“If the governor was ever to discover what happened here today, our village would be razed, and every single one of us would be beheaded as criminals.” The village headman really wanted to keep his. “We never saw our tax collector. He simply never arrived. Is that understood?”
All of the peasants agreed. Even though none of them had lifted a finger against the tax collector, those in power would never tolerate even the hint of rebellion. If there was something else peasants understood, it was how to keep a secret.
“It is unfortunate, but such things happen when there are so many bandits in these mountains,” Kanemori stated flatly. “Perhaps they will send more officials to protect you better in the future.”
Of the peasants, only young Iyo was truly glad he’d done what he had. To the rest, he’d simply complicated their already difficult lives. That’s because, like him, Iyo was a dreamer. She was still naïve enough to think that one person could change things.
After the somber and terrified villagers returned to their huts, Kanemori had remained standing by the grave. Men of such stature were due a proper funeral ceremony, and a small shrine. Instead, they got a shallow pit that no one would ever speak of. Some of the villagers had thanked Kanemori, but it had been a dishonest thanks. Those who were incapable of defending themselves were often frightened of those who fought on their behalf. He saw there was fear in their eyes, directed at him, and he did not like it one bit. If he had enjoyed such things, he probably would have made a fine tax collector.
It was time to move on, to find a new place, to try and make a new home again where he could just be left alone. Where he could be free.
But there was no place like that in this world.
Kanemori gazed up at the stars, and wished for another way.
Far up the hill, past an old hut, three villagers built a pyre for the body of an old man. The corpse had mummified, and the wiry muscles of the man underneath showed through the shrunken skin.
The youngest said, “Shouldn’t we just put him in a hole? He was only an old hermit. This is costing the village money.”
“No, we must do it this way.”
“Why? He was a ronin.”
“But his kami was that of a samurai. It deserves this. You do not know what he has done for us before.”
The boy looked at the stone which was to become a discreet monument over the urn. “It’s a lot of work.”
“Just make the carving neat.”
The inscription was simple.
The Defiant.
Even a ronin could fight with honor. Preventing peasants from being abused and starved was not a grand act, but it was still a great act. While she wished for more action, his life was a worthy one she was proud of.
She understood why she was hidden away. Peasants were not allowed swords, and the chief’s daughter was no warrior. She waited in her saya, inside a silk case, in a trunk while time ebbed endlessly past. The samurai themselves faded away. That saddened her, and she hoped there would be another culture that respected her, not let her age away for naught. Eventually, the red blight of rust bloomed on her skin.
Then one day, she was taken from the trunk, and hands passed her to another.
INSTRUMENTS OF WAR
This novella was originally published by Skull Island Expeditions in 2013, edited by Scott Taylor and Doug Seacat. It is set in the universe of the Warmachine and Hordes tabletop war games. If I recall correctly, this is the first thing that I ever wrote set in someone else’s already existing universe. It is the origin story of one of their main faction leaders in the game. However, anytime I write a story set in someone else’s IP, I always try to do it in a way that everything is self-explanatory enough that you don’t need to already be familiar with the setting in order to enjoy it. This is about a fantasy race of vicious desert warriors known as the Skorne, who are just so hard core and mean that I had a blast writing it. There were some challenges though, in that I had to take an alien culture based on dominance, slavery, and continual warfare, then make them the heroes of their story.
PART ONE
“WHAT IS IT that you whisper to yourself, child, when the pain becomes too much?”
Makeda wiped the blood from her split lip. Her head was spinning, and her body ached from the savage beating. “I recite the code.”
“Why must a warrior recite the code of hoksune?” Archdominar Vaactash asked rhetorically.
“The code shows me the way to exaltation. Only through combat may one understand the way.” She studied the blood on the back of her shaking hand as she spoke. All of it was hers . . . so far. She would have to remedy that. Akkad had beaten her mercilessly, but Makeda could still fight. The tremors slowed and then stopped. “Suffering cleanses the weakness from my being. Adhere to the code and I will become worthy.”
