Tyras wished he could bring his family, and perhaps even Achlos along, but for the scant time he had to visit his Pack before training resumed, it was unfortunately untenable. It was a shame. Cyprian loved visiting his grandfather and go hiking in Osnya’s endless steppes and mountain ranges, ride in all of the Pilgrims’ strange vehicles, marvel at the expansive Great Markets, and of course, ride dragons. And his father had gone two years without seeing Cyprian. He missed seeing his grandson, and Tyras wished his father could see how much Cyprian had grown (nearly thirty centimeters!), but his son was unfortunately busy with the endless paperwork that came from switching cities and schools, as was his wife.
Why did the civilized world love their paperwork so damned much? In Pilgrim Packs, when one joined, they were assessed as to which position would suit them best, their name was written in a registry perhaps, and that was that. Welcome to the family.
He often missed the simpler, freer life of a Pilgrim, he thought longingly as the magma-colored trees and grass of the Foakmon Mountains slid past the train’s window. The peaks pierced the thick clouds like the stick of cotton candy. The yellow and orange flora of the mountain made it seem like the stone was forever on fire, and for a while, it truly had been.
The Foakmon mountain range was the last line of defense the Osnyans had before the Igna Plains, hundreds of kilometers of flatlands which gave near unopposed access to their capital. Thankfully, it was also their best line of defense.
After the disastrous first two years of attempting to meet the Lunist advance with daring counteroffensives, the Zurafodus Alliance switched to a much more defensive strategy. More forts were built, and thick forests and deep marshes were created by Druids. And the crowning achievement of the new defensive plan was the Diegis Line. For two years, Osnya built the largest defensive network the world had ever seen in the Foakmons, digging forts into the very stone and glaciers, utilizing the vast cave systems to funnel supplies and manpower, building roads and railways for quick logistical transport, which the enemy did not have access to in the treacherous terrain.
It had been a last stand, but one on their terms. And if you force the enemy to fight on your terms, you’ve already won. And after a year and four months of stalemate with little gain on either side, once Alliance high command decided the Lunists had sent enough of their men into the meat grinder to weaken them, they counter attacked, driving the enemy back and regaining over a hundred kilometers of lost ground in only a week. It represented the truest turning point of the war, when the Eclipse Empire really began losing the war.
Yet, it had been a costly victory. While Alliance losses were comparatively slim, they were still horrific. The previously uncaring stone itself was scarred with artillery shells and the forests withered from poison gas. The mountain itself had even lost a few dozen meters from how much it had been ruthlessly shelled.
As their officers had famously proclaimed during the battle: “The Mountain crumbles; the Legion does not!”
Tyras recalled Potitus Macro, an ancient Augustan poet who’d been killed in the Arena for his antiwar sentiments, describing the aftermath of a battle: how after thousands of men had butchered each other, their armored bodies rotting on the grass, the forest around it was left uncaring. The greatest effect they had on Nature was that their flesh provided ample sustenance for various carnivorous ferals and carrion birds. Well, he’d been wrong.
Bestia Sapiens strived in its quest to kill each other to such an extent, they could and would take Nature down with them as well. A pair of wild dragons hovered over a massive crater which could have only been created by an Osnyan super siege gun, where orange shrubs and short trees had begun to shyly grow once again. One of them carried a feral buck in its talons, still alive and writhing. Since they weren’t fighting over it, they must have been mates. Shepherds grazed their flocks uncaringly only a kilometer or so away. Dragons had learned the hard way millennia ago not to mess with the two legged’s food.
Only two… it used to be entire flocks, the vast cave systems within the mountains being bona-fide dragon cities. Now, the caves stood empty. Many of the dragons had been chased away or killed outright during the constructions of the defenses, those that couldn’t be tamed into air cavalry for the war effort anyway.
Wide swaths of cleared land and primitive yet gigantic structures of wood and rock that the dragons had built for shelter and storing food over centuries now stood empty, overgrown with weeds and brush. The two reptiles hovered above it for a while, looking at it with something that could have been longing, then moved on deeper into the regions yet untouched by destruction.
The memories Tyras had of traveling with his Pack through the holy mountains was faint and distant, like a barely remembered dream. It’s not that he didn’t remember his time here. He did all too well. The memories racked his brain and kept him up at night. Memories of artillery razing entire forests. Memories of fighting half-blind in labyrinthine caves. Memories of watching Druids walk into the Lunist exfoliant gas attacks poisoning the forests, using the last of their powers to give the forests a few more hours of life before they died vomiting their stomach lining and pieces of their lungs.
In the opposite compartment was a donkey family of four, their clothing and large kit bags overflowing the luggage compartment making it evident that they were here on vacation. The father and mother were pouring over a guidebook while their two foals were playing with a toy plane and dragon respectively in front of the window. They flew them over the mountain, flying them by each other, sometimes colliding them, having their own mock-war. Eventually, they seemed to come to a mutual understanding of who the victor was, and the girl flying the dragon let it fall slain on the cushion.
