Savage Divinity – Chapter 646

 

As the Demons and Defiled broke through the Death Corps line, Huushal set out to meet them, but events conspired against his success.

 

Less than two-hundred metres separated his retinue from the Demon’s apparent target, Rain’s newly revealed carriage, but the panicked, routing Irregulars formed a moving wall of flesh which impeded his passage. Streaming through and around his mounted retinue, the terrified commoners slowed his progress to a crawl, so focused on the Demons behind them that they failed to realize the quins presented almost as much of a threat. These war-trained beasts were battle-ready and liable to attack anyone who rushed into range, but thankfully, the Irregulars had no swords or spears and Huushal’s retinue had enough time to rein their quins in beforehand.

 

Be that as it may, the Irregulars’ welfare was not Huushal’s first concern, as various other groups of reinforcements were also stuck in similar straits, leaving only a small squad of elites to guard Rain, around thirty Warriors in total. Fools one and all, these Irregulars, and Huushal would be well within his rights to damn the losses and ride roughshod over the commoners. The wolf inside yearned to do just this, to spill their blood and teach them the folly of their ways, but as much as he yearned to slaughter his way to Rain’s side, he knew his friend would never approve and might never forgive. Rain cared for the commoners in ways most didn’t entirely understand, because Martial Warriors typically saw themselves as wolves among dogs and behaved appropriately. It was difficult not to considering the vast differences between them, as Martial Warriors were generally larger, stronger, faster, and more attractive than their common counterparts. Almost every Martial Warrior Huushal knew was guilty of this innate superiority in some way, even those with noble intentions who merely wanted to coddle and safeguard their ‘less able’ brethren, like Ma with Pa and Elia.

 

Even Pa and Elia went along with it, else why would Ma be Ma when Pa and Elia had been together longer?

 

Rain was different though. Not only did he treat commoners no differently than Martial Warriors, he genuinely believed in their abilities, as lacklustre as they might be. Even distracted as he was with his own trials and tribulations, Huushal had heard plenty about Rain’s thoughts on the subject, mostly from Ma who thoroughly disagreed with Rain and believed commoners needed to be safeguarded from all threats, including themselves. Not only did Rain arm millions of civilians with crossbows and catapults, he now wanted to train them to fight with spear and sword upon the battlefield. An army of commoners, what a wildly impractical idea, or so Huushal thought right up until this very moment.

 

The Demonic Aura crashed into him like an avalanche of ice and snow. Buried beneath a mountain of raw terror and bleak despair, he fought to keep his wits about him but his mind refused to comply, raving in gibbering dread about the doom and death which awaited. All was lost. The battle, the war, the Empire, and beyond. Fighting would only prolong death, as would fleeing, so better to sit and await sweet release from this waking nightmare. Why struggle against the inevitable? Why hold out hope for the impossible? Death would be a mercy of sorts, as then he would no longer be a threat to his family, friends, and people, free from the conflict between the man and the wolf inside.

 

You are neither man nor wolf, possessing the best and worst qualities of both, yet only you can decide your next step. Not your blood, not your instincts, but you, Huushal of the People, husband, son, friend, and Sentinel.

 

Burning courage melting frozen terror, he sat petrified in place and tried to make sense of the chaotic confusion, then everything changed in the blink of an eye. The Demons were still slaughtering their way towards Rain’s revealed position and the reinforcements still too far away, but the Irregulars were no longer fleeing, as shocked and immobilized as Huushal himself. A part of him was glad to see them stop in place, because if they kept fleeing, he was not sure if he possessed the wherewithal to keep himself from joining them. The maleficent Aura was gone now, but the memory lingered on the periphery of his perceptions, an unsettling dagger hanging over his head, and even kindling his own Aura did nothing to clear it away. The bleak misery was no longer there, yet the damage had been done, and even with the help of this hopeful and courageous Aura, he could not shake the stubborn remnants of dread and discomfort. If not for a single Aura-Capable Warrior, Rain could have been torn limb from limb before Huushal’s eyes, and he would not have lifted a finger to stop it. This was the truth, one which hurt more than the Demonic Aura itself, the knowledge that he was so weak and fragile as to crumble apart at a glance and needed time to put himself back together.

