Borderlands- Act 1 Page 2

  “Captain, I implore you! Playing obtuse really doesn’t suit an officer of your pedigree. The real enemy is not the Spawn, they are just the foot soldiers, if you like. Whereas the Realm is the executive command. Its strategy is to infiltrate us with Chaos. To drive it back requires the application of its exact opposite – rational thought, focused discipline, stable structure, clear organisation. In short it requires the establishment of and adherence to procedure. Think of it this way, let’s take your very own patrol as a perfect example. Have you become such an effective force by running around willy-nilly and hoping for the best or through focused training and iron discipline?” His hands put on a little mime to re-enforce the point.

  I sigh. He has got me on this one. “Obviously the latter.”

  He nods. “Very well. Then you accept what I am saying? Giving up on procedure would be to capitulate the war before even the first battle is fought. Without procedure, we might as well surrender to Chaos straight away and let the Realm overwhelm us. Is that what you want?”

  I open my mouth to snap back, but the memory of a childhood tutor interrupts me. When we practiced debating and rhetoric, he used to put on exactly the same haughty superior air just before tangling me up in logic and destroying my arguments completely. I rub my hands over my face. It is probably best to just roll over and acquiesce on this one. “No, obviously nobody wants that.”

  He sits as upright as his bowed spine permits. “Indeed. So, we are agreed that we are to follow procedure?”

  I sigh. “Sure. Great. Procedure it is. Might there be any chance that procedure can get us the result before the next patrol cycle begins? It would be nice if the men could have a chance to celebrate first place before we go back out again.”

  The clerk has bent to his desk again. “I am sure, there shall be more than enough chance for sufficient celebrations or commiserations as the case may be. It rarely takes more than a few days for the updated rankings to be posted.” He gives me a penetrating stare over his spectacles again. “That is, unless there is some kind of hinderance, such as some poor clerk being kept from his, what did you call it?, bureaucratic nonsense by an impatient patrol captain. With that thought in mind,” He points at the door, “I believe it is in both our best interests to permit procedure to take its due course whilst you find something more productive to do.” He is already back amongst his papers. “Please, close the door on your way out.”

  Exhaustion and sweat bleed together with the cries of battle and pain.

  Mid-afternoon, the temperature has been rising since first light. Sunk between high stone walls, the gravel yard has turned into a simmering cauldron. The men are crying sweat and weeping blood. Our muscles scream as our breathing is choked with groaning. Close to collapse, my patrol battles on regardless. How much longer is this going to last? Either it ends soon, or I shall.

  After endless blows and parries I can barely lift my sword arm. Though my opponent is equally worn down, my legs are leaden. I barely stagger out of the way of the next clumsy swing. My counterattack is no better. The loose gravel sucks all the power from my lunge. Bent forwards and out of control, I must fight simply to keep on my feet. It’s hopeless. He raises his weapon as I totter past. My head, neck and shoulders are exposed and vulnerable to a heavy downward strike. Helpless, I brace for the final impact.

  It never comes.

  Behind me something heavy crashes into the gravel. I collapse to my knees and look over my shoulder. No longer able to master the weight of his axe, my opponent has toppled over backwards and now lies helplessly looking up at the sky. Around me many have already broken off and are leaning on their weapons, simply gasping.

  There really is no point in carrying on. “Enough!” My command should be a bellow, but I can barely hear my own croaking. I scavenge a little sticky spittle from my dusty mouth and force it down my throat. “Enough!” Coupled with my waving arm, the second moan just manages to get the message across.

  Across the practice yard behind me, a whistle blasts. “Stand down. Well done everyone. Take a break now. Go get some water at the trough.” A low murmur of groans and curses. Feet drag through gravel. Haddar’s voice gets nearer. “Hey, Riekale! I don’t care how tired you are, a Guardsman never drops his weapon so, pick that bloody spear up before I give you a reason to!” Then in a gentler tone just behind me. “Come on, laddie. Up you get. Go get some water with the others. Nice axe work against the Captain here by the way.” Gravel scrunches as my recent opponent clambers to his feet and stumbles off. A shadow falls across me.

