V2 Chapter 3: An Imperial Guard’s story

Tending weapons and armors was one of a very few enjoyments that Sootborne had after donning the gold and copper armor of the imperial guard to serve his great sire. Even so, the sound of grinding whetstone and the brushes of oil on the edges of swords could not bring a smile to Sootborne’s lips.

Sootborne was known to his half-brothers for his indifference and his ever-angry face. They often bet among themselves to see who could take away that scowls on his face. They tried and failed. It was until the older ones of Sootborne’s half-brothers brought him and several others to the brightest looking whorehouse in the capital that they managed to turn the scowls on his face into a red blush. While the hundreds of his half-brothers around the same age as Sootborne rigorously swung their swords from dawn to dust with smiles and laughter in their face, Sootborne swung his sword with scowls and grumble. He did not enjoy bathing in the yellow sun of high noon to learn the art of swordplay and the discipline of formations like his half-brothers. He did not laugh at the contests of speed in those horsemanship lessons and certainly, just like his half-brothers, Sootborne could never smile while the crushing weight of those long logs was bending his spine like a drawn bow.

A man could not choose who he becomes, Sootborne meticulously put yet another well-oiled sword into its scabbard and placed it at his side. He proceeded to draw another sword out of its sheath and scowled at the tiny crook on its ornate cross guard. Sootborne immediately put his hammer into work without really paying attention to story that Rattlekin was telling at the campfire. He was retelling the story of that one winged Garuda who managed to kill that Nameless Demon Lord during the Divine War. Rattlekin was the leader of Sootborne’s twenty-man unit and the oldest of them all. He knew more about the sword, the shield walls and battles than the rest of them. Even so, this would be his maiden campaign as the rest of Sootborne’s half-brothers and Sootborne himself. After all, Shepiran the six-petal flower city of Zard has not known the flame of war since the last civil war over three hundred years ago.

A trio of Sootborne’s brothers from a different twenty-man unit came to retrieve their weapons from him with the faint smell of ginger mead in their breath. Gold was their hair and jade was their eyes, similar to Sootborne and their sire. Sootborne scowled and told one of them to draw his sword to check the state of his weapon instead of just leaving without drawing it once. They got into a small quarrel before the fool reluctantly listened to Sootborne’s demand due to the other’s advice.

As he was going back to his job, Sootborne realized that there was something invisible like the edge of a sharpened blade pressed at everyone’s neck, his neck included. He could not explain it but he could feel it. Some of them who were supposed to sleep at moment for their next watch at dawn were swinging their sword with basic strokes. Others were gathering at the campfire where Rattlekin was telling his stories. Sootborne himself, he could not stop his whetstone, oil brush and hammer from doing what they were designed to do.

The sound of his hammer working on the dents on the armor reminded Sootborne of his aging mother. It has been almost a year since he last saw her. Sootborne meticulously hammered on the dents and remembered the time when he could smile.

Sootborne never complaint of living with the strong smell of molten iron clung to his sweats everyday like his own type of perfume oil. He was content with listening to the striking sounds of his mother’s hammer hitting against the metal on her anvil. He remembered the sting in his eyes, the dripping snots in his nose and the wide toothy laughter in his throat when he took the bellow for the first time, the red embers that took into the air like firebugs and the soot that fell upon his body like snowflake. He was content with living his life covered in soot, being a child of a blacksmith and one day inheriting the smith from his mother.

Yet, the life of a man was but a piece of red-hot iron out of their mold. A man could not choose who he becomes, for the gods had their hammer and anvil and they would strike that piece of iron into the shape they desired. It’s even more true if the man were born from a special mold, the mold of the Great Craxus.

Man and dwarf are children of Sinintee just as the elves are children of Niwdar. But Sinintee is war. Thus, the fate of man and dwarf is war itself.

Born a man and a son of Craxus, there is only but one future. When he was done with working on the pile of swords and armor at his sides, Sootborne sat down and wrote a letter. Before he knew it, he was marching toward Madukat again.

