Equimancer's Realm

by A.B. Robertson

  “Heathen… Though I must agree; there are certain similarities,” grinned Octarian.

  Sylvain rolled his eyes.

  “Oh well, you got a point,” he finally admitted.

  Month of the Ibex, Midwinter

  Téyávíxit, Areshadia

  “It’s colder here than in an old crone’s butthole,” Readbeard pulled the fur cape closer around his neck.

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” remarked Vipra with distaste.

  The Alliance’s forces were lined up in front of the Five Tribes’ – or rather True Areshadia’s, – largest tomb; the Tomb of the Snake.

  It was the home of tens of thousands North Sareans.

  “Is it wise to attack the biggest city first?” Maister Coleman-Bitter asked, suddenly dubious.

  “Yes,” replied Vipra.

  “It will send a message if we crush their strongest tomb first,” explained Redbeard.

  He took in the sight of their forces; his heart filled with pride and anticipation.

  The fifty-thousand riders, all equipped with the newest Kronurian weapons and the best quality South Sarean armour, would have made any self-respecting Warchief cry with joy.

  And they were only half of their army.

  The other half were resting to be fit for the taking of the next tomb.

  There was no point swatting a mouse with ten tigers. Five would do.

  The defenders of the ramparts sounded their horns to warn the ones on the inside about the upcoming attack.

  ‘Go ahead, your voice carries further than mine,’ Vipra projected to Redbeard.

  He let his horse take a few steps forward, and cleared his throat.

  “Tribe of the Snake! We didn’t come to chat. You have two hours to surrender,” he roared.

  Nobody moved, nobody replied.

  He scratched his head and looked at Vipra. She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Téyá Kälxi, tík álókat fom, choy nipobyókat nopokat. Did you hear me?” he shouted towards the men lined up on top of the fortifications surrounding the tomb.

  “We heard you the first time. Work on your grammar,” came the reply.

  “Why don’t you tell your people what I just told you?”

  “We sounded the horns; they know we’re under attack. Nobody here will surrender to traitors,” the man shouted back.

  “And you have the authority to decide that?” Redbeard was getting angry.

  “Yes, I’m the Captain of the Ramparts and my decision is final. We’re ready when you are. Come, try to break our gate and have a taste of our pitch, Fäläzxál Chobfisíl,” he laughed.

  “Impertinent bastard,” Redbeard muttered at the insult, and took an affectionate look at his battering ram.

  “We’ll shoot you all down before we break your gate,” he yelled at the Captain.

  “Stop talking already and do your worst!”

  “Suit yourselves,” he shouted back, then turned to Vipra.

  “Shall we wait for two hours anyway?”

  “Seems to be pointless. You heard the man,” she pointed out.

  “Well, we did warn them,” Redbeard shrugged.

  Maister Louis Coleman-Bitter rode up to one of the wagons.

  “Unpack the trebuchets and the crates with the red markings first. Ready the catapults and the mangonels,” he ordered his men.

  The siege weapons were prepared, and the crates were carefully placed on the ground.

  Pairs of metal balls the size of human heads, attached to each other by strong ropes, were lined up a good distance away from the riders.

  Once two-hundred pairs of bombs were unpacked, he waved his right hand.

  “Hawkers!” Louis shouted.

  A hundred majestic, armoured Kronurian Iceplain Hawks and their riders swooped down to pick up two bombs each.

  “Good swooping,” remarked Sulli, Son of Redbeard.

  “Indeed, swooping isn’t necessarily bad,” laughed his father.

  “One wave should do it.

  No guns needed; just concentrate on your aim.

  Fly high enough not to be hit by bolts or arrows.

  That should be a safe distance not to be caught up in the blasts.

  I don’t want to see any unnecessary acts of heroism,” Coleman-Bitter barked his orders at the hawkers.

  “They look amazing,” Maxa gushed with a glint in her eyes.

  The feathers and armour of the silvery blue birds seemed to sparkle by the light of the late autumnal sunlight as they flew towards the tomb’s fortifications.

