The Wanderer's Path: Return of the Beasts

Chapter 11

Kallor watched dis-heartedly as two skilled warriors engaged in dazzling swordplay. He knew between the two warriors, they had over fifty years of experience learning the sword. Normally he would be enrapt in the graceful movements the two displayed as they danced the game of death; however, today he was distracted as if somewhere within the recesses of his mind he knew that something, somewhere was not right.

One warrior, one of Rhul’s Ratith from the Amun desert showed a unique, subtle style concentrating in circular motions and fancy footwork, the aim obviously to counter attacks and slash at openings, slowly picking the enemy apart.

His opponent was from Drakanar and held to the simple, straight forward style of the Sylix army. He was a well-known veteran of exceptional swordsmanship, which he now displayed as he battered and fended off the Ratith’s counterattacks and quick slashes.

Kallor caught movement out of the corner of his eye and glanced across to see Phenulor slowly making his way towards him. The Prime Magister wore a flowing blue robe covered in gold etching, the design imbued him with further reserves of energy beyond his normal capability, seems like you’re enjoying full access to the Mage Council’s vault. His plump cheeks puffed as he made his way between councillors and nobles before being stopped by Kallor’s personal guard but five strides away.

Kallor thought about turning him away, the image of the fat fool huffing as he squirmed his way back out was amusing enough to plague his mind with temptation, however any man who thought he could easily thwart off the Prime Magister, no matter who he might be, was a fool.

The man bowed slightly as Kallor signalled to the guards to let him through. Kallor noticed the small smirk Phenulor wore as the guards begrudgingly let him pass. It was the same smirk that constantly bothered him during the past week of dialogs with the other Lords and Ladies of Syilx. He couldn’t fathom whether it was amusement that brought that disturbingly knowing smirk or if it were hidden knowledge that was constantly revealed with those plump upturned lips.

“Thank you, your grace.” Phenulor puffed out before glancing as the crowd collectively drew breath.

Kallor looked over to see the Draknarian on a single knee. Blood flowed from the back of that knee, pooling along the ground. He moved to defend an incoming blow. The Ratith warrior met the block and skilfully shifted his body and blade to wrap around the man’s blade, bringing his crescent sword dangerously close to the man’s neck. The battle was over, and the Draknar nobles were furious as a tirade of voices demanded  his death. Such embarrassment was intolerable, or so the nobles seemed to think.

Crossing his right leg over the other, Kallor slouched into his chair and rested his chin in the palm of his right hand. He watched the Draknarian warrior lower his sword, and with surprising confidence, raise his head to meet Kallor’s gaze. Kallor silenced the room in moments as he raised his left hand.

“Soldier, answer me a question,” Kallor commanded once the crowd had settled.

“Yes your grace.” The Draknarian replied calmly.

“What’s more important to you, personal pride or the needs of the empire?”

The man closed his eyes as if mulling over each word before speaking what could be his last words.

“You are too kind you’re grace. I am a soldier, a grain of sand on the empire’s beaches. What need have I of pride?” As he spoke, Kallor could see the glimmer of pride in his eyes, not pride for himself, no, this man carried pride only for the might of the empire, a true bred son of Sylix.

Kallor nodded solemnly at his words, “do you embrace death soldier?”

The man kneeling before him met his gaze and without a flicker of doubt replied, “every day your grace.”