CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO: PREPARATION
The battle that engulfed the town today was a relentless eight-hour affair from the initial deployment of the 8,000-strong army to the critical moments marked by the detonation of explosives by a desperate faction of 500, the subsequent clash of steel as yet another 500 soldiers engaged till to the pivotal involvement of Armad, whose entry into the battlefield signified a turning point. These events, so decisive and so swift, spanned the entirety of those eight harrowing hours. Yet, to truly account for the day's toll, one must consider not only the battle itself but also the aftermath - the relentless pursuit of the fleeing adversaries by Armad's forces and the laborious tallying of the captured spoils. By the time these tasks were concluded, the sun had relinquished its watch, and dusk enveloped the land.
In stark contrast to the previous day's audacity, where the assailants boldly encamped just beyond the town's borders, tonight they found themselves bereft of such confidence. The prospect of being caught off-guard by Armad's forces in a deadly nocturnal ambush, or the stark realization of their tactical disadvantage, likely stripped them of any desire to maintain their position. They understood that to linger was to invite death; retreat to their distant battalion, however daunting, seemed the wiser choice. The commander, bolstered by his formidable reputation, was certain of his unique value to the battalion. He knew that no harsh punishment would befall him, for his strength was too vital to be squandered through execution. With this in mind, he shepherded his weary troops back to their rear encampment, using the shroud of night to conceal their withdrawal.
Even as they approached their lines, the battalion signaled them to halt, a cautionary measure despite recognizing their men. War breeds mistrust, and in such uncertain times, even the familiar could be a facade for danger, perhaps an orchestrated attack with hidden explosives at the ready.
It was then that two soldiers, distinguished by their rank of Peak-of-Deba, stepped forward, exuding authority and suspicion in equal measure. They were charged with the task of searching the returning soldiers, a precaution against possible subterfuge or sabotage. The atmosphere was rife with tension, as all present were acutely aware of the harrowing truth: within the walls of the town stood a force formidable enough to inflict devastating losses, a force capable of overcoming 10,000 soldiers, including 15 of their own esteemed Debas. The implications were dire and inescapable; their sovereigns would need to convene and re-evaluate their strategies in light of this new reality.
As the scrutiny of the returning soldiers yielded no hidden threats, the inspectors proceeded with their duty, binding the men with the unyielding cords of captivity. Though all were detained, the commander received a less stringent binding, his hands alone restricted, perhaps out of respect for his rank or in recognition of his integral role. They were ushered into an antiquated tent, a makeshift prison for the fallen. The soldiers responsible for their detention then made their way to the expansive tent that housed their Kings and the elite King's legion, intent on delivering their report. However, what these soldiers did not realize was that the events of the day had not gone unnoticed; the kings and the king’s legion were already well aware of the unfolding drama.
At the heart of the tent, the commander of the King’s Legion was seated at the center of the long, weathered wooden table. Flanking him were the sovereigns of the nine realms, five to his left and four to his right. Their regal bearing did little to mask the gravity of their countenances. Just beyond the canvas walls, the remainder of her soldiers stood vigilant, the leading officers of their respective battalions, their presence outside a stark reminder that the council was not complete without the unity of their forces.
The atmosphere within the tent was thick with the weight of recent losses. The faces of the kings were etched with sorrow, particularly that of King Konfot, whose realm had just suffered a devastating loss. The town of King Konfot had been among the weakest, boasting only a pair of Debas for its defense. With one of them now lying among the dead, the town’s fragility was exacerbated, leaving King Konfot’s usually stoic visage marred by a deep-seated grief.
Amid the palpable tension, it was King Konfot who, with a heavy heart, voiced the concerns that hung unspoken in the air. “Have our investigations into the enemy been sufficient?” he demanded, his voice carrying the weight of his doubt. “The evidence before us suggests his cultivation level is far beyond what we have been led to believe.”
The King of Fida, whose wisdom and leadership had come to symbolize their collective strength, silently signaled his concurrence, his head movement a subtle but powerful testament to the shared unease.
Every monarch turned their gaze towards the commander, seeking reassurance, seeking a plan. With an air of calm authority that belied the situation’s severity, the commander gestured dismissively, quelling the rising tide of worry queue with his response. “Do not harbor any worry. If the enemy has already played his strongest hand, then the tide of war is still in our favor. Let us not forget that all occurrences thus far have unfolded according to our grand strategy. Would he dare to cast aside the King’s Legion, his appointed protectors, without having some unseen advantage? The battle has served its purpose: to expose his secrets.”