  I squint up at the silhouette. “Spirits preserve me, Sergeant. Were you ever going to call it?”

  “Didn’e have to, did I? My superior officer called it for me. Now, on yer feet. We can’e have the men seeing their captain all weak and floppety, can we?” He holds out his hand and together we haul me to my feet.

  I blink down at my wiry sergeant. “When I get my strength back, do not let me forget to reprimand you.”

  “Duly noted, sir. Any reason in particular?”

  “What have I got you for, if I have to do all the thinking myself?” We both grin.

  “Aye, good question. Whilst we’re pondering it, yeh should probably have some water too.”

  Once we get to the water trough, it is deserted. Having drunk their fill and liberally doused each other, the men have thrown themselves into what little shade the far wall offers. The flagstones around the trough, though still stained black with splashed water, are already drying to a pale dusty grey. The drained stone crucible rings faintly as it refills with a stream of fresh sparkling water. I fill a jug directly from the spout and then drain it in one breath. After emptying a second jug over my head, I turn and sit on the worn smooth edge of the tub.

  I consider the men. They are too far away to hear our conversation clearly. I glance up at Haddar. “So, what do you think?”

  “About?”

  I wave vaguely around the square of gravel. “Our, no doubt, lacklustre performance.”

  He shrugs. “I’ve seen worse.”

  A snort of laughter escapes me. “From you, that almost counts as a compliment. The question is, will it do?”

  “Will it do? Oh, aye, it’ll do, it’ll do just fine. We just have to be clear about, for what?”

  I wrinkle my nose at his sarcasm. It is a good thing for him that I am so tired. “You know exactly what I mean.”

  He lets out a growling sigh. “What do I know? It’s an improvement from before, not much, but an improvement all the same. That’s good, I suppose. But, I’m thinkin, what about all the others? What if they’re improving too?”

  The jug is overflowing into the guts of the trough. I pick it up and take a thoughtful swig. “Okay. We were already climbing the rankings. On the strength of our last patrol alone, we should have surely got to number one already. Now, as you say, we have improved a bit more. I therefore conclude that all this hard work and training shall bear fruit. We are sure to consolidate our position, become unassailable at the top of the list.”

  “Yeh know my opinion on yer obsession with first place.”

  I take another mouthful. “Yes indeed. Finally proving you wrong about something has been added to my long list of motivations.”

  The exasperation is clear in his voice. “If I may say so, yer motivations are all to cock, sir!” He is squaring up for an argument, arms firmly crossed over his muscular chest. “Quite literally in one particular case.”

  I set the jug down and look him in the eye. “Meaning?”

  “Yeh din’e need to play games with me, Captain. Yeh need to end yer infatuation with that woman. It’s not good for yeh and it’s not good for the rest of us either.”

  “Thank you, Haddar.”

  “Yeh need to stay focused. This distraction is going to get us all kill...”

  “Thank you, Sergeant!” It is only just short of a shout. “Regardless of my special respect for you, your inroads into my private life remain un-welcome. I sugg
est, you stay more focused on professional matters yourself. If you have concerns about my leadership, you are welcome to air them. Other matters are off limits. Is that clear?” He lifts his chin and gives a gruff little cough but says nothing. “Sergeant, I asked, is it clear?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Good. Now back to my original question. Thanks to your exceptionally long service you know the workings of the Guard inside out, you have contacts amongst the other patrol sergeants and are a skilled tactician and experienced warrior. In your opinion, is this patrol going to become the benchmark for all future generations, yes or no?”

  He knows I have thrown down the gauntlet. It is not about our chances of success anymore. I am calling him out on his loyalty to my command. His response comes back like crushed rocks. “Yes, sir, these men are the best there is. I have total faith in them. The chaff was winnowed long ago. If any team in Afreem is capable of doing whatever you ask, then it’s this patrol.” He pauses to consider his next words. “The only risk I see is whether the Borderlands are going to permit it or not.”

