by Choi, Bryan
Taki’s throat burned. He’d run himself hoarse barking out commands all afternoon, and his feet ached from constantly flitting in and out of the phalanx to correct their errors. His head also throbbed from one too many impacts of errant pike shafts. He was beginning to suspect that some of those hits had been deliberate, though the garrisoners only had bemused smiles for him. All in all, he had become much less enamoured of his title as a line officer. Because if this is all there is to it, I was better off as a mere grunt.
“Natalis!” Lotte shouted. “Get up here!”
She’s pissed, Taki thought, and cringed. He knew that the blame for the men’s failure to drill would fall on him. Godrotting peasants! Why can’t they just do shit right? He trudged over to the podium, where Lotte fumed and Aslatiel stood silent and grave.
“It’s hopeless,” Lotte growled. “If the enemy goes for a push of steel, our side will get massacred.”
“I’m sorry, Captain,” Taki huffed.
“Shush, Natalis. I didn’t call you up here to speak.”
Aslatiel was impassive. “Can any of them drill to your satisfaction?”
“Precious few, and only with good line support. Perhaps enough for one square, and a small one at that. The rest, I wouldn’t trust to march in formation even if I threatened to string up their mothers. We have to think of something else.”
“What do you suggest?”
Lotte narrowed her eyes to slits and scanned the awkwardly positioned men and women. “I know we were given enough to equip several tercio, but these people simply won’t fight like one. They’re skirmishers and horsemen at heart…” She trailed off.
“Continue. Please,” Aslatiel said.
“We should ditch the heavy armor for all but the actual pikemen. Let the rest wear their usual cottons and leathers, because they need the mobility. Use the surplus equipment in trade with the local merchants to exchange for more horses, muskets, and even bows and arrows if we have to. The bulk of our forces should be either mounted light cavalry or skirmishers who can harass their flanks and retreat quickly if needed.”
“And if the rebels deploy heavy cannon?”
“Then it’ll be up to our squads to stop them. We’ll need to have everyone mobile and ready to take down any that crop up.”
Aslatiel nodded. “Then we will do as you say. I’ll talk with the rector. Hopefully we can complete the barter in less than two days.” He made as if to leave.
“Wait, Imperial,” Lotte said. “Are you sure about following me blindly on this?”
“We’re running out of time, so we have little choice. I received word from the magistrate at Gangtok that a handful of the prisoners escaped. If they make contact with the rebels, then we’re out of luck. And I also trust you. You have much greater experience with field maneuvers than I, and you have a gift for discerning the character of your troops.”
“Oh,” Lotte said. “By the by, do you remember much from our battle in Pristina?”
“I do.”
“I insulted you then.”
“What of it?”
“I’m not sorry for it, of course. But perhaps I disparaged you too much.”
Aslatiel smiled. “We are both warriors. Your taunts did not cost me any sleep, but…I appreciate your sentiments. And I would like for you to call me Aslatiel. We are peers and fellows in arms.”
“Fine, I’ll call you Aslatiel. I suppose in fairness you can call me by my name, too.”
“Do you still distrust me?”
“A little. Old habit, I guess. You know, I was once an archangel of the Temple. We prayed every day for the death of your people.”
“Do you still wish for that?”
“I’m not an archangel anymore. I prayed, and no one answered. So it’s a little hard to throw myself behind your Way or your padishah.”
“You were a worthy opponent and now are a worthy ally. That’s all I could ask for.”
“Right,” Lotte said, and clenched her jaw.
“I’ll be off, then,” Aslatiel said. With his characteristic efficiency of movement, he turned and left.
Lotte marched over to Taki and shook him by the shoulders. Despair was written on her features. “I didn’t expect it to go that way!” She threw up her hands.
Taki stared back, dumbfounded. “With all due respect, Captain, it sounds like you…got your way. Why do you look so flustered?”
“I’m not flustered! I’m angry!”
“But he agreed to your suggestions.”
“And that’s what pisses me off! And the fact that he was so civil about it and listened respectfully. I wanted to crush his gob!”
