>
> Chiliad
>
> (The Unbroken)
>
> Moniker given from a phrase in a play written by Asmudius
>
> Organizational chart
>
> (late 192 to early winter 194)
>
> dates of personnel changes haven't been saved
>
>
>
> -
>
> Mista Savar – Ballard of Lesia, ‘Pale Jackal’ –numerous monikers like Grey War Leader, Slayer of Madrox etc. Won the great games in the Pits of Fu De-Gar stopping Madrox. Retired undefeated. (Sir Emerson Lennox)
>
> 2nd in command – ‘Titan’ Troy, ‘Mad Fuck’ – many monikers some self-proclaimed others given from Asmudius like ‘Divine Blades’, ‘Dimachaerus Supreme’ etc. One of the two living ‘Gods of the Arena’ along the ‘Pale Jackal’ and in the four best gladiators of the modern era, or any era who ever stepped foot on the sands along Madrox and Thalion. Won the great games in the Pits both as a slave and as a freeman. Undefeated. (Novesium, captured former slaver, smuggler.)
>
> 3rd Qathor ‘Aroused Bull’ (Issir unknown origins, born a slave. Known sodomizer.)
>
> 4th Velox ‘Surgeon’ (Lorian unknown origins, born a slave. One of Fu De-Gar’s best trainers.)
>
>
>
> -
>
> Ten Platoons (100 gladiators each)
>
> Known leaders
>
> Telos ‘Half Face’ (Half-breed, born a slave.)
>
> Citata ‘Big’ (Nord-Cofol half-breed, born a slave. Killed three men in the Arena.)
>
> Rubi-La (Cofol, born a slave.)
>
> Asper ‘Scythe’ (Cofol. Audax’s brother, Fu De-Gar, born a slave. Bought himself out, but got in debt soon after and got enslaved again. Never spared a defeated opponent. Trainer.)
>
> Audax ‘Harpoon’ (Cofol. Asper’s brother.)
>
> Toros & ‘Sweet’ Sylia (A couple. Lai Zel-Ka. Bred by the Sopat. Of Nord, Lorian and Issir origins.)
>
> The three Platoons of Ballard, Troy and Qathor always fought as one unit, named ‘The Champions’ which acted as the army’s center.
>
>
>
>
>
> -
>
> Strength at the start of the campaign.
>
> Mostly through the Sopat notes & payroll records
>
>
>
> One thousand mounted gladiators.
>
> 300 hundred mounted archers under Samir of Ani Ta-Ne (Mercenaries paid by the Leta-Kin)
>
> 150 slave guards and slave masters under Bohor and Nertor a mixed-fighter unit (Paid by the Sopat) amongst them Asmudius the famed play-writer and comedian (the latter is disputed).
>
> 350 civilians (merchants, medics, blacksmiths and engineers) under Sim Ib-Lurd of Fu De-Gar, Karit Tsuparin’s advisor.
>
> 700(?) hundred slaves (Ranging from simple labor force, to pleasure companions, medics, cooks and gatherers)
>
> 50+ wagons
>
> 100+ camels
>
> 200+ mules
>
> 1400+ horses
>
> For a total of ~1450 effective fighting force and 1050 in the supply train, along 1700+ animals.
----------------------------------------
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Sir Emerson Lennox
Mista Savar
‘Pale Jackal’
A tale for yer son to read
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Early Spring of 193 NC
Dry Sea (Dead Sea), south of Wind Cut Road passage
Almost 400 kilometers from Ani Ta-Ne
The blistering wind raged over the dunes as the morning sun came over the desert. The covered from head to toe in thin robes rider stood atop the large camel leading the goat herd and the caravan wagons. He brought his hand over his eyes to watch their scouts approach. Behind him the small group of herders stopped their camels as well, a few armed guards amongst them, one of them leading a desert leopard from a chain coming to the front.
Their scouts galloped down the dune’s slopes, kicking even more sand and approached with yells and cries to keep everyone close as visibility wasn’t great. They greeted the animal merchant and his herders under Emerson’s watchful eyes from atop the dune. The merchant turned his head after listening to the scouts and watched the rows of riders coming over the top of the large dune in groups of ten.
A look of astonishment on his weather beaten Cofol face.
Emerson kicked his legs and galloped near the caravan as well, passing by Samir’s mounted archers, a hand holding the cloth on his face to protect his eyes. His skin had turned a rich bronze after three weeks in the desert, but the wind wasn’t something one could get accustomed to.
