Ankh focused only on placing one foot in front of the other, grabbing another rock ledge, sweating his task out in silence. It wasn't that he was unfit: far from it, as all Lanciars were, even ones of such dubious heritage as he. It was simply that he was decked out in full Lanciarial armour, stifling in the broiling heat of the Badlands of the Occident; and that, as the helots of Magia said, the view from Barrowmount wasn't worth the climb.
Still, Ankh surmised as he turned, his greaves crunching on the sandy, sun-baked gravel of the plateau that most reckoned as the tip of Barrowmount proper, the view from Barrowmount was something that had to be seen at least once in a life. An ocean of tan, wind-sculpted sand stretched as far as the eye could see, broken only by the occasional sand-blasted red rock spire, a few gatherings of blue canvas tents, inhabited by Shai Qadi nomads, and, to the east, on his left, the citadel of Magia: light grey walls made shining white by the glare of the sun and the contrast with the sands roundabout; tall circular towers appendiced to a sprawling keep, and surrounded by the mud huts and irrigated fields of the indigenous Farhighter population, all enclosed by the afore-mentioned curtain wall; and the glimmering lake of the Magia Oasis, the only remnant of the fertile, civilised plains that the Badlands had once been, before man-made infertility had desertified them. The people of Magia might have umber skin and speak Saliciri, but Magia belonged to the Duchy of Akar, and had these last three centuries, ever since the Shahanshah of Farhight had granted. No Farhighter – or any save a Lanciar – had seen the inside of Magia's walls since then: not since it had been made the stronghold of the Pontifexes: officially Akar's priesthood and mages' guild; unofficially, her dreaded secret police.
"Ankh." a rough voice called from behind him.
"Pontifex-Decanus Calstrade." Ankh turned stiffly to face his mentor: Ankh did everything stiffly. He had no sense of humour: it had died with his family.
"Stop daydreaming and come over here." Ankh suppressed a flash of anger: he hadn't been a minute looking. Anyway, it was foolish being angry. Most people were fools; Ankh wasn't.
Calstrade was certainly no fool: hugely tall, almost eight feet, and with a physique to match, there were some who said that the hulking giant with his heavy brows, brutish features and peerless intellect was not human. Certainly, with a name like Calstrade and an accent like he had, he was no Akarean. Ankh sat himself down on the proffered rock and turned to face the huge man.
"Tell me, Ankh," the Pontifex-Decanus, his soft, scholarly voice at odds with his appearance and the Pontifex's white brush on his helmet, "who are you?"
"I was born in Salicir to Farhighter parents. When I was three, we emigrated to Caragean. When I was seven, Kamarean paramilitaries murdered my parents and sister. My brother and I fled to Kallipolis, where my magical talent was recognised and I was ta – selected."
"That is not who you are." Ankh closed his eyes and berated himself. If he didn't pull himself together, he wouldn't pass this, the most important of his Pontifexial examinations.
"I am an apprentice Pontifex."
"Better. And why are you here?"
"Eh... to become a full Pontifex."
"Excellent. You have passed your first test... barely. You must remember to think outside the box, Ankh." Calstrade stood up. "As a Pontifex, you will face many trials and tribulations along the road of your life, some because you are a magic-user, some because you are Akarean, some merely because you are in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Am I a Pontifex now?" Ankh asked. If he had been anyone else, he would have sounded eager: because he was Ankh, he just sounded disinterested. Passion was for fools.
"You are not. You will now be confronted. Do not kill. Goodbye." And then Calstrade walked off. Ankh watched him go, feeling a bit foolish. What the hell was this?
It was about then that the man in the blue robes stepped out from behind a rock.
"Hello." Ankh whipped around – or did the closest thing he could to 'whipping around' in Lanciarial armour, which amounted to a kind of hasty shuffle. The blue-robed man in front of him was the kind of person you describe as 'nonchalant', 'lithe', and perhaps even 'clichéd' – he certainly would have made an excellent ninja, although Ankh wouldn't have known that.
"I am Janin, of the Sand's End Shai Qadi." he stated in a funny accent, exuding confidence from every pore. "The tall-man hired me to kill you." Calstrade? Why would he want to kill me?
"Well then, why are you sitting around talking about it? Would you perchance like a cup of tea before you chop off my head?" Ankh bit back acidly.
"Certainly not, it's too hot for tea. Anyway, the people of the Qadi – that's what Shai Qadi means, 'people of the Qadi', that's our name for the Badlands - "
Ankh lashed out with his sword.