Tyras looked out his own window. At the fire-colored forests flowing down the charcoal-black mountains like lava. At the blue glaciers and snow-peaked mountains further away. At the freshly rebuilt villages by the turquoise rivers. He tried to see the Mountain’s divine beauty again.
He couldn’t.
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He disembarked at a newly built vacation town that had once been a Greatmarket. Tyras ignored the endless home owners bombarding the weary passengers with offers to rent out their homes, boasting superior comfort and better prices than the large inns or hotels.
The town itself was wholly unremarkable, built soon after the War, serving as a mere resting place for tourists and alpinists, thus lacking any true architectural direction. Its one distinctive feature was a twenty-foot-tall statue in the main square. The stone giant was a hooded figure of indistinct species or gender, its hands stretched for the skies, the sun bathing the figure in its holy light. Around the statue was a garden of tall trees surrounded by blooming flowers.
“FOR THE DRUIDS WHOSE FLESH TURNED TO EARTH AND LIGHT” The bronze plaque read.
Tyras stopped in the town only to buy dried fish and biscuits. He still had plenty of sandwiches left from Rhodika's generous pack, but as he’d learned so many times as a campaigner, better to have more food than you need, than to need it and not have it. He also bought a hardy hiking stick. He wouldn’t wear out his prized sword cane on the steep rocks.
Then, he went on one of the many hiking trails, sticking to the well-indicated path for only a couple of kilometers or so, then he climbed over the wooden railings and slid down the dirt all the way down to a small stream. Dusting himself off, he walked through the deeper forest, soon coming across unnaturally thick, spiky brush and trees that grew in tangled, twisted heaps near the ground.
He’d entered The Tangle. Over a thousand square kilometers of thick, almost impenetrable foliage summoned by the Druids. Both sides had carved out paths through it during the war, as did the Pilgrims after the battle, but the foliage grew back unnaturally quickly. In spite of his map and innate sense of direction, Tyras had found himself obliged to backtrack more than once, or use his Scout Raider gladius as an impromptu machete to cut through the brush that had begun to overtake the marked paths.
As he tore through some undergrowth with his blade, he stopped dead. He’d heard something other than the blade chopping through the tangle or the leaves rustling. It continued for only half a second more, but it was clear: footsteps. No way it was a tourist this far into the Tangle, and while Pilgrims often travelled through the Tangle to move cargo discretely, they always did so in groups. He hadn’t heard more than two pairs of footsteps. It wasn’t unheard of for Marauders to prey on lost tourists and sell them on to slave traders.
Tyras stopped and crouched down. He set the short sword down in front of him where it could be easily recovered. He removed his heavy hiking backpack, his training and experience allowing him to do so almost soundlessly. He drew his sidearm, clicking the safety off. To be as quiet as possible, he didn’t pull back the slide on his pistol to check if the first round was chambered, instead using his Forte to look into it. A 12mm round gleamed reassuringly through the brass and steel of the Lunist pistol. He thought of recovering the snap-on shoulder stock from his bag, but decided against it. Too much time and too much noise.
The footsteps sounded again. They were slow, cautious. The first steps were of booted feet. Steel-toed. Judging by the sound as it came closer, he had a stride length of roughly seventy inches. That meant someone of between 7’ and 7’5” feet height. A Class III, then.
The other one, however, was far more worrying. It wasn’t so much a step as it was shifting on the ground. The owner of those steps didn’t so much walk as they crawled. They didn’t seem to follow their companion, but instead settled in a defensive position. The sound of shifting gravel was more indicative of bare feet rather than boots. And it wasn’t a single pair of feet, but rather two, however, they clearly belonged to the same creature. There was no clop of hooves, meaning it wasn’t an equistilio.
A dragon.
Tyras cursed inwardly. Not only was fighting a dragon not fun at the best of time, it could probably sniff him out, if it hadn’t already. He only had his pistol, but he’d taken care to load it with steel core rounds, which could go through thick shrubbery handily. It also stood a decent chance against trench armor or dragonskin. It was part of the reason why the Lunists had adopted it.
Focusing his Forte, he decided to limit it to only see the vague outlines of the potential hostiles. Seeing through all the thick shrubbery would have taxed his mana a great deal, and he wished to save it for a potential fight. There was still a chance this was only a lone Pilgrim or a rich tourist who owned a personal dragon, as unlikely as those two scenarios were.
The sapient was a large, stocky feline, wearing some type of improvised armor and carrying a quad barreled shotgun. The dragon was a male, evident by its posture and smaller stature, looking as if it would stand perhaps five meters tall on hindlegs. Its head and underbelly were armored, yet more odds stacked against him. If it came to it, he’d have to aim for the neck.
