by Pirateaba
It doesn’t work. Something in me speaks. I look into Gamel’s heart. His soul.
“Stop.”
Something—Gamel stares at me. The wound on his chest is gushing blood. It stains the ground. But now the blood stops. Gamel’s body jerks. He stares at me. My voice is an echo. Distant. Loud like tempests, terrible. Alien. It rolls and breaks upon the ears of the living. A command.
“Stand up.”
His legs move. Weakly. There’s not enough strength in him. That’s fine. I’ll give him more. I rise.
“Stand up, Gamel. You swore to follow me on the graves of your parents. In ice and blood and loss. It is not time for you to die. I need you. Stand up!”
His body moves. Gamel rises, the sword in his hand gripped in a pale hand. I turn. There are Goblins fighting with the villagers. They stare at Gamel as he turns towards them, his chest opened, covered in his life’s blood.
“Fight!”
Gamel charges. Flames burst from his hand and sear one Goblin’s chest. He hacks at another Goblin. They fall back, afraid.
The other villagers are fighting. They see Gamel and falter. But then they hear my voice.
“Fight, people of Riverfarm! Fight, folk of Windrest! Fight! You have sworn yourselves to me! Fight for your [Emperor]!”
I command them. I command their very souls. The wounded rise. Exhausted arms move as if they were fresh. Limbs without strength grapple with their opponents and force them back. My voice is in their ears as the villagers form up, forcing the line of Goblins back. The words come out of me, out of some place in my soul.
“Stand. I see your lives like flames on the sea. You are mine. The water will not touch you. The wind cannot quench your fire. So long as I live, your fates and mine burn together. I do not give you permission to die. So stand—and show me nothing but victory.”
The Goblins hesitate. They have never seen this. An old man with a rake charges them, hacking at faces. He blinds a Goblin with a strike, bites the sharpened points deep into another Goblins’ back. Others stab him, mortal wounds to his chest and throat.
Breathless, he keeps swinging his rake. Heart stopped, he seizes a Goblin and tears at his throat. He keeps moving as he falls, keeps fighting. And he is one. Gamel fights past him, face contorted with rage. Prost runs through a Goblin and keeps running. The villagers charge and the Goblins retreat.
Something roars. The Goblins turn and something charges them from behind. The [Shaman] casting spells at the dying witch stops laughing and sees a paw descend. The Mossbear smashes the Goblin flat and bites into a second. It roars, and bites the intruders. Called by a spell. Commanded by an [Emperor].
Two shapes fight amid the Goblins and Humans. Two giants. Durene and the Hobgoblin strike at each other, trading blows. He has a shield to go with his sword and moves with trained grace. She is slow. Her shield is crude, but it blocks his sword.
Yet she is wounded. He’s cut her deeply on the side and along one breast. Now the Hob senses the tide turning. He snarls and swings his sword. Durene sees it coming on her club arm. She does not try to block.
She howls and swings her club. The sword bites deep into her arm, cutting through grey flesh and stopping on bone. The Hobgoblin raises his other arm, his shield. The club falls through the sky and nothing in this world can stop it.
The shield deforms. The arm breaks. The Hobgoblin’s head implodes and it falls. Durene turns with his sword still buried in her left arm and roars.
She has forgotten who she is. I have forgotten who I am. A girl reaches out for fury and finds it in her desperation, in her rage.
The Goblins look at her and step back. She looms over them, bleeding, holding her club. They see the part of her the Humans fear. The part of her that has never come out before.
Troll.
Durene roars and swings her club. Two Goblins die. She hammers another one into the ground, dead the moment her weapon touches him. On the hill, an [Emperor] howls and his people rush forwards around the Troll, screaming, fearless.
The Goblins are warriors. Not heroes. They break and flee as they are overrun.
A screaming band of riders rushes out from the village, weapons and armor covered in blood. They charge the Goblins from the side, cutting down Goblins from behind.
