by Peter David
And in my divided mind, I couldn’t help but feel that I was working toward a time when all the aspects of my consciousness would be united. For I still could not remember the events that had transformed me into the Peacelord that I was, and I felt a vast emptiness over the fact that this was so. The churning need to conquer was only part of what was driving me; there was also the belief, although whence it came I could not tell you, that at some point I would be rewarded by becoming a whole being. That the two aspects of Apropos the Peacelord—before awareness and after—would become united into one unstoppable whole. Whatever invincibility had been handed me already was merely a foretaste of what was to come, as soon as I accomplished …
Well, that was the question, and one to which I had no ready answer.
This, then, was the mindset I possessed when I launched my strike against the Thirty-Nine Steppes.
This was, of course, not the first campaign I had ever wagered, although it was of necessity the most sweeping. However, it was destined to be different from any previous endeavor of my time as Peacelord, because I made it very clear to my men that I intended to be in the forefront of each and every battle. This had evidently not been my practice in earlier times. I had been perfectly happy to plan every step of every operation, but I had always positioned myself behind the front lines of any battle. I had displayed no desire to risk myself. Surprisingly, my men understood. I say surprisingly because more often than not, hardened warriors only respected those leaders who genuinely led. Leaders who would sit at the head of an army, brandish a sword and yell “Charge!” But for the most part, I had let my men do the actual fighting while I remained within my tent and plotted.
Occasionally, though, I had joined them directly in our battles for conquest … whenever the plan called for night maneuvers. Then, with my face smeared in woad, I would be in the midst of the fray, lending a hand or a sword. The explanation seemed self-evident: At night I was a much harder target.
But all such trepidation was tossed aside once it became clear that worrying about being injured or killed was a thing of the past. I wondered for a time why my imperviousness had only just now been revealed. The conclusion came quickly: I had never allowed myself to get into such a directly dangerous enough situation that I was at physical risk. Even on the night maneuvers upon which I had occasionally joined, I was not only cautious, but I had maintained a phalanx of guards around me for protection. I was valued for my cunning and ruthlessness, not my sword arm.
Well, that was about to change. I had spent years of running from confrontations while silently envying those who had the physical prowess to stand up to any challenge. I did not have to run anymore. I did not have to envy others; now I could destroy any who opposed me, and take everything and anything that was of value to them. Their lives, their mates, their homes and wealth … all, all was mine to do with as I desired.
Power, it seems, tends to corrupt. And as for absolute power, well … even more so, I’d say.
Thoughts of Sharee vanished from my mind shortly after she and her associates vanished from the city. I had reached a point where I no longer thought of the past, and the past was something to which Sharee very much belonged. No, my thoughts were only of the present and the future, both of which seemed filled with vast, even infinite promise.
It was a dark and dreary day when we embarked on the war against the Thirty-Nine Steppes. Indeed, Boar Tooth even recommended that we wait for a less inclement day to depart Dreadnaught.
I wouldn’t hear of it. I found that I preferred the overcast skies, even felt invigorated by them. “No, Boar Tooth!” I bellowed. “Prepare the troops! This very day the plains of Wuin will tremble beneath the thundering hooves of our advance!”
In point of fact, we didn’t have all that many horses. But we had enough to present a fairly impressive mounted presence, and enough foot soldiers to inflict even more damage.
As I’d predicted, we thundered out of Dreadnaught, out across the plains, bearing west and then south toward the Thirty-Nine Steppes. Our advance was methodical and organized, and took many days, but never once in all that time was there any flagging of confidence in our eventual triumph.
I’ll never forget that first battle.
The Steppes did not have individual names, but simply numeric designations. The founders of the Thirty-Nine Steppes deemed that the best way to maintain their fragile nation as a unified whole. Individual names tended to breed excessive nationalism which could spill over into more foolish pride-based conflicts, and so the Steppes were simply referred to as Steppe One, Steppe Two, and so on. It was my intention to be as murderously methodical as possible; I guided our troops unerringly to Steppe Thirty-Nine, deciding that we would whittle them down in reverse order.
However, the defenders of Steppe Thirty-Nine caught wind of our advance. No surprise there; we made little effort to conceal our approach and our intentions. As we drew toward Steppe Thirty-Nine, we saw a rather formidable army upon the horizon. They were lined up, shoulder to shoulder, some on horseback, most not. But they had swords in their hands and no fear on their faces. There was about a mile of territory between the two armies. Most of the ground was rather dried out, cracked, and brown, albeit with a few shrubs here and there that served to break up the monotony.
We drew up and I muttered to Slake and Boar Tooth, “Brave bastards, I’ll give them that.”
“Foolish bastards, I’d say,” sniffed Boar Tooth, glancing around. “Rather dreary place to make one’s home, much less fight to keep it.”
Slowly the army of Steppe Thirty-Nine parted, to allow several riders to pass through. They rode in a quick trot toward us and I watched them come, my face deliberately impassive.
“I believe, Peacelord, they wish to parlay,” commented Slake.
“Well, then,” I said, “let us not disappoint them.” I snapped my reins, and Entipy galloped forward, with Slake, Boar Tooth, and That Guy riding hard behind me.