The dragon’s head was triangular, with pronounced, thickly scaled jowls, its head crested with small spikes. Looking for its tail confirmed his fears: it presented large pores, which he knew were ready to deploy chitinous spikes coated in a paralyzing toxin. It was a Venfalx. A relatively small species, but extraordinarily agile, not to mention its deployable poison spikes as a secondary weapon to its flame and claws, making it a formidable foe. Tyras began to sorely regret not packing his trench armor, as bulky and uncomfortable as it was.
The dragon kept sniffing the air. Tyras fervently prayed that the numerous plants around him masked his scent. Its tail raised in attention. It raised its head towards its master and spoke in its strange tongue of clicks and mewls. It sounded… familiar.
The large feline then laughed. A loud, hoarking guffaw which Tyras knew all too well.
“Tyrie, I know I’m an old man who has fewer years left than he’s already spent on Horti,” Catinius Maloko shouted, his amused voice carrying through the treetrunks and shrub. “,but getting shot by me own son ain’t quite how I’d like to clock out. I ever want that, I’ll just ask!”
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It felt good to ride Borsas once again. His thin back just about allowed for two Class III riders, and Tyras’s luggage in addition to the usual gear he carried in his saddlebags didn’t seem to hinder his flight much. Tyras knew all too well that the lithe pine green-scaled dragon was far stronger than he seemed. He held the reins tight as he steered his childhood companion through the mountain’s treetops, narrowly avoiding them as the wind pressed tight against his face, pressing the goggles against fur and skin as the scent of the fiery forest’s unique pine needles violently filled his nostrils. Its scent was as unique as the forest itself, smelling like pine, yet also with a small hint of sweet spice, similar to curry or paprika. In fact, it was a spice, crushed up pine needles from the [Fire Forest] used on meat dishes being a staple of Osnyan cuisine.
A wall of particularly towering trees was straight ahead, and Tyras and Borsas both wordlessly decided on a risky move, Tyras suddenly pulling on the reins as the dragon glided upwards almost parallel to the trees. Both riders flattened themselves against their harnesses to minimize air drag as they felt their cores dragged downwards from the momentum and violent whiplash.
Borsas roared with joy as he flapped his lithe, yet powerful wings, climbing hundreds of meters into the air in under half a minute. The beginnings of low clouds began to tickle at Tyras’s face, water droplets condensing on his leather flight jacket and goggles. Tyras felt his ears pop as it became just a little more difficult to breathe in the higher atmosphere. They were a little over a thousand meters above ground level now. The endless forests sprawled below them through a transparent layer of thin, timorous clouds, like fire visible beneath its trailing smoke. The dragon settled on a sustained, slow glide above the trees, the sheer cliff of the [Peak] on their left flank, an almost perfectly vertical rock wall stabbing through the upper clouds, all the way up to six thousand meters.
For a moment, he forgot about the horrible memories he had associated with this place. Miles upon miles of wilderness were laid bare before him, from mustard-colored fields to blood-red timberlands. A herd of [buffalo] stampeded across the fields and through the forests, their thick armored bodies making short work of the various brush and saplings that got in their way, throwing up a cover of dirt as thick as the clouds beneath.
Tyras allowed himself to relax, reaching for his water flask and taking a healthy swig. The altitude had made it deliciously cool.
“Good thing yer flying skills didn’t wither like hiking!” His father chortled behind him.
Tyras frowned and looked back at the man who looked so much like him, down to the mahogany-colored eyes, save for about a hundred extra kilos of fat and muscle, and the streaks on his face being more orange-brown in color rather than beige like Tyras’s.
“Whatever do you mean, Father?”
“Whatever do you mean.” Catinius repeated with mirth in an exaggerated aristocratic accent. “Listen to him! Like a bloody pulp novel toff! And ‘father’ instead of ‘papa’! Exactly what I was saying, Tyrie! Too much time in the city! Used to be you left us all in the dust when we were hiking! Now, I had to go look for you, just in case ye got lost!”
“I wasn’t lost, I was on the right track!” Tyras replied. Borsas made an odd clicking sound beneath him which he knew was the closest dragons got to laughter. He felt some heat rise to his face, much as he tried to squander it.
“Maybe then you were on the right track, but Borsas sniffed out yer path. By Arstoros’s balls, you doubled back more ‘an a High Bishop to the whorehouse!” His father guffawed once again. Tyras tried not to have a reaction to his father’s blasphemous joke, yet his infectious laughter proved irresistible and he soon joined in. It did not take long for the first signs of the Great Market to show themselves. A particular tree seemed out of line. Nature’s pattern of perfect imperfections and curving trunks was broken up by one that stood straight and towered above the rest. Upon closer inspection, it was a watchtower, leaves placed to camouflage it as a tree to the casual observer.