 

But not the Irregulars. They too suffered through this same trial, yet while Huushal was still struggling to even begin his recovery, these hardy men and women came through unscathed and ascertained the gravity of their situation. He wasn’t sure who shouted it first, but someone in the crowd did, and a chorus of voices picked up and repeated the message. “The Legate’s carriage!”

 

“The Legate’s in danger.”

 

“The Legate! Save the Legate!”

 

And as one, the Irregulars howled and threw themselves upon the Chosen with reckless fury. Though clearly not wolves, they fought with the hearts of lions as they swarmed the enemy like locusts upon a summer harvest. Without orders or guidance from the Officers above, they charged forward to engage the Defiled, heedless of the hefty butcher’s bill they paid just to get past the Demons standing at the forefront. There was no fear or hesitation from these common men and women, no shirkers or cowards among them, heroes and soldiers all as they died in droves to Demon claws and Defiled blades. The battle wasn’t entirely one-sided, as Yan, Mila, and the rest of Rain’s guards lent their weight to the attacks, but if more than one Defiled died for every twenty Irregulars, Huushal would eat his boots, metal braces and all.

 

Yet despite taking on horrific casualties, the Irregulars pressed on, selling their lives wholesale so that the Defiled and Demon offensive couldn’t overwhelm Rain’s previously outnumbered guards.

 

All while Huushal sat idly by and watched.

 

Shamed and inspired to action, he growled, “Conceal us from the commoners.” Raising his sabre high, he barked at his retinue to follow his lead and prayed the old coot would do as he asked. Signalling his quin to move out, he started off slow and watched to make certain his idea would work, and miracle of miracles, it did. While he plodded forward, the crazed Irregulars streamed around him and the other members of his retinue, never seeing them yet registering and avoiding their presence all the same. A lesser working might well have failed, but the old geezer of a great, great, great, whatever grand-mentor was a veritable master of Concealment, second to none according to Ma. Even with the harness straps digging tightly into his shoulder, Huushal still sometimes forgot the old geezer was there, but it was a wonder to watch as the Irregulars parted around him while his quin picked up speed.

 

There was no point charging into the mass of Defiled and Demons. Huushal’s retinue was woefully short on Demon Slayers as most left to join Ma on the front lines. If Rain’s guard detail couldn’t handle the admittedly shocking number of powerful Demons, then there was nothing Huushal could do to help, but what he could do was plug up the gap on the front lines and keep more Defiled from streaming in and overwhelming the Irregulars. Everyone had their limits, and he was uncertain how much longer it would be before these brave mortal heroes found theirs, so it was best to strike while the iron was hot.

 

The sea of commoners came to an abrupt end as Huushal led his retinue into the heart of the Imperial Army, where he spotted a thin line of armoured Defiled streaming out of a gap in the front lines, one torn open by a coordinated effort of multiple Demons which left the Death Corps ragged and reeling. Most of the Defiled pushed onwards to take Rain’s head, but some were looping around to attack the Death Corps from behind, a minor irritation, but a debilitating one if not contained in time. Even stalwart, Oath-Sworn Death Corps had their limits, and the rear of their formation was where soldiers were sent to rest, a futile gesture if they were forced to remain alert while being attacked from all sides.

 

But now Huushal had arrived, and he was finally free to unleash the wolf within.

 

Howling in a mixture of glee and rage, he charged into the thin line of Chosen and set his pack loose, cutting down the scattered Defiled with a tenth of his riders while the rest put their bows to work thinning out the crowd out front to take pressure off the Death Corps. There was a time when Huushal would have been unable to even picture four and a half thousand archers in one place, but here on the battlefield, their combined efforts seemed meagre and paltry in the grand scheme of things. The close combat was over far too quickly, as the advancing Defiled were unable to put together an effective defence against Huushal’s skirmishing pack, who divided and slaughtered the Enemy piece by delectable piece before pushing them back from whence they came.

 

It was always difficult holding to Balance in battle, especially with the Father’s foul minions baiting him on. A barrage of stray thoughts besieged him as he traded blows with the Defiled, urging him to take the time to appreciate a particularly beautiful spray of blood emanating from one man’s neck, or track the arc of another man’s dismembered head, all the while wondering what it must be like to taste that blood and flesh upon his lips. Take your time, kill them slowly, savour those quiet moments of desperation and despair as you back your foes into a corner. Strike to wound so that they can lend their voices to the symphony of suffering as they slowly bleed out and die. Give them hope only to take it away, because that makes the game that much sweeter.

