shoved the construct down. He stepped on his back to prevent it from standing up, parried Reinhart’s sword away and then flipped the point of his own blade down, in order to ram it through the quaking Lorian’s back.
“Calm down!” He barked at the sweaty, freaked out Reinhart. “You almost took my head off!”
“Is it dead?” Reinhart croaked, his eyes blinking.
“I don’t know,” Sebastian replied and turned around to head after Brill. The construct had slipped through the Templars and the soldiers hastily formed lines, sprinted near the platforms and the squire spotted him ducking under a wagon’s falling tongue to get on the other side of the path.
Already thirty meters away. Sebastian’s eyes located the alert to the danger Assayer slipping away towards the west side of the woods, but Brill appeared to also have a lock on him.
He’s not making it this time, Sebastian thought.
“That gutless fool is gonna just make it easier for Brill,” Sebastian cursed and started to go after the fast-moving Brill, but Reinhart’s shocked puff stopped him again. A strangely melodic voice was heard next, just as Sebastian twisted around alarmed.
Each word laced with an alien accent, like notes played on a harp, they lingered well after they were spoken.
“Who is he after?” The female voice had queried.
“Goodness me,” a bewildered Reinhart mumbled. “Are those real ears?”
They were.
They even move.
Whoa.
The strange creature was armed with a longbow and was clad in a tight-fitting, dark-green intricate armour, made out of soft interlaced leather strips.
Sebastian had never seen such an armour before.
“You were up on that tree,” Sebastian noted, lost into the creature’s large gleaming eyes.
You jumped down from over twenty meters high.
“I was,” she replied and slightly raised a blue eyebrow amused, although her sober face appeared to demand an answer to her previous query.
“The Assayer. He’s heading for the woods,” Sebastian replied and she signed for him to step out of her way with a curt shake of her blue head. The squire obliged without hesitation and the mounted Reinhart was heard muttering just as the alien creature raised her longbow, whispered something in a strange tongue and then loosed the arrow.
“She’s a Zilan,” the comically grimacing Reinhart declared barely getting the words out, eyes gawking and mouth left gaping as if he just had a stroke. “Fucking all-hells!”
Sebastian's eyes had followed the arrow’s trajectory and didn’t answer. It flew over twenty meters of clearance on the east side, then the flattened ten meters of the widened path. Ever rising, it zipped over the scattered wagons, the still moving wheeled-platforms and the Issirs fighting with the attacking constructs. Beyond the screaming civilians and after the running after the Assayer -gaining with each long, heavy stride- distant figure of Brill.
Suddenly, the arrow swooped down sharply and shot straight into the construct, nailing Brill at the nape and forcing him to his knees. He quickly regained his balance, but before he could fully recover, another arrow shot right through his right shoulder and span him around. In rapid succession, three more arrows followed, with two of them striking Brill on the head.
Sebastian stared in astonished disbelief, but just as he attempted to turn his gaze towards the Zilan woman, she zipped past him, her bow already strapped to her back. One hand steadied her quiver while the other brandished a unique short-shafted axe. With the speed of a gazelle and the help of those long legs, she darted between horses and battling warriors, then gracefully vaulted over a wagon, landing effortlessly on the other side like a skilled acrobat. In an instant, she was close to the fallen Brill, and this at last snapped the entranced Sebastian out of his daze.
-
Nestled within the dense greenery, the head’s milky eyes remained motionless. Plump insects had gorged themselves to its fleshy parts, crawling along the leafy branch that hung over the narrow side path. This path, run parallel to the one known as the Hunter’s Path, had been carved out by the movements of small creatures. Up ahead, the sounds of battle echoed from the front of the convoy, where Brill’s warriors had launched their assault.
Three hundred meters away.
Hmm.
Tin checked on the head’s condition, but the half-completed construct’s flesh had fouled from the summer’s heat and the forest’s humidity. Plus the insects had eaten away the best parts and awakened white worms would finish off the rest.
Eh.
Um.
He used his staff to push some of the thinner branches aside in order to examine the small trail underneath. Percival ‘Three’, who stood twenty meters away, south of Tin’s position, saw a figure stir in the semi-darkness, amidst the trees and went to move, but Tin took control of his mind to stop him.
Tin looked through the construct’s eyes at the stranger sitting by the fallen tree trunk.
Aha!
Sneaky-sneaky.
Uhm.
The Zilan looked pretty bored, but Tin wasn’t going to be fooled by that pathetic attempt at an ambush. He left Percival alone and slowly opened his bag of bones with his free hand. Using his outstretched leg, Tin slowly pushed the now useless ‘scout’ he’d left behind, until the rotten head dislodged from the stub Tin had nailed it on and dropped from the branch.
Tom had served his purpose, but he could still provide some service.
Yep.
Tom’s head tumbled down the whole eleven meters, through soft twigs and moist leaves and landed several feet from the thick, moss-covered tree trunk. The new noise almost lost amidst the nearby sounds of battle coming from the north of the path and the more distant clamor of struggle coming from the southwest.
Almost…
But not quite, Tin thought playing with the bones at the tips of his fingers.
Time to investigate, you nosy visitor.
What could the strange sound be?
Um?
Yep.
And the fancy dressed -for a ranger- Zilan stood up to investigate.