Though not the most intimidating savage Rustram had ever seen, the Defiled Champion came close. Standing head and shoulders above his comrades, his arms, shoulders, and chest bulged with thick, discoloured muscles, so swollen with tissue he could barely stand upright. In spite of this, it wasn’t his sheer size which daunted Rustram so, nor was it how the Champion paced before his Defiled brethren, more wild, ferocious beast than civilized being. His (disturbingly slim) legs kicked out to accentuate his speech, shouted in his guttural tongue, with each step raising his knees higher than his waist in jerky, exaggerated stomps. His oversized arms pumped in random intervals, much to the delight of his audience, and the jarring, spasmodic movements seemed so unnatural and inhuman, Rustram thought the Defiled Champion had no control of his limbs until he noted the rhythm between the speech and movements were perfectly coordinated.
Upon further study, he realized he was watching something akin to a ritualized dance, with many Defiled in the crowd following suit. Each exaggerated motion carried an unknown meaning, a cleaving motion here or a stomping motion there, eyes wide and spittle flying as he glared across the open field at Phoenix Squad with boundless hatred and lust for violence. Add to this his human-leather mask adorned with hanging ears, grotesque body festooned with bizarre, bone piercings, and towering great-sword hewn from polished bone, and the Defiled Champion had Rustram thoroughly unnerved.
And when the Enemy Horde fell silent and the Champion pointed directly at him, Rustram became acutely aware of how full his bladder felt and miraculously kept it from draining out.
“It appears you’ve been challenged, Mister Rustram.”
Patronizing as always, Daxian stated the obvious as if worried no one else had seen it. Choking down the urge to throttle the man, Rustram quietly exhaled and prayed his voice wouldn’t break. “Yes, thank you,” he replied, his tone calm and dry as if his heart wasn’t on the verge of hammering out of his chest. “I didn’t notice.” This would not only be his first duel since coming to the front lines, but also his first duel ever. Thus far, the Enemy Champions had a tendency to overlook him in favour of the others like Ulfsaar, Wang Bao, or even lazy Silva who did everything he could to remain unseen, but it seems Rustram’s luck had just run out.
“Your challenger has an Aura.” Daxian almost sounded gleeful, but Rustram attributed it to his imagination and instead focused on the disastrous news. While possession of an Aura said nothing about the Champion’s actual strength, it guaranteed he wouldn’t be weak. “A Defiled Weapon too.”
More bad news. “How can you tell?” The voice was his but Rustram felt as if the words were spoken by a stranger, tinged with bored curiosity rather than gut-wrenching terror.
“Well, I can’t be entirely sure at this distance, but it’s a fair assumption.” Rustram almost screamed in frustration but luckily Daxian kept speaking. “The Defiled aren’t exactly known for their craftsmanship, which makes that great-sword a masterwork by their standards.” And only by their standards. The bone sword might’ve once been pearly white, but time and handling had turned it mostly yellow with splotches of dark, mottled reddish-brown, stained by age and the blood of countless victims. Otherwise, it did seem rather well crafted, not to the standards of a Divine Blacksmith, but if the weapon were made of metal, it’d fit right in on the shelves of an Imperial Armoury.
In an unusually chatty mood (perhaps due to Rustram’s impending doom), Daxian continued, “There’s no definitive proof aside from recorded observations, but the Defiled Weapons likely imbue their wielders with enhanced skill, strength, and cunning. Most have barbed spikes on their grips, leading scholars to theorize the weapons require the blood of their wielders to function, though why, no one can definitively say. The prevailing theory is that the Defiled Weapons are more analogous to Spiritual Hearts rather than Spiritual Weapons, an almost living object which changes and grows given time. The barbs are to physically bind the weapon to its wielder, which is why any Defiled can simply pick up the weapon and use it. Fascinating stuff.”
None of which was of any help to Rustram in his current situation. “Yes, fascinating.” If not for the massive discrepancy between their strengths, he would’ve told the former Major to shove his spear up his ass and choke on it.
