[https://scontent.fmnl8-1.fna.fbcdn.net/v/t1.15752-9/313520736_1143570626272301_545225775092673846_n.png?stp=dst-png_p280x280&_nc_cat=107&ccb=1-7&_nc_sid=ae9488&_nc_eui2=AeHCpqakgmF1qQqcvkS3ZPFOJ5coOB8f6t4nlyg4Hx_q3gaRGuKiJGc_BiqUzsRLraUTRrCA8IZYl8KC-zL3KJX9&_nc_ohc=bxUHiBqZ2BoAX9ErLmg&_nc_ht=scontent.fmnl8-1.fna&oh=03_AdStroCH78gwkFwq2PdgUnYccjB8s0P4umXHr6b9vm7CfA&oe=63B99AA5]
5
An Army of Fools
----------------------------------------
NOT EVEN WITCHCRAFT COULD REVIVE THE DEAD, Viktor knew this because Erin knew this.
The Inquisition itself was founded by witches to hunt witches. Amanila had seen men summon rain with simple formations of rocks, acquire strength comparable to mountains through strictly kept vows, and grew trees of poison fruits through sacrificial offerings.
Amanila saw how easily this power could be abused, so the kingdom decided to use it for its own. And what they couldn’t get, they eradicated. What they couldn’t control, they killed.
Until there wasn’t much left of Witchcraft aside from the Inquisitors.
And yet, Viktor watched as Fog-eyes pulled the bolt out of his throat. He watched the orc lay his hand over his foot, and then, very slowly, drew the flesh out of it.
First was the skin, tearing itself from the orc’s foot on its own accord like it had a mind of its own, and then crawling into his fat, pig-like hands as if it was being absorbed. Then the red muscles, the tissues, now separating from the bone, like little wriggly worms slithering strand by strand, slinking into his fingers.
And when Fog-eyes touched the hollowed part of his neck, the flesh he took from his foot then gathered out and shaped into veins—then jugular muscles, vocal cords, blood, meat, skin.
And what was once a hole was now flesh.
And what was once Fog-eyes healthy foot had a gaping wound in the middle of it.
----------------------------------------
Semos almighty, Viktor cursed under his breath. Whatever it was Fog-eyes did, he was sure that it wasn’t witchcraft. The effect was instantaneous and accurate, a measured sacrifice with a measured result.
Magic was never this precise. It involved vague vows and sacrifices that gives varying, ambiguous results. Erin herself had a vow of fortune— she was never to accept opportunistic luck, no matter how much of it finds her. He’d seen her refuse a sword gifted by the best blacksmith, refuse a famous chronicler’s offer to write her biography, and even refused to be a queen.
In turn, when she needed luck the most—like the miracle of rain before a battle when the enemies brought fire, or a hundred thousand arrows simply not hitting her—then she would find it.
Other Inquisitors had other vows. Like fasting, or a permanent blindfold to remove their vision, or a vow of silence. There were some who used offerings by burning their most important possessions, or by throwing away hundreds of apples a day into a pit. Some witches used blood and humans. Some witches even offer their life in exchange for a curse.
Fog-eyes displayed none of that. It was a trade of flesh for flesh, and then it was done. “Am I not glad to be a doctor,” the orc simply said, his voice rasp and dry. “Aren’t you supposed to catch that arrow?”
“I’m no babysitter,” Viktor responded, but what he really wanted to do was cut off the orc’s head as soon as possible.
“Sure thing you little piss-drinker,” the orc started bandaging his throat. “Good thing I’m almost a biomancer, else I would have died.”
Almost? He thought. Then what happens if he becomes one?
His mind raced on further possibilities. He had realized how little he knew of the world he woke up into, compared to the world he was from. Still, he couldn’t let others be aware of his cluelessness. Impressions were built on guesses, and the more he asked, the less knowledgeable his image would become, the less dependable he would seem.
He couldn’t simply keep asking questions with absolute confidence on the other party. He needed a confidant, someone he could get rid off when all of his questions had been answered, or someone he could trust.
And for that, he already had someone in mind.
Viktor caught the next bolt with his hand, from which he audibly heard his wrist dislocate. The pain stung and he hated it. It was a useless pain, the battle had already been won. He had no need to suffer it.
