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Sir Emerson Lennox
Mista Savar
‘Pale Jackal’
‘War Leader’
Tales of the Peninsula | Leopard’s Claws
Part II
-Once an Apostate…-
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“A vile fiend walks out of the shades,” Pardor said as if resigning to the inevitable.
Emerson wasn’t looking at him, as he’d jerked his head aside to avoid the lashing dagger, always turning on one foot, his sword drawn out of its sheath like one pulls weeds out of the ground. He slashed low and caught a retreating leg, changed the grip in his sword-arm at the end of that initial twist and saw the horse archer snap both his arms forward.
That’s what he hid.
The point of a spear catching him in the hip. Steel blade hitting the bone. The man made to yank the spear back but Emerson downed his sword savagely, got the leading hand –the left had slipped forward- and chopped four fingers still attached to a bit of palm flesh along with half the spear’s shaft right off.
The Archer groaned like a mare getting branded with the hot iron and jumped away, part of a spear in his hand, the other still stuck in the knight’s hip. Emerson grunted his head filled with light, changed the grip on his longsword and slashed at the approaching Pardor almost taking the sword out of his hands. The knight got the spear out, blood splashing down his left leg, pivoted on that same bandaged leg with a scowl and hacked at the scimitar wielding mercenary that had attacked the injured Citata.
Good thing with bouts of great pain is ye can’t feel anything else.
The soldier cried out in shock, stooped to pick the blade out of his severed arm or the arm itself, Emerson wasn’t certain but kicked him just the same, heavy boot landing on ear, breaking his neck. The knight let out a grunt of pain, made to attack the first archer, realized Tanus had cleaved him in the face and turned around to go after either Pardor or the other two.
Pardor sidestepped to take advantage of him moving on two good legs to Emerson’s one, but got an arrow in the chest bellow the right breast and stumbled backwards. He reached with a free hand to take it out, pulled once hard and cried out in blinding pain, his eyes tearing up.
When they cleared some, Emerson had reached him and run the sharp edge of the sword across Pardor’s face. The officer went down, thin piece of flesh with gory skin flapping alike a grotesque mask from his head, his cries of agony muffled. The mask looked like him, with eyes, nose and lips easily visible under the blood. Emerson stepped aside, Tanus bulldozing the de-faced officer leading with his sword and went to attack the last soldier but Citata’s custom heavy cleaver attacked him first, whipping past Emerson’s right shoulder and getting the soldier at the top of his head.
Split it down as far the mouth.
Never start a scrap without yer helm on, Emerson thought, the latter applying to him as well and went after the maimed archer. The man moved faster than him though, run towards his horse and climbed up the saddle. Emerson cursed through his teeth and hurried after him, but he’d a bad leg and was slow as fuck.
“You should have stayed—” the horse archer tried to say and got smacked on the shoulder by Dekra’s arrow, the steel point coming out at the top of his back probably scraping the clavicle bone. He grunted, maimed left hand –he was missing four fingers- painting the horse’s mane red, but managed to grasp at the reins with his right and start his horse.
Eh, Emerson thought and paused grinding his teeth in frustration. Felt blood trickling down his neck. If ye can’t reach a man when yer both on foot, then if he gets up on a horse, you should stop pursuing.
Dekra loosed another arrow after the fleeing horse archer and managed to nail him again above the hip, but the man was determined to stay on that saddle and didn’t drop.
“Enough!” Emerson grunted and limped near Citata who had gotten a blade though the ribs from the soldier standing near her. The one with the split skull. “How is it?”
“Should have pulled it out gently,” a pale Citata hissed and Emerson grabbed her shoulder to keep her upright.
“Dagger?”
“Uhm.”
“Tanus help her,” Emerson ordered. “Dekra cut me couple of strips of clean cloth from their corpses. I have leaking holes that need a plugging.”
“Shouldn’t we go after him?” Dekra asked.
“We need to return to our units,” Emerson snapped gruffly. “Pull the Chiliad behind the turn.”
The Leopard had found himself an apostate. An old one apparently, but once ye go down that road, you find it easy to relapse again.