Perhaps reading Rustram’s lack of action as fear, Pran leaned in and quietly asked, “I kill Champion, yes?”
“Hmph.” The Khishig helm obscured Wang Bao’s face from Rustram’s view, but he could hear the sneer in the former bandit’s faked, nasally voice. “This wastrel lacks the qualifications to face our second-in-command. Mister Rustram, requesting permission to bring his head back and transfix it to a spike.” His articulation and vocabulary were much improved, but underneath the trappings, Wang Bao was still the same cutthroat raider he’d always been.
Rustram appreciated the sentiment, but he still couldn’t quite bring himself to like the man.
“Twenty moves,” Wang Bao continued, hefting his double-bladed battle-axe high. “If I can’t take his head in twenty moves, then I’ll eat my boots. Anyone care to raise the stakes?”
“Twenty?” Joining in on the fun, Saluk kissed his spiked maul and declared, “Fifteen, but I no bring head. Smush good.”
“Eight,” Ulfsaar growled, and the banter came to a halt. Weeks of non-stop battles had taken a mental toll on the fearsome half-bear as he was forced to embrace his darker side amidst all the battle and bloodshed. He spoke little and smiled less despite Neera’s best efforts to bring him happiness and good cheer, as if bloodshed was the only thing which could bring him joy. With each passing day, Rustram watched him slip further into his Voracious persona and feared the pious, gentle giant might never return. Him taking part in this wager gave Rustram some hope, but there was precious little besides fury and madness lurking behind Ulfsaar’s penetrating gaze.
“Five.” Ravil’s confident declaration silenced the other eager contenders and even Ulfsaar looked taken aback. The dark-skinned killer’s grin unsettled friend and foe alike as he surveyed the crowd, asking, “Any takers?”
Gratified as Rustram was by their willingness to fight in his place, he couldn’t let this continue. Phoenix squad was so named because it held most of the ‘reborn’ members of the retinue, the worst of the marauders, killers, and blackguards the Boss took in after Sanshu (and Ravil). While they’d all come a long way since, much like Wang Bao, they were still bandits at heart and Rustram would lose their respect if he backed down from this challenge.
More importantly, if Mentor found out he’d shirked a challenge, she’d tan his hide with an iron paddle. Early on, he discovered her difficulties walking had no effect on her prodigious arm strength, much to his chagrin.
“Gentlemen,” Rustram said, adjusting his too-heavy training armour which would provide no protection against a Defiled Weapon. He had no choice but to wear it into battle, since after a close shave two days past, his Sentinel leathers couldn’t block a breeze. At least he’d grown somewhat accustomed to the weight and could more or less move unhindered, a miracle of hard work and persistence. “I believe I was picked as his dance partner, so I’ll thank you all to step aside.” A few soldiers chuckled, Wang Bao and Ulfsaar nodded approvingly, and Pran and Saluk traded worried glances, but it was too late to back out now. Accepting a reassuring (or farewell) pat on the shoulder from Ravil, he marched across the open field with head high and rapier drawn.
“Try not to die,” Daxian Sent. “It’s a lot to ask, but try.”
One of these days...
Stopping twenty paces away, Rustram raised his sword, kissed the pommel, and whispered his catechism. “I am the sword, and the sword is Death.” The Defiled Champion roared and his cronies roared with him, but Rustram tuned out the crowd and took his stance, his feet perpendicular and touching at the heels while his sword tip rested in the grass. A relaxed, open stance, cavalier or even arrogant some might say, but Mentor approved wholeheartedly. Neither offensive nor defensive, the stance gave him free range of choice for his opening move, whether it be attack, defend, dodge, or parry. “Do not react.” Mentor’s voice sounded in Rustram’s mind, repeating her oft spoken advice. “Anticipate your opponent’s moves, devise a plan, and act accordingly.”
Rustram took a deep breath and emptied his mind of fear and frustration, leaving one portion of his mind ready and waiting while another portion withdrew to contemplate the battle ahead.
