Post by kerrah on Oct 14, 2017 20:04:34 GMT
“I truly am sorry, my lord. There’s nothing that can be done.”
With all the magic splendor of the world, or the technology come from Falor, with the resources of an Empire and three decades of favours to call upon, and wealth and manpower, slaves and servants, and a sterling reputation of strength, honour, diligence and generocity… even with all these things, Nikaioforos of the House of Argynyx would never again walk without a cane.
He would never again ride a horse without an aide.
Staring out the window but seeing nothing, he ground his teeth. Fourteen months of bedrest, poultices and alchemy, all suffered with grace. And yet, he might as well have been dead. The gentle spirit across the table from him sat still, her iridescent eyes studying his lined, poorly shaved face and greying hair. Underneath his well-made clothes, the man’s form was sagging, muscles lost from over a year recovering from his injuries, and the wounds which had near killed him visible in places. Fate had been cruel, and left him on this earth, broken and worthless. The dragonfly creature waited on him to speak.
Nikaioforos realised he’d been losing his posture, and corrected it. His lamed left leg would start sliding across the chair to the side if he relaxed, and it would make his knees part in an indignified manner, like he was a scurvy beggar outside the door of a temple. “They should have left me to die”, he mumbled angrily as he pressed his back against the chair once more.
“I know my words will be little comfort to you, my lord, but surely you will find meaning in your life even this way.” The spirit indicated outside the window, at the tranquil gardens of the House of Healing. Outside its walls lay the inner city of Malverea. The imperial palace was not far. “The Empire owes you much for your years of service. No doubt the Empress will find you a honoured place in court.”
“No”, the old soldier cut her off. He was not made for that, and even if he was, he had burned too many bridges and made too many enemies in his foolish youth. Too many men whose wives he’d slept with - before or after they’d gotten married - and some that he’d fought duels with. Too many women who he’d spurned, or dishonored, or who would hate to see the handsome man from their youth as a shell of himself, a stark reminder of their own aging.
And then there was Her. The reason he’d given up on those things, and left the court entirely.
No, he would not go die in a gilded funeral home, an object of pity and a relic to long gone victories.
The funny thing was, Nikaioforos had aways known where he’d want to retire to. His retirement had been ‘just one campaign away’ for the last ten or fifteen years. He had bought a countryside villa in the continent, and land around it, and had steadily been gathering the best horseflesh in the known world there. And yet, if he sailed there tomorrow, all the noble steeds, some of their lineages ranging back as far as his did, would just be a reminder that the best he could do is ride them in circles around the yard, led by a servant like a little boy.
“My lord”, the healer said gently, leaning forward and raising one arm in caution. “Please do not fall…” He had been losing his balance again, distracted by bitter memories. Taking the cane they’d given him, the former soldier slowly stood up and left the room. He didn’t know where he was going, except away from here.
He could not storm out, so he limped with a defiant look on his face, daring anyone to try to help him. A few of his manservants waited in the hallway, and silently walked behind him, no doubt ready to catch him should he fall. He resented them for their care.
Clack clack clack, went the cane against the marble hallway, marking his walk of shame outward. By the time he reached the splendid mahogany doors of the building, Nikaioforos was panting from the effort. It was only a short distance left to his carriage waiting outside, but he could feel his arm shaking.
“General”, a voice called to his right. It was a half-familiar face, dressed in clothes befitting a courtier from the Imperial palace. “Her Eminence is still waiting to give you your triumph, now that you are well.”
“There will be no triumph”, he said blankly, and after a short pause added: “Not after fourteen months.”
The man stepped forward and gave a formal bow. His gilded doublet made him look like a peacock compared to the patients in simple garb and healers in their humble raiments whom the old man had gotten used to. “Perhaps not. I apologise for misspeaking, but perhaps there is something else that you can be rewarded through, my lord.”
