War and Tricksters

“War is the finest form of art ever known to man, its author irony itself. Able to slaughter tens of thousands, yet capable of saving millions.”

~Erasmus Eliaden

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A Ranger’s Tale

“War is nigh, the crows both its heralds and guard,” sighs Joes Mouriz, steely gaze intensifying as a familiar figure graces his presence.

“Ever a poet I see,” smirks Tristan Ajax, “My boss sends her apologies for her inability to say hi.”

“A silent apology no doubt,” quips Joes, stoicism masking his chagrin, “Let’s talk, Sudhlit.”

“Just the two of us?”

“Yes. Just the two of us.”

“A little wonder you didn’t choose a whorehouse instead,” whistles the Sudhlit in mock disappointment.

“Wouldn’t want my wife to catch me with my pants down,” grunts the Gaffer of Stamford, “Don’t worry. Drinks are on me.”

“Now we’re truly talking.”

)0(

Nary a joy is present, Edwood remains a fortress and glory dead. Gone are the bloodied stumps of men, screams of women being ravished muted. The Homm’Eot have proclaimed themselves kings over every maiden, even girls young as twelve winters or ten. A pride now broken, never shall clear blue skies visit the island boasting cedar and fir.

Mink stares impassively towards a scene otherwise commonly seen in Histalonia, he finds it nevertheless amusing to see a stunted ruler ploughing a filly much to his vassals’ boisterous glee. The lass is quite pretty, dark brown hair dishevelled failing to obscure her beauty. If not for Eliador’s orders, the girl would have found herself in the best whorehouse Histalonia has to offer.

Remember, my foul little ferret. Do not disturb a stunty while he’s fucking.

This was another of the Serpent’s warning, how Mink wishes it to be otherwise. Blocking himself away from the revelry, Mink loses count of time until a rough shove pushes him onto the ground.

Horny stunties… I’d have castrated you all and see for myself whether there’s any woman wearing a beard. Fuck you and your orders, gay Elf.

With mental greetings finished, Mink dusts his pants. Smiling with a glowering face, Eliador’s urchin messenger nevertheless enjoys every Dwarven glare. No matter how barbaric, any race blessed with common sense would be cursed with trappings of protocol. There’s no chance in hell these stunties will try a knife on him even though they know perfectly well what the Serpent has done to spite them.

Even if they dare, I’ll slice off their cocks, balls and all.

“Relay us your master’s message and scram like a mangy whelp you are, dog.”

Caarl Ironstone isn’t one for niceties, Mink is fine with it. He cares not whatever damning assessment a slippery snake reserved for some ruler’s undeserving next of kin, all this feral urchin wants is to kill off this diplomatic prattle soon as possible. After all, assassins are not meant to play politics.

Unless he happens to be that asshole paying me.

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“What?” hollers an irate Ian Holls, his side failing to act up, “Are you mad, black cur?”

Joes Mouriz curses that day where the Grand Damsel healed his brethren in arms, which happens to be the previous morn. Apparently, he’d never taken into account the nature of magic. As he looks on in irritation, the Gaffer of Stamford can only acknowledge Tristan Ajax’s stoicism erected against Ian’s verbal siege.

This is not a jester or mere soldier, but someone ten times greater and more dangerous.

Wearied patience at last ceding ground to nerves akin to a rope held taut above a candle flame, Joes Mouriz bangs his callused fist against the wooden table. His show of anger reverberating throughout the bar, only a fool would dare mock an older man’s impatience.

“Impatient, aren’t we?” shrugs the Sudhlit with a flippant tone, his expression retaining its dour visage nonetheless. In a momentary loss in composure, Joes Mouriz feels like throttling Tristan Ajax on the spot. Quintet Church or no Quintet Church, it doesn’t matter.

“This is no time for theatrics, so save it for your whores.”

Recognising the speaker all too well, the situation promptly becomes a case of three Red Lions versus one Sudhlit of unknown calibre. If there is anything Joes feared the most, it would be Fergie Malom’s arrogance combined with Ian Holls’ volatility. He has seen plenty of characters within the past two decades or so, be they dangerous fools or talented men equally so. This Sudhlit before him certainly acts like the former, the latter he hides behind a crafty mask.

“Let’s get down to business then, shall we?”

Tone suddenly merging with expression, Tristan Ajax knows what it means to force every opponent on his back foot. And to think idiots tend to call this an act of war without understanding the meaning behind that damning word. Fingering his longbow like a lover caressing the loved, the Sudhlit snaps his fingers audibly. A map materialises abruptly on the table, every boundary and fort illuminated in cyan ink.