Janin moved faster than Ankh would have thought possible. He flowed – metaphorically speaking – under Ankh's clumsy blade, pulling a wave-shaped scimitar from a sheath on his back -
A flash of metal. He was bleeding! Ankh was bleeding! He put a hand to his middle, pulling back a handful of blood and broken metal links. He stared at them disbelievingly.
Janin smashed his scimitar into Ankh's arm, no trace of his earlier delicacy evident. The dying man fell over like a dying castle, ponderous and metallic. The earth tilted sideways, the cruel sun waxing yellow as the sky aligned itself with his nose -
Crash. His lifeblood flowed out. His passionless had availed him none. Janin's fabric-bound boots planted themselves in front of his eyes, his swordpoint grounding itself, spinning off on some self-important soliloquy or other. Ankh wasn't listening. He was blee -
I can use magic. The revelation hit him like a carrack hitting a drowning man – definitely enough to see him safe home, but perhaps too much to grasp. Mind you, considering how fast that viper of a man had moved, and considering that his guts were on the verge of spilling out all over Barrowmount, it wasn't like he had a choice.
Calm. That was how he used magic. He calmed himself, letting Janin drone on...
...and he saw the world as it really was, each shape reduced to the mathematical graphs and equations which dictated its shape, and around each one, the mysterious, unknowable natural force that was magic. It ignored the green lines and cloying blackness, swarming instead to the lights of Ankh's sentient mind, and Ankh let it, letting floods of glowing particles through the gates of his consciousness until he was bursting with phosphorescence.
Now... He located Janin's mind, a pulsating light set in the graph of his being. Magic didn't work as fireballs or thunderclaps, oh no: magic was the oil that greased the universe, and it could only be used to affect existing objects in relatively minor ways.
However, Janin's mind glowed outside the universe, belonging in this realm of maths and magic. That, Ankh could affect in almost any way he wanted.
So he did.
Ankh opened his eyes to see the Shai Qadi's jet-black eyes staring glossily at him, devoid of expression and content – but not life. Calstrade had forbidden him to kill. What kind of bastard test was that? Ankh wheezed his way upright, holding his organs in with his hands – well, most of them. He could live without a kidney. Or whatever it was that had made that ugly squishing sound. Janin, viewed from above, was as helpless as a rag doll – Ankh gave him a kick, not out of malice, but rather to make sure the spell had worked. His mind was severed from his body, leaving the husk to wither here until the magical chains dissipated – if they did. Ankh had tried to make it temporary, but he had not tried very hard.
As it turned out, Decanus-Pontifex Calstrade was waiting for him, not far away, with the medical kit he said he had to take every time. Ankh was drugged into a stupor and, when he woke up, he was in Magia's infirmary, his midriff sewn up, and a small flame of elation burning inside him to match the strange light in the sky that had appeared outside the window. He was a Pontifex!
But that was not the end of the story.
Janin of the Sand's End Shai Qadi stared, the only option left to him with his mind shackled as it was. The pyramid-shaped rock in front of him had become his world, all he could see, that and the sand as the wind blew it into his unclosing eyes. He had had the Lanciar dead, damn it! It wasn't fair!
But I can make it so.
Janin of the Sand's End Shai Qadi listened with interest to the voice coming from the light in the sky.
Monday, 30 May 2011
Sunday, 22 May 2011
A Discussion Between Friends
A Discussion Between Friends
Zorlac watched the odd, moving light in the sky that had interrupted the beautiful display of of Orlan's mana-geysers for a moment longer, then turned back to his friend.
“I say, Zorlac.” Zanticus remarked, flicking over a page in his book. “Why does every story ever written always have two inseparable, amusing friends?”
“Well I don't know.” Zorlac griped. “I don't write them! Anyhow, it's rude to be reading at the table.” Zanticus glanced up.
“Yes, but at least this way it doesn't look like we're dating.” Zorlac shifted uncomfortably. Sure enough, the 'Geyser View', Orlan's most exclusive restaurant, was crammed with small, two-person tables, almost each one occupied by doting couples. Only most were heterosexual.
“It's... you know... just the Crown Prince and his good friend out for a meal.” Zanticus turned a page. In the window behind him, one of the mana-geysers flared, throwing a plume of white energy towards the night sky.
“Crown Prince no longer, Zorlac, since your sister was crowned.” Whatever good mood Zorlac had evaporated instantly.
“Bopol's greasy left nostril!” Zanticus looked up sharply at the foul if comic curse. “I still can't believe she manipulated my father into leaving her the throne in his will.” Zanticus turned another page.
