Chapter 43: The Fools of White Winter (2)

Lanxer brushed the thick-maned neck of his warhorse to calm it down. The beast has been restless for a while. Perhaps, its keen senses have managed to pick up something, perhaps everything that a man could not from the dark of the environment. Or perhaps, it was merely confused from sheer instinctive elation, for it has returned to a motherland it has never known. The beast was a successful crossbreed of a Zardian horse and a Neversummer horse. It inherited the thick and beautiful flowing mane of a Neversummer horse from its mother and the strength, quickness and a wild feral nature from its father.

“The other side of the bank is where your father comes from,” Lanxer quietly whispered to the beast, ruffling its thick neck with his long and bony fingers. The beast as if it understood his word, it calmed down, playfully nibbling on Lanxer’s glove.

“Aren’t you cold?” Regan trotted his warhorse to Lanxer’s side, inquiring while tossing his own coat over Lanxer’s fur seal coat. His warhorse was of a purebred of White Winter warhorse, a beauty, tall and towering, strong and independent, could trudge through the thickest of snow effortlessly. It neighed, restlessly nudging its head toward the sky.

“I am,” Lanxer replied, chuckled a bit, “But this, I have to watch.” Beneath his smooth silk mask, Lanxer licked his chapped lips, cracked like the barren farmland of White Winter. He felt his body shivered to the mist and night wind of the Sandanphon River, yet, he could not feel the usual unbearable bitterness through his skin and bone.

Regan as concerned as he was, he immediately stopped bothering Lanxer with the “Take better care of yourself.” Whenever Lanxer was acting like this, there was nothing in the world can change his mind.

He trained his sleepless eyes at the shadow of Etá Délador, quietly waiting like a predator on the hunt. He was glad that he has left Patocli to Hados on the top of the hill, otherwise, he could never be this focused.

Etá Délador was such a beautiful city. Shrouded in the thick of river mist with only the dimmed light of the stars and torches on its walls to trace its majestic shape, Etá Délador was massive, an ancient giant, a giant among giants.

Beneath the walls of Etá Délador was fishing villages and one of the biggest trading docks on the Sandanphon River.

Lanxer has never grown bored of looking at the ancient city of Etá Délador.

The ancient city of Etá Délador was a notable border city in the western region of Zard, a fortification to protect Zard from any invasion from the west whether it was from the vanquished kingdom of Kraig’ondor or White Winter. It was built upon the ruin of an ancient Titan outpost next to the Sandanphon River’s bank, therefore, retaining a few distinctive characteristics of the distant Titan society that once prospered under the patron of the Dark God Naharis.

Lanxer remembered the excitement he had when he stopped by this ancient city for the first time on his trip to the capital city of Zard. After all, he has only known this city through the paintings and scrolls inside the royal library, the songs of the court musicians and his teacher’s lessons.

This city was unlike any architecture that Lanxer has ever seen.

The city of Etá Délador had a unique pyramidal structure like most ancient temples of the Titan, but many times bigger, resembling a giant stairway that led to the open sky, hence its name in Titan's tongue: the Seven Stairways.

This ancient city was also known as the “Mourning Giant” in the songs of the bard because it is always hiding in a murky veil of river mist during spring, autumn and winter, glooming over the Sandanphon river with its massive shadow like a crying man, sad and lonely.

However, it was also known as the “City of the Damned” in White Winter for its architectural resemblance to the temples of the Titan to worship the Dark God. They could not see Etá Délador as a relic of the past, a monument to study of the ancient Titan, a well of wisdom and knowledge. The idea that people could live inside the temples of the Dark God was too much for them.

The ancient records stored within the royal library also debated the nature of these seven stairways, wondering if the city was really a Titan’s outpost or a grand religious architecture built in the name of the Dark God.

Lanxer could see why people would think that this city was a Titan outpost. Upon seeing its majestic grandeur, nobody in the right mind would think about storming or besieging this city, not even the biggest fools in the history of Lanxer’s family.

There were people who dared to test the wall of Madukat, but none has dared to do the same to Etá Délador.

While the height of each of the seven Stairs was not the height of the famed walls of Madukat, the total height of Etá Délador would dwarf the entire golden city in its glooming shadow like a mountain to a hill.

For generations, the Protectors of the Western Plain have outfitted these seven Stairways with hundreds of dwarven made siege engines, catapults, trebuchets, ballistae, capable of outranging any siege engine might use to point at the walls of Etá Délador. The trebuchets manned on the seventh Stair were built special comparing the rest, created to rain stones on any foolish army that dared to approach its wall. Any army that was foolish enough to scale Etá Délador must answer to those anti-infantry trebuchets first. The trebuchets on the highest Stair, the First Stair, were famously said to be able to launch stones across the other side of the Sandanphon River, on the spot where Lanxer and Regan stood.