  “I cannot imagine there is anything The Realm could puke up that this patrol could not handle.”

  “That as may be, but what if the opposite happens? Yeh know how fickle the Borderlands can be. What if we simply come across nothing for the next few cycles? Yeh can’t really kill what’s not there, can yeh?”

  It is a fair point. It really is the only thing we can’t influence. I shrug. If we can’t influence it, what is the point worrying about it? “In that case there shall be nothing left but to at least try and make the chief clerk proud of us.”

  “Sir?”

  “Procedure, Haddar, discipline, patience and interminable procedure.”

  He laughs. “Aye, good plan.”

  “With that in mind,” I slap my thighs and stand up, “I think we have all had our fill for today. What is on the menu for tomorrow’s training?”

  “Mounted formations, I’d say.”

  “Good call. Get the men and horses ready by second bell. Muster on the big field behind the parade ground.” We salute and I leave the exercise yard, doing my best to walk smartly despite my heavy legs and stiffening shoulders.

  Steam surrounds me. I relax and let the damp heat soak through to my bones. Slowly my stiffness eases. I can do nothing more than sigh. Since when did sweating so much feel so good?

  I am not a great fan of the Senior Officers’ bath house. I don’t like its stink. Not from the sweat and grime of the newest arrivals nor from the enveloping clouds of pungent steam and perfumed oils. It is the rancid stench of privilege that gets up my nose. Closed to the majority of the Guard, it is an exercise in exclusion, thinly veiled in a lie.

  It is easy to spot in the very name, Senior Officers’ bath house. Officially, there are no senior officers in the flat hierarchy of the guard. A commission as patrol captain, enables and demands wide ranging autonomy. From my rank up, there are a few organisational committees but no overall command until you arrive at the throne itself. Even that has little influence over the running of the Aether Guard. Other than ‘Sweep the Borderlands clear of Spawn and hold back the encroachment of the Realm of Chaos’ what executive order is possible?

  No indeed. Senior Officer does not refer to rank within the Guard. It refers to rank outside it. It is a club for the progeny of the rich and influential. Nested at the very heart of the Aether Guard’s meritocracy, this institution whispers exactly the opposite message. We are not all equal, we are not all fighting the same battle for the same stakes. Merit and success regardless, the lack of an influential family name means no entry. It is exactly because of my automatic membership that I generally avoid the place. Far better to retain my dignity and rinse in a pail of cold water, like a true guard must when on patrol, than to come here.

  But I ache so much.

  Even if it is just this once, I despise myself for having given in to the beckoning luxury of this place. I am weak and pathetic, but at least I am comfortable. So very comfortable. I close my eyes and, sinking into the smoothly cupped marble back rest, imagine myself floating on perfumed clouds.

  I cannot see her, but I know I am not alone. We float side by side for a moment, but as I turn to smile at her, she slips behind me with a laugh. She always was a terrible tease. Laughing with joy, I join in the game and spin round to follow her. Half glimpsed, she slips away between the clouds and I chase after her, a hawk stooping on its dove.

  She is fast!

  Again and again she evades my clutch and we whirl and tumble, shouting our ecstasy into the sky. I am tiring. I must catch her soon or she shall escape me forever. I break off the chase and slip around the opposite side of the next cloud. She shall fly straight into my arms. I wait, trying to sense her approach. When I am sure she is near, I burst out in front of her.

  SMACK!

  The damp hand slapping down on my naked thigh sits me bolt upright with a yelp of surprise. Back in the bath house, I blink at the old man sitting next to me. He grins through his beard. “Banak my boy, haven’t seen you in here for an age! Found a woman in the town or something?”

  I blink at him again. “Ermmm, er no.”

  “Well in that case, I’d recommend getting a massage.” He points at the towel across my lap. “There’s a new girl, goes by the name of ‘Zatisva’ or something, anyway, has a wonderful way of easing that particular kind of stiffness.”

