136, Vth Era, Season of Bloom
Tacesilva, Imperium of Osnya
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Every time he looked at the map, the white nibbled away more of the purple. It spread slowly, like cancer. It was patient, fortifying itself against the body’s defenses before marching on.
Now, the white cancer had overtaken the Kalas Peaks. And with it, another major port city for the heathens to maintain their as of yet uncontested rule over the Silver Sea and ironclad supply chain.
The Kalas Peaks were far from the most impressive mountains of Osnya, yet they were unique in their proximity to the sea. Their main trade was fishing and coal mining, which made the small region prosperous.
The hilly skirts of the relatively short, yet spectacular mountains were barely a mile away from the shore. The sea and mountain air mixed into an inviting miasma of nature. The silvery, almost ashen beaches with their clear turquoise sea like a gemstone upon a goddess’s finger gave way to great hiking trails and thorny forests. It was two different worlds mushed together into a singular paradise of nature and freedom.
His father, his soul be rested, ensured that he spent ample time in all of his homeland’s regions and amongst their peoples. He’d even spent six months traveling with one of the most powerful Stateless Clans. His father hadn’t allowed him to only be cooped up inside the palace or amongst other aristocrats in prestigious schools.
He’d mingled with people of all kinds, to understand their wants and needs. To see them not as subjects to serve him, but as people who would all one day look to him as a leader and protector.
He’d spent a great deal of his childhood there. The people of Kalas were honest, hardy men and women. They were both sea and mountain men. They had two major cities and a small industry, yet they respected and worked alongside Nature, like Lady Fakona had intended.
Now, they were the latest in a long line of loyal subjects that he’d let down. Two years of nothing but retreats, disastrous encirclements and the occasional pyrrhic victory.
The room, while luxurious, the walls gilded and lined with portraits of kings and generals of old, was quite barren. A large table, twenty seats, a fireplace and shelves stacked with maps completed the collection of furnishings
The black tiger stood at the head of the table, his icy blue eyes staring unblinkingly at the map of the Carnelian continent. It was as if he believed that staring at it sufficiently would change it in his favor.
He stood taller than anyone in the room at two and a half meters. He hoped that his height concealed his boyish features well enough. His golden epaulette-covered shoulders were broad and well muscled, yet stooped, as if a great weight were pressing upon them. His pristine obsidian and gold regalia made him stand out from his generals, who all wore the green uniforms with yellow trim of the Osnyan Legion.
He’d neglected to wear his golden laurel wreath, feeling utterly ridiculous when he’d tried it on earlier. He may as well have been wearing a child’s party hat in the current circumstances. He did, however, wear his Spatha arming sword and his gold and ivory Dazius ring-lever pistol, hoping it would give the impression of a soldier-emperor. He looked down at the two masterfully-engraved and perfectly polished weapons, now regretting it. They’d never been used in combat. He knew it, they knew it.
A lynx colonel entered the room, saluting the generals present with the traditional gesture of placing his right palm over his heart then forming it into a fist. Upon seeing the Grand Ektore, he bowed deeply. From his fidgety nature, it was clear that he bore no good news.
“So… the Rigurians were kicked out?” Grand Ektore Markus Dekebus the Vth asked, his eyes not leaving the mocking map.
The colonel squeezed his lips tight and nodded. “We received confirmation an hour ago from their high command. Their final stronghold in the Yavuz Shannate has been overrun. They saved what troops they could via transport vessels and airships back to Riguri.” He paused. “There are of course concerns that the Yavuzi will now counter-invade into Riguri, but… our spies confirmed that five Yavuzi Divisions are preparing to join the Alexandrians in their push.”
Dekebus felt his chest turn to ice. He hoped that his sharp intake of breath hadn't been audible. As if their situation weren’t dire enough, their foes would now have over two hundred thousand more battle-hardened troops at their disposal.
“Damn.” He said simply. It was inappropriate for a sovereign to casually profane in such a manner, yet that singular word about summed up their current situation.
The colonel bowed again, nervously looking at the room of formidable men, all older, of noble birth, and outranking him.
“If that is all, your Excellencies, I shall take my leave and-”
“No. Stay.” The Grand Ektore demanded, finally blessing the colonel with his gaze. “This is Colonel Scipio Diegis. He is the man who cut off the lightning Lunist advance at Corduba early in the war, allowing us to regroup. More recently, he personally led the heroic rear guard action at Kalas, pistol and saber in hand, which allowed most of our forces to escape. If you have not heard of him, you have little to feel ashamed of. His superiors have a tendency to… neglect his role in their reports.” A few of the generals at the table suddenly seemed to have grown very interested in their dress buttons.
“Gentlemen… I shan’t reiterate our crisis.” Dekebus turned away from the colonel, addressing the room before him. A dozen Lord-Generals stared at him with a mixture of worry and anticipation. Each had at least a hundred thousand men under their command. Yet they looked at Dekebus no differently than a crowd of starving paupers hoping he would announce agrarian reforms or tax breaks, so they may afford to feed their children that Shelter.
He hated it. He hated having the weight of the world upon his shoulders. He hated that ultimately, the failures of every man in this room were, at least in part, his failures as well.
More than anything, he hated Duke-Marshal Licinius Varus. As the second highest ranking man in the room, and the host of the secret meeting, he took his rightful place right opposite his monarch, the older tiger practically staring him down.
Dekebus may have been Grand Ektore for ten years now, a mere boy when his father died, yet he never could fully shed the feeling of inferiority whenever Varus was in the same room.
Uncle Varus. The man who’d shown him the ways of the world. The man who first taught him sword fighting and dragon riding. The man his father had snubbed of the throne by naming his underaged son as the immediate heir.
The man who hated him. Who saw him as a boy in charge of a nation’s destiny. Perhaps he was right.
“We’ve been on the backfoot this entire war. And we can point to the many heroic victories we’ve had, owed completely to our brave soldiers who would sooner die screaming in the night than give an inch of this hallowed land to darkness, and pat ourselves on the back. But the hard truth is, those victories were ultimately pointless. We stop the Lunists for a month or two, only for them to bring forth more men, more artillery, more vehicles than we could hope to produce in a year.
“And their Growing Tree Doctrine so far has proven… remarkable. They dig in and support themselves with coordination that so far, we can only dream of, frustrating any attempt at counter-offensives. They can resupply their men faster than we can on our own land. It’s as if we are fighting not an army of men, but an unrelenting wall, one that can be delayed, but not stopped, and definitely not breached.”
“So what you are saying is that we are doomed… Radiance?” Varus sneered, that final word spat like bad food. The elderly coal-furred tiger was shorter than his nephew, yet equally well built, in spite of his age. His golden eyes glowed like errant embers in the night, seeking fuel to burn and consume.
All eyes fell upon him. Dekebus grit his teeth. He bit back the acid reply that was burning his throat.
“What I am saying is that they were, and still are, far better prepared for this war than we.” Dekebus did not raise his voice, yet his words were sharper. “They knew our exact weaknesses. They knew we lacked the industrial capability to fight a war of attrition. They knew our rigid command structure wouldn’t be able to sustain the flexible defense we needed to counter their new style of warfare.”