“Nobody moves or I kill him,” Viktor summoned his deepest, loudest voice, hook sword in his bruised hand pointed at the armored goblin’s neck. He assumed it was their leader given the luxury of its equipment.
He was right.
----------------------------------------
CANYON KNEW THE NAMES OF ALL THINGS, he had traveled across the harshest seas and the densest land, among the black sand desserts and tower cities, and out of all the things that had names and things that do not, the one thing he cannot name was a goblin.
His mind simply called the goblin Viktor. As if it was a perfect name, as if when one says Viktor, one would not think of anything other than this specific goblin. That was how the Names of Things worked. Not like this.
It was wrong. It was a wrong name riddled to the wrong creature. Like someone frying a slice of pork in oil and the pan ends up with a beef stew.
The goblin’s body was as fresh as five days old, but its movements weren’t. Canyon knew this, because he knew the name of the goblin’s hand, which bruised when it caught Mimic’s padlocks.
He tried to run it over again inside his brain. The way the goblin dodged, the way it jumped, the calculated shortness of its steps. The perfectness of it implied that his opponent knew how he fought. The hook sword, the shield, everything was dodged exactly how it was supposed to. It was almost as if he was sparring with Kantos , his teacher, only that this goblin was even better.
And to Scaramouche, the goblin fought like he knew how the jester would fight. Knowledge and prediction. And even with this considered, fight against Canyon and Scaramouche both, with the body of a five-day-old while dodging Mimic’s padlocks, and then Dos. . .
Canyon didn’t want to think about it. He’d seen genius before, hell, he thought Dos was genius until he met Mimic, and now this guy.
The new goblins terrified him. He was used to the green apes whose best ability was knowing that branches can be used to hit animals.
This Viktor knew war from birth. He knew this. Every single cell in his body knew this. So when he woke up, already he was prepared for death. And if he’s not dead by sunrise then he’d rather end his own life than to be sold again as another’s slave.
He’s lived enough for a goblin, thirteen years and all that. He had a good life and he hoped he won’t have another. I’d seen enough of that, he thought. He was glad he was able to spend his last years living as a free man, but honestly, he’d rather live as a frog in a pod.
So when the goblin, whom in his mind is named Viktor, asked him, “what do you want?”
All Canyon said was, “I wish I am a joyous frog, sitting on a small rock by a pond,” in his tired old man voice, and he wasn’t really thinking about it. He was in a trail of thought and he was asked, so he said that out loud. He tried to correct himself, “I mean—”
“You want peace,” the goblin interrupted.
“No,” Canyon disagreed. “I want to be a frog. That is not a metaphor.”
“I cannot make you a frog.”
“I do not think anyone can.”
“I can give you a pond, and a rock to sit on, and—”
“—excuse me young lad,” Canyon said. “I seem to have missed the first half of our conversation, but what are we talking about?”
The goblin looked worried for a moment. “I want you to be one of my men.”
“Then you better slit my old neck and be done with it lad, I will be no one’s slave.”
“You’re going to be my lieutenant.”
Canyon was taken by surprise. The offer excited him, and for a moment he almost forgot that the goblin was only five-days-old. He couldn’t decide yet if its confidence was simple arrogance, or if it would be able to follow through.
Afterall, Canyon had seen strong men, he had seen wise men, and he had seen men who were both. All of them died simple deaths; like landslides and gunpowder, hidden knives and mancing.
Yet this goblin defeated him despite himself. The Hook-Shield technique that took him years of practice from Kantos, his well-earned equipment, his years of hectic experience—Viktor made all of it useless. It would be a joy to Canyon to see whatever could kill this man.
“I’ll pledge my loyalty to you then,” Canyon said. “In exchange for my men’s freedom.”
“They will be joining me too.”
Canyon considered this for a moment. Dos, Mimic, and Scaramouche all grew under his guidance. Most especially Dos, who was the first goblin he purchased from a human slaver.
Canyon started out as a fisherman’s slave. In Oracay, fishermen weren’t simple folk, and they weren’t simple men. Because the fish refers to sea serpents and nameless leviathans, a haul of squid means bodies of Krakens hooked into their hull. It was only after a decade’s worth of labor and toil had he managed to buy his freedom.
