Rhema III: A Rod of Iron
The Twenty-Second Day of the Fifth Month, 873 AD.
The Suthdaal, Southern Teleytaios, Klironomea.
The smell of wet mud and horses breath was almost overpowering in the small clearing behind the Suthdaal. The ancient fort might have been little more than ruins, but with some hasty work it had served its purpose well once more. Most of the walls had been patched up with rubble and reinforced with wooden beams, the gates had been hastily filled in likewise, and the worst of the rot had been cleared away from those quarters and towers that had still been intact. The woods to the northwest had become undergrown in the centuries this place had been abandoned, one of many such forts to suffer a similar fate across Klironomea, and as such that had been the perfect place to set a little trap for one of their new friends.
"We got him, Ser! We got him!"
A couple of sellswords shouted out to him, signalling that their ambush had been a success. Looking behind him Rhema could see the two drably-dressed figures dragging a semi-conscious knight between them, the Blackoak tabard over his breastplate tattered and torn. He smirked a little as he watched the men cheer their victory here. Angels, what an arrogant twat Ser Aerna had turned out to be.
The ambush he'd laid in the woods outside the fort that his forces were holed up in was more costly to his own side than to those that he'd ambushed, but that didn't matter. Why? Because the end result was that he now had Ser Aerna Blackoak, son of Lord Aertax and heir to the Blackoak family, in chains before him.
"Nice work. He give us much trouble since going down?"
The younger of the two sellswords shook his head.
"Nah, but he still killed a dozen good men before anyone had even been able to hit him when he was fighting. Thank the Angels for your sword-arm, your Grace. I thought I was next for a moment."
Rhema laughed a little with his men, trying to ignore the headache that he could feel coming on. Instead he tried to just be glad that this little skirmish had gone according to plan. He still enjoyed fighting, but wasn't stupid enough to put his own pleasure above the greater victory. Things had gone to plan here today precisely because he'd held himself back instead of rushing forwards like his instincts had screamed at him to do, and so he supposed that there was probably a lesson in that somewhere.
Still, he had been a little annoyed that he'd needed to leave his axe behind. According to Symon, who had organised this foray, Rhema's axe was "about as subtle as your brother's executions", and as such he'd needed to leave it behind. Still, at least he had his trusty sword by his side.
It wasn't a large weapon like the greatsword his brother preferred, nor even a longsword, for in honesty was closer to one of the longseaxes that the levies carried with them. Far better made and finely balanced of course, but in terms of pure size it was far from great. Good. Longer swords were more unwieldy in close quarters, and if Rhema was fighting he wanted to be as close to the foe as possible. He didn't mind using a crossbow every now and again, but he wasn't at home in a fight unless he was the centrepiece. He needed to be the jewel in death's crown, an unstoppable force of nature, when he was on the battlefield.
It wasn't just pride that demanded he get in close with the foe either; his entire fighting style revolved around relentless attacks, not letting the enemy recover for even a moment. That had been why he failed in his dream-bouts with his brother; he'd not been able to continue going on the offensive any longer for his stamina had run dry, and if he wasn't on the attack then he was buggered.
Still, he doubted that such things would be a problem today. He'd been itching to engage the enemy or sally forth these last few weeks, but had held himself back on the urging of Crowe and the order of his brother. He wasn't prepared to throw away his brother's carefully prepared strategy on a whim, still less one that had relied on so much chance. If Aerna had been just a little more intelligent, if he'd listened to the lords under his command just a little more...
Well, what use was there in dwelling on such 'what ifs' at the moment? Capturing Aerna had helped sate his need for combat a tad, even if the slippery bastard kept making disparaging comments about Rhema playing second fiddle to Lyk. He couldn't of cared less what the arrogant man said; Lykourgos was his older brother, and Rhema would carry out his orders no matter what. That was how the law worked. Not the true law, not written laws that were debated over in courtrooms and justice-houses, but the laws that mattered. The son follows the father, and the younger brother the elder. That was the true way of the world, and Rhema would not allow the needling of some cocky, arrogant prisoner get in his way.
The man had been a very good swordsman, true, but he was now in chains nonetheless. Symon had heard that the man liked to personally lead bands of knights to chase down the Teleytaian light horse that would harass his camp, and so Rhema had slipped out of his own fort and personally laid an ambush for the 'Huntsknights' of Owkrestos. The Owkrestan knights had taken down a great many of Rhema's men, that much was true, but when the day was over and the dust had cleared they were all either dead, captured, or fled. That 'skirmish' had taken the lives of around forty men all told, with another hundred injured, but the single most important thing out of all of that had been the capture of Ser Aerna. Rhema knew that his brother wasn't one for anything short of complete and total victory, but if he needed to make peace the traditional way then the capture of Lord Aertax's son and heir would certainly give him some more leverage over the Old Oak.