“And how did they know that?” Varus said with a barely concealed grin. “Could it be because they fought alongside our troops in the Famulum Kingdom?”
A few of the generals began casting timid, yet accusatory glances at Dekebus. Their short-lived alliance to subjugate the last slaver kingdom of Carnelia was at first hailed by both sides. And for a brief moment, it seemed like peace had finally been achieved, with the eradication of the horrific institution of slavery as the olive branch. That was until tensions between the two sides grew once again, each wanting more territory of the diamond and gold rich Famulum lands. It culminated in the breaking of their alliance, blockades, and eventually, war.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps we’d have had the opportunity ourselves to learn from our enemies.” Dekebus replied. “Perhaps we could have implemented the Portable Telegraph, like they did, and I suggested. Would we have perhaps put up a stauncher defense in the opening months, when their units could instantly communicate while miles apart, and we relied upon vulnerable runners?” He glared back at his Uncle, clear ice meeting blazing charcoal.
“Are you done bickering?” A figure behind Dekebus said, their voice soft, yet reverberating throughout the opulent room with authority. His features became clear as he stepped into the gaslight.
Berza Afrates was a reindeer in his mid 30s. At least, that’s what most people would have judged his age as. His real age was close to everyone else’s at the table put together. Unlike the other guests, he wore no military uniform, but a pristine green and brown robe, with a sash of what appeared to be plant stalks and branches across his chest. His honey-colored eyes were almost blinding to regard, like one was staring at a flashlight. If one stared enough, however, they’d have seen that the sclera was a lighter shade of gold than the iris, like the rays of the sun.
He was about two meters tall, yet his antlers made him taller than anyone at the table. Antlers that upon closer inspection, were not bone, but branches.
Everyone fell silent. Despite carrying no official military rank, a Druid’s wisdom was heavily valued by all.
“Because while we are here, throwing blame around like children caught near a broken window, the Sunless are advancing further into our lands.”
Dekebus nodded.
“Great Hierophant Afrates is right. We cannot afford division at this hour. The very fate of our nation, our people, perhaps our very faith, is at stake. Whatever the Lunists’ stated war goals and dogma, this is not a war of politics, but a war of conquest. They know it, we know it.”
“And the Eclipse Empire and their allies are stronger now than I have ever seen.” Afrates added. “In all my years of participating in conflicts between our two worlds,never have they had the advantage over us so utterly.”
“Uh… Great Hierophant…” Colonel Diegis began shyly. “If I may ask… how many years would that be?”
The Druid smiled coldly. “Enough that me saying that should terrify you.”
Silence gripped the room, the fireplace crackling being the sole sound.
“Now,” Dekebus broke the silence. “The key to defeating the Lunists is to get our industry up to their level. Until then, any and all mass counterattacks are nothing but a waste of manpower and resources, of which we can spare neither.”
“But our main factories are not that far from the front!” Lord-General Kyris, a brown-furred stocky bull, pointed out. “At the rate we’re going, they’ll be overrun in six months, at best.” He nervously rubbed the hems of his sleeves.
“I know that, General. Which is why we will not develop our industry in the West, like we have before.” The king reached for a box of pieces and selected a few towers. He placed them way to the East, behind the Foakmon Mountains.
“Silvocalum, Campus Arborum and Aksigira shall become our new main industrial hubs. There are some factories there built pre-war, so we have something to build upon. As for everything else, we will transfer our industry East. Materiel, factories, workshops, laboratories, as well as every researcher, engineer and experienced worker we can find shall be loaded up and moved behind the Foakmon Mountains. Anything that is too bolted down to take apart and load up on trains or trucks will be destroyed before the enemy breaks through. We shall leave them with nothing to strengthen themselves.”
“Wait… Silvocalum and the other cities are close to the Four Great Forests!” Varus pointed out.
“Yes they are. Your point being?”
“In order to industrialize, you shall have to greatly deforest the area.”
“I have already commissioned the removal of a hundred acres to build a network of munitions factories.”
“What!?” His Uncle stopped only short of slamming the table.
“I do not like it any more than you do, Duke-Marshall. Those forests have been untouched for millenia, and serve as one of the main congregation spots for Druids. Yet this is war, and one that we are losing. Badly. Sacrifices must be made.”
“There are certain things that must remain sacred, ne-, your Radiance.” Varus caught himself, growling out the title like bile in his throat.
“Let the Lunists conquer us, then, see how they treat our sacred forests!” Dekebus fired back.
Afrates nodded sadly. “I like it the least out of all of you here. Yet like his Radiance says, sacrifices must be made. Forests can be regrown, yet once Darkness takes hold, not even a thousand Suns may dissipate it.”
Dekebus gave the Druid a sidelong glance of thanks.
“Furthermore our overall strategy must change. I have ordered all offensive operations paused. Simply put, if we go toe to toe with the Lunists, they will win eventually, every time, and all we’ll have succeeded is momentarily delaying them at the cost of thousands of experienced soldiers. What we will be doing instead is a gradual fighting retreat. We shall defend each region enough for everything worthwhile to be transferred or destroyed, and launch limited counterattacks to deprive the Lunists of veteran troops and delay their advance.
“Of course, to pull this off, we shall have to reform the chain of command. One of the Eclipse Empire’s greatest strengths is the autonomy of each unit. They are given their objectives by high command, yet how they achieve said objectives is up to them. A corporal is expected to be able to act as a sergeant if need be, a sergeant a leftenant, and so on. We shall adopt a similar system.”
A few generals snorted in disbelief.
“Let low-born scum in charge of battles?” Lord-General Arrgans huffed, the boar stifling a laugh.
Dekebus bristled. “This ‘low-born scum’ saved five entire divisions from encirclement and annihilation while your lordships were ordering around regiments that no longer existed!” he pointed to Colonel Scipio Diegis, who currently seemed to be debating the wisdom of a quick getaway. “And furthermore, General, you may criticize me openly, yet should you insult the majority of my subjects again in such a manner, I shan’t tolerate it.” His voice was quieter now, yet dripping with unspoken malice. The general opened his mouth to retort, yet only muttered “Yes, my Ektore.”
“And for how long should we retreat?” Varus asked sardonically. Dekebus resisted the urge of a verbal riposte, and instead reached for the wooden rake, using it to pull back the pawns representing Osnyan troops. He did so for an alarming length, almost reaching the halfway point of the country. Then the miniature soldiers were placed along the ridges of the Foakmon Mountains.
“While our troops hold back and delay the enemy, we will be fortifying the Foakmon Mountain Range.” The king explained. “We will build forts, bunkers, artillery loopholes, expand the cave system, construct roads behind the mountains to aid in logistics, the works. When it is done, it will be the largest and most modern defensive line the world has ever seen.
“The project will take two years to complete, so that’s for how long we must hold the enemy back. And while the heathens are held back in bitter mountain warfare, we will continue to build up our industry and raise new armies.”
