The Reckoning III (The Doom)

Joy, a golden light gilds the waters.

As the sun creeps up behind the dark horizon.

As weary legs make to get up, my eyes catch,

The Boundless Blue.

The last great realm, unbroken, unravaged.

I stride out of my room,

To join my comrades.

But as the weight of sleep wears off.

As the haze recedes behind the glare.

What is this?

An ocean of white sails,

Dotting the blue.

The dread day has dawned.

I always knew they would come.

After what we did, who could blame them?

‘twas only a matter of time.

They are here, I whisper to myself.

They have come.

 

The Reckoning II (The Aftermath)

And so they overcame us.

All our bravery, ground to ashes.

Beneath the heel of the eastern fury.

The eye of the Sun let loose.

To take back what we wrested.

What was rightfully theirs.

The Sun and Serpent flying high again.

Yes, we stood.

Knowing what would befall, if we failed.

But behind our walls and barricades, tremorous.

It was only time, we knew.

But a greater calamity followed.

To this day, the gravest of mistakes.

Now their ships prowl the open seas.

Ranging far and wide.

Ever on the hunt.

Marring the Blue with our blood.

The Reckoning

They came in the night.

A seething mass, as far as the eye could see.

The open maws of hell itself.

Greeting us with a wicked grin.

A million fires, as vast as the ocean.

They came in the night.

Sweeping everything before them.

All scattered like leaves before a gale.

Scaling our walls, overwhelming all.

Redoubtable were we no more.

And so this became,

Their first push against our world.

Tainted

The lightest touch can be far deadlier than the deepest snakebite. More powerful than the most virulent maelstrom. Blacker than night. Colder than ice.

            At first, it was nothing more than a smattering of grains on the plain surface. Nothing to speak of. You would think it was simply a matter of brushing them off. Utterly inconsequential. And you’d be forgiven for thinking so. Naiveté is but an indelible part of man. They burned and scratched. Oh, how those tiny, ignoble grains burned and scratched.

            Who knew that man, greatest of the Almighty’s creations, could succumb to so base a thing. Man, who had outlived beings inherently greater than himself. Man, who had reached the moon and was now laying claim to other worlds. Man, who was capable of destroying this world many times over, yet also create of his own will.

            The burning turned rank, furrowing into the hitherto indestructible carapace. It transfixed him. It made him sway on the spot. The edges of his vision turned blurry, and gradually became greyer and murkier. A low, sinister humming filled his head. Utter obfuscation blanketed his senses. A benumbing cold took him, clawing its way upward as he stood rooted to the spot, unaware of what held him so. An invisible harness had been put around him, a solitary blood orchid deadening everything around it.

            The itching was overpowering now. He had to. He just…had to...

            How he ever broke free of the spell, one will never know. He himself could not explain it. Now, mind you, he was not oblivious to the trance he was in. Even staring at that tiny, yet potent taint…he knew. He knew what had almost happened. He knew how perilously close he had come to the edge. How did he pull back? Where had that enormous will come from?

            He never did forget it. It would not be the last time he would find himself in the talons of taint. And yet, when it abated, in the time between, he wondered…

The East Wind II: Awakening

The boy and his father joined the throng lined up on both sides of the palisade in cheering as the cavalcade wound its way through the streets.

“Yay!” “Hooray!” they all shouted tirelessly, waving their hands and throwing their fists in the air.

The boy felt elated. After a tough week in the fields and a sore back, this moment gave him some much-needed respite. He was grateful to his father for bringing him to witness this. “A momentous occasion for our people, son,” he had said. “Something they’ll sing about through the ages.” While the boy had no idea what his father meant, he was keen to see for himself what it was all about. The sheer loudness of the massive gathering had raised his spirits but he had yet to see what all the excitement entailed.

The crowd erupted again as another pair of guards passed by, their tall pikes pointed towards the sky, their faces hidden behind silver visors. They did not seem to take any notice of the crowds on either side, striding along in precise formation on the wide flower-laden lane as if on an empty street, in a city devoid of life.

“Pompous little snots, aren’t they?” came a snigger beside the boy and his father. The one who had done so did not look at the boy while saying so, his eyes focused on the street and the procession. “But they’ve earned it, I’m sure. That`s royalty for you – they can look on us rabble as they please.”

Men in military outfits were nothing new for the boy. Civil guards and police were almost commonplace in the streets, where they were charged with keeping the peace. In a city such as theirs, there was always some disturbance or the other. On more than one occasion did they have to intervene whenever he or some of the other neighbourhood boys scuffled. Or when one of his father’s friends came bursting out of the door of a tavern on all fours, usually followed by an angry patron or the owner himself.