 

Battle and bloodshed are your brides, dealing death and destruction your profession. Why pretend otherwise while stringing Yesui and Yosai along? None of you will ever be happy, not while you deny your true self. Nothing will change even if you build a home and play at being a family, together with the unwanted cast-offs sired by someone else. What sort of father will you be anyways? A terrible one, for you are a killer to the core, nothing more, nothing less. Why fight your birthright and feign civility when you would be much happier slaughtering your foes to your heart’s content?

 

Warrior and Husband. One does not preclude the other. The vicious wolf hunts with savage glee, but the whole pack shares in his spoils. The choice to start a family is yours to make, but no man is born a perfect father, and no woman the perfect mother. At least with two mothers and a father, you have good examples to draw from and loving people to rely on.

 

With the breech closed and Defiled contained, Huushal wiped his brow and considered this new line of thought. Since coming to grips with his near Defilement, he always saw his inner struggle as one between good and evil, and thus did everything he could to cling to good while fearfully avoiding any thoughts or emotions which could be construed as evil. The Father’s foul minions whispered at him to indulge in anger, jealousy, envy, and hatred, so he abstained from these and more, but the reins always slipped in the heat of battle and set him right back to where he started, embroiled in bitter self-conflict. Yet now, he realized he’d been going about things all wrong, as mixed up as a child just learning about Balance. Every time the Spectres urged him in one direction, he instinctively pulled back in the other, but too much was as bad as not enough. He was a Warrior, one who thrived on battle and bloodshed, but this did not make him evil, no more than the wolf was evil for killing the stag. This war was a matter of survival, plain and simple, a battle between good and evil, but violence and bloodshed were no more good or evil than life or death. They were simply actions one took, and the morality lay in the cause, so there was no harm in indulging his vices as long as he picked his targets appropriately and fought for the right reasons.

 

And there were none more deserving of death and violence than the Defiled themselves.

 

Intending to lead his retinue back to aid the Irregulars, Huushal learned Hongji had other plans. Orders arrived directing him to lead his retinue to the southern flank and assist in the battle there, and as much as Huushal loathed leaving Rain behind, he saw that the battle there was all but won save for the Demons still causing trouble for Aunty Sarnai and the others, though the Divine Turtle was evening the odds with multiple blasts of Water Chi. The last of the Chosen were being mopped up even as he watched, and the Irregulars had taken a mauling in the process, but the fight was not out of them yet as they shuffled back into formation to loose bolts and stones at the Enemy. Saluting those brave survivors as he passed, he noticed many a far-eyed stare and forlorn expression among them, the look of soldiers fresh from their first real clash with death, and he did not envy them their struggles ahead. With luck, these valiant warriors would have an easier time of it than he, for he was a mule-headed fool who couldn’t see the obvious truth sitting directly in front of his face.

 

The Enemy was evil and insidious, but they had no power over Huushal’s actions. Only he could decide the path he would take, and so long as he kept this in mind, then the most these Spectres could do was annoy him with their whispers.

 

Mind at peace with his actions and desires for the first time in months, he followed orders and eagerly awaited his next target, of which there were plenty to pick and choose from. After relieving the other Sentinel unit, he led his retinue to chase down a pack of garo riders who were positioned to cut off Major Xinyue’s cavalry. The wind whipped through his hair as he charged the Enemy position, no longer bothering to hide his glee or his appreciation for the strumming longbows singing out behind him. The thrill of battle filled his veins and for once, there was no guilt to accompany it, for he was a man in love with battle, one who lived for the thrill of the fight, but this was not all he cared for. He was Huushal of the People, son to Chakta, Elia, and Ghurda, Husband to Yesui and Yosai, and friend of Falling Rain. When this battle was over and won, he would check in on his friend before returning home with his mother and wives, where he would spend the rest of his life making certain they knew he loved and appreciated all they did. Hell, he might even dig deep into his pockets and treat the old geezer for a meal out, seeing how he worked so hard to keep Huushal sane, and while they were not family, they were at least related by blood. It didn’t mean much in his eyes, but it was something, and the old codger didn’t seem to have anyone else to care for him besides Ma.