“Let me see if I understand…” Varus began, holding a finger, half in contemplation, half pointing at his nephew. “You… want to surrender our land and people to the Sunless without a fight?”
“Have you not been listening to what I said? We will make them pay in blood for every meter they advance. We will just not be committing ourselves to suicidal counterattacks or holding on to lines we know are untenable. We’ve been losing veteran and elite troops in such foolish operations by the tens of thousand. Not to mention vehicles and artillery which cost us millions of Krata and months to replace. The heathens can more readily replace manpower and materiel losses than us, and it’s about time we acted as such until we’re at a comparable level.”
Colonel Diegis was looking at the map while the exchange took place, rubbing his chin deep in thought.
“If I may?” He reached for the stick, which Dekebus gave as readily as if he were a full fledged general. With it, he pushed two of the green figures away from the mountain to a nearby city.
“The southernmost peaks of the Foakmons leave a lot to be desired defensively. The peaks there are small, with lots of flat valleys. It’s our weakest link, and the Lunists will see that. Instead, I suggest integrating Appolum Kaga into the defensive line. Urban combat can be just as treacherous as mountain warfare, especially if we have years to prepare. The hillocks masquerading as mountains can be used as a fallback.”
Dekebus looked in astonishment at the young commander.
“That is… a good point.”
“I have other suggestions. My family grew up in those mountains. We travelled all across them to breed dragons and train aviators for the Legion.” He was about to say something else, before Varus boomed.
“So, we are to retreat like cowards to save our necks instead of fighting to the last drop of blood?” He roared like an anarchist rallying a crowd.
“Land can be retaken.” Dekebus riposted. “Soldiers cannot rise from the dead, regardless of what the Lunists say. We stand and fight to the last, we lose men and land. If we retreat cautiously to a more defensive position, we preserve the men, whom will take the land back later.”
Varus took a step towards his nephew, muscles clenched. Dekebus tensed, his hand hovering over his sword, thinking he may need to defend himself.
“You are abandoning our people!” he roared. “Our soldiers so far have held darkness back with all they had! They are more than willing to continue the fight… but it seems that someone here is not.” His fiery glare did not leave his nephew.
“You have no right to accuse me of cowardice, Varus!” Dekebus raised his voice for the first time during the meeting. For the first time against his Uncle too, he realized. It was like his Uncle had been leading him by the hand his entire life, and he finally ripped away and went his own way. He felt a strange emotion welling in his chest, like excitement mingled with fear. Varus’s astonished expression prodded him to not stop.
“Everything less than a suicidal frontal assault is cowardice to you! How many thousands of brave men did you have executed by their own comrades because they simply shut down under the weight of the madness of both the Lunists’ attacks and your orders? How many dragon riders did you execute for flying low in skirmish formations instead of being sitting ducks for machineguns and anti-dragon rifles? Before we realized that it was the optimal strategy, and then you tried taking credit for it!
“You will stand down, Marshall. I will not tolerate such slander and thinly veiled accusations. If you are incapable of participating in a planning session without resorting to alehouse insults, I shall have you shown out of the room!”
He saw his Uncle’s eyes widen in surprise, his jaw slack, just before it set into a thin line of fury again. He had not only challenged his Uncle’s authority, but threatened to have him thrown out in his own house. And Varus realized that he could do nothing. His nephew was Grand Ektore. He was no longer the nervous teenager placed on the throne by a dying man’s will; he was a king in his prime. Both men realized that at the same time.
Dekebus was sure there would be some riposte. An attempt by Varus to rally his generals to his side, anything to not be seen as weak before his nephew.
Instead, however, he forced a smile saying “Very well, my liege… I apologize for my outburst. Shall we continue?”
Dekebus did not need his Forte to tell him that the apology was an utter lie. Either way, he nodded, turning back to the map.
Colonel Diegis coughed awkwardly.
“So… the defense plan is solid. It certainly is the best place to make a proper stand. However… what if it does not work? What if we cannot hold back the Eclipsians long enough to finish the preparations in the Foakmons? Or what if they manage to break through even with all our fortifications before our industry and military is brought up to snuff?”
Dekebus was about to reply. He had prepared some vague plan of using this river or that as a fallback, but then he looked at the map again. He saw just how futile such a plan would have been. Beyond the Foakmon Mountains were the Igna Plains. Hundreds of kilometers of wide flatlands that the Lunist maneuver warfare machine would use as a playground. And then, disturbingly close behind the Mountains was the imperial capital of Ignisdava.
Seeing hundreds of kilometers reduced to a few inches on a canvas map is certainly sobering.
“Then we lose the war.” He said simply.
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The Moyover-Rubens is a species of wide-stalked plant, with a strikingly large flower, 50 centimeters in diameter and bright crimson. It has a long, thin carpel resembling a tongue, which gave the flower the popular name of “Dragon’s Maw”. It is most common in Western Carnelia, particularly in Western Osnya and North-Eastern Alexandrios.
Dekebus remembered this quote from a long-forgotten botany lesson as a child. Before him stood that very plant, currently causing him congested nostrils, puffy eyes, and a tiny, persistent cough. When the westernmost regions of Osnya fell, it was his own private gallows humor that he would at least not have to deal with his allergies for a while. He’d forgotten that it had been aunt’s favorite flower, and his Uncle kept many of them in her memory.
He was so tired from the long trip and the twelve hour planning session that he was shown to the room, changed and plopped in bed. He’d only noticed the flower when a runny nose disturbed his sleep. He thought of merely removing it from the room, until he realized the plant was not in a pot, but an earth bed built into the floor itself, placed near the window to receive as much sunlight as possible.
Stifling a curse, the black tiger pulled the bell rope. He blew his nose for the tenth time and retrieved his pipe. Stuffing it with tobacco and lighting it, he walked over to the balcony, opening the casement window. He sighed in relief as he breathed in the icy night air unburdened by the pollen, punctuated by the pleasantly pungent smell of his pipe.
He looked over his Uncle’s estate. It was hidden away behind a small forest, the lights of the nearby town clearly visible through the shrubbery. Like fireflies amongst the trees. Fakonan settlements were always well lit, yet it wasn’t just the glow of street lamps and braziers to ward off Darkness, but of activity. Automobile and carriage headlights, the glow of lamp packs of dragon riders delivering supplies to and fro town, the shifting smoke plumes of a train coming into station for daily deliveries.
Industrialization meant that it was no longer just soldiers who fought wars. Even in that small town, the old blacksmith shifted from making nails to bayonets, the baker from fresh loaves to dry hardtack for ration packs, the cobbler… well, he was still making boots at least.
From the fortified walls of palaces and manors, the war seemed far away, almost intangibly distant. Like it was taking place in a parallel universe, not destroying his nation bit by bit. But for the people down there, it was all too real. Their sons and daughters were off to hold back the heathen onslaught, or they were already dead. And while their offspring, their future, was off killing and dying to maintain the Light, everything they did was to help the war effort.