Using his Forte to look closer, Tyras saw three guards inside. One was looking at the approaching dragon through a pair of binoculars, the other manning a massive Maxim machine gun chambered in an anti-material caliber. Tyras would have bet his month’s wages that the cartridges were incendiary, so as to make short work of an airship’s air bladder. Pirates and mercenaries could be as well equipped as any of the Horti’s air forces, and the Stateless saw themselves obligated to respond in kind. The third walked over to the tiny room’s telegraph and began clicking away.
The large boxy brass device on the front of Borsas’s saddle began emitting a steady whirr. Tyras pressed a button on its side, not bothering with one of the two headsets. It was windless enough to hear the clicks and beeps clearly.
“WELCOME BACK CHARIOT. STOP. HOW ARE THINGS? STOP.” The machine beeped in Morse code.
Tyras’s father reached towards a pouch attached to his side and fished out a clicker wired to the device through a series of wires woven into the saddle to protect from the elements.
“HELLO, EAGLE. THINGS ARE AWFUL. STOP. DROPPING DOWN AT USUAL SPOT. STOP.”
If he’d said “things are going great.” then further away, another watchtower had a sniper and a spotter and Tyras would have had his head blown off, as that would have meant their leader was under duress. It was a simple, yet effective system against infiltrators. They kept flying over the forest for another few kilometers, thin plumes of smoke, an increasing number of watchtowers and other dragons with riders flying nearby were increasing signs that they were approaching an enclave of Bestia Sapiens life in this mostly untouched corner of wilderness. Tyras waved at the other riders, recognizing some of them by their dragons’ unique scale coloring. Most waved back, recognizing him despite his flight suit and mask covering his body completely.
Then he saw it. The statue of Baba Silva was the best-preserved part of the former city. It wasn’t particularly tall, yet it had been meticulously maintained long after the city itself had been abandoned almost a thousand years ago. Contrary to popular belief, ancient statues were painted, it’s just that after centuries and millennia of exposure to the elements, the paint faded. Baba Silva was however, constantly repainted. Her bare cervine skull was contrasted by her dress formed of grass and trees, her limbs bunched up trees teeming with leaves and flowers. Life and Death.
Both the former city and current Great Market flowed off from the single centerpiece, like the spokes of a giant wheel. Temple ruins vied for supremacy with freshly built temporary housing and more permanent buildings, such as lodgings for merchants and travelers and market grounds that sold everything from fresh game meat to finely crafted weapons to entire airships. The flying dreadnaughts were moored throughout the outpost, most of them showcasing clear signs of frequent maintenance or being cobbled together from parts of other airships and biplanes, looted from the countless of aircraft that had been shot down and left abandoned throughout the war.
A ferris wheel was spinning lazily away at the edge of the Market, the top giving breathtaking views of the nearby wilderness. Judging by the distant delighted cheers of children, other similar attractions awaited travelers’ young. He sighed wistfully, thinking once again how much Cyprian would have adored coming back to this place.
The hotels and markets were mostly built upon the foundations of ancient buildings. Bases of marble and stone held up structures of red brick, brass and wood. Despite considering themselves separate from the Imperium of Osnya, united only in their faith towards Lady Fakona and reverence for the Light, Osnyan Stateless enclaves maintained the typical architecture of the Imperium’s cities, down to the braziers and bowls set at regular intervals to dispel Darkness. While few Stateless stayed here permanently, permanent settlements somewhat defeating the purpose of a nomadic lifestyle, it represented a temporary home for any weary travelers, as they arrived, filled any positions that were left vacant and stayed for a few weeks, months, years… or for good.
Such massive Great Markets would not have been allowed in most of the world. They’d have immediately been labelled as “bandit fortresses” and forced to disperse or be set upon by force. Osnya, however, was not most of the world. There was a reason they called their Stateless “Pilgrims”.
The dragon riders they’d seen earlier approached a large clearing, where several Pilgrims guided them to land, then sheltered their beasts in large, comfortable stables, which were several stories tall. Tyras however, steered clear of it, instead landing in the yard of a large old villa, rebuilt in places with brick and metal. It had probably once been the governor’s house.
Catinius had been named head administrator of this Great Market after the previous one had died in the War, a title which perhaps had less command than in the “civilized” world, yet his word usually carried great weight to the denizens. It was leadership based on trust and respect rather than sheer authority.
They landed and Tyras removed his tight flight mask, wiping sweat off his brow.