He wished he could learn a little news with regards to his brother's forces, but alas, being stuck in this fort hadn't really boded well for receiving news.
That would soon change, however. He knew it would. With the death or capture of their commander the enemy camp was already falling into infighting as the members of the various cadet branches of house Blackoak attempted to prove their seniority over each other and take the now-vacant spot at the head of the army. Okay, maybe 'infighting' was too strong of a word, since he wasn't sure there was any actual fighting going on, but without a clear leader the siege camp at their walls was in the throes of paralysis.
That he could work with. That he knew Crowe and Symon were planning to work with.
He wasn't sure if it was to be tomorrow or overmorrow that the assault took place, but by the end of it he would stand triumphant over an army more than twice the size of the one he was leading. If that didn't make him popular with the singers then he didn't know what would.
Already he'd heard some sappy dramatised recreation of the succession crisis, and he had been genuinely torn over whether to shatter the singer's instrument against the table or the man's voice box to make him shut the fuck up. Any song he could inspire by his victories in this war would surely be better than that.
Seventh had made some comments in a very dry tone that "Of course it's wrong, after all, you were never distraught or overwrought at the prospect of fighting your brother", which had very nearly earned them a clip around the ear. Smarmy little fucker.
Ah well. He could think of worse songs that they'd sing.
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"What do you mean he's gone!"
Crowe huffed out a disgruntled breath, a hand rubbing around her eyes.
"I mean exactly what I said, your Grace. He's gone."
"We've had him held here for less than two hours!"
He turned to look at Symon, hoping the man might have answers, but the sellsword captain just shrugged at him whilst kicking his feet up and resting them on the table, muddy boots and all.
"What do you want me to say? The man's a daemon with a sword. Killed his guards while still bound and escaped. He hasn't made his way back to the siege camp though, so that's something. I don't think he intends to sit outside these walls anymore. He'll be going back east, that's my bet. Back to his father. He's got some stupid sense of arrogant honour, and knows that his old man will be fuming at him for losing this war. He'll be riding back to tell the Old Oak himself and save a bit of face, you know, put a spin on it and blame someone else."
Rhema's jaw worked for a moment as he ground his teeth, willing himself not to lose it right then and there. He closed his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath, adamant that he wasn't going to lose it here. Fuck, he didn't like how his head he felt at the moment.
"Well, that's some fucking shit news all right. I'm heading back to my chambers before I do something stupid; let me know when the sally-forth will take place and don't start without me."
Crowe gave him a mildly worried stare as the headache made itself known again, but Symon just lounged where he sat and gave him a lazy salute. Rhema returned the gesture, then walked away.
When he got to his makeshift quarters he shut the door and let out a deep sigh. Two hours. How the fuck had the man been able to escape after just two hours? Honestly, I should have just killed him when I had the chance. Lyk will probably want him hanged come the war's end anyway.
He huffed out a silent laugh at that thought before wincing and raising a hand to his forehead. Angels, his head hurt. He wasn't sure what had brought on this headache, but he hadn't had one this bad since he was a child. Maybe it was something to do with the weather? They had been having some heavy rainfalls with high temperatures as the summer months began to make way for autumn. Maybe that was-
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"Preparing for battle again, brother? And here you told me you weren't our half-brother's equal."
He froze in place as he heard a voice echoing softly within the room he'd taken for his own.
"Who's there?"
The voice scoffed as though offended.
"You know exactly who I am, little brother. I promised you I'd always stay with you, didn't I? You don't get to just forget what you did, Rhema. You aren't allowed to forget me."
He whipped around with his hackles raised and anxieties building, dreading the figure he knew he'd find before him. Angels, please keep me in your embrace, please make her go away.
Before him was his sister, or what was left of her. Blood pooled in her eyes and ran down her cheeks, an expression of cruel malice on her face.
"What's the matter, little brother? Haven't you missed your sister?"
With the headache increasing in intensity and a hallucination that he could not bear to see or hear a moment longer in front of him, he turned back to one of his tried and tested methods from his childhood. Mother and father had both gotten him to stop, but they were gone and it had worked for him, and he'd take anything right now.
Moving swiftly to one of the rough stone walls that lined his room he braced his arms on the wall, threw his head back, and then threw it forwards with as much force as he could muster. The impact left him seeing stars, but for a moment he felt the headache recede. In a few seconds it was back, which only strengthened his resolve to get this fucking ordeal over with.
"Leave me alone!"