“Wha…”

“What kind of sorcery is this?” says Tristan, bemusement briefly supplanting a sombre visage true, “You don’t have to ask, Ian Seasider. And neither Fergie Manchester nor Joes Stamford needs to as well.”

Understanding the manner of irony behind the Sudhlit’s words, the trio chooses to stay silent. If only this annoying bugger isn’t here in the name of the Church, they whisper in their hearts. And hopefully the entire bar doesn’t erupt into hysteria, notes a sardonic Joes Mouriz.

“Within a year of reclamation, Edwood ended up back in the stunties’ hands…”

“Shut the fuck up, you black shit! Tell us what’s important,” retorts Ian, guttural growls accompanying his unravelling patience.

“I’m getting to that,” replies Tristan, Ian Holls’ insult unable to wound his pride, “The reason why Blomfeld is in full alert is because…”

“WHY YOU LITTLE…”

His fury at last unleashed, the Gaffer of Seaside cares not for self-image or etiquette. Rising to his feet, the towering Kalaran places his hammy hands around Tristan’s neck. What happens next turns out to be a blur for both strangler and victim, but not to Fergie and Joes.

Vision finally clearing up, Tristan massages his neck after a coughing fit. If looks can kill, Ian Holls will be it. Yet, he has gone through worse and survived the worst. From his homeland down south till Slarvea at uppermost north, from Teutonia all the way to Napishtim.

Not to mention the only person I called teacher, the only friend I called brother.

Waiting not for whatever damning statement made in Ian’s defence, Tristan Ajax goes for the jugular.

“Defend first, then parley.”

“Parley? Us and them?” snaps Fergie Malom, his snarl akin to a rabid beast, “You better hope there’s no girl waiting at your home, no matter where the shithole is.”

“Don’t worry,” assures Joes Mouriz, the strategic brain of Red Lions managing to reduce the tempest into a mere rainstorm, “He means them, not us.”

“Fuck it, Joes Mouriz,” spits Ian, “Hold fort first, and then take back what’s ours in one fell swoop.”

“And risk every man’s life in front of a defence stubbornly mounted? Don’t be stupid. If the Imperial Parliament says no, it means no.”

Joes’ answer cutting Ian’s fire down by half, all three know only Tristan has the solution no matter what may be said otherwise.

“If Ian Holls’ idea is workable, why then was Crag Isles able to reclaim Edwood?” asks Tristan, his strategic acumen starting to unveil its hand, “I’d rather stubborn pride staying dead than to see actual innocents dying.”

A knife appearing in his hands, its tip promptly anchored at one spot. Namely Histalonia. Ignoring the shock and gasps hailing from his fairer counterparts, the Sniper proceeds with his analysis.

“If you think Teutonia is guilty of instigating the annexation of Edwood, allow me to say that Edwood still remains a part of Crag Isles.”

“Any difference?” queries Fergie Malom, derision barely disguised, “It’s like spelling a word backwards only to discover you’ve obtained the same word come end of the day.

“There’s also a difference between meanings when it comes to the same word,” comes the prompt reply, derision vanquished by an answer equally derisive, “Teutonia cannot afford any excuse to bail, therefore the Bastard King couldn’t have ordered any military hostility in the first place.”

“Bollocks,” scoffs Ian Holls.

“War itself is the greatest bollocks to be exact.”

No verbal reprisal given unto Tristan’s unexpected riposte, the veteran trio choose to let him continue.

“I can assure you that once we repel the invaders, they’ll be forced to accept our terms.”

“But what if ‘tis true Histalonia has foot in this? It’s like gambling with death, you won’t win a shit,” muses Joes, thumb stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“If the Serpent desires dominion over Edwood, he wouldn’t have let the Homm’Eot doing the job for him. Scoff if you must, but I’m the only person capable of matching him wit for wit.”

Deathly silence pervades their minds, the noisy establishment otherwise maintaining its clamour. There is no mirth in this Sudhlit’s tone, no jest apparent within his slight rueful grin. Only a gut feeling that this man might just be the one winning the battle for them, his visage betraying a commander’s aura rather than a soldier’s want.

“Tell us your plan then,” whispers Joes Mouriz, the veteran in him at last piqued.

“First, we defend the Gemini. No matter the cost, the Eternal Bulwark must never be breached.”

“Bullshit,” snorts Ian Holls, Fergie Malom following in like.

“Not so much of a bullshit if I am to defend the high ground westbound,” clucking his tongue, Tristan reverts to his languid mood, “Word has it that this is a haunted place more than hundred miles off the coast.”