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King Musa camped just as often as he marched. For an old man of his age, Sootborne guessed that the king was doing quite well. Sootborne’s brothers were already joking about how Hyrios might have already won the war by himself by the time King Musa arrived at the Golden Triangle. That’s good, Sootborne thought. Not all sons of Craxus dreamed of battles and swordplay. Not all sons of Craxus dreamed of dragons and conquests. Not all sons of Craxus dreamed leaving their mother to chase after glory. Some just wanted to be a normal person, a lowly smith at his mother’s side and no more.

When dawn arrived on the Duciran Hill signaling the first day of the winter, Sootborne saw the shadow of a hundred nomad riders emerged from the dark side of the Duciran Hill bearing a tattered resemblance of Hyrios’ standard, the golden tiger holding a cross of arrows on black. They came, rushing, bearing grave news, “I’m Hasjonna. I request an audience with the king on Master Hyrios’ order,” seeking an audience with the king in a rude hurry as the ranks of Sootborne’s half-brothers stopped them with shields and swords. Their spokesman carefully held a stained brown silk bag within his clutches. The rest of the riders, their cloaks marred with blood and dirt. Their bows either marred by the flame or broken, their quivers thin of arrows, their tribal garbs bloodied and dirty. Their warhorses exhausted white steam, wobbling on grassy still ground. Their tallest man, the bearer of Hyrios’ standard, a stout giant of a man dropped from his horse like a useless sack of iron ingots and became cold on the ground, revealing the black and brown of eagle-feathered arrows protruded from his cloaked back. He fell while holding into a grown eagle’s wingspan of a wooden case like something of the utmost important to him.

“Healers, please. He needs help.”

One of the riders called, jumped down from horseback and approached the giant. Farrow, the oldest of Sootborne’s half-brother in the service of the imperial family and the commander of the imperial guard, waved his arms and loudly demanded healers. He ordered a pair of the imperial guards under him to move the unconscious man but they could not move the giant due to his sheer massive weight. Fearing for the man’s safety, they did not dare to drag him out of recklessness, waiting for the imperial healers to arrive instead. At the same time, Farrow inquired the spokesman of the riders regarding the news and but that person only shook his head, biting angrily at his lips, refusing to let go the bloodied silk bag within his arms. “Please, let us speak with his Majesty,” he adamantly said as blood streamed and stained his grey stubble.

Sootborne was not the only one who could sense the grievance and hatred in the spokesman’s voice. The man’s strong emotion and the horrible look of his company stirred a dark premonition within everyone’s heart.

“What happened to my Hyrios?” shouted Sootborne’s sire, King Musa of Zard. Through their training and reflex, Sootborne and his half-brothers immediately stood in attention at the presence of their sire and king, squaring their greaves against their shoulders, their gauntlets resting on their sword’s handle.

King Musa rushed out of his tent. The royal gold of his silk tunic was half-buttoned, flapping against the swell of his mead barrel belly. “What happened to my Hyrios?” King Musa demanded. His uncombed hair rustled, a bushy silver forest that mixed with few strands of gold, sensing that dark premonition in the atmosphere.

The spokesman did not reply, only bit into his lower lips harder, enlarging the red stream on his stained stubble. He groveled on the ground, presenting the bloodied silk bag to King Musa.

“That’s not possible. Not Hyrios…” King Musa shouted angrily. His voice suspended disbelief, yet shaken. Among all of his subjects, Hyrios has always been his favorite and King Musa has never shied away from showing that to everyone. King Musa was a man of many loves and many flaws. His great love for talent was one of his best quality and biggest flaw. King Musa raised his hand and palmed his face, appearing as if he had age for another decade from the news. He then waved his hand, pointing his finger and the silk bag and casting a hawk-like glance over Farrow.

Farrow immediately stood before the spokesman, slowly taking the blood stained silk bag from the spokesman’s hands. Slowly, he removed the binding cord as Sootborne trained his eyes on him, expecting to see Hyrios’ bloodied head inside the bag from its shape. Whatever the object inside that bag was, Sootborne had no way of knowing. For a moment, Sootborne saw a bright flash and the figure of Farrow being torn by that flash until a dark cloud swept over him and turned everything into darkness and chaos.

