Record of Ashes War

Chapter 35 - Those with Honor and those Without

Sar'tara climbed on to her horse, clenching her teeth as she did so. The pain in her left hand had dulled thanks to Meredith and the other physics. But she still felt sharp pangs run along her arm. She touched the bandages around them. A faint wet spot with dark liquid shown through, glimmering under the light of the moons. She gently rubbed her hand. Beside her, Faren tensed, shuffling uncomfortably on the back of his horse. Her personal unit had ridden a fair distance away from the Xenarian war camp. They awaited the battles beginning to slip away amidst the chaos.

"I don't like this," Faren said. "I've heard enough stories from veterans to know the cunning of Kazir."

"It'll be alright. Trust in Kalin," Sar'tara replied, not believing her own words. A sick feeling formed in her stomach. A hopeless despair —the kind she had felt during the night of the burning— crawled beneath her skin. She had faith in Kalin. Just as she once had faith in the strength of her Mother's Guardians. But the Forest Deity had been felled by the Union. Every Guardian had perished. And Kalin was just a man. A man that they were plotting to kill.

Sar'tara wanted to be at his side. Losing him would be like losing any attachments she had remaining to this world. Though he had entrusted her with an important task, being away from the main battle made Sar'tara feel as if she were running away. Just as she had that night.

The Xenarians were making it seem as if their camp was unaware of the planned night attack. No organizing lines were formed. Camp fires were still alight and could be seen from a distance. In truth, every soldier stood prepared. The Wolf of Metsiphon had been stationed at the camp's rear, waiting for the expected assault from the Astral Union. Kalin had positioned himself to receive the Tarmian night raid.

Sar'tara saw the movements before she heard them. It was like watching the shadow of an arm growing longer and creeping ever closer. The Empire's forces were swiftly moving towards the Xenarian camp. They were spotted before they'd gone half way. The outer guards shouted as they were expected to. Armed soldiers poured out and formed ranks beyond the tents. A signal flare went out from the Tarmian side. It was followed by the thunderous applause of running feet. Soon after, a returning flare came from far beyond the Xenarian flank. The Union's reply. More thunder and shouts followed, this time, from the opposite end.

That was the signal for Sar'tara. As the Union's core force was occupied, her task was to decimate their command tent. "Move out!" she ordered. Amidst the sounds of chaos, her unit's movements went unnoticed. Sar'tara could see the breaths of her horse as well as her own. Even with evernight nearing its end, nights still carried harsh temperatures. She gripped the reins of her horse tight with her right hand, giving the left some rest. Sounds of pained screams and clashing metal pierced the open air behind her. They became more and more distant the further she got.

Sar'tara glanced back repeatedly. She wanted to make sure the plans were progressing smoothly. Her chest felt tighter than before, as if it had swollen with her growing fear. Lingering fatigue settled into her joints. A Guardian feels no fear, she assured herself. She squeezed her left hand around the reins and forced herself to feel pain to awaken her fighting prowess.

The Union encampment came into view. As Kalin had predicted, it was small. A few tents only. White banners with the image of a sun depicted upon them fluttered proudly with a passing breeze. Moonlight magnified the lustre of their yellow silk borders. The same depiction of the sun had been carved into the breastplates of the Union's soldiers.

Time slowed. Sar'tara could not avert her gaze from the banners. They called to her like a moth to a flame. She saw flames within them. Saw flames all around them. Heard her own screams from the burning night echo through her mind. They were followed by shouts crying out for her death.

Death. Vengeance. Fire.

Sar'tara dug her heels into her horse's side and urged it to ride harder. Patience had deserted her. Her emotions were caught in a storm. She wanted to see those sun banners lit aflame. Needed to see it. She wanted to know that all traces of it had been destroyed. Her hands left the reins. They drew her bow and nocked. Blood soaked the bandages of her hand stained the wood of her bow. Her wound had reopened. She didn’t care.

Union soldiers noticed them coming and began shouting. Their commander came out of his tent, wearing sleeping robes. Silver light bounced off of his hairless head. Sar'tara's fingers left her bowstring. An arrow through a throat. An armored man beside the commander fell. She nocked another.