Not one escapes. The last is crushed by a massive hand. Durene tears the Goblins’s arm from his socket and hurls the body to the ground to stomp on it. In the sudden silence, every head turns.
Like magic, the villagers, the adventurers, and the half-Troll turn to look at a young man. He stands by himself, apart from the fighting. Something is looming in his shadow. He stands like a giant amid the dead, and for a moment his words are bolts of lightning, strings that death cannot cut.
Then it fades. He sags and villagers drop like stones. Laken Godart stares at his hands. They are not covered in blood. They are wet instead.
With tears.
—-
It’s over. The Goblins are dead. But it is not over.
There are wounded to attend to. So many. So many dead. In truth, not that many—
Not all. But more fall by the second, whether from exhaustion or mortal injuries, it’s impossible to say. Prost carries people to beds, opens healing potion bottles with trembling hands. It’s a race against time and some die despite his efforts.
And mine. I open bottles, hand them to people, pour the liquid over wounds and wait for them to close. Some don’t. I’m just one person in the village. One person among many that no one speaks to.
No one can look at me. No one speaks to me. I think they’re afraid to. I can barely exist myself. I—feel like I was another person for a while. I feel like another man’s memories are in my head.
What did I say? Why did I say it? How could I—
I stop and lean against the wall of a house. It’s cold. I feel sick. I want to throw up, but I can’t. I am their [Emperor]. I gave them the orders. No one else did. I ordered them to fight, and when they were dying, I told them to live.
Because I willed it.
And then I remember Gamel. I find him among the wounded, lying on a cot in the barn. I slow as I see him.
“Gamel?”
“Emperor?”
He stares up at me. I can feel his hands shaking as they try to grip mine. The gaping wound in his stomach is gone. All healed. But the trauma and blood loss can’t be healed so easily. He can’t stand.
He is hovering at the edge of life and death. He was dead. He was meant to be dead. The wound’s closed, but he can’t be alive. Like the old man with the rake. He was still moving afterwards. But though the potion closed his injuries, he never opened his eyes.
“Gamel. I’m sorry.”
“I—was happy to serve. You gave me strength.”
Gamel struggles to talk. I can see something in his eyes, fading away again. I shake my head. Tears.
“I shouldn’t have. I took something from you. I—”
“Wanted to. Give. A ruler is more than a man.”
I stare down at Gamel.
“No. Yes. He is. But I am still sorry.”
It’s not a word. Just a question in his eyes. I sit by Gamel. The words come out of me slowly.
“A ruler can afford to see nothing but pawns and tools or break his heart against his duties. But the mortal, human soul in him must cry out for every injustice he commits. Or he is no ruler, but a monster wearing the same skin. I am both. And I am sorry.”
“Still my [Emperor]. Saved us. I’ll live.”
I smile. My heart is twisting in my chest.
“Yes. You will live. Sleep now, Gamel. Sleep—and rest while I can still let you.”
He closes his eyes. I can’t tell if he’s dying or not. I put my hand on his chest and feel nothing.
I look around. The lines of bodies are long. But I sense many chests rising and falling.
Thirty one dead, forty six wounded. Of that number, eight had wounds that could not be healed with potions. A young man lost
three fingers. A wife a leg. One of Berniar’s riders lost an eye. Some should have died from the wounds they took.
But they lived. Because I commanded it. They lived when many should have died.
The Mossbear is gone. It left after eating some of the dead Goblins. I think it was wounded, but not deeply. Wiskeria summoned it from its cave.
A last resort. An emergency measure. That’s why she wanted the fur.
These are all numbers I see. In my mind. But it doesn’t change reality. I stare at the few people who are upright. Some are still holding their weapons. A shovel, a rake, a frying pan of all things. But they killed with them. The blood is still on some.
I have made warriors of these humble folk. I have turned farmers into killers and taught them what death is. Is there anyone who wouldn’t be changed by such an experience? They have killed.
Goblins. They killed Goblins. But Goblins are too much like people. The people of Riverfarm and Windrest will remember this day for the rest of their lives.