For a brief moment, Sootborne remembered the distant memory of his mother’s forge as his eyes were stung by the black cloud into tears. Then, someone among the ranks of his half-brothers bellowed loudly, “Protect the king.” Suddenly, there was order among the spreading chaos and years of training kicked in. Sootborne drew his sword and tightened the grip on his shield, rushing to his sire’s side with ranks of his brothers to form rings of protection. The one stood the nearest to King Musa tossed his body over the king himself to take a blow for his sire with his shoulder, his sword swinging in a blurry of desperation to save his unarmored sire rather than himself. He fell quickly to the repeated slashes and hacks of the enemies, but even in his death, he still protected his sire with his corpse, further obstructing the enemies from King Musa. Rattlekin was among the first of the imperial guards to reach his sire first, striking at the enemies with powerful swings of his sword, forcing them to divert their attention from King Musa.

Following Rattlekin from behind, Sootborne’s unit rammed into the waves of the cloaked men.

The ones leading the formation intercepted the treacherous blades that aimed at their great sire in the nick of time. Blades met blades for a brief exchange before the wall of heater shields and trusty muscles rebuffed the blades of those cloaked figures. Within that black cloud of chaos, trainings and brotherhood was the only existing resemblance of order. Rattlekin barked his orders as his stabbing blade caught the throat of that spokesman, spilling blood. Sootborne bashed his heater shield against the arcing blade of the enemy stood in front of him. His brothers quickly stood at Sootborne’s sides, raising their shields to form a ring around their sire. Their blades stabbed over the shields to keep the enemies at distance, buying more time for the other units to reinforce the formation.

Those cloaked riders who waved Hyrios’ standard became more desperate when the second ring of imperial guards formed around King Musa. They tossed their weight against the shield wall, taking the stabbing blades with reckless abandon. Sootborne’s sword chinked on the mail of his enemy. He turtled his helmeted head just in time to bounce off his enemy’s hacking blade. Sootborne caught a glimpse of dancing sparks before his sight blurred. His form crumbled backward, staggering into an unmovable wall to support his back. In a blur of white fury, Sootborne found his enemy with his rebuffing shield arm and threw him backward. Supported by the wall behind him, Sootborne stood strong against the next attack, meeting the enemy’s sword with his shield, and eyes with a horizontal red straight of his sword.

The situation quickly turned against those cloaked people when another ring of golden dragon shields formed before Sootborne with their hacking blades. For a moment, Sootborne allowed himself to breath until something flew and opened a hole in the first and second ring to Sootborne’s right side. Sootborne heard Rattlekin barked his orders, telling all the formed the rings around King Musa to move away from the black cloud. Rattlekin counted from “One” to “Two” and then back to “One” again, allowing Sootborne and his brothers to harmonize their footsteps. The small opening in the rings was quickly filled with golden dragon shields of Zard as formation moved.

Through his teary eyes stung by smoke, Sootborne caught a glimpse of two of his brothers sprawling on the ground as the tattered banner of Hyrios impaled their neck and face. A tower of despair broke through the smoke, charging headlong to meet golden dragons of Zard. It was that giant who fell from his horseback and went cold on the ground, now no longer cold and immobiled. On his stout hands a grown eagle’s wingspan of silver gleamed red from geysering streams of blood, a sword made out of Titanite. Its shape and inner patterns made that bulk of silver appeared to be a giant feather on giant’s hands. A trimmed feather it was, but far from being weightless or harmless despite its elegant form. Its wicked edges tore through the copper and iron of the golden dragon heater shields on like nothing. Metal plates gave in to such silver fury within a blink of an eye. But the white of Imperial quenched steels held on, just for the briefest of moment to birth hope, until despair came about with a greater fury.

Sootborne watched as his brothers died holding to their bent, shaved or broken sword. Even the best sword, The Sword of War Song, was only as good as the person who held it. Had anyone else held that sword other than Craxus himself, that weapon would not become a legend. That giant’s skill was just as deadly as his sword. That silver feather of despair flew like an extension of that giant’s stout arms. But, it did not just flew, it struck like thunders with a silver blur of speed and a red explosion of force. Sootborne thought that if Craxus has returned to the land of the living, he would look like that towering giant.

Amidst that despair, a sword managed to slip through that silver fury, a miracle, a beacon of hope until it chinked on bloodied silk garb of the giant. But silk would not chink, only metal chinked.

