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Sir Emerson Lennox
Mista Savar
The ‘Pale Jackal’
An old man’s plan
Part I
-Scorned sisters bear no gifts-
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Third month of winter 193 NC
Greenwhale Peninsula
Mista Savar Settlement
Morning
“Hah!” an overcome with enthusiasm Don-Iv Sopat guffawed, bronze face painted in a sheen of thick sweat, calves covered in sand and ivory adorned ring-mail clattering as he jumped forward. Velox, the Lorian gladiator stepped aside moving swiftly and checked on the cut. The blood a bright crimson in the hot winter sun.
“Damnit stay put!” Don cussed very frustrated and tried again swinging his long blade around dangerously. Velox grimaced, then faked with his shoulder forcing the aristocrat to turn and attacked like a viper at his sword wielding hand.
At full speed this time.
Don downed his blade in a clumsy parry, Velox angled his, sparks blossoming and flying away at the point of contact, then slipped easily the rich scion’s defense. The curved sword’s tip opening the rings and digging into Don’s right shoulder, under the metal pad.
“ARRGH!” Don cried out and twisted away, Hasti gasping next to Emerson -the younger one of the two- cutting the baby’s yawn short. “Bastard!” Don cursed seeing the blood painting his shoulder. “Cursed criminal! Insolent lowly scum! Seize him!” He called at the slaveguards watching from the sides of the small training arena.
“Don’t ye want to finish the duel lord Sopat?” Velox asked mockingly. “It stands a draw. Folk have placed bets.”
“Lowly son of a bitch,” Don cursed furious. “You did it on purpose! Nertor get him!”
The slavemaster scrunched his face eyeing the scores of gladiators present, some training, but most had stopped to watch Don getting his arse kicked in the sands. The numbers not in his favor.
“Best you finish him off yourself Master Don. It’s bad luck to steal one’s win,” Nertor replied diplomatically, opting to survive the day and navigate the morrow when it arrived.
“Don,” Emerson rustled -the old one- and got up from the bench. “Let’s call it a draw. No one loses face.”
“What?” Don grunted and glared at him. “That uncouth brute cut me! What do I care if he loses face? I want him flogged until his ribs show!”
“Ye wanted a ‘real’ sparring experience. Authentic was the word ye used,” Emerson cautioned him approaching. He checked on the seething scion’s wound. It was a superficial cut. “Wash that well and have Hasti stitch it up.”
“This is preposterous!” Don protested and glared at the gladiators laughing at him. “Phon won’t like it one bit Ballard!”
“That yer brother?” Emerson asked and nodded at Ziba-Ra that had brought them food from the kitchen. Troy and Qathor having an animated conversation with the two female gladiators Citata and Rubi-La. The first a half-breed Nord with some Cofol in her and the other a pure Cofol. Citata almost twice as big as her friend and lover. Troy was arguing on the needs of having a cock around in their love-sessions, with Qathor greatly enjoying their disagreement.
“Aye, motherfucker up and showed up just when I was getting the hang of things,” Don protested and watched Hasti pressing a clean cloth on his wound. “I think I need a thorough cleaning sweet lips. From toes to neck,” he told her, while massaging a covered breast absentmindedly. Emerson crooked his mouth.
“What is it you do exactly?” Emerson asked.
Don shook his head, the makeup mixing with his sweat making a mess of his face. “The most boring and crucial part of the business,” he told Emerson. “Reading quarter reports, handling the slavemasters deliveries, checking on the gem mines and I just renewed our deal with Nasar for their best drugs and tea.”
“Isn’t that illegal? Not the tea, although one could argue on that as well,” Emerson probed and allowed Ziba-Ra to hug him.
“There’s nothing illegal in making profit,” Don retorted. “Redleaf is five times more potent than Hashish.”
“Will yer brother come here?”
“Nah, he’s staying in Lai Zel-Ka. He wants to open another trade route,” Don replied.
“Where to?”
“Your friend?”
Glen successes in Wetull sounded mythical in their retelling, but lies aside Emerson was proud he’d managed to keep his head straight after losing everything and build himself back up again. Another could easily have taken a road of crime, or worse, but the young man had showcased healthy ambition and moral values instead, helping a fallen peoples stand on their feet.
“How are you going to cross the reefs?” he rustled, Troy getting punched in the face across the arena sands, but rolling with it and avoiding the worst. To showcase he was fine, the cocky gladiator danced on the sands, did the splits and then rolled away, afore jumping to his feet. He earned a round of applause and loud cheers for that.