The merchant saw him approach, the gold patched leopard snarling warningly, froth in its gnarly mouth and Emerson raised his arm in greeting. The blowing desert wind making it difficult to hear and the sound of many horses and camels coming up behind him adding to the pandemonium.
“Never have I seen,” the middle aged Cofol merchant started in Common with that Peninsula singing accent. A remnant of the extinct Imperial language the local Cofols had kept along many namesakes, but also words about food, dances and different habits. The Peninsula had been a major trading hub of the Empire, the trade route going all the way to the Plague Isles. “Such a great host of men in this remote part of the desert,” he told him. “Name’s Birik-Nel, a merchant out of Rihtur.”
“You’re using it,” Emerson rustled loud enough to be heard. “The path. Why?”
“I’m not rich. I look to avoid the Khan’s taxes,” Birik stared at Samir’s archers approaching and then the slaver scouts. “Some of the Lords as well. They suck away at my profits, so I don’t use their roads.”
Where there’s land, Emerson thought. There are paths and men who navigate them.
“Where are you going?”
“To the Levai Mines, under the Opal Mountains,” Birik said and showed him with an arm. Emerson couldn’t see anything in the soup created by the heat and the strong wind. “Breeze is coming from the passage. Whistles through the canyon. Songs of the desert that speak of riches beyond the golden sands,” the merchant explained in their eloquent manner. “But it’s a shortcut as well.”
“Which way is the canyon?” Emerson asked him.
“A goat could take you, if you’re interested in a trade,” Birik replied with a smirk.
“How much for the goat?” Bohor asked approaching.
“All is cheap for Lord Sopat,” Birik said demurely. “A droplet in a sea sort of speak he-he,” he added and waved for one of his men to bring one of the goats forward.
“Will this work?” Emerson asked the scowling Bohor.
“I should have him arrested,” the slaver murmured eyeing the merchant’s guards and some of his slaves.
“Focus lad,” Emerson grunted and turned his horse to face him. “Will it work?”
Bohor nodded with his hooded head. “Aye. The goat will know the way back.”
Good.
“Pay him, get the goat,” Emerson said and paused to eye the herd. “Get a dozen more. We’ll camp the rest of the day, wait the storm out and travel in the night.”
“You want a feast Ballard? I’m not going to buy fresh meat. We have supplies.”
“I want the men fed something nice before this last part and be in good spirits,” Emerson replied gruffly. “See to galvanize yours Bohor. We might need them.”
----------------------------------------
Hours later, the afternoon slowly giving away and the sun almost gone from the sky, Emerson sat on a saddle placed on the soft sand and watched the men finishing up their meal. They did it with loud songs and stories, the light breeze that gushed at the sands making them shift as if they were living things lacing around the words and the music. The camp buzzing like a Cofol bazaar back in Ani Ta-Ne.
Back in Ta-Ne.
Emerson closed his eyes, mind drifting almost a month to the recent past.
> “Oh,” little Emerson coughed in the attempt to speak, face covered in drool. He rocked him in his arms this way and that, the baby gasping awed at the game. Ziba-Ra watching them from the door of the Ludus they were temporarily staying. The cells unlocked, but uncomfortable to her psyche, as if a reminder that her fate could still change.
>
> If ye taste freedom, you can’t go back to play the slave again.
>
> “I’ll return to Fu De-Gar with him but I don’t trust Don-Iv,” Ziba murmured, a silk blue fishnet cover over her blond hair. “The Sopat are not like normal people. They only value coin and gems. Trade routes and deals. People are very low on their list.”
>
> “A merchant is as good as his word,” Emerson had replied showing the baby his teeth in a half-snarl half-smile. “He’ll honor the deal, since he likes it so much and won’t touch you until I return.”
>
> “Yeah? And when is this going to end?” Ziba asked nervously. Emerson walked to her and put a hand on her small shoulder, the other holding the boy with ease.
>
> “You’ll be free. I gave you my word. Never broken it in me life,” Emerson assured her hoarsely. “It might be some time afore I come back though. Months,” he stared at the small boy with the few strands of blond hair on his head alike his mother and the colored a very pale green eyes. That’s my jaw though, he thought. And forehead. This perhaps is unlucky, but you have time to grow more hair. “Perhaps more,” he rustled and gulped down Ziba hugging him over the Jackal armor.
>
> “Can you win against Elur-Sol?” she asked silently.