Prost finds me kneeling next to Gamel. He takes me away for a moment. When he speaks, it’s a simple statement.
“You saved us.”
“You saved yourselves.”
“No.”
He shakes his head.
“You saved us. I felt it. When you spoke—”
“I manipulated you. I took away your will. I forced you to—I had no right. Surely you agree.”
He shakes his head again. There’s pain in Prost’s eyes. His wife was the one who lost her leg. But his children are alive. I look into his eyes and see little gratitude. It hurts too much for that. But neither do I see anger or hatred, either.
“Not for us to say, my Emperor. We are yours. We gave all we had to you for our lives, and that of our families. We are sworn to you. Servants, subjects to a ruler. If we wished for freedom, we could only but rebel and break our oaths. We would be damned for that.”
“Some oath. What do you get, then?”
“You, lord.”
I look at Prost. He reaches out.
“You. We are yours and you are ours. So it is for every ruler and his people. They are his, or hers. And they belong to their people. One cannot live without the other. For better or worse, they are bound until one is gone.”
“Is it a Skill? Part of my class?”
For the first time in a long while, I see Prost smile. He shakes his head.
“It is not just part of classes and levels. It is the bond we have made. You gave us hope and purpose. You gave us life when the snow buried our home and our families. You pulled us out with your bare hands. How could we not give you everything we have in return?”
He leaves me with that. I go back and find Wiskeria. She’s sobbing over one of her friends. When she sees me she bows her head.
“I don’t know what—I heard you. I felt you. I—I can’t go back to Invrisil after this. I can’t.”
I kneel as she chokes on her words. She looks at me with tears in her eyes.
“Part of me died here. Part of the Celestial Trackers. We’re gone. We put too much of ourselves into that battle.”
Of the Trackers, four out of twelve survived. Of the Windfrozen Riders, five. I look at Wiskeria. At her as she is, raw, grieving. It’s not the time. But there’s nothing else I can give her.
“Wiskeria, I—I’ve misjudged you. You and your group have given—no. Wiskeria, listen to me.”
She looks at me.
“Be my [General].”
I say it softly. She blinks as if she can’t understand. But she’s smart.
“What? How?”
I turn. So many wounded. So many hurt. A battle with no [Strategist] or [Leader]. I look back at her.
“I have…a certain number of positions I can give away as an [Emperor]. Not many positions of nobility; they’re filled. But every ruler needs someone to direct their armies. I’d like that person to be you.”
“Me?”
“You lead the battle. You’ve lead a group. No one else can do it. Beniar is too reckless, but you—you could do it.”
“But I’m a [Witch]. I never dreamed of being a [General]. I can’t just give up my class.”
“Be a [Witch], then. Be a [General], too. Be the first [Witch General] the world has ever seen. If that class exists, you’ll have it. If not—I’ll make it for you. But be mine, Wiskeria.”
I hold out my hand to her, in the barn full of grieving voices and death. There isn’t anything else in the world but Wiskeria and me. She stares at my hand, at me.
“Take my hand and walk with me until the world ends or we do.”
Forever passes as we look at each other. There’s still so much we don’t know. But she knows enough of me and I know her. She takes my hand. And it’s done.
I find Durene after the rest of it. She’s crying, holding a friend. I hold her close and feel her shaking. We lie down for a second and hold each other. For a second of rest. Then she gets up to help the wounded again. My [Paladin]. I close my eyes.
[Emperor Level 15!]
[Skill – Empire: Art of the Builder Obtained!]
[Skill – Undying Loyalty Learned.]
Sleep calls. But I hear the voice and know. In my heart. It pulls me up. I stand.
[Undying Loyalty]. A word for what I did. A chance. Just one.
So I sit with Gamel throughout the night. He alone lives. The rest, those who I called back from the grave—
Die.
Day 70
Durene leveled too. That’s the upshot of it. Wiskeria became a Level 4 [General] overnight—Prost leveled. I don’t think there was one person in the village who didn’t level or gain a class, come to that.