But these were elite royal guards, which the boy – and he was sure, most people he knew – had never seen before. They were mostly stationed on the palace grounds and its immediate vicinity, never venturing out into the city save for the rare occasion when the police needed help, or when a member of the royal household paid a visit to someone. Their weapons glinted as the steel tips caught the rays of the mid-afternoon sun, and their splendid attire would have humbled even the haughtiest and most self-assured street patrolman.

“Watch it!” “Oy, watch it, fool!” “Hey, mind your foot, stupid twat” came several jeers and cries from the crowd as many jostled to get closer to the barrier separating the people from the guards. The boy felt something building up, something he couldn’t fully understand - something that perhaps only the others were aware of. Maybe this was the reason that they were all assembled there. That would explain all the sudden pushing and restlessness among the crowd.  

“They await the champion, son. Just as we are now,” said his father, detecting his son’s curiosity. “You shall see him shortly. Great glory has he won for our nation and is now being welcomed back in honour. Do you understand glory, son?” his father questioned.

“Um, I think so. He has vanquished many foes and shown no fear while doing so,” the boy replied.

“Yes, true, he has. But to do so honourably, and showing the enemy generosity, even in victory, is what sets one apart. He has shown a presence of mind even the king’s greatest generals could not,” the boy’s father said.

“Most importantly, our enemies are hostile to us no longer and have been brought into the fold, all thanks to his restraint and foresight. That is the mark of a true soldier and leader, son. Remember that. And to think, he started off as only a guard, running around at the whims of those far higher in station.”

His attention now back to the two guards still passing by, the boy saw that they flanked a man in resplendent robes, riding slightly to their rear. Borne upon a gold two-wheeled chariot, he waved to the crowds on either side with a vigour that the boy had not seen among any other members of the procession. It was too amusing since it seemed the man was doing so because either his life depended on it, or as if he had never had the pleasure of doing so and wanted to experience it before, heavens forbid, death snatched him prematurely. He carried no weapons, as the chariot also carried two other guards, standing by either shoulder. The man had a certain presence, although that could be the effect of the rich clothing. Surely that must be the…

“No boy, ain’t the one. Although if you look at him, you’d think he’d won the war all by himself. Another palace brat, haha,” broke in the voice of the same man beside him who had earlier made the remark about the guards. “Nope, that be the precious Highness, son of the king and the one in charge of the campaign. Of course, all the grunt work was done by someone else,” he finished with the slightest hint of a sneer.

The father made a courteous smile to the other man as he spoke, but scowled as he put his hand around his son and turned him away.

“Do not be swayed by that, son,” his father said gently, whilst waving at the same time. He was a tall man and the movement of his arm made his son’s face jump in and out of the light. “While he may speak the truth, that loose tongue of his will land him in trouble. The nobility are to be respected, always.” A brief downward gesture indicated he had not forgotten his son’s presence.

The crowd’s energy was building up now. The cheering and hollering continued, but after seeing the Prince himself pass through, they knew the time was drawing near when the finest among them would ride under the massive stone archway that greeted visitors to the city and down the bedecked streets where excited maidens waited to chant his name.

Under the blazing sun, the crowd were now getting impatient and restless. For this very reason, more of the city guard had been called out to keep the populace at bay. The boy himself was amazed that they had such numbers, not seeing more than a handful on the streets at any given time. Yet, nothing seemed to sap the people’s energy or enthusiasm. As more and more soldiers, officers and guards passed by, the din rose higher and higher, unceasing. Perhaps it’s a distraction for all, not just for me, the boy thought. Maybe they’ve all had it rough this year. I know that mother and father have…

His mother wanted no part of it, loathing war, huge crowds and the deifying of soldiers and, no matter how high and praiseworthy. Home was where she considered her place to be and would not join the “mindless, bleating sheep”, as she branded the crowd.

While many of her own kin fought for the banners, she was secretly glad that neither her son nor husband had shown any inclination to join the ranks. Even at her husband’s insistence, she would not leave the house that day, preferring instead to have a “nice meal prepared for them when they came back tired and were done shouting themselves hoarse over their ‘beloved’ champion.”

So father and son alone went to the gathering. She was missed but her absence was not deeply felt in the great wave of euphoria that had swept the city, including him. Well, at least I’ll get something good when I get back, he thought. She always makes good fo…

A great upsurge in the noise made the boy turn around and stand on his toes. That was when he saw him – the King’s Champion and commander of the victorious Eastern army, according to his father. He rode in on a black stallion, accompanied by his retinue of loyal officers. The awe he inspired in the crowd had nothing to do with riches, lineage or what he was wearing.

