Chapter 10: Jewel Age Warfare

The battles in Aztlan and Viki more or less resolve in this chapter, but at what cost?

         “There would be difficulties,” Myendore answered.

         “What? Why? Difficulties casting a spell?”

         “Yes, and it’s not about the runes.”

         “Of course, it’s not. We just got four hundred thousand runes from Ouardia, so what’s the problem now?”

         “Sorcery is a complex science that depends on a very exact balance. There’s a reason the crystal balls of each guild are never touched or moved; there’s a reason spells are always cast from the underground basements of each guild.”

         “Ugh, stab me already. What’s preventing us from ‘wanding’ them to death, Myendore?”

         “Aside from there being no spell with which we could… ‘wand’ people’s lives away, my lord?”

         “Aside from that, yes.”

         “The purpose of guilds and their locations is to allow wizards the opportunity to establish a network of magical nodes. Each guild is a node, and we collectively harmonize the energies of the province with the energies used in these basements when we burn mass amounts of runes for spells. The energies of the province consist of the energies of every living organism within the confines of this province, and that includes people especially. Both the military and peasantry have been reduced today. Changes to something as important as the province’s population greatly affect the likelihood of success here because we must adjust to the new energy ratio.”

         “… At the risk of conveying self-deprecating racism, is this mainly a human deficiency in Mystics?”

         “No, sire, this is just how Mystics works.”

         “I see.”

         “… Granted, we as humans may have a harder time readjusting to the…”

         “Son of a mother’s lover, Myendore. Get everyone to start this readjustment process and cast a spell as soon as humanly possible.”

         “What spell?”

         “I believe it’s called ‘Protection.’”

         “Are you referring to ‘Minor Protection,’ the human version of the Faery spell, ‘Greater Protection?’”

         “Whatever spell bolsters our soldiers’ combat ability within the province.”

         “We can do that. It’s not very costly, and we could sure use the advantage.”

         “Do it. I have to get back up to the surface and lead these people.”

         In Tatsu, King Ryūjin stood in the library of his palace. He spoke in hushed tones with his Minister of Defense, Nobiriryū. “That was your opportunity,” Nobiriryū said. “Why didn’t you take it?”

         “I didn’t want to seem eager,” Ryūjin said. “Besides, there wasn’t much of a break in the flow of conversation for me to interject.”

         “Lord Dartmouth brought it up, didn’t he?”

         “Yes, and the air of the room grew uncomfortable. Everyone knew what was really going on, and I could practically feel their eyes on me. Lady Mila would have launched into another of her holier-than-thou homilies against me for my allegedly heinous acts from King Alexander II's day if I had challenged Dartmouth.”

         “Lord Dartmouth has some nerve asking the king of Macedon outright about provisions to be made in the event of his death.”

         “Him especially.”

         “Of all people… And I suppose this means it’s done already, doesn’t it?”

         “Yes, Alexander’s complacent like his father. It was hardly a conversation.”

         “Just like that, Dartmouth protects his position to make a grab for power.”

         “I made the right move in holding my tongue. Everyone around the table expected me to fight for it.”

         “I wish you’d have done it anyway. This is the worst-case scenario. You said yourself King Alexander II was…”

         “Quiet! My library is less exclusive these days--scholars and aristocrats coming and going as they please. How I ever passed such a frivolous law to relinquish its solitude…”

         “What do we do about Lord Dartmouth?”

         “I have yet to even formulate a plan.”

         “It matters a great deal since we got another hands-on king. We were lucky.”

         “Lucky, indeed. Two consecutive kings of Macedon who lead their own troops into battle personally like generals.”

         “Something Lord Dartmouth would never do.”

         “None of them would.”

         “You’re the only one besides Alexander himself. Like he and his father, you were a general before taking the throne. You’re right for the seat, Lord Ryūjin.”

         “And for that very reason I’ve far from given up; however, King Alexander is young, and Dartmouth is still in position. I fear foul play is the only option I have left.”

         “I’ll stand by you. It’s for the greater good.”

         “We may have one well-placed pawn.”

         “Who?”

         “One of my most loyal men whom King Alexander felt compelled to take from me.”

         “Shugoryū? Good thinking. He’s never once defied us; he’s loyal, and he’s powerful.”

         “Did I ever tell you that I considered him for your job before giving it to you?”

         “I believe you said my ability to breathe fire like you was my only edge.”

         “To think that the decision came down to mere combat ability…”

         “I must say: I commend him for never taking the rejection to heart.”

         “He knew better. Loyalty is his middle name. Yes, I think he’ll be our best bet.”

         "Best to act soon. As it stands, if King Alexander should die..."

         "Dartmouth gets the throne."

         Lord Ryūjin and Nobiriryū began walking toward the library’s exit. They had been standing between two bookcases for the sake of seclusion. Unbeknownst to them, Kōryō entered the library just as they ended their discussion. He was eager to find an Alchemy textbook to read while he relaxed from a long day of training. As he approached the isle of interest, the king and Minister of Defense stepped out from behind its bookcase and were both startled to see him. “Kōryō!” a flummoxed Nobiriryū exclaimed.

