(USFB): Twenty-Seven: Unreasonable

“In the lands of my fathers, the lands of the Great Syres, we tell a story of your kind and ours,” the lion spoke in heavy timbre that hushed all but the elk’s heart, “Euriphides and Domcreius, the ill-fated brethren born of the sand and born of the salt of the sea. You might guess, by how they are ordered, that Euriphides the older, as you Western heathens almost do with honor, descending by age, but he was, in fact, the younger. Domcreius, as is proper, is second to his more feared brother.”

The tension under the canopy of the temporary camp struck harder than the lightning raging down onto the hills beyond and drew a more pregnant silence than what follows between the strike and thunderous contractions. The bronze-maned Syre sat on the high stool, his cosmos of beads and rings woven into the wild hair framing his head served adornments that would catch the shivers of power in the soddened gray sky. He fixed Imfay with a bronze-eyed glare that meant death no different than what came at the points of his spears. For the time being, the elk sat silently on the dirt, listening for a point where he might penetrate and disentangle the man’s thoughts. But the head of the winding snake known as Kammherit’s Legion had his mind fixed on a particular tale.

“Domecreius was weak, you see,” he informed, “Made from more of his mother’s inconstant dunes and tantric dust devils, what else could he be but the childish mind as his bearer. The stuff of his shared father, the All-Syre, hardly lay claim to the flesh it knit, so much so that all but the All-Syre wished to believe he was not a legitimate heir. His young brother, molded by the life tides, freckled with the brine that cleans poisoned wounds; however, he was a man like his creator. Euriphides was a titan by comparison in size, in spirit. He held that golden key that the All-Syre had thrust into the gateways of old to open the way for the ancient spirits of this world. Yet, without need for the great oceans that poured from the night sky, nor of the ancestral worms who made the mountains climb into the heavens, Euriphides had to curve his ambition to a more prosperous habit.”

“And so as the cycles ticked by, the sons given their lives in truth, Euriphides began his great works. At first, he attempted to traverse the seas, but being made of the salt and the surf, he would have found himself washed away into the ancient gates at the bottom of the world where all water wells from. He turned then to the lands of his brother, ill-tempered and ill-suited for life. In those lands lived all the peoples the All-Syre had his wives form from the currents of soul that came down from the heavens. They were cruel and distrustful, violent and misguided. To these people, he would bring a sense of honor, loyalty, and the ambition his father, the All-Syre, had bequeathed onto him before returning the cycles of the life tides.”

“Euriphides set out into the unfeeling desert, a regiment of the salt shores following in his wake. Like so many great waves, he crashed into the dry and the hot and brought a means for the hot-tempered and foolish to quench themselves. In the way of a forged sword, they were met with the cool waters of the oceans and squealed in delight for he who had saved them from their infighting and blind warring. But, this was not an act valued by all.”

“Domecreius, the boy who lacked ambition and good sense, saw his brother come to take his worshippers away on the tides. He had spent his time wallowing in the emptiness of the dunes, cradled ever by his doting mother, giving his people a choice to be little more than beastly things and caring not for conquest or order. He contrived to come against his brother, but for all his arrogance, Domecreius was no fool.”

“Calling together his advisors, who had never met until this first act of concern, he tasked them to go to the corners of the empire and ask of those who call themselves the rulers of mortals if they would rather be ruled by a tyrant from the seas or remain in the chaos their master had sewn for them. And if they were to say they rather Euriphides come and enforce order, the advisors were to sever their heads and take their positions by force. In every corner of the empire, the weak were replaced by even weaker, as the advisors knew less ambition than Domecreius’ subjects. And just as the leaders of men fell, one by one, so did these disfigured men who called themselves of rank and worth until at the center of the Pale Dunes, only Domecreius stood.”

“Domecreius, as said, was no fool. He invited his brother into his palace and offered him all the finery a guest might enjoy. Sweet flesh from shren was offered on silver dishes, figs and wine were set at every table. Domecreius’ private servants attended Eurphides’ every whim as though he sat within his own house. And in so fact, he did sit in what was now another domain of his own. He need not threaten his older brother, for it was truth enough that his ambition would cut like iron through the weak sandy flesh of his kin. All seemed well, surrender without a trickle of sustenance for the Goredrinker, until Domecreius forced his mother forward.”

“The ancient Sand, her dunes falling slack with age, begged the young master of the salt and surf to take her in his arms. She pleaded to be held by the paw of one with ambition, and given the cub the All-Syre denied her. Give her a seed to carry forth that would bring honor back to the sands and ambition into the desert itself. And though she had once been a beauty and that prospect, a progeny to inherit the land of his brother, a great boon, he would not. She had grown old and fragile and could not sustain his fiery blood even were she cycles younger. Yet, Eurphides was not without sympathy. He threw her down to ravage her, but as he did, the knife of Domecreius, coated in vile blood, sunk into his flank.”