“Indeed so. Nobody enjoys the notion of visiting a stretch of outposts abandoned,” nods Joes Mouriz, the discussion doing nothing to resolve whatever contempt shown by his other two comrades, “Barrowup, after all, is a place where soldiers slaughtered each other in fits of madness many years ago.”

“Let this graveyard be an ode to those fallen then.”

Tristan’s reply invokes mirth from both Fergie and Ian, the Sniper amongst Those Who Strike Alone turning his back against them.

“You don’t fucking know you’re doing, coward!” chortles Ian despite the grim circumstances surrounding every man, woman and child.

“Oh yes I do. In fact, I’m more than glad to face my ass towards a laughing jackass or two.”

With his parting shot fired, Tristan does not need to know the extent of effectiveness behind his words. All he sees is one single word.

Victory.

)0(

The wind of war is nigh, quiet calm before the storm rising high. Beneath the balmy sky sits a citadel made from the finest stones cut. Built by the famed stonemason known as Pulis the Black, Felios is the first line of defence situated behind the Gemini. Both imposing and a reminder of unwavering strength, its position at the right has proven to be a deception for invaders and cover for Blomfeld’s fearsome Sword Trouts.

Aeranath cast a lazy look at the maiden’s flirtatious glance, the Ranger seeing it as a staring war of attrition. Paying heed to the hourglass near the window sill, at least an hour passing by. He was promised an audience, he receives a girl desperate for men. If not for Sarel Aphros doing him a favour, the True Apostle would rather turn Fragarach against himself than to bend over backwards.

Remember how you got yourself into trouble despite the Boon of Grace bestowed in the Holy Quintet’s name.

“A little wonder why I hate religion and bullshit,” mutters Aeranath under his breath, a dark visage inviting an unwanted move.

“Say, why are you so silent?” smiles the statuesque blond, her slender finger twirling a golden lock like a playful girl younger than ten.

“Because I don’t know anything apart from banging whores. I’d like to demonstrate to you the finer arts of brawling, but Teutonia will surely issue a mark on my ass.”

Sardonic statement invoking peals of laughter from the Teutonian beauty, Aeranath finds nothing funny.

Shagging her wouldn’t even be funny. Fuck this arrangement and that great white bitch.

“Oh no, I’m not the same as them,” huffs the fair lady, her mock indignation already telling Aeranath what she wants most, “They opened up their legs for money and payment.”

“Money and payment, both the same.”

“It’s different in Teutonia because they don’t work for Kalaran clients.”

“Or themselves,” replies Aeranath, his lower lip chewed in frustration, “Tell me what you want. If there’s nothing, forgive me.”

Her strides are effortless, shapely legs well-toned exposing a feminine charm. Aeranath can feel himself hardened somewhere below, it is not every day to have some flat chested lass teasing him with great success.

“No one rejects the Swift Lady,” whispers the sultry beauty, “Lady Caylon, blood sister to King Bastien.”

“Relay my thanks to your bastard brother then,” a stinging hand slapping Caylon’s advance aside, “Even though the last High Lord I saw was your father.”

“Do you desire information on what is to come?”

Aeranath freezes on the spot, Caylon the Swift at last seeing a checkmate. Then the unexpected happens.

“Sorry, I don’t give a fuck. You can say I’m forced to play this stupid war game.”

With a middle finger complimenting his back turned against the princess, Aeranath manages to conceal his victorious mirth. As the Ranger slams the door shut, Caylon can only gaze before an empty room. No one has ever rejected her come hither flirting, Aeranath is the first. A lady scorned begets ire born, woe be unto those crossing her path for the remaining day.

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Incessant screaming is music to the True Apostle’s ears, Caylon the Swift reminds him too much of Sarel Aphros. Lars once commented that Nanaya no Geun’Jin might have loved him twice as much compared to how he loved Hyo’Ah. Aeranath merely laughed back then, but there is nothing laughable over this exact topic many years after. If only Lars will pop up suddenly…

So that I can kill him and every shit to do with the past.

A stench of blood abruptly tingles his nerves, images of a recent past assailing him. Aeranath understands too well the source, his frosty hair billowing in tandem with another individual’s golden locks. Smiling to himself, the True Apostle gives no heed to entertain any notion of pursuit.

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Kerstein de Bladefort can hear Caylon’s screams ringing in his pointed ears even before he reaches the staircase, the Sniper’s calculation was anything but inaccurate. Only mere seconds passed when he crossed paths with an old acquaintance, chances are that he’ll only have mere minutes before fulfilling the contract. Fire rubies are known for scarcity and astronomical value, a little wonder why the Grand Damsel and her underling used them as a deposit.