Nikaioforos was in no mood for innuendo, wordplay and banter. “Out with it.” As the man growled, the tip of his cane slid across the floor and he almost fell onto his shattered knee. Just in time he managed to stop in a kneeling position, his injured leg bent painfully, but not slamming onto the stone floor. The servants rushed forward to grab him by the shoulders and help him up. So much for dignity.
For his part, the courtier kept a still face and ignored the mishap. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice to whisper: “There will be war. Perhaps instead of a triumph, my lord would wish for a new command.” Leaning back, a smirk appeared on his face as he added in a louder tone: “If you’re not overtly occupied, please make an appearance at the palace tomorrow morning.”
---
One month later:
Kassai wet her lips as she rode forward, followed by her lieutenants. They all rode donkeys rather than horses, slowly approaching the fishing village underneath a stone lighthouse up ahead. Two great war galleys were anchored off shore, and the village was proudly flying the banner of Malvern, which its denizens usually didn’t bother to, when her people traded with them. She had never been here, but the locals seemed friendly enough, not intimidated by her entourage’s fearsome outfits, spears and unslung warbows. Perhaps it was their saddled asses that ruined the image.
The princess chuckled at the thought and shared it with her fellows, who seemed to find out amusing as well. Their land was too hilly and forested for horses, and even donkeys weren’t native there. When the Jelin tribes warred with one another, there was no cavalry. These mounts were just for show; the Malvernians considered it unworthy to arrive to a parlay on foot, for whatever reason. They were strange folk, but they paid well.
A small group of soldiers stood at the clearing in the middle of the village, where they dragged their boats on land during storms. With them was a middle-aged man whose hair was half grey and whose face seemed to droop. He was dressed like a noble and leaning on an ivory cane, his appearance immaculate except for the salt in his hair, left by the sea spray on the way to the shore. For a moment Kassai thought that the general had sent someone in his stead, but after taking a closer look she recognised him. “General Nik...Nikioforos? What happened to you? Did you lose a battle?” She stumbled with his long, cumbersome name, though she spoke his language well enough. When she’d previously been employed under him, her people had just called him The Rider because they rarely if ever saw him off a saddle, which of course stuck out to the Jelin.
“Just call me Lord”, the man grumbled, and gestured for her people to dismount. His gloved hand was squeezing his cane tightly, and it was easy to tell his legs weren’t right. One of his boots was practically pointing sideways. “I’m glad to see that Sakan put you in command of your warriors, Princess. You deserve it. The Empire needs you.”
“Me specifically?” Kassai asked playfully, over her shock now that she heard that at least his voice sounded the same. She let one of her men take the reins of her donkey and brushed her ornate vest with her hands. “How many men do you need, my lord? I have a few hundred handy…”
“All of them”, he responded simply, and went on in an imperious tone: “Gather as many warriors as you can; we’ll hire everyone you can vouch to be able to use a bow. But gather them quickly, and don’t let word spread out. I need everyone you can get in a month. Those who get left behind may miss out.”
“Miss out on what?” She asked skeptically. “You know that I can’t let that many Jelin fight in one of your wars against the eastern cities. They wouldn’t take it well.” It was the reconquest of Kelimanon that she’d taken part of eight years ago, at the cusp of her adulthood, and it had only been five hundred of them there fighting for the Rider, not thousands upon thousands.
The general sighed painfully and shifted his weight on his good leg a little, clearly taking pains in trying to stand straight. “We are going north. Against Falor”, he said, sounding distracted, like it was an unimportant detail.
That was curious indeed. “A big war, then? Are you calling in all your contracts?” Kassai remembered the patchwork of mercenaries who had stormed the gates of Kelimanon while her men peppered the ramparts with bodkins.