“Ships. The boy wonder has ships and he’s looking for a port, or a safe way. You want to know where he found them?” Don asked.
“Where?”
“A gift from the Princess of Kaltha,” Don replied. “I kid you not. Fuck, I’m feeling all that adrenalin from the fierce duel rushing to my cock! Hasti you have to do me here sweet lips. Just clean it a bit and work—”
“Don!” Emerson blasted him. “You want to fight, ye stay. You want to have yer cock sucked, get your arse out of the sands!”
And away from my son!
Don stared at him dumbfounded. “Why?” he asked hurt. “What’s the harm?”
“If one doesn’t get it wit words, then he needs to be taught another way,” Emerson grunted and eyed him warningly.
Don sighed pensively. “Come Hasti, let’s go to the house I’ve built and let them train alone in the arena I’ve built,” Don finished with a knowing stare at the frowned knight, who reached and untied a thick belt he had on his waist.
Don-Iv left them alone without further comments.
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“I’ll take our son out of the sun,” Ziba-Ra whispered in his ear and Emerson allowed her to take the baby away. He watched the maturing young woman navigating the tables where the men and women were eating for a moment, the young boy looking at him over her bare shoulder.
Thalion, the ‘Old Viper’, smacked his lips seeing his worried stare. A freed slave and former champion of the Pits before the ‘Unyielding Gargoyle’, he’d returned to the sands to help Emerson train the men. Thalion was fifty, but still had most of his skills and a well-trained wiry body even if some of his speed had left him.
“You know Ballard,” the Cofol-Lorian half-breed said in his raspy manner. An old throat injury had messed up his singing voice, as the old gladiator liked to say, “If you want the boy to grow up away from the sands, yer on the wrong path.”
“I owe the Sopat for Ziba,” Emerson grunted.
“I was talking of the boy,” Thalion argued and sipped from his honeyed wine. “She’s as fine as they get, but ain’t worth the risk.”
“A boy needs its mother,” Emerson countered with a grimace.
“Reckon the boy might need its father more given the circumstances.”
“I don’t weigh people’s value on the scales Thalion!”
“The Khan will return and this will be over,” Thalion argued soberly.
Not for many years he won’t. This war will be much more difficult to end, than it was to start.
The Kings who started it might not even see its final day.
“This… you heard of Chubin Amin’s response?” Emerson asked crooking his square jaw.
“Aye. Elur Sol gave him enough time to reconsider.”
“You think he’ll have him arrested?”
“That’s the word, but he ain’t staying in Lai Zel-Ka with Phon-Iv there,” Thalion replied.
“He’ll back away? Sell him out?”
“Ballard the Sopat live to trade and making profit. If they find their arses cornered, eh… you heard him. Fresh business is opening up.”
“You think Chubin will come here?” Emerson asked.
“He’s on his way is the word.”
“Can Elur-Sol reach this far?”
“I don’t think he gave him time out of the goodness of his heart,” Thalion replied and got up. “Which means the Khan’s people will come here and then this business might turn ugly.”
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Mista Savar Camp, had turned into a small barricaded village in the two years after the games in the Pits of Fu De-Gar. Built near the sources of Kineham River under the Cedar Sisters Mountains, right between Ani Ta-Ne and Fu De-Gar. The road leading to it a simple turn north at the Old Imperial Watch ruins cutting through the east part of the Great Oasis between Kineham and Tani Rivers.
The barracks made out of mudbricks, hardened clay from the banks of the river and straw, same as its walls. The arena simple and lacking stands as no crowds paid tickets to watch the men train in the wilderness, but like the three workshops forging weapons and armour it never stood idle. The best trainers of every Ludus had accepted the job of producing a thousand gladiators in a year, which they then gave to Emerson to turn them into soldiers. Velox, Thalion with the help of Troy, Qathor and the rest of the working together best of the three Sisters Ludi, had managed to churn out almost three thousand gladiators in two years.
Emerson had kept a third of them and the rest he left to Thalion.
He wanted a multipurpose unit. Good with blade and spear, capable of riding a horse. Men-at-arms of the desert, Troy had joked in the months that followed. Emerson wanted something different. You can’t make knights out of slaves, but you can make a difficult to break unit that fights as one person like the Phalanx of old, or the Cohorts of the Legion.