You studied your opponent. How will he attack? He favours one-handed chops and forward kicks, so he’s likely to open with one or the other. The blade has range and lets him close the distance safely, so chop first. Then kick if his opponent slips too close, a far less intimidating prospect considering his skinny legs. Still, best not to underestimate an opponent. Block the chop, sidestep the kick, and then what? No, more effective to lower your stance and divert the chop overhead, then he won’t be in position to kick. Economy of action. Now, his body is turned and his sides laid bare. A punch to buy time to disengage your sword, then a step back and a boot to the knee exposes him to a decapitating strike.
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Even as the Champion raised his great-sword for the opening strike, a part of Rustram’s mind continued his calculations, making plans within plans for every possible scenario. The Champion slashed down aiming to cleave him from left shoulder to right hip. His rapier rose to meet the attack, its pommel meeting the great-sword’s tip to afford him maximum leverage and control. The great-sword clipped his right shoulder and its wielder stumbled from the minor impact, expecting either a solid strike or complete miss rather than the jarring, partial connection. Taking advantage of the vulnerable flank, Rustram’s knife-hand drove into his opponent’s kidney, his fingers groaning at the harsh treatment even as his opponent arched back and roared in pain. Stopped for less than a heartbeat, the Champion shoulder-rushed Rustram, but this was well within expectations. Sidestepping the attack, Rustram kicked out and was rewarded with a satisfying crack as he connected with the side of his opponent’s knee, stopping the Champion in place and putting an end to his horizontal cleave. Then, with a wave of his arm and a flick of his wrist, Rustram decapitated the Champion and flourished his sword, cleaning the blood off his blade in a single, uninterrupted motion.
And thus, Rustram’s first duel went almost exactly as he’d envisioned it.
His rapier slammed home in its sheathe a full second before the corpse thudded into the grass beside him, and Rustram faced the silent horde with feigned disinterest. Inwardly he was trying his best not to throw up while his shoulder throbbed in agony, having put the sword away for fear of dropping it. He could feel the bruised flesh swell and picture its discoloration, but at least it was all still there and easily treated with Panacea. A sliver of his weighted armour had been sheared off in the opening exchange, a minor miscalculation on his part as he forgot to account for its extra bulk when diverting the great-sword. Had he been wearing his leathers, the weapon would have missed him entirely, but it ended up working in his favour since the Defiled Champion wouldn’t have stumbled if not for that minor nick.
Talent was nice and hard work was better, but if Rustram had a choice, he’d pick luck every single time.
Long seconds later, Phoenix Squad overcame their surprise and erupted into cheers, their spirits emboldened by his crushing victory. Perhaps only Daxian and a few others understood how close the duel had been, for if Rustram had moved even a hair slower or been a touch weaker, then he would be the one lying dead in the grass. If not for Mentor explaining how to take control of the battlefield, Li Song teaching him about leverage and control, or the Boss insisting his soldiers toughen their bones, Rustram would’ve died today, which meant he had much to be thankful for, but that could all wait.
Rustram wanted to raise his head and howl at the Heavens to celebrate his accomplishment, for he just realized he had defeated the Defiled Champion in exactly four moves, handily beating Ravil’s wager of five.
But his work was not yet finished.
Seeing no new challengers stepping forth from the Defiled horde, Rustram raised his left hand and signalled the attack. Howling in murderous glee, Wang Bao’s cutthroats rushed passed and crashed into the waiting Horde. Savage Defiled met reformed Butchers and the Butchers proved superior, parting flesh and cleaving bone with ruthless, practised competence. Were it not for their dark Sentinel leathers or the Enemy’s greasy, sun-dried skin and human-leather head-wraps, Rustram would be hard pressed to tell Imperial soldier from Defiled savage.
A prospect which left him with many sleepless nights...