“There are those,” he said carefully, “who say that he made the decision himself, ever since you got those portraits of the Civitate of Thraxion hung up all over the Akarean Quarter.”
“He wasn't naked! Only mostly. Anyway, he had trouble keeping that belly under wraps as it was.”
“Nonetheless, Jinn wasn't best pleased. Especially after Katrin went out and treated those sick and wounded with her bare hands.”
“It was a bar fight!!!” Zorlac shrieked. The people at the next table looked at him strangely. “And the injured part was her toy-boy. She should have been made pay him for the impropriety!”
“Why, which bit of him did she treat?”
“Don't ask. Anyway, Jinn the bloody Seventh, high and mighty Basilicus of Kamar and MY father too, much as he liked to forget it, always had a soft spot for my little sister. A female monarch! Why, it's never been done.” Zanticus finally closed his book.
“Well, the fact of the matter is, you're not Basilicus, and you're not likely to be. Don't worry, Kamar is practically a democracy by now anyway.”
“Bah. Peasants.” Zorlac sighed, sniffing a scented handkerchief for effect.
“So, Zanticus asked, “what're you going to do with your life?”
“Looks like the Legio Magica is my only real bet. Safe, intellectually taxing, and well-paid. And you'll be with me.”
“But - ”
“Yes you will, Zanticus. Do as I say.”
“But my career!” Zanticus wailed.
“You don't have a career, and I don't have a bodyservant. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” Zorlac asked.
“But - ”
“Good boy, I knew you'd agree. Now, I know the Legio Magica is a military organisation,” Zorlac continued, effortlessly dominating the stuttering Zanticus, “but Kamar has had no major wars in three centuries. So: a nice, safe job for me. And you.”
“What about this war with the Akareans? I heard they're sending the Legio Magica down there. You've never faced a real opponent in your life!”
“Now, I know you're scared,” Zorlac replied, blithely ignoring Zanticus' insinuation, “but never fear. I am an accomplished swordsman, the greatest magician alive, a genius of the highest order, and Crown Prince of Kamar – don't say anything, Zanticus!! And the Akareans are merely barbarians. They will fall to their knees in awe at my majesty.” Zorlac sat back smugly.
“Or,” Zanticus noted. “you could show them one of those portraits of the Civitate of Thraxion naked. That'd bring them to their knees – heaven knows, it worked well enough on their brethren in the Akarean Quarter.”
“I could do that.” Zorlac mused.
“Yes.”
The conversation paused.
“So,” Zanticus said, at last, “I, the scion of one of Kamar's greatest and oldest noble houses, am going to spend my life as your bodyservent.”
“Yes.” Zorlac answered, with no hint of remorse.
“And I was doing so well at the start of this conversation. Why do I let you dominate me so easily?” Zanticus moped.
“It must just be that I am a superior intellect.” Zorlac boasted nonchalantly. “Ah, waiter. What took you so long? I could have written a short story in the time it took you to get here.”
“I don't doubt it, sir.” the waiter replied unctuously, penguin-like in his silly suit and sillier moustaches. “What will sirs be having?”
“Grilled crocodile. Yes, I'm serious.”
“Ostmargue lobster.”
“Excellent.” The waiter scribbled in his notebook and then examined them both carefully over the top of his ridiculously clichéd pince-nez. “And... would sirs like to hire one of our guest-rooms for the night?”
Zorlac threw a glass at him.
“Do I look like a puff to you?”
“I will take that as a no, good sirs. Kindly wait awhile.” The waiter glided off.
“So, Zorlac... the Legio Magica. Blood, pain, untrammeled reams of power being focused through fragile minds with possibly lethal consequences, and Akarean girls, with their big noses, long limbs, and leathery skin. Life's good, eh?” Zanticus wailed. Zorlac just smiled: the world was getting better.
If only he could stop thinking about that light that had crossed the sky.
Zorlac watched the odd, moving light in the sky that had interrupted the beautiful display of of Orlan's mana-geysers for a moment longer, then turned back to his friend.
“I say, Zorlac.” Zanticus remarked, flicking over a page in his book. “Why does every story ever written always have two inseparable, amusing friends?”
“Well I don't know.” Zorlac griped. “I don't write them! Anyhow, it's rude to be reading at the table.” Zanticus glanced up.
“Yes, but at least this way it doesn't look like we're dating.” Zorlac shifted uncomfortably. Sure enough, the 'Geyser View', Orlan's most exclusive restaurant, was crammed with small, two-person tables, almost each one occupied by doting couples. Only most were heterosexual.
