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map [https://i.redd.it/3wf4zeslsgvc1.png]

The Sun gave birth to another day, interrupting the garrison commander’s slumber. Conducas emerged from his uncomfortable bed, believing he would distinguish himself today. As he polished his helmet, he wondered why he didn't have a servant perform such menial tasks.

He began his morning routine of inspecting the perimeter. At times, he couldn’t help but wonder why he even bothered. After all, nothing of note ever occurred here. As he strolled around the courtyard, it quickly became evident many guardsmen were missing from their posts. This was nothing new. The lack of action had created an unnecessarily relaxed atmosphere around the fortress and its garrison. When Conducas first arrived, he was eager to penalize such neglect. However, when he realized what this place truly was, he began relaxing his policies. As he climbed the stairs to the north-western tower, the creak alerted its wretched watcher.

“Captain, it was a night like any other. Go back to sleep,” Gath yawned at the sunrise.

The old goat was his miserable excuse for a second-in-command. He might have been fifty and certainly not in a fighting shape. If the fort fell under attack, would he be of much use?

“I don’t see the others. Explain,” Conducas inquired, trying his best to hide his apathy.

“Pay it no mind,” Gath uttered, still not bothering to face his captain.

His dirt-covered helmet was a match for his ungroomed beard garnished with leftovers. His tattered gambeson reeked of goat piss. To arm himself for the night, even that was asking for too much. One would not mistake this man for a member of the gentry, yet he was. What a grim reminder of what might come of those who give up on life.

“Listen, you sack of shit…” Conducas whispered as he placed a firm grip on Gath’s shoulder.

“You will answer when spoken to,” he disciplined his subordinate. Every day, he dealt with Gath, and every day, he felt strained by it.

Gath turned towards him and dared to roll his eyes: “You know those rascals, I told them not to, but…they still went to get some.”

The village near the fortress hosted a hub of nubile peasant girls. A couple of them were almost pleasant-looking. It was common for the garrison men to fool around the village. Many had even taken the liberty to spread their seed there. Of course, going there during the night wasn't remotely tolerable.

“Desertion… How is this acceptable to you?”

Gath rubbed his ears as if he were alone. Even knowing Gath’s life story, Conducas could not fathom how someone could succumb to such a miserable state of existence.

“Do you realize if we had come under attack, we—” he was interrupted when Gath raised his bruised left hand.

“Son, look at my hand,” he interrupted.

“I have been stuck here for a decade. With this hand, I can count the times we have been under attack,” Gath spouted.

Perhaps he had a point. Conducas had arrived a mere two years ago. During his tenure, no enemies had been sighted. Nonetheless, the stronghold had seen more than one assault, but back then, Gath had been in charge. “Ringatho the Iron” he had been known as. Even the fort had claimed his name with pride. But eras begin and end; that man no longer existed. Only “Gath the Goat” stood in front of him.

“And had our enemies come for us, I’d be the first to welcome the sweet relief of death,” Gath mumbled and turned his back towards the horizon.

Conducas’ tongue almost slipped and told him to resign, nothing was worse than a defeatist officer. But then he recalled Gath had nowhere to go. If death was truly a relief for him, would pushing him down the rampart be an act of mercy? Would it improve the morale to get rid of this old goat? The murder of his men under any circumstances was ill-advised, yet his father and brothers would have done it. Had he been sent here because he didn’t resort to such ruthless acts?

Any other commander would have been alarmed by this horrendous lack of discipline, but Conducas couldn’t help but sympathize with this old fart and those pesky perverts. This godforsaken outpost offered few prospects. But no, he couldn’t let this go, not this time. The line had to be drawn somewhere before the chain of command rotted away completely.

“Either way, have them flogged…” Conducas hesitantly ordered, but Gath continued gazing out as if he didn’t hear anything.

“You know. As we speak, my brother is leading another expedition, but I… I’m here,” Gath lamented. Conducas could sympathize with him on this. His brothers enjoyed better positions than him as well. But he had been sent here. Yet, this changed nothing.

“Officer, did you not hear me?”

“Yes, Captain Cuteco. I will inflict a dozen lashes on those hooligans…once they return.”

“No. You will find and retrieve them… Now!” Conducas ordered and took his leave.

To get these people to do anything was an endurance. As the Old Man took his time departing, Conducas pondered if this command was indeed what he deserved. In theory, upholding morale and discipline was the commander’s obligation. If Conducas couldn’t even inspire the garrison of twenty, why would he be entitled to anything more challenging?

He continued the inspection, heading towards the east wall. Around this wall, Conducas had wanted to erect a stone keep. It ought to become the new core of the stronghold, for the rest of the fortress was composed of rapidly rotting planks. Unfortunately, the progress had stagnated; for one reason or another, tools and materials had a habit of disappearing. Yet, it never seemed to bother the laborers one bit. They were never enthusiastic about their commander’s passion project in the first place. How he hoped the task would provide them with a rewarding goal to work towards. In reality, it could not compete with the booze and bosoms of the village girls. As such, only the floor was complete, whereas the rest of the construction site lay empty.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

When Conducas reached the rampart, his father awaited him down on the construction site. Well, it was a graffito of him either way. The stone floor had been covered by a rather crude drawing of a man, a pig, and a bull. In this depiction, the man was sucking the pig’s member, while the bull penetrated him from behind. The text next to the man read “The King of Aliaze”. The youth of the village found it amusing to vandalize the fort at night. Supposedly the two animals were an artistic rendition of the Kingdom’s enemies.