>
> “I don’t fear the coin master of Rin An-Pur,” Emerson replied. “But the Khan’s response. We might have to negotiate at some point from a more favorable position.”
>
> “What position is that?”
>
> “Better to lose three than four,” was Emerson’s cryptic answer and stared at his son playing with his vambrace. “You take care of him now Ziba,” he rustled. “See him grow to leave this place, whatever happens make sure of it, know I will think of you two all the time.”
>
> “Shut up. I don’t like this talk,” Ziba stopped him. “And you make it sound as if Jelin is something mythical. Just how different is Ballard anyway?”
>
> “It isn’t,” Emerson rustled very moved, but he hid it under a frown. “There’s even a desert at the near like this one, over the river and the bald mountains.”
>
> “So?”
>
> “It’s home. Where his family lives,” he explained and raised the giggling baby to kiss its mostly bald soft forehead. “And we’ll get him back there.”
“Want half a hind-leg Ballard?” a drunken Troy asked almost walking over Citata and Rubi-La that were making out on a blanket, under another one kept upright with two sticks. He knocked one of them down collapsing the crude construct. Most slept out in the open, under whatever shade they could construct.
“Apologies for the disturbance,” Troy said with the politeness of a drunk. “May I stand and watch whilst I chew on dis?”
“Suck my cock Troy!” Citata growled glaring at him.
“Didn’t know ye had one,” Troy retorted blinking unsure. “Upon learning it, I now see ye in a different light Cit.”
“Oh, fuck off!” the female gladiator cursed and a shifty Lorian with large brown eyes wearing a slaver’s outfit approached laughing.
“Food and intercourse galore! What a life!” the man said still chuckling, his eyes pausing to look at Rubi-La’s uncovered fit thighs. “This isn’t the army, but a traveling circus! Right?” He continued looking at Ballard, Troy guffawing as if he’d heard the funniest thing ever.
The slaver glanced at the dark-faced knight and then at the chuckling gladiator.
“This man gets it,” he said humbly.
“Lad thought the goat walking past him was funny,” Emerson cautioned him. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”
“The man’s a legend,” the slaver replied. “But you Mista Savar are the colossus of our times!”
“Eh,” Troy murmured chewing on the leftover roasted goat leg, more bone than meat on it.
“Slavers are over yonder,” Emerson warned him. “Best you return to yer kin.”
“Name’s Asmudius,” the man revealed with a lecherous smile. “Wanted to be a gladiator in me youth, so I changed me name early in life,” he chuckled at the thought. “Then I realized those fighting in the sands are mostly slaves and are as frequently killed. So I took me father’s job instead.”
“Selling people is yer family business?” Emerson asked not impressed. “You look Lorian.”
“Most of me,” Asmudius admitted. “My mother was a slave born out of a Lorian slave and my father took a liking to her for a while. Thankfully kept me around after he sold her off. There is a market for light-skinned babies around these parts ha-ha.”
Emerson got up with a scowl.
“I see you don’t enjoy my banter, perhaps I can entertain with a light jest. In good spirit of course,” Asmudius offered.
“Looking to turn into a comedian?”
“I’m a learned man,” Asmudius said. “I believe myself talented. An excellent storyteller.”
“Not in the mood for a joke lad,” Emerson replied. “It’s time to start packing.”
“Say one until I finish off this shite,” Troy said wiping some of the grease off of his mouth.
“There was a slave girl wit tiny tits, no bigger than an apple,” Asmudius started, Emerson stopping him with a grunt.
“Better not be a bigoted lewd joke son!”
“Ahm, well… of course not! He-he,” Asmudius’ trimmed brows moved about on his forehead. “No bigotry in my bones. Well then, there was a naked Gish with big tits—”
Emerson stopped him. “Is yer brain not functioning? What did I just say?”
“Eh, don’t get all worked up! Cast bigotry aside. Off to lewdness! There was a Lorian girl with medium-sized—”
“Mister Asmudius!” Emerson blasted him. “I don’t see the humor in it!”
“Ha-ha! He-he-he, ugh… shit, ergh…” Troy doubled over chuckling and holding his throat, eyes bulging for lack of air.
Emerson sighed and walked near the struggling gladiator and smacked him once with an open hand between the shoulder blades to unstuck whatever he’d gotten lodged in his throat. A tearful Troy managing to breathe finally, face covered in sweat and turning a bit blue in color.