  They circled effortlessly as their riders positioned themselves for the bombardment. The hawkers watched both their aim, and the other members of their squad.

  For a few seconds it seemed, as if time stood still.

  The only motion came from the hawkers signalling to each other.

  Then, as if by an unheard command, the birds dropped the bombs in unison.

  The sounds and lights of the impact of the aerial attack left everybody stunned for quite a few seconds.

  “Impressive,” even Vipra couldn’t help expressing her appreciation.

  “I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as this,” Redbeard’s jaw dropped as the dense red smoke rose from two-hundred spots, accompanied by the sounds of the explosions.

  The corpses of the defenders of the ramparts flew over the fortifications in high arches on both sides.

  “I wish I could be a hawker,” Sulli whispered in awe.

  “They’ll have to figure out how to cross an elephant with a bird first,” Maxa grinned at him.

  “You’re getting too cocky. Your mouth is way too big for such a small girl,” Sulli glared at her.

  “Oh come on, you’re too tall. None of those riders are above five and a half feet,” she laughed and ducked.

  “Oi! Stop spoiling the moment, insufferable brats,” Redbeard shouted at his children, and turned back to the spectacle.

  It took a few minutes until the hawkers touched down next to the riders.

  Another ten minutes passed until the smoke dispersed.

  Silence set in.

  “Aaaah, I could have watched this for days,” Redbeard clutched his chest, and secretly wiped away a tear of joy.

  ‘Can you detect any sign of life?’ Vipra projected to the ones who could hear her.

  Readbeard, Maxa and Sulli used their abilities.

  After about a minute they all shook their heads.

  ‘Good, we can proceed then,’ Vipra gave her head a little nod.

  Redbeard rubbed his hands.

  “Most of the fortification is damaged, the gate still stands though. Battering ram time,” he announced affectionately.

  “That thing cost us half a day,” Vipra spat.

  “Yes, Father, it’s just too slow to be dragged along with us, just like the other outdated siege weapons,” Maxa volunteered.

  “The only thing those are good for the steamguns can do in half the time,” Sulli interjected.

  “You should have more respect for our traditions, you two,” Redbeard glared at his offspring.

  “I have crafted that beauty of a battering ram myself over twenty years ago. There’s not one dent on it; maybe because it’s made entirely of the finest metals,” he huffed.

  “That explains why it’s so heavy and slow,” Vipra remarked.

  “That might be true, but as opposed to your steamguns, my battering ram doesn’t require any expensive ammo.”

  Vipra raised her hands in defeat.

  “Fine, use it already. Your skull is as dense as…”

  “A battering ram?” Redbeard guessed.

  “I’m warning you; say battering ram one more time, and I might forget myself,” Vipra squinted at the Warchief.

  He set off to ready his favourite toy.

  “Battering ram,” he whispered with a mutinous grin.

  Vipra had to give it to Redbeard; after a few, well-placed hits of the mangonels, his battering ram broke
through the gate in a surprisingly short time. Meanwhile, the trebuchets and catapults tore the fortifications apart.

  When they moved through the courtyard and reached the main gate of the tomb, Vipra didn’t feel like repeating the same discussion. She just let Redbeard take charge of his beloved siege weapon.

  “Unpack the crates with the yellow markings,” Coleman-Bitter commanded his men.

  He went up to Sulli and bowed.

  “Lord Sulli, would you do us the honour?”

  Son of Redbeard got off his horse.

  “Just tell me what to do,” he said with glinting eyes.

  “What about me?” Maxa asked indignantly.

  Coleman-Bitter bowed towards her.

  “I beg for your forgiveness, my Lady. We are all aware of your excellent fighting skills. Alas, they are all based on agility, aim and expertise. What this task requires apart from aim, is brute strength.”

  Maxa huffed, but looking into the man’s mind, she could unlock all he didn’t want to say out loudly. Apparently, the smoke-bombs were heavy to lift, which she could have managed, but according to him she didn’t have the strength to throw them.