Twang!

Another man fell. Her lips parted. The Vashiri war cry pierced the night sky.

"Aim for their mounts!" Faren cried behind her. "Aim for their mounts! Don't let a single one escape!"

A volley of arrows were launched from behind. They rained down on the small camp, killing all but a few dozen that had managed to put up shields. The bald commander had survived. He along with two others mounted the last remaining horses. The rest scattered in different directions.

Sar'tara's horse entered the now decimated camp. She put away her bow and dug in with her heel, urging the horse to ride harder. Left hand on the reins, her right reached down at her waist and drew her curved sword. She reached her enemies before their own horses could pick up speed. Her sword hand flashed. The sword missed her target by a few inches. The man drew his own sword and turned his head. Sar'tara knew her skills to be weak —especially on horseback. She slashed at her enemy's mount, the tip of her shamshir digging into a thick leg. The horse whinnied loud and then fell forward. Its rider was sent crashing to the ground in a horrible fashion, armor denting under the weight and bones breaking with sharp cracks.

Sar'tara turned her attention to the second armored guard. An arrow was lodged in the leg of his horse. Her own caught up with ease. The rider was in a state of panic and barely noticed her riding beside him. His mouth opened to cry out. Any sound they might've made was drowned by her own screams. Her sword slashed his throat.

The last remaining man was the bald commander. His robes fluttered around him as if a spectre were surrounding his body. He was bare beneath. He'd been sleeping as if his victory was assured. Sleeping while his men did the dirty work. Sar'tara screamed harder, her voice waning under the constant strain. She spurred her horse on faster. It obeyed, speeding up for a split second only. She used that opportunity to try and behead her foe. She couldn't reach. Her horse was slowing. She lunged forward out of desperation. Emotions caught in a storm, Sar'tara had forgotten the existence of her bow. But her lunge paid off. Her sword struck the bald man's thigh. He screamed and fell off of his horse. At the same time, Sar'tara's aching left hand slipped away from the reins. The leather had become slick with her blood. She grasped at it as she tried steadying her balance upon the horse but failed. She too fell from her mount.

She mentally braced herself for the impact as her world tilted and her shoulder connected with the ground. Dead grass softened her fall as she rolled a dozen feet. She groaned as she pushed herself to her knees. Everything around her spun. Sar'tara tried steadying herself. Her final foe was limping towards her, the curved shamshir in his hands instead of hers. She grabbed the daggers at her waist.

"You! You traitors. Who are you? Xenarian? Tarmian? Answer me!" the bald man cried. He raised his sword arm to attack.

Sar'tara saw the man's face twist in pain. His shoulder was dislocated. He couldn't attack effectively. She screamed and lunged before the sword fell. Her daggers were thrust into his sides. Everything around Sar'tara stilled at that moment. She felt the life of every living blade of grass amongst the dead ones. She felt them tear out of the ground and pierce her foe as if they were needles. "I… I am a daughter of the forest," she breathed.

***

"Heavy infantry to the front. Shields up!" The Wolf cried. The orders were obeyed seamlessly. The Xenarian army was already prepared. Rask drew his longsword. A subtle smirk marked his face. He stared upon the open plains as foot soldiers of the Astral Union charged forth, their path lit alight with torch flame. The sounds of their feet were akin to boulders rolling down a rocky hill. "Archers draw!" The rumbling grew louder. Roars of confidence accompanied. "Fire!"

Amongst the thunder, hundreds of arrows were loosed into the night sky, the sound of bowstrings akin to a flock of birds beating their wings. Sharp terror rained down upon the soldiers of the Astral Union. Boastful roars turned to whimpers of pain. Thunder became as mellow waves crashing against a rocky shore. Torches fell. Their flames disappeared, their lives snuffed out. Those that survived bore expressions of terror. A terror of realization. They weren't sinking their teeth into an exposed flank as they had expected. Rather, they were colliding into a well prepared vanguard, being skewered themselves.