“Not seeing the humor in it,” a dejected Asmudius was heard muttering behind his back repeating the knight’s words. “The man all but died laughing!”
Ten days later
The walls of the barren canyon gleamed a wishy-washy yellow, darker rocks running its vertical slopes like rotting vines searching for the ground. Emerson led his skinny horse, the animal covered in dust just like its rider. Thick layers of grime plastered on everyone, the men reaching the edge of the dry inhospitable passage through the cracked rocky rises resembling statues left to the elements for far too long. Living ruins still moving after the arduous journey, with little rest during the day and the temperatures while better than in the summer –when the route was deemed unpassable- above boiling.
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“Think a piece of my arse fused to the saddle,” Troy griped riding closer to him. Emerson’s eyes on the opening and the flat terrain, the color of dry grass on it almost black to his bloodshot eyes. “Climbing down might hurt more than losing that tooth to Sylia’s rock soup, right?”
“No rocks in the soup that was dried up vegies,” Velox commented gruffly, the trainer had lost whatever fat he had and was now standing lean on the saddle, all bones and muscle.
“Tomato… tomato,” Troy griped pursing his mouth. Lips white, his blond beard the color of sand. The skin plastered dry and filled with cracks as if he’d fallen face first in cement.
“Where’s Asper?” Emerson grunted and reached for his spyglass.
“Found water?” Velox asked hopefully as they were running out.
“Motherfucker is splashing about probably,” Troy complained trying to move carefully on the saddle.
“Get your platoon ready to march,” Emerson said and pressed his knees to move the horse forward. “Everyone after you. We are getting out of this gods forsaken place.”
Velox stared at the group of slavers approaching. “Nertor how far is Rihtur?”
“Three hours riding, we’ll see the fields,” the Cofol replied gruffly. “Rihtur is a day away.”
“Any fresh water afore that?” Troy asked staring inside his empty flask, then turning it over his head to see if anything would come out.
Nothing did.
“There are wells across the road, don’t know about fresh,” Nertor replied. “Fodder warehouses and ranchers corrals for the horses.”
“How close to the road?” Emerson queried.
The slaver frowned. “Close enough. You’re thinking of raiding the locals?”
“We have two thousand people, if more,” Emerson grunted and turned his horse around. “Our own horses are dying of thirst. We need supplies lad. We could ask them, but they may not enjoy seeing an army marching through their fields.”
“We don’t know if Elur has forces at the near.”
“Reckon we can ask them about that too,” Emerson replied dryly. “See what comes of it.”
> A force of gladiators led by Asper reached a small settlement of farmhouses and horse breeders probably in the first month of Spring of 193. The Chiliad had crossed the desert bypassing the main road coming from Que Ki-La traveling on goat paths through Wind Cut Road. The locals surprised at the many heavily armed men appearing at their doorstep called for Kire an officer guarding the road to help them and arranged for a meeting with the men under Asper.
>
> The gladiators were in need of supplies and water for their animals so agreed eagerly. Reaching the series of troughs used to water the horses -near the settlement for the upcoming meeting- they rushed to the first one, but quickly realized the water was unsuitable, or poisoned. It’s difficult to assess now whether it was an accident, or a matter of contamination by compost –manure based fertilizer produced in the farms and used in the fields, or sold to Rihtur- but a fight broke out.
>
> Asper’s men butchered the farmers, raided three farmhouses for supplies in a radius of five kilometers before Kire intervened with his patrol force and the Chiliad who was approaching from the west desert passage found them engaged in a brutal battle near the wells and the troughs.
>
> The struggle that followed caught everyone by surprise, but mostly the gladiators who didn’t expect the locals to turn on them. Kire had scrapped together around four hundred men, a mix of bow carrying locals, spear cavalry and his heavy scout type policing force.
The scout paused his nimble Steppe horse, eyes accessing the situation and then reached for an arrow. Emerson urged his mount to ride faster and it did, hooves thudding on the grassy terrain and all around him the rest of the platoon followed.
The arrow zipped past him, the scout turning his horse around to retreat seeing the numbers descending upon him and a cry came out from the charging mass of Samir’s archers that sent a hundred arrows after him.
Emerson galloped towards the first farmhouses, fences sprouting out the tall grass. The corrals perfect squares one after the other, some packed with animals, others empty. Ten meters later he saw the gravel road, cutting through the plains and the farms. Each had several small and bigger buildings on top of the enclosures. Each farm a couple of kilometers from the other spreading out from the sides of the large road.