“Correct. You have learned much for one so young,” her grandfather stated without inflection. It was as close to a compliment as the archdominar had ever paid her. “Take up your swords, Makeda of House Balaash. Your lessons are not yet through today.”
The practice swords lay in the sand near where she’d been thrown down. They were made of hard wood, their edges dented and cracked from hundreds of impacts, their hilts worn smooth by sweat and callus. She had begun learning their use as soon as she was strong enough to lift them. She may have been a child, but she was skorne, and thus she did not question, she endured. Makeda reached out and took the pair of wooden swords from where they had fallen. They mimicked the heft and balance of true Praetorian blades. They felt comfortable in her grip.
“Rise,” Vaactash commanded.
Makeda struggled to her feet, muscles aching in protest. Her laminate armor had been crafted for an adult, and was far too big for her slim body, but it had kept her intact during Akkad’s last merciless assault. She had yet to begin her studies in the art of mortitheurgy, but she did not need to be a master reader of the energy that dwelled within the blood and sinews to understand that her body was in danger of failing her. Her opponent was simply too strong.
Akkad was waiting for her to stand, obviously excited to prove his worth to their grandfather. There were only three present within the gigantic training arena of House Balaash, but one of them was Archdominar Vaactash himself, master of their house, and a warrior so great that he had already secured exaltation for his deeds. It did not matter that the stands were not filled with spectators, since the opinion of Vaactash alone mattered more than several cohorts of troops.
“What lesson would you have me teach her next, Archdominar?” Akkad asked. As the eldest of the two children of Telkesh, first son and heir of mighty Vaactash, Akkad would someday lead House Balaash. The code of hoksune dictated that the eldest, unless unfit for war, must lead. It was vital that Akkad display his martial superiority before his grandfather, and so far he had. “She is still but a tiny thing.”
Vaactash’s expression was unreadable. “Then why have you had to work so hard to defeat her?”
Makeda took some pleasure in seeing the anger flash across Akkad’s face as he sputtered out a response. “I merely wished to provide you with an amusing show.”
“Watching a paingiver flay a captured enemy is amusing,” Vaactash snapped. “I am here to make sure my grandchildren are being properly prepared to bring glory to my house. Demonstrate to me that you are ready to fight in the name of Balaash.”
Akkad dipped his head submissively. “Of course.” Her brother was ten years older, far larger, and had already received advanced training under the tutelage of their father’s veteran Cataphract. Akkad walked to the nearest rack of weapons and removed a war spear, the heavy pole arm of the Cetrati. It was longer than Makeda was tall, and even though the blade had been replaced with a block of shaped wood, she knew that it would still hit like a titan’s tusk. Akkad tested the balance of the heavy weapon before grunting in approval. He spun it effortlessly before pointing it at Makeda’s chest. “I will finish her swiftly this time.”
“See that you do. Hold nothing back. Demonstrate your conviction.”
For the skorne, life consisted of either making war or preparing for it. It was a harsh, brutal, and unyielding existence. That was especially true for those blessed enough to be born into House Balaash, the greatest of all houses. There was no doubt they would fight their hardest until physically unable to continue or were commanded to stop by their superior. Other, lesser houses may have done it differently, perhaps not risked the lives of their heirs so flagrantly, but that was why they were weak and House Balaash was strong.
Makeda welcomed the challenge. She crossed her swords and saluted her brother.
Their grandfather studied the combatants intently, his white eyes unblinking. Though bent with age, his mere presence seemed to fill the arena. This was a warrior who had led tens of thousands into battle and conquered more houses than any other dominar in several generations, earning himself the extremely rare title of archdominar. He was a master mortitheurge capable of commanding the mightiest beasts and rending unbelievable magic from the flesh. Makeda wished that she could have a fraction of his understanding, but promised herself that one day she would. Vaactash was the epitome of what it meant to be skorne.
After a long moment of consideration, Vaactash stepped aside, gathered up his red robes, and took a seat on the first tier of the training arena. He gestured dismissively. “Continue.”