“Yes. To the Felain, to the riders of Fuma, to the Scarred King’s host, and the warrior priests in Momlas. To the Goma, Sabolna, Saktha, and Femole. They’ll be joined by the palace guards, cataphracts, spirits and binders of Malvern itself. And yourself. Be here in a month, I will send ships to pick you up”, The Rider said to her with a grim look on his face. He clumsily removed his right side glove, and they shook hands. Their fingers intermingled: his white and bony, hers dark and strong. Kassai wouldn’t turn down an offer like this. A rich enemy who had suffered a great defeat in her lifetime, too far away to take revenge on her people. Chances like this only came rarely.
“I am Malvern’s to use”, she proclaimed and gave a big, toothy grin, lifting her shoulders to puff up the leopard pelt draped across them. “I will be here in a month, with all the archers you’ll ever need.”
“Good”, he said and turned. As he stumbled, one of his soldiers rushed forward to support him. He’d need their help to step on the rowboat to return to his ship, anyway. As the Jelin were about to leave, the man called out: “And to answer your first question: I won a battle. That’s what happened to me.”
---
Two more months later:
Nikaioforos loathed being carried in a litter, but he knew there was nothing to be gained in trying to ride for himself. He would just humiliate himself, and slow them down. At least they’d managed to build him something that would look halfway impressive, befitting his station.
For a while he’d wished to be named Grand Strategos by the Empress, but the expedition was too important to be given a single leader, apparently. A campaign was a campaign, though. Maybe fate had felt sorry for him, and had chosen to give him a reason to live after all.
A reason to live, and a cause to die for. Withering away in retirement and dying from slipping would not be a worthy end to him. But this: this was it. If he didn’t die on this campaign, he would kill himself in triumph. This was what they’d write down in the history books when they wrote his story. A last great hurrah.
Nikaioforos looked out the window, and watched the advance force approach the enemy fortification. First blood would be drawn today. He gave a signal for the ornate top to be taken off his litter so he could see the battlefield. His personal guard was flying his arms: a proud silver crescent and a rearing red stallion, on a field of green. The enemy would know he was here, and no doubt they’d know of his reputation.
“Let’s begin”, the general mumbled and tapped his commander’s baton against the side of the litter, impatient to see the day advance.
With all the magic splendor of the world, or the technology come from Falor, with the resources of an Empire and three decades of favours to call upon, and wealth and manpower, slaves and servants, and a sterling reputation of strength, honour, diligence and generocity… even with all these things, Nikaioforos of the House of Argynyx would never again walk without a cane.
He would never again ride a horse without an aide.
Staring out the window but seeing nothing, he ground his teeth. Fourteen months of bedrest, poultices and alchemy, all suffered with grace. And yet, he might as well have been dead. The gentle spirit across the table from him sat still, her iridescent eyes studying his lined, poorly shaved face and greying hair. Underneath his well-made clothes, the man’s form was sagging, muscles lost from over a year recovering from his injuries, and the wounds which had near killed him visible in places. Fate had been cruel, and left him on this earth, broken and worthless. The dragonfly creature waited on him to speak.
Nikaioforos realised he’d been losing his posture, and corrected it. His lamed left leg would start sliding across the chair to the side if he relaxed, and it would make his knees part in an indignified manner, like he was a scurvy beggar outside the door of a temple. “They should have left me to die”, he mumbled angrily as he pressed his back against the chair once more.
“I know my words will be little comfort to you, my lord, but surely you will find meaning in your life even this way.” The spirit indicated outside the window, at the tranquil gardens of the House of Healing. Outside its walls lay the inner city of Malverea. The imperial palace was not far. “The Empire owes you much for your years of service. No doubt the Empress will find you a honoured place in court.”
“No”, the old soldier cut her off. He was not made for that, and even if he was, he had burned too many bridges and made too many enemies in his foolish youth. Too many men whose wives he’d slept with - before or after they’d gotten married - and some that he’d fought duels with. Too many women who he’d spurned, or dishonored, or who would hate to see the handsome man from their youth as a shell of himself, a stark reminder of their own aging.
And then there was Her. The reason he’d given up on those things, and left the court entirely.