The survivors of the first wave of arrows ran to their hapless deaths. They couldn't turn back against the stampede of their own army. Thus, they fell victim to Xenarian spears. Rask smiled. "Serves you blind fools right," he muttered. "Admire the sun too long and you lose your sight. Second volley!"

More arrows flew. The dense concentration of enemies thinned. "Vanguard march!" Rask called. The first line of spearmen began marching forward, maintaining their formations still. They thrust with their spears, impaling all before their path. "All lines move forward. Archers fire every dozen steps!" The Xenarian army obeyed, moving in perfect harmony as if it were a single entity.

Rask's eyes glazed over the battlefield. A silent shadow creeped its way past the two armies from both sides. They carried no torches. Made no sounds. The Astral Union, sensing that they'd stepped into a hopeless battle, called for retreat. Trumpets were blown. Their army turned back. Turned back to face the shadow wall that had enveloped them. The Tarmian army. Jengard Rask crossed his arms. Kazir had actually kept his word. But for how long…? "All units, maintain order! Kill all from the Thousand Sun City. Do not engage with Tarmians unless engaged upon.

The battle against the Astral Union was all but won. However, a single spark was all it would take to ignite a vicious melee with the Empire.

***

Kalin drew his sword. He stood behind his first few lines, waiting to receive the Tarmian army. They'd feigned a charge but had slowed significantly. Their lines split in two and began surrounding the Xenarian camp without clashing with them. Kazir was clearly waiting for the clash at the rear to begin. Kalin glanced back. He saw the fires of torches carried by the Union's forces as they approached with as much of a ruckus as possible. They made it very clear that they were there. An attempt to demoralize the entirety of the Xenarian army. Their ruckus soon ended as their numbers were culled.

The Tarmian army split further. A third line of soldiers appeared from between the other two. This group was better equipped than the rest of the militia. Tarmia's few hundred veterans. It was all the Empire could spare with their real army occupied to the far east. At their head, their bare chest commander walked forth, back straight and head held high. The outlines of his muscles were accentuated by the clear night sky.

The Xenarian army tensed. They shuffled about, preparing for the worst. Shields and spears were raised without the command being sent. Kalin saw the hints of a smile on Kazir's face. His soldiers lined up a mere few dozen feet from the Xenarians. They stood still, just as he did himself. Kalin met his eyes and stared long and hard, trying to glean what lay beneath that calm façade.

Time passed. The only sounds were of the battle at the rear. They set expectations. Heightened caution. Increased tension. Hearts drummed in anticipation. Even more time passed. And then the sounds at the rear began to fade. Worrying expectations eased. Tension lifted from the atmosphere. The battle was coming to an end.

Even then, Kalin maintained a tight grip around the hilt of his sword, eyes fixed on the enemy general.

***

The assassin returned Kalin's curious stare. While both Xenaria and the Empire's soldiers relaxed, the duke alone remained vigilant. Kazir wondered how long it would take before carrion eaters swarmed the sky, waiting to take advantage of a favorable situation that just happened to pass them by. Just like all the people surrounding targets of his assassinations. How long before the iron cooled and a rotting stench filled the air?

The field quieted. The skirmish at the rear had ended. A cold winter breeze whistled as it brushed past the soldiers standing still just as statues. Accompanying were the distant howls of a wolf. A Silver Tail wolf most likely. The scent of blood had already carried so far. Kazir finally broke eye contact with the duke and glanced up at the sky. Whether the moons were smiling or weeping, he could not tell. Regardless, they outshone every star around.

Noise returned to the battlefield. The Tarmian army began marching back, undoing their envelopment just as they had been ordered. Militiamen were following instructions surprisingly well. Once the lines had pulled back beyond the Xenarian camp, Kazir finally stepped forward. "To think I would ally myself with you. Perhaps tomorrow, the sun will rise from the west."

Kalin stepped forward as well, away from his soldiers. The two commanders met in the middle. The duke still had blade in hand. He held out his left for a handshake. "Do we go back to our petty squabbles after the Thousand Sun City is felled?"