Taki gasped for air, as she was now clutching him by the collar of his jerkin. “Captain…did you need me for anything?”
“I wanted your support, damn you. For when he inevitably tried to belittle me.”
Taki swallowed. “But he was right. You are a fine warrior. The finest I’ve ever served.”
To his surprise, Lotte’s cheeks reddened for a moment. She let him go and turned away. “Go dismiss the men. See that they put their pikes away properly this time. Then make sure the rest of the squad’s not just dithering away.”
“What should I have them do?”
“Something. Anything! Just leave.”
Much to Taki’s great lack of surprise, the majority of his squad was nowhere to be seen, save for Hadassah, who appeared to be lounging in the shade. One glance from her, though, and Taki decided against ordering her to some menial task. Instead, he simply sat down nearby her on the same bench and rested his head on the ramshackle table before him. Irulan sat across from the two Polaris, hard at work on sharpening her blades.
“You know, I thought Aslatiel von Halcon had the world’s biggest stick up his ass when I first saw him,” Hadassah said. “But in reality, he’s a total gigolo. All ‘I trust you, and you have a gift.’ How utterly shameless! But then again, Lotte needs to get laid more than any of the rest of us, so it’s cool.”
“He’s not trying to flirt with her,” Irulan said. “It’s just that Asl—the oberleutnant is earnest, and he gives praise where praise is due.” She whisked the blade of her rope dart against a sharpening stone, but her distraction made her furl the edge.
“I see. So how long have you been sleeping with him?” Hadassah winked conspiratorially.
“Don’t be rude,” Irulan sniffed. “We’re intelligent, powerful women. Probably the most powerful warriors in the world. We can talk about something other than men.”
“And what do you wish to discuss that doesn’t involve dongs?”
“Actually, I wanted to ask you why you insist on wearing a dress at all times. Isn’t it a bit cold up here in the mountains?”
“It’s a code.” Hadassah said. “Deuteronomy forbids me to wear pants, just like Natalis and Draco can’t wear skirts, though they’d look super cute in them.”
“But leggings are better for mobility and comfort, especially in our trade.”
“When wearing a dress, people can’t foresee your movements as much in a fight. Also, it’s also a matter of modesty. My fine legs can’t be shown to any old asshole, just like my hair shouldn’t be seen by anyone but my husband.”
“You’re not married, though.”
“Maybe I just like wearing a hat?”
“Are you sure it’s not to hide animal ears?”
“I’ll bite you.”
“Sorry, it was a bad jest.”
“Oh, it’s fine. People have said my vagina has fangs and that I drink the blood of babies. Compared to that, I actually don’t mind when people ask me about this stuff.”
What, you don’t have a vagina dentata and drink blood? Taki huffed to himself, but decided against actually saying anything.
“So do you eschew pork as well?” Irulan asked.
“No, because you try turning your nose up at old bacon grease when you’re starving in some shithole fortress trying not to get screwed sideways by Templars.”
>
Irulan shuddered. “Ugh, Templars. Those things are creepy. Do you think the rumors are true? That they’re made of the sewn-together parts of other people?”
“That’s what Draco said. Though I never got to check, because the only time I had a downed one in front of me, I couldn’t pry his armor off. There were a ton of landsknecht after me too, so it’s not like I could rig something up to do the job. Still, it just didn’t look human at all. Not what I was able to see.”
“After we’ve crushed the rebels here, we’ll probably be facing Templars in battle.” Irulan shook her head. “I’ve seen a few before, from afar. They filled me with a really loathsome feeling. I wish I could be totally fearless about it, like Lucatiel.”
“Speaking of the Prince, do you also have a cool title?” Hadassah asked, eyes widening.
Irulan laughed and shook her head. “No, that’s only Lucatiel. I wasn’t in Alfa when she earned it.”
“What did she do? I must know!”
“You should ask her.”
Hadassah slapped the table. “I tried, and she won’t tell me. She just acts all demure and shit. It pisses me off.”
“She’s a modest person. She doesn’t like to brag.”