“It's... you know... just the Crown Prince and his good friend out for a meal.” Zanticus turned a page. In the window behind him, one of the mana-geysers flared, throwing a plume of white energy towards the night sky.
“Crown Prince no longer, Zorlac, since your sister was crowned.” Whatever good mood Zorlac had evaporated instantly.
“Bopol's greasy left nostril!” Zanticus looked up sharply at the foul if comic curse. “I still can't believe she manipulated my father into leaving her the throne in his will.” Zanticus turned another page.
“There are those,” he said carefully, “who say that he made the decision himself, ever since you got those portraits of the Civitate of Thraxion hung up all over the Akarean Quarter.”
“He wasn't naked! Only mostly. Anyway, he had trouble keeping that belly under wraps as it was.”
“Nonetheless, Jinn wasn't best pleased. Especially after Katrin went out and treated those sick and wounded with her bare hands.”
“It was a bar fight!!!” Zorlac shrieked. The people at the next table looked at him strangely. “And the injured part was her toy-boy. She should have been made pay him for the impropriety!”
“Why, which bit of him did she treat?”
“Don't ask. Anyway, Jinn the bloody Seventh, high and mighty Basilicus of Kamar and MY father too, much as he liked to forget it, always had a soft spot for my little sister. A female monarch! Why, it's never been done.” Zanticus finally closed his book.
“Well, the fact of the matter is, you're not Basilicus, and you're not likely to be. Don't worry, Kamar is practically a democracy by now anyway.”
“Bah. Peasants.” Zorlac sighed, sniffing a scented handkerchief for effect.
“So, Zanticus asked, “what're you going to do with your life?”
“Looks like the Legio Magica is my only real bet. Safe, intellectually taxing, and well-paid. And you'll be with me.”
“But - ”
“Yes you will, Zanticus. Do as I say.”
“But my career!” Zanticus wailed.
“You don't have a career, and I don't have a bodyservant. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” Zorlac asked.
“But - ”
“Good boy, I knew you'd agree. Now, I know the Legio Magica is a military organisation,” Zorlac continued, effortlessly dominating the stuttering Zanticus, “but Kamar has had no major wars in three centuries. So: a nice, safe job for me. And you.”
“What about this war with the Akareans? I heard they're sending the Legio Magica down there. You've never faced a real opponent in your life!”
“Now, I know you're scared,” Zorlac replied, blithely ignoring Zanticus' insinuation, “but never fear. I am an accomplished swordsman, the greatest magician alive, a genius of the highest order, and Crown Prince of Kamar – don't say anything, Zanticus!! And the Akareans are merely barbarians. They will fall to their knees in awe at my majesty.” Zorlac sat back smugly.
“Or,” Zanticus noted. “you could show them one of those portraits of the Civitate of Thraxion naked. That'd bring them to their knees – heaven knows, it worked well enough on their brethren in the Akarean Quarter.”
“I could do that.” Zorlac mused.
“Yes.”
The conversation paused.
“So,” Zanticus said, at last, “I, the scion of one of Kamar's greatest and oldest noble houses, am going to spend my life as your bodyservent.”
“Yes.” Zorlac answered, with no hint of remorse.
“And I was doing so well at the start of this conversation. Why do I let you dominate me so easily?” Zanticus moped.
“It must just be that I am a superior intellect.” Zorlac boasted nonchalantly. “Ah, waiter. What took you so long? I could have written a short story in the time it took you to get here.”
“I don't doubt it, sir.” the waiter replied unctuously, penguin-like in his silly suit and sillier moustaches. “What will sirs be having?”
“Grilled crocodile. Yes, I'm serious.”
“Ostmargue lobster.”
“Excellent.” The waiter scribbled in his notebook and then examined them both carefully over the top of his ridiculously clichéd pince-nez. “And... would sirs like to hire one of our guest-rooms for the night?”
Zorlac threw a glass at him.
“Do I look like a puff to you?”
“I will take that as a no, good sirs. Kindly wait awhile.” The waiter glided off.
“So, Zorlac... the Legio Magica. Blood, pain, untrammeled reams of power being focused through fragile minds with possibly lethal consequences, and Akarean girls, with their big noses, long limbs, and leathery skin. Life's good, eh?” Zanticus wailed. Zorlac just smiled: the world was getting better.
If only he could stop thinking about that light that had crossed the sky.
Sunday, 15 May 2011
Welcome to my World
Firstly: thank you for clicking that link. I really appreciate it.