The wind was in my face, the nearness of battle making my blood run hot with anticipation. The closer we drew toward our opponents, the more anxious I was to get on with it already. The Apropos of old might have enjoyed discussion, banter, and conversation. The new Apropos cared only to know when and from where his next battle was going to come, and now that it appeared imminent, every second that dragged by seemed an eternity.
We reined up within thirty feet of one another. I stared at the chieftain of the Thirty-Ninth Steppe. He was not a behemoth, but neither was he tiny, and his bare arms seemed sinewy and powerful. He wore a plumed leather helmet and leather armor so thick that it could turn away all but the most powerful of blows.
It didn’t concern me. Nothing did but the impending fight.
There was a screech from overhead and I looked up. Mordant swept down from the sky, and I extended my gauntleted arm. Mordant, his wings beating the air and his tail sweeping gracefully through it, landed squarely on my arm. Entipy and our horses were quite used to Mordant, but the opposing horses were not. They whinnied fearfully and tried to back away as Mordant eyed them with what appeared to be either amusement or contempt, or possibly some of both.
“They don’t seem to like my pet,” I said as I swung one leg over and hopped to the ground. If you had told me, back when I was a humble, crippled squire, that I would someday be able to expertly dismount with no care as to the limits of my right leg, I would have thought you mad. By this point, though, it was so routine a maneuver for me that I barely noticed it.
The man whom I took to be the opposing chieftain likewise dismounted. Carefully removing his gloves … a tradition to indicate that he carried no weapons in them … he then stepped toward me with an extended hand. His face was swarthy, his hair black and bristling. “I am Suliman,” he said in a deep and faintly annoyed voice, as if I had forced him to awaken at some ungodly hour. “Sometimes called Suliman the Magnificent. Leader of Steppe Thirty-Nine. And you are the Peacelord of whom we’ve heard tell?”
I nodded gravely. “And if you’ve heard of me, then you know that it would be wisest for you to lay down your weapons and surrender to me, unconditionally and immediately.”
“And if I do not?” Suliman inquired. He was contemptuous in his look and attitude. I felt the ire within me growing exponentially, a black haze descending upon me, further inflaming my senses. “If I do not do this thing, what do you plan to do? Conquer all the Thirty-Nine Steppes in one great orgy of violence? Do you seriously believe you can over run all the Steppes at once?”
“No,” I said, not giving the slightest indication of anything unusual. Poor fool did not have the faintest idea what he was facing. Truthfully, I wasn’t entirely sure of what he was facing, either, but I at least was in a position not to feel threatened by it. “No,” I continued with a smirk, “I’m not so ambitious as to endeavor to take on the entirety of the Steppes in one grand orgy of violence. Rather, I was thinking of attacking a dozen at a time and achieving my goal that way.”
Suliman gave a knowing nod. “So you would embark on a twelve Steppe program, then. A canny choice … but foolishness. As much foolishness,” and he looked me up and down, his contempt oozing from every pore, “as your not even bothering to wear armor. You wear the woad of battle, but are not dressed for it.”
“Armor is too damned hot,” I said dismissively.
He shook his head and actually looked sorry for me. “You cannot possibly triumph.”
“I do not know the meaning of the word cannot. “
“It means, ‘incapable of’ or ‘beyond one’s ability,’ ” Slake said helpfully.
I fired him a glance. “I knew that.”
“Well, then why …” Then his voice trailed off and he looked a bit chagrined. “My apologies, Peacelord.”
I grunted acknowledgment and turned back to Suliman, who conveyed the attitude of one who was perfectly willing to wait all day. “Have you come to discuss terms for surrender?” I asked him.
He regarded me with cold disdain. “Of course not. It is simply traditional that heads of armies meet prior to a battle, in hopes that it can be averted in some—”
Enough of this.
The voice was in my mind, in my soul, and when it spoke with grim clarity, I did not hesitate for a second. I yanked my sword from its scabbard with such speed that by the time it registered upon Suliman what was happening, it was too late. My blade whipped down and around and sliced across Suliman’s shoulder, right where the leather armor was missing in order to allow freedom of movement. There was a horrific “splutch” noise, and my blade hacked clean through, severing his arm. Blood fountained from the gaping wound as his right arm thudded to the ground. Suliman’s face went deathly pale from shock as his life’s blood gushed from the remains of the stump, and reflexively he tried to reach for his sword … with the arm that was missing. It was rather comical to watch, really, if one doesn’t mind truly morbid humor.
“You’ll have to pardon me,” I told him as he sagged to his knees. “I’ve never been much of a traditionalist.”
There was a howl of fury from Suliman’s lieutenants. They had dismounted when their leader had, so they were on foot when they yanked out their swords and charged me. Boar Tooth, Slake, and That Guy prepared to meet them, but I shouted, “No! They’re mine!” And I strode forward, arms out to either side, making no effort to bring my sword around to defend myself.