He took in a deep breath and closed his eyes, attuning his senses to the sounds and smells of home. Perhaps “home” wasn’t quite the right word, given their near constant mobile nature, but it maintained a consistent feel. The smell of cooking and smelting fires, pine trees and more recently the smell of Purpur fuel from the various generators, machines and vehicles around the place. The sound of children performing on stage much like he did, merchants selling their wares, the clop of feet and the foreign purr of engines. The flapping of dragons’ wings. Someone sneaking up behind him-
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In an instant, Tyras crouched down, narrowly dodging a shove and did a leg sweep. His massive attacker grunted and hit the ground hard. He rolled away to avoid Tyras stomping on his midsection and got up, taking up a boxing stance, lightning jabs testing the smaller feline’s guard. Tyras dodged rather than blocked, knowing that even a glancing blow could easily put him out of action. His prodigious foe overextended himself and Tyras seized the opportunity, getting within his guard, two powerful hooks to his sternum knocking all the breath out of him, followed by a handchop to the neck.
The behemoth backed away, blue eyes bulging, struggling to take in breath that wouldn’t come. Teeth gritted, the giant took another swing for Tyras, which he easily dodged then used the larger man’s momentum to grab and throw him over his shoulder with a violent slam.
Tyras wasted no time, pouncing upon the man, his razor-sharp claws around the treetrunk-like neck in an instant.
“Alright, alright, you win!” Crixus grunted, struggling against his younger brother’s iron grip, inescapable despite their size difference.
“Is that any way to greet your sole sibling after a year of absence, brother dear?” Tyras asked playfully, getting up and helping Crixus to rise. Despite the fact that he was very tall for a steppe lion, Crixus never ceased to make him feel small.
Standing nine feet tall and weighing over five hundred pounds, Crixus was legally a Class IV despite belonging to a Class III species. They never had quite figured out how he’d grown to such impressive proportions, though the most likely suspect were latent giant cave lion genes, which had outlived their own species after the near total genocide both the Augustans and various tribes had subjected them to. He was as bulky as his father, though he almost completely lacked any fat, his stomach flat and his prominent chest lacking any kind of flabbiness. He dusted off his stateless-style overcoat which like Tyras’s, was concealing elegant town clothes. He reached into his pocket and placed a pair of tiny round gold-rimmed spectacles on his nose, which looked somewhat comical on such large a head.
“I see you’ve amped up your training, brother,” Crixus observed. “In these very boots, as well. The mud is about a week old, unlike any mud from around these parts, but rather the darker coloring is consistent with that around Ignisdava. And your finger calluses from triggers suggest an emphasis upon firearms training. Papa said something about you forming a special team within the constabulary. You’re about done, I assume?”
“We’re deploying in less than a week,” Tyras confirmed. “And you, Crixus, are beginning to enjoy civilized life. You’ve spent a great deal of time in Vesontio [placeholder]. Your accent has a slight Eastern tilt, and that cravat which is no older than a month is distinctly in its style. The pattern of weave is quite distinct and difficult to imitate.”
“I just go where my clients’ cases take me!” Crixus said defensively, yet couldn’t stifle a laugh.
“No case that I know of has taken you more than a week, Crixus. To have picked up local fashion and speech patterns, one must have spent a great deal of time over there. Far more than any single case could justify. You took a little sabbatical.”
Crixus raised his shovel-like paws in mock surrender.
“Alright, alright… I’m getting a taste for civilization. I blame my university days.”
“My offer still stands, brother. The constabulary could always use someone of your brain and brawn.”
Crixus chuckled, shaking his head.
“Had enough of dealing with masters during the war. I stomached it then because it was a necessity. We were being invaded and our way of life was being threatened, especially for us Pilgrims. But now… I think I’m about done being told what to do or who to serve. There’s enough of the world to see in one’s lifetime without ever getting bored. And I act when I decide it’s best.”
Tyras gave a small, cynical smile. There was a reason Achlos had made such an impression on him. He and his brother had more than a few similarities.
“You two quite done rolling in the dirt like kittens?” Their father asked grinning as he was done unbuckling his saddle bags. His sons’ little spar hadn’t bothered him one bit as he nonchalantly unpacked. Tyras walked over as well to collect his own luggage. Borsas gave Crixus a mocking look as he dusted off his overcoat.
“What are you looking at?” Crixus challenged. Borsas and Tyras exchanged a knowing grin.
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Dinner for the Pilgrims was quite a different affair than city dwellers. Most of the time, meals were eaten quickly and without preamble, since their very nature required them to be on the road nearly constantly. Therefore, when they had the opportunity to eat at a table unhurriedly, it was an occasion to be enjoyed.
First, all participants had to wash themselves and wear something other than what they usually do when traveling, so as to scrub away any weariness of the Road from themselves. Then, usually as the food was being cooked, they’d stand around a fire and talk of anything except the hardships of the Road, war and generally avoiding any unpleasant topics.
His father provided Tyras and Crixus with Aksi: a traditional cigar dating back to the Gherii Kingdom made of a blend of wild herbs and wrapped in a Purpurkrumb leaf. Most civilized folk hated it and described the experience as similar to shoving one’s face near an automobile’s exhaust pipe. But for Tyras, it was a welcome taste of home. He made a mental note to purchase a box of the stuff before going off again. They spent the time talking about various nothings.