 

All this would have to wait however, as Huushal had one more thanks to give. This one went out to the Heavens, for there, leading the Enemy cavalry, was a face he recognized, one which haunted his darkest nightmares. The Defiled Chieftain’s clothes were different and his hair oiled and braided, but there was no mistaking him for anyone else. “Vithar!” he howled, his voice ugly and twisted with hate. “Huushal of the People has come to claim your life!

 

And to his anger and delight, the Chieftain smiled back before veering to meet Huushal in battle.

 

The Heavens had smiled upon him, for now, he finally had a chance to avenge Uncle Kalil.

 

Watch me Uncle. The boy has grown into a man, one who bears a murderous, righteous rage.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Finally. Khishigs of the Bekhai, worthy opponents for Vithar and his tribesmen.

 

A much needed challenge, one he would savour and relish. The western province was a land of plenty once you learned how to uncover the hidden wealth beneath its sand, and his tribe had grown fat and lazy from luxury. A culling was needed, not because the tribe could not support such numbers, but because the ancestors demanded it. How could his people remain strong without struggle and conflict? Weakness was death, even in these rich southern lands, and Vithar refused to let his people become fodder for others seeking strength.

 

What a fool he’d been, to sit idle behind stone walls for so many weeks, lulled into complacency by soft beds and softer women. The searing sun was not a foe he was equipped to face, and though it was better to adapt and overcome the sweltering heat and become stronger for it, exposing himself to its dazzling rays left him barely able to stand, and from there, he let his weakness set in and take root. Succumbing to weak, southern practices, he covered himself from head to toe in comfortable silks and slept through midday while slaves fanned his naked, sweating frame. Most days he whiled away enjoying the many comforts the southlands had to offer, succumbing to temptation in ways he never thought possible. He drank often and ate as he pleased, took new tribesmen and Champions into his tribe, yet only fought over streets and buildings behind stone walls when the prospect intrigued him.

 

Weak. Careless. Vulnerable. Without a proper Enemy to face, Vithar had become all this and more, but still the Uniter kept his tribesmen back, and Vithar had not been quick to argue. There were explanations aplenty from the whelps Hideo and Gen, that his garo riders were difficult to train and the beasts too valuable to risk, but Vithar erred in not arguing against this coddling. He enjoyed and delighted in the experiences these lands had to offer, but he knew now that these luxuries amounted to a slow and pleasant death.

 

Thus, when he finally set out onto the fields of battle, he found a rude awakening awaited him in this land called Central. The southlander walls presented more of a threat than he first realized, and for days, he’d champed and chaffed at what he saw as needless caution, watching lesser, undeserving warriors charge out into battle and return with glory and spoils aplenty while he and his spent their days atop garos with little to nothing to show for it. However, Warleader Gongsun Qi could easily crush Vithar with a single hand, and such strength demanded respect, but the old Warleader possessed cunning and experience too, as Vithar soon learned.

 

The southlanders were not as weak as he’d first expected, and their Peak Experts a sight to behold. The castle walls hid threat and danger aplenty, with many a powerful Warrior standing ready to defend them while hulking contraptions delivered death from afar. Time and time again, he watched stronger, faster, and more impressive Chieftains scale the southlander’s defences only to die upon spears and swords, and even Blessed Transcendents fighting in large numbers were unable to force their way through. As much as Vithar yearned to test his own skills, a part of him also knew he would not fare better than many other Chieftains, and likely worse than most.

 

There were many names to learn here on the battlefield, names of formidable foes like Akanai, Du Min Gyu, Binesi, and more, but Vithar lacked the strength to tackle them head on. A thrilling experience, for back home and even in Imperial North, he’d played the part of garo while those he met were mere rodents. Now, he himself was the rodent, and though he did not like the comparison much, he relished the chance to taste the blood of a foe more powerful than he. Not too powerful, mind you, as Vithar yearned for a challenge, not assisted death, and now, the ancestors had brought him worthy foes to defeat, these Khishigs of the Bekhai atop their fierce and delicious beasts. Upon closer inspection, he recognized the one who called his name, the cunning half-beast whelp who plagued him so outside the stone-walled village his tribe’s allies failed to take. It was there Vithar sacrificed Kalil of the Bekhai and tasted his worthy foe’s flesh, even sharing with his weakest tribesmen so that they might take in the valiant Warrior’s strength. He kept the heart for himself of course, for a Chieftain must remain strong, but he’d found precious few worthy foes to sacrifice since, and yearned to taste it again so that he might soon become worthy to face even stronger foes.