“In his dying time, after throttling mother and son, Eurphides bled his ambition across the sands and onto the coast where his home lay. He drool the gore of his spirit into those who stood upon the coast before casting into the endless blue. And from those blessed watchers who saw the tide take away the least of the All-Syre’s children, came the men of Kammherit.”

“We have a similar such story in my lands,” Imfay began but met a wave to disregard the very thought.

The warlord leaned over the upturned crate serving as a table, “I have heard the stories of your lands. How many of your captive countrymen do you think tried to beg with such hollow tokens of brotherhood? Your land, your people, even in your stories, you are weak, opportunists at best, and most importantly, blood-slaves to the Goredrinker himself.”

The mess Imfay faced, trying to untangle the militants intertwined in battle, taking heavy losses on either side, and neither party losing much ground they couldn’t take back, had taken all of his guile and still wound up with the argument moving very little. He affected all of his charm and grace, his influence and the burden of fear, but the lion was infallible. His iron resolve made for a better example of that metal he was known for moreso than his dark, ruddy mane. Looking as though his flesh and fur were of forged iron made him no less empowered, surely, but it was not every day Imfay found his gifts wanting.

He pressed his temples, trying again to look for all the world like the encounter he had with a charging myter to still have the effect of a fog on his brain. In truth, the bird had not even scraped him, but there was little to bargain with for the elk, and stalling was his last resort. If he could just put enough pressure on the lion, even enough to form a truce between his kingdom and the Western nobility, he could relax. Orathone, if his power did not insist sufficiently, was heir to a throne, though he could never know it. Yet, the Legion was more inclined to strike a bargain with their host despite the rank of those before them.

Being that the Eastern folk had maintained against their advances, albeit through the use of their terrain, the Syre had a particular fondness for them. It was no doubt helped by those creatures numbered among the fox and wolf and coyote. Though Orin could not account for why the puma and lynx looked so much like his own people or how they would become so dislodged from the continent they called home, he was willing to pardon their transgressions. To protect one’s own neck was not grounds for treason or even harsh punishment. To the lion, such acts of retaliation were the way of the world, necessary in the face of certain destruction. And destruction was what they intended to heap.

Where there may have been grounds for a truce, the Western parties would see no benefit from the word of Kammherit. They would be enslaved at best, genocided at worst, and there would be no immunity granted any soul. Imfay tried at this notion to prod for a response, were it the Legion’s people to succumb to such unrelenting tides of death, but it was without use. The lion had seen the crimes of war done by the paws of those closer in blood to him and had already been such a force against others. Imfay need not poke far to find that warlord remarking on what had become of the jackal and the foxes that hung in the lowlands of the south in his home country. Yet, it could not be that they dismissed from life so easily every last man.

In the corner of the room was a man, chained and wrapped in so many layers of cloth that he might have been fit to conceal himself within the shop of a seamstress. He looked like so many coyotes, but the cut of his jaw, the turn of his ears, and what of his coat that was exposed seemed off. Like some gilded assassin, bits of shimmering sun-blessed fur stood in stark contrast to the sooty coat of the man. What was most perturbing, aside from his similarities to a coyote, was that he had tucked in the belt of his half-skirt looked more like tools than weapons. The curving blade and half-moon claw looked as though they might easily hew grain but find struggles against flesh. Trying to take his mind away from the bizarre figure, Imfay refocused on the warlord, who looked even less patient for the elk’s stalling.

“How should we proceed?” Imfay sought for words and found those he had spat were less than ideal, “I watched from too far off as you overtook the cities of my homeland, so I know not what you demand in exchange for a peaceful resolve. I assure you I can gain compliance from the wolves and other tribes in this half of the world.”

“Compliance?” the lion chuckled, his tone almost warm if not for the cast to his eyes, “You would not talk of compliance if another sold your life away without a word.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those you left in power, those who attempted what you do now, for those cities you abandoned all found their heads set before their own hooves. In the end, it is only a question of the struggle they put up,” Orin leered as he tilted in his chair. He slapped the wrapped man on his elbow, netting a glare from the jackal who said nothing. Finally, the lion put Imfay back in his sights, “So I suppose you ask yourself. Can you beat me, man to man, or would you rather the quick and quiet dignity of your head taken off clean?”