“We sent forth the 10,000-strong vanguard not merely as an assault force, but as a means to probe the depth of his resources and the breadth of his strategies. We ventured into this conflict with scant information; now, we have gleaned valuable intelligence that will serve us in the conflicts to come.”
“Our spies have confirmed that his support stretches across the seas, his arsenal bolstered by explosives and blades from distant allies. Yet, for all their weaponry, they pale in comparison to the might we have sequestered within Wilberforce’s capital—a cache of arms so formidable, it dwarfs their own. The material weapons are not where our focus should lie; it is the arcane that we must decipher.”
“Our true conundrum lies in the magic he employs—the sorcery that enables even his unawakened soldiers to contend with, and triumph over, our own cultivated benders. Some of you may have overlooked the fact that amidst his ranks are warriors who, despite dormant talents, exhibit strength rivaling that of our most adept Jemai. Not once did they wane in throughout the eight-hour melee. Should any among you uncover the source of this mysterious power, the rewards will be beyond measure.”
“Consider the immense bounty that awaits you, a bounty that will grow from this moment until the crown rests upon Prince Ikenga’s brow. Do any of you doubt that Prince Ikenga would fail to generously reward those who stand by him, those who aid in eliminating his brother, who casts a shadow over his destined rule?” The commander’s eyes swept across the faces of his audience, her words a rallying call to reignite the embers of their determination.
At this moment, their inherent greed began to surface. Each of them witnessed the events unfolding in their enchanted mirror, revealing Armad's concealment of a secret. It was clear to them that Armad was hiding something. They observed a time when non-benders consumed a mysterious substance that granted them strength comparable to benders. If they ignore the revelation that there is a hidden truth behind the elixir consumed by the troops, they are unworthy of their kingly positions.
Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.
The revelation of this secret galvanized the kings with a newfound purpose. Their initial intent to repel Armad’s advances had been defensive, a necessity to safeguard their towns from being engulfed by his relentless campaign. They recognized the peril in allowing Armad to assimilate Tiriba into his burgeoning empire—it would only be a prelude to their demise, a cascade of dominos tumbling into oblivion. In a bid for survival, they had unleashed the wild tribes upon him, a proxy war to weaken his grip. But when the dust settled and the tribes lay defeated, the kings discerned the need for confrontation. Armad’s eyes had been opened to their clandestine defiance; the veil of feigned allegiance had been torn asunder.
However, the stakes had risen, and the kings’ motives had evolved beyond mere self-preservation. For Commander of the King’s Legion harbored ambitions to transport the secret to the grandeur of Wilberforce. But for the kings, this secret was more than a mere tool of war; it was the keystone to their dominion’s prosperity. The allure of harnessing such a remedy was irresistible, a panacea that could swell their armies with unprecedented might.
The prospect of such power kindled a flame within their hearts. No king could stand idly by, knowing that a remedy existed that could elevate their troops beyond the natural limits of human capability. They envisioned their enemies, once emboldened, now hesitating at the threshold of war, deterred by the formidable presence of their enhanced legions. The kings began to strategize, their minds alight with calculations of the military potential that lay within their grasp. The remedy held the promise of awakening dormant abilities, bridging the chasm between the uninitiated and the cultivated. With a population teeming with latent potential, the kings foresaw an army of unprecedented scale and power—a force capable of not just defending their realms, but of shaping the very destiny of their world. The path ahead was fraught with peril, but the rewards of seizing this power were too great to ignore.
At that moment, the commander found himself on the brink of exhaling a heavy sigh as understood that he had achieved his goal of raising the greed of these kings, but he restrained the impulse. He possessed a keen insight into the thoughts and intentions of the assembled kings, despite his humble origins within the esteemed King's Legion. The opportunity to serve as even a foot soldier in this revered institution was a rare privilege, a source of immense pride. To rise to a station where one could stand guard over the prince was a testament to one's valor and dedication. Having attained the prestigious rank of Peak-of-Deba long before the birth of Prince Armad, the commander was likely privy to the clandestine machinations unfolding around him. It was conceivable that he was not merely a passive observer but an active architect of unfolding events.
