Hurus’s face paled. “Oh, what, you going to hit me, Sy?”
“I’m not going to hit you,” he promised. “Stand up.”
“You don’t have to do as he says,” said the red-haired Petula. “He doesn’t outrank you; you don’t have to submit to what he says, Hurus.”
Finding no other outcome and without wanting to seem weak, Hurus stood up and stared down at Syros. He was large and stocky, not weak in the slightest. However, Syros had fought many stronger. He gave a slight grin before smacking him as hard as he could with his right fist, and then continued to rain punches down on him until a loud booming voice caught his attention.
“Syros!”
Captain Raynmaher was standing by the entrance of the campsite, his eyes wide and fierce. “In my tent… now!”
Breathing heavily, Syros cursed the fact that he could not continue his exorcism of built-up anger. He arose from Hurus, who sat up, nose bleeding. “Mental case,” he heard one of them murmur as he sauntered away. Good – he was glad that’s what they thought of him. He didn’t even know what a ‘mental case’ was but he kind of liked the sound of it. He did not care if they did not like him; that was never something he longed for. To be honest, he had no idea what he did long for. He thought back to the night before, lying with Torjan and Saniya as they had searched the night stars together, and how at peace he had felt in that moment. Perhaps there was something more…
Syros walked into the open pavilion of Captain Lars Raynmaher. The tent’s interior was lit by a single lantern aflame upon a desk in the far corner. Maps and written reports lay messily; it appeared whatever his squadron leader did within his tent, he did in a most disorganised way. Captain Raynmaher, a middle-aged man with a thin, brown moustache, short brown hair and bright blue eyes, sat behind his desk at the end of the tent. After a moment of silently studying his papers, Raynmaher looked up towards him in a tired, almost lethargic, manner.
“Are you a woman, Syros?”
“Excuse me, Sir?”
“A woman…” Raynmaher once again asked, in a way that came across as being deadly serious. “Are you a woman?”
“No?”
“It’s just that you are showing mood swings that are not too dissimilar to those of my wife. I am not going to punish you for hitting Hurus because truth be told the boy needed a good smack. However, these attacks must stop. My word, lad, no one knows what kind of mood you are in, when it is safe to approach you and when it is not. This quality you very much share with my wife.”
“You’re really not going to punish me, Sir?”
Raynmaher gave a shake of the head. “No, boy, I’m not going to punish you. As I said, there are many here who need a severe beating. Do you know how hard it is to lead a gang of unruly teenagers, then guide them to fight with all the vigour they can muster against an enemy that outnumbers them almost ten to one? Many here will die. I feel that out of everyone here only you and Mercivous have what it takes to rise through the ranks and become useful cogs for the human race. You both have the right amount of hatred, mixed in with the right amount of intelligence.”
Syros felt a little unclean. He did not like being compared to Mercivous, even when it was meant as a compliment.
“These are sad days indeed, when women are allowed to join the military,” Raynmaher continued, not sensing Syros’s discomfort. “But our numbers being few, and the enemy numbers being many, we must take what we can.”
“Saniya is the greatest fighter I know, Sir. She’s much stronger than me and all the other males here, and by quite a distance, I might add.”
Raynmaher nodded his head. “Aye, Saniya is a great warrior. But she too has her weaknesses. Don’t think I do not notice the way that she looks at you.”
Syros knew what his captain was alluding to and it made him fearful. He prayed Saniya did not love him; from that most unpleasant misfortune, he hoped he could spare her.
“A word of advice,” Raynmaher said, noticing his silence. “Stay as far away as possible. Do not love, Syros; it will only hurt more when the time comes.”
“Do you not love?” he asked daringly of the battle-hardened veteran. “Do you not hold love for your wife and children back home, Sir?”