This place would fall as well, he realized. They were about a hundred miles West of the Foakmons. Perhaps that was partly why his Uncle was so vehemently opposed to his plan. He imagined the town before him shelled to pieces, the Lunists parading victoriously through the streets, imposing their heathen laws and customs upon the townspeople working day and night to keep them at bay…
He shuddered. They thought he could and would protect them. It was the hope that kept them going. And he was already squandering it. What would they think if they knew that a mere mile away, within the opulent manor they could only glance at, their Ektore, their protector, had already written their doom?
He was no king. He was no protector. He was still a boy playing emperor. And his nation would pay the price.
A knock at the door interrupted his grim thoughts. He walked across the room, grateful for a chance to stifle his self hatred. A grey-furred wolf servant stood in the doorway; well built, with a scar across his eyebrow. He’d seen the canine earlier, talking animatedly with Lord-General Kyris. Dekebus hadn’t been able to catch what it was about before the servant bowed and took his leave. Curiously, he was already holding a tray, a goblet of wine upon it.
“Oh, I don’t much care for alcohol at this hour. I was about to ask for-”
"His Excellency has suggested that Your Radiance may require an aid to fall asleep.” The wolf interrupted him. “He apologizes, he has forgotten about your allergies and put you in this room, as it's the largest and most well-furnished. The wine contains medicine that will make you forget about your condition.”
Dekebus took the tray, looking at the wine. The crystal glass was decorated with silver and gold motifs of leaves and trees. The color was almost midnight black, the red hue visible only by the traces it left on the glass. He sniffed it.
Noctis Sangrum. His favorite wine.
He was surprised his Uncle had the presence of mind to pre-emptively send him allergy medicine. More so the choice of wine. It was very rare and expensive, even for one of Varus’s status, to be saved for feasts and business meetings to impress important guests. Opening a bottle of Noctis was not a decision to take lightly.
Was this a peace offering? An apology? Certainly a first for his Uncle. Dekebus supposed that the wine was a way to make amends without directly acknowledging any wrongdoing. Classic Varus.
“Thank you. You may take your leave. And pray ensure I am no longer disturbed tonight.”
The wolf smiled and bowed.
“Sleep well, my liege.” The servant said before walking away. The strongly built wolf walked with the regularity and pace of a soldier. Dekebus frowned. It was not uncommon for his Uncle to employ former soldiers, yet they were never mere footmen. They were bodyguards, agents… spies.
A slight sentiment of wrongness stirred in his chest. He realized that it was his Forte. It was faint, easily ignorable thanks to his allergic symptoms and exhaustion, but it was undoubtedly there.
He ran the conversation through his head again, trying to identify the lie:
“His Excellency has suggested that Your Radiance may require an aid to fall asleep."- That was true.
"He apologizes, he has forgotten about your allergies and put you in this room, as it's the largest and best furnished."- That was a lie, straight up. Varus put him in this room knowing full well of his condition. Also, the wording was… odd. “Well-furnished” was what most people said. Yet it only covered the furniture aspect of a room. “Well-appointed” is what a servant would say about a room, as it also concerns aspects such as the cleanliness, atmosphere and facilities of a room.
That man was no servant. That was clear enough
"The wine contains medicine that will make you forget about your condition."- True, yet... with an undercurrent of malice. Something that is technically the truth. He ran through each word. “Forget” was the odd one out. One forgetting something implied they were still alive to forget it.
"Sleep well, my liege."- True. A very, very good sleep indeed…
Dekebus felt like an icy dagger was slicing across his spine. No… it couldn’t be. He and his Uncle may have had an icy relationship lately, but they were still family. There was only one way to be sure. Carefully dipping his little finger in the drink, he ran it across his lips. For a few seconds, nothing happened. And Dekebus was about to laugh at how paranoid he’d become. Then the burning began.
He almost dropped the chalice as his lips felt like they’d had acid thrown upon them. It must have been a large dose of poison. Varus was leaving nothing to chance.
“No, no…” Dekebus pleaded, looking down at the chalice of wine the color of arterial blood. “Why would you do this? Why?”
Uncle Varus. The man who raised him while his father was busy running an empire. The man who had him upon his knee, awing his nephew with stories of his travels around the world. The man who let him cry on his shoulder for an entire hour when his mother died, and all his father said was “Kings cannot afford tears”.
The man who tried to poison him.
Fear and denial turned to anger. That bastard, Varus… it wasn’t enough his archaic idiocy had cost the Legion nearly all their border divisions when the war began. It wasn’t enough that Dekebus kept him Field Marshal despite being able to name at least six generals more deserving of that title. It wasn’t enough that the moment the Legion stepped away from his suicidal tactics the war began being less one sided.
He would make him pay. He’d make an example out of him. He’d-
Dekebus heard the door to the adjoining living room creek open. He froze. He’d told the “servant” not to be disturbed. And his guards at the entrance of his quarters would have stopped anyone looking or acting suspiciously. They must have used a secret passage. He remembered getting in trouble once when he pulled a book in his Uncle’s mansion, then the wall disappeared and he decided to go exploring for hours.
They were coming to make sure the job was done. If not… they’d finish it.
Taking a deep breath in, stifled by his clogged nose, Dekebus calmed down. There was no time for emotion at times like these.
“First slay the monster, then scream in terror.” his father once said.
He spilled the poisoned wine into the Dragon’s Maw and set the empty glass upon his bedside table. He marched over to the wardrobe which covered the entire West-facing wall, his freshly cleaned and pressed regalia hung up, alongside his sheathed sword and handgun.
He drew them both. The sword was a Spatha. A longer version of the Gladius used by the Augustan Empire. It was a little over a meter long, perfectly straight. It was meant to be used either as a cavalry sword or as a Legionary’s main weapon alongside a massive rectangular shield. As a result, it had no real hand protection like modern sabers, giving him a severe disadvantage in a real duel.
The handgun was a Dazius Ring Pistol. Five-shot, fed by an enbloc clip from the top. It was made out of gold and ivory, engraved with his family’s royal crest of a dragon flying over a mountain. The ring-shaped trigger guard was the lever, rechambering the next shot with the natural movement of one’s finger, though it was still slower to fire than modern autoloaders. That and its limited five shot capacity were making it be gradually phased out of the Osnyan Legion in favor of more modern autoloading handguns. However, its users swore by its reliability and powerful 11.5mm round. He would need both.
Dekebus went back to his bed, hiding the weapons beneath the covers.
The door slowly creaked open. Dekebus could almost feel the assassins’ shadows cast across the room.
He kept his eyes closed tight, limiting his breathing so the rise and fall of his chest was not visible. He heard four pairs of muffled footsteps upon the thick carpet. Synchronized, equal, like the ticking of a well-maintained clock. The killers did not say a word, spreading out to cover the room.
“The glass is empty.” one of them whispered. Dekebus estimated him to be five paces away. He knew that voice. It was the wolf servant. He heard a faint shuffling of fabric from the same source, and he guessed that the wolf was signaling his comrades to move up.
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To move up towards him.