Contemplating the potential rewards of uncovering a critical secret and delivering it to the King's Legend, he envisioned a future where Prince Ikenga, upon his coronation, would bestow upon him a position of great honor. The thought of allowing vital information to slip into the hands of lesser kings filled him with unease.
However, at the present juncture, he found himself in need of the cooperation of these kings. The repercussions of news spreading back to the Empire of Wilberforce implicating him in the demise of Armad were dire; not only would he face certain death, but his entire lineage would meet a swift and brutal end. Despite this looming threat, he recognized the necessity of securing the allegiance of the kings to execute their shared objectives.
Addressing the gathered rulers, the commander's voice resonated with authority as he laid out the strategy ahead. "Having assessed his strength, our forthcoming engagement demands the full deployment of our combined forces. I shall stand by your side in battle, but we must grasp the urgency of our actions. The longer we allow the conflict to persist, the greater the risk that word of our deeds may reach the Empire of Wilberforce. While the king himself may remain silent, certain factions within his court will not hesitate to act upon this intelligence. The consequences of such revelations are starkly evident. Therefore, it is imperative that we swiftly dismantle his forces and raze the town of Tiriba on the morrow. We must act decisively and swiftly, ensuring that before news can travel to the empire, our mission will have been accomplished. Prepare yourselves diligently for the forthcoming victory."
The kings, acutely aware of the gravity of the situation, signaled their agreement by placing their hands on the table in a show of unity. A collective apprehension gripped them as they contemplated the repercussions of allowing the conflict to escalate and news to reach the Empire of Wilberforce. The specter of Prince Armad realizing the futility of his position and seeking reinforcement from the capital loomed ominously. They understood all too well that confronting the might of the Wilberforce Empire was a perilous endeavor; even the most formidable tribes dared not challenge its supremacy. Were it not for the decree relinquishing control of the town of Tiriba by the King of Wilberforce, they would have hesitated to embark upon such a dangerous course of action.
Likewise, the decree that says that not a soul among Wilberforce’s vast legions would dare to lend support to the prince also gives way to this action of theirs. The decree has been clear: any act of alliance with the prince would invite severe consequences. Thus, if anyone helps the prince, the prince will lose the main town to give him to start building his Empire. Were it not for this deterrent, perhaps the thought of war would not have even been entertained. Yet, with the prevailing notion that Armad has been left to fend for himself, and with Prince Ikenga, the future monarch, openly supporting them, the enemy’s confidence swells.
Within the storied walls of Tiriba, the scene is starkly different. Here, the townspeople are engrossed in a different sort of calculation—a meticulous accounting of the bountiful spoils of their latest skirmish. The inventory is rich and varied, boasting magical bags and seals, alongside an assortment of relics forsaken by the vanquished or discarded in hasty retreats. Such wealth ensures that each defender of the town might claim a minimum of three prized possessions. The spoils also include copious amounts of coin and a trove of the coveted Airids.
Yet for Armad, the moment to divvy up this treasure has not arrived. His command is resolute: all artifacts are to be stowed within an immense Magic Bag, to be placed under the vigilant protection of the palace treasury. His mind is not on the treasures but on the shadow of peril that may descend with the break of the next dawn.
Clearing his throat to draw the attention of his assembled warriors, Armad spoke with a tone of solemnity and pride. “Your courage and might have been the cornerstone of our victory. Let there be no doubt that each of you will be duly honored for the role you have played.”
Stepping into the silence that followed, Commander Silaini’s presence was both imposing and reassuring. His eyes briefly met Nusi’s, betraying no malice, only respect. “It is your leadership that forged our path to victory, Prince. The energy-enhancing elixirs you provided were our salvation, granting us the endurance to fight without fatigue and the means to heal from our wounds. The laurels of victory rightly belong to you.”
Expressions of gratitude were etched on the faces of the soldiers as they bowed deeply before Armad.
With a gracious nod, Armad acknowledged their reverence. His gaze then hardened, reflecting the gravity of the situation. “My instincts tell me that we will face an onslaught from their full force—40,000 strong—at the first light of dawn. We have but this night to strategize, for we could very well be roused from sleep by the clamor of war. The day ahead promises to be long, with battle raging until only the victor remains standing. I have faith that each of you is ready to face the challenges that await us.”