Takeshi crept through the thick jungle overgrowth to get a better vantage point on his targets.
The Shai Alud Marcus had sent him back to their old base at the Southern Coast of the Arasaka to gather what materials they could – anything that had not been left behind by the fearless Keth-Tari raid. An easy enough job, and one which had so far been entirely unhindered.
But as the Yokun and his archer detachment peeked out from the last of the jungle treeline, they saw why the General had dispatched a retinue of Oshu scouts with them.
A detachment of Zhurkin, flying the mailed fist banner of Clan Naga, had visited their old headquarters before, and seemed to be using it as some kind of staging area.
At the old Overseer’s tower – which was now nothing more than a crumbling façade of rock and ruin, one of the largest Yokun Takeshi had ever seen was currently spitting out a speech to his troops below. And, from the sounds of it, and the way he swing his large halberd overhead to punctuate his every word, he was very proud of himself.
“And that is no coincidence,” Takeshi said aloud – more to himself than anyone else. “For that is…Lord Zakura, the Scalesplitter.”
Beside him the trees rustled and parted. Takeshi felt breathing, and turned to bring his knife to bear, only to see the bulbous eyes of his fellow commander blinking beside him.
Sakri – the leader of the Oshu tribes.
The chamelelon-like creature scratched the colorful hair beneath his chin, and considered Takeshi’s words.
“This large Yokun of yours,” he said, pointing as the commander continued to throw spittle and charged words at his troops. “He is known to you?”
Takeshi bristled at the use of ‘yours’, but grunted his assent.
“It is said he was once a slave as we were,” he explained. “Sentenced to fight for entertainment in Naga’s fighting pits. Through bloody victory after victory, he earned his place as the right hand of Prince Takata, scion of Clan Naga.”
Sakri considered this, quietly, as he did everything. “Your people reward violence,” he said. “Even the smallest lizard can rise, but only atop the crushed skulls of his brothers.”
Takeshi was about to retort, but stopped himself. He did not know why some odd sense of national pride had suddenly risen in his green throat as this Oshu said these words. There was a time when even he would have called this tribal creature a savage, and a barabarian with no conception of how civilized races lived their lives.
But the Shai-Alud had said many things since he came among them. And one of the things that made sense to Takeshi in recent months, more than anything else, was how similar he was to the other slaves in the army of the Pale Lady.
“I bear him or his kind no love,” Takeshi muttered.
Sakri looked at him curiously.
“His kind? I thought that you –“
“We may wear the same skin,” Takeshi interjected. “But that does not make us brothers.”
Sakri gave a short huff, pulling tighter on the tin hairs on his chin. “And what are we to you, Yokun?”
Takeshi smiled. “Let us fight together and find out.”
They were outnumbered – that much was certain. Zakura had at least eighty Zhurkin with him, many of them enraged and desperate to put down the slave rebellion that had risen up in their lands and burned their plantations to the ground.
Takeshi had a retinue of twenty archers and the Oshu detachment numbered possibly only fifteen. Positioning would be crucial, as would the use of cover.
Fortunately for them all, a heavy rainstorm had just begun, and it didn’t look like it was stopping anytime soon. The rain provided a blanket of cover for the Oshu to move through, slipping stealthily into the cracks and corners of the bombed-out plantation. They slunk round the base of the tower, the barracks, and hid within the crater that was where the armory had once stood. Each of them poised, ready, and with a spear tipped with the most virulent poisons known to their tribes.
Takeshi licked his lips, tasting his own sweat as his fellow commander moved out.
He signaled for his men to cloak themselves in the dirt and leaves from the foliage around them, and to climb to the highest heights of the trees. Once there, they would dig in with their claws, setting up the branches at the apex of the trees as a kind of makeshift tripod to stabilize their aiming.