Secondly: you have just laid eyes upon the Fantasies, the newest, freshest fantasy blog on the Internet. I intend to make it my personal mission, whether through the medium of short stories or books (which your support will help realise), to bring you the best fantasy I can write, regardless of homework, food, or indeed real life. Any and all feedback is welcome and appreciated, and I urge you to say what you think. I am, after all, writing for you. If you could tell all your other friends whose taste is as good as yours, that'd be appreciated too. As regards more information on the world the Fantasies are set in, I will get around to that soon, I promise.
Thirdly, and most importantly: enjoy the very first story.
“Lanciars: close ranks!” Decanus Marbo shouted in his gravelly voice, the rain pattering off his faceguard and chain-mail gown.
Constantine complied, stepping close to the equally heavily-armoured man next to him, closing the gap in the shield-wall, and grounding his pike. The bronze butt-spike slipped in the mud, but Constantine wriggled it until he knew it would hold. Constantine had been doing this since he was four.
But then, so had all Lanciars.
He squinted ahead of him in the rain, the dampness trickling through the circular holes in his visor and running down his cheeks, soaking his greying moustaches, scanning the muddy plain ahead from the hilltop for any sign of the approaching Kamarean cavalry. The soft merchant-kings of the neighbouring Kingdom of Lain, under the protection of the Republic of Kamar, had decided, finally, to oppress their pesky and stubborn neighbours in the bogs to the north. They had guns and horses and all sorts of fine gadgets to aid them, and oh, were they confident!
But they were not Lanciars.
Marbo held a Thursian looking-glass to the eyehole of his helmet. Marbo was a good man, Constantine knew, and a fair commander. Still, it galled him to have a man ten years his junior commanding him, even if the one-eyed, one-armed, single-minded Marbo was as grizzled as they came.
“Here they come!” Marbo roared again, his voice like sandpaper. Sure enough, when Constantine squinted, he could make out the far-off forms of the raiding cavalry, rifles held high, whooping and screaming like young boys given toy guns. Which was, essentially, what they were. Most Lanciarial grandmothers could beat a Kamarean soldier, one-on-one. Of course, all those Lanciarial grandmothers had been fighting since they were four, which counted for something.
Quickly, Constantine himself assessed the situation. The Lanciars commanded the rise: behind them, there was a bog, and beyond that, Kallipolis, the capital city of the Duchy of Akar and home city of the Lanciars. To either side of them, thick, dark-green pine forest spread, dripping with the damp, which meant the Kamarean raiders had to attack the Lanciars by going between the two woods and up the hill. As good a fighting position as any, but the Kamareans' guns – even crude as they were; Constantine would sooner have trusted a Lanciar's gastraphetes, or stomach-bow – would count for something. Of course, Marbo – and, by extension, Constantine – knew something the Kamareans didn't.
Closer they came, whooping and cheering like wild things, dressed in vivid red uniforms, flying a banner with the Sphinx of Lain picked out in gold on a background of red. Marbo, face obscured beneath his visor, looked at the banner expressionlessly; then he himself shouted:
“Raise the Akarean Banner!”
Somewhere behind Constantine, someone raised the banner of Akar, the country which the Lanciars ruled. He sneaked a peek back: a shepherd's crook, a sword, a hammer, and a scythe, all picked out in black and white on a background of sea-blue edged with red. A beautiful banner, certainly, not as regal as that of Lain but fit for its purpose.
“Closer...” Constantine heard Marbo mutter, and the Lanciars shifted one last time before settling themselves permanently, freezing like statues. The woods narrowed into a neck, not far beyond the bottom of the hill, and the Kamarean raiding cavalry were approaching at a wild gallop. Benet save their horses, Constantine prayed idly.
“And... now!” Marbo roared. At the end of the line, a Lanciar opened her face-plate and huffed into a flute. A shrieking, strident note echoed away, bouncing off the hilltops and spires of far Kallipolis, reverberating through the countryside. The Kamarean raiders stopped, suddenly uncertain.
That was when the cataphracts charged.
Constantine knew that there was nothing quite like a charge by heavy cavalry, and not even normal heavy cavalry could compare to the monstrously armoured Lanciarial cataphracts. He could imagine what the Kamareans were feeling: the first signs, drips of water falling from branches or loose leaves falling from trees, perhaps, as the first tiny vibrations reached the unfortunate victims. They would notice, oddly to them, that the earth seemed to be vibrating, particles of soil bouncing and jarring against each other beneath their very feet.