His brother had been to Mamalokat: Nyter’s proudest achievement still under construction, said to be the most high-tech city in the world. It used cloud seeding and underground heating or cooling systems to make its various districts more suitable for various species. It was still under construction and Crixus showed a few pictures of himself in a snowy city filled with half-completed skytowers and wide streets designed more for automobiles than equistilio drawn carriages. And another one of him in a small town surrounded by jungle so thick, it didn’t look quite right. Like the randomness of Nature had somehow been subverted and replaced by city planners. He claimed the two places were only twenty kilometers or so apart. As excited as Crixus was about being there for work, Tyras remained unconvinced that the whole massive climate control system wouldn’t just blow up one day. And the name itself: “Mamalokat”. “Citadel of mammals.” He almost admired the sheer brashness and arrogance of that title.
Soon enough, however, dinner had been served. It wasn’t served in the main dining hall of the former governor’s villa, but a small antechamber connected to the kitchen that had probably once been where the servants and slaves ate. In a society that was usually always on the move, when they did set tables, it didn’t make sense to go through the effort of setting more seats than was necessary. It was said that if you had more seats than diners at your table, you invited demons to dine with you.
There was, however, one seat that was conspicuously empty.
Catinius sat at the head of the table. On one side stood Tyras and Crixus and opposite them stood Grandma Vezna and Samorix. Vezna was not actually their grandmother, most evidenced by the fact that she was a portly brown-furred chamois goat, but she had been one of the family’s personal aides for so long, and served as nanny, governess, teacher and anything inbetween for the two brothers, that any other title seemed unworthy of her.
Samorix was a massive black bear, overtaken in height only by Crixus, yet he was equally bulky, which was further evidenced by the armor he wore: an ancient design of the Gherii Warriors, a vest of scale armor with bronze shoulder pads and greaves. It was somewhat similar to the Scout Raider trench armor Tyras was so familiar with, but a lot more ornate, not to mention bulkier. It couldn’t have been comfortable, but the bear insisted upon wearing it whenever he wasn’t sleeping. As far as he was concerned, he owed a debt to Catinius and his entire family, and he would protect his savior and his family as long as he lived to the best of his ability. Even at the table, he still had his Sica curved dagger sheathed and his massive, engraved revolved holstered.
The sixth chair was the odd one out. The chair opposite Tyras’s father, the one normally reserved for the other head of the family, sat conspicuously empty. Or rather, almost empty. A woman’s Pilgrim travel overcoat was draped over it, like someone had taken it off just to sit more comfortably at the table.
Tyras tried not to look at it. He buried his head in his egg salad, he made small talk about the weather and theater with his family, he busied himself by twisting his cufflinks, an annoying nervous tick which he admitted to himself was his tell. Yet his eyes always fell upon the coat. He still saw the woman that once filled it. He still felt her reassuring smiles, her warm embraces that brought comfort even to the hardened, beaten down soldier that returned on leave once in a blue moon, her svini stew which his father couldn’t replicate no matter how hard he tried...
He’d begged his mother not to enlist. He and his brother were enough, they’d fight twice as hard for her. But she wasn’t going as a soldier, but as a volunteer doctor. Almost as many Osnyan soldiers were dying of disease or survivable injuries as they did on the battlefield due to the sheer number of cases. She’d treat dozens a day. She’d save lives. She wouldn’t be on the front lines.
Then, two years later, he received the telegram. “The Legion is pained to announce you that your mother, Miss…”
They’d bayonetted her. That was the one detail he remembered. Not a stray shot, not a shell, not a gas attack, nothing that could be interpreted as accidental. They’d killed her in the most brutal and personal way possible. She, the most gentle and innocent creature the Architect had blessed the world with. Her, who had never so much as touched a gun or struck someone in anger.
Later, he realized it was an individual to be blamed. Some unknown soldier lusting for blood, one perhaps who’d even been punished for his cruelty (Lunist war tribunals were far less tolerant of undue violence towards surrendering hostiles, as much as it pained Tyras to admit). But back then, there was only one conclusion: the lightless monsters had murdered his mother. Her final moments had been ones of pain and horror. And the one solution was to return the favor.
By that point, he already was a Scout Raider. A Pugnazuras. A warrior meant to strike horror in the hearts of the wicked and the shadow-hearted. Horrors inflicted by them were overlooked, even encouraged. Every plunge of his blade into a Lunist, a retribution, every shriek of terror of the enemy, a demon screeching impotently at holy retribution. His squad had become among the most feared Raider units, quite the achievement for a unit whose entire purpose was to cause shock and terror.