"Squabbles? I'd like to think they were times spent bonding with each other," Kazir said, shrugging sarcastically. "To a new future then? Regardless how temporary this relationship lasts of course."

"To a new future," the duke agreed.

Kalin very obviously didn’t believe his own words. His eyes were still narrowed. A true bastion indeed. Kazir gazed longingly at the silver eagle upon his nemesis' breastplate. How he'd desired to see the silver stained red. Kalin turned around and began walking away. He turned around.

The ever so cautious man was showing his back to an assassin. A test of trust. A smile spread upon Kazir's lips. He took a step. Dead honor, but pride breathes yet. His hands disappeared, their movements a blur. He drew his scimitar. The sound of him drawing iron rang clear. The sounds of his blade being stopped mid-swing rang even clearer. "Flames. You knew."

"Perhaps your tricks work on unsuspecting fools," Kalin said, "but any soldier here could easily recognize such bloodlust, Kazir. You've just been waiting to sink your fangs in my throat."

Soldiers from both sides tensed once again. They each tightened their lines and prepared to charge. "No one moves!" Kazir ordered. He drew his hooked sword. "This battle is between the two of us." After all, what is pride but a hollow shell without honor to fill it.

"Time spent bonding you said. While our men threw their lives away. We would never have seen eye to eye. I accept your challenge!" Kalin lunged in, sword swinging.

Never, Kalin? Somehow I doubt that. Kazir raised his left to trap the sword in his hooked blade. Kalin's blade stopped short of completing its attack and instead changed directions. A blademaster indeed. Kazir lashed out with his scimitar, forcing his foe to parry. He then attempted to catch a limb with his hook but Kalin was far too nimble. The hooked sword glanced off of the breast plate, scratching the majestic wings of the silver eagle. Their exchanges continued for a time.

For the first time in a long while, Kazir felt a thrill within him. A dead fire had been rekindled. A distant childish dream, reborn. A feeling he had last felt when killing his comrades during the final Wickar trials. Is this what stirs you Idris? Is this why you slay men with such glee? But in the end, it was a brief thrill. Kalin was good. Really good. Better even. But the Wickar were not just trained to be good, but to adapt. Adapt to any and all situations. Any and all battles. Every fighter worth his salt followed a rhythm. To the best of the best, a fight was a waltz. This particular fight, a waltz under moonlight. Rhythms could be read. Each passing second made Kalin's next actions more and more apparent. Kazir's blades went deeper. Bit harder. Struck stronger. Slowly but surely, each feather of the silver eagle was being plucked. Along with them, blade edges tore chainmail, and marked skin. Kazir himself had yet to suffer any wounds.

And yet, something felt odd. Despite the dulling thrill, his heart drummed yet. Drummed heavily in anticipation for something. For a hidden climax that hadn't yet arrived. One that would never arrive on time. Its anticipation would leave him disappointed as at long last, Kalin's sword got stuck inside of the hook. Kazir pulled down and twisted. The duke held on to his sword with a powerful grip, but was pulled off balance. The scimitar then came down upon Kalin's exposed neck.

A whistling sound pierced through the air. The scimitar veered off course. A ringing impact echoed as an arrow shaft dropped to the ground. Kazir then realized what the hidden climax was. His heart had been matching the sounds of an approaching horse. His honed instincts were reacting to a threat outside his vision range. A blood curdling cry sent chills down his spine. The voice of the female huntress. Kazir kicked Kalin in the gut and sent the man reeling. He then backed away and turned to the charging horse. Its rider had now drawn a curved sword. Kazir stepped to the side, avoiding being trampled. Sar'tara swung down and he ducked, raising his hooked sword to catch her attack. He then tugged, pulling her off of her mount.

Kazir meant to kill her but Kalin had recovered. "Tch." Their dance renewed. The assassin was still the superior fighter. But that changed. Sar'tara hadn't suffered any damage from the fall. She came at him from the side. He retreated, opening distance between his opponents. "This isn't the honorable duel I had in mind, Kalin."

