Interlude: Aswadia’s Fate

Interlude: Aswadia’s Fate

The young woman stared at the ceiling above her. She was acutely aware of the several Farisi all about her. Only one was within the room, a young woman named Kachya, a distant relative who had been knighted to become a Faris recently.

‘Am I a bird to be trapped within my cage, father?’ the young woman thought, but it hadn’t been long since she had almost been assassinated, so she could not bring the matter up with him.

The Gold Hands were to be increased from one hundred to two hundred, meaning the Shen would have an additional one hundred Experts, Bronze Rank warriors, under his command. It wasn’t a huge ask, but the way he had forced the matter through had left many of the nobility to question his decision.

She sighed. She had thought that her father would have taken more time, paid the proper respects, and gold, to the nobles, but he had been in a panic. She couldn’t blame him, though, not since she was the only heir to the entire Shendom, and she had already been given so much freedom.

Her mother was sick, not strong enough to produce another heir, and her father was too sentimental to bring another wife into the court. ‘You are a fool father, though I adore you for it.’

She rubbed her finger along the ring on her finger.

Deep Flame Blade.

That was what it was called. A blade which had been gifted to her through her mother’s friend. It was a wonderful weapon, one which was suited to her. Though it was no Sun God Sword, it was still a brilliant weapon, one which made her a formidable force against most threats.

Most threats. Not all.

She was lucky against the assassin. She had some ability, but she was nowhere near an Expert, but that assassin was no doubt much greater than her.

“Amira, Amira,” called the servant, calling the young woman’s title, quickly approaching young Amira’s room. “My Amira!”

The young Amira approached the door, but had her Faris open it for her, revealing the young servant.

“West Scimitar has returned!” the servant panted. “He is wounded.”

The Amira frowned. West Scimitar was wounded? “Ill news.” She stepped past the servant, with her Faris following her, but she was soon joined by two Gold Hands, who flanked the Amira on her way to the nearby temple, where the West Scimitar would have been taken.

Her suspicions were confirmed when there were a set of Gold Hands at the door of the large sandstone temple.

“Amira,” the Gold Hands said, and the young Amira walked past them, for they dared not to stop her. As she stepped into the temple, the Gold Hands and Faris which had followed her, stopped at the doorway, the Gold Hands stepping aside, waiting like statues as the Faris watched her Amira go further inside, and once she was out of sight, the Faris stepped aside too.

“My Miriam,” the Shen called, seeing his daughter, the Amira of the Shendom, approach.

“Father,” Miriam replied, holding her father’s hands for a moment, before looking to the large stone slab beside them.

The large stone slab held the half dying form of the one known as West Scimitar, a title give to the general who would take command of the army to fight on their western flank against the Aldish. Right above his heart was a spike, about a finger thick, and about as long as his hand, which had funnelled poison into the man’s body. His dark skin was near black towards his upper chest, a web of poison which had invaded him.

“It is by Noor’s grace that he still lives,” the Malawi, the Head Priest of the temple, said. “West Scimitar is certainly blessed.” He was short, but well built, and wore a long turban of white, with threads of gold which flowed out from the sun atop the turban. The symbol was placed atop for the only one who needed to see the worship was Noor, the Sun God.

“Will he live?” Miriam asked.

The Malawi wanted to ignore the young woman’s words, but considering how much her father doted on her, he had to reply. “That is up to Noor’s will.”

Miriam looked up towards the long tapestry, which had sewn into it a a religious text, one which gave praise to their god, Noor. She clasped her hands together and dropped to her knees, muttering a prayer in High Aswadian, the language of religion within the realm of Aswadia.

She prayed for the good fortune of West Scimitar, hoping he would be healed soon. With news of his injury passing, Aswadia would teeter on a knife’s edge.

It was the next day that the Shen had received good news. “Ajax the Mouse?”

“Yes, my Shen,” the Gold Hand replied.

The Shen slowly nodded his head. Hearing that Ajax the Mouse had arrived at the capital, and was staying in the district which revealed his intent that he wanted to join the Gold Hands, it was something which he wouldn’t have imagined.

‘He is not suited for the Gold Hands, but I cannot allow him to slip through my fingers.’ His mind was abuzz as he tried to move the pieces in his mind in order to put Ajax under his direct command.

The Shen hadn’t expected more good news. There were a large number of rumours which flowed through the capital, some of which were baseless, but others had soon been confirmed.

Dakun Manzil.

It was the largest and greatest inn within the capital, but no one could dare to call it an inn. It was a large complex which overtook an entire neighbourhood. Long walls, with a dozen different buildings which assisted in tending to every want and need for a hardened traveller.

It was a castle within the city, one which all mercenaries and adventurers flocked to, from those who wanted to spend coppers, to those who wished to spend gold coins. It was so influential that the Adventurer’s Guild worked closely with the complex.

It, like the Adventurer’s Guild, remained neutral, and was afforded a certain level of respect by the nobility, leaving one another to their own business.

