Before Engaging a Weaker Force, The Calculation Must Be Made As To What Casualties Are Endurable, For A Battle Without Price Is An Impossible Thing
Freed from his immediate concerns, Dirant was able to notice when the battle was over. Eight Wessolpers lay still on the floor. “Are they, ah, deceased?” he asked the Symbol Knight, who was already busy with a second symbol while Owl Sage Niddle spun in circles nearby.
“I'm strong, but it is not so easy as that to kill off Small Fry. They will revive soon unless I finish them off. That is the great virtue of that class. I hire as many Small Fry as possible to cut down on funeral expenses.”
Dirant had not quite lost his composure in the post-battle interval, and enough of the veteran mercenary's calmness spread to him that his nerves held up in the end. “Surely your occupation is one of great outlays on equipment and so. Are funeral costs such a big part of them?”
“There are men, many of them, who will fight for an unloved superior or the vilest scoundrel who ever lived so long as they are certain their families will not be burdened unduly after their deaths. Those are just the sort of men captains such as I need. I mean captains with no Panache. I sometimes think that's the only stat that matters, though the results of this fray are evidence the other way. By the way, the non-Small Fry escaped to raise the alarm. Your superior Panache ensures you've been identified, so prepare a weapon or nasty ritual if you have one. Armor Giant Ketan, I greet you!”
Nine feet tall and covered in thick black plates but for two red lights that glared, the fearsome figure manifested to perform such feats for its host as few could withstand. Kelnsolt changed his symbolic weapon to match the giant's ax, a monstrously bulky weapon far too large for Dirant's 34 Muscle but nothing to the mercenary's 74. At 54, well, a Ritualist had no sense for such things. Kelnsolt informed him such a person could use the ax but would be better off with a lighter weapon, though not so light as the knife Dirant had unsheathed that was intended for rough dining experiences.
The next mysterious symbol called forth Tripper Jason. Golden sparks merged to form a man wearing dark glasses and a jacket that had a single letter printed on the back of it. Curious, Dirant asked what the capabilities of that monster, or rather guest, might be.
“He trips people and is quite smug about it. His primary virtue is his low cost. These three are all I can afford with my 76 Guest Points. My preparations are complete.”
As the two left the temple, Kelnsolt looking for a fight and Dirant for a good occasion to escape, the former explained to the latter that any behavior of a Symbol Knight which seemed odd to laymen, not having a hundred Armor Giants out for example, most likely had Guest Points behind it. He himself possessed Enhanced Hospitality which changed his basic point calculation to three-quarters of his Receptivity instead of one-half as well as Muscular Hospitality to add a third of his Muscle to the total, and he still wanted more.
Now that Dirant knew everything there was to know about a class he would likely never run into again outside of a social situation, he followed perfectly what happened when Wessolp's defenders, dozens of them at first and hundreds later, came against the lone condottiero. If ever anyone doubted the power of individuals of advanced classes dedicated to martial pursuits, they probably still did after that fight because the losers kept quiet about it and Kelnsolt lacked the flair for self-promotion any member of his profession really should have developed.
He did the combat part well enough to compensate. The Wessolpers coordinated an attack down both sides of the street that was met by an armor giant's powerful ax on the one flank, and on the other a condottiero's more powerful ax which sent four men flying with each swing. Owl Sage Niddle made a little circuit in the middle, paralyzing the front rank on either side alternatingly. Tripper Jason kept his hands in his pockets, stuck his foot out, and snickered when some dope fell for it. What a team player. When soldiers attacked Tripper Jason for the same reason one went after Dirant earlier, he hopped backward while whistling. Some Symbol Knights held that Trippers did a better job of distracting the enemy than Owl Sages and at half the guest cost. Others answered that may be true, but they still hated to invite them.
If the troops of the initial rush faced an impossible challenge in Kelnsolt Aradetnaf, the rear ranks had a double-impossible challenge before them since they had to climb over or sneak around piles of their comrades' insensible bodies. Well, some of them were groaning, which seemed pretty sensible given the circumstances. Their fellows joined them in that soon afterward.
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During the battle, Dirant retreated into the temple in an attempt to store another Lightning Ritual. Temples of Aoda, however, or that one at least, lacked the blue chalk and rake with at least five tines necessary to perform it, and so he reemerged onto the street still armed with nothing but a knife that had never cut human flesh outside of a couple clumsy incidents. Kelnsolt took care of the last few soldiers, “likely not permanently,” and that was that.