No, he would not go die in a gilded funeral home, an object of pity and a relic to long gone victories.
The funny thing was, Nikaioforos had aways known where he’d want to retire to. His retirement had been ‘just one campaign away’ for the last ten or fifteen years. He had bought a countryside villa in the continent, and land around it, and had steadily been gathering the best horseflesh in the known world there. And yet, if he sailed there tomorrow, all the noble steeds, some of their lineages ranging back as far as his did, would just be a reminder that the best he could do is ride them in circles around the yard, led by a servant like a little boy.
“My lord”, the healer said gently, leaning forward and raising one arm in caution. “Please do not fall…” He had been losing his balance again, distracted by bitter memories. Taking the cane they’d given him, the former soldier slowly stood up and left the room. He didn’t know where he was going, except away from here.
He could not storm out, so he limped with a defiant look on his face, daring anyone to try to help him. A few of his manservants waited in the hallway, and silently walked behind him, no doubt ready to catch him should he fall. He resented them for their care.
Clack clack clack, went the cane against the marble hallway, marking his walk of shame outward. By the time he reached the splendid mahogany doors of the building, Nikaioforos was panting from the effort. It was only a short distance left to his carriage waiting outside, but he could feel his arm shaking.
“General”, a voice called to his right. It was a half-familiar face, dressed in clothes befitting a courtier from the Imperial palace. “Her Eminence is still waiting to give you your triumph, now that you are well.”
“There will be no triumph”, he said blankly, and after a short pause added: “Not after fourteen months.”
The man stepped forward and gave a formal bow. His gilded doublet made him look like a peacock compared to the patients in simple garb and healers in their humble raiments whom the old man had gotten used to. “Perhaps not. I apologise for misspeaking, but perhaps there is something else that you can be rewarded through, my lord.”
Nikaioforos was in no mood for innuendo, wordplay and banter. “Out with it.” As the man growled, the tip of his cane slid across the floor and he almost fell onto his shattered knee. Just in time he managed to stop in a kneeling position, his injured leg bent painfully, but not slamming onto the stone floor. The servants rushed forward to grab him by the shoulders and help him up. So much for dignity.
For his part, the courtier kept a still face and ignored the mishap. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice to whisper: “There will be war. Perhaps instead of a triumph, my lord would wish for a new command.” Leaning back, a smirk appeared on his face as he added in a louder tone: “If you’re not overtly occupied, please make an appearance at the palace tomorrow morning.”
---
One month later:
Kassai wet her lips as she rode forward, followed by her lieutenants. They all rode donkeys rather than horses, slowly approaching the fishing village underneath a stone lighthouse up ahead. Two great war galleys were anchored off shore, and the village was proudly flying the banner of Malvern, which its denizens usually didn’t bother to, when her people traded with them. She had never been here, but the locals seemed friendly enough, not intimidated by her entourage’s fearsome outfits, spears and unslung warbows. Perhaps it was their saddled asses that ruined the image.
The princess chuckled at the thought and shared it with her fellows, who seemed to find out amusing as well. Their land was too hilly and forested for horses, and even donkeys weren’t native there. When the Jelin tribes warred with one another, there was no cavalry. These mounts were just for show; the Malvernians considered it unworthy to arrive to a parlay on foot, for whatever reason. They were strange folk, but they paid well.
A small group of soldiers stood at the clearing in the middle of the village, where they dragged their boats on land during storms. With them was a middle-aged man whose hair was half grey and whose face seemed to droop. He was dressed like a noble and leaning on an ivory cane, his appearance immaculate except for the salt in his hair, left by the sea spray on the way to the shore. For a moment Kassai thought that the general had sent someone in his stead, but after taking a closer look she recognised him. “General Nik...Nikioforos? What happened to you? Did you lose a battle?” She stumbled with his long, cumbersome name, though she spoke his language well enough. When she’d previously been employed under him, her people had just called him The Rider because they rarely if ever saw him off a saddle, which of course stuck out to the Jelin.