There were easily a hundred different groups of mercenaries who partook within the Dakun Manzil’s facilities. At least half of the groups held members who would be considered Experts or Bronze Rank, and some of the groups were made up of only Experts, though they were made up of no more than a handful of people.

Not all the mercenaries were Aswadian, however. Many had come from further east, from the Confederacy, though at one point in time they may have been under the same ruler. However, there were also the ghostly skinned Noska, each of whom held a brand across their faces to Vikir, the God of War. Their eyes were a deep, piercing blue, unnervingly so, and many left their path alone.

However, there was an area which even they sat away from. In the centre of the Dakun Manzil were a set of tables, each made from ruby, the chairs made of red oak.

The blood seats.

If anyone dared to break them, they would pay a heavy price. A thousand gold for each chair, a hundred thousand gold for each table, and a limb of the Dakun Manzil’s choosing.

Yet, there were a handful of figures which dared to sit at these tables.

He was in his mid fifties. Thin, pale skin littered with scars, blonde hair which was shaved up until the single braid which fell down his back, and piercing blue eyes. The brand on his face was heavily detailed, owing to his exploits. Any Noska who read his face would know his tale, from killing the Wights of the Ghost Sea, to crippling a white Dragon, siring a Half Dragon bastard in the process.

“What do we do, your Grace?” Kal Anis asked.

“What can I do?” Hussun replied.

Kal Layla decided against speaking up, not wanting to speak out of place. She understood that the situation was, as some Aldish might put it, absolutely fucked.

The Faro of Eastern Aswadia’s only son was dead.

Hussun inhaled deeply, before letting out the longest sigh. If the the Malawi was allowed to gain greater insights into his prayers, perhaps there could have been a chance to bring the young man back, but that was a dangerous game. Even Guardians were all but forbidden to reach such great heights.

Fifth Gate spells could bring about total destruction across the land, and such abilities could not be in the hands of man.

“Bury him in goldstone and cover him in gems,” the Hussun said, after a long silence. “The body is not allowed to rot.” It was the religious law to bury the dead within a day. It would have taken weeks to send the body to his father, something which would have been a great sin.

He would hope that it would appease the Faro’s anger enough to keep him at bay, but the Shen wasn’t quite so optimistic. He would need to quickly expand the might of his military, just in case.

‘First West Scimitar and now young Ali. Is this a test from Noor? Have I offended you? What must I do to make this right?’ Hussun prayed deeply that night.

Noor must have been listening, for the Shen received word. He quickly rushed to the temple, where he found West Scimitar sitting, and though his body thinner than before and he looked as though Sozain had visited him, he was alive.

Hussun let out a long sigh of relief as he approach West Scimitar. “I see you are alive.” His eyes fell to the arm of West Scimitar, seeing the stub against his elbow.

“I am sorry for failing you,” West Scimitar said.

“Is there a need to speak of your failure? You have brought us a great gift, and you are still alive. What more can I ask of you?”

“I have heard that Kal Ali is dead.”

Hussun frowned. “Yes.”

West Scimitar reached up to his bandaged stub and rubbed it. “One month. I need one month to recover. Even after I recover, I will not be able to fight East Scimitar on equal footing any longer.”

“Will it come to that?” Hussun asked, swallowing. It was a foolish statement. He had already sent out word to gather the soldiers, and there was the scent of blood in the air.

One month.

It was a long time, far too long.

East Scimitar burst into the room, his heart pounding wildly. He had heard the news and had marched his way right to the Faro’s office, even beating back his Farisi.

The room was a mess, papers strewn all over the place, and the man who stood ahead of him was staring out the window.

“Faro!” called a Faris. “East Scimitar has-“

“Leave us,” the Faro said, his voice deep and gravelly.

Another Faris had appeared, and the pair of Farisi glanced at one another, before they withdrew.

“My son is dead,” the Faro said.

“This is not right, my Faro,” East Scimitar said, quietly. “How can the Shen allow this? His daughter was almost harmed, and yet she was safe, but your son?”

The Faro remained silent. ‘West Scimitar is on his death’s bed.’

“He increased the number of Gold Hands from one hundred to two hundred, but what of the Silver Hands? He denied you that right not ten years ago. Where is the justice in that?”

The Faro knew what East Scimitar was doing. The man was a warmonger, he loved to fight, no matter the enemy. Yet, those honeyed words spoke to his heart.

“Justice?” the Faro turned, staring at East Scimitar, who did not withdraw his gaze, though he hid the wicked smile on his face well. “I do not want justice, East Scimitar.”

East Scimitar remained silent, allowing the Faro to speak his peace.

“There is no justice in this land,” the Faro said, picking up a piece of paper from his desk. He had placed it there some time ago, having stared at it for so long. It was the paper which had denied the request to increase the Silver Hands. He had kept it all these years out of resentment.

“No. No justice. Only vengeance.”

East Scimitar bowed his head slightly.

“Go,” the Faro said. “Bring the Shen to me so he may answer for his injustice.”

East Scimitar smiled.

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I fixed my sleep, broke it, fixed it again, and broke it again all in the span of a week.

Here's an Interlude for today though. Totally normal, not at all action packed, Interlude.

:)