Etá Délador, no siege tower can reach its wall. No siege engine can penetrate its wall, without being completely demolished first. Siege magic spells had an even lesser chance. The mighty Hammer of Wonten could never reach the Stairs of Etá Délador, not when the rain of stones and arrows from the Stairs would shred through the bodies of Wonten’s disciples first.

For over thousands of years since the Great War, nobody has dared to test these Stairs of Etá Délador, not the Great Craxus, not the fools of Lanxer’s family, not even the famed Heroic king of the vanquished Kraig’ondor.

Etá Délador was an impenetrable fortification, more so than the famed walls of Madukat.

It was believed that the man who built the Fort city of Madukat for the Bears of the Golden Region was inspired by the architecture of this ancient city.

The idea of testing the invincibility of these seven Stairways was so ridiculous that it was laughable. Therefore, Lanxer could comprehend why his father and his uncles questioned his sanity when he proposed the plan to take over these seven stairways.

“You might as well try to resurrect the last dragon Karijard to help you besiege that city,” Lanxer’s foolish father , the great king of White Winter breathed out, as if moaning during the war council six months ago, half-naked, sweaty and exhausted. His cock still stuck inside his newest favorite concubine who he ordered to ride him like a horse. She was some distant land noble’s daughter whose age was not even half of Lanxer’s.

The sheer ridiculousness of that scene made Lanxer wanted to vomit, feeling glad that his teacher has quitted his post in the final years of his life. Was the old man there, Lanxer’s father would not have a ball for such brainless frivolous. But Lanxer preferred that the old man would not there to witness such insanity. He would have realized that his education has failed. He would ask himself why he bothered trying.

The old man deserved his peace after he had battled to hold this kingdom of White Winter together through five turbulent decades.

Lanxer’s uncles nodded their heads, trying their best not to ogle the exposed skin of king’s favorite concubine, pretending not to hear her moan, hiding their erected lust for a girl whose age was much younger than their own daughters and sons. They did not learn from the mistake that their Great ancestor has once committed. Craxus’ s Empire fell because he could not manage his lust.

People blamed it on the woman who ended Craxus but nobody blamed Craxus for letting such event happened. Craxus lived his days by his own cock and he died because of it. That was the moral of his ending.

As foolish as they were, Lanxer’s uncles and father were educated by Lanxer’s venerable teacher when they were still princes. They understood that some cities and fortifications were not to besieged under any circumstance, Etá Délador was one of them.

“One day. I swear to takedown that city in just a single day. I don’t ask for an army. My “Men of No Banner” is enough for the job. If it took me longer than that, I will chop my own head and serve it to you,” Lanxer claimed during the war council.

Most treated that claim as a joke, believing that Lanxer has lost his mind to pneumonia, most, saved for three.

Reminded of the sheer ridiculousness of that war council, Lanxer felt his blood boiled.

“You really don’t need my help in this battle?” Regan asked, an obvious attempt to pry the answer out of Lanxer.

“You can stay here with me and watch,” Lanxer breathed out white vapor through his silk mask, still eyeing at the prize.

“Okay, it’s about time for you to tell me the plan. It’s your 3000 against their 3000, quite a fair battle in my opinion. How can you be so confident in your chance?” Regan probed. He has pestered Lanxer with this question for months, and still to this moment, he still asked it.

“Just wait until tomorrow morning. You will know,” Lanxer mysteriously replied, hushing his muffled snickers over the impatience of Regan.

Regan’s impatience reminded Lanxer again that the two of them could not be more opposite despite being the best students of the old man, especially in the art of war.

Regan had none of the old man’s patience and craftiness, the two most important traits that are required of any student of war. Yet, ironically, he has been Lanxer’s equal for decades, even to this day.

Just like Hyrios and the hatchling dragon, Regan possessed many things that can never be taught through lessons or scrolls. He could arrive at the battlefield completely unprepared, outmatched and outmanned, and still somehow won that battle at the end of the day. Those kinds of battles were the one Lanxer hated the most. They were slugfests, muddy and dirty, risky gambles, and the tide of these battles can turn either way at any time. They were messy, chaotic and uncontrolled. Yet, Regan excelled in such situations. He thrived in such battles. That quality was something Regan shared with the old man, not Lanxer and his circle of secretaries and advisors.

“Come on. Don’t be such a bore,” Regan complained, started begging.

It was then, a small glow so tiny and frail, almost undetectable in the thick of river mist, soared to the night sky, an arrow of fire.

Lanxer did not miss it. “That’s the signal. It has begun. Levy!!” He commanded.

Levy, Lanxer’s personal bodyguard, and court magic caster fixed her magic staff to the ground and chanted. “O Great Pursuer of Wisdom, may your Phantom Echo be heard through the land and guide us through this darkness.”