He looked unremarkable for the most part, clad in grey armour that had lost much of its sheen, and the plain garments that were issued to soldiers, rather than the intricately-patterned livery of the royal guards. Clearly, he looked down upon the ostentation of the Prince and other high officials at court. Under one arm he carried a large helm that bore marks and dents from where it had been struck. And by his side was girt a longsword which, despite being sheathed, instilled fear, hinting of a dozen long-forgotten battles.

From a distance, the boy could make out that the Champion still retained some of his youth – by contrast, some of the officers and the generals who had preceded him in the march had flecks of grey or looked too feeble to wield a blade properly. He had a grim look about him, yet did not look displeased at the swarming crowds. He smiled and occasionally waved here and there, even stopping to dismount and accept a lily from a little girl. After patting her on the head and nodding to her parents, he continued on his way.

And yet, it was the quiet dignity which most impressed the boy. Not the stories he had heard about his exploits, not the adulating crowd, not even the formidable accoutrements. For any other man would have been carried away by all that praise, the showering of favours and the promises of wealth and estates.

But not this one, it seemed. Modest and overly silent, he commanded a level of respect most other men could only dream of. The boy wondered whether even the king was this popular with the people. He had never seen him but knew that he was one of those ‘big’ people that everyone was supposed to like.

The boy nudged and pushed his way past the crowd, ignoring the calls of his worried father, as the Champion moved up the street and towards the royal palace. After a while, when he had passed beyond the civilian area and it became impossible to slide in between the thickening mass of people, the boy turned back towards his father. By now, some of the noise had subsided and the boy saw his panting father running towards him, looking flustered rather than angry. Like everyone else, he was sweating and looked thoroughly excited.

“Well, now that was fun, wasn’t it? So what did you think, son?” he asked.

“It was amazing! So many people, so many soldiers…just, amazing.”

“See? And did he not look splendid, the Champion?”

“He did. I want to be just like him someday.”

“Haha, do you indeed. Well, don’t let your mother hear that.”

And as his father turned around, leading the way back home, the boy could not help but feel that he didn’t care what his mother – or anyone else – might think.

Beneath The Sun II: Lord of Serpents

The sharp clashing of wood against wood snapped him out of his reverie. No matter, there would be enough time to ponder it later. Turning to face the group of men before him, he continued shouting in sequence, his voice ringing throughout the courtyard:

“Shields!”

“Hack and lunge!” “Fall into circle!”

“Draw back, wall!” “The Bite, take forward!”

It was sweltering. Pushing the men to the brink produced heavy rivulets of sweat, like torrential rain on a forest floor. But they knew what they had to do. If anyone faltered, he would be there to ensure – painfully if need be – the man was aware of his place and duty. No reprieve on this day, or any other.

Only a handful of the very best were taken away from their regular units and attached to the new ones he had so recently set up, no regard given to previous fealties and bonds of brotherhood.

Looking the men up and down as he strode in between them, observing their forms, his eyes fell upon a pair of combatants, like a hawk eyeing a scampering hare among empty grasses. One of the soldiers had paused for a quick drink of water. He went over to them.

Thwack! came the wooden shortsword on the soldier’s back. Stumbling forward, but not completely losing balance, the soldier turned around to look at him, eyes wide in shock.

“You do that again, if I ever see a bottle in your hand…this won’t be a wooden one in my hand the next time”

“It’s just a small sip, we’ve been driven since sunbreak…”

Thwack! came another blunt blow on the forearm of the unfortunate soldier. He grimaced and held his arm where the blade had struck, not only skin but dignity as well.

“Don’t…” he said, edging closer until he was staring down at the ridge of the soldier’s nose “ever…” he finished with a hiss.

That was it, and all that needed to be said. The mortification in the soldier’s eyes was not missed by anyone. Swords, axes and shields were temporarily lowered and stances abandoned by the onlookers. Spears were left lodged in hay-stuffed practice targets, no one bothering to go and draw them out. Indeed, the incident would be recounted by those standing by over the next few days, a favourite expression being ‘like a king cobra over a doomed squirrel.’

It usually escaped him that part of training the new men and reforging them into deadlier weapons was to break them in – until something like this happened, when a newcomer, unaccustomed to such severe somatic rigours, would drop a sword, or go down on a knee under a fierce knock, or try to catch a moment’s breath. Oh yes, they might have endured much even under regular training but this was something completely different. Combat was one thing, but what was it without discipline, without cohesion, without cold calculation in the face of a foe’s spears and arrows? Gone were their days of milling around the well, snickering and bantering. They were not regular issue anymore, nor could they ever be. This was no drill camp or provincial barracks. Here, the men training in the courtyard, ensconced in the very heart of power and opulence, were above all others.