  “Fine,” she said in defeat.

  “Ready the steamguns,” Coleman-Bitter ordered the squad of shooters.

  Maxa slid off her horse and looked at the commander challengingly. He bowed his head.

  “Choose your position, my Lady,” he said in a placating voice.

  While the steamguns were lined up aiming at the tomb’s entrance, the soldiers with the smoke bombs surrounded the gate.

  “Grenadiers, get ready,” Coleman’s voice disrupted the relative silence.

  The squad filled their special belts with a dozen grenades and one liquid-filled bottle each.

  They all took a long piece of fabric and a short wooden plank each as well.

  They spread out to take their positions at the tomb’s air-shafts.

  “Smoke bombs! One after the other, throw it as far in as you can.

  Gunners, hold your fire.

  Don’t shoot unless you hear my command,” Coleman-Bitter shouted.

  “Go!”

  One smoke bomb after the other went off in the tomb.

  Dense yellow smoke rose.

  “I doubt it will make many of them come out,” remarked Redbeard dubiously.

  “It’s meant to intimidate them. Most will run further inside, my Lord,” Louis explained.

  “Hmmm,” the Warchief said, wishing they could just run in and fight like real warriors do.

  ‘There might be a significant number of future supporters in there,’ Vipra projected to him, sensing his doubts.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Redbeard sighed, patting his great-sword.

  Shouts erupted from the tomb.

  Some of the tribe members ran out, shaking and coughing.

  Once facing the steamguns some tried to run, some surrendered straight away.

  “Children under twelve, pregnant women and over-sixties to the left, all others to the right,” Coleman-Bitter shouted at the group of soldiers who took charge of the tribe members.

  “I would have never thought Kronurians excelled at fighting,” Redbeard pondered.

  “We don’t, but we’re impeccable at strategic planning,” Maister Louis grinned.

  He was surprised he could actually put his war-theory studies into real-life practice. He got top marks at the University, but so far all he had commanded were lead soldiers on a table. Considering the circumstances, he thought he did quite well so far.

  The last smoke-bomb was thrown.

  “Grenades! One per minute! Starting… now!” Coleman yelled.

  The grenadiers pulled the pins out of their missiles, and dropped them through the vents.

  “The explosions are just for effect, but the grenades are filled with something that will make them tear up and salivate. It will also make breathing hard, but they will be unharmed, I promise,” Louis looked at Vipra.

  He wished he could have been more specific and professional, but the Jesterlander inventors plainly refused to tell even the Kronurian Government what their concoctions consisted of.

  “Fine,” Vipra said.

  She made up her mind to trust her Alliance; she was determined to stick to their plans.

  If it went wrong, she would draw her conclusions.

  Up until now she was satisfied.

  More and more people ran out of the tomb.

  A few of them dashed straight towards the steamguns or tried to attack the members of the Alliance.

  They were shot on the spot with Coleman-Bitter’s consent.

  “Bottles!” Louis shouted once every grenade had been dropped.

  The grenadiers doused the pieces of fabric they had taken previously in the liquid from their bottles, and set them alight.

  Black smoke rose from the cloths.

  Vipra and Redbeard could smell the noxious stench even from their positions.

  After the soldiers had dropped them into the air-shafts, they took the wooden planks, and held them firmly against the vents.

  “That should do it,” Louis declared, wiping his brows. He hoped the results would equal his expectations.

  By then, every single rider got off their horses, positioned themselves and were ready to greet the escaping masses with aimed guns.

  Sure enough, hundreds after hundreds of Areshadians appeared in the courtyard.

  “Shoot the ones who show any kind of resistance,” Coleman-Bitter ordered.

  “No!” Vipra raised her voice.

  Everybody turned towards her.

  “We have enough cloth and wooden planks. Let’s give the resisting ones a chance to reconsider. Crucify them,” she said.

  Silence greeted her demand.

  “What? I didn’t say impale them,” she shook her head in incomprehension.