The dead scout’s horse covered in many arrows reached the road by itself and a large host of men turned and charged them after firing a shot from their bows. Emerson ducked instinctively at the last moment. The jackal’s helm restricted his vision and he almost missed the coming volley. An arrow broke on his armour, another ripping the ear off of his horse’s head and whistling past his own.
Damnation!
He unsheathed his heavy sword, the blade modified again to resemble a shorter longsword, but the first charging scout reached him too soon in order to use it. The Cofol slashed at him and he jerked away taking a hit on his armbrace that almost tossed him from the saddle. Emerson clenched his jaw, ears ringing and a rush of adrenalin flooding his senses, cut left and away from an oncoming opponent then turned right again lowering his blade to skewer the next.
The steel digging into the man’s chest through cloth and the leather armoured vest underneath it. He lifted him clean off the saddle, the jolt almost breaking Emerson’s shoulder.
“Aaah!” the knight grunted, as the horse lost momentum and found himself amidst the Cofols. All around him the shocking sounds of horses colliding, men thrown off saddles and weapons clanging on plates, or slashing at flesh.
Pandemonium.
A Cofol slashed at his injured horse, but Emerson kicked a leg out and caught his opponent’s animal right at the jaw, the boot nails ripping part of it away. The hapless animal reared jerking its head away and the slash went short. Emerson’s lashing blade didn’t and the scout toppled from the saddle with a shocked gasp, his lungs ruined.
The noise increased, dust rising mixed with cut dry grass and the smell a strong bouquet of rancid sweat both from horses and people, dug earth and steaming blood.
A mêlée tastes and smells the same wherever ye decide to savor it, he thought. Not that he did. It just came naturally to him, experience leading the knight as much as skill. He pulled at the reins, turning the horse one way to block a scout from engaging him, parried a slash down in the other and raising his own blade opened up a Cofol sideways, from thigh to armpit.
Emerson switched the grip on his raised sword, twisted around on the saddle, his back protesting and hacked viciously at the blocked earlier Cofol’s neighing mount. With a cry of rage and surprise the scout plunged to the ground and under Emerson’s horse’s legs. His mount jumped over the thrashing scout, a hoof clipping his helmed head and landed two meters away where Samir was defending against another.
Emerson aimed his leading sword between the Cofol’s ribs from the left side professionally, he was close enough for the tip of the steel blade to touch the distracted fighter and then heaved a third of it in through the bindings of the leather armour ruining the spleen. The Knight yanked the blade out, gore spraying in an arc over him and then turned the horse around. He never got to finish the move. Emerson found himself on the ground when the injured and overworked animal died under him.
The knight coolly rolled away from the collapsed horse, only a jolt of pain from his bandaged knee distorting his expression. Emerson’s retrieved sword clanging on the horn of the saddle and almost slipping away from his grip what incensed him the most. A dead horse from exhaustion and blood loss can happen, not minding yer god darn arms and losing the plaguing blade it’s on you, he thought. He stood up with a scowl, reached with his free arm and grabbed a nearby scout’s leg. Another heave to lift it off the stirrups and over the saddle. The Cofol went down screaming, but twisted around his axis finding his balance and landed on his feet. Darn right impressive it was. Emerson had hopped on the saddle in the meantime with a grunt, raised his arm and simply smacked the cursing Cofol in the face with the steel pommel.
Got to mind yer head though son.
Caved the left side in brutally, the zygomatic bone splintering. Cheek and eye turning into a bloody mush. A blade slashed at his sides from the other way, carving at the armour with a clang and opening a wound on his new mount’s nape when it bounced off, the rich brown mane turning a darker shade. Emerson put his left hand on the flat of the blade to stop it, turned with a grunt, his own sword raised over his head.
The sneaky scout’s gnarly expression turned into that of pure despair, but he did yank his blade back opening Emerson’s hand through the glove, before the knight shoved a foot of sharpened steel through his right eyeball and out the back of his skull.
“Bull’s swollen balls!” Troy yelled appearing in front of him, riding weirdly and a look of astonishment on his face, seeing Emerson putting a boot on the thrashing slaughtered scout’s chest to get his gory blade out. “What the actual fuck, ye murderous old dog!”
Emerson glanced at the dispersing scouts, more like galloping away as fast as they could with Samir’s faster moving riders hot on their trails. He grumbled under his breath and twisted about, but all he could see was rows upon rows of mounted gladiators flooding the field from all sides.