Then they would hear it.
To the sight of pine-cones falling and saplings quivering like broken bows, the rhythmic, thumping sound of the huge horses' hooves would reach the unfortunate raiders like the drumming of a mad god. Perhaps now, as needles showered and branches shook loose about them and the thunder of the Lanciars' wrath reached their ears, the raiders would finally realise the folly of their mistake, realise that, no matter how powerful their guns or how rich their fathers, they and their pathetic little firearms would be ground into the muck.
The raiders stood, and Constantine wondered what must be going through their heads. Were they replaying regrettable portions of their lives, perhaps wondering what they could have done better, what they should not have done? Perhaps they were preparing to die well, to die bravely, to die stupidly with a shout on their lips, a mace in their skull and no meaning to their death. Perhaps they were trying to summon the courage to turn and run, to find the spunk to raise themselves to the level of what other men called cowardice.
Then they saw them.
Like a shimmering, vibrating tide, the cataphracts burst from the trees, smashing into the unfortunate raiders' flanks.
“Drop pikes and charge!” Marbo shouted. Constantine left his pike to fall rattling to the ground in time to the cataphracts' charge and his own, sliding and scuffling down the hillside, somehow maintaining order with the rest of his platoon. As he neared the fray, long, trained legs eating up the ground, Constantine began to see the melee better. Cataphracts, armoured as normal Lanciars but wielding maces and sitting on huge horses which were almost invisible under a thick chainmail barding, flailed about them with their blunt instruments, shattering skulls and arms and legs. Frightened Kamareans, their distinctive pale skin and short stature betraying them as natives rather than mercenaries, either scrambled to the ground, trying to get away from the hideous conflict they found themselves embroiled in, or sat on their horses grimly, their skinny muskets cracking until a cataphracts' mace put an end to their courage. Constantine had to respect them for that: some were more than wild nobleman's boys.
Finally, he reached the fray himself. A dismounted Kamarean, his eyes frightened but his face set grimly, turned to Constantine, musket raised in counterpoint to Constantine's sword. Constantine smashed the gun out of his grasp, kicking the dented carcass out of his way, and ran the lad through. He never screamed: he just looked at Constantine, blue eyes fierce, brown hair disheveled, lips sticky and red with his own foolish blood. Constantine ignored him, turning instead to another Kamarean. No such courage animated this child: he backed away until he tripped over a dead horse, screaming, pleading, asking for his life. Constantine denied him it, hacking off his head with one fell swoop. If he'd wanted to live, he should have clung to his fat merchant father rather than going to rob honest Akarean peasants of their livelihoods. No, Constantine had no time for such fools as these.
The fight ended, if fight it could be called. One or two raiders galloped away to the south, thrashing their horses wildly, but for the most part, they lay, wholly or in part, in the vile morass of blood and bodies that the neck had become. Cataphracts dripped red with blood; Constantine himself, and his fellow infantry, were less than pristine themselves. A slaughter, an honourless one, by his measure, but Kamarean raiders by definition had no honour. These rich auxiliaries would burn no more homesteads.
“Victory!” Marbo shouted, completely unneccessarily. “Why do they even bother?” Constantine was certain he smiled: Marbo was no stranger to blood.
Constantine wiped and sheathed his sword. Yes, today had been a success, but a relatively ordinary one. The two-month-old war, proclaimed for the sake of it, apparently, rather than any notion of getting of one's backside and actually hurting people, had followed this pattern for its entirety. There was nothing out of the ordinary here.
Except for one thing, towards the end.
Constantine was busy trekking back to the wagons which would jolt their way back to Kallipolis when the sun began to set. The rainclouds mostly gone, the sunset was left with only a few for its canvas, and it painted them gloriously in hues of red and pink and gold. Ever a lover of natural beauty, Constantine paused for a moment to watch the sun set.
And blinked.
Because – and his vision was confirmed, because it was still there after he blinked – he could have sworn that he had seen a tiny, burning speck shoot – apparently from the sun itself, though that was obviously not the case – towards the east. Like a little piece of the sun itself, it left a blazing contrail across the darkening sky above Constantine's head and fled towards the east, landing far beyond the horizon.
Ordinarily, Constantine would have dismissed the odd phenomenon as a shooting star, a comet, or perhaps another failed Kamarean flying experiment. Yet there was something about the quality of light of this one that gave him the feeling that it bore a malign intelligence, that it watched and waited and brooded, gathering its strength where it had landed.
Constantine looked to the east, towards the vast country of Farhight, and prophesied interesting times ahead.