“Just tell me what happened so I can get a title before Draco does.”
Irulan looked around first, as if to rule out an eavesdropping. “All right. The story is that she was tired of the slow progress of the siege on Hisn al Akrad. It was a brutal fight, with lots of wounded on both sides. She walked up to the gates and demanded to challenge the fortress commander to a duel. The Shah of Halab, who held the fort, looked over the walls and shouted that he’d commit various obscenities on her body, to which she responded: ‘But it is I who will be raping you! Prepare your anus, shitlord!’”
Hadassah smacked Irulan on the shoulder. “Now you’re lying. I can tell.”
“On my honor, I tell the truth! Anyway, the Shah opened the portcullis to let his men sally out and take her. Well, that’s exactly what she wanted. She charged in, massacred the chevaliers, and confronted the Shah on the walls in full view of the Liberation Army. When he tried to plead for mercy, she chucked him off the edge and into the moat. The moat, of course, was a dry one lined with spikes, so you can predict what happened. The impenetrable fort that had never bowed to an aggressor had just fallen. From that day onward, the Ursalans called her the ‘Prince of Maladies.’ Because, you know, it was obviously her cock that was responsible for that entire thing!”
Hadassah laughed out loud and then sighed. “Well, at least I know Draco won’t get a title. Even if I can’t.”
“Luca’s the only one that I’ve heard of. We still don’t know much about the Ursalans. Like why they seem to take such glee in making their people suffer, or why their princesses all end up killing themselves rather than be captured. In al Akrad, they found that the girl had disemboweled herself with her bare hands.”
“The Rex must be a virile bastard to sire all the daughters he has.”
“And we’ve not managed to take a single one alive, even with one in every fortress.”
Hadassah shook her head. “It’s damned creepy. Well, maybe when I see one, I’ll make sure to buttstroke her before she gets any fancy ideas.”
“It would help the cause.”
6
Hecaton Kheiris Mezeta cackled with glee as she hurtled down the ancient roadway at a speed commonly held by the alchemists to result in death by liquefaction. She was strapped to the inside of a wheeled relic named the “Cura,” which was the last of its kind in Dominion lands. It had cost her five hundred rounds of Luger milligrad, down from the thousand that the artifact thief had initially wanted. A mix of bargaining, threats, and old-fashioned stubbornness had done the job, and now she owned the clattering deathtrap for as long as she could find fuel.
A waning river of asphalt connected the Dominion to the southeastern reaches of Ursalan territory. Unlike the normal packed-dirt paths, those roads were perfect for wheels because they did not become an impassable morass whenever it rained. On occasion, Hecaton had found her path blocked by shot-up metal carcasses from ancient battles, still bleeding rust centuries later. When faced with one, she merely sucked the power from the earth around her, focused her will, and swept the brittle heaps aside. She resolved to send a bill for her services to whoever governed these stretches. If the noble refused to pay, she’d come back and simply move the debris right back to where it had originally rested.
Most of all, Hecaton found herself enjoying the long stretches where she could depress the stubby pedals as far as possible and enjoy a thrill that would have been unimaginable to her while growing up in the Ring. She had ridden trains before, but they were slow and inelegant compared to her new purchase. Truly, the ancient people had known how to live.
Suitable fuel was a rare commodity, and the Cura would only choke on the thick, gloppy oil commonly used for cooking or warfare. Thus, Hecaton had made sure to purchase additional amphorae of heady-smelling gasoline from another merchant, who had taken a handful of vials of glowing rock as payment. It would last her long enough to make her rendezvous—an Ursalan term she rather liked. On the fourth day of her journey, plodding along on fumes, Hecaton pulled her Cura up to the great iron portcullis of the golden city of Astarte. It had been named after a goddess of love and death, and within its walls, plenty of both transpired.
“Who goes there?” a guard shouted down from atop the city wall. He wore the bright green and red of the city militia and shouldered a Kalash. A crowd of farmers with carts of vegetables and peddlers laden with fur also stopped to investigate the strange sight of a woman leaning on the sputtering relic.
