Sword of Destiny

It was success, utter success. Of course it was a success. He had planned the whole thing meticulously. He rode straight-backed through the streets of Altunia, victory edging closer with every step taken. Success! It enriched his soul, and he thrust his great-sword into the air, roaring nothing more than a guttural scream. Two thousand voices echoed the victory. Two thousand bodies that followed him to success. Success!

Something crawled down his back, but it was probably sweat. Maybe. Then again, it was the late season, and it wasn’t that warm. At least it wasn’t warm in Ahan. He wiped a hand over his brow, and the glove came back dry. But beneath the layers of leather and steel, he could be sweating, couldn’t he? Yes, that was it. It was definitely sweat.

But things were easier than even he’d expected. He was quite literally strolling his horse through the lower reaches of the Old Town, stepping the mare over the rounded cobbles. He’d expected a fight at the gates, a chaos of citizens and steel, but instead he’d got nothing. It was a stroll.

They were later than expected, floating into the estuary closer to midday than at dawn as he’d hoped. That would have given the population sight of his coming, given them a chance to hunker down or flee. That must be it. The island citadel, which had been called the Foundation Isle when the Delfinians were still custodians, showed clear signs of defiance. There were a handful of house guards littering the gatehouse, but the showing was weak as expected. Yes, it was his genius. Nothing more. The Mandari invaders were embroiled in the diversionary tactics of his genius, and that’s why he was here, strolling right into their heartland. It was success, utter success. Nothing more ominous than that.

Had he really exceeded even his own high expectations? That was rare these days. He had always been able to dream. At many points in his life, it was all he had.

“General.”

The interruption came from the guiding hand of his colonel, but he ignored the gesture. He was drawn back to his moment of becoming, to that scene on the field of the Bloody Gash where he had faced the ashen breath of the Grey and survived. No, he’d more than survived. He’d become Mandestroy. On that day he’d acted for the benefit of his colonel, intending to win favour with the untouchable echelons of the military hierarchy. Now he looked down upon his own colonel. How far had he come? Maybe he had exceeded expectations after all. The colonel still stared at him.

“Yes?”

He followed his officer’s extended arm, but he wanted his officer to speak his mind. The sweat trickled, and doubt crept in. Something wasn’t right.

“Smoke. It’s coming from the estuary.”

And it was smoke, a great fountain of it spewing into the heavens, staining the sky where the higher winds blew it out to sea. It was impossible to see exactly what the source was, but it didn’t take much to work it out. There was only one thing in the estuary that would burn so well – a fleet. Was it the fleet of the invaders? It seemed unlikely, and that meant it was his fleet. His means of escape was going up in flames.

For just the slightest of moments he shivered, but he hid it beneath the heavy layers of his armour. He looked away, not wanting to be infected by events. It was irrelevant. This had always been a one-way journey.

And if his fleet was burning, what of it? The rewards would outweigh that cost. Enough had been paid already. He stared straight ahead, sparing himself the sight of smoke smeared sky. He continued doggedly on.

“General.”

“It is unfortunate, but it will not stop us. Now, let’s focus on the task at hand.”

His colonel dropped back, and he straightened his back, chin up. He wanted to seem confident for his troops. But the truth was otherwise. He was still sweating, or in fact, he wasn’t sweating at all. His spine was tingling, and there was a very good reason. It was the nerves. His entire life amounted to this.

He grunted, the noise coming from the corner of his mouth. His leather-bound hand scratched at the stubble on his cheek, which was as good as a beard, and the satisfying sound eased him slightly. But only slightly. And yet this was not the time for doubts. As they rounded the height of the incline, he thrust his arm into the air and received a welcome confidence boost from his men. They still had every chance. He smiled for his men, but he wasn’t sure he meant it.

And then the smile came easier. Upon the gatehouse of the Foundation Isle there was only a smattering of guards. He turned to his well-ordered men and grinned more broadly. Two thousand of the bastards, each of them hand-picked and ruthless. They were seasoned siege experts, and they were coming upon a place that was barely guarded. He chuckled. It would take a hundred mandahoi to stop them now. And then he gulped.

Time in conflict takes on a strange quality, as if it relaxes its formal definition and takes on a new, volatile one. It seems to take one of only two characteristics as the fight flourishes. It would either stagger slowly, achingly, from moment to moment, or it would take on the pace of a stallion, rushing by with just the barest recognition. He could not tell which form it had taken yet, but he looked at the sky and it became clear. It was the former. The journey through Altunia had been stretched in his perception, but Mother Bright told the truth. It was not long past midday.

And then they were at the bridge that led to the Foundation Isle, the one that was now named after Jinal; the chief invader. Their final destination.

He stalled his horse on the near side of the bridge and his troops tramped either side of him. No need to take her any further; she would be useless in the siege. His potent force settled into formation – rigid rows of surly men in well-made flexible armour, ready for assault. He jumped from his fine mare and gave her a pat on the neck. Then he stepped onto the bridge and rubbed the inside of his thighs. He still hated riding.

He walked through the ranks, slaps on the shoulder encouraging him forward, but his gaze didn’t waver. He halted about half-way across the bridge, angled his head back, looked at the gatehouse, and surveyed the resistance. There was almost none. The guards looked forlorn.

Almost none; but not none. At the heart of the defence, right at the centre of the resistance, stood a man. A big man. A very big man. And he was wearing grey. He was a mandahoi.

He cursed and then dropped his hood. One mandahoi; so what? He would have the bastard for breakfast. Or lunch in fact. They were late.

He cleared his throat. “You are defeated. Resistance would be wasteful. Open your gates and none shall suffer needlessly.” He’d chosen the words carefully. He didn’t want to lie.

It was the mandahoi who responded, and he recognised the man. Mandahoi warriors wore grey uniforms and cloaked their faces, and yet he recognised this single man. He bloody well recognised him.

“The gates stay locked. Leave, while you still have time.”

Suddenly the plume of smoke had meaning, and he looked for it. From the bridge, the source of the smoke was clear. Flames. Definitely his fleet. One boat seemed unmolested, sailing out of the estuary, but that was irrelevant. They were here, and the boat was there. He had a job to do and a king’s trust to repay. He had been made a general off the back of his genius, but he had to follow it through. Had to. He would not fail like the others.

He looked back to Celes, the recognisable Grey, and chuckled. Fame had made the man arrogant.

“Come, Celes. Even you are not fool enough to think that you can win this alone.”

There was just the subtlest movement, as if the man snorted. In amusement perhaps? Then, with barely a command, the walls crawled with movement and grey wraiths melted out of the parapets. There were dozens of them, a hundred perhaps, and a shiver went through the ranks of his men. He would need to rally them in the face of this unexpected obstacle. He would have to.

Because that was the second obstacle he believed that he had solved: remove the Mandahoi and you have a chance. But the Mandahoi were here, and yet he still had a chance. It was just incredibly slim.

He had barely any time to make his choice; you didn’t on the battlefield. Dally and you die. But the reality was that there was no choice. He breathed in deep, and cried out, sword aloft, infecting his troops with confidence.

“You have brought this upon yourselves. Attack!”

But there were no truths on the battlefield. There were only opportunities, however remote they may seem. His men attacked.