Battle of Ferro-Ignatius

Inevitably, unbearable times must sow unreasonable children: those whose desire will pivot the world—one anchor point, to the next. No man, historian, or other, can objectively reason if les enfants terriblés will bring ruin to everything, or salvation to all. No outcome is certain, but the insufferable yoke must break.

The tent swayed, oscillating to the whims of a nimble wind; rhythmically, its fabric calmy rose and fell, beholden to the spring breeze, not unlike the alien, long forgotten tides. A generation ago, it was hailed as exuberant, a textile that matched the fervor of the coming times, decorated with legends: knights who ascended mortality to single-handedly turn the tide of battle but ultimately not the war; sole archers that had blinded a dragon seeking to feast upon the wounded in the back lines, and the common soldier; the common man who returned to war with a lead heart. He who answered the call of past heroes and held their endless heroics tightly as a fleeting memory before the coming dark. Once more he rose to act the shield and fulfill his final duty to country and family.

This scroll unravelled hearts beneath the wind, lifting their spirits and barring fear, and doubt. To many it became a quiet sanctuary: towering over the contested landscape, echoing the authority of the old world with all its righteous splendour. That time had come, stayed, and mindlessly faded like the last roar of a long-forgotten titan. No fleeting memory remained of those times. Nobody, not even the man who inhabited it, could remember the original's handcrafted beauty. It changed with time. The generations swapped: those who sought war and glory were replaced by those who knew nothing else, and instead sought only a quiet peace.

The message changed too, now it went on and on, about endurance… selfless piety. It's quality materials were battered into near pulp. Its divine craftsmanship has found itself at the last vestiges of life. The vibrant golden embroidery faded, and the last remnants are likely left scattered till the decay takes them too, and the original impetus is lost entirely like ash to a scouring wind.

This creation outlived its creator. In his short life, he had mastered only one art form. Despite achieving a supreme artistry, he never left as much as a name behind. Not even a mark was left to prove his existence to the world. No one missed him, for he had no family to speak of, and barely anyone knew him, or of him. Those that had the displeasure found him arid, and strange, eventually distancing themselves. Not even when faced with the wild breadth and valour imbued upon his craft—did they resolve to elevate his measly status up to a mere acquaintance. Such was the plight of the artist laid bare outside of art. The burden resolute in the unfashionable man.

He died alone one night, an ugly death of rotten consumption. But somehow in his last desolate moments. He remained happy, resolute that in his life, perfection was finally achieved. The tapestry brought into this world from his otherwise barren hands. It endured—long after his flesh was discarded into a nameless grave, quietly into a ditch without due service. His age is unknown, but some had found some intrigue in his almost enigmatic nature. They study the scarce remains of his work to attempt to piece together his life. "They," my associates have not even unravelled the mystery of his age or birth. Pathetic, anyways…

Many men since have grasped and appreciated this fabric. Some have reset the bindings, broken in a gust of wind. Others had calmed its surface with fine needlework. It didn't matter how many times it was left battered by the elements. It was always repaired in due time. Long years thus passed. The owner and the tent grew old….

***

Decades later, in our present day, its flower (once in bloom) had wilted. It was far past worn in, past that initial trauma. Age had rippled through it like a knife. You wondered where it would break next. Yet… somehow, perhaps through the spirit of its creator, the tent continued to stand, imbued with an aura of unwavering fortitude.

Today, there was no light radiating from inside. It had long since gone out. Instead, sun rays bore through the many tears and holes upon its blemished skin. They leered, as they slipt past the fabric. It was as if the sun itself had punctured these clefts through the worn material. Outside the musk ridden tent, a beautiful day reigned across a vast, busy expanse. The landscape was radiant, bathed in a collection of warm, bright and blue tones. They belonged to the heavens, lavish in their enveloping azure.