Yokun longbowmen had a name for such a maneuver – Kimi-Taro or ‘Branch-sniping’. Performed under the right conditions, they could turn the jungle trees into a set of sniper towers. Usually, rainfall would have made their visibility far too poor to get in any effective shots. But Yokun eyes were not those of a human, or a dwarf, or a ratman’s. They were the sharpest set of eyes in all of Thea, second only to the Aradeshian birdpeople of the mountains.
But unlike them, Yokun were not aloof, floating high and mighty above the world. They were beings of the earth. And the earth itself was their greatest war asset.
Takeshi nodded once to Sakri, seeing him getting into position just at the back of the Zhurkin crowd.
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He knocked an arrow, breathed deep, and said a silent prayer to Lord Akira that his aim might strike true.
And when he let it loose, he saw it slam into Zakura’s left eye and send the massive brute flying from his podium.
What followed next was nothing more than a few minutes of panic that felt like an eternity to those watching from the treetops.
Sakri moved like a wraith through the chaos, his chameleon-like form blending seamlessly with the rain-soaked ruins. His Oshu warriors, invisible against the backdrop of the storm, struck silently and swiftly. Zhurkin soldiers fell clutching their throats, their armor no match for the virulent poisons that tipped Oshu spears. Each strike was precise, lethal, and calculated to sow confusion among the enemy ranks.
Above, Takeshi's archers unleashed a torrent of arrows from their elevated positions. Each shaft found its mark, piercing through the mail of Zhurkin infantry and sending them crashing to the muddy ground. Takeshi himself worked with a calm efficiency, his sharp Yokun eyes compensating for the rain and dim light. He loosed arrow after arrow, targeting officers and marksmen who barked orders to rally their panicked troops.
But the enemy was not without their own precision. A detachment of Zhurkin marksmen, crouched behind hastily constructed barricades, began firing back at the trees. Their bolts and arrows tore through the foliage, striking several of Takeshi's archers. Cries of pain echoed through the jungle as warriors fell, their broken bodies plummeting from the heights.
Takeshi gritted his teeth, his heart sinking with every fallen comrade. But there was no time for mourning. He adjusted his position, firing a volley to cover the retreat of his remaining archers. He shouted orders to reposition, urging them to find new perches deeper in the canopy where the enemy could not reach them as easily.
Meanwhile, on the ground, the tide of battle shifted. Sakri and his Oshu warriors continued their deadly dance, taking down Zhurkin soldiers with ruthless efficiency. But their momentum faltered when a deafening roar cut through the storm.
Lord Zakura, the Scalesplitter, had entered the fray.
The massive Yokun commander, his left eye now a bleeding socket, swung his halberd with terrifying force. The weapon cleaved through Oshu warriors like a scythe through wheat, each swing accompanied by a bellow of rage. Sakri narrowly dodged a strike that split the ground where he had stood moments before.
But Zakura was no fool. As Sakri darted to his left, invisible once more, the Yokun commander’s sharp eyes followed the rain bouncing off the chameleon-like warrior’s form. With a roar, Zakura lunged, his massive hand closing around Sakri’s throat. The Oshu leader clawed at the iron grip, his skin flickering as he struggled to maintain his camouflage.
Zakura flung Sakri aside with bone-crushing force, sending him crashing into a ruined wall. The Oshu warriors faltered, their morale shaken as their leader lay motionless in the mud. Zakura turned his wrath on the remaining warriors, his halberd carving a path of destruction through their ranks.
Takeshi watched in horror, his bow trembling in his hands. He saw Sakri struggling to rise, blood trickling from his mouth as he grasped for his weapon. The battle was slipping away, and with it, their chance at victory.
“No,” Takeshi growled, steadying himself. He drew an arrow, aiming for the gap between Zakura’s breastplate and helmet.
He exhaled slowly, muttering a prayer to Lord Akira. Then, he released.
