Chapter 3 - Aftermath

  "My condition can be solved with a wash,” Azalea started “but yours cannot." The Commander snorted and shifted his gaze towards the General.

  “Barón.” His lips curved into a smirk and his arm began to rise.

  Clap “Tristesse.” Their hands met in a tight handshake, with each of their helms between arm and waist.

  Sir Tristesse Fortis, the dark Commander of the Royal Guard and son of the beloved Duke Heinrich Fortis of the Sadlands, Lord of Hearth, and the late Grand Inquisitor of Pyrrskegard, was a man of eighteen years of age, much like the General and two younger than Azalea herself. As common in the House of Fortis, Tristesse possessed a strong body that towered over most men and messy and spiky medium length brown hair with bangs that often hid his steel blue eyes. However, unlike his father, he was loved but little, and couldn’t even control the powers of fire manipulation that ran throughout his bloodline. Nor was he kind nor charismatic. No, Tristesse was a brooding, stubborn and ruthless young man of few words, most of which were often pithy remarks spat with a dour face. What did Barón see in him?

  The two Royal Guards dismounted their horses and other men in leather jerkins took the pair of animals away to be watered. The sun was still up and the sole thing in the sky was the great and bare white sacred tree known as Gaia that stood in Suleim, the capital. Though it had never given any fruit, its mere size alone had been more than enough to make the tree a symbol of the Caliphates and a place of sacred reunion for both its denizens and travelers around Theoras. No one knew where it came from or even whether it truly was a tree, for it was large enough to be seen from anywhere in the Sand’s Caliphates.

  Azalea reached for her mace and handed it over behind her. A hand belonging to the Duelist took it and immediately understood. He proceeded to wash and clean the weapon. The thrall scratched off the now dark and dry blood. Silently, he finished and the sun was able to shimmer on the mace’s steel once more, now hanging from her waist.

  Barón and Tristesse were still overseeing the still battlefield as the littered corpses were being dragged off to each side. The three awaited the reports. Losses. At first glance it was obvious the Caliphates’ had lost thousands, and that theirs had been light. General Barón’s upright posture mirrored hers, but his arms were crossed and his right hand rubbed his chin, as if analysing the situation. The Commander had crossed arms and clenched fists, instead. It was shortly after that an old knight approached the officers.

  Sir Elias Hargrave had to be the oldest of Royal Guards, possibly nearing his sixties. Yet somehow he retained an air of gallantry and shrewdness, and his appearance had aged well. His hair was white as snow and blown back, and his beard was neatly trimmed. His eyes were grey and seemed to have lost their colour, a proof of the countless battles they must have seen. He was tall, and though experience had slowly replaced his strength over the years, he remained a capable fighter. An old breed, and a remnant of Pyrrskegard’s Inquisition of yesteryear who deserved better than the grim Commander.

  “My lords,” the old man bowed courtly. “Reports estimate at least five thousand dead, dying or wounded. The rest fled. As for us,” His was a sad gaze. “I counted no more than a hundred. Two of them were thralls.” Azalea felt especially the latter.

  Barón nodded. “Very well. Now," The General turned his stare to both the Captain and the Commander, "let us discuss some matters. My tent as per usual.” The old man gestured with his head.

  “Carry on.” Intervened Commander Tristesse. Sir Elias obeyed and walked away, his armour plates rattling as he did. The General started for his tent and the other two followed close behind him.

  Once in his pavilion and with the Duelist standing guard outside, Barón ran his fingers across his table, on top of which laid a map, some pieces that symbolised armies, letters, a quill and ink. “I would like to ask your thoughts on the war.” He declared as he sat on his chair and placed his helmet on the table.

  Azalea cleared her throat, straightened her back and held her chin up high. “We are making steady progress towards their vile capital. Our righteous victory is certain.”

  “And slow.” Tristesse broke in with disgust and crossed arms. Barón’s gaze shifted to him. “It’s been months. Whatever these Golden ‘Idiots’ are doing they could’ve finished it long ago, for all we know.” He frowned. “They send skirmishers to slow us down and wage a war of attrition. We were lucky they took the bait today.”

  “It may be slow, but it is the safest way.” She appraised. “Had you arrived any later today, we ran the risk of total annihilation.”