Raynmaher studied his eyes while contemplating the words he was about to utter. “Do you want to know the sad truth?” he said after a moment of silence. “No. I don’t. We are not individuals here, Syros. Individuality is the death of duty, and one day individuality will be the death of us all – on that you can trust me. We live and we die as something greater than ourselves – in that way, death is utterly meaningless. Never forget what you are, Syros, you are human as am I. We do what we must for humanity’s sake. For both survival and for growth. The pacifists may scoff at us, but we are more human than they shall ever be.” He finished, lifting his personalised gold patterned goblet and taking a sip from it. He groaned joyously, slamming the cup back onto his desk. “Nothing like wine on a sunlit morning,” he grunted.
Syros thought over the words his Captain had told him. He knew this already. He had always known it. But still he thought of his little brother and how much he missed him. He thought of a calm serene life on a farm surrounded by the meadows underneath clouds and night stars, of his future wife and children, and then he thought of his friends.
“Sir…” Syros began. Raynmaher stared back at him, and in this moment, Syros saw his eyes too seemed to be lifeless and uncaring. “This campaign…” he tried to find the right combination of words. “After this campaign, is there a chance of me becoming unbound to the military?” He gulped as he felt sweat manifesting on his forehead.
Raynmaher stared coldly back, his eyebrows slightly raised. “That is your individuality seeping through…” he said in a voice that was almost a whisper. “To state it bluntly, no, Syros. You can never leave. Defection in these times when we have enemies even within our own lands is to be considered desertion, and desertion is a crime punishable by death.” He stood up from his chair and made his way round to Syros, before placing a hand on his shoulder. “Do not fret, lad, after your first few kills it will soon be something that you can’t live without. On that you can trust me. The travel is always a bore, but the bloodshed is far more rewarding. I feel it will not be too far away….” He walked towards the tent’s opening. “We break camp at midday!” His voice erupted in a vibration that could be heard across the entire campsite.
“And Syros…”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Have a wash before we go.”
Midday had come and the heat grew with it. As planned, Zelta Squadron had broken camp and rode horseback further and further east. The grassy meadows they had been travelling over for what felt like months were now rocky terrain. Mountains covered the distance ahead, rising high above even the clouds as they rode through an enormous canyon. There was no water, grass or greenery of any kind here, Syros reflected as he scanned every direction. No wonder the Alpelites yearned for their homes back within Asterleigh, as there appeared to be no life out here whatsoever. He still had not even seen an Alpelite, not a living one anyway. The fantasy had become a reality for most other members of Zelta. Many faces had paled completely as they too scanned the new, dead landscape. All except for Mercivous, who, unsurprisingly, had started to smirk. Syros watched him nervously while riding silently behind. I am not like him – he felt relief as the nerves grew inside his stomach. I am like everyone else. He sighed to himself quietly. “I’m just like everybody else…”
From the front of the squadron, Raynmaher called back for them to dismount. There was a group of figures heading their way from the far side of the canyon. After Syros dismounted, he squinted his eyes to see who the figures were and tightened the grip on his blade. He felt his heart pounding. Is this finally it? He could feel the sweat running down from his hand onto his blade’s grip. He began to panic. What if the sweat makes me
drop my sword in the middle of a fight? He would be as good as dead then. His mind was racing out of control and sweat was continuing to pour.
“Captain Simms, this way,” Raynmaher signalled with his hands over his head.
As the figures moved closer, he could distinguish they were, in fact, human. Syros thought he counted ten or so as their faces became determinable. Much like his own squadron, they wore military uniforms. However, unlike the purple laced with gold braids, theirs were red and gold. They were all teenagers except for the one in front leading, whom he assumed was Captain Simms, as he was the only one old enough to grow facial hair. Not as old as Raynmaher, Captain Simms still appeared to be in his late twenties. However, his bushy beard and scarred face gave the young man a fierce look.
“Captain Raynmaher,” Captain Simms said with his arms outstretched. “Thank the divine, intel was correct. We could use your assistance here in the land of the shit-smelling savages.”