That giant sneered as if amused behind the silver of his serpent’s head helmet, rewarding the person who managed to score a hit on him with a lightning backswing of his silver feather, sending his armored torso flying through the air, his innard trailing behind like a long tail. His lower half geysered a fountain of blood. Bathing in a raining red, that giant advanced in large confident strides, his silver feather lay wasted to five more golden dragons.

As Sootborne wondered just how many more of his brothers’ lives needed to be spent to stop that approaching hulk of a despair, he heard his sire rallied his army with angry bellows. Sootborne found discipline returned to his grip. He stopped choking on his sword and held it like a weapon. One more ring appeared to reinforce the protection of King Musa and two arrowheads of golden dragons formed before the ring, pointing at that dripping red giant. But lo! The giant laughed savagely, bulling headlong at the giant arrowheads before him with no doubt or fear in him. That silver feather fell three golden dragons with a savage swing, four immediately replaced them, rebuffing the giant with weight and number for the point of imperial steels to claim his life.

The giant effortlessly prevented their effort to wrestle him to the ground with a series of swift and precise strokes, chopping their arms and shields off before they reached him. Bu even so, they pushed forward. Their swords went chink and bounced off the giant’s garb. Silver glinted beneath the opened gaps. For every slash, stab, and hack that came and chinked on that giant, despair returned with a fury silver of vengeance.

Arms flew into the air like winged serpents, fingers and hands like flies and small birds. Shields dimmed and swords broke to the advance of that Titanite cladded giant. His silver ornate armor revealed exquisite patterns of serpentine scales and birdlike feathers, resembling that of a feathered serpent, the forebear of the Garuda.

The giant feather in his hands splintered the arrowheads of golden dragons with a furious display of savagery. He did not just splinter the arrowheads. He dismantled them as if they were children waving imaginary swords on the battlefield. He broke them, their swords, their shields, and spirit. Golden dragons laid slain around him, groveling and on the way to great gate of Mistress Death’s Hall. Out swept his sword, five gold dragons plunged straight into the arms of Death and the giant howled aloud, his silver sword pierced the sky. His howl was that of an ancient beast, a true dragon. Swords shivered before him, shield walls rattled.

Horseless riders broke out of the smoke, rallying to the giant’s sides. They howled with the giant as if his hatchlings, together, they spurred forward, chopping down any golden dragon stood on their way. There was no oder from his sire or Rattlekin or anyone from the inner ring to counter the giant’s charge. So, Sootborne turned, peeking over the wall of shield behind him. His sire was staring, his mouth agape. He was staring, but not at the giant or his hatchlings, to the western sky, a rumbling cloud of dust. Even Sootborne knew that was the sign of an incoming cavalry charge. He shouted to Rattlekin to grab a horse and get King Musa out of this place before doom fell upon them. His shout was like a shriek, but it managed to snap Rattlekin out of his white terror. Rattlekin barked his order to open a hole in the rings for King Musa to exit with the few of his escorts. Ormoer, another half-brother of Sootborne, an imperial guard from the same generation as Rattlekin started taking over golden dragons.

“Stay right there, King of Zard, are you such a coward to abandon your people and children to their doom and run for your own safety?” Shouted the silver cladded giant in a thundering voice, completely overwhelming Ormoer’s squeaking of an order. His accent was heavy like those who were born in the coldest region of the northern realm. “If you dare to claim to be a son of Craxus, face me like a warrior. Otherwise, keep running. Runaway like a weak and terrified whore,” he pointed his giant sword at King Musa.

For a brief moment, Sootborne has thought that doom has fallen over the kingdom of warm falling snow. King Musa lit his eyes as if the fire of his youth remained with him, still. He was a warrior king once in the heyday of his youth, a dashing figure of gold, people said. However, that warrior has long gone, faded into the passage of time, a warrior no more. Even an average imperial guard, a bastard son of his like Sootborne could easily best him in battle. Against that Titanite cladded giant, against the incoming cavalry charge, only doom await King Musa has he decided fighting like a warrior.

Rattlekin for all of his life, begging his sire to leave, to not put the lives of his brothers that were lost to be waste, “Sire, you are first the king of Zard and a warrior second. Do not give in to his taunt.” A speaker he was among the rank of the imperial guard, Rattlekin used his craft to spare his kingdom from doom.