Soon after the first clash, Ulfsaar’s lumbering marauders entered the fray and the battle devolved into a slaughter. Neera, Pran, Saluk, and Ulfsaar himself smashed open the Enemy lines, clearing great swathes of Defiled with every swing of their oversized weapons. Wang Bao’s cutthroats were quick to take advantage of those gaps, like wily wolves working alongside bullish behemoths to divide and conquer the sizable Defiled Horde, rending and crushing their opponents into shapeless chunks of meat. Dastan’s heavy cavalry was unstoppable in the right conditions, and the steel plate and iron discipline of the Death Corps were indeed impressive, but Rustram wholeheartedly believed Phoenix Squad was home to the most dangerous warriors of Falling Rain’s retinue.
Shadows emerged from the grass behind the Horde and Rustram knew the slaughter would soon become a massacre. Standing atop his quin, Ravil and his mounted scouts were joined by Chey’s unit and the Protectorate, the full strength of Turtle Squad led by the oddly alluring Sai Chou. Longbows and crossbows sang and loosed their missiles, delivering piercing waves of death into the unprotected backs of the Defiled. A tried and true combination, it was one which worked best with the Death Corps holding the line, but after two months of cooperative efforts, Phoenix Squad learned not to charge too deep while the archers learned not to press their luck.
His shoulder finally recovered, Rustram ceased his posturing and joined the fray, slipping through the battle-line like a waitress in a crowded bar. Wherever he went, his rapier darted between combatants and pierced throats, hearts, knees, or elbows. He’d learned early on that not every blow needed to be a killing one because he had comrades to pick up the slack. Long, drawn out trades between two battling individuals were too inefficient and a poor expenditure of stamina, so it was better to lend an unobtrusive hand and decide the match forthwith to free his comrade for another bout. With his added efforts, Phoenix Squad slowly advanced into the Defiled Horde, and soon the song of twanging bows and whistling arrows came to an end.
Spelling doom for the Defiled once and for all.
Ravil and Chey didn’t lead their quins so much as set them loose on the Enemy’s back-line. Where Wang Bao’s cutthroats were wolfish in nature, the enraged roosequins made real wolves look like harmless puppies in comparison. High-pitched squeaks rang out as the roosequins tore into Defiled flesh in coordinated carnage, sounding disturbingly similar to their insistent squeaks of hunger. Rippling muscle shimmered beneath their thick, luxurious fur, wet with gore and viscera as they rent and tore to their animalistic hearts’ content, their gruesome behaviour wholly at odds with their usually adorable demeanour.
No matter how wild and savage the Defiled might be, they were no match for nature’s brutal fury, and the quin riders were almost unnecessary. They still put up a valiant effort and Chey in particular was well-suited for mounted combat. Crushing limbs and shattering bones with her thick, metal staff, the weapon came alive in her hands as it thrust this way and that, the force of every impact multiplied by a sharp rotation of Chey’s wrist at the moment before impact. Rustram had long since identified it as Wolf Form – Twisting Snap, but try as he might, he couldn’t replicate the technique. Much like Amplification, the timing and precision required was beyond his ability. Rotate too soon and your efforts were wasted, while too late and the attack will have already landed; yet time and time again, Chey landed her powerful drilling thrusts with inhuman perfection.
If she could grasp the timing of Amplification and combine it with Twisting Snap, then she’d have an attack rivalling the Boss’s signature charge in raw power, except Chey could unleash her attack in rapid succession.
The wave of roosequins passed through like a storm, and then came the Protectorate’s turn. Though the longbow was their weapon of choice, the collection of shabby rangers were no slouches in close combat, especially their fearsome leader Sai Chou. Unlike the majority of axe-wielders in the retinue, Sai Chou’s long-handled axe bore only a single edge, its wedged, rectangular head more wood-cutter’s tool rather than weapon of war. Regardless, the dishevelled warrior woman used it with expert efficiency, displaying a level of control which surpassed even Dastan. There were no overpowering strikes or reckless swings from Sai Chou, only calculated slashes and measured hacks as she used the bare minimum of strength to maximum effectiveness. Never still even for a moment, her delicate hands moved her axe in tight, flowing circles around her, her defence impenetrable and offence unstoppable. Unlike the perfumed pretenders of Central, Sai Chou revealed herself as a true Expert of the Empire, a hidden dragon who spent her time loitering in the forests of Ping Yao.