Two sets of footsteps were now heard, each on one side of his bed. They took each step slowly, carefully, their rubbered soles barely making a sound upon the thick carpet. Dekebus estimated their location more by their mere presence. The slight shift in air pressure, the heat of their bodies, their smell. He realized his heartbeat was too fast, to the point it may be audible. He held his breath and pushed down, like having a bowel movement. He forced his chest to tighten. His heart obeyed and slowed.
Each was now on either side of him. He felt the killers’ ghostly presence like a vise, two walls closing in to crush him. He felt a slight heat approach his neck, and he realized that one of them was checking him for a pulse.
He snapped his eyes open. A black-furred fox was staring at him, his finger dumbly extended. His other paw held a dagger in an icepick grip. He had time only for his black, beady eyes to widen before a bullet ripped through the covers and slammed into the assassin. The effect of the high caliber slug upon the small canine was immense, blood exploding out his back as he fell backwards in a bloody heap.
Dekebus saw silver flash in his left peripheral vision. A dagger was hurtling towards him. No exclamation of surprise, no cursing, no attempt to help his fallen comrade, just continuing the job.
His sword ripped through the thick covers with ease and deflected the smaller blade. It sunk into the pillow mere inches from his neck, the steel’s icy coldness palpable. Now he was grateful for his father ingraining into him the tedious process of sharpening and oiling his blade daily.
Before the puma assassin could rip the blade out again, Dekebus turned the gun towards him, cocked the lever and fired. Blood and skull fragments burst across the exquisite wallpaper.
Dekebus rolled away from the bed before the others could reach him. He raised his pistol for the final two assassins, both wolves. Just as he pulled the trigger, the “servant” threw a book into his hand, sending the pistol hurtling across the floor. The other assassin launched himself at him. Dekebus grabbed his damaged pillow and flung it, filling the air in a haze of feathers.
He stabbed forward. It was deflected by not one, but two blades. The scarred wolf drew a second dagger, one pressing down on Dekebus’s sword, the other launching towards his gut. He sidestepped and the blade sliced across his left bicep, saved partly by his thick dressing gown.
He hissed in pain and launched several quick slashes and stabs, using his superior reach to keep his opponent at bay.
In the meantime, the other assassin had recovered and attempted to flank Dekebus. The Ektore kicked the side table, sending it and the heavy goblet to shatter into him. Finding an opening, he slammed his sword into the two daggers, his superior reach and strength stumbling the wolf backwards.
Not letting the other hitman recover, Dekebus punched him to the ground, then stabbed the Spatha into his neck. There was a moment of taut resistance as the skin stretched to its limit, then his sword severed gullet and spine. Blood erupted upon the oiled steel as the man thrashed uselessly.
Dekebus turned his attention to his final opponent, and dodged just in time to turn a slit neck into an injured chest. The blade slashed across his pectorals, his thick gown again saving him. He couldn’t stifle a scream as white-hot pain erupted within his flesh and steel grazed his ribcage.
He blocked another slash from the other dagger, then another. The wolf switched each blade from a downward to a forward grip constantly, changing which dagger parried or attacked constantly, giving his opponent no time to recover. Dekebus could easily deflect each attack thanks to his superior reach, yet the killer’s guard was too strong for a counter of his own.
He realized what the wolf was doing: tiring him out. He knew that Dekebus had too long a reach and his advantage of height and sheer strength was too great to take on directly. He was tiring the tiger out, waiting for him to make a mistake before a single, decisive strike. With every block, every strike, his arms burned, his chest felt like it couldn’t fill with air sufficiently. The wolf was a better swordsman than he. He had to do something.
Acting like he was more tired than he was, he backed off, lowering his guard only a bit. This prompted the wolf to attack him with renewed fury, blade sparking against blade, the sound of screaming steel filling the room. Dekebus allowed himself to be pushed back, towards a very specific spot. Almost there…
The wolf crouched down and stabbed into Dekebus’s leg. The flowing robe made him miss, yet he still took some flesh off his thigh. The emperor of Osnya roared in agony and rage. He kneed blindly with his good leg, catching the wolf below the jaw. His foe stumbled backwards, blood and teeth dripping from his maw. Dekebus reached back. The untouched bottle of champagne dripped melted ice as it was swung down like a hammer. The wolf blocked at the last minute, shattered glass and champagne filling his eyes.
Dekebus thrust his Spatha forward, the blade gashing into his would-be murderer’s chest like a soft boiled egg. The wolf released a scream silenced by choking gurgles. Blood seeped out of his mouth as the tiger retracted his blade with a meaty rasp. He collapsed, spasms overtaking him before he went still.
The Grand Ektore of Osnya panted in exhaustion, accentuated by the fact that he still could not fully draw breath thanks to his allergies. Only now that the threats upon his life were gone did his body finally allow his mind to appreciate how tired and beaten he was. His wounds burned a gnawing, white-hot agony that he’d never known before. His left hand was slick with blood, his bicep still bleeding, and looking in a mirror he saw that his pectoral was crimson, the wound like a grinning red maw.
The once opulent room fit for a king now more resembled a torture chamber from the dark days of the Inquisition, mangled bodies and ichor littering the pristine carpet and floorboards. He noted with a detached indifference that the plant that had given him so much trouble was dead from the poisoned wine.
After the gunshots, the Ektore’s guards should have burst in by now, and they were too well trained to fall to a surprise attack.
His quarters were soundproofed, he realized. Most likely used beforehand for private conversations away from snooping servants, now used for a far more nefarious purpose.
A clap permeated the deathly silence like a knife. Dekebus turned around, a feeling of cold dread overtaking his tired body.
Uncle Varus stood in the double doorway, clapping slowly. Wearing his pristine Field Marshal coat and a saber at his side, he looked far more regal than his nephew in his torn, bloody gown. His golden eyes regarded his nephew with a combination of genuine admiration and disdain.
“Impressive display, Markus. My cretin of a brother did one thing right with how he taught you swordsmanship. A simple, yet effective style. With some decidedly ungentlemanly dirty tricks.” Varus took another slow, deliberate step. Dekebus thought to keep him at gunpoint, but realized his pistol had been knocked away in the struggle, and it was now at-
His Uncle’s feet. Crouching down, he picked up the gun, ejected the remaining bullets, pressed down on the disassembly lever, and separated the trigger group from the receiver, throwing each in opposite sides of the room.
“But I’m afraid you will need more than dirty tricks and a thug’s intuition.” Varus drew his saber slowly, expertly. The five year in a row fencing champion of Osnya did not need flashy moves.
He took a queer stance, both arms outstretched, ostensibly exposing himself for his opponent. Yet Dekebus knew better.
The Broad Ward stance. A technique meant to bait the adversary, while the blade turned inwards, point out, could still quickly either deflect or strike. It was an unorthodox stance, one that took great skill to utilize properly. And Varus was a master.
Arms outstretched, approaching slowly, Dekebus briefly had the impression that his Uncle was coming to embrace him, returning from a long trip, eager to show his nephew what new gift he’d gotten him from whatever faraway land he’d visited.
There were a million things Dekebus wanted to say. A million denouncements of treachery and cowardice, a million expletives utterly unworthy of a king’s lips. Yet he said nothing. What was there to say? His Uncle, his blood, the man who’d raised and nurtured him more than his own father, had tried to murder him. May still murder him.