He named it the Chiliad, the ancient Lorian word for one thousand. The soldiers wore pieces of half-plate cuirass over hardened leather padding that covered their chest and back. The exposed –or weapon- arm was fully protected with gauntlet, rerebrace and pauldron for the hand, elbow joint and shoulder respectively. The steel arm-sheath clipping in one piece and attached to the half-plate. The other arm usually had only a vambrace as it carried the steel coffin-shaped shield. It reached a soldier’s chest from the ground, but it was lighter than the Legion Scutum before the steel plates were added over the iron thread reinforced leather attached and stretched on the hardwood rim. Greaves and a segmented steel helm, or spangenhelm, were the final pieces. The full-face cover on the helm having large square holes for the eyes, the rest of it filled with rows of smaller round openings to allow the air to reach the soldier’s face.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Every man joining with a single purpose in mind.
Setting themselves free.
Emerson had in fact cut many good warriors and gladiators that were forced by their masters to accept this assignment instead of the lucrative bloody sands of the arena they preferred and kept those that wanted to win their freedom instead.
The matter of making sure they got their wish in the end of this ordeal gnawing at him. The Lords of the Peninsula wouldn’t agree to free them aforehand, but Emerson had secured that inside the walls of Mista Savar they would live as free men in the Pale Jackal’s army.
“How’s the knee Ballard?” Ziba-Ra asked feeding the young Emerson. She had insisted on naming the boy after him. You don’t get to use the name much and since I can’t be the only one speaking it, this is the best solution.
“I don’t see yer reasoning. I have a father—”
Ziba-Ra had cut him off. “Who got lost and never returned. Yeah, I don’t like it. Moreover I fancy sucking your cock and now it will be weird asking it right? People will get confused!”
He’d given her a good spanking for that, but the pretty slave had enjoyed it as foreplay. A strange creature from a strange land, Emerson thought smiling at the milk covered face of his son.
“It locks up still,” he rustled and rubbed his leather-strapped knee. It also hurt after a couple of steps, some of the bone splinters still moving about and flamed up when it was too hot.
“Let Troy run about in the sand,” Ziba-Ra prompted, plopping a nipple in the boy’s mouth. “Paikan has a couple of pregnant slaves. If you could buy them, we could use the extra milk,” she added thoughtfully.
“I’m not using coin intended for freeing you to buy slaves,” Emerson rustled.
“It’s for your son,” she protested.
“I had only me mother’s mixed wit that of an old goat and he’ll be fine with the same diet,” he grunted.
“Yes, but it tires me and I want to spend more time with the fighters,” Ziba taunted looking for another spanking.
“I don’t like this manner of talk girl!” Emerson growled and got up. “You’re trying to rouse me why?”
“If I tell you, you’ll be mad,” she pouted and wiped the boy’s mouth. He’d fallen asleep feeding.
“Speak!”
“I can’t abstain from intercourse any longer,” Ziba admitted. “You’re torturing me. I can’t live like this.”
Emerson stood back with a scowl.
“See? I’ll take a spanking though, just aim between the buttocks some?” she teased nervously and turned around to present her behind.
A slave had appeared at their open door. Left open on purpose to keep a draft going as they were near the desert. Despite the mountains shade, the river’s waters and the green of the Oasis, the heat could become unbearable even in winter.
“You can speak!” Emerson rustled still furious with the blond girl. Mostly because she always managed to arouse him enough in the end to get what she wanted.
“Master Don-Iv requires your presence in the Blue House.”
A former barracks building Don had appropriated to use in his visits, encased in a marble façade spending a fortune, opened multiple windows and of course had painted blue instead of the dull yellow-grey of the rest of the large village.
“He’s still here?”
“Yes Mista Savar,” the slave replied.
“I hate Don so much,” Ziba-Ra admitted and poured water in a large cup. She glugged it down trying to quench her thirst, but Emerson knew he’ll have to deal with it in the evening.
The moment Ziba-Ra had recovered from giving birth, her appetite had returned and Emerson needed to keep some of his strength to train the men.
It wasn’t easy navigating both tasks.
“I’ll see what he wants,” he told her and got up from his chair.
“I told Hasti to keep him well-drugged, stupid cunt,” she hissed not paying attention to him and Emerson sighed, made two pained strides and smacked her once right at the large right buttock with his hand. The smack making her jump and lose control of her bladder along the grip on that cup that clattered on the table adding to the spillage.
Damnation! A stunned Emerson thought, Ziba casually walking out of the pool at her feet and towards a bath barrel a pleased expression on her face.
The middle-aged male slave blinked and said in a calm professional voice.
“I’ll take care of it Mista Savar, worry not. All of Paikan’s house slaves have a weak bladder.”
“Not all of it is piss,” Ziba protested shamelessly getting rid of her tunic to step inside the barrel.