 

This would be fun, a reckoning of sorts. The whelp escaped death that night, and would hopefully be stronger for it, but Vithar did not expect much from this particular foe, one who was only memorable due to his frustrating longbows and hit-and-run tactics. Vithar only sought out the whelp because of his good manners, initiating a challenge and even announcing his name before blades were met so they could fight to their heart’s content, without Vithar needing to worry if the whelp’s ancestors would know who killed him.

 

To his surprise, the whelp left his longbow untouched and closed in to do battle face to face. Courage aplenty, but lacking in sense, this one was no different from the hot-blooded youths of Vithar’s tribes. No, check that, the half-beast was formidable in his own way, wielding a massive slab of steel with only a single hand, while his other arm was clad in hard metal from shoulder to fist. Two powerful weapons and a host of his Ancestors to guide him, the whelp had come a long way since Vithar saw him last. Perhaps Kalil’s spirit was among them, and even responsible for their presence, which meant he might well be a worthy foe, for the Ancestors granted great power to those who listened.

 

They rode directly towards one another, and no other warriors saw fit to stand in their way. Trusting in the warnings of the Ancestors, Vithar released his grip on the reins and took up his axe in both hands to meet the whelp’s one-handed attack. Overpower in the first exchange, then kill on the return stroke, that was his plan, but as axe met sabre, the impact threw him off his garo and sent him sailing back through the air, his ears ringing, arms throbbing, and hands numb. Snarling as he righted himself and searched for a safe landing, he Lightened and set foot atop a tribesman’s shoulder, where he paused just long enough for him to regain his bearings. Launching himself high into the air, he soared overhead of the conflict with a howl of challenge, his blood burning from the shame and humiliation he’d just endured.

 

Unseated by a whelp, overpowered in a direct exchange, the Champions of Vithar’s tribe would see this and think him weak. For this, Huushal of the Bekhai would die a slow and painful death, screaming as Vithar’s tribesmen watched and laughed while his enemies bore witness to what he would do to them, should they ever find the courage to face him. The whelp cooperated by riding out to meet Vithar, clearing the way with powerful swings of the sabre, and only now did he take note of his foe’s irregular grip. Rather than holding the hilt itself, Huushal’s fingers were fastened around a metal hoop fixed to the base of the hilt. Hardly notable in Vithar’s eyes, but the Ancestors believed differently, enlightening him to the error of his ways. A minor change in grip, but a sizable change in timing, meaning his Deflection, Amplification, and Reverberations had all been wasted as Huushal’s attack arrived slightly later than Vithar anticipated. This was the reasoning for his loss, a trick for the weak to deceive the strong, but a useful one nonetheless.

 

This time, Vithar got the timing right, and it was the whelp’s turn to be unseated. Pleasing as it was to see his foe’s shock, his satisfaction was muted by the fact that he’d meant to kill the delicious mount with the follow through, but Huushal’s guard proved sturdier than expected and repelled his attack. The result of striking from the air, without firm ground or a sturdy garo beneath him to bear his weight, but now he and his quarry would fight on foot. The whelp was eager to die, coming to his feet and rushing in with an overhand sweep. Vithar deftly avoided with a sidestep, grinning as he watched his foe work himself into a frothing rage. Blessed by the ancestors this one was, and were he not a soft southlander, Vithar would have considered accepting this Huushal into his tribe, for he would make for a fine Champion. Aggressive, but not reckless, powerful, yet cunning, blessed by the Ancestors, but not subject to their whims, the whelp had the markings of a fine future Chieftain.

 

Which meant Vithar would take great pleasure in stomping this fledgling flat.