Dekebus looked back. His balcony was right above the well kept garden. A massive hedge was in a good position to jump upon.
Markus was tired and injured. His Uncle was fresh and eager. Varus’s saber was better suited for a duel, being lighter and with greater hand protection. And he was the best swordsman in Osnya. Running away would have been the smart thing to do. Yet the idea of fleeing from the old traitor filled Dekebus with disgust towards himself. He would stand and fight. And he would carry out the execution for high treason himself.
Not saying a thing, Dekebus walked to his wardrobe, taking his coat’s belt and wrapping it around his forearm for some form of hand protection. Not taking his eyes off his Uncle, he went back to the bed, retrieving the dagger stuck in the mattress. The blade was the length of a bayonet, decently heavy, with a wide crossguard. Perfect for parrying.
“Nothing to say, nephew?” Varus asked with a note of disappointment.
“I have nothing left to say to you, traitor.” Dekebus snarled, then lunged at him. The sudden attack surprised his Uncle, but was easily deflected.
Marcus had seen his Uncle fight before. Simply put, he was a perfect swordsman. There was a reason he was undefeated. Yet he was also a conventional one. Restrained by tradition and an antiquated sense of honor.
“I’m the traitor? You wish to destroy all that Osnya stands for!” His Uncle cried, his attacks lightning fast, far beyond what his age should have allowed. Dekebus struggled to deflect each strike, grunting as he was pushed back. Varus aimed a slash at his nephew’s neck, which Dekebus barely deflected with his dagger. His blood-slicked hand couldn’t hold it, and it went flying.
Forcing himself to not look at the lost dagger, Dekebus blocked the follow-up attack blindly. He and his Uncle were sword to sword now, each pushing with all they had.
“I will do all that it takes to save my people! We either win this war, or our nation is forever lost!” Dekebus noticed a notch in his blade caused by an earlier parry.
Not letting Varus escape the clinch, he slid the blade to the notch, locking his foe’s blade.
“And then what? What will you do with the power-hungry industrialists, who care only to fill their coffers? You think they’ll be content with their factories closing doors once the war ends? You can’t shove the genie back into the lamp!” Varus strained, yet his blade was stuck.
Dekebus pushed back with his superior strength, shoving his Uncle back. Pushed off balance, Varus could do nothing as his nose was shattered with a left hook. As the older fighter growled in pain, Dekebus thrust for a killing blow. It had been a mistake.
Despite being stunned, Varus deflected the attack almost casually, following up with a counter of his own. Dekebus rushed to block, yet all of the sudden, his Uncle’s saber was in his opposite hand.
Perhaps it was the injuries and exertion of fighting off the assassins. Perhaps it was because Varus was simply the better swordsman. Perhaps it was even the damned allergies. Or perhaps because Uncle Varus was simply too formidable, too great a presence in his mind to be defeated.
Varus sunk the sword to the hilt in his nephew’s guts.
For a second, Dekebus couldn’t understand what had happened. All he felt was a long tongue of ice in his insides. He felt cold and wanted to shiver. There was a sickening rasp of tearing meat as the blade retracted. Then he was hot. He was so hot… He dumbly reached to undo his gown, yet he found his limbs had stopped obeying him.
Then, all at once, the pain kicked in. He felt every damaged organ, every torn muscle, every fleck of ripped skin as every nerve in his torso screamed in agony. He opened his mouth, yet no sound came out.
He felt something like hot soup running down his body, then something slimy against his bellybutton, and he realized with a strange sense of detachment that his guts were coming out.
He only realized he’d collapsed when his Uncle towered over him, like he always did his entire life.
“I lost.” Dekebus realized amongst the horrendous pain and swimming vision. “No. Osnya lost. My people lost.”
He realized with perfect horrific clarity that his Uncle would undo all his efforts to modernize his nation so it had the smallest chance to survive this war. All the obsolete doctrines, all the idiotic mistakes from the beginning of the war would be repeated again and again until there was no one left to repeat them.
He looked up in his Uncle’s eyes. He was trying to stifle the bleeding of his broken nose with the back of his sleeve, his golden eyes blazing like burning forests.
“U-uncle… V-varus.” Dekebus couldn’t recognize his own voice.
“Save your breath, you worthless urchin,” Varus snarled. There was not a trace of familial love in that voice. Dekebus had dumbly hoped there would at least be some regret, some remorse, yet there was none. “You wanted to destroy Osnya, to destroy all that we stand for. You’re as much of a threat as the Lunists. Of course, that won’t be how you will be remembered. Such a shame that the valorous Grand Ektore was assassinated by heathen Magisa, and his Uncle had to seize emergency power… yet in the end, our people will see that it was a good thing. For I will lead Osnya with faith and courage, not with the poison of modernism and shameful retreats.”
“Y-you’re mad. You cannot defeat the Lunists by fighting as we have so far. You are blind, Varus, blind! The moment we changed our tactics, adapted to the realities of modern warfare, we began to hold them back! The introduction of the machinegun and the airship alone would have won us the war by now, had you not opposed the industry needed to properly manufacture them!
“Don’t you see? You can’t win!” Dekebus growled in the final defiance he thought he’d ever muster. Varus blinked, and through his blurring vision, the dying emperor thought he saw doubt and regret in his Uncle’s eyes. And he allowed himself to hope that perhaps, just perhaps, Varus would see the errors of his ways. That if he wanted to preserve Osnya’s culture and keep it as is, he had to expel the heathens looking to destroy it at all cost.
Varus grit his teeth and turned his sword to stab down into his nephew.
“We cannot win, you say? We cannot hope to defeat the moon heathens unless we become like them? Perhaps so… Perhaps this is the end of Osnya. But better to be buried in hallowed ground than live upon poisoned earth!” The old tiger snarled. “We will go down fighting. We will fight to the last man, to the last cartridge and the last ray of Light. We will not go cowering in the mountains, we will not maim our holy forests with the rot of industry. And I will lead what's left of Osnya and rise up like the hallowed Phoenix from the ashes. And you… you will be a mere footnote in our history, fool." Varus’s firefly eyes gleamed like gemstones, already seeing himself as the hero who saved Osnya. His sole legacy would be the dubious honor of being the Imperium’s final Ektore, whose blunders cost him his nation.
Varus raised his gore-covered sword once again. Dekebus felt a hot droplet of his own blood fall upon his forehead. He closed his eyes, waiting for the end.
“Forgive me, father.”
But the killing blow never came. He heard what he first thought was his uncle laughing mockingly, but realized it was a grunt. Daring to open his eyes, he saw that his uncle’s saber was no longer pointed at him.
Licinius Varus had been dragged a few feet back, one of his wrists bound by something like a rope. Except that the rope moved and slithered far more than a human operator would have allowed…
Looking towards its source, Dekebus gasped.
A massive growth of pulsing, fleshy plant matter covered the entire wall. The Dragon’s Maw he’d cursed for giving him the runny nose and puffy eyes, the plant he’d killed, was now ten times its original size.