“Come, sister. Let us end this.”
Akkad swung the spear in a wide arc. Makeda raised both blades to intercept, but the impact was so great that it nearly tore them from her grasp. Her arms were already exhausted and quivering. She grimaced and pushed back, but her boots slid through the sand of the arena as Akkad overpowered her. The pressure released, the heavy pole moved back, and Makeda lurched aside as Akkad stabbed at her. He followed, relentless, eyes narrowed, looking for an opportunity to finish her.
He was stronger, but she was faster. Stepping in to the threat, Makeda slashed at Akkad’s face with her right, narrowly missing. Show your foe one blade. Kill him with the other. She stabbed with her left sword, and clipped the edge of his breastplate. Akkad didn’t seem to notice. The spear hummed through the air again, and this time Makeda was unable to stop it.
She crashed hard against the arena wall.
The code of hoksune declared that the eldest was the default heir, but every child of the highest caste was a valuable war asset, and thus not to be wasted frivolously. Yet, when Makeda looked into Akkad’s maddened eyes, she wondered if her brother really did intend to kill her. She narrowly rolled aside as the wall was pulverized into splinters. Vaactash said nothing.
Her brother was relentless. The war spear covered vast swaths of the arena with each attack. The muscles of Makeda’s arms clenched in agony as her practice swords bounced harmlessly away. Sweat poured down the inside of her cursed, cumbersome armor. She was struck in the ribs, and then in the leg. Flesh bruised and swelling, Makeda continued fighting. She would fight until her archdominar said it was time to stop or she was dead, for that was the code. Another massive strike knocked one of her blades away. It spun through the air and landed in the stands with a clatter.
Makeda knew she was losing, but the words of the code played through her mind. Only by conflict can the code be understood. Embrace your suffering and gain clarity.
Time seemed to slow. His moves were too fierce, too uncontrollable. He had underestimated her resolve. Akkad lifted his spear high overhead before bringing it down in a crashing arc. Makeda barely moved aside in time. The mighty hit threw a cloud of sand into the air, but before Akkad could lift it, Makeda planted one boot on top of the war spear’s blade. Though slight, the extra weight was enough to cause his grip to slip as he tried to tug the spear away. The momentary surprise was just enough to allow Makeda one clean strike.
“Balaash!”
The tip of her practice sword caught Akkad in the side of the head. Blood flew as skin split wide. The spear was pulled from beneath her boot and the siblings stumbled away from each other.
Makeda gathered herself, but there was a lull in the fighting. Akkad was glaring at her as if stunned, one gauntlet pressed to his head to staunch the flow of red. She had struck him hard. His ear appeared to be mangled, and the tip was broken and hanging by only a small bit of skin. Surely, he had felt that one.
“I have seen enough.”
Gasping for breath, barely able to stand, Makeda looked to their archdominar. Vaactash nodded once. Her heart swelled.
“Both of you have improved since last I watched you spar. It pleases me that the blood of House Balaash does not run thin in this generation. One day I will die and your father, Telkesh, will lead my House, and you will serve him. In time, Akkad, you will take his place. When you learn to temper your ambition with wisdom, you will bring great honor to our house. Your sister will make a fine Tyrant in your service, and I have no doubt that multitudes will be conquered to feed our slave pits. Until then, you have much to learn.”
“Yes, Archdominar.”
“The more you bleed in training, the less you will bleed in war. Learn from every fight, Akkad. Do you know why Makeda defeated you this time?”
“She did not defeat me!” Akkad snarled.
“Silence!” The entire arena seemed to flex at Vaactash’s displeasure. That one stern word caused Akkad to fall to his knees and bow. “Do not ever disagree with the ruler of your house. If that had been an actual Praetorian blade, the contents of your thick skull would have been emptied into the sand. Fool. How dare you question my decree?”
The siblings shrank back. The archdominar’s legendary temper was a thing only spoken of in hushed whispers.