Hecaton lazily whisked her tinted lenses aside and inhaled the stench of rotting fish. “Open the gate, mongrel, and take me to your leader! I bear a gift.”
She pointed to the Cura, and its engine shut down with a final, flatulent sputter.
Primate Alesso of Astarte’s throne room was a chaos of rococo and menace. Green marble pillars shot through with bulging golden veins supported a ceiling painted on every surface with a scene of hundreds of people copulating in positions both imaginable and unimaginable, with animals and even horribly mutated chimerae joining the orgy. Ornately engraved clocks standing sentry at the walls boasted hands shaped to resemble a man with an oversized phallus and a woman kneeling to receive it as the hands crossed. Golden chandeliers piled with innumerable candles cast flickering light on the court below, dripping a shower of hot wax onto heads and backs. Servants, seemingly about to fall to their deaths at any given moment, teetered on high ladders, constantly replacing spent candles. A throng of courtiers and courtesans, a mass of silks, velvet, ermine, and billowy wigs, mobbed the floor.
“Your Highness,” a high-coiffed herald bellowed. “Representing herself, Lady Hecaton Kheiris Mezeta of the Former Argead Dominion!”
The man bowed and backed away, and Hecaton pushed through the crowd to approach the throne. She did not bow when she stood before the primate, and the courtiers pointed at her, aghast.
“As I recall, I banned you from coming here ever again,” the primate said. An obese, balding man in his fifties, he wore a greatcoat of seal fur over his shoulders and a heavy crown of silver on his brow. His face was simultaneously pudgy and deeply lined from a life of extreme indolence and constant courtly intrigue. His lips thinned to near nothing when he smiled. “However, your gift was satisfactory, so I’ve overlooked your presumption. What brings you here, Mezeta? Have you been thrown out of the Dominion? Will you get on your knees and beg to serve me again? If so, then proceed already. I haven’t got all day!”
Hecaton stifled a laugh. “My dear, dear Alesso. I serve none but myself. I’ve come with a proposal for you.”
The primate raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What’s your proposal?”
“Give me what I want or lose your city to the Imperium.”
The court erupted in angry roars and calls for Hecaton’s head on a pike
. A pair of massive Templars standing at the primate’s flanks silently tensed in anticipation of the order to cut the interloper down; their crimson-painted platemail creaked at the joints. With an impassive sweep of his hand, the primate ordered silence. The Templars remained ready to strike.
“Why, Hecaton, I had no idea you wished to become my jester.” The primate snickered. “I urge you not to quit as a sellsword, though. You’re a much better killer than you are a humorist.”
“She speaks the truth.” The woman sitting next to the primate fixed her gaze on Hecaton. She sat on a bulbous throne of intricately engraved metal that seemed to shift and undulate of its own accord. Except for a delicate crown of drawn gold wire on her head and thin metal bands running under her breasts and around her thighs, she seemed virtually naked. Her golden, utterly hairless skin glinted not from perspiration but from a fundamentally mineral quality. She rippled with muscle and power, and she was as tall as the Templars behind her. Even by the unreal standards of the court, she seemed alien. Hecaton tilted her head and locked eyes with Princess Sophie Troiscent, daughter of the Sanctissimus Rex.
“I assure you, my beneficent darling,” the primate sputtered, “that Mezeta does not. I know perfectly well that the Imperial dogs have designs on my city, but I have taken the utmost of measures to assure that we will not fall to an attack. My army can meet any siege, and any man who attempts to breach the walls will be greeted with the kiss of the Lamed Goddess!”
“Princess Sophie, you look shiny as always,” Hecaton said. “And Alesso, my dear fat little man, you know she’s correct. You also know what I’m capable of. Just ask the men whom you sent to kill me. Or did their coglioni not satisfy your question?”
The primate thrust his hand into a bowl of fruit nearby and grabbed a ripened fig. He cocked his arm back as if to throw it at Hecaton but seemed to relent. Instead, he simply crushed the fruit in his fist until fragrant pulp oozed between his fingers. “Have you spewed enough filth in my court? If so, then get out.”