Its bulb was a massive, drooling maw, its branches the thickness of his own thigh.
And in the doorway, tangled branches in the shape of antlers almost reaching the ceiling, was Druid Berza Afrates. His sun-like eyes shimmered, filling the room with a faint, yet radiant light. His hands were extended towards the plant, their movements mirroring the abominable bouquet’s. New slimy tendrils continuously sprouted from the unholy wreath, shooting towards his uncle.
Varus slashed with fury, expertly avoiding getting tangled completely, sidestepping and feinting, thorny tentacles falling around him. Dekebus felt something below his bloodied hand.
His Spatha. He gripped it with far more strength than he believed to still possess. It felt good in his hand. The ornate hilt worn from countless training regiments since his childhood, many of them with Varus. He stood up on one elbow, ignoring the agony screaming inside his torn guts. With a growl that shook the room, he thrust his sword into his uncle’s leg.
Varus screamed and turned around, wearing an expression of shock and fear. It was only for a moment, for all at once, three green tendrils snaked around his neck and both arms. He was dragged screaming towards the plant’s drooling maw.
Exhaustion and pain washed over Dekebus again, and he found he could no longer keep his eyes open. It was, perhaps, a mercy.
A rattling, high pitched roar like tearing branches came from the plant. His uncle screamed Marcus’s name over and over. A horrible wet ripping sound, followed by a terrifying shriek of agony and terror.
“M-Marcu-!” That final plea to the nephew he’d betrayed was replaced by the sound of crunching bone and dripping liquid. A wet slurping sound. Then silence.
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Dekebus awoke to the sound of humming. It was a beautiful, haunting sound, like wind through the frozen branches of a dead forest. He recognized some of the words. It was Gherna, an ancient tongue lost to time. It was said to be the language of the first Besita Sapiens, while they still lived in perfect harmony with Nature, and thus was the only way Druids could speak to Her.
He cracked his eyes open and saw Afrates standing above him, his hands hovering over his bare torso. It was bloodied, yet now devoid of major injuries. The massive gash inflicted by his uncle was sealing before his very eyes. However, for all the Druids’ incredible powers, it seemed there was no spell for the pain.
Dekebus groaned, causing his loyal Druid advisor to shush comfortingly, before resuming the queer chant, the wound finally closing painfully, leaving a massive scar that looked weeks old.
“V-Varus…” Dekebus groaned.
“He’s out tending the garden.” The Druid said dryly, looking back. The plant was now shrunken back to its original size, and once again dead. The only evidence of its earlier horrific form was the wide pool of blood around it. Markus saw something gleaming in it, and he realized it was his uncle’s signet ring, still upon his severed hand.
“H-how did you-?”
“I felt the plant die.” Afrates said. “I had almost shut it out, for the gardeners were weeding the grounds, yet I realized that it came from your room. You are not the type to kill an innocent plant without cause, my liege, even if it causes you vexing allergies. I knew at once something was wrong.”
Dekebus leaned his head back on the pillow, sighing in relief.
“Thank you, Afrates.” He reached out to weakly squeeze his advisor’s hand. It tingled to the touch, like a soft, thorny plant. The Druid smiled then let go, returning his focus to his Ektore’s wounds.
It was over. The traitor was dead, and he was alive.
No… it was not over. He remembered the assassin disguised as a servant talking to General Kyris just before the attempt on his life…
“Call an emergency meeting. All army staff should present themselves in the planning room at once.”
“Now, now, your Radiance, you’re still injured.” the Druid advised. “I healed the worst of your wounds, but you are still-”
“That was not a suggestion, Afrates!” Dekebus snapped, standing up in bed despite the pain exploding inside him. “And have Varus’s chambers searched, top to bottom, especially any letters or journals. And General Kyris’s chambers as well. Have him summoned to the emergency meeting and give him no time to change. Give no one time to change, in fact. Dressing gowns will do.”
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The planning room was once again teeming with activity and nervous chatter. Except that now there was no sign of pristine uniforms and well polished buttons and medals. It was all hastily put on dressing gowns and slippers. None had been given the chance to change. The king’s guards had all but broken into their chambers, demanding that they present themselves in the planning room.
Another difference which the generals instantly noticed was the increased presence of guards. When before it was one inconspicuous guard, now it was four tiger guards from the Ektore’s Phylax Lucem, gleaming bulletproof chestplates and hatchets proudly presented, shotguns slung over their shoulders.
It was a full thirty minutes before Dekebus showed himself. He was aided in walking by his Druid and one of his guards, yet he demanded they let him walk on his own once he entered the planning room. When he did so, many generals were ready to give the king an earful, demanding to know what the meaning of this charade was, being ushered out of their rooms by armed guards like common criminals. Yet all voices of discontent were silenced when they saw the state of their Ektore.
He was in his dressing gown himself, yet it was torn and bloody. He could hardly walk on his own two legs, putting one foot in front of the other like an infant learning to walk. It hurt to walk. Every step he took, it was like his uncle’s saber twisted in his guts again. Yet he had to. He had to be strong for his country.
Resisting the immense urge to collapse in a chair, he stood up straight, looking around at the room full of flabbergasted expressions.
“Aproximately one hour ago Duke Marshal Licinius Varus betrayed me, betrayed Osnya and betrayed the Holy Flame. He attempted to have me killed. He failed. I did not.”
All at once, everyone present gasped in shock. Silence dominated the room for a good minute before someone spoke up.
“That’s terrible!” General Kyris cried. “Your own blood! Your uncle no less!” The bull was rubbing the hems of his sleeves.
Dekebus could feel in his chest that Kyris did not mean a word he said, yet he didn’t need his Forte to know. His uncle’s journal detailed everything he wished to do to Osnya after taking the crown. One of them was naming Lord-General Kyris Field Marshal in his place. Despite diverging from his uncle’s opinion on military matters in basically every way, he could see the logic in it. Kyris was a competent, if conventional commander. He was not opposed to technological advancements, and even founded some effective machinegun doctrines, yet he was just unimaginative enough that he would not question his uncle’s superannuated orders.
Dekebus grabbed his stomach, ostensibly feeling his wound. He was in fact he was feeling the small caliber pistol he’d stowed beneath his robe. He could kill this traitor right here, right now. In front of his entire general cadre. He had the proof of his guilt. It would make a profound impression, and dissuade any future betrayal. Or just as easily, it could make his generals believe that he’d lost it, and a new conspiracy would soon follow suit. And he would lose not one, but two generals.
Perhaps he had truly lost it. WIth what he was about to do.
“It matters little now,” Dekebus said. “,my would-be murderer is… no longer a concern. It seems he acted alone.” He noted a very slight shift in General Kyris’s chest as he released a breath. The cold steel of the pistol seemed more and more tempting.
“What matters now is that we are lacking a Field Marshal. And that cannot be allowed to last even a day, not with how the war is going. Which is why I am naming Lord-General Kyris as Field Marshal of the Osnyan Legion, effective immediately.”