“Why would we—”
“Dekra I’m losing blood here and Citata needs a gods darn medic,” he warned the still shocked at the events scout. “It’s done. Do what I plaguing tell you!”
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“What are you doing here Ballard?” She asked him on the way back, voice laced with pain.
The knight stared at her under bushy eyebrows. The blood under his chin crusting.
“You know.”
“Was it real? The part about you being a lord afore? Or was it a knight?” Citata was a big woman but she looked vulnerable now.
“Both parts. And I’m still a knight,” Emerson replied the sound of many horses coming from all around them.
“Makes no sense,” the female gladiator murmured. “Where do we go after this?”
And it wasn’t clear whether Citata meant the battle or this life.
So Emerson hadn’t answered her.
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They made it out of the woods and rode across the field towards their positions. Beyond Emerson’s right shoulder a host of riders had assembled again, horns sounding to direct the different units.
Velox had the men lined up, their east flank facing the walls of Que Ki-La.
“You need stitches there,” the Chiliad leader noticed. “What happened?”
“Merehor might have switched sides again,” Emerson grunted and checked on his leaking wound. “Need to march the platoons towards the junction.”
“Bring a hot iron!” Velox barked at a gladiator. “Tanus can you stitch at all?”
“I can,” Dekra replied.
“Get on it son. What’s the deal with you lass?” Velox grunted and helped Citata down from her horse. “Might want to start with her Dekra.” Velox added after a brief glance at her wound.
“Velox!” Emerson snapped.
“Heard ye the first time Ballard. I’ll get them moving but can you follow?”
The knight’s reply coming through clenched teeth.
“I plaguin’ can.”
> At Arik Sartak’s advice, Prince Nout ordered Nis Belu to contact Merehor’s men blocking Sartak’s Path that ended near the late Lord Baryal’s Dates Plantations buildings. The scouts entered the woods led by Nis Belu himself and made contact with Esugen’s former officer. Whether they had spoken or not is not clear but Merehor’s force abandoned the path and marched towards the junction.
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> Serebus took wind of something not being right and pivoted his men towards the mouth of the forest path to his south flank. When Merehor’s men appeared out of the woods (the majority mercenaries that had been stationed in Nasar the previous year Phon had hired) an officer was dispatched to assure Serebus that everything was alright.
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> Whether Serebus believed him or not is unclear but Lord Phon who was at the big Sopat Camp, a kilometer away to the west and at the edge of the Palms Forest hugging Simun Road was notified. Lord Phon-Iv asked for both groups to stand down and for the mercenary to be brought to him.
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> The officer named Da-Risor and another man (all officers in Merehor’s army were from Lu-Kela where his mercenary company had been originally formed) rode to the Sopat patriarch’s large field tent escorted by one of Serebus’ officers. Phon, who had the injured slave-master Bohor resting in one of the many rooms of his headquarters along Asmudius, met with the two men in what was a spacious ‘lavish’ hall.
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> While the matter of the rich Cofol field tent’s roominess cannot be verified, Asmudius who happened to be present describes the events in his ‘Unbroken Chiliad’. Chapter six, act two, titled ‘once an Apostate’ that ends with the following verses.
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>
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> For it’s a game of shadows, where loyalties are shed,
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> A dance with betrayal that weaves an intricate art,
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> Where even rich men can’t detangle truth from misled,
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> And are led to watch their worlds crumble apart.
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> This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
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> Asmudius’ attempt at poetic interposition aside, Da-Risor asked Lord Sopat to take his army back to Lai Zel-Ka and he’d Gold Leopard’s assurance that when the dust settled his digressions will be put aside. Lord Phon-Iv had responded with a simple query.
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> He asked whether Prince Nout would offer him better terms if the Khan’s army managed to win the battle and the rebellion was crushed.
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> When Da-Risor responded in turn that the Gold Leopard had already won, an irate Phon got up, walked up to him and slapped him across the face.