The silver giant bellowed challenge and taunts as he charged toward King Musa, but no longer could they change the mind of the king of Zard. King Musa aligned his royal steed and exited the chaos and incoming doom with his escorts. That giant gave chase on his feet, shouting curses and insults. But the feet of man could never match the hooves of horses. Sootborne thought that doom was averted until he was staring at doom in the face. He realized that ahead of every golden dragon at the scene and started running, breaking away from the shield wall with impunity.

Spearmen of the infantry came rushing headlong to give aid to the dwindling imperial guards, not knowing the terror wielded by that silver tower of despair. That silver-clad giant dismantled their vanguards with a swing of silvered fury and yanked a spear out of a soldier’s arm and back to running again. Sootborne just tossed his body into the air, praying. That spear hit Sootborne’s shield like a bolt shot out of a ballista, tearing a hole through it.

Sootborne caught a glimpse of his mother’s forge, ever covering in a grey fog of soot, ever blazing hot. Amidst that fog, he saw his mother’s figure pounding her hammer against the anvil. And Sootborne was up again, gasping for cold air, patting at the large dent on his metal plate. He used his sword arm to pry away his broken shield. His shield arm, Sootborne could only feel a branding pain and nothing else.

The giant stared at Sootborne and sighed, “This is horse manure.... Lanx, it’s on you now.” His giant feather became a blur, spearmen foundered at his feet, bathing in a rain of blood. The giant advanced toward Sootborne, his jaded eyes underneath his silver helmet lit up in bright fury.

Sootborne thought of running but he scrambled to his feet and stood with his sword ready. His thought kept drifting back to grey fog of his mother’s forge until a sweeping feather of silver arrived. Sootborne had no idea how he leapt away from that but his knees were already bent and his body was already up in the air like a launched arrow, his sword straight at small gap on the giant’s silver gorget. In that moment, time seemed to stretch and slowed down like a moving land turtle, Sootborne desperately prayed that his sword would be faster than that rising gauntlet of Titanite. He felt slow. He never realized just slow his sword was. He never did and people prayed when they needed a miracle in their life.

The sword of the golden dragon crest flung out of Sootborne’s hand and disappeared into the sky. As that silver of despair returned in a backswing, Sootborne dove for giant, trying to wrestle him down for dear life. He felt like he was trying to bring down a tower of metal with his mortal arms. He could not bulge that giant. Desperately, he pummeled the giant in the back of his knee before his body was flying in the air and hit the ground like a sack of potato. He thought a bison on its full charge hit him. The ashen fog of his mother’s forge became even more vivid to Sootborne. He could feel the stinging heat of her redden forge with the tears in his eyes and running snots on his broken nose. Amidst that fog, Sootborne heard the ground rumbling thunder, metals shrieked like wailing widows and people were shouting and screaming at each other. He heard horses’ neighing and riders’ spurring. He saw white bolts cracking through the fog and wicked flame turned brave men into pyres. He saw golden dragons trampled ‘neath the hooves of war horses. He saw riders flying into the air at the white wrath of imperial steels and the long spear of infantry. He saw the banner of the golden dragon rallied for a brief moment until soot covered his eyes.

He saw many things at once but Sootborne had no idea what he was looking at, and that tower of despair was coming for him. Sootborne had no idea what he was doing, but he drew the item tucked on his waist belt, an old hammer. It was just a simple hammer that anyone can find at any regular smithy. It was just a tool to create tool, to shape metal. It was flatten on both side, without an edge or a spike to penetrate armor. It was a smithy hammer, not a war hammer. Sootborne had no idea what he was doing or what he was thinking, but he was already standing up on his limping feet, looking like he was learning to stand again like a baby. He just gripped the old trusty hammer the way his mother taught him. His sight was torn between his mother’s shadowy figure amidst the fog of ashen soot and the approaching mass of silver. For a moment, he thought of the letter he has yet to deliver. He prayed that it would not reach his mother’s rough hands but, at the same time, he wished it would. He had no idea what he was praying. He prayed to Wonten for courage. He prayed to Niwdar to show kindness to his aging mother and he started bellowing like a dragon, running headlong to that silver despair, never looking back.