Sets of flavourful, exotic eyes, lingered, raised flat. Each young pair had stared at the fabric as it tensed, swaying beneath the brisk wind. Perhaps, it yearned to break. Straining against the binds, slowly, tenderly pushing itself to the breaking point… Until all, at once it would snap, and be whisked off. Taken, by a gentle wind—swept away, to course the dreamy afternoon skies. The men waited, draped in near silence. Some, of the assembled, felt strongly their searing binds, woven into their flesh. Their minds, in unspoken unison, conjured such a delightful noon mirage.

Inside themselves was the only available place of reprieve. In the face of laborious standing to attention, it was the kinder alternative. Each soldier was already dressed in a fitted garb. It left a drab atmosphere—being dressed for combat for the first time. Not nearly as dismal as their first visit with the armourer; he was astute and built like a barrel of oak, head topped with grey, a man as harsh as he was fair. Officially, he was sponsored as a craftsman of the royal city for decades. Weeks prior, each was summoned and ruthlessly grilled by the armourer, and part-time blacksmith. The scolding was an arduous experience. No man wanted to repeat it. And yet it lingered, an unsettling miasma which forced shivers as they heard his voice quiet and serene. Afterwards, all they felt was a collective disappointment. Their unready nature squeezed each man's heart in a vice. As a result, they all had foraged for spare armour.

In summary, each had found something suitable to wear. Amongst them, they wore many varied pieces, strewn between the men at random: a few sparsely mounted pieces of steel plate, pauldrons, greaves, gauntlets and the like, but none of the haphazardly gathered pieces made a complete set of unified protection. Fortunately, each commander received a common, loosely fitted summer gambeson and basic wrought together chainmail. That became the basis of each man's protection.

In the darkness hanging over the opposite end of the tent, a creature stirred. The men stiffened, and their eyes patrolled the room. They flinched loose from their stiff, statue like postures, as a thundering cough threw the fine specks of dust littering the air into sudden erratic motion. Indeed it flung everything, caught by the concurrent airs, into wild disarray.

A rustling emerged from the shade. It began to oddly fizzle and abruptly, the room became engulfed in a thick orange glow. The fat candle bubbled in a strange adorning oil which left behind a peculiar, pungent odour while it burnt. Finally, to the relief of onlookers, the candlelight had gradually revealed him. The only man who sat in that exuberantly carved, but simple all the same mahogany chair. He stirred. The motion spread outward from his slender bony hands—manipulating each pair of eyes to his loosely conjured silhouette. Tension grew till the air thickened, leaving behind an elusive energy. Each ear was drawn to the silent enigma. They grew sensitive to all change until they could sense the subtle currents in the stale air.

The man purged his throat and rose from his seat. In a snap, he drew his hand across the table and swept up a flask buried intermixed in aged paraphernalia. He pressed it tightly to his lips and gulped down the stout drink. It carried a foul, penetrating smell; one that didn't shrink back from overpowering the senses. The onlookers shivered and squirmed nauseated, but oddly enticed. These bystanders looked on with parched lips, thirsty for a brief interlude. Foreign alcohol... beyond that of any regular commissioned officer, but even if the men could muster the funds, the contraband would inevitably be confiscated, a frequent tragedy of the commons.

The man forcefully, brought the wretched drought down his gullet, barring no restraint; his Adam’s apple bobbed in quick successive motion. The men watched like hawks, enthralled by his audacity and absent sobriety. Then, like a loosened arrow the man rocked back and forth leaping to the front of the room. He landed with a loud, obnoxious thud. Each man's stature shrunk back, notably startled—each a slave to his own instinctual recoil.

The enigma straightened and elongated his torso sparing all grace. He cracked each bone and loosened his various tendons and ligaments as he returned into his worn in, but noble form. Still tall despite his age, still proud despite balding, still dashing in a washed out, grey uniform—adorned with grey tufts of aged hair.