Mercenary work was child’s play compared to that. Mountains were simply mountains, and not bodies that move. The land creature’s gargantuan sizes were of dwarfish size compared to what Canyon was used to.
When you’ve slain beasts like that, every monster seemed minuscule. Even Viktor seemed minuscule.
“You think yourself a ruler, then?” Canyon said. If this goblin was worth his word, he should know that taking the entirety of Canyon’s team meant his leadership would mean nothing. Dos was Canyon’s lieutenant. Mimic and Scaramouche was Canyon’s soldiers. They’d rather follow him than follow the man who beat them up.
“I am.”
The goblin sounded confident.
From then on it would be a fight for authority. Should Canyon prove to be a better leader than the one trying to recruit them, then this Viktor’s position as a leader would simply be a worthless title.
In the end, it will be Canyon, again, who will be boss. And having a strong goblin such as this as his lieutenant... But something’s not right.
“Then why did you fight us, if you intended to command us?”
“I do not intend to build an army of fools.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you’re free to leave with everything but your helmet,” the goblin stated deadpan. “Your crossbowman shot my friend here, that will be compensation.”
“Your friend . . . the orc?” Canyon looked for the tall pig around the trees, but couldn’t find him. “He’s not your master?”
The goblin gave him a disgusted look. Not just disgust, but hatred, as if he absolutely abhorred the idea. “That orc, as my master?” he mocked. “I’ve commanded better men carved from a banana.”
Canyon wasn’t convinced. “You’re not really good at this lad. First, you are five days old. The only reason I’m listening to your blabber is because you are strong. I may be weak compared to you, but I’m no piss-drinker.”
“Then you can ask him yourself.”
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
“Me?” Canyon shivered down his spine. “I’m not asking nothing from a Biomancer.”
“He’s not. At least not yet—he’s a doctor.”
“That’s just honorifics. He’s a proper Mancer alright, I know doctors who can screw up mancing a simple finger,” Canyon recalled, curling his ring finger that was attached backward because of some quack. “I won’t disrespect him if I were you. The Mancers in Bluemin are absolute pig-dogs, if he has any connections to any of them, you’d find yourself trapped in a body you disgust.”
“I’m already a goblin.”
“There are worse things than being a goblin,” Canyon emphasized. “Have you heard of the man who grew tastebuds inside his anus? Or the woman who grows hair inside her eyes? And that’s just their pranks. So don’t claim to be friends with a Mancer who can get a Sanguine Beasts in that state—”
“—I made it in that state,” the goblin claimed. “Crippled it. Then ate it.”
“Oh,” Canyon gasped. “That explains it,” he muttered out loud. If the goblin killed the beast, then the Mancer must’ve wanted it. “That explains a lot,” he murmured. The orc didn’t know the names of things, so it didn’t know how old Viktor was, didn’t know how easy it was to kill a newborn goblin. The orc must’ve played it safe and opted to a. . . trade. “I see.”
“You’re smart.”
“Of course I am, you won’t live long as a goblin if you ain’t.”
“Then you know what to do with my offer.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I reject it.”
“Because?”
“Because I don’t know what you want, lad,” Canyon looked at the goblin straight in the eye. He realized that their conversation had come full circle, but surely this ambitious goblin had no desire to be a frog.
“I want to go to Amanila,” the goblin said.
For the first time, Canyon saw how tall the goblin was. He wasn’t necessarily tall, no, it wasn’t the height that did it. It was how he stood. Viktor reminded him of the ashen tree where he buried Kantos.
The tree’s name was Axst’irner, standing at the edge of a cliff, its background abyss made the wood seemed colossal in size. A dignified height laden of dangerous pride.
It did not matter to Canyon that they were in the same size, for compared to him the other goblin looked like a pillar: lean, strong, almost as if it were made of stone.
Like it would not bend against the wind.
Like it would not bend beneath the weight of the world.
“I want to be remembered,” Canyon said, in his tired old man voice. He wasn’t really thinking about it, again, and his trail of thought eluded him. He didn’t even realize that he wasn’t tied up. None of them were tied up.