  "Did the zealot lose faith?"

  "It is you I mistrust. My faith in this virtuous crusade is unwavering."

  "Virtuous." He scoffed. "If your dear Pyrronikos soiled himself you would proclaim that virtuous as well."

  "Enough." The white-haired General pondered over their words, both his index fingers resting on his lips. “The Commander speaks the truth. We're being slowed down.” He poured his gaze over the map on the table, running his fingers over its locations. His stare remained fixated over a mountain pass for a while. Tristesse’s eyes narrowed, he seemed to understand, though she did not. Still, the General remained silent.

  “The Umi warriors. I shall march them through the defile.” Tristesse announced grimly. “We will meet them from the front and rear; hammer and anvil.”

  Azalea scowled. Another of his forced marches? The Commander had become notorious for his marches at breakneck pace. They spanned all day and most of the night, and they were without pause. And the Commander couldn't even make use of Concept Manipulation! “Through the defile? Folly, the-”

  “Were you to do so,” Barón interrupted, the fingertips on each of his hands met their counterpart. “You’d be putting this army at a great risk, should we meet an enemy host without part of ours.” The General shut his eyes. “However, I had previously considered this option.” His fingers drummed on the table, and Barón slowly reopened his icy stare. “Come the dawn, you shall have my decision.”

  Both Tristesse and Azalea bowed their heads, even if she did so reluctantly. Now outside the tent, the Duelist awaited her.

  Tristesse stopped by him and sombrely studied the husk of a man. “Tell her about that bath,” He leant in. “She might even listen to you.” And off he was, that b*****d. The Duelist slowly turned his face to her, covered in a fancy steel.

  Having taken a stroll back to her pavilion, Captain Azalea asked softly, “Do I really look so horrid?” Her green eyes looked for an answer but Azalea's shadow gave her no answer. Nor reaction. Perhaps his head tilted a bit, she couldn’t really tell. “It matters not, I shall retire now. Guard the entrance, yes?” Azalea couldn’t hold off a wistful smile. And she left him standing outside.

  Her bath beckoned her over, and she was happy to oblige. She rid herself of her heavy plate and clothes, and leisurely slid herself into the bathtub that she so required. She sighed. At last. But her mind raced. About the war. About tomorrow. The new plan. And those two men. Wait, don’t- And she did. She reminisced about the old days. Well, it was too late now, the mood had soured. Azalea could not deny it; she missed the time when Barón courted her. Back when they were still students and none of this mattered. She understood and accepted the reason that it needed to end in order to focus on each of their duties and not allow sentimentalities get in the way. This was her life’s work, and she did it more than gladly. But… Ever since it ended, they had grown estranged. Or so it felt to her. She was no longer his closest person. And she was… Lonely, yet she knew this was no surprise; the righteous path is a lonely path. Still, she had the thralls, and she had the ever-so-loyal Duelist. Her faithful shadow, and spirit guardian. She heard the whispers about him, and what monster he must’ve been before. They mattered not to her. He was no more than a devoted sword to her, tried and true. Now, he and the other thralls were pure and innocent creatures that had been given the noblest of causes-to aid Pyrrskegard.

  The rest of the day was rather uneventful. Azalea spent some time with the towering thralls and mourned the lost ones as they were buried. She took care of the arrangements and made sure they were dignified. The morrow was setting to be a dire day, the Captain reckoned. Glancing over the thralls’ camp she recognised the legions’, her own, and the allies’. Umi had lent over a few hundred of their sea warriors. If they were doing fine in the deserts, Azalea could only imagine their prowess at sea. Next to them was the camp of some Sandish dissidents that had disassociated themselves from the Golden Beasts, and sought to bring back the true Caliphates under a charming youth by the name of Nasir. She had met him briefly, but still didn’t know much else about him other than the fact that he was a foolish sweet-talker who was promised the Caliphates in exchange for his cooperation. A righteous act soiled by unworthy intentions. Regardless, she appreciated it.

  As the sun set in the west, Azalea found it hard to catch any sleep in the everlasting heat. And in the blink of an eye it was dawn, she stood beside the General inside his tent, as the Royal Guard started to converge. His final verdict was to be declared.