“Not another word!” Emerson grunted grinding his teeth and marched straight out of the modest, low ceiling house.
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Don was sitting cross-legged on the shaded veranda, a towel covering his hips and a knelt Hasti moisturized his shaved legs with a damp scented cloth. A bandage on his shoulder too big for the injury he’d sustained earlier. An older Cofol of medium height standing with his back on one of the posts wearing a typical creamy-colored hard-leather and mail Cofol armour with a Capricorn crest engraved on it. The wiry warrior had a pointy chin and golden-green slanted eyes. Emerson hadn’t seen this Sopat creature before and he knew Nertor’s slaveguards well.
“Ah, just paint the toenails next. Blue to match the walls,” Don said with a weary sigh. “This position is killing me. All the fighting and fucking today wore me out Ballard.”
“You called me here to watch ye paint yer toes?” Emerson grunted still in a bad mood.
Don groaned and uncrossed his legs to brazenly air his private region. The older man, not a Peninsula Cofol this, Emerson thought keeping him in his peripheral view, cracking a leer at the Sopat scion’s shenanigans.
“I wanted to return to Ani Ta-Ne,” Don admitted with a sigh. “I’ve had enough of the Garites to last me a lifetime. Eh, but Phon has a way of shoving his arm up your arse raw and work it vigorously when you least expect it.”
Emerson pursed his mouth, wild black and grey beard itching and his blood boiling.
“Perhaps he should have used a stick in yer younger days, lessen his troubles in the future,” he grunted finally.
“My sister loved that,” Don reminisced fondly, his thought-process always disturbing to Emerson. “Ah, the good times. Welp, anyways… Chubin Amin is in Fu De-Gar.”
“Go on,” Emerson hissed.
“Elur-Sol has soldiers sent to Lai Zel-Ka to arrest and then bring his old arse to Que Ki-La.”
“Hmm.”
“Phon declared publicly that the man left the city and produced witnesses of the fact,” Don continued. “So the soldiers stayed in Nasar to restock in cheap drugs right out of the fields, haha!”
“They know he’s here?” Emerson asked thoughtfully.
“Yes Ballard. Why, you little minx… it’s all shaved?” Don said working his hand between Hasti’s legs. The short skirt easy to navigate. “Let me see—”
“Don!” Emerson blasted him irate. “Will they come here?” He asked breathing heavy and his knee throbbing from standing for so long.
“Good heavens,” Don reproached him. “What is this anger? They might, but I think Elur Sol might sent an army down Dor O’ Cof-Ol instead and box him in.”
“First to Ani Ta-Ne and then here,” Emerson elucidated.
“The road goes only the one way, unless you take a ship straight for us,” Don replied.
“What do the other Lords say?”
That would be Dekerut Tsuparin and Zeke Letakin.
“They are not pleased, but are unsure if we are ready to rise up,” Don said and the older man scoffed at his words.
“You’ll never be, if you fear losing,” Emerson grunted. “Show me on a map.”
“Pelin dear,” Don called not moving an inch from his comfy bamboo armchair. “Find us a couple of maps will you?”
“Maps of what master?” The too old to still be of service slave asked politely from the door.
Don stared at Emerson bemused.
For the love of allgods, Emerson thought shaking his head in despair.
“Of the Peninsula,” he rustled glaring at the nodding Don, a garishly painted paper folding-fan in his hand used to send even more air between his open legs.
“Right,” Don agreed and stared at the older leering Cofol. “This is Bohor by the way. Phon’s right hand man. We have another matter to discuss.”
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Emerson rubbed his wrinkled forehead, wiping some of the sweat off in the process. He was studying the fine maps Pelin had carried outside, along with a table. Emerson had helped him with the heavy furniture, over Don’s objections.
He then kicked the chair sending the Sopat scion glide outside the shaded veranda with a yelp and got a couple of angry slaps from a furious Hasti in return for assaulting her master. After Don returned leaving the chair there to sit on a new one, thoroughly aggravated at the unprovoked abuse as he called it, Emerson turned his attention on the maps of Greenwhale Peninsula.
“How many men does Elur-Sol have at his disposal?” Emerson asked and Bohor approached to stand next to him.
“At least five thousand. The Khan left him control of the capital’s guard. Their replacements that is. The Jang-Ju left with the Khan.”
“That’s their total number?”
“Close to eight thousand, but word is he left some back, Rin An-Pur is a big city to manage Ballard.”
“Cavalry?”
“Infantry. Mounted. The Khan took the best cavalry units with him as well.”
“Shao Na-Lan can reinforce him yes?”