“The bull must be the Empire, right?” Stris asked. He appeared behind him without a sound, this short man had the agility of an assassin.

“Think again,” Conducas goaded. Unlike that old goat, he was more like him, that of the patrician flock. He ought to know better when analyzing art.

“Let’s see here um…” he took a careful look at the drawing. The Sun reflected light on his polished armor as his finger scratched his clean-shaven jaw.

“The bull generally represents might and momentum, while the pig—” Stris happily lectured.

“...decadence and stagnation. Yes, yes, we have both been educated on this”, Conducas dismissively completed.

“Yet, art merely represents the opinions of its author, not reality, “ Stris snapped back and pounded his polearm against the rampart.

“To us, the Empire may not be mighty, but the peasant artist might beg to differ,” Stris rationalized with a smirk.

“How can anyone think so?”

“If you were a countryman, wouldn’t you?” Stris pressed playfully.

Those rural folk… Who knew what they thought? Maybe their folktales made the Empire sound better than it was. But the villagers hadn’t lived under the Empire, so why would they idealize it? No, they must favor their nation…or the closest thing next to it.

“Listen, the Empire cares about these people less than we do,” Conducas presumed in a serious tone and began preaching. He turned away from the slightly confused Strislag.

“And even those inbred croppers,” he continued with disgust. watching over the horizon, the shepherds began droving cattle onward. He recognized one of the shepherds from afar, this one had humped a sheep when he last saw him.

“Know better,” he concluded his rant with the most authoritative intonation he could produce. This is how his father wished he would always speak; with absolute confidence, to the point of arrogance. But Conducas could not lie to himself, he was not a charismatic person, unlike his friend.

“I do know better, my friend. The folk here prefer the yoke of the Empire over the Zobozandish”, Stris warmly defended.

Supposedly, Stris would know their preferences. After all, most local lasses had embraced him, in one way or another… Then again, he was something of a fool. What kind of man would volunteer to be here?

“Think we are just overanalyzing some fickle knave’s ridicule,” the commander sighed and headed down from the wall.

“And Stris…”

“Yes, commander?”

“Have it removed, uncover the culprit, and have him castrated,” Conducas ordered with a heavy heart. One boy’s suffering for the reverence of the garrison…it would be worth it. The patricians were often taken advantage of, and it could only be averted with acts of ruthlessness.

“That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?” Stris argued, clearly trying to hold into a pretense of playfulness, but his composure betrayed him. He must have been shocked by the order.

Perhaps it was, but this was lese-majesty, after all. Had Aliaze still been part of the Empire, it would have been punishable by death. Fortunately for these peasants, the Kingdom maintained a more liberal approach… “Ridicule and mockery of the King are rewarded,” was what the imperial propaganda claimed of Aliaze, but, in reality, it was still punishable.

While he could overlook it, it would just encourage such activity. The fort might not witness another assault, but it still could fall to defacement. The site could not take more infamy. And if his father somehow heard about his tolerance for mockery, he would never be allowed to return.

“Officer, are you questioning my order?” Conducas asked. Stris was the last of his men to question his orders, how could he do it now?

“No, sir. I will have it done.”

…

Later that afternoon, a rider wearing the heraldry of Aliaze, a bright red banner decorated with a golden tetra crescent, galloped into the fortress. The Rider jumped from his saddle. He began looking around. The garrison gathered around the man, many of whom were about as presentable as Gath. After the Rider had taken a good look at the men of the garrison, his confused look was overtaken by a slight smirk.

“And here I was about to ask if this the right fort,” the Rider laughed as he flexed his neck.

“But it’s now evident, this must be the so-called King’s Shame,” the Rider smiled. He took a closer step towards Conducas, quickly recognizing him.

“Be there a place more depressing, and I’d be smitten,” he continued lamenting.

“Hmmm… I take it you are Captain Cuteco?” the man asked Conducas, after examining him briefly.

“That’s right,” he answered confidently, knowing what this all meant…

How Conducas had dreamed of this day, somehow he knew would distinguish himself. At last, his father had recalled him from this exile. Perhaps, he even felt bad for failing to answer his letters for two years. He might even gift him the grand command of the West. While he hadn’t seen as much as a skirmish, he had made up for it by studying countless wars. With his strategic brilliance, he would end the dispute. The Empire and Zobozand would be expelled from the Deystro region. And, after becoming a legend, the Chamber of Patricians would be so captivated by his military excellence that they would create him the region’s duke. He would then devote his ducal reign to rebuilding the fallen kingdom. A century from now, those ungrateful villagers would know him as “Conducas the Great”.

“Conducas Cuteco, I’m representing the Chamber of Patricians,” the Rider proclaimed as he pulled a scroll from his horse’s bag.

He began reading the scroll: “By the decree of the Chamber of Patricians, you are hereby removed from your command and placed under arrest.”

“Pardon me? What?” Conducas jumped. He had never known his father to have a sense of humor. Perhaps this was his brother’s jest.

“You are to face a trial in the Capital on charges of high treason,” the Rider continued reading.

This joke was becoming unamusing. Was it a jester dressed as a royal emissary? Yes, it must have been, that was the only explanation. Then again to wear the sacred tetra crescent for a jibe would have been blasphemous. Was that the length they went for this shitty gag?

“And if you are to resist the arrest, you will be considered an outlaw, and be hanged,” the Rider finished reading the declaration and handed the scroll to Conducas.

Suddenly, the man came closer and whispered: “And my deepest condolences, your father perished a week ago.”