“Velox!” he barked spotting one of the platoon leaders. “SECURE THE FARMHOUSES!”
“By Novesium’s fine harlots!” Troy gasped with a grimace of pain. “We smashed them man.”
“This isn’t an army fool!” Emerson grunted and turned the nervous horse to follow after the mass of fighters heading for the farms.
“Ye know I thought ye died there for a moment?” Troy yelled galloping after him, each bounce on the saddle sending a fresh jolt of pain on his tanned face. “Think I lost half a meter of arse skin trying to help ye all-gods darn it!” the gladiator griped trying to catch up with the galloping knight, his voice lost under the sound of hundreds of hooves thudding at the ground. The earth shaking.
Emerson wanted to know what had happened and didn’t even bother answering him.
> Kire's haphazardly gathered force surprised Asper’s men and pushed them back initially towards the warehouses, but the gladiators regrouped very fast and stood their ground there, the battle turning into a melee in the blink of an eye.
>
> As it would be showcased again and again in this brutal campaign, there was no way to win a close combat brawl against men trained for the arena, not unless overwhelming numbers were involved. Kire had an advantage of four to one briefly, but his four had farmers and hunters in them, mounted scouts being his best troops. They died too fast for no gains and Asper lost six men, with another eleven wounded whilst managing to lay waste to half of Kire’s force.
>
> The rest retreated to regroup but fell on the approaching advanced units of the Chiliad and got annihilated in less than twenty minutes. Such was the carnage and death toll -the gladiators went for the kill not out of cruelty except in Asper’s case but instinct- that by the time it ended the modest population of the farmhouses settlement had been reduced by ninety percent.
>
> Emerson had ordered the men to stop killing everything that moved, but due to the locals not realizing what was happening and the efficiency of the fighters unleashed upon them, his orders came too late to make a difference.
>
> The shocked survivors rode for Rihtur, a despaired Kire amongst them.
>
> ‘A great host of men your excellency,’ he wrote to Elur-Sol that very day. ‘Beasts out of the pits of Fu De-Gar are murdering everyone and are coming for Rihtur my Lord. Thousands of gladiators is my guess and the crests of Libra, Capricorn and Scorpion all present in the field. This is a rebellion. I shall hold the town and the port if I can, but you need to send help soon and warn Nancin. They cut the road. I restate it in the plainest of words my lord, the road is cut.’
>
>
Emerson walked stiffly accompanied by an even more hobbled Troy towards the larger of the stone and wood warehouses of the settlement. His eyes on the scores of butchered people cast aside by the road or in ditches and his expression hard.
“Mista Savar,” Audax greeted him with a leer, the many gold loops on his thick wrists clinging. “The enemy has been wiped out.”
“Hmm,” Emerson grunted and walked past him to speak to his brother. Asper was tending to a cut on his arm and eyed him with amber slanted eyes as he approached.
“Some of the water wells are poisoned, other have dead people in,” he informed him. “Best we check afore we allow the animals to drink.”
“It’s been handled,” Emerson assured him and pressed his mouth tight. “What happened here son?”
Asper grimaced and made another stitch with the long needle. “They tried to stall us, poison our horses, but I got wind something was up. Then we talked no more,” he finished and stared at him.
“We need to negotiate at some point,” Emerson reminded him. “Else this will never finish.”
“You talk of endings and freedom Mista Savar,” Asper replied and got up wiping his bloody hands. The Cofol’s body all hard muscle and tanned a rich gold. “But my brother is still a slave. Except now he isn’t, as long as this lasts. Myself alongside him aye.”
“Listen to me,” Emerson grunted clenching his jaw. “We need to win enough to bring them to the table. They’ll negotiate a deal with the three cities and you and yer brother will be freemen.”
“They’ll never be a deal that involves us living free, or living period,” Asper retorted and smacked his lips. “If the cities win they won’t need us, but allowing us to leave will be too scary a thought for the lofty lords of the Peninsula. A former slave army, roaming the lands. Yer vision is a dream Mista Savar. One slave can be freed, be it through winning in the arena, or an ungodly amount of coin, but an army of them? Never.”
Emerson stood back with a frown. “What are you doing here then?”
Asper grimaced. “As I said. This is it. I get to ride with my brother. This is freedom.”
“It isn’t son,” Emerson replied shaking his head. “This is war and wars tend to end. Trust me for I’ve been through it. Better the chance at a life after it, than the certainty of death in an endless struggle. A man falls, but rises back up again. The future isn’t set.”