“Yin Xi-Yan is your problem,” Bohor replied. “Shao Na-Lan is Prince Atpa’s city.”
“Who is in Yin Xi-Yan?”
“Prince Nout, the Heir,” Bohor replied. “Atpa might be persuaded. He’s Tsuparin’s favorite Prince.”
“What does this mean?” Emerson growled.
“Atpa loves the games,” Don replied stiffly, since he hadn’t forgiven Emerson from shoving him outside.
“And? This is his father’s domain. He’s campaigning for the Khan right?”
“Eh, Tsuparin can work on him, but the ‘Gold Leopard’ might be more difficult to fool, impossible to persuade. Nobody can approach him anyway with such plans and live,” Bohor said.
“Word is he’s sick. His skin melted or something,” Don replied. “Some say it’s something he caught on the road, but I think it’s a disease he contracted from fucking his horses.”
Absurd!
Emerson had met Prince Nout, fought against him at Hellfort’s Pass. He glared at Don. “Will he move to reinforce Elur-Sol?”
“Does he need to?” Bohor asked looking at Emerson.
“Say Elur-Sol sends the bulk of his force down the road towards Ani Ta-Ne,” Emerson said. “Can we stop him there?”
“For how long?” Bohor asked.
“I’ll tell you later. Will your brother make sure the force in Nasar stays put?” Emerson asked Don who furrowed his trimmed brows unsure.
“When you say stay put… you mean by force?” he asked.
“I reckon asking nicely might not work,” Emerson rumbled.
“What if he uses ships to land here?” Bohor queried. “A strong enough force can be dispatched afore we can gather ours. Are your men ready?”
The two Lords had each split the two thousand ‘spare’ gladiators amongst themselves and Letakin had taken his in Ani Tan-Ne. The Sopat had footed the bill for the Chiliad.
“Let’s make sure he does,” Emerson said raspingly and stared at the map. “We can’t ambush him on the road, the settlements will warn him, or the caravans and you can’t hide in the plains. Can you cross the desert though?”
“Wait,” Bohor said stopping him. “You propose that we give Chubin Amin up?”
“Pretend that we want to. It can’t be that difficult to palate son, your boss is already considering it!” Emerson rustled and the slavemaster grimaced. “Either you all work together freely, or you’ll be forced to do it by circumstances.”
“I haven’t heard a plan yet Ballard,” Bohor retorted through his teeth.
“Let’s do this first,” Emerson countered. “Make sure the Lords are in for a fight, then we’ll see about the plan.”
“Elur-Sol would send the army down the road either way, he’s looking to block the routes,” Bohor argued and Emerson scoffed, showed him the map next.
“You can’t block anything with ten thousand men, this isn’t Jelin, or East Eplas. This land is mostly a huge open terrain. You lads are just not used in discomfort. Once you do, ye’ll see plenty of routes opening up.”
“Why are you so eager to fight Ballard? Another couple of years of this and you’ll be rich enough to relocate everyone,” Bohor had asked him and Emerson returned his stare, but said nothing.
Emerson wanted to be back in Ballard afore he turned fifty with his son and Ziba. He wanted to see his sister, who he hadn’t seen in almost twenty years and learn how her life had turned out. Smell his motherland’s soil, touch it again.
But he couldn’t.
Not in this manner.
A knight, or a man, doesn’t start something difficult, only to abandon it the first chance he gets, even if those he owes to are having second thoughts.
Emerson had given his word to the men of the Chiliad their service would free them and the Lords wouldn’t agree if he allowed them to cave in.
They’ll just toss them in the sands of the arena again to make back the lost coin.
“Playing a trick on that fat bastard has a certain charm in it,” Don murmured fanning his sweaty face. “What is the saying? I fear of the scorned wife bearing gifts? Well, this is the sisters that have been scorned right Ballard?”
“Ah! Yer confusing two different sayings,” Emerson rustled eyeing him just about ready to cuff him on the ear.
Never has a brat existed more deserving of a beating than Don-Iv.
“It’s Lorians I think. Heard it from Lesia guys,” Bohor said, saw Emerson’s angry scowl and added after clearing his throat. “But I could have been mistaken.”
Don puffed out and stared at the demurely sitting in a chair Hasti.
“Whatever, you lads got my gist right?” He retorted with a shrug. “Let’s make a break here and resume in… eh, thirty minutes?” A flushed Hasti grinned toothily. “Make it an hour. No point in wearing ourselves down to the bone! Rest that leg Ballard and stop scowling so much. Good grief man, you’ll run out of unwrinkled skin soon!”
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