 

Thoroughly enjoying himself for the first time in weeks, he planted his feet and traded blows with the whelp, savouring the powerful impacts and planning how to best demoralize and dismantle this foe. The sabre was not the only threat, as the whelp used his armoured shoulder-guard to good effect, charging in shoulder first to hide the angle of his sabre attacks. Though unwilling to accept a soft southlander into his tribe, Vithar wasn’t above helping this worthy southlander Transcend, for the hallowed Transcendent were the will of the Ancestors made manifest. Lashing out with a grin, he slipped in a blow and left a shallow cut on the whelp’s cheek, just to let him know he was outmatched. As expected, this only infuriated the whelp even further, his rage and fury driving him to risk life and limb to return the insult in kind. No longer content to stand in place, the whelp backed out of Vithar’s range and stalked about the battlefield, left alone by the tribesmen and southlanders battling around them. This was a duel between two warriors, one Huushal’s comrades respected, which Vithar had never expected from weak southlanders. He heard Hideo say that these Bekhai lived in the far north of the Empire, where they endured freezing weather and sparse landscapes for many moons over a season. This was nothing compared to life in the homeland, but it was clear these ‘harsh’ conditions had born Warriors of repute within the Empire’s otherwise soft and plentiful borders.

 

Dragging the sabre through the dirt like a heavy burden, Huushal presented his armoured shoulder to Vithar as if daring him to strike. A trade then, a desperate gambit with his life on the line, hoping to accept a blow on his armour in hopes of delivering Vithar a killing strike, but he was not so foolish as to accept. Feinting a trade, he pulled his axe back with a smile and watched the whelp’s sabre flash harmlessly by. Unable to let this opportunity pass, Vithar put an end to this fight by delivering a single, crippling cut to the back of his prey’s legs and severing the vital tendons there. Blood spurted and the whelp let out a pained, helpless cry before tumbling into the dirt. Smiling as Huushal twisted about in a futile effort to bring his weapon to bear, Vithar hefted his axe, but stayed his hand from delivering the killing blow. This would not do, there was not yet enough fear and despair, so Vithar backed off and let the whelp stew in panic.

 

Only to cock his head in confusion at seeing Huushal push himself to his feet, his tawny eyes still burning with determination.

 

Healing? How unfortunate. This would make defeating the whelp without killing him considerably more difficult. A challenge Vithar looked forward to, but in his excitement, he did not forget to keep a close eye on his tribesmen, and the battle was going poorly. More southlander cavalry had joined the fight, armoured from head to toe in unyielding steel, and now his tribesmen were caught between them and half the Bekhai, while the remainder gave his allied gajashias the run around. Fools, chasing after empty promises when a true battle lay so close nearby, but it was his tribesmen paying the price for his allies’ folly, so he no longer had the time to play.

 

Charging shoulder first towards him, Huushal’s sabre thrummed as it cut through the air, but Vithar did not stand to receive it. Stepping aside as if dodging a charging garo, he hamstrung the whelp as he passed, ducked under the wild, empty-handed strike, and shoved Huushal into the dirt again. Casually dismembering his foe’s arm, he sent it flying off with armour and all before leaving Huushal to writhe in the dirt, his strangled scream doing little to raise Vithar’s spirits. Yes, his tribe needed culling, but not like this, caught in a battle they could not win and ground into dust beneath the enemy talons. Charging into the fray, he killed two horsemen and a Bekhai warrior before rejoining his tribe, thinking it was well past time they withdrew to fight another day. Grabbing the reins of a blood-maddened garo, he jerked down to bring the beast in line, but the stubborn creature growled and snapped at his head. Backing away from the attack, he watched as the garo’s head burst apart as Huushal’s sabre struck it from the side, a throw which would’ve taken Vithar clean through the neck if not for the beast’s timely disobedience.

 

Yet another humiliation which must be answered.

 

Stalking over in a rage, he brought the whelp’s sabre with him and tossed it at Huushal’s feet, and was only mildly surprised to see him stand with all his limbs intact. Troublesome, this Healing ability, closing opened arteries and reattaching severed limbs, but better to avoid injury in the first place. Raising his axe without warning, he delivered a crushing, overhand blow which brought the whelp down to one knee, his sabre braced in both hands and held overhead to fend off the killing strike. A second blow broke Huushal’s right arm, and the sabre dropped, but he was still not yet ready to die. Blocking the third blow with his armoured left, he fell back into the dirt before Vithar’s onslaught, beaten, broken, but not yet defeated, his tawny eyes still burning with rage and desired vengeance. There was no chance to kill him slowly anymore, even with the gajashias finally lending aid to Vithar’s tribesmen, for the damage had been done and his people needed to withdraw, else he would become a Chieftain without a tribe.