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> ‘You are an idiot and a liar. If he had won already,’ the Sopat scion had said. ‘Then you wouldn’t have been here. If you were smart you would have realized my query was rhetoric, for Nout would never offer me terms. He’ll watch the Peninsula burn first.’
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> Asmudius writes the mercenary officer had laughed in Lord Sopat’s face, grabbed a fancy dagger Phon had on him and stabbed him in the chest. Now Lord Phon had armour on but while it was a lovely piece of craftsmanship to wear at a dance, it was also flimsy and couldn’t stop a blade. While Phon did get a nasty injury there, he should have died outright but the blade on the dagger was made for cutting fruit and folded only managing to pierce his lung.
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> Bohor managed to kill Da-Risor with a bronze stool despite having one arm and Asmudius rushed his friend with one of Sopat’s guards present finishing him off with a scimitar. It was an epic duel according to Asmudius but given that the man was unarmed and outnumbered one can’t help but question his words.
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> Lord Phon-Iv was given assistance immediately but he’d suffered a pierced lung and collapsed. Bohor notified Serebus of what had transpired and ordered him to arrest Merehor or kill him outright. It isn’t clear how Sartak managed to convince Merehor to switch alliances again. Since he couldn’t have offered him more gold, all seems to point towards the mercenary being rattled by Nout’s morning win. Perhaps the details of his involvement with Esugen’s death had leaked also and Merehor looked for a way to save his own neck after all was over.
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> The Prince sent Nis-Belu and his lancers to assist Merehor take control of the junction. He led the rest of his army after the retreating Chiliad. Sir Emerson wanted to fight near the Simun Gates to help Serebus hold on there but the initial plan had collapsed and they were in danger of getting cut off inside the city or at the very least lose the men there and those at the rear. To avoid it Emerson sent word to Troy and Qathor who were holding the bridge at Small River to see if they could disengage and lead Sim Ib-Lurd’s civilians camped before the North Gates to safety. The idea was to attack west and assist Serebus defeat Merehor’s smaller force then retreat towards Lai Zel-Ka to regroup before the Prince’s force could intervene.
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> Troy couldn’t as the bulk of Arik Sartak’s reinforced army stationed beyond the river had attacked the gladiators there. They came for the bridge, they came for the river and they even used rafts to cross the Lake and assault their rear. Nout had ordered Sartak to break through whatever the cost fearing the numbers and the terrain might turn the battle against him.
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> While the Prince had moved fast after the retreating Chiliad and most of Samir’s archers, he was attacking at a narrow front very close to the walls of Que Ki-La. The closer they went towards the lake and the woodland of Lotus Lane the worst the ground for his horses and chariots was.
His horse, a young white and brown destrier the knight had named ‘Spirit’ for he reminded him of old Duke the horse Emerson had lost at Hellfort, neighed greatly disturbed by the ruckus of many horses coming at them. The sound reverberated on the nearby walls of the city like that of many small thunders coming in quick succession.
Emerson glanced at the retreating rows of gladiators and then twisted on the saddle pulling at the reins to look behind them. Velox had stopped his platoon and turned them around to stop the first arriving Cataphracts from going through. Five hundred meters away beyond the Simun Gates, Asper was feverishly dressing the lines of the rest of the Chiliad to protect the turn leading towards Lotus Lane. Toros’ platoon was slowly retreating from the junction further to their west with no sign of Phon’s men amidst them.
The setting sun touching the gladiators’ helms and shields. It made them glow as if they were spirits as well. An otherworldly sight. The onrushing Cataphracts appearing equally bathed in the dying light, faceless mountains of fast galloping steel.
“Eh,” Emerson grunted and Samir stopped his horse right beside him alarmed, the neighing animal turning this way and that raising dust clouds under its hooves.
“What are you doing Mista Savar?” He asked and behind him Tanus stopped his laden heavily horse as he was carrying the injured Citata.
“Hand me yer spear,” Emerson growled and Tanus tossed him the spear he had taken from the Khan’s scouts.
“Dekra grab them boys following ye,” Emerson ordered hoarsely, slotting the spear next to the nervous horse’s head and the horn of the saddle, Spirit snorting and stabbing at the ground with his front legs.