“And is that all?” Dirant asked.
Kelnsolt nodded.
“Such is the result of Panache 8. You must at least fold your arms and utter, not say but utter, 'There is nothing now for this city to do but await my pleasure.'” Dirant tried it out a few times, decided maybe one arm raised in the air would be more impressive, and was engaged in that when the man showed up.
Lord Mayor Odinol Emmofoken, unless some prankster had stolen the thick gold chain that indicated the holder of Wessolp's highest office, was just the model a sculptor who wanted to craft a monument to reason and moderation wanted. His height was typical for an Adaban, a bit less than Dirant's, and his mop of dark brown, almost black hair ended in sideburns that stopped before they became too much. He projected the dignity of his position without giving the sense that anyone would be thrown in prison for pointing out his sleeves were a bit uneven, and the glimpse one could get of his right forearm indicated he had, at times, lifted something heavier than a gold chain.
He looked over the two gentlemen with steady eyes ready to accept the pleasant and unpleasant alike, came to the obvious conclusion, and bowed to Dirant in the sense that he leaned forward a little. “I must congratulate you, sir, on your victory, even as I wish it were otherwise.”
Dirant wanted, as befit a mostly honest man who represented Stadeskosken, the city of Fennizen, the state of Kitslof, and the sixth-most prestigious school of ritualism in Greater Enloffenkir, to correct the mayor's misunderstanding. Regrettably, a glance at Kelnsolt warned him not to expect much support in that endeavor, since the authentic condottiero was struggling harder than ever to keep a straight face. Dirant gave up and returned his attention to the mayor. “Matters fare as they will, and we do as we must, just as I must thank you for your congratulations.”
“May we expect civil treatment?”
Dirant looked at Kelnsolt again, who nodded. 8 Panache probably resulted in “Yes” or “Sure” on such occasions, but 44 provided a slightly more graceful version. “Had I not intended so from the beginning, surely the courage of your Wessolpers and the courtesy of their lord mayor demand it of me.”
+1 bonus to Panache gained.
“I thank you. I must make arrangements.” The mayor bowed again and left.
“I will leave the rest of this affair to my subordinate, Kelnsolt Aradetnaf,” Dirant told said subordinate, who laughed. “And what is meant by civil treatment? As your superior I must know this sort of thing.”
“My men will occupy the city while terms are negotiated. We will pay for lodgings, but at a reduced rate, and refrain from robbery and insolence. The Wessolpers will not refuse to sell to us or provide water.” There was that mildness in victory Dirant had heard about.
All that was done. The mercenaries came inside the walls, nothing burned down, and the Wessolp guards gave up their weapons they could hardly wield while they rested in bed from the drubbing a lone condottiero had given them. Kelnsolt invited Dirant to join the post-victory celebration, which would be a restrained affair conducted with an eye toward continuing not to burn anything down, but he refused on the grounds of religious obligation.
“And if you happen to have memorized the location of the temple of Mitistiggefokand, or Mitastikkefokant to follow the modern style, I would be grateful for it.”
“I did, but here's a map instead,” Kelnsolt said.
So it was that Dirant found the place, all the while hoping good directions made up the entirety of the consequences for his involvement with Wessolp's subjugation. Probably so, since the mayor had not asked his name on account of presuming he was Kelnsolt Aradetnaf. How would anyone find out? There were the gate guards, but for them to make the connection between a typical traveler and the conqueror of their city required more inquisitiveness than Stadeskosken's watchmen or the sentries of Fennizen ever demonstrated.
Satisfied with his reasoning, he entered the temple. It resembled Aoda's in its proportions, but rather than windows unconventional in their curviness it had tall, rectangular ones split into panes of irregular size and shape by bars at strange angles so that the floor indoors exhibited patterns of light and shadow that shifted and twisted throughout the day. Or so Dirant guessed. He had no intention of staying that long.
It was necessary that he wait for some period, since nobody was around to accept the statue. That might have been predicted. The city had just been conquered, not to mention that religious services generally took place either in the morning or the early evening so far as he knew. The wait gave him time to clean up a bit as the god had suggested. The temple seemed in good condition, but just as the old saying reminded, the three enemies that always return are hunger, thirst, and dust. He looked for a broom.