Secondly: you have just laid eyes upon the Fantasies, the newest, freshest fantasy blog on the Internet. I intend to make it my personal mission, whether through the medium of short stories or books (which your support will help realise), to bring you the best fantasy I can write, regardless of homework, food, or indeed real life. Any and all feedback is welcome and appreciated, and I urge you to say what you think. I am, after all, writing for you. If you could tell all your other friends whose taste is as good as yours, that'd be appreciated too. As regards more information on the world the Fantasies are set in, I will get around to that soon, I promise.
Thirdly, and most importantly: enjoy the very first story.
“Lanciars: close ranks!” Decanus Marbo shouted in his gravelly voice, the rain pattering off his faceguard and chain-mail gown.
Constantine complied, stepping close to the equally heavily-armoured man next to him, closing the gap in the shield-wall, and grounding his pike. The bronze butt-spike slipped in the mud, but Constantine wriggled it until he knew it would hold. Constantine had been doing this since he was four.
But then, so had all Lanciars.
He squinted ahead of him in the rain, the dampness trickling through the circular holes in his visor and running down his cheeks, soaking his greying moustaches, scanning the muddy plain ahead from the hilltop for any sign of the approaching Kamarean cavalry. The soft merchant-kings of the neighbouring Kingdom of Lain, under the protection of the Republic of Kamar, had decided, finally, to oppress their pesky and stubborn neighbours in the bogs to the north. They had guns and horses and all sorts of fine gadgets to aid them, and oh, were they confident!
But they were not Lanciars.
Marbo held a Thursian looking-glass to the eyehole of his helmet. Marbo was a good man, Constantine knew, and a fair commander. Still, it galled him to have a man ten years his junior commanding him, even if the one-eyed, one-armed, single-minded Marbo was as grizzled as they came.
“Here they come!” Marbo roared again, his voice like sandpaper. Sure enough, when Constantine squinted, he could make out the far-off forms of the raiding cavalry, rifles held high, whooping and screaming like young boys given toy guns. Which was, essentially, what they were. Most Lanciarial grandmothers could beat a Kamarean soldier, one-on-one. Of course, all those Lanciarial grandmothers had been fighting since they were four, which counted for something.
Quickly, Constantine himself assessed the situation. The Lanciars commanded the rise: behind them, there was a bog, and beyond that, Kallipolis, the capital city of the Duchy of Akar and home city of the Lanciars. To either side of them, thick, dark-green pine forest spread, dripping with the damp, which meant the Kamarean raiders had to attack the Lanciars by going between the two woods and up the hill. As good a fighting position as any, but the Kamareans' guns – even crude as they were; Constantine would sooner have trusted a Lanciar's gastraphetes, or stomach-bow – would count for something. Of course, Marbo – and, by extension, Constantine – knew something the Kamareans didn't.
Closer they came, whooping and cheering like wild things, dressed in vivid red uniforms, flying a banner with the Sphinx of Lain picked out in gold on a background of red. Marbo, face obscured beneath his visor, looked at the banner expressionlessly; then he himself shouted:
“Raise the Akarean Banner!”
Somewhere behind Constantine, someone raised the banner of Akar, the country which the Lanciars ruled. He sneaked a peek back: a shepherd's crook, a sword, a hammer, and a scythe, all picked out in black and white on a background of sea-blue edged with red. A beautiful banner, certainly, not as regal as that of Lain but fit for its purpose.
“Closer...” Constantine heard Marbo mutter, and the Lanciars shifted one last time before settling themselves permanently, freezing like statues. The woods narrowed into a neck, not far beyond the bottom of the hill, and the Kamarean raiding cavalry were approaching at a wild gallop. Benet save their horses, Constantine prayed idly.
“And... now!” Marbo roared. At the end of the line, a Lanciar opened her face-plate and huffed into a flute. A shrieking, strident note echoed away, bouncing off the hilltops and spires of far Kallipolis, reverberating through the countryside. The Kamarean raiders stopped, suddenly uncertain.
That was when the cataphracts charged.
Constantine knew that there was nothing quite like a charge by heavy cavalry, and not even normal heavy cavalry could compare to the monstrously armoured Lanciarial cataphracts. He could imagine what the Kamareans were feeling: the first signs, drips of water falling from branches or loose leaves falling from trees, perhaps, as the first tiny vibrations reached the unfortunate victims. They would notice, oddly to them, that the earth seemed to be vibrating, particles of soil bouncing and jarring against each other beneath their very feet.
Then they would hear it.