         “What are you doing in here?” Lord Ryūjin asked menacingly. Kōryō froze immediately. He hadn’t expected anyone to be in the library, and his anxiety took hold, making him slow to speak; moreover, Lord Ryūjin’s naturally intimidating disposition only made things worse. “Answer the king promptly when he addresses you, Kōryō,” Nobiriryū said.

         “I…” Kōryō started. “I thought… the library was for anyone in the palace.”

         “What were you doing just standing here?”

         “I wasn’t. I was just coming to find a book.”

         Nobiriryū looked to Ryūjin who simply glared at the Rain Dragon crossly. After an awkward stretch of silence, Ryūjin’s eyes averted their gaze to the door, and he walked past Kōryō. Kōryō felt an eerie cold as Ryūjin passed him so closely, and Nobiriryū followed right behind the king. They exited the library and closed the doors behind them. Nobiriryū asked, “Do you really think the kid wanted a book?”

         “It’s not impossible. I’m given to understand he’s bookish. He originally chose to be a scholar, remember?”

         “I see. Is that a chance we want to take? We don’t know what he heard.”

         “It’s not about whether or not we want to take it. We have no choice.”

         “You’re right. King Alexander wants to use him.”

         “Not just that. I couldn’t bring myself to harm the son of Shugoryū, or I’d have done it just now.”

         Meanwhile half a mile outside the walls of Viki, Lord Balder felt himself falling to the ground. He was a portly man, lacking the athleticism to catch himself. He felt as though the moment passed in slow motion. He realized that he was being forcibly pushed to the ground by one of his own men. The Nozerish soldier whose spear had been against his neck was also falling; an arrow protruded from the enemy’s leaky neck. Bartholomew was rolling under the buggy as a torrential downpour of arrows rained down upon the enemy soldiers that surrounded Lord Balder’s caravan. He hit the ground seconds before all the arrows whizzed into their final positions. He looked up and saw that the enemies were dead, and none of his own men had been hit. Some fifteen Vikish archers rode up to meet the caravan and confirm their king’s safety. “Lord Balder,” said the soldier who had risked his life to tackle him to the ground in the fray, “are you alright?”

         “I…” Lord Balder patted himself for a moment as he spoke. “I think so. Oh, you’re a valiant, young lad! I shall see to it that you receive the highest of commendations for this.”

         “Is it safe?” Bartholomew asked from beneath the buggy.

         “Dear, Bartholomew,” Balder chuckled. “Of course, come out from under there, my man.”

         “My liege,” said the leader of the archers as he approached, “we’ve gained the upper hand against these godless infidels. The momentum has swung our way, and we believe we’ll be able to drive them out by nightfall.”

         “Splendid! Even Alexander had to admit that our defense was exemplary. We’ll prove our might this day. Can we escort my caravan to the palace safely?”

         “We’ve secured a route through the city, but we must move quickly, sire, lest the Nozerish forces close back in on it.”

         This was easier said than done, but eventually, it was done nonetheless. Lord Balder’s horsemen mounted their steeds promptly, and Bartholomew accompanied Balder in the buggy. The archers escorted the caravan into Viki, moving as swiftly as they could. The Dwarves of both provinces advanced upon one another with axes, spears, and javelins, but the Vikish army managed to keep their enemies away from the main road through the city down which the caravan traveled en route to Balder’s palace.

         Despite Viki’s good fortune as the battle began to lean more and more in their favor, Aztlan struggled fiercely for mere survival. Alexander clotheslined an enemy soldier, a strike aided by the alchemic repulsion feature of his armor, and quickly placed his foot on the man’s chest as he proceeded to decapitate him. He turned his attention to fourteen others some twenty yards ahead as his ten allies were approaching from a smaller distance behind him. “It’s the Liger Set,” one enemy said angrily.

         “There has to be more to it than that,” the other answered.

         “Alexander’s Joule Grade is 50J, barely any higher than mine.”

         “Well, all that proves is that he’s human.”

         “It proves the Liger Set is infamous for good reason. He’s having his way out here.”

         His allies finally having reached him, Alexander led them in an aggressive charge. They shouted as they sprinted toward their enemies, and their formidable adversaries reciprocated. A major street in Aztlan saw sudden bloodshed as the two hordes collided; a few combatants on both sides were knocked to the ground immediately and beheaded. For the next half hour, they fought until only four stood, three of whom were Aztlatin. Alexander stood by and caught his breath as he watched the other two double-team the remaining enemy. He left them to it before they had finished the deed as he jogged around the corner to another street just in time to see two Aztlatin archers fall to their deaths from high places, arrows protruding from their bleeding, lifeless bodies. The body count throughout the province was increasing every second at an alarming rate. “King!” shouted a voice from his left, causing him to turn toward it. “Look out!” a soldier yelled while pointing in the opposite direction.

         Alexander turned to his right this time only to see a boulder cascading toward him. He dexterously operated the panel on his forearm to maximize the hardness of his armor in a desperate attempt to survive the inevitable. The stone landed on him and proceeded to roll further down the street, leaving a prostrate king’s face smashed into the dirt. To the frightened soldier’s relief, though, Alexander rolled over, indicating that he was alive, but he lay on his back, very clearly in pain. The soldier approached and lifted Alexander’s head. “My chest,” Alexander said, “feels smashed.” He coughed, and blood trickled from his mouth and ran down his chin.