On a corner campfire, Dos was playing with his guitar and Scaramouche was blowing notes on his flute, Mimic was dancing. Maybe it was his age that was creeping on him. Maybe it was the concussion—he touched his head and realized that the wound dealt on it had already been healed.
“Then straighten your back, goblin,” Viktor said. “Soon the bards shall sing of your name and the poets will write you in veneration.”
Canyon smiled, in his tired, jaded, old man smile. He remembered Dos, who had called him "The Immortal Canyon" once or twice before.
For some reason, in this moment, one even he did not understand, he felt invincible.
For some reason, this time, he felt that very soon, even his name would outlive him.
----------------------------------------
THE YOUNG VIKTOR, ever so slowly, picked up the knight piece and knocked out his opponent’s pawn. Erin in turn, grabbed her rook to retreat into higher ground. They were playing the Game of Generals this time, back when they first met in the slums of Amanila.
“Princess princess of high castle, are you willing to make a bet?”
The game’s board was made of glass, the pieces were heavy iron carved in the likeness of the army. There were 64 tiles in total, with randomized land elevation, lake tiles, supply points, and hazards that each player’s 16 units can navigate and use.
The Game of Generals was first designed to simulate war situations, which after a while was proven to be almost useless in actual battle, so was later repurposed and marketed as a strategy game to sharpen the mind. It was the favorite pastime of nobles who enjoyed flexing their intellectual prowess, then later adapted for the common folk who got nothing better to do in their time.
“I do not think you are in any position to consider betting on yourself,” she replied.
A thick crowd surrounded them now, being held off by Erin’s royal guards. The gameboard reflects the afternoon sun, shining on Viktor’s eyes. He was seventeen then, and he could remember it as clear as day. The smell of sweat, of salt and fish from the nearby port, contrasted by the smell of honey from the girl in front of him. He moved one of his pawns.
“And why do you think that?” He grinned. The cockiness of youth had not left him. Not yet. It was the time in his life when he had never met anyone smarter than him.
“Cicero’s openings, Rembrat’s maneuvers, you know nothing of the sort,” She stated, moving a knight forward. “I made obvious cuts and navigated through the board like a madman hoping you will know at least one of the techniques to counter them, yet you know nothing.”
“Uhuh,” he moved the inquisitor this time, close to his knight.
“And your king is charging through the middle of the board.”
She was not here in the city port to play a game with him, she was here because the king is dying, and she needed to gather public support for the king’s eldest son. She was here because Port Quezon had five thousand citizens, and all of them answered to Viktor. Little Viktor. Seventeen-year-old Viktor sitting on his throne of wood, who managed to hold the Amanila on its throat by monopolizing the price of salt, the exports and imports, the boats.
“And your king cowers behind your men,” he says.
“The King is useless.” She declared. “It could not travel beyond one tile, and the game revolves upon defeating your opponent’s king,” Erin answered. “In this game, you are either defending your king or attacking your opponent’s.”
Viktor moves his king to her side of the board. The rest of his pieces surrounds his king, carefully situating them in positions where each piece is defended by three other pieces. “Have you ever heard of the phrase, ‘he who passes the sentence shall swing the sword?’” His King went to slay Erin’s knight. “The king should be the one leading the charge, along with his army, or his army is doomed to fail. The people do not deserve a king who is not willing to die for them.”
Salt was a simple matter. For three years Port Quezon hoarded sacks upon sacks of salt, hiding them in warehouses, stores, inns, in basements of households of common men. Viktor got the entire place on the scheme.
And then they burned the factories down.
Restaurants lost a third of their menu, the king was displeased, the senators started looking at the sugar business and bakeries opened up. The owners wept and ran back to their manors. They sold their burned properties, their damaged machines, their charcoaled lands. Viktor bought them on discount, took advantage of demand and sold the hoarded salt to the empire eight times their original price. If anyone else tried to enter the salt business, accidents happen.
“You seem to possess the inability to notice the distinction between the game and reality,” Erin attacked Viktor’s inquisitor, which Viktor covered using his knight. The move left an opening to Viktor’s defense on the left. Using her tower, Erin charged in and got the king cornered.