Despite it all, the look in his eyes was one of endless vitality; his pupils bathed in an old tenacious fire. His expression remained firmly tacit, unwavering, determined. He strode gallantly, circling his desk. His gait careful and measured until he had elegantly maneuvered around to reach his men. He sauntered up and down their line, trying to lock eyes with any willing contender. He wistfully desired to measure his own theatric flare against any one of them. No one answered and thus he continued to pace and examine, raising his brows with an annoyed tilt, for the one positioned in the centre. The nameless giant who stood an obnoxious head or two taller than the rest, a freak condemned, in the proper sense of the word; the general would often reflect thusly when confronted with the occasional biological monstrosity. He eventually pulled away, mildly satisfied by what his senses managed to perceive.

Seven men, each rigid and tense, standing to attention. He exposed his tongue to the air: the smell of sweat, raw musk, fervent tension. He wanted to gloat directly into each of their wide-eyed boyish faces. Each pair of their attentively postured eyes with long unbroken lashes. That fiery, narrow determination. That youthful vigour gleaming from them. He licked his lips, intoxicated with it all. Such tender, sweetened lives would become fuel for his internal machine. He would conscript them, incorporate them on to himself. Like a majestic old oak, grafting thin, fragile branches, barely at the start of true life, and truer manhood… But he would not speak to them as unspoiled kindling, overtly early. He would not speak, to the nature of his intent or desire.

A minute passed, and suddenly each of the soldiers watched as a grin emerged upon the general's face. His trimmed mustache curled alongside his lips. His callous glistening skin reflected the light, exposing his heavily pronounced dimples. He never removed age, from a part of his persona; instead, he characterized himself, through its icy benevolent grip.

He leaned forward exposing his own grim, desolate eyes, pushing them into the light. The crow's lines confidently sat in full view, a portrait on open display. His age played across his face like a delicate dream, but past it, a truer fire reigned buried underneath a cold resolve, a tension in each flared line of the face as vivid as the fervour of war. The theatre which always shined brightly as a distant star within him; a spark he found and gained hold of only once. One evanescent glimmer that never became lost.

The general hovered below a spire of light, radiating through an open sliver in the tent; he froze, silently enjoying the warmth. The steeled predator glowed, exposed within his natural element—eyes seemingly as dangerous as his words.

They had not met with him often; none could become fully at ease around him. He was a stranger, even amongst the strange. One in command, and one who appeared on the verge of snapping at any moment… Perhaps he was resolute in madness—such was the mystery of the enigma, as viewed outside in, by the gathered seven, kindred as far as spirits are concerned.

His eyes took one final lingering sweep. He shut them feeling like a ship's captain at the helm of a new venture, to sail the blood ridden seas, to greener pastures. He would picture himself thusly as the protagonist of the next great novel, always remembering to add a layer of glory. He never expected, of course, to reach a time without the necessary carnage, and continuous slaughter. This illusion brought him peace. Perhaps he would enjoy a time without conflict and risk as much as this. At times, he wanted to toss his hands outward, as a great conductor with his own extravagant symphonies and movements but today he restrained himself. In the limited flesh, an improper pain brewed inside his head. His aching teeth throbbed after the plum concoction. He felt troubled, and a touch rattled.

The men were beginning to feel nervous and neglected. They continued to watch their General meander while his eyes bulged and wavered beneath the clasp of his lids. One young man, standing second in line from the left, glared at him intently. He squinted and saw a thin sliver of exposed whites quietly flare panning across the dimly lit room. Distinctly subtle. He wondered if the rest of the men would pick up on it. It was always hard to stare Raulin in the eyes. Everyone expected to suddenly be exposed to a burst of flagrant speech, an untempered disciplinary wildfire. The punishment was dolled out swiftly for even minor discrepancies, and the general detected each of them, like a pristine hawk. In the camp his power and resolve to capitalize on it were absolute. No one wanted to suffer his next stiff blow, regardless of which destitute form it would take. Men had begun to shrug back in recoil, at the slightest threat; their fear ran deep.