Eclipse Empire soldiers had even given him a nickname: Caedoxis, which as far as he understood, was some long-forgotten ruthless god of war. When he first heard of that from a Lunist prisoner, he remembered his heart swelling with pride that he, a single soldier, had made entire regiments of the archenemy quail.
Now, it made him feel a revulsion towards himself that made it difficult for him to swallow his food. During Scout Raider training, when they were taught “forbidden” close combat techniques; biting, gouging, clawing, then showing that you relish in it; the Master at Arms had made it clear that it was all a display. A show of force. Like a dragon’s roar or a swordman’s flourish. You must never lose yourself in the display of horror. If you succumb to it, if you take pleasure in it for even a second, you become the monster your enemies believe you to be. You revert to a lesser being.
And he had. He had allowed the monster to win. He liked to believe that it was gone now, dead and buried beneath Rhodika teaching him compassion and love since he’d first met her on the front, beneath his mask of a mild-mannered gentleman, beneath the years of a peaceful life with his family.
But the monster was not dead. It was merely locked away. And every now and then, he could feel its awful jaws snapping at the bars, its powerful paws rattling the cage. And it terrified him.
“… and that’s why we’ll be giving a helping hand. You’ll join us, won’t you, son?” his father said.
“O-of course father.” Tyras said, pretending to have been paying attention all along. His father gave him a long, yet understanding look as his gaze fell on the vacant chair for half a second.
“I knew we could count on ya. The Cave Forgers came across some ice walls caused by streams seeping into the caves after the bombing broke the bloody mountain, so they need a few more able bodies to swing picks and scout ahead. Mosta the pre-war cave maps are as useful as a fifth wheel on a wagon, so, it’s partly looking fer bodies, partly mapping everything out. And you, Tyrie, know the caves better than most.”
Tyras nodded, saying nothing.
“Walk with me, will ya?” his father said, getting up. Tyras hadn’t finished his meal, but it seemed his father had figured out that he wouldn’t be taking another bite. Crixus eyed his brother’s half eaten portion wistfully.
“Hey, uh, do you mind if I-“
“Knock yourself out.” Tyras cut him off. Crixus grinned and dumped the remains of his brother’s meal into his already larger than normal bowl and dug in with renewed appetite.
Tyras and Catinius exited the villa onto a convenient mountain path which the original occupants thousands of years ago had enjoyed in full. The cobbled path still held up in places wound along the skirts of the mountains, built in such a way as to intersect with several clear springs to quench the hikers’ thirst.
Tyras took in a deep breath. The smell of home was ever-present. The icy, pure air of the mountain and freshly blooming flowers mixing with the slight hint of spice from the Fire Pines populating the mountain. In short order, the two experienced mountaineers had reached the end of the facile hike. Several marble benches were set at an elevated position over a large platform that had once been a stage. The governor likely enjoyed taking his affluent friends on the short, yet impressive hike, then ended with a show put on by live actors with the mountain as a backdrop.
Combined with a generous amount of wine in their veins, that would have been enough to get even the most avaricious of patricians to be more willing to part with their coin for some business venture or another.
Yet now, there were no grand fires sizzling with sacrifices to the old gods. No fat patricians drinking and laughing. No scantily clad dancers putting on an alluring show for libidinous old coots.
All that was left was the Mountain. It had many names. Its original name of Foakmon Range, simply “the Holy Mountains”, or more recently “Bone Mountain”. Now that he looked at it, the way the stone gave way to tall, thin glaciers high above did look like a severed, jutting bone.
Though it was more because it was practically impossible to hike without coming across remains of the soldiers who had desperately fought to conquer or defend the imposing massifs. Around this time, the war had amped up and both sides had convinced other countries to assist them in their cause. The United Isles Of Nyter had finally begun to send expeditionary troops to Osnya and the Yavuz Shannate had amped up their military aid, sending an additional 200.000 of its soldiers to help their fellow Lunists.
One could find men and women from the world over who had come here, to this far away land to fight and die. Some little more than skeletons in now oversized uniforms, others, higher up on the mountain, frozen and preserved, looking more blissfully asleep than dead, resting after the horrors they had witnessed or inflicted.
The day was coming to a close. The sky was a brazier of fiery sacrifice, with the first tiny stars as the sparks, the mountain a ripe cornfield at the Month of Harvest. It was difficult to tell where the mountain ended and where the heavens began.
The villa was still visible some fifty meters below. Borsas was playing with Pugnu, Crixus’s dragon. Like his owner, it was massive. Everything about the purple-scaled beast seemed exaggerated, from its wings nearly as wide as the villa’s yard, to its tail thicker than most trees. However, Borsas easily dodged all of the playful swipes and tackles, and in short order, he was on his giant friend’s back, nibbling on his ears. Both men laughed at the spectacle.
“How are you holding up, son?” Catinius eventually asked.