“Maybe in yer world it isn’t,” Asper replied and nodded once with his head leaving him alone.
Troy approached a moment later holding the left side of his arse. “The Titan has been bested by a saddle,” he griped. “What do you want to do with the slaves?”
Emerson stared at him unsure. “What slaves?”
----------------------------------------
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Bohor and Nertor were busy examining the large group of slaves the gladiators had spared and were now gathered in a nearby large stable emptied of animals. The two slave masters talking between themselves in a hushed tone, a good number of their men watching them.
“Bohor,” Emerson grunted and eyed the mostly women and children looking fearful at the armed slavers. “You’ll let them go.”
Bohor furrowed his brows and turned his way. “Let them go… where?”
“Not our problem. Their masters are dead.”
“That would give the wrong message Ballard,” Bohor replied and Nertor shrugged his shoulders always keeping his options open.
“We are not here to deal with politics,” Emerson said hoarsely. “We have to march on Rihtur and its port on the morrow.”
“We can take them with us,” Bohor offered. “There are some good slaves here.”
“We have enough mouths to feed as is,” Emerson grunted angrily.
“I can have some men escort them to Ani Ta-Ne.”
“Ani Ta-Ne is attacked by Nancin’s force and I need yer men here!” Emerson blasted him. “You are either following my orders or I’m replacing you Bohor!”
“I work for the Sopat,” Bohor replied. “This is coin wasted and we don’t do that.”
“I don’t give a plaguin’ penny!” Emerson barked. “Nor am I saying it again,” he added with a glare.
Bohor stood back his face hardening.
“We could just leave them,” Nertor offered and his superior glared at him furious. “Taking Rihtur is a priority is all I’m saying,” the slaver argued cautiously and Bohor grunted in frustration.
“Leave them,” he decided and glared at Emerson. “See to deliver on yer promise Ballard. We are risking too much already for this to be a failure.”
“If this fails,” Emerson warned him returning his stare sternly. “Then it’s all our necks up on the chopping block Bohor. Pray you don’t end on the other end of these chains. Folk might not see kindly to yer likes.”
“Eah!” Bohor gasped and through his arms up exasperated. He turned around and marched away with Nertor after him attempting to calm him down. Emerson watched them moving away and then glanced at the group of slaves that had escaped the carnage.
Their fate still in question.
“See to find shelter far from hither,” he advised them in Common, a couple of Lorians in the mix translating, his accent not easily understood from everyone. “Stay away from the cities, live off the land, or in remote places, if you can find them.”
He turned around with a heavy heart and Asmudius who had approached him out of the crowd of armed slavers came to walk with him.
“I’m not in the mood for one of yer jokes lad,” came Emerson’s curt warning through his teeth.
“Not all times are fertile, you dear sir are correct!” Asmudius roared, a smile on his face. He concealed it under a grimace seeing Emerson’s side glare. “They won’t get far,” he added in a more subdued tone.
“Some will escape,” Emerson replied and stopped to stare at the slaver. “You’re having a change of heart Asmudius?”
“I told you, I’m considering a career change,” he replied and smacked his painted lips. The fact he’d put crayon on afore the battle appearing ludicrous to Emerson. That he was mostly of Lorian blood making it even more infuriating, but Ziba was of Lorian blood and she had been assimilated by the Peninsula. Emerson wished this didn’t happen to him, or his son.
“A comedian’s act won’t put food on yer table,” Emerson told him. “Yer just not that good.”
“He-he, nice one… well, I’m thinking,” Asmudius started.
“Listen to me lad, I’ve work to do,” Emerson stopped him.
“Yes of course. The working bee, falls prey to the lurking hornet,” Asmudius said meaningfully.
“Never heard of it.”
“Which is what might happen to all of us,” Asmudius agreed readily pleased with himself. “Unless someone puts this epic tale on a piece of paper,” he added. “Might be a scroll, or parchment. I have a… bundle that’s half decent actually. Let’s be absolutely honest about it though. Aye. Crystal clear! I found it… recently, is the truth of it.”
Emerson eyed him half in the mind of cuffing him upside the head to unscramble his brains. Then decided not to waste anymore of his time, but soon as he turned to walk away towards Troy and the others, Asmudius stopped him again.
“You have a son Mista Savar, am I right? People talk,” the slaver looking for a change in profession asked.
“What of him?” Emerson grunted turning around.