The general's puffed up chest returned to normal. He had finally finished clearing his throat. Everyone relaxed, realizing standing at attention and the grilling was finally at an end. Through this subtle gesture, they understood the presentation would begin.

They listened to the gruff sound of gurgling mucus; which was expunged to the floor at their feet.

“That's what you all are.” The general said, pointed down and smiled. “That's how much you are worth. You both carry the same green colour. Green as that filth, and you'll surely look green in the face, if not now, then certainly by the end of today. Those of you that survive.” Raulin began to chuckle almost doubling over. The spams shook his bony body; throwing his loose uniform back and forth on his thin, practically malnourished frame. He owned the shape of a sickly man, who too heavily indulges spirits, and makes little time for proper nourishment. Absorbed in his own world: of grand strategy, war and peace, strife, death and other invigorating activities worth his time.

“Alright, scum. I hope, I don't have to memorize your names. But as incentive, by the end of today if you do survive... I'll give you a promise that I'll spend a few minutes, attempting to humour those of lower birth, at least as far as their merit stretches.” He paused for a moment and pushed his face forward eyeing down the tallest commander, who standing a little short of two meters, but even he shrunk in stature before him. Not the least of reasons being the man's repugnant plum morning breath, which was infamous amidst all personnel who came into regular contact with this General.

He exposed the remnants of his teeth; yellowish husks of ivory formed a sneer in the face of the wide-shouldered giant. "I hope you are under no illusion that you are of the same stock as the noble officers in training that arrived with you. Your acceptance into the academy was a measure of wartime, not a regular expenditure. An accident! All some pipe dream of Analytica proposed by the brain dead heir, that slimy rat of a man. Normally we would have never opened the door for gutter rats like yourself. Nameless coward number whatever. It is only because there is a distinct lack of good men, that you were even accepted by meagre chance, into the fold." He spat again making it certain that everyone procured an understanding. He began to pace. Each man followed wide-eyed. Abruptly, he perked up, and his features appeared suddenly relaxed as if no altercation had taken place. He sighed, taking a deeper rejuvenating breath. Then glared back rife with boredom.

“Any retreat is disobeying a direct order. It's common knowledge... but I suspect I still need to repeat it—for some of you. As likely none of your peasant families would have educated you in strategy or tactical discipline or honour! So if you flee… well, for men of ilk like yourselves, there is no common law trial to be had. You are replaceable, disposable, and what's the word… absolutely and utterly inexperienced. You are commanders, of the lowest wrung. Presiding over worthless strategic assets… Officers with only theory and books, and lessons as your guide. Absolute trite… Anyways, it won't be a simple execution, for any of you. Here, I wield the Emperor's authority. I'll have each deserter, boiled in oil and speared, used of as an example if you flee and cause a rut on the friendly side. I'll also put to death a good number of your men if they do decide to flee en masse. So if you are the type to care… Well better, make sure they know how to follow orders. I'll easily behead them just for my own amusement, till the dawn breaks. Is that clearly understood, have I communicated myself well to your deaf ears? I have repeated myself far too often as it is.”

"Yes, sir." Each of the men shouted in unison, straight-faced. He nodded his head and returned to the centre, unfolding a tattered piece of parchment across the messy table. The scroll was pinned by it's torn edges exposing a map of the nearby land. He continued without raising his eyes as he placed a few pieces of bone in a delicate orientation.

"I have memorized each of your positions and that of the enemy per the scouting parties. We will do battle here—along with the nearby plane. We will sortie soon, within two hours at the least. I want each of you from start to end, to list your battle positions. I need to know you aren't wholly worthless."

“Left-wing commander!” The black haired boy next to him shouted, his voice indistinct and collected. They were about the same height and build Sion reflected. He perked up in rhythm and opened the bellows of his lungs, collecting air.