Imfay’s mind raced as he tried to put himself together. The world began to close in around him, hostile and terrifying. The hiss of boiling cauldrons roared in his skull and his blood thumped through his veins at a frantic pace. He began to form words only to give up on them as they half left his mouth like drool. It began to feel like a million barbs were lodged into his spine from a snatcher vine, with the gangling foliage pulling, slithering back up into the crotch of the tree from where it had descended. Though he had inflicted as much on others to turn the tides of a conversation, to force a verdict against the other man’s will, Imfay could never have believed such a thing could bring this kind of harm. His stomach began to quake, the pained cries of cold water on hot iron became all-consuming even as the others in the tent moved their lips. Imfay felt himself grow cold as a corpse, as cold as his son in the den of a heathenistic grave, as cold as the ice the lynx conjured from the Northern wilds. He was confident that if nothing else came to pass, he would die this day if he could not shatter the lion’s resolve. But it was not Orin’s resolve that was broken.

The tent poles behind Imfay crackled like a roaring fire in a silent wood. He was thrown aside as the canvas whipped up and was taken as though by a massive wind storm. Had it only been a cyclone, impossibly small and localized, Imfay may have slept well, but as he twisted his face to set his gaze to the heavens, the sinewy body, like a living bolt of lightning, quashed peace from the elk’s mind. The serpent’s tongue flicked with hunger as the tent slid away from its vector-shaped beak and its eye alight on so much flesh. Campfire tales would have told the elk this creature was unreal, its attacks simple assertions over unexplainable events, but seeing the xotol snake writhing with life and power dispelled the illusions.

Imfay had little time to think of the feathered snake, of what else was possible if such a creature slithered about unopposed in these Eastern reaches as it darted forward. The elk was certain he would feel fangs tear into flesh or his bones become dust as it coiled about him. The stories never were specific if it were venomous or a constrictor, but no oblivion came. Before he could even open his eyes, the elk tumbled across the ground, rolling clear of where the tent had stood and not stopping until he struck the boulder sitting just paces away from the temporary housing. As he looked now, he found a sight he would wish to be hopeful if it were not sheer madness from the mind of a blood-cursed fiend.

Atop the feathered serpent, leading it like a well-trained myter, was the wolf Orathone had begun associating with, one of Jaium’s underlings. He couldn’t begin to remember the man’s name; he wouldn’t have even in a less stressful time, but had he been able to call out, Imfay wasn’t sure what he might say. The snake shot forward and nearly took the warlord from the ground to the sky in one chomp, but the crate from the tent was tossed in the air instead. Despite what Imfay would have thought, the lion did not move so much as an inch, but his servant from the tent did.

Without the nearest delay, the jackal had vanished from Orin’s side and somehow clutched tuffs of feathers midway up the serpent. Imfay couldn’t figure how the boy had moved so quickly or climbed so far. It seemed to him that he was still standing on the ground when the crate went airborne, but it would be impossible for him to come so far without snatching on as the snake dipped. The xotol clearly noticed the extra weight as soon as the elk had for it swiveled on itself, wriggling and twisting to face its own spine.

Razien met the radiant suns that looked out from the hood and bindings covering the muzzle. He felt a twinge of apprehension. To strike without knowing, to attack a near-kin who might only be trying to stop a raging monster, would be foolish. But that momentary pause was paid for in the gout of crimson droplets that issued down the snake’s throat. The hook in the jackal’s belt had almost instantly gone from an accessory to a weapon. He pulled, widening the gash. Razien slid closer with the kris, but the Goredrinker had eyes for the violence of the scene.

Vicious peaks rose from the serpent’s open wound and knit themselves into a dagger-filled claw that swept at the jackal’s face. In a breath, he dismounted and was away from the scene as spearmen from the Legion filled the space. Razien didn’t know how the boy could move so fast, as though he were a mirage at one point or the other to be seen closer or further off. The snake cared little for the thoughts of its rider as it twisted about again and sought with jaws as much as the bloody claw those it was sent to destroy.

Against Razien’s wishes and order, the snake moved frantically, tearing through armor and shields like a rainstorm against gossamer webs. As it lunged and gathered a tiger in its maw, Razien flung himself from its feathered back. Where he landed, there were fewer Legion soldiers, ones that had been toppled by the serpent’s length and yet to recover. The opportunity to dispatch them stood before Razien, but the chance to become a wet stain in the soil was far more prominent. He stepped back and watched the xotol continue, growing more dastardly claws as the spears and arrows tore open its hide. It wasn’t until the wolf backed into Imfay, now standing tall once more, that he realized where he was.

The elk’s stern grip found the wolf’s shoulder, his low, somber whisper swam into the depths of his mind, “What have you done?”

“Saved you, it looks like.”

“Saved me from discussing terms. I had them eating from my palm, the chance for peace well within reach. Now they will think we wave a false flag to lull them into destruction,” Imfay glared down at Razien, trying to regain all the composure he lost.

His charm was too weak, “I need to find the Baylen. Where is he?”

“East. Regrouping. The way north…”

“Take me to him. Circumstances have changed.”