There’s no work to be done the next day. Just burying the dead and burning the Goblins. I feel like a ghost at times, so little do I speak. There’s no need for an [Emperor] to order anything at this moment. I just need to be there so people can see me. To know I’m there.
They still believe in me. They believe in a man who ordered them to fight and die. Because in doing so, I saved them. I cannot forgive myself, but there is nothing to forgive for them.
We are alive. I go on with that knowledge keeping me sane.
Durene and I sit together after the digging is done. The cold ground is rough, but she is tireless. Among her new Skills is [Lesser Endurance].
Now, in the quiet of mourning I finally tell her the truth. She sits cross-legged with me, feeding Frostwing and letting the bird nip her fingers. Frostwing flaps her wings and a feather floats down.
“A [General], a [Steward], a [Paladin]…all of these classes are rare. Special. Stronger than normal classes because they’re more important, you could say. Or so my theory goes.”
“So that’s why you gave it to me.”
“Well, that wasn’t my idea to begin with. That was…luck.”
“Oh. But it’s better than other classes?”
“Better than [Warrior]? Yes, I think so. I think some classes are just designed that way, in whatever system this world works off of.”
“But that’s not fair.”
“Of course not. But it has to be this way, Durene. How can a [General] be both a [Strategist], [Warrior], and [Leader] all at the same time? It’s because he—”
“Or she.”
“Thank you. Yes, or she—must be all these things and arguably just as good as an expert in all three fields. There’s a famous [Lord] in the north named Tyrion Veltras. Apparently he’s not only able to manage a vast amount of his lands, but he’s one of the leaders who commands the Human armies when they fight against the Drakes. To me, that sounds like he’s got at least two classes’ worth of Skills packed into one.”
“Oh. That’s good, then. So you’ll give more classes to other people?”
I nod, staring at my hands. This is one of the things I can do for them. I owe them this.
“I’m going to make Gamel my [Knight] if he wants me to. If not—there are other classes I’ve thought of. I have a few goo
d suggestions, too. Wiskeria will offer the rank of [Captain] to Beniar to start with, and if I need to, I’ll give him a higher rank. If he doesn’t like that, I’ll see if he wants to wear armor. If there’s a [Cataphract] class, I’d love to see if his [Riders] could obtain it by wearing armor.”
Durene nods. She stares across the village, at the churned ground, still stained in places, where the fighting happened. She feels at her arm where the sword cut her.
“So how do you know all this, Laken? Claiming lands with markers, giving all these classes out—did you think of it yourself?”
“No. Actually, I…”
I break off and look around. But no one’s nearby to listen. Still, prompted by some hunch, I lean over to Durene. She obligingly bends her head down.
“I…was given this advice by someone. Let’s call it some insider advice. Ah…you don’t know what I mean by that, do you, Durene?”
“Nope.”
“My…informant, let’s call him, was rather strange. He seemed to know exactly how a lot of things would turn out and he knew a lot about my class. He admitted as much. So I’ve used a lot of his suggestions—”
“Like making Mister Prost a [Steward]? And turning Wiskeria into a [General]?”
“And the trick with the totem poles—I mean, markers. Yeah. It’s a bit odd how much was exactly like he said. I was wary about taking all the advice, but it was free, and there’s a saying where I come from…”
I trail off for a second. Durene nudges me.
“What? What’s the saying?”
“Oh, ‘don’t look a gift horse in the mouth’.”
She shifts and I hear her voice rumbling in confusion as we sit together.
“Why wouldn’t you look one in the mouth? It could be dangerous. What if it was a Dresh Horse? You’d be sorry for not checking, then!”
I have to laugh at that. Trust Durene to come up with a practical answer to a silly folk saying.
“What’s a Dresh—never mind. I get it. And you’re right. But I can’t help but think someone’s on our side out there. Or at least, we’re getting help because it suits someone for the moment.”
“Okay, but when did you meet him? I never saw—”