  I glance at where he is pointing and discover the incriminating bulge. Whilst trying to re-arrange my towel to hide the evidence, I do my best to change the subject. “Thanks for the advice. How are you doing, Uncle?” Though I am only tortuously related to Captain Sgail Krin on my mother’s side, the familiar title stuck soon after first bumping into him in Afreem.

  “Very well, my boy, very well. Still got all my parts in working order and the old man has finally croaked. Took him long enough, I must say. Anyway, eldest son and all that. The long and the short of it, decided to hand back my commission. Returning to the family hovel. Looking forward to ploughing some virgin meadow, if you get my drift.”

  Something tickles at the back of my mind. “Eldest son? I thought you said you were second born?”

  “True, but I’m not going to sit by and let that dried up old hag of a sister of mine take my throne. Screw the bitch’s entitlement. Set the cogs in motion already. She’ll be in a convent before Summer Peak. Then, I can enjoy my retirement in peace and quiet. Not that I’ll have to struggle through all alone, of course. I’m sure I can find me a few succulent Zatisva’s of my own, what?” He gives me a wink. “It’s always good to keep the old family estate ‘up and running’, isn’t it?” He glances at my lap again. “Not that you appear to have any concerns in that department, ey boy?” He gives my still smarting leg another hefty slap. “Anyway, best be off. Wouldn’t want to miss Evenbread. The mess has put on something grand to celebrate my departure, apparently. Old Senior Vork does less and less cooking himself nowadays, but when he does pick up his spoon, the results are far from poisonous.” He groans to his feet and hobbles off into the mists. Even before his bowed legs and dappled buttocks have disappeared, I lean back again to contemplate the intricate geometric mosaic on the ceiling. Sgail Krin truly embodies every reason I do not like coming to the Senior Officers’ bath house.

  It is a long walk back from the bath house to the quiet wing where my offices sit. Like giggling children my echoing footsteps chase each other away down the deserted corridors. A lamp gutters and spits. I shudder, but it is from neither the dancing shadows nor the chill air on my hot skin. Memories are rising from between the flagstones, dragging me back to a distant place, back to Wynea Bnotsga.

  At the epicentre of the Doneir lineage, my ancestral home has corridors like these, just much older. It is a place so old that the origins of its name are lost in the mysteries of the ancient spirit tongue. Steeped in history, its grand halls and rambling cloisters echo with noble legends of their immemorial founding. Standing defi
ant, before the imperious backdrop of the highest snow-clad peaks of the Ancients, its towers and spires reach to the sky, adamant, indomitable, eternal. The muse of artists and the inspiration of countless epic poems, many believe it to be an idyll, gifted to the Rationalle by the Ancients themselves. For me, it holds other meanings.

  The reality of my shadowed childhood cowered far from the light of popular romance and wistful dreams. It was purgatory. Other than the fragile oasis of my mother’s private chambers or the brief relief that accompanied visits by other nobility, it was excruciating. A vast labyrinthine killing field of sudden brutal violence and lingering cold-hearted neglect. There, I was given my first lesson in battling monsters. Maintain speed and distance. Out of reach is out of harm’s way.

  Why did my childhood have to be so hateful?

  I supress the urge to weep. I might be alone in this dim hallway, but I cannot allow myself to weaken. I learned my lesson well, I got out quickly and moved as far away as I could. That horror cannot touch me now.

  The trouble is, monsters have a habit of clawing their way back.

  As I approach the door to my offices, my memories conjure up an apparition. A young boy, cuddling his knees in the tenuous sanctuary of a forgotten doorway, far from warmth and compassion. Tearful eyes buried in his folded arms, he is growing to detest the cold empty corridors of Wynea Bnotsga and all they stand for. I take a deep breath and stride forward. I have faced and defeated worse creatures than this pathetic illusion.

  The closer I get the slower my steps.

  This hallucination seems so real, so life like. Crouching down to study it, I can even hear breathing, see the brief flicker of dreams on the young boy’s face. Have cruel spirits suddenly transported me back to my very own childhood? Is this perhaps truly me, alone and unloved, that I am seeing? Can I reach out, back through the years and reassure myself, that things are going to get better, that the torture shall one day end?