The spell was , also known as . It allowed a person’s voice to be transmitted over a long distance to a specific target, unheard to anyone else. Levy placed the tip of her magic staff near Lanxer’s mouth as soon as she finished her chant.

“Shadow Company, Formless Company, move out. Follow the plan.” Lanxer passed his order to the commander of his legion of “Men of No Banner.”

Intrigued by Lanxer’s command, Regan asked. “Where is your Shadowless?”

The Shadowless Company was the best and most loyal of Lanxer’s Men of No Banner. Of course, when Lanxer did not mention them in his order to attack the city, Regan would find that intrigued.

Lanxer sighed, knowing that if he would not give Regan the answer now, the stubborn fool would keep on pestering forever. He pushed the tip of Levy’s magic staff away from his mouth, replied, “They are already inside the city.”

“All of them?”

“Most.”

“Since when? How did you sneak that many people inside?” Regan pestered, his eyes round and wide-opened.

“Slowly, over the years. I told you that I have planned for this moment for fifteen years, right? Hyrios has recruited men to fortify the defense of this city five times in the last ten years. Each time, I sent him a hundred of my Shadowless. Not all of them made the cut, but over three hundred of them did.”

“Hyrios did not suspect?”

“I have personally selected the local of this region before I trained them into my Shadowless. They speak with Zardian accent. They understand the customs and traditions of this land since they are born locals. Hyrios would not suspect them. Some of my Shadowless even joined the rank of Hyrios’ personal army. The rest, I have them disguised as traveling merchants and slavers, entering this city in this spring and summer.” Lanxer explained.

“That’s why you are so confident about felling this city in a day. You crafty fool.” Regan muttered his admiration, clenching on his reins to contain his excitement.

Lanxer did not attempt to reply. He told Levy to patch him to the commander of Regan’s Fourth and Fifth Company. While Levy chanted her spell, he sighed, “Gods make games.”

“Men make plans,” Regan completed the phrase. It was a phrase that their teacher always repeated.

“Except that you don’t plan. You never bother to,” Lanxer sighed again. If only Regan did, if only he was willing and patient, he would have been Lancer’s better, probably.

Levy has finished her spell. Lanxer held the tip of Levy’s magic staff again, firmly commanded, “Relay my order, Fourth Company barricades and block off the area. I don’t want a single person to get out of your circle, not even a child. Fifth Company, burn the dock, destroy any vessel that you may find. After that, block off the river as well. Follow the plan.”

Lanxer would have the entire region around Etá Délador contained for weeks, as long as possible until the combined army of his, Regan’s and the Judgment Army of the Great Temple reached the treasured Flower of Zard, its capital.

Lanxer sat on his warhorse and watched as the Stairs of Etá Délador lit up in the flame of combat. He has instructed his men to be very careful about that. However, within the heat of battle, anything could happen.

“Gods make games, men make plans,” He quietly repeated his teacher’s quote. He wished that the flame would not reach the granary. Otherwise, Krady would kill him with his nonstop bitching for days to come.

The torches of Regan’s Fourth and Fifth Company began to lit, forming a giant circle around the fishing villages underneath Etá Délador. The rich trading dock of Etá Délador burned by the torches of the Fifth Company, with it drifting embers and ashes.

The familiar song of clashing steels began to reach Lanxer’s ears. Its melody has once boiled his blood, making him eager to take part in the combat to prove himself, but no longer. Its melody could not even wake up the demon sleeping inside Lanxer’s stomach.

His blood was just as cold and bitter as the howling blizzards of Neversummer.

The only person, the only one who was capable of making his blood boiled, was heading north, completely fell for Lanxer’s carefully laid ploys.

A pity. Had it not for his blinded love to the late hatchling dragon, he would not be tricked that easily. The moment that person managed to regain the famed walls of Madukat, Lanxer would have planted the flags of the impaled dragon on the Flower of Zard by then.

A quick war, short and clean, predictable, such was always his forte, his fire and claws.

Lanxer was fine with such a result. His blood would not boil. He would feel no accomplishment from such ending. But, that was but a small price for his ambition of a lifetime. The land of Zard was his dream for fifteen years.

Lanxer’s tired and sleepless eyes never left Etá Délador. Regan kept him company, fully believed in Lanxer’s victory, quipping and talking until Patocli joined their conversation. Lanxer remembered talking with them but he did not remember what they were talking about for the length of the night.

When dawn came, the golden flags of the impaled dragon flew on the great Stairs of Etá Délador. Columns of dark smoke grimly rose from its walls, darkening the sky.

The impenetrable Etá Délador has fallen, fast and in the most disappointing manner, the Flower of Zard even quicker and more disappointing. That conclusion, Lanxer can predict.

Yet, the Tiger headed north. It was such a disappointing and sad conclusion.