“Right-wing commander!” he shouted trying to instill calm airs. Reflecting on how odd it was to stand next to the other wing commander, by mere chance. He glanced over at his dark-haired academy peer, Asher... That familiar scowl—a bitter frustration, mustered densely across the eyes. He recognized the virulent distaste behind his peer's dark brows, and the tension of his lips, wired into straight lines; it drenched Sion in unease.

"Center commander right!" A light voice perked up amidst a head of brown curls. Seamlessly, without pause, a heavier, smoother bass resounded after him.

"Centerpoint commander!" after him a strained, rushed alto echoed with a tense inflection.

"Center commander left!" He shouted but his voice quickly fell, and he mouthed the last consonants. Finally, the last two men, declared themselves as commanders of reserve troops.

Both were fair-haired and noble in complexion with sharp, defined features; their voices carried forth with a light rhythmic quality, but also with that of a strange dialect. One spoken by northerners of the provinces, long annexed. They talked little and rarely conversed with the rest of the officer corps, preserving their own cherished company. Sion remembered, despite their foreign nature, their domestic counterparts seemed almost as reluctant to converse. All but the centermen, which upon discovering the secret battle plans, began to share in a new companionship, a forcefully developed bond.

Their small trio carried a little sense of a reassuring brotherhood, and as a result, Sion ultimately felt a touch jealous and a bit fearful. They would meet the enemy, and without restraint crash into the foe suffering the most casualties, all for victories sake of course. Sion found it was reassuring to gaze into the eyes of the giant, with his cold steeled complexion. But ultimately the eerie shivers spreading from his heart wouldn't subside. He didn't know the centre point commander. He didn't know anyone. That heavy regret lingered.

Once Sion thought a bond would naturally develop, a natural sense of camaraderie. But, the academy was far too hectic, and everyone ended up stationed, not by friendships, but through random bureaucratic means. Almost everyone was separated by the end. The fronts where all too numerous and all too bloody for friendship; as a result, Sion found himself hopelessly alone without friends or allies. The consumption of life requiring an endless cohort of academy "trained" personnel.

They were part of the first wave of commissioned officers who were stationed at Boar's Impasse, the military camp set up a few clicks outside of Boar's Valley. From the moment Sion arrived, he was well aware his background weighed a massive disadvantage on to his back, but still hoped to be able to succeed in his military career.

The general nodded briefly and strolled throwing the fabric draping his entryway to the sides. They heard him take an enthusiastic breath of air.

"The men should be gathering on the outskirts of the camp. I have given them the order. I won't force you to hound each of your soldiers. That would be petty. As you all know, It's a basic strategy. Push forward, defeat your enemy where you encounter them. Blah, blah, blah. Force them into a rout or kill them all. I won't repeat the entire damn scripture for you. We must follow as valiant soldiers of the empire. And now for the parting rites." Each man filed out, and slipped past the general, but only after planting a kiss directly on his lips and taking a bow.

Many recoiled in revolt to the taste of sour aged plum marinated into the fleshy lips of the General. Nevertheless, they shuffled through, persevering, forcing their bodies and frames to keep intact, in spite of the perverse moment.

Someway down the hill, far enough away from the tent, and the rotten General. The men began to shudder and squirm within their own skin. Each soldier cleaned off their fouled lips with their own water skins, hesitatingly pressing their mouths to the familiar waterspouts, careful to avoid spreading the taint.

Then, the trio assigned to the center broke apart into their own hurried and excited conversation. The two responsible for leading the flanks exchanged dejected stares, one longful, the other deeply cynical. Each left in a separate direction yearning for a moment of solace in solitude. Those responsible for the reserves shortly vanished into thin air, disappearing as soon as they were permitted to leave. No one knew where they were until the commander’s horn was finally blown.

The order arrived, for every man to stand proudly and die readily. At the firm head of the right wing; there, the conscripts found the inexperienced steward of their flock. His eyes feigned certainty, and his hands were tightly wrapped around the guard of his chipped longsword. Sion. His eyes slowly passed over the lonesome horizon where their march would take them.