The Horse Archers had spears sheathed on their saddles.
“Mista Savar!” Samir snapped but it came out more a groan, face marred by a deep cut that had ruined his nose down the side of his mouth, the wound stitched twice but still leaking. “They don’t have the armour for that!”
“Tell Asper to move back towards the narrows,” Emerson roared and pointed at the large west road coming from the flat opening amidst the woods at their flank. The spot where all the desert roads coalesced afore heading for the city’s West (or Simun) Gates. Riders had appeared there as well, narrow banners billowing from long thin sticks secured at the back of their saddles.
“Curse the gods,” Samir gasped.
“Leave the gods out of it,” Emerson scolded him. “That’s one man’s treachery.”
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“What is the idea?” Dekra asked him nervously while the other Horse Archers fumbled with their spears, Emerson’s eyes watching Velox’s platoon receiving a devastating charge that cut them in two. The Cataphracts disengaged and trotted away without casualties while Velox barked orders for their lines to close up again.
Three minutes.
Maybe four.
Just enough time to make it there, catch them after the charge’s end, Emerson thought and grimaced, face distorting from a jolt of pure agony. The rough stitches on his injured hip leaking, despite gluing the flesh with hot iron earlier. The pain numbing his senses.
Perhaps for the better.
“I want to show all ye boys that they drop from the saddle,” Emerson replied raspingly, voice sounding like chains rattling inside a deep mine. “Bleed and die alike everyone else.” He added and clicked his tongue to start Spirit going back towards the rear area guarding platoon.
The Cataphracts was his meaning.
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There’s a rhythm in executing an unspoiled charge. It takes repetition, understanding of angles and velocity. But the most important thing, is not to let fear overwhelm you for the last couple of meters. Pick a target and run straight at him without overthinking it. If you allow fear to grab at your soul the horse will sense it and lose trust in your plan. A scared horse ruins most glory-seeking knights’ lofty plans in the games and their own fear fuels it. While the tourney sergeant will stop the event and help you to yer feet in the games, Emerson thought, his body jumping up and down the saddle, the horse’s speed increasing with every stride and the shattered lines of men and animals coming closer. In a real scrap alike this, a sergeant will bash yer brains in wit a war hammer.
The Cataphracts had gone for the same spot again and brushed the gladiators aside. Men and horses got tangled up, the platoon split still holding the flanks of the formation with the center dominated by large warhorses and their riders. They turned around abandoning their lances and attacked the gladiators with swords, maces, war hammers or flails, trying to widen the gap.
Emerson galloped the last meters in a blur, spear aimed at a Cataphract’s outer sides, the left. Angled in such a way to get the one standing next to him if he missed. The two horses practically touching bellies.
A third Cataphract turning his warhorse around with large scimitar in hand spotted them arriving, eleven men charging at the mouth of their formation and flinched. His body reaction showing what the smirking mask hid from the world.
All mortals fear death.
The knight’s war spear went through the first Cataphact’s left kidneys after tearing at his armour, shredded the lower ribs and blew pieces of flesh out, detaching internal organs and then punched the second Cataphract through the elbow, nailing his arm on his chest as he’d tried to twist around. The spear’s blade stabbing his heart. A small stab but it was enough to kill him instantly.
Emerson didn’t see any of that, he had been hurled over his horse’s head, let go of the spear, went through a red mist of gore and found himself over the first Cataphract, afore they both went down when his mount collapsed. Every bone on the side that Spirit had stricken broken and its internal organs turned to bloody paste.
The knight had gotten them both.
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Emerson rolled over the second Cataphract’s blood covered body stopping on his cracked spear still sticking out of his chest. He growled, the ground covered in gory and broken bodies, three of the Khan’s best amongst them, put his left hand down and jumped to his feet, unsheathing his longsword.