The ghost or vision or whatever the fuck this was of his sister remained silent, but smiled a sickening smile. Rhema felt his blood come to the boil as the almost mocking words of his sister played back in his head, their final conversation in which she had told him that the love he bore for his brother was a weakness, that he was a coward who hid behind a veneer of martial prowess. He couldn't let her win, not here, not again.
"You're just a bad memory. Get OUT. GET. OUT. OF. MY. HEAD!"
Each word was punctuated by the young prince smashing his head into the stone wall, a sickening cracking noise being heard as felt his own nose break. Not too badly he hoped, but he didn't care what it took right now. He needed her to leave.
She smiled at him with a look of satisfaction, but all of a sudden the spot in which she'd been standing was illuminated in light and, just as soon as she'd arrived, she vanished. It was as if she was never there. That's because she never was. My mind just likes to play tricks on me from time to time.
"Rhema! Rhema, are you okay!?"
"This isn't the end, little brother. You'll see me again, soon. Very soon. Goodbye, brother."
The voice rang out in his head, fading even as it spoke. He'd hardly even registered the fact that Seventh had rushed into the room, immediately reaching to stop him from continuing his preventative measures. They succeeded in getting him to stop, but only because there was no further need. There was no reason to continue with such measures at the moment, and whatever little residual thoughts he may have had that argued against that didn't matter. The headaches were gone. She was gone. Where she had once stood now nothing but a shadowy corner was visible. He'd won against his mind again.
With a half-formed thought he recognised that this was probably the sort of thing he'd been told to reach out and tell people about, but that felt like it would be a whole lot of work.
No, he'd just blame it on the battle when the day was over. It would be easier to deal with than the stares and the pity.
He couldn't do that to Seventh though. Seventh had seen, and Seventh was special. They were nice. He'd tell Seventh, if he even needed to. They probably already knew what had happened, what with their ill-defined magics and all. He looked over at them, concern visible on those features not obscured by their blindfold.
"Rhema, please tell me if something like this happens again. Please."
He nodded at his friend, only half-listening to their emotion-laced words for he was still rather shaken, but made a mental note to try and keep that promise. Seventh was their best friend, after all. Their closest friend. When combined with their inherent abilities it seemed obvious that they should learn of such happenings, should they continue.
"Your nose, is it-"
"I'll be fine, Sev. I just... I just had a bad memory, that's all."
Seventh nodded slowly, looking not at all convinced, but didn't press any further.
"Would you... would you like to search through my magics once more? It calmed you down when we were in the capital."
Rhema thought for a moment, smiling at the kind offer, but shook his head.
"No, we haven't the time. The fight for the enemy's siege camp might be first thing tomorrow morning, and I can't afford to be tired because we've been scrying all night. Maybe afterwards?"
Seventh smiled softly at him and nodded.
"Okay. Please tell me if anything like this happens again, Re."
"I will. Just... don't tell anyone else about it. I saw her, Sev. I saw her plain as day. She was taunting me, mocking me, and my head hurt so much. I just... I just needed it to stop."
Seventh frowned at him, gently raising a hand to cradle his cheek.
"Rhema... it hurt you."
He smiled at his friend with a strange mix of optimism and sadness.
"It worked, didn't it? I don't think she was real, anyway. I think it was just my mind trying to sabotage me again."
"I can't sense any magics in the area, Re, so while I don't like to say it I think you're right. Even so, this is precisely the kind of situation my dream-magics are perfect for! I can help you if this happens again, Rhema. Just call for me, and I'll always answer."
The two of them sat down next to each other, Seventh leaning on him and resting their head on his arm.
"Okay, Sev. Thank you."
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He'd been right. The sallies had begun at first light the next today, the sellswords of Symon's Starlings fighting alongside church-militia and the thousand assorted armsmen that Lyk had left under his command ready to fight in a chaotic melee amongst the tents in the encampment of the foe. The day promised to be bloody, but if nothing else that would help him set aside his anxieties and fears over his dead sister for a little while. He ran through the checks on his light armour one last time, ensuring every little thing was in its proper place and fastened as tight as he liked it. There was killing to be done today, and he intended to make good use of the equipment he had become so familiar with these last few years.
"You good, kid?"
The ever unphased and always cocksure voice of Symon came from his right, the man walking over with a greatseaxe slung languidly over his shoulder. His scale armour always seemed to be dirty, despite the fact that he knew the man 'kept every bit of kit in good nick' and cleaned it regularly. Apparently he'd had the scales discoloured with a few different dull greens and browns, which made it harder to see him in the Owkrestan woodlands that he'd been fighting in most of his life. He'd seen quite a few of the veterans wearing similarly discoloured armour, be it leather or mail, and some of the younger members of the band had started following their lead.