“You seem to possess the inability to notice parallelization between the game and reality,” Viktor used his own tower to block the attack. This was then followed by a series of exchanges. Erin sacrificed her tower as if she had eight more of them, Viktor re-strengthened the formation of his units.
Erin’s pawns advanced in a tight phalanx, cornering Viktor’s king.
Viktor made sure each of his units was defending each other, if one dies, another takes its place, with better reach and better positioning.
“If I win, I want you to walk away from here and never come back.”
“If I win, I want your support on the crown.”
First, Viktor bought the gangs in Port Quezon. He gave them targets, places to rob, people to extort, equipment to use. Those he couldn’t control he beat out of shape, those he could, he beat into shape. The rest were killed.
“Do you know how civil wars start?”
“With a useless king and an angry mob?”
“No,” Viktor replied. “With a powerful king and an angry mob.”
Viktor’s king went forward, and forward, and forward, away from the rest of his units, from the formation and defensive phalanx he had built. Erin realized then, that he wasn’t able to trap her opponent’s king, but rather her units was trapped in them. There were only a few pawns surrounding her king, and that was because she assumed that Viktor would use his knights and inquisitor if he would ever attempt an attack.
Yet it was the king who advanced forward, slaying her pawns while her best pieces were caught in a match. But what could a king do? A king cannot slay another king alone, it was a piece that was never meant for battle.
“A king commands, a slave obeys.” Viktor murmured, as finally, his king marched forward one last time until it was face to face with Erin’s king. “The man swings his sword and declares the blood he spilled was for the king. The boy grabs a pickaxe and gathers gold for the king. The woman smelts the gathered metal and from them she carves gems for the king. The girl shines the gold.” He leaned towards Erin, his index finger atop his own king. It was not a valid move. Putting your king in front of your opponent’s king is suicide. It means you end your turn with full knowledge that your opponent’s next move is take your head. “The king puts the crown on his head, and he thinks of himself as the master. That the crown was a summation of his own achievement, that he reached his status thanks to his skill, his ability, his family glory.” He smiled. “I am directly in front of you. You can bury the sword in my chest anytime you wish, all you have to do is command.” He taunted. “Tell me, do you see yourself as a master?”
Erin could see herself in the board now. She was there, standing in front of Viktor, a sword in her hand. It was her turn, all she needed to do was swing the blade. She raised her hand, trembling before her piece. If this was a normal game, she had already won. Anyone who would put their king in such a position already surrendered.
Instead, she felt belittled, humiliated, angry. Taking her opponent’s king would be a pointless victory, seeing how easily he gave up the piece. Retreating does not make sense. The crowd watched in disbelief, murmuring among themselves. The royal guard telling their Erin to end it now, a bet is a bet. The slum dwellers asking Viktor to stop and reconsider. Does she attack? Does she retreat? She had played with aristocrats, butlers, champions and lackeys, and she never lost to one. There had always been a pattern in their moves, a clear purpose, a clear motive. To win, of course, she could see through each and every one of them. But now a king, so open, so straightforward, he marched from one end of the board into hers, steps into her throne as if he were daring her. Kill me, it spoke.
She retreated to the side.
“That’s new,” Viktor grinned. He grabbed his king and followed hers. “You do know you can win now right?”
“You’re forcing my hand.”
“Forcing your hand how?”
“I have no intention of slaying a king who so willingly want me to. It’s obviously a trap.”
“Ah, you seem to possess the inability to notice the distinction between the game and reality.”
“Well, you seem to possess the inability to notice the parallelization between the game and reality.”
Where she went, he followed.
In Port Quezon, economy flowed unnaturally. The imports and exports never matched the tax records. The Empire was paying full price for half the law keepers stationed in the port. Aristocrats gets robbed, nobles are charged for thrice the price of goods, and the folk could spit at the face of any congressman without any trouble.
When the empire sent threats through crooked ambassadors, Viktor sent back their heads.
When the empire sent assassins, Viktor hired them and gave them new names.
When the empire sent the Imperial Army, a third of the port was destroyed and the beach was poisoned. The next day, the general was dead, the battalion was dead, and the church burned down. It all happened while they were asleep. Port Quezon banned imports and exports to and from the empire, closed their borders, and declared themselves as an autonomous state. The empire did not dare retaliate.