The arrow flew true, embedding itself in Zakura’s neck. The massive Yokun staggered, dropping his halberd as he clutched at the shaft. Takeshi didn’t stop. He loosed another arrow, then another, each one driving deeper into Zakura’s flesh. The fourth arrow sent the Scalesplitter crashing to his knees. With a final gasp, the Yokun commander toppled forward, his lifeless body sinking into the mud. Dead.
The battlefield fell silent, save for the patter of rain. Takeshi slung his bow over his shoulder and leapt down from the tree, rushing to Sakri’s side. The Oshu leader looked up at him, his bulbous eyes filled with pain and a flicker of grudging respect.
“Your aim… is impressive, Yokun,” Sakri rasped.
“And your courage is unmatched, Oshu,” Takeshi replied, extending a hand.
Sakri hesitated, then grasped Takeshi’s forearm in a firm grip. “We are not the same, you and I,” he said, his voice low. “But today… we are brothers.”
Takeshi nodded, pulling Sakri to his feet. “Brothers in battle. Let us finish this fight together. For the Shai-Alud.”
The Oshu smiled. “The Shai-Alud.”
The remaining Zhurkin soldiers, leaderless and demoralized, began to retreat. The combined forces of the Yokun and Oshu pressed their advantage, driving the enemy from the ruined plantation. And as the rain continued to fall, Takeshi and Sakri stood side by side, united by their shared victory and the bonds forged in the crucible of war.
When it was over, and the last of the Zhurkin lay bleeding out before their men, they let themselves fall and kiss the ground beneath them.
But they had barely even two seconds to recover before they had another, far stranger engagement.
“Lords,” one of the Yokun archers said, his voice uneasy and wary at approaching the two battle-scarred commanders. “There is…something you must see.”
Takeshi and Sakri rose, looking at eachother in stark confusion.
“Be at ease, Futashi,” Takeshi told his man. “Tell us plainly what it is you have found.”
The warrior stood still for a moment, his tail swishing this way and that in confusion.
“I…that is to say…we don’t kn-“
“OUT OF MY WAY!”
Futashi was brutally shoved aside by something that had suddenly barged its way onto the battlefield. Something that was shackled, bound up in harsh adamantine chains usually reserved for slaves of the highest order.
And Takeshi noted the Clan naga symbol upon the bonds.
But more suprising than that was the…thing itself.
It ruffled its long, feathered neck, standing on all fours upon a set of viscious looking claws. Its wings were bound up on its back, chained in the same way its legs were – as though it had taken an entire team of Zhurkin to capture and subdue it. What they had evidently not managed to do, however, was muzzle it. Its beak snapped and gawked at the two blood-covered commanders who stared, open mouthed, as the thing thrashed before them.
“Well?” it said, in a very high-strung, evangelical voice. “Come on then, lets dispense with the surprise. It is ever so dreadfully boring.”
Sakri was the first to speak, his webbed fingers reaching up to touch the fine feathers of the beast.
“What…are you-“
“Oh my, how respectful you people are down South,” the creature mewled like an offended cow. “You know, I half expected my rescuers to be a tad more civil in their manner. I at the very least expected your Shai-Alud to have taught you a few things about proper decorum when addressing a Griffon. Especially one of my stature. Hmpf.”
As the two commanders continued gawking, the winged beast trundled over to Zakura’s corpse and snatched a thin sheet of parchment from his belt.
“Frightfully grisly fellow,” the bird-creature snorted. “Such is the way of his kind.”
Takeshi narrowed his eyes.
“Who do you think you –“
“Spare me your dismal dismay,” the beast said. “My name is Thaddeus Oxbridge of House Rottsburch, Third of my line, Vassal and Vaulted messenger of his Majesty and Emperor of the Known World, Gaius Marxon I.”
“Emperor…” Sakri whispered. Takeshi, meanwhile, was too awestruck for words.
“I thank you for your timely assistance,” Thaddeus continued, savoring their confusion. “These beastly cretins dared to shackle me and impede the will of His Majesty. Now, if you would be so kind as to convey me to your commander? I have a most urgent…offer for his eyes only.”