He wasn't sure if it actually made a difference or not, but it was something to tell his brother nonetheless. Maybe something useful would come out of it.
"I'm good. I'll be better when I'm in there. What about you, old man? Are you feeling good for this?"
Symon scoffed and gave him an indignant stare, probably because of the 'old man' comment, but in Rhema's defence he had been called a 'kid' first.
"That I fuckin' am. Besides, messenger came telling me to take a hundred of my best and ride to join your brother outside Stagspring. I've taken the city before, so it'll be up to me again when this is all done. Well, in any case, look lively and mount up. We're going out there now, so you'd best show me what you've got."
He nodded at the man and gave him a two fingered mock-salute before hopping up onto the saddle of his horse.
"Say no more, captain! I'm ready to go."
He hadn't known just how correct he was.
Ten minutes later he was in the enemy camp having arrived only a few minutes after the first wave. As soon as he'd reached the front he'd pulled the reigns and brought his courser to a stop, dismounting and pulling his weapons from their places at his belt. Axe in one hand and sword in the other, he'd began to move through the enemy camp with no real plan, instead merely seeking out one or two men at a time who were wearing the colours of one of the many Blackoak cadet branches and charging straight at them, killing them in the ensuing duel and then repeating the process. His brother was made for valiant charges and clever tactical moves, but Rhema was not. He was made to butcher and bolt, killing his foe before moving onto the next.
Lykourgos was a soldier. Rhema was a warrior.
He was learning to be a leader of men, a tactician who could actually direct a battle rather than just fighting and hoping for the best, but at the moment he knew exactly where his strengths lay. Let others deride him for his methods if they wanted; he got results, and that was what his brother valued above all.
There was a shout from his left as some huntsknight approached him waving around a two-handed warhammer, and so Rhema broke himself from his musings and made to fight once more.
As the man drew closer and made to swing his hammer in a controlled arc Rhema moved first, his axe almost completely bypassing the man's guard and clanging against his plate armour. Of course the man wasn't going to go down just from that, he was in plate armour for Saint's sake, but the blow would certainly have winded him if the dented line near the bottom of the chest plate was anything to go by. The man struck out with his warhammer again, forcing Rhema to leap backwards a little before flicking his sword out and rolling it outwards to ensure that the follow-up jab that the knight attempted with the spiked head of the hammer went wide. Angels, he enjoyed things like this.
Life's simpler pleasures were always his favourites; be it wine, fighting, or the eldritch creature in a humanoid form with powers beyond his comprehension and a penchant for making sarcastic comments that had somehow become his closest friend and companion these last few years, life's simple treats stood leagues above the pomp and splendour of other endeavours.
The man's hammer struck forwards in a downwards arc, getting lodged in the mud for a moment when Rhema moved aside to let the weapon fall on empty air. It wasn't stuck long, but it was just long enough for Rhema to dart forwards and lodge his sword in an armour joint at the knight's right armpit. There was a gambeson beneath the plate, mail as well, but with the right application of force his sword cut through both of them in one swift motion.
With his sword still lodged where the man's arm met his shoulder Rhema shoulder barged him as hard as he could, a scream tearing its way through the knight's throat as his arm was forcefully and permanently dislocated at the shoulder in the drop. A swift strike to the throat with his axe and Rhema ensured that one more huntsknight was gone from the world. The huntsknights really should have been made history already. Hedge-knights with undue prestige, that's all they are. Not to worry, I can help speed along the process a little. I'm good at what I do.
The thrill of battle and the constant self-affirmations that this was what he was made for helped him force down the terrible feelings that had been lingering over him since last night, since he'd seen the ghost of his sister taunting him for his inadequacies. He was Rhema fucking Sperakos, and he was better than she'd ever realised. His brother knew it, Crowe knew it, and Seventh knew it. Even if he only had one of those three to keep him sane, he knew he'd be alright. He could be at peace here.
Wrenching his axe free of the man's neck he moved to stand once more, sword firmly gripped in his left hand. Two more men ran towards him hollering out war cries, and within moments both fell silent. Moving through the camp he continued to carve a trail of death through the men of house Blackoak, his very nature seeming to transform from that of a man to a whirlwind of blades, his axe lashing out in great slashing motions whilst he simultaneously parried with his sword before reversing the order of his motions, parrying with his axe and stabbing at exposed arms and stomachs with his sword. He might not have been the perfect prince, but he was good at this. So long as his brother had enemies in the world, so long as there were wars that needed to be won and battles that needed to be fought, then he was still useful. He was still needed.
At the end of the day could there be a more welcome thought than that?