APPENDIX - NOTABLE CHARACTERS BARON SAPIENTIA, General of the Royal Guard, highest of rank. Of eighteen years of age. His hair is long, wavy and white. He has icy blue eyes and wears a long, sleeveles white coat over his plate armour and black breeches. In battle he uses a cross spear named 'Kingdom Come'. His sigil is a white skull on lapis lazuli flower on a black field. AZALEA LEONCOEUR, Captain of the Royal Guard, the second highest rank. Of twenty years of age. Her hair is blonde and often kept in a braided bun. Her eyes are an emerald green and wears a blue cloak over her plate armour. In battle she uses a tower shield and mace or warhammer. Her sigil is a golden lion over azure. TRISTESSE FORTIS, Commander of the Royal Guard, the third highest rank and knight of the Mistlands. Of eighteen years of age. His hair is brown, of medium length, messy and with bangs. His eyes are a steel blue, and wears a sable high neck cloak over blackened plate armour. In battle he uses a lance and longsword on horseback. His sigil is a red phoenix engulfed in orange flames over a field of black. PYRRONIKOS XIII, the Seer and ruler of Pyrrskegard. An old man well over a hundred. He leads Pyrrskegard through visions in a mysterious orb. THE DUELIST, a thrall and the shadow of Azalea. Age unknown. Pale purple hair. He wears a detailed and eccentric faceplate with no visor and thin armour. In battle he uses a rapier. SANÇA DESLLOR, a Royal Guard under Azalea. In her forties. Her hair is dark brown and short with bangs. Her eyes are brown. In battle she uses a bill. IVAR, an ex-mercenary turned Royal Guard under Azalea. In his thirties. His hair is short, dark brown with stubble and dead grey eyes. He wears a spectacle helm with mail chain aventail. In battle he uses an axe and a brass knuckle. ROWAN LAVERNE, a Royal Guard under Tristesse and knight of the Mistlands. In his early twenties. His hair is curly, brown and shoulder-length. His eyes are blue, and wears an emerald cloak over plate armour tinted green with golden details. In battle he uses a greatlance and a shield which has the shape of a flower on horseback. His sigil is a pink flower over gold sunrays and a field of green. ELIAS HARGRAVE, a Royal Guard under Tristesse and knight of the Mistlands. In his fifties. His hair is white and blown back, with a white, trimmed beard. His eyes are a sad grey, and wears a red cloak over his plate armour. In battle he uses a lance and a longsword on horseback. His sigil is black and white tree countercharged. HEINRICH FORTIS, the predecessor leader of the Royal Guard before Barón, then styled as Grand Inquisitor. Father of Tristesse Fortis. Lord of Hearth and Duke of the Sadlands. NASIR, a youth who wants to become the ruler in the Sand's Caliphates and has joined Pyrrskegard in order to do so. In his twenties. His hair is black as well as his eyes. He wears a head wrap, a sleeveless shirt, baggy pants all in white and sandals. In battle he uses a scimitar. APPENDIX - ORGANIZATIONS, REALMS AND LOCATIONS PYRRSKEGARD, the city-state in the far west of Theoras led by Pyrronikos XIII, the Seer. Its word is law, and the Royal Guard its enforcer. The place where Concept Manipulation is both allowed and taught. SAND'S CALIPHATES, an obsolete term for the now mercantile region in the east. They have been found guilty of practicing forbidden Concept Manipulation by the Seer in Pyrrskegard and are at war. ULMIAH, a desert in the west of the Sand's Caliphates. SULEIM, the capital of the Sand's Caliphates. GAIA, an old, gigantic white tree in Suleim that can be seen from anywhere in the Sand's Caliphates. Also known as Kutsal Agaç by the locals. EILÍFT HVÍTT, an icy region in the northeast of Theoras. UMI, an island region in the east of Theoras. THE MISTLANDS, a kingdom in Theoras and neighbour to Pyrrskegard. THE SADLANDS, a duchy in the northwestern part of the Mistlands. HEARTH, a castle, seat of House Fortis and the capital of the Sadlands. APPENDIX - OTHER TERMS CONCEPT MANIPULATION, the dangerous ability to alter reality through the interaction of concepts with the material world. THRALLS, past convicted criminals that have been repurposed to serve as an unfaltering shield of flesh for the Royal Legion at the cost of their intelligence and ego.