“Just call me Lord”, the man grumbled, and gestured for her people to dismount. His gloved hand was squeezing his cane tightly, and it was easy to tell his legs weren’t right. One of his boots was practically pointing sideways. “I’m glad to see that Sakan put you in command of your warriors, Princess. You deserve it. The Empire needs you.”
“Me specifically?” Kassai asked playfully, over her shock now that she heard that at least his voice sounded the same. She let one of her men take the reins of her donkey and brushed her ornate vest with her hands. “How many men do you need, my lord? I have a few hundred handy…”
“All of them”, he responded simply, and went on in an imperious tone: “Gather as many warriors as you can; we’ll hire everyone you can vouch to be able to use a bow. But gather them quickly, and don’t let word spread out. I need everyone you can get in a month. Those who get left behind may miss out.”
“Miss out on what?” She asked skeptically. “You know that I can’t let that many Jelin fight in one of your wars against the eastern cities. They wouldn’t take it well.” It was the reconquest of Kelimanon that she’d taken part of eight years ago, at the cusp of her adulthood, and it had only been five hundred of them there fighting for the Rider, not thousands upon thousands.
The general sighed painfully and shifted his weight on his good leg a little, clearly taking pains in trying to stand straight. “We are going north. Against Falor”, he said, sounding distracted, like it was an unimportant detail.
That was curious indeed. “A big war, then? Are you calling in all your contracts?” Kassai remembered the patchwork of mercenaries who had stormed the gates of Kelimanon while her men peppered the ramparts with bodkins.
“Yes. To the Felain, to the riders of Fuma, to the Scarred King’s host, and the warrior priests in Momlas. To the Goma, Sabolna, Saktha, and Femole. They’ll be joined by the palace guards, cataphracts, spirits and binders of Malvern itself. And yourself. Be here in a month, I will send ships to pick you up”, The Rider said to her with a grim look on his face. He clumsily removed his right side glove, and they shook hands. Their fingers intermingled: his white and bony, hers dark and strong. Kassai wouldn’t turn down an offer like this. A rich enemy who had suffered a great defeat in her lifetime, too far away to take revenge on her people. Chances like this only came rarely.
“I am Malvern’s to use”, she proclaimed and gave a big, toothy grin, lifting her shoulders to puff up the leopard pelt draped across them. “I will be here in a month, with all the archers you’ll ever need.”
“Good”, he said and turned. As he stumbled, one of his soldiers rushed forward to support him. He’d need their help to step on the rowboat to return to his ship, anyway. As the Jelin were about to leave, the man called out: “And to answer your first question: I won a battle. That’s what happened to me.”
---
Two more months later:
Nikaioforos loathed being carried in a litter, but he knew there was nothing to be gained in trying to ride for himself. He would just humiliate himself, and slow them down. At least they’d managed to build him something that would look halfway impressive, befitting his station.
For a while he’d wished to be named Grand Strategos by the Empress, but the expedition was too important to be given a single leader, apparently. A campaign was a campaign, though. Maybe fate had felt sorry for him, and had chosen to give him a reason to live after all.
A reason to live, and a cause to die for. Withering away in retirement and dying from slipping would not be a worthy end to him. But this: this was it. If he didn’t die on this campaign, he would kill himself in triumph. This was what they’d write down in the history books when they wrote his story. A last great hurrah.
Nikaioforos looked out the window, and watched the advance force approach the enemy fortification. First blood would be drawn today. He gave a signal for the ornate top to be taken off his litter so he could see the battlefield. His personal guard was flying his arms: a proud silver crescent and a rearing red stallion, on a field of green. The enemy would know he was here, and no doubt they’d know of his reputation.
“Let’s begin”, the general mumbled and tapped his commander’s baton against the side of the litter, impatient to see the day advance.