“Checkmate.”
Erin declared. He led Viktor’s king back to her army, then cornered him between a tower and a hazard tile. She stood up and offered him her hand.
Viktor, hesitated for a moment. “In the end, you could not swing the sword,” he said as he shook her hand.
Erin tightened her grip. “I trust that you will honor our agreement.”
“Yes, you have my support to the throne.”
“And if the eldest son decided to—”
“Oh princess, you seem to misunderstand,” he was grinning now. “Our bet is about having my individual support, as a citizen outside the state. I do not represent Port Quezon in any way.”
“What?”
“Well, if that was what you wanted then you should have said so from the start,” Viktor took his seat, and gestured for Erin to do the same. “How about another match, if you win, you have the support of Port Quezon, with me as a representative,” he offered. “And if I win, you get to have the same, but I get to be promoted to the position of the general,” he is playing with the pieces now, spinning a pawn around his fingers. “I’ve heard a spot just opened up.”
The princess slide back to her chair, wiping sweat off her head. “You did it on purpose didn’t you?”
“I can’t say I have.”
“You wanted to make a point.”
“I am prone to making a lot of points.”
“Semos almighty, I danced around your hand and you played me for a fool.”
“I would say it was more of a duo.”
“If I win, I want the support of Port Quezon, I want your tongue cut, and I want you caged in my room like a dog.”
“Surely there are better ways to get me in your room.”
“You piss me off so much.”
And so began the another game, like any other game that lasts for decades.
Amanila's History called it The War of the Five Kings.
[https://scontent.fmnl8-1.fna.fbcdn.net/v/t1.15752-9/315312438_1341022673369440_7929462700702226116_n.png?stp=dst-png_p280x280&_nc_cat=100&ccb=1-7&_nc_sid=ae9488&_nc_eui2=AeEG0GDdSKnPF3dEdqIA_ODGXbfae0IbRNpdt9p7QhtE2jLY7TTbXP1W_BDJ8QiASm8plczGVHI63CR4sTAgZhyR&_nc_ohc=aCHFJC3dyP0AX8aj7Pj&_nc_ht=scontent.fmnl8-1.fna&oh=03_AdSIEl3oglxdUhTf4tGvXklMsBkl8sGlcUe2iEGOn3Vjsw&oe=63B99501]
Witchcraft - The Seven Laws of Magick
[Entry from The Archives of The Inquisition, Erin the Endless, courtesy of the Empire of Amanila]
Law of Compensation - Deals with the cause and effect applied to blessings and abundance that are provided for us. The visible effects of one’s deeds are given to them in gifts, currency, inheritances, friendships and blessings. Whatever is that one wishes will be given but has to be taken away from someone, something, or somewhere. E.g. If one shall wish for rain, this rain will be taken from a place that is currently experiencing or might experience rain.
The Law of Perpetual Transmutation of Energy - Energies are manifesting with or without one’s conscious effort. All persons have within them the power to change the conditions of their lives. Higher vibrations consume and transform lower ones; thus, each one can change the energies in our lives by understanding the Universal Laws and applying the principles in such a way as to effect change
Law of Attraction - Positive will attract more positive and vice versa. If one wishes to attract positive energy – one must line up with it and apply himself. Demonstrates how one creates the things, events and people that come into our lives one’s thoughts, feelings, words, and actions produce energies which, in turn attract like energies.
Law of Relativity - Each one will receive a series of problems for the purpose of strengthening the light within each individual. This law teaches one to compare his problems to other’s to its proper perspective. No matter how bad one perceives his situation to be, there is always someone who has it worse. It’s all relative. Nothing is good, bad, big, or small, until one experienced it.
Law of Polarity - All things have an opposite. Day and night, black and white, joy and sorrow. Without one the other would not exist. When working with universal laws one uses polarity as a way to determine one’s focus
Law of Rhythm - Everything vibrates and moves to certain rhythms. These rhythms establish seasons, cycles, stages of development, and patterns. Each cycle reflects the regularity of the Universe.
Law of Genesis - All things have tendencies for order and chaos–yin and yang. It is this law that governs what we know as creation. This law decrees everything in nature is both constructive and destructive. Both are required for life to exist
----------------------------------------