To think the Brotherhood’s demand was only less than a quarter before then.

Elven feet hastening their stride, the Wraith Lord races up the stairs like the finest steed galloping upon barren plains. Hs target’s screams staying audible, such information is all he needs. Sellswords will always feign remorse should a contract signed results in failure, but not to him. Definitely not the Shadow Brotherhood, such is the sole reason why this band of Homm’Nua and halfbloods combined are to be respected with fear.

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Her anguish finally quenched, Caylon feels guilty over her temper. Swift is she when it comes to fighting and men, equally swift she has always been in temper. Tara has been her personal maid since both were seven summers, close friends they are as well. Boasting plenty of friends from every nobility level, Tara’s existence is somewhat inexplicable to all. Mayhap Bastien was right when he pointed out how empty Caylon’s life is all the while.

Then someone break down the door. Caylon and Tara have their hearts missing a beat, a lone Elf greeting their shock. Clinging tightly against her mistress’ arm, Tara can only look to Caylon for help. Then it happens in a blinking flash.

Momentary speed gives way to a rough grip pinning Caylon against the nearby wall, all the Princess of Anglsax perceives is despair and death. The emotionless Elf has silences her by closing a slender hand over her jaw, fear seizing her like a hapless doe captured by a hungry predator.

“Do not move!”

The Teutonian can only nod her head slightly, her captor’s slight slim frame masking his strength until now. His hand reaching for her hips, Caylon screams out in her mind for Tara to do something. How can she lose her maidenhead just like that? If flirting is truly a sin, why then must she suffer now? What if she survives the rape? What will her half-brother say? How will his people react?

Then the pressure let itself go, the prisoner at last liberated.

His target now assumes another form. With pace and momentum as ally, a grip equally strong covered her mouth. Flinging the maidservant onto the lacquered floor, a knee crushed her jaw brutally. Bereft of mercy, he plunges her mistress’ hidden dirk against her ample chest.

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“Second accident of the day…”

Zylph Styes swallows his own saliva as he relays news of failure. Surely the Serpent will never forgive slights and errors, for both are one in front of the judge. Yet, Eliador de Lioncourt gives a serene smile in return. Such an expression only heightens Zylph’s inner terror, mortifying images of a single flayed corpse feeding the birds send their regards.

“We all commit mistakes, for no one is a god.”

Storm grey orbs chilling his attractive frame, there is no knowing what’ll be his master’s next move. Gliding fluidly like a viper closing in, Eliador de Lioncourt tilts Zylph’s chin gently.

“Not every man has to die for his mistake.”

Whispered words finishing its course, Eliador promptly leaves Zylph Styes behind. Unexpected mercy baptising his heart like a timely merchant vessel to aid, it takes the Histalonian youth mere minutes afterwards to realise a tiny parchment stuck in his doublet pocket. Eyes of baby blue widening, the attractive lad can only afford to enroot himself on the spot.

Let the servant supplant his master, for he is never the one guilty of failure. Eliador de Lioncourt has spoken.

~ordained by Asesino

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Night has gathered, the stars are bright. The lunar moon is their king, a cloak of darkness being their royal court. Torches lit up a massive room, its beauty signified by marble walls and towering shelves of birch. Nowhere can any entity escape from the light, such is the majesty belonging to the Lexicon.

Nowhere in her captor’s residence can rival the solace gleaned from the Serpent’s library. Inexplicably, she was granted permission to browse through whichever books and tomes catching her fancy. From heroic songs compiled to romantic tales she used to enjoy, this is indeed a treasure trove. Her father has always frowned upon her scholarly inclination, yet he relented in the end. The Cinha lass has always desired to be free and she understands knowledge to be the fastest, if not the only way.

“Let us make a wager. What says you if Eliador ordered me to have my way with you?”

That incident days ago seems too surreal before her, the threat of being raped again hailing from the Serpent’s right hand man.

“You give your love to men, not women.”

Where did she obtain the courage to ask such a damning question, Alestrial Eliaden does not know.

“Eliador is truly right about you. Your heart remains as a lady, but up here…”

Lukas Brun’s statement remains too harsh to be true, yet she’s unable to shake off those words reverberating like an aria of conflict.

 “…in your head resides a slumbering beast. An intelligent animal blessed with foresight and leadership.”

Closing her eyes briefly, Alestrial Eliaden attempts to banish these taunting thoughts via whatever she enjoyed reading in the Lexicon. Alas, only one title stands out. The book currently in her hands.

Art of War: The Way of Peace

~Heihou no Tae’Geuk

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