The bull’s eyes widened. He’d received exactly what he’d wanted, even if it was from the king whose foiled assassination attempt he’d been part of. The muscles of his jaw tried sketching a grin, yet did not go all the way. He believed there was some sort of catch. He was right.
“I, I… I know not what I have done to deserve this honor, Radiance!” Kyris stammered at length.
“Not much, truly. But we need a quick replacement and you’re the most competent commander I can think of on short notice.” Dekebus said dryly. Kyris winced slightly at the unspoken insult. “Of course, that leaves your own position as general vacant. Thankfully, I need not go far to find a worthy successor.” Dekebus turned to Colonel Diegis, who so far had been standing in the corner, well away from his superiors.
“Scipio Diegis. For your formidable and valiant actions in leading men against the Moon’s hordes, I name you Lieutenant-General. You will command the 19th Rifle, 5th Air Cavalry and 20th Engineer Divisions in Field General Kyris’s stead.”
To his credit, Diegis did not look particularly surprised. He was most likely perfectly aware that he was a better commander than most of the aged armchair generals in the room. He did, however, almost immediately feel their scowls upon him.
“I… I am honored, my Ektore.” the lynx said, bowing. “But… I am not of noble birth. I never attended any prestigious military academy, only officer school.”
“The battlefield taught you far more than any prestigious military school ever could. You stepped up and turned battles around when your bickering superiors floundered.” Dekebus shot the generals a glare, which averted any and all scowls sent the new general’s way. “As for noble birth, that can easily be solved. Right here, right now. Kneel.”
Diegis finally went wide-eyed, and Dekebus could feel his general staff behind him doing the same.
“What… here?” One of the generals said.
“I don’t see why not. The ceremony can take place anywhere. We even have a priest witness.” He smiled at Afrates. “I need only a blade.”
His own sword was in his quarters, coated in viscera. None of the generals had time to wear their swords. The only blades available on short notice were his guards’ hatchets. Requesting one, he looked it over.
The Kertaus had been a staple of the Osnyan warrior for centuries. What started as a tool morphed into a weapon that was part axe, part warhammer. One side was a hatchet, the other a pick for smashing into armor. It was surprisingly light, yet weighed just right to make each swing a crushing blow. Ironically, it had morphed back into the role of a tool, becoming a standard entrenching tool of the Osnyan Legion after many simplifications. Though it just as often saw service as a brutal hand to hand weapon, especially against the feared Lunist Messer long daggers.
“This will do.” He muttered. “Scipio Diegis, are you aware of what becoming a Lord truly entails?” Dekebus asked. “It is the greatest responsibility a Defender of the Light can take. You and your family shall benefit greatly. This nation shall nurture you and all of your descendants. Seldom shall you find yourself wanting for anything. Yet at the same time, you are beholden to Osnya. Not just you, but your children, and your children’s children, and so on, until the day the Sun grows cold. If this nation’s fate hinges on you jumping into a fire, you must do it. If I ask you to kill your brother, you must do it.
“You are sealing the fate of not only yourself, but your entire bloodline. And if you cannot make a decision like that, no one shall think any less of you.”
Diegis listened and was silent for a moment. He nodded at length.
“I have already taken that vow, my liege. Long before the heathens poured across our borders, I enlisted in the Legion. Like my father has, and my father’s father. None of us have ever thought of doing anything other than serve our nation with fire and steel. It would be the greatest betrayal to you, and to them, to refuse.”
Dekebus nodded in admiration. He walked over to the bookshelf, retrieving a pen and a piece of paper.
“Write down your greatest sin. Then fold the paper eight times. Let no one see what you wrote, not even Druid Afrates or myself.”
Diegis went to a corner table. He hesitated for a moment before scribbling something. He then folded the paper eight times.
“Kneel and hold the paper in both your hands.” Dekebus instructed. The young general obeyed, holding up the unassuming scrap of paper like an offering. Inside it was his deepest, darkest secret.
Dekebus hovered the large hatchet above the man’s left shoulder, touching it, then did the same to his right. Without warning, he dragged the blade across Diegis’s arm, slicing through fabric and drawing a little blood. Not as little as a hiss was heard. The slightly reddened blade then dripped a single drop of fresh blood upon the paper.
Dekebus nodded to the Druid. Afrates flicked his finger and the paper began burning in Diegis’s hands.
“Now, repeat after me.” The King said. “Should I ever betray my Ektore or shade the Light,”
“Should I ever betray my Ektore or shade the Light,”
“May my body burn like my sins and may my soul forever freeze in the Ices of Gehledna.”
“May my body burn like my sins and may my soul forever freeze in the Ices of Gehledna.” The tiny spark grew into a flame that ate up the paper. Diegis was fighting his every instinct to not let go of the blazing papyrus.
“Good. Now rub your hands.”
The red-hot ash dribbled down from between Diegis’s hands. The Druid bent down and used forceps to pick some of the ash into a glass recipient.
“That will be put inside the jewel of a signet ring.” Dekebus explained. “That signet ring shall be passed down in your family generation after generation. It is a symbol of power, yet also a symbol of responsibility and devotion. May it serve as a reminder of your vow and your duty every day of your life.”
Diegis shakily got up, looking at his Ektore with gratefulness and disbelief. There were tears in the lynx’s eyes. Dekebus embraced him to conceal his emotions.
If kings couldn’t afford tears, neither could lords.
“Thank you… thank you, your Radiance. I swear I will not disappoint.” Lord Diegis said with far more confidence.
“Of course, you will still need someone to show you the ropes as a General. You will be Field Marshal Kyris’s adjutant. You will assist him in planning and executing our fighting retreat and limited counterattacks. Furthermore, you will be his direct line of communication to me. I want daily reports of the Marshal’s progress and future plans.” Dekebus saw with satisfaction the way Kyiris’s jaw dropped. He thought that was the only catch.
“Yes, my liege.” Diegis saluted proudly.
“Field Marshal,” It took Kyris a few seconds to realize Dekebus was addressing him. “If I am not mistaken, your family is located in Katoi City. Which, by our estimates, will fall within the year.”
“I have already made arrangements, majesty,” Kyris replied. “Thank you for your care, but-”
“No, no. Whatever arrangements you make are ill suited for the family of the highest ranking military commander of the land. Your wife and three children shall live in the Imperial Palace of Ignisdava for the war’s duration. All their needs and wants will be cared for, far away from the chaos and death of the war. Your family shall be far away from any danger coming their way…”
Kyris gasped soundlessly. Refusing such a generous offer from his king was out of the question. And the true meaning of his “offer” was not lost on anyone:
“You tried to kill me. But you’re too valuable for me to kill you myself. I need you. Stay in line, or your dearest suffer.”
“Thank you… Your Radiance.” Was all that Kyris trusted himself to say.
“Now… you all have your orders.” Dekebus said. “The next armored supply train is heading for the frontlines at 0600 hours. You will both be upon it.”
The two generals saluted, right palm over their heart, then closing a fist. Dekebus returned the gesture.
“Field-Marhsal… Lord-General… your country needs you. You are our first and only line of defense against the encroaching darkness. But remember that there is always Dawn after Night.”