“Having fewer nightmares,” Tyras replied. “training the team keeps my mind occupied. They’re wonderful. I couldn’t ask for better soldiers.”
“I thought ‘constable’ was the correct term.”
Tyras shrugged. “What we’ll be doing is more similar to what I did in the War than what I did on the streets. You don’t need me to tell you that pirates are getting bolder. It’s about time we fought fire with fire.”
“Don’t you get tired of it?” His father asked.
Tyras turned, a quizzical look in his singular eye.
“Tired of what?”
Of… everything.” His father said. “The war ended only for you to become a lawman, the closest relative to the soldier. You moved to Ignisdava where you know you’ll find scum and villains aplenty to face. You have an insatiable appetite for conflict, Tyras Maloko. The gods granted you a wonderful wife, two little ones I am proud to call my grandchildren and a talent for the stage. Yet it seems your biggest love remains finding a cause worthy of you to bloody your blade for.”
Tyras looked towards the sunset. “Someone has to do it. No one proposed a team like mine before. They were just content with stopping ‘most’ pirate attacks at the cost of innocent blood. I decided that enough was enough.”
“You are not the only warrior in Osnya, son. There are other men. You served your country for eight years. You gave up your youth, your eye, your sanity… your innocence. You’ve given the Light enough. I would say a man at this point had a right to reap the rewards he’d sown and live a life of plenty and happiness with his loved ones. You don’t deserve new nightmares, Tyrie.”
Tyras said nothing, his steely gaze fixed on the mountain where he’d killed dozens.
“What is the foremost sin?” Tyras asked.
His father sighed longly, like a gambler who knew he’d played his best hand and lost.
“Idleness,” Catinius said with difficulty. “being able to do something for the Light and not doing it out of comfort, out of fear or out of sloth.”
Tyras nodded. “Precisely. And I, Father, am no idler. I have a talent above all others. A very grim talent, a talent I’d rather I’d have had no need for developing, yet it’s one I have nonetheless. I did not decide to become what I am today. The Lunists decided for me the moment they marched across the border. Whatever else I could have become died there and then. The soldier is all that is left.”
His father’s large, fat paw clasped around his sinewy shoulder.
“You’re wrong there. The soldier isn’t all that’s left. I see a loving husband, a caring father, a passionate singer and above all, a Pilgrim. You may have left us for the prisons of stone and brass, and I’ll never hate you for that, but a Pilgrim never dies.”
“He only moves.” Tyras completed for his father. The older man smiled.
“So…” Catinius said decidedly more cheerfully. “You said in your telegrams you’re short one dragon for your team?”
“We’ll make do. We always do. I did more with less in the War.”
“There’s no more war, Tyrie. And you don’t have to fight all your battles alone. Pilgrims never forget their own.” He gestured to the dragons who were now breathing fire into the air, seemingly comparing which one could reach the highest. “Borsas is yours.” He said like he was lending five Krata for a cab fare.
Tyras went wide eyed.
“But-“
“You said you needed a dragon. You were always meant to inherit Borsas. He’s been passed down from father to son in our family since he was a hatchling.” He chuckled at the green-scaled dragon flying circles around his much larger adversary, even sticking out his forked tongue. “Three bloody centuries old and he still acts like a cub!”
“Father, I cannot take Borsas. He… he’s not like me. He’s more like you. He loves freedom, he loves the Steppe, the Mountain, the Skies. If I take him in, he will be treated like any other constabulary dragon: he’ll be locked up in some pen, taken out once a day to fly, his claws will be blunted… I cannot do that to him. Not Borsas.” The green dragon now took off, flying over the villa and the Great Market, roaring in joy as he teasingly looked behind at Pugnu, the much larger dragon struggling to keep up with the sleek, graceful green arrow.
“You know what he loves more than all of those things, son? You. When you left for the War, he hardly ate, he flew like an automaton, without joy or purpose, and he always stayed by the spot of your old tent, waiting for his master to return from the battlefield. Only when you came back on leave did he spring back up to his old self, cooing, laughing and flying like an artillery shot.” Tyras opened his mouth slightly, lost for words.
“You… you never told me that.”
“I didn’t want to load your conscience more than it already was. You’d have returned at the front regardless; nothing kept you back. It’d have just given you something else to worry about.” His father said with only the slightest hint of asperity, yet it was instantly replaced with a smile.
“He’s always wanted to go on with you on your adventures. It’s probably better that he didn’t, but… I think now is high time he joined his master on his quests.”
Tyras watched the two dragons dance over the great canopy of the sky as it turned from fire to the cold embers of the moon, Borsas gracefully landing on an inn’s roof and howling in victory. It was only now that he truly realized how much he’d missed his childhood friend. Like everything else from his old life, he’d ditched to make room for war.
Tyras embraced his father. “I’ll take good care of him.” He promised.
“No, son,” His father said, patting his back. “He will take care of you.”