         “You’re lucky to be alive at all, sire,” the soldier answered.

         “I… have the Liger Set… to thank for that.”

         The soldier arduously helped Alexander stand to his feet, an excruciating process, and he supported the king with his arm around Alexander’s waist. Alexander’s attention was suddenly taken from his own pain and refocused on a new sight. Twenty-five scattered swordsmen of the Rivulet army ran toward them from thirty yards away, a dismal sight at a time like this, and in response, Alexander struggled to slowly unsheathe his sword, realizing that his arm was also injured at the elbow when the weight of his sword felt like that of an elephant. “I’ll stand with you, my king,” the soldier said in disheartening resignation as the Rivulet army charged toward the wounded king of Macedon mercilessly. A proverb of the Jewel Age declared that the noblest death of any king was one with sword in hand; Alexander endured the pain of his arm to hold up his sword as his enemies came, and his other arm wrapped tightly around the brave soldier's neck. At a time like this, his only thoughts were of the Oracle who had lied, yet it may be that his name would live on for the noble effort he made in death. He decided, then, to ensure at least one offensive swing against these barbarians before they took him; a valiant attack was the closest thing he'd have to last words.

         Unexpectedly, Shugoryū and twelve Aztlatin axmen rounded a corner and came up the street from the opposite direction; they saw that the king was injured and that the Rivulet army was engaging him and one other brave soldier. Upon spotting his opposition, Shugoryū’s skin grew fraught with reptilian scales. Large wings, both taller than he and most comparable to those of bats in shape and texture, sprouted through open apertures in the back of his armor; his mouth and nose grew forward into a snout like that of a dragon, and he suddenly doubled the agility of his sprint. His right hand brandished a mace whose metal head was spiked, and his left forearm wielded a large, golden shield.

         Shugoryū bolted past the injured king right into the oncoming mob, knocking his first encounter far aside with his shield before the assailant could reach Alexander with his javelin. He continued to barrel through the rest of the soldiers, using his shield to crash into his enemies with such force that they seemed to ricochet off him like bullets off steel, and he occasionally swung with his mace, harshly denting many an armor with enough force to cause injuries that most often involved hemorrhaging. The men whom he led up the street swept through and swiftly slew those whom Shugoryū either didn’t engage or failed to actually kill. The Dragonoid was sprinting toward the city gate through which the Rivuletines had most frequently been trafficking throughout the attack. It wasn’t long before Shugoryū had left behind a surprisingly even battle for his men after having significantly curtailed the Rivuletine squadron in number, and he was closing in on the gate, which was essentially a giant archway whose wooden, double doors had been completely demolished. He revealed the whole of his wingspan and launched himself over the archway entirely with a great gust beneath him.

         Two Rivulet army generals standing outside the walls of Aztlan were shocked to witness Shugoryū suddenly emerge from within the city and fly at the higher structure of one of their catapults. The catapults were nearly as tall as the city walls themselves, and despite their giant form, Shugoryū bulleted toward one with the roar of a dragon and swung his mace swiftly through its primary support beam. Chips and fragments of the catapult’s wooden framework rained down upon the generals and their few untapped soldiers. The structure collapsed, and Shugoryū landed softly, his wings flapping more frequently so as to decelerate his descent as he glared intently at the awe-struck, army generals of Rivulet.

         “What the hell is this we’re looking at, General Onisus?!”

         “The Sand Scanner is reading a grade of 330GJ!” the other replied.

         “Why would Aztlan have Dragonoids?”

         “General Cameron, I think now is the time to retreat. Nothing has gone nearly as well as anticipated. I say we cut our losses.”

         Shugoryū’s mace smashed through the frame of another catapult whose beam fell and crushed one of its operators. Shugoryū halted his flight to hover in place, wings beating the air rapidly and with the force of meteors piercing the atmosphere of earth.

         “I suppose all bets are, indeed, off with an upset like this,” General Onisus said. “Damn, they repelled us in under four hours. This was supposed to be a textbook victory.”

         “Intel was obviously wrong. They must have had far more warriors than the Crystal Ball told us.”

         “Either way, telling King Rio that is going to be a low point in both of our careers. Hit the button.”

         “Alright, on my count. Three, two, one…”

         Both Rivulet generals pressed the buttons on remote, handheld devices that sent signals to the armors of every soldier in combat. Every live soldier heard a long, continuous buzzer sound from within their armors. “My lord,” a soldier said to King Alexander, “do you hear their armors?”

         “I don’t believe it,” replied an awe-struck king.

         “We’ve won, my lord! We’ve done it!”

         “In... four hours? Is the prophecy true or isn’t it?”

Author's Note

In this chapter, my goal was for the action to be intense. It was my goal to create suspense. You should feel like Alexander's going to die at one point even despite the fact that he's the protagonist, so I hope I gave you that feeling and conveyed it strongly enough. For the most part, I think I need feedback on the suspense most of all.