"Silence, liar," the huntress cried. She came in again.

He swatted her blade aside, her sword skills pitiful. Kalin attacked at the same time, a flash of worry crossing his face. "So honor deserts even a man like you when desperation strikes," Kazir said. His taunts went unanswered. Sar'tara continued her attacks, and Kalin followed. Kazir had been forced on the back foot all while soldiers of both sides watched. To call for aid or stand alone, proud? The question repeated itself over and over again until at last Kazir came to a decision. Teeth clenched, he stepped in.

He stopped parrying and went on the offensive. The Windsinger danced, dodging mortal blows and suffering scratches in their stead.

Adapt!

Each passing second was in his favor.

Adapt!

The winds of fate belonged to him.

Adapt!

His attacks became more vicious. More weight was put on them. Delicateness was sacrificed for strength. A fitting tactic as all three fighters were tiring. Even the three women in the sky obeyed him. Their silver light bounced from his blades and sent flashes into his enemies' eyes. Kazir wielded moonlight itself as he continued to adapt. But for all his finesse, the one thing he couldn't adapt to was Sar'tara. She was weak. Ungraceful. Pitiful. Her unrefined movements lacked a rhythm. Without a rhythm, she couldn't be read. Against her alone, he would win even blindfolded. But with Kalin at her side, shoring her every weaknesses, defending her from every certain fatality, that wasn't possible.

Kazir managed to catch Sar'tara's shamshir in his hooked sword. He tugged, wrenching the weapon away from her. Kalin was there no sooner, striking at once to save her. Kazir blocked with his scimitar, but his arm, heavy from fatigue, was blown back. He retreated to open distance again, but even his feet refused to obey him in time. Kalin roared and swung his sword in a wide arc. Kazir barely avoided a fatal blow. But his world went dark. Searing pain spread out in a thin line along the top half of his face. His eyes had been taken from him. Defeated, he dropped his weapons and fell to his knees.

"So this is what that final sinew of honor earns me. Blindness… ha. Ha ha ha… ha." But of course. Honor bade his enemy to protect the woman he loved. The blame of this loss rested on Kazir's own lies as much as it did on Kalin's unwillingness to retreat once the fight had become unfair.

"You seem awfully calm for a man with no eyes," Kalin said, breathing hard.

Kazir wasn't sure if he detected a touch of regret in his tone. "I still see yet," he lied. Well, a half lie. "We Wickar train all of our senses to the extreme. Of course, I will never again see the colors of this world. I can only ever imagine them. Kill me. Be done with this, friend." He could at least die while his pride and honor remained intact.

"And risk your men trying to avenge you in a fit of rage? They're on the verge of breaking. I wager they'll charge the moment your head rolls." Kalin hissed as if breathing out through his teeth. "No, Kazir. I'll not suffer more dead fathers or sons or husbands from my ranks at your soiled hands. Not even in your death. Let the bloodshed end here. Stand up, friend. Order your rabble militia home. Never again dare to set foot on Xenarian lands. I bid you take your blindness and keep it as a reminder."

"You asked once if you should pity me, and I said no. Yet here you are disobeying, Kalin! Do not humiliate me further! If I don't die here, I'll make sure you regret this decision."

"Then I'll kill you when next you try again."

Hubris. From Kalin. Kazir stood up and turned away. The duke didn't know. He didn’t know what true perseverance could be. What real resilience could look like. He didn’t know the extent of a Wickar's willpower. He thought blindness crippling.

In their brief bout, Kazir had learned more about his opponents than spies had ever learned in years. Yet Kalin did not do the same. Ironically, he was blinded. Blinded by the pretty flower at his side that he was so desperate to protect. My Wick was spent, its length ashes. But you've spared a part. You’ve erred, Kalin Serene. And a dire error it will be.

Though, there'd been one thing the Silver Eagle had predicted true. It was now apparent they'd never again see eye to eye.

Kazir ordered a full retreat. Blood rolled down the sides of his face where tears should have been . So much for an honorable death.