  “A clean shooting would be a nicer option of execution,” Redbeard volunteered.

  “My nation doesn’t condone such punishment,” Louis muttered.

  Vipra rolled her eyes, yet again questioning the benefits of diplomacy.

  “If you shoot them, they’re dead.

  If you bind them onto a ‘T’ shaped contraption by their wrists without supporting their feet, they will live for several hours.

  All they need to do is to say is ‘I surrender’ and we can let them down.”

  “And if they don’t?” Maister Louis asked dubiously.

  “Then they will die a slow and painful death by suffocation. Like traitors should. Or you can shoot them in the morning if that makes you feel better.”

  “Seems fair to me. After all, they are our enemies, and had you followed my method, they’d be dead by now,” Redbeard nodded in agreement.

  “And don’t forget, they might drink your blood by night if we don’t restrain them,” the Warchief cocked an eyebrow at Coleman-Bitter, and quickly winked at Vipra.

  ‘I wish you didn’t encourage this silly myth,’ she said, suppressing a grin.

  She couldn’t help it; she thought it was a little funny.

  Louis shuddered and nodded.

  Suddenly, he felt much more enthusiastic about the crucifixions.

  “Make camp for the night,” he shouted at his men, and walked off to order a few hundred crosses.

  Hardly had Maxa and Sulli reappeared, Louis returned.

  “We should have two groups of prisoners, but there are a few hundred young ones that won’t tell us their age, and a few women who might be pregnant or just… well fed,” he admitted.

  “Maxa, Sulli, go and help,” Redbeard ordered his children.

  ‘Raid their minds if they don’t respond,’ he added.

  “Commander Coleman-Bitter, send in a squad to make sure the tomb is empty. Then, select the four best riders from amongst the prisoners, and send them to the tombs of the remaining tribes so they can tell them about what happened here today,” Vipra said.

  “With the utmost res
pect, Úlmá, will that not give them time enough to prepare for out attack?” Louis asked with eyes cast down.

  “Prepare to do what? Sharpen their sticks?” she squinted at him.

  “It shall be done. I’m sorry I asked,” he said, and he was.

  Vipra and Redbeard settled next to a blazing fire.

  The camp around them was bustling with rebels being crucified, prisoners being sorted into groups, tents being erected and stews being cooked.

  Redbeard poured a brownish liquid into two goblets with a happy smile.

  The Matriarch took one of them.

  “So what’s the plan, Your Strictness?” Redbeard grinned at Vipra.

  “We have the young, the old and the pregnant go to the New Country. The rest we kill or imprison until they join us.

  We will take the remaining four tombs, and then the New Country will be opened up to rest of the World.”

  “What I don’t understand is why I’m asking you what to do,” Redbeard grinned, clinking his goblet against hers.

  “Because you know what’s good for you,” she replied with the slightest hint of a smile.

  Month of the Falcon, Late Winter

  Realm’s Heart Island

  For most of the citizens of the Realm it was the most anticipated time of the year; the two days of the Wintersky Festival.

  It wasn’t the most lavish or the most sophisticated of Festivals, but for most it was the most exciting one. During the two days that were dedicated to Lady Hermit’s companion, the Jester, virtue and decency were forbidden.

  One magical sentence ruled those days; ‘Don’t speak, just kiss’.

  Once somebody was told these words, they had no choice; kissing was obligatory.

  Jealous wives and possessive husbands locked the doors of their houses and hid the key until the Festival was over, but most Realmers – and foreign visitors – prowled the streets with hopeful anticipation.

  It was another occasion that brought legions of out-of-towners to the Island; all the rooms of every single inn were booked, dozens of camp-sites in the outskirts were erected, – despite the freezing temperatures.

  According to the statistics of the Academy; most children in the Realm were born at the beginning of the Month of the Scorpion, which was nine months after the Wintersky Festival. The result of the research offered two explanations; the first being, that married couples resorted to their spouses after all the excitement of the days, the second was put down to the activity of the newly established relationships.