A tap with the flat of the blade at his helm’s top to set it straight and he hacked at a Cataphact’s ankle as he went past him trying to strike at one of the still horsed scouts. He cut through the hard leather boot and the tendons. The masked rider cried out and twisted on the saddle, the chaos around them, the screams, curses, neighs and dust making it impossible to orientate oneself.
Emerson angled his sword and stabbed upwards right at the edge of his collar under the mask. Blood sprayed out of the silver mask’s eye slits and painted the man’s armour. The knight yanked the blade out, more gore spurting out the horrendous wound and made to climb up the horse himself after shoving the dead horselord off of it. He made it halfway up, but had to jump away as another Cataphract swung his spiked mace sneaking up from the other side.
The mace missed Emerson but cracked the horse’s skull caving in its head armour at the top. Emerson dropped backwards almost impaling himself on a spear sticking out of the ground or a body, but grabbed it at the last moment and found his footing. The Cataphract cursed and kicked his legs to get his scared horse moving, but the horse he’d stricken died and collapsed on his mount’s front legs. It made it rear back in panic and dropped him from the saddle.
Emerson grunted, went over the dead horse to get at him, but he had to step aside for his opponent’s scared horse to gallop away. More Cataphacts pushed forward trying to disengage as Emerson’s charge had blocked their advance and fixed them between three enemies, practically surrounded. Someone sounded a horn for the Cataphracts to retreat, the confusion spreading but those at the back of their formation galloping away.
“Dekra!” Emerson barked a warning, but Dekra caught a heavy flail with the side of his head despite trying to jerk away, two of the three steel balls connecting. The scout dropped like a sack laden with rocks, his bloody face misshapen but still breathing.
For a couple of more seconds.
A scowling Emerson hacked upwards, cut the Cataphract across the forearm, gory mail rings detaching and clinging on his plate like steel hail.
Ding-ding-ding.
The man lost his flail with a pained grunt, went to get his sword out with his left, but the knight’s longsword came down on the return and carved a deep gash from chest to navel splitting him open.
There goes the edge.
But it was worth it.
Velox appeared through the haze, a broken lance stuck on his right shoulder, one arm dangling useless but the other using a long dagger to gauge a shuddering under his feet Cataphract’s eye out. Emerson turned towards the west flank of the formation, the one exposed and not near the walls, as he heard a great uproar coming from that side.
A bolt whistled over his head and then another. The uproar growing.
“Velox!” Emerson barked turning his head around. “Save your flank! RETREAT!”
“Get on a fucking horse Ballard!” Velox barked back at him irate, eyes wild and bald head painted in gore to the eyebrows. “See you give ‘em a hurting!”
Emerson grimaced, stumbled on a hurt knee, the sound of Chariots approaching making his bones vibrate and turned his head back, looking to the North well beyond the gates, where the rest of the Chiliad was gathering, more than five hundred meters away.
> The Lord of Ballard cut the still bloody meat from the bone with his teeth, then hurled the leftover to their dogs. The bodies of the ravaged men still wrapped in woolen blankets. Whatever was left of them. His father set his square jaw stubbornly and stared in young Emerson’s eyes. The flames dancing in all that black. Hard was his stare but the words were laced with sorrow.
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> ‘Sometimes ye need to let the beast gorge on yer flesh,” the Lord of Ballard had said. ‘To lure it into a trap.’
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> ‘How much is enough?’ A young Emerson asked crooking his mouth.
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> ‘It doesn’t matter,’ his father had replied raspingly. ‘One can lose even if he wins son or vice versa. This beast had won all ‘em other times, spent itself ragged doing it, but came a point it could win no more.’
Samir of Ani Ta-Ne’s hoarse voice yanking Emerson back to the present.
“Jackal!” The scout leader growled and tossed him the reins of a horse he’d dragged behind him. “We need to go now! There’s no war without you!”
Maybe, Emerson thought and climbed up the saddle, Velox gathering the remnants of the platoon around him and issuing javelins, the ground shaking. All sounds distorted and his head hurting.
But what is the truth of today may not be the reality of the morrow.
This shall be a battle of attrition. No glory or tales of heroics, the galloping away Knight thought.
He got only one out of the three right.
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