The grumbling didn’t affect him. It was natural, soldiers griped. He didn’t care; there was no time to pay heed to trivialities. And he knew they talked behind his back, albeit with grudging respect. Many of those before him had already fought and bled beside him. They saw with their own eyes what he was capable of – those stories had long since drifted beyond the palace walls. Some of them would not have survived had they not been under his eye beforehand, and they knew that all too well.

Swinging his head back, away from the wincing soldier, his eyes held the others with cold regard. There was a collective shuffle before they all resumed their activities. The clangour and heavy grunting soon filled the air again.

The transgressing soldier whispered to his partner, “It was just a brie…”

“Don’t,” replied his partner. “Just stow it, don’t repeat it again.”

“But I don’t get it, what’s the…”

His friend cut him off again, “Look, let it go. Here…” he picked up the wooden sword that had been lying on the ground ever since the soldier had made the mistake of taking that first sip. “Take this and keep it in your hand, even if you give out. And then, you’ll be assured of water. This is how it is. This is how he works, makes us better than ourselves. Don’t take it too hard.”

“Now, are you going to use that or wait for him to come over and smack you again?”

With that, the soldier’s attacks became fiercer. Angry and hurt, but not losing focus or rhythm, the soldier briefly saw what he thought was a nod of approval from the far side of the courtyard. As the day wore on, a new infusion of vigour permeated the soldier, and he could feel it through his sword-arm, parrying, twirling and striking with remarkable cadence.

Within a few minutes, the call went out for formations. Again:

“Lines!” “Form up!”

“Spears!” “Kneel for formation!”

“Wall!” “Hack and lunge!”

At the end of the exercise, the soldier and his partner watched with chagrin as he came towards them. He beckoned the soldier.

“You,” he said, pointing at the soldier. “Yes, you. You shall spar with me.”

v    

Those harrowing images him again, as they had in the morning. As they did almost every day now. Scattered and destroyed wagons, frayed canvasses blowing idly…men…women…children. The light gone out from their eyes, sheer terror still etched on their lifeless faces. Just like that, through no fault of their own.

Everything seemed harder now: eating, sleeping, something as simple as buying dates or a scroll of paper at the local bazaar. Talking to her. He would constantly pace the length of his room, his bed undone, the evening meal left unfinished.

His exterior was one of perfect calm and poise. But inside, a maelstrom raged, twisting his insides, forcing him to leave everything, to go forth himself and…and…

But the Sun and the Serpent banner pulled him back from the edge of disaster. There is work to be done, it whispered sweetly. Bide your time, it added as he beheld the vivid gold and scarlet weaving. Those damned criminals would get what was coming to them, he swore. Patience. There is a way for everything. When that moment came, reprisal would be swift.

Seething, he nevertheless mused on the day’s training as he slowly climbed up the many steps to his quarters, situated on one of the higher levels of the palace. Fine men, all of them, and they would get honed to an ever keener edge. It would not require much from him – in the course of time, they themselves would turn into those weapons. Pit them against any five of the enemy in single combat and he knew who would be left standing. One day, soon enough, they would be at the very forefront, the tip of the Sun’s lance, enforcing its will wherever and whenever it was required – just as he did.

The day had been put aside for training alone and he wasn`t disappointed, even if it wasn’t where he wanted to be right now. The young soldier would learn in time. There was a latent ferocity within him yet to be tapped. The soldier’s skills had never been in doubt. He had done well, but men and women had to be galvanised towards purpose. After all, was he not subjecting himself towards the same thing, every night?

His feet were burning by the time he reached the final landing. He would spar some more with the soldier tomorrow. There had been few words between them, save for the necessary instruction. Tomorrow would hopefully bring more.

Upon entering his room, tired but not yet worn-out, he washed himself and changed. The corner of his eyes gazed longingly at the armour and shield but he made no move towards it. Not today. Taking his scimitar, he went to sit by the fireside, the curved blade resting flat across both thighs, one hand over the leather sheath, the other on the hilt. He stared blankly at the crackling embers, the flames flickering in his greyish-blue eyes, casting dancing shadows upon his face.

Burning wagons…children, mud and ash-smeared faces, buried under splinters…husbands and wives lying side-by-side…blood-soaked grass. One day, I’ll come for you all, he silently raged. Yes, take pleasure from your plunder, your feasting, your drink, your women. Enjoy the adoration of your people. Yes, forget not that day. When our people are ready, when we men go forth, the fields will run red. Remember what you all did, when we plunge our bl…

Then came the knock on the door.

“Come in,” he said. Lessons.

He got up from his chair and turned around, the scimitar’s blade brushing against the loose folds of his trousers. At the door stood a man in a black hood, whip in one hand and blade in the other.

Not wood.

Steel.

Drawing himself fully up before the man, he proclaimed, “I am ready.”