 

Which is exactly what the Uniter wants.

 

Frozen in place with axe raised overhead, Vithar’s brow furrowed in bewildered confusion. Why would the Ancestors turn against the Uniter now? For many moons, the Ancestors urged Vithar to join forces with the Uniter, to bring bloodshed to the southlanders and reap rewards a plenty, but now they claimed the Uniter unfaithful?

 

How many other tribes have fallen before Imperial blades?

 

Why does he not share his wondrous armour and weapons with you and your tribesmen?

 

Did he not lure away the strongest members of your tribe? How many Chieftains and Champions still remain?

 

What has he given you besides that which you took yourself? Where are the rewards he promised?

 

“Ye gonna take a swing, or ye feel like standing there all day?”

 

Blinking at the wizened form before him, Vithar took five steps back and still felt unsafe. The aged, silvered half-beast appeared weak and frail, but the Ancestors screamed at him to flee and retreat. Dangerous, too dangerous, for the Ancestors had only warned Vithar like this once before, on the day he thought to plant his axe in between the Uniter’s eyes. “Fight’s over,” the monstrous elder said, glancing elsewhere as if tracking another. “Away with ye now. The girl plays at being hard and tough, but if mama bear sees what ye did to her pup, she’ll tear ye limb from limb, and that’d be a waste of a good whetstone.” Waving him off with a snort, the hunched half-beast turned his back on Vithar to check on the whelp, but even then, he lacked the courage to attack or even remain in place. Finding himself another garo, he ordered his tribesmen to retreat with all haste, and not a moment too soon.

 

Dark shadows emerged from darker clouds and the skies boomed overhead, but not with thunder to herald the coming of rain. No, this was the sound of Peak Experts arriving with all haste, and Vithar spotted billowing dust erupt from within his allies’ lines. Bodies flew as the ground exploded beneath this new arrival, hiding whoever had landed within, but the Warrior soon identified himself with a boisterous chuckle that echoed across the battlefield. “Gongsun Qi,” a crisp, high-pitched voice said. “Long have I, Mitsue Juichi yearned to test your mettle.”

 

Turning his gaze east, Vithar grit his teeth and growled, for there on the horizon, he spotted another army streaming towards them. Imperial reinforcements had arrived, and even Vithar knew the name of the Obsidian Shadow who led them, one of the most powerful Warriors the Empire had to offer. Even as his blood heated at the prospect of true struggle, his body chilled as two more voices sounded out and spoke names he also recognized.

 

“Come now, comrade Mitsue,” a dry, passionless voice began, “Did we not agree to give way to our junior and let Comrade Ryo Dae Jung have the first try?”

 

“Thank you for the consideration, Colonel General Shuai Jiao,” a third voice said, so plain and unremarkable Vithar would have difficulty identifying the speaker even if he heard it again, “But there is no need to quibble. I am more than happy to wait my turn, for there are plenty of Defiled here to keep me company.”

 

The Sword King and the Grasping Vine. Three Colonel Generals here on the battlefield, warriors to match Gongsun Qi himself. Though Vithar knew little of tactics and deployments, he suspected they’d overstayed their welcome and the Imperials would make them pay dearly for this.

 

Vithar had thought the southlands were ripe for the taking, but to his chagrin, this was a land of death just like the homeland he’d left behind. Death in a different form, a slow, lingering death, but death nonetheless, so perhaps it was time to rethink his options. Strength was his goal, glory and bloodshed his desire, but thus far, he’d found precious little of both here in the southlands. Returning to the Western province to resume old feuds and start fresh ones seemed far more appealing than being toyed to death by the Uniter and Imperials both, so perhaps it was time to speak with other Chieftains and see if their Ancestors had offered similar advice. At the very least, Vithar had no intentions of surrendering just yet, not to the Imperials, the Uniter, or even the whims of the Ancestors. He was his own man, a Chieftain and Warrior, one who’d forgotten the first rule of survival: to place personal strength above all else. The food, women, entertainment, none of it mattered, for without strength, anyone could simply take it all away.

 

Regardless of his decision, there was no point staying around to fight to the bitter end. Victory or defeat, Vithar was certain his tribe would not fall today, not with so many slower allies behind them.

 

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