To the sight of pine-cones falling and saplings quivering like broken bows, the rhythmic, thumping sound of the huge horses' hooves would reach the unfortunate raiders like the drumming of a mad god. Perhaps now, as needles showered and branches shook loose about them and the thunder of the Lanciars' wrath reached their ears, the raiders would finally realise the folly of their mistake, realise that, no matter how powerful their guns or how rich their fathers, they and their pathetic little firearms would be ground into the muck.
The raiders stood, and Constantine wondered what must be going through their heads. Were they replaying regrettable portions of their lives, perhaps wondering what they could have done better, what they should not have done? Perhaps they were preparing to die well, to die bravely, to die stupidly with a shout on their lips, a mace in their skull and no meaning to their death. Perhaps they were trying to summon the courage to turn and run, to find the spunk to raise themselves to the level of what other men called cowardice.
Then they saw them.
Like a shimmering, vibrating tide, the cataphracts burst from the trees, smashing into the unfortunate raiders' flanks.
“Drop pikes and charge!” Marbo shouted. Constantine left his pike to fall rattling to the ground in time to the cataphracts' charge and his own, sliding and scuffling down the hillside, somehow maintaining order with the rest of his platoon. As he neared the fray, long, trained legs eating up the ground, Constantine began to see the melee better. Cataphracts, armoured as normal Lanciars but wielding maces and sitting on huge horses which were almost invisible under a thick chainmail barding, flailed about them with their blunt instruments, shattering skulls and arms and legs. Frightened Kamareans, their distinctive pale skin and short stature betraying them as natives rather than mercenaries, either scrambled to the ground, trying to get away from the hideous conflict they found themselves embroiled in, or sat on their horses grimly, their skinny muskets cracking until a cataphracts' mace put an end to their courage. Constantine had to respect them for that: some were more than wild nobleman's boys.
Finally, he reached the fray himself. A dismounted Kamarean, his eyes frightened but his face set grimly, turned to Constantine, musket raised in counterpoint to Constantine's sword. Constantine smashed the gun out of his grasp, kicking the dented carcass out of his way, and ran the lad through. He never screamed: he just looked at Constantine, blue eyes fierce, brown hair disheveled, lips sticky and red with his own foolish blood. Constantine ignored him, turning instead to another Kamarean. No such courage animated this child: he backed away until he tripped over a dead horse, screaming, pleading, asking for his life. Constantine denied him it, hacking off his head with one fell swoop. If he'd wanted to live, he should have clung to his fat merchant father rather than going to rob honest Akarean peasants of their livelihoods. No, Constantine had no time for such fools as these.
The fight ended, if fight it could be called. One or two raiders galloped away to the south, thrashing their horses wildly, but for the most part, they lay, wholly or in part, in the vile morass of blood and bodies that the neck had become. Cataphracts dripped red with blood; Constantine himself, and his fellow infantry, were less than pristine themselves. A slaughter, an honourless one, by his measure, but Kamarean raiders by definition had no honour. These rich auxiliaries would burn no more homesteads.
“Victory!” Marbo shouted, completely unneccessarily. “Why do they even bother?” Constantine was certain he smiled: Marbo was no stranger to blood.
Constantine wiped and sheathed his sword. Yes, today had been a success, but a relatively ordinary one. The two-month-old war, proclaimed for the sake of it, apparently, rather than any notion of getting of one's backside and actually hurting people, had followed this pattern for its entirety. There was nothing out of the ordinary here.
Except for one thing, towards the end.
Constantine was busy trekking back to the wagons which would jolt their way back to Kallipolis when the sun began to set. The rainclouds mostly gone, the sunset was left with only a few for its canvas, and it painted them gloriously in hues of red and pink and gold. Ever a lover of natural beauty, Constantine paused for a moment to watch the sun set.
And blinked.
Because – and his vision was confirmed, because it was still there after he blinked – he could have sworn that he had seen a tiny, burning speck shoot – apparently from the sun itself, though that was obviously not the case – towards the east. Like a little piece of the sun itself, it left a blazing contrail across the darkening sky above Constantine's head and fled towards the east, landing far beyond the horizon.
Ordinarily, Constantine would have dismissed the odd phenomenon as a shooting star, a comet, or perhaps another failed Kamarean flying experiment. Yet there was something about the quality of light of this one that gave him the feeling that it bore a malign intelligence, that it watched and waited and brooded, gathering its strength where it had landed.
Constantine looked to the east, towards the vast country of Farhight, and prophesied interesting times ahead.
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