“For that you will not have this wound repaired. Have the end cut off and cauterized. You will wear that scar as a reminder of your impertinence.”
“Yes, Archdominar.” Akkad kept his head down as droplets of blood painted a pattern in the sand. He was trying not to sound sullen. “It will be as you command.”
“Again I ask, do you know why a tiny child capable of hiding in your shadow managed to beat you?”
“Forgive my ignorance. I . . . I do not know the answer, Grandfather.” Akkad risked a quick glance toward Makeda. She could feel the malice in his gaze. Makeda did not gloat. She had merely done her best, as was required. “Please, enlighten me.”
“You only understand the concept of victory. Makeda does not comprehend the concept of defeat.”
A generation had passed, but the lessons of Vaactash would never leave her. His words were as ingrained into Makeda as the code of hoksune itself. It had been a year since her grandfather’s death under the tusks of a great beast of the plains, but she still found herself calling upon his wisdom during times of struggle. She was a mature, yet unproven warrior now. The Swords of Balaash were sheathed at her side. Slivers of her grandfather’s sacral stone were among those empowering the mighty blades, and though only an extoller could contact the exalted dead, Makeda always felt as though Vaactash was there to guide her with his wisdom.
Makeda would need that wisdom if she were to survive the day.
The atmosphere inside the command tent was as heated as the drought-scourged plains. The officers of her decurium were in disagreement over what to do next.
“Tyrant Makeda, House Muzkaar’s forces are nearly upon us.”
“Akkad’s reinforcements have not arrived yet. We are badly outnumbered. If we do not fall back now, we die here.” Urkesh was the dakar of her taberna of Ventators. Of course a warrior who specialized in engaging the enemy from a distance with reiver fire would choose the pragmatic, if somewhat cowardly, approach.
“We have been commanded to hold this hill! So we dig in and hold!” Dakar Barkal was the leader of her Praetorian karax. Of course, the karax would choose to die like that, in a perfect xenka formation, each of their great shields being used to protect themselves and their fellow Praetorians at their side as they impaled their enemies on their long pikes. “Hono
r demands it.”
“Muzkaar outnumbers us five to one,” Urkesh insisted. “Your honor will not beat those odds.”
“Do you question the strength of the karax?” Barkal shouted.
Makeda let them debate. She knew that they would follow her final decision, no matter what. Perhaps in the meantime one of them would surprise her with a solution.
“Your mighty shields won’t matter when a wall of titans stampede over you.” Venators were the lowest of the warrior caste, but Urkesh was young and hotheaded. Makeda doubted that he realized how close he was treading to simply having Barkal strike him down in anger. “We cannot hold anything if we are all dead and howling in the Void. I say we retreat from this trap, move to the plains, where we can maneuver and harass these Muzkaar dogs until Akkad’s forces arrive.”
Barkal looked to Makeda, his narrow face pinched with rage. She needed every warrior, even a Venator whose devotion to dying by the hoksune code was questionable at best. Makeda shook her head in the negative. She would approve no duels of slighted honor until after their battle was through. She could not spare any warriors. Deprived of his chance to gut Urkesh for his insolence, Barkal went back to defending his position. “Our duty requires us to hold,” he snapped.
Deep in thought, Makeda listened to the words of her subordinates as they argued. She was glad to see that none of them feared death, only the possibility of failure. Skorne lived to serve and die, but there was no honor in dying pointlessly. This was her first command, and she would not lose it so easily.
Primus Zabalam stepped forward and placed his body between the two shouting warriors. Both dakars stepped back out of respect for their senior officer. “Regardless of which decision is best, we must give the order soon. We will be cut off by Tyrant Naram’s beasts within the hour, and then it will not matter either way.” It was the first time the veteran leader of her Praetorian swordsmen had spoken. Zabalam was the oldest warrior present, and had even served as one of Vaactash’s personal guard. As usual, he spoke with the wisdom that could only be gained from countless battles. “Our commander must choose now, or the decision will be made for her.”
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