“Captains Simms,” Raynmaher shook the younger captain’s hand. “I am sorry to hear what happened to General Bowenn – most shocking, most shocking indeed.”
“Ah yes. A damn shame. The old bastard was quite a bore, but he will be missed. It was a complete bloodbath apparently. I heard there were over thirty bodies of both Alpelite and human found upon Celadon Meadows on the night of Sechen’s passing. They say a young private only the age of thirteen died in the conflict.”
“He was only doing his duty.”
“Yes, he was only doing his duty.”
“What is your situation here?” Raynmaher studied the rest of the young squadron.
Syros noticed how shaken-up the privates were in comparison to their bushy-bearded Captain. Most were panting heavily, with eyes so wide it seemed at any moment they would fall out from their heads.
“We were inspecting one of the savages’ villages, when we were attacked by a group of warriors.” Simms uttered this last word with sarcasm. “We managed to fend them off pretty easily, but they were still able to take one of our own hostage before retreating back up into the mountains.”
“Were there no closer squadrons nearby to receive your calls?”
“You were the nearest ones, I’m afraid. I don’t know why the Supreme Leader has all the squadrons this far east, but whatever it is, it is on a scale which I have never seen before.” Captains Simms appeared excited. “We could do with some assistance tracking down the savages who took one of our own, while that village up ahead still needs to be detained.”
Raynmaher stood still, contemplating his next move. He faced Zelta Squadron, who had stayed in complete silence for his entire conversation with the ally captain. “Listen up!” he shouted his orders to them. “We shall split into two groups. Koman. Syros. Deckard. Freckon. Steph. Narcisi. Keenan. Jamison and Mercivous. You shall detain the village up ahead.” He pointed a finger at each of them as he said their names. “Do not do anything rash until we rendezvous. Mercivous shall be in command until I’m back. The rest of us shall assist Captain Simms’ squadron in tracking down the renegade Alpelites. Does everybody understand their tasks?”
Zelta Squadron shouted in unison to indicate they did. Torjan and Saniya had both made their way over to him, concern upon their faces. For the first time during the entirety of this campaign, he was going to be away from them both.
“Be safe, Sy,” said Saniya. He could tell she wanted to hug him, and truth be told he wanted to hug her back. However, there were too many people around, so a small, sad smile was all they could give each other.
“Yes, be safe, Syros.” Torjan placed a hand upon his shoulder.
“You both be safe as well,” he pleaded. He had a wretched, ominous feeling; Mercivous was to be his leader. This was not going to end well, he thought to himself, as he looked over towards Mercivous, whose baleful grin had widened, now stretching from ear to ear.
9
Spectre of God
Ednon stood over the grave containing the collection of remains that were once his grandfather. It had been close to three months since they had laid Ira to rest, but, in his mind, it felt much shorter. The wind swirled as he placed the red roses upon the headstone. Ednon had finally made the transition to East Asterleigh. The house was large, much larger than the farmhouse he had shared with his grandfather and brother. He liked his new home, but missed Jovian – Asterleigh was always much too frantic. Abacus and his family had moved in not too far from a tavern, so even at night he was disturbed from his reading by laughing, drunken military personnel stumbling back and forth through the streets.
Thinking of both his brother and grandfather, Ednon’s mind went to the last words that Ira had spoken. What did you want me to tell Syros? Was it something deep and profound or was it simply that you loved him? He looked down at the flower-strewn grave. In Asterleigh, tensions between the pacifists and military were brewing like an impending storm; he sensed it each day, growing increasingly sullen. Attacks were now becoming relentlessly usual. He heard stories of the Southern Military Barracks being destroyed in an explosion, leaving many innocent people dead. Military men were being stabbed in pubs and taverns; he had also caught wind of a tale about the General of the Western Border being completely decapitated, and his head then getting displayed in the streets. If Ira were here, what would he do, if he were able and in his prime?