Their swords cut through me, hacked through my chest, and one actually cleaved my skull. My wounds closed over so fast that it was as if no damage had been done at all. One of them tried to decapitate me. I distantly felt a thud as the blade went in one side and out the other, and then there were faintly disgusting, moist sounds as my throat reknit itself even as the blade passed. It had taken merely a second for the blade to slice through my throat, but half a second for the throat to heal even as that happened. They might as well have been hacking away at water for all the damage they were managing to inflict.
They stepped back, stunned and horrified at what they were seeing, and then it was my turn. With a bloodcurdling shriek I came at them, swinging my sword. They stumbled back, crying out in confusion and terror. Had they been facing an ordinary—dare I say, human—foe, they would have been undaunted. But they knew in opposing me that they had encountered something far beyond their comprehension.
My blade scored several times, bloodying them badly, although I stopped short of any fatal wounds. My lieutenants noticed this, and started to advance, with Boar Tooth saying loudly, “We’ll finish them for you, Peacelord!”
I whirled and brandished my blade, stopping them in their tracks. “You will do no such thing!” I said sharply as the wounded men bolted for their horses, stopping only to drag the maimed Suliman along with them. He was moaning and murmuring some woman’s name; I think he had no idea where he was. They threw him unceremoniously across the back of his charger and, moments later, were riding away at full gallop. And I shouted after them, “Tell your people they have one chance to surrender! One! Or I’ll do them as I did your leader!” I was quite sure they heard me.
Lying on the ground, looking rather pathetic, was Suliman’s arm. Once I would have flinched at such a grisly trophy. Instead I simply picked it up and, without even having to call him, I heard Mordant’s familiar, triumphant cry. I held the arm up and the drabit swept down, its mouth opening wider than I’d have thought possible. He snapped up the rare treat, snagging it by the wrist and arcing upward even though the arm itself was longer than he. He carried it some yards away, then went to the ground with it and proceeded to strip it of meat with delicate precision.
“Do you expect them to surrender, Peacelord?” inquired Boar Tooth, choosing to look pointedly away from where Mordant was having his feast.
My eyes no doubt glittering with excitement, I said, “I hope they don’t.”
They didn’t.
I later learned that they flatly didn’t believe Suliman’s lieutenants when they spoke of what they’d witnessed upon trying to attack me. They thought the “fabricated” stories were designed to cover the fundamental ineptness of Suliman’s honor guard. And Suliman himself had lost too much blood and was too far gone into shock to be able to verify what they were saying. So the angry soldiers of Steppe Thirty-Nine put the frustrated lieutenants to the sword themselves, placed their maimed leader into safekeeping, got themselves stoked to a howling paroxysm of rage, and charged across the plains at us.
My men met the charge, and I was in the forefront. And this time, I did not hold back. I met the attack on foot, for although I was impervious to death, the powerful mare I rode was not, and I had no desire to lose her to the swords or spears of the enemy if it was not necessary.
I also made sure that I was ahead of my troops by a good fifty paces, so that the men of Steppe Thirty-Nine would immediately converge upon me, thinking me overeager and therefore easy pickings. They did not converge, however. Instead their archers were at the forefront. I have to credit them: It is not an easy thing to fire arrows while in motion, but that is precisely what they did. Apparently thinking to teach me and, by extension, my troops a quick lesson, they opened fire upon me and within seconds turned me into a pincushion.
I stopped. And stood there.
The Thirty Niners stopped. My own men stopped. An instant in time froze as I simply stood and stared down at the arrows which protruded from me every which way. And then, very calmly and deliberately, I proceeded to pull them out of my body one at a time, causing no bleeding, leaving no holes.
Within seconds I was standing there with a fistful of arrows, and the Thirty-Niners were flinching back in confusion and horror. Perhaps they were regretting having slain Suliman’s lieutenants at that moment, who obviously had known what they were talking about. I raised the arrows over my head, screamed defiance, threw them upon the ground, and that was all that was required to trigger the full-blown charge of my men. The Thirty-Niners tried to rally themselves, to reignite their battle-passion, but
they had been thoroughly disconcerted by what they had just witnessed, and for a heartbeat a sense of hopelessness infested itself in their bones. That was all that was required for my men to overrun them. The archers of the Thirty-Niners tried to inflict damage, but even they—the most self-controlled of our opposition—were so thrown off by what they had just witnessed that many of their shots either went wide or lodged harmlessly in the upraised shields of my men.
My men were everywhere, stampeding over the opposition, and I was in the thick of it. My sword flashed to the left and right, hacking and skewering my opponents all about me, and my blood sang the song of death … which, if you must know, goes something like this …
Death death death death death death death la la la la death …
The plains became soaked with red and gore, staggeringly little of it from my own men, and in short order the opposition was in full retreat. We came after them, hounded them across the plains of the Thirty-Ninth Steppe. We took down as many of the strong ones as we could get our swords upon, and the weaker ones we captured with the intention of turning them into slaves and pack mules. Because they were weaker, naturally they wouldn’t last as long as the stronger ones might have. But they would be easier to control, and once they wore out, we could dispose of them and bring in new ones.
With the main defending army routed, the cities of the Thirty-Ninth Steppe were ours for the taking.
We took them.
There was some minimal opposition, but the Thirty-Niners had been counting on the main body of their army to stop us. They had been wrong to do so, and now they were paying the price.