Fitting for the vice-leader of the Protectorate to be so strong, second only to a half-beast whose fists could displace Mother knows how many tonnes of water.
Before Rustram knew it, the last Defiled fell and the Enemy Horde had been slaughtered to a man. While Phoenix and Turtle Squad cleaned up the battlefield, Rustram stood to the side and awaited the final tally, dreading the losses no matter how great or small. Two more days would make sixty continuous days on the front lines without reinforcements, a record thus far unmatched, but it had come at significant cost. Mitsue Hideo and Quyen Dienne were close in overall time spent, but the former had three retinues to rotate through while the latter commanded an entire force of rhino or elephant mounted cavalry, a term which hardly seemed appropriate. While the repeated battles had honed the Boss’s retinue into an elite fighting force, a blade too sharp was liable to bend or break.
Still... the glory almost made it worth it.
Almost.
Slick blood covered his face and training armour, too much for a mere handkerchief to ever sop up, but he still gave it his best effort. Not even the Boss bathed while out on patrol, so Rustram would have to wait two more days until they returned to Sinuji. A water-skin thumped into his chest which he caught by reflex. Nodding in appreciation at Sai Chou, he drank a small mouthful and offered it back, mostly just to be polite since he had his own water-skin strapped to his belt. “For yer face,” she said, lips pressed in a phantom of a smile. “We all know how ye like to keep pretty. Ser.”
Hmph. As if he were the only one who liked to stay clean, not to mention how a little water and grooming would do her wonders, but Rustram was too polite (and frightened) to say it. “Thank you,” he said, indicating she should take the water-skin back. “But we should conserve water wherever we can. Never know what might happen.”
“Bah.” Rolling her eyes in dismissive scorn, Sai Chou collected her gear and spit at her feet, a disgusting habit to be sure. “Plenty o’ water out here on the grasslands, else they wouldn’t be grasslands now would they, Ser?”
The brief pause every time right before she said ‘Ser’ irritated Rustram to no end, but he remained cordial and polite as usual. “You know the standing orders as well as I do. We do this to guard against tainted water supplies, but if you’ve issue with the orders, then you’re free to bring it up with the Boss.”
“Yea... about that.” So as not to be overheard, Sai Chou switched to Sending, though Rustram lacked the ability to respond in kind. “We been out here a long time. Too long, if ye know what I mean.” Gesturing at one of Wang Bao’s cutthroats who was using a Defiled corpse as a puppet to tell a joke, she added, “Yer people and mine are startin’ to crack. Hell, even the Death Corps don’t look too hot, so I figured it be time for a break, one we earned ten times over. When’s the Boss gonna let up?”
“Unsure,” Rustram replied, hiding how happy he was to know she shared his concerns. “I’ll bring it up when I see him.”
“Good, good. Better it come from you, most folk don’t take well to a woman barkin’ orders. Boss don’t seem like the type, but you can never be sure.” Nodding in appreciation, Sai Chou punched Rustram on his exposed shoulder and grinned, transforming from deadly Expert to cheery young woman. “Fancy fightin’ you did out there, mighty quick work too. Can’t rightly claim I could’ve done the same in as many moves. Didn’t think ye had it in ye, but seems yer not the puffed-up peacock I thought ye were.” With that, she strode away, leaving Rustram alone and conflicted.
Should he be angry about the insult or happy about the compliment?
Putting Sai Chou out of mind, Rustram basked in his moment of glory, for today, he finally felt worthy of his rank and weapon. Though he still had far to go and much to repay, he could hold his head up high as Rustram Albaiev of Shen Huo, second-in-command of Falling Rain’s retinue, and a Warrior of the Empire.
Now, if only he had a lady friend to share his joy with...
Chapter Meme