“Excuse me…” A gentle voice caught his attention. The words came from a tall, blonde-haired woman with blue eyes, standing a couple of feet from him.
“Yes?”
“Are you Ednon, the grandson of Ira?”
“I am.”
“Your grandfather was a quite brilliant man; I remember when I was little, he used to tell all the children stories on the night of Sechen’s passing. He always made time for the young and the sickly. Of his kind, I fear there are too few left.” Ednon studied her face; she couldn’t be much older than Syros.
“Thank you.” He had heard so many of these stories over the past couple of days that he felt as if they were all merging into one. “When did you leave Jovian?” he asked, confused as to why he had never seen her in the village before.
“I moved to Asterleigh when I was young, only thirteen. My father taught me that whenever an opportunity presents itself, you must grab it firmly with both hands.”
At this moment, he noticed that she too had brought flowers and, without wanting to cause offence, cautiously asked, “Who did you come to visit?”
“My father.”
“I’m sorry…”
“Don’t apologise. The man died doing what he thought was of the greatest importance.”
“How did he die?”
“He was stabbed by a renegade Alpelite while returning home from military duty.”
Ednon was surprised by the lack of emotion with which she recited her story. Even he was feeling choked up at the thought of waiting for a father to return from duty, only to find out he had been killed on his way home.
“I’m sorry…” he repeated, unable to find anything new to say. “My brother is in the military also.”
The woman’s eyebrows quickly rose. “A grandson of Ira, joining the military? How ever did that happen? Is that… Syron?”
“Syros.”
“Oh yes…” The way she spoke seemed to signify the fact she had known this all along. “So, was he one of the ones who joined the mass campaign east?”
Ednon gave a slight nod. He had still not received word on his brother. Abacus usually gave a sad shake of the head whenever he asked if he had heard any news. Ednon wasn’t even sure if Syros had been informed of their grandfather’s passing and he wondered how he would react when he heard the news. The two had not been on the best of terms over the past few years, but Ednon still held happy memories of the three of them together. It saddened him to think of Syros not caring about their grandfather’s death. But he had also seen how dark and
violent his brother’s mind had become. Even Ira, who was so well-known throughout the land for his inspiring words of peace and acceptance, could not change his brother from his own self-destructive path – and they had all lived together for over ten years. So perhaps even Ira knew that Syros was truly beyond the grasp of salvation.
The woman broke into his introspection. “I wish your brother good health. I am sure you will see him again before too long.”
Feeling a little lifted, Ednon gave her a smile, as a man with a grey bushy moustache joined them at the graveside.
“Oh, Robles, are you finished?”
“Yes, Ma’am, I have left the flowers on her grave. Do you wish to return to Asterleigh?”
“Yes, Robles, after I lay these roses, we shall go.” She remembered Ednon and seemed embarrassed that she had not introduced him. “Robles, this young man is Ednon, the grandson of none other than the great Ira.”
“Ira…” Robles uttered, in a slightly surprised manner, fixing his stare upon him. “It is a pleasure, Sir.” Ednon had never been called ‘Sir’ before and wasn’t sure if he liked it. Something about the way the old man carried himself struck Ednon as being subservient, as if he were some type of butler or bodyguard. The grizzled man’s waist had a sheathed sword strapped across the belt underneath his jacket, confirming his suspicions that it was most probably the latter.
“We must be going, Ednon. Do come and visit us sometime in Asterleigh.”
“I will,” he promised. Only in this moment, he remembered that he did not know her identity. “I don’t think you ever told me your name.”
“Ethna,” she replied. “Ethna Gibbon.”
“Well, Ethna, where in Asterleigh do you live?”
“The Temple of Yashin,” the woman now known as Ethna told him. “Do you know of this building, Ednon?”
“Of course I do!” Ednon said in shock. “It is one of the largest buildings in Asterleigh. Are you telling me that’s where you live?” He now questioned to whom he had been talking all this time.
To Tame the Sentry Being Page 9