“Well, I could write down what happened,” Asmudius explained.
“Hmm.”
“Or I could write about say the Titan of Novesium,” Asmudius continued his creative juices flowing. “Describe yer story as well through his eyes. If he gets killed soon, I could swap him for another gladiator. Velox is intriguing, the girls… eh, folk might not be ready for that on Jelin. Muscular Sapphic action might be too much for their sensitive palates he-he! Which is why I can’t consider Qathor, best not dwell over that as well, right? Anyways and I’m thinking ahead here, marketing is important. As you said, food on the table. I’m taking a huge risk at this point, seeing as I’m leaving a well-paying honest job with a secure future.”
“Do whatever ye plaguin’ like,” Emerson grunted a tick appearing on his left temple. “But leave me out of it.”
“Sometimes it’s all one leaves behind Ballard,” Asmudius called on his back as the knight had again started walking away from the excited slaver. “A tale for your son to read and not just a name that would mean nothing to him!”
> Kire gathered every abled body man that he could find and even called on the moored ships to assist with marines. Some ships complied, but most opted to sail away. The force he managed to assemble, probably larger than the first one he had lost. He set up defenses in the town, but Rihtur wasn’t fortified. An animal trading center, mostly of stallions, but also goats, sheep and cows, it was a difficult task to handle and the minor officer found himself in deep waters.
>
> Most of the population evacuated to Shao Na-Lan and the authorities were notified –mainly the local commander Aquila-Dorr one of Prince Atpa’s childhood friends- but the large city port was busy with providing supplies to the Army of the Desert half a continent away, the majority of its fighters away for years on campaign with the Prince and couldn’t offer immediate assistance. Aquila wrote to Atpa to inform him of the developments. Prince Nout who was stationed kilometers to the east near the Desert Lake reacted faster than his younger brother, despite getting informed a week later.
>
> The convalescing Prince got on his horse despite the advice from his doctors and raced towards Khan’s Gulf. His bodyguards followed him and part of the loyal men that had traveled with him years prior on his epic campaign through Raoz. The Gold Leopard leaped over the desert, but time, distance and his failing health didn’t allow the Prince to reach his brother’s city until well after the Chiliad had taken Rihtur and its port.
>
> Kire’s second haphazardly assembled force fared little better when the hardened gladiators charged and jumped into their midst. They melted away, the scenes of carnage unfolding for half a day turning the streets of Rihtur a crimson red, the blood sipping inside its many wells and waterholes according to the legends.
>
> When the dust settled and with the road cut, the only force available to deal with the emboldened Chiliad was the men Arik Sartak the commander of Rin An-Pur had brought from the capital to assist Elur Sol. This force was hard marched towards Rihtur to deal with the Chiliad. It was also the only force standing between Emerson and Que Ki-La on the endless plains of east Peninsula with Esugen’s reinforced troops busy with the Sopat and Nancin, who had retreated upon hearing the news after an initial bloody skirmish outside Ani Ta-Ne, getting surrounded and fighting for his life against Thalion outside Rohir.
>
> As it happened both armies had moved towards each other at the same time and met at the outskirts of the expansive palm and dates forest hugging the road through the fertile Dor O’ Cof-Ol plains.
>
>
>
> -
>
> Embellished by
>
> Lord Sirio Veturius
>
> Assembled from notes, oral memoirs, and the vulgar, unreliable but famed plays of the slave merchant turned writer Asmudius, who traveled with the Chiliad
>
> Circa 206 NC
>
> The Fall of Heroes
>
> Chapter XXIV
>
> (Sir Emerson Lennox, Ballard of Lesia, Mista Savar)
>
> Tales of Greenwhale Peninsula
>
> ‘Three Sisters Rebellion’
>
> --
>
> Volume V
>
> Months 4-6
>
> (The Gates of Que Ki-la)
>
> -Bloody Palms-
>
> Also known as the Battle of the Dates Plantation
>
> First month of summer 193 NC
>
> Prelude to the sacking of Que Ki-La and the burning of Ani Ta-Ne that led to the massive battle before Simun Gates and the Small River several months later.
>
> Also detailed in Prince Nout’s chapters 8 & 9 under the joint name
>
> -The Leopard’s Claws-
>
> Also detailed in Prince Atpa’s chapter 3 titled
>
> -An Asp dreams of ascension-
>
> Also detailed in Arguen Garth’s chapter 11 titled
>
> -Firestorm-
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