Borderlands- Act 1 Page 3

  Barely has the thought come to me than I see my hand gripping his shoulder. It is warm as I squeeze tenderly. “It’s alright. You can beat this.”

  “AAHHHH!” With a yell the boy bursts from peaceful sleep with a tangle of flailing limbs. The shock of the transformation catapults us both to our feet. I stagger backwards, my shoulders crashing into the far wall. Wide eyed, the boy is straightening out his uniform and re-arranging his satchel strap.

  I push off the wall with a wince and straighten myself out too. “Damnation Signalman! What, for the love of the Supreme Creators, were you doing asleep in my doorway? Why are you not at your post? If you are shirking off, I shall have you whipped!”

  He does his best to stand to attention, but jitters have got the better of him. “S… sir’s m… m… message!”

  “Idiot! You cannot even lie decently! Do you not suppose, I would know if I had called for a message to be taken?” I step forward ready to cuff his ear.

  He tries to shrink back but, trapped in the corner of the doorway, there is nowhere left to go. “Sir! No, please,” He cringes below my raised hand. “Not to take, sir, for sir.”

  My hand hovers above him. “What?”

  He looks up with one eye. “The message, sir, it’s for you. I brought it to you.”

  “Who is it from?”

  “Can’t say, sir, sealed, private, your eyes only, sir.”

  I lower my hand and hold it out instead. “Alright, hand it over.” He rummages in his satchel and offers me a scroll.

  As soon as I see it, I know it is trouble.

  The black wax of the seal is unmistakable. It can only have come from one person. A chill passes over me and my palms begin to sweat. My skin crawls at the thought of touching it. How long can I delay the hand over? I frown at the boy. “How long have you been waiting with this?”

  “It arrived early this morning, sir.”

  “And you are delivering it now?” Perhaps indefinitely? “Why did you not come looking for me?” Can I turn this into a disciplinary incident and avoid taking the scroll at all? “It is clearly important.”

  “The Chief of Signals said to wait for you at your private quarters and hand it over personally, sir.” He makes a little jabbing motion with the scroll. He wants me to take it at last.

  I brace myself and snatch it from him. The patina of the paper sends a shiver through me. I clear my throat. “Thank you, signalman. Dismissed.”

  “Should I wait in case you wish to send a reply, sir?”

  My mouth has gone dry at the thought of being left alone with the scroll, but I cannot have him there when I first read it. I wave vaguely. “Go.”

  He salutes and takes a half step away. “I’ll be at my post if you do need a message taking, sir.”

  I nod but say nothing. Pushing past him to my offices, I catch the questioning look in his eyes. He is still standing in the middle of the corridor as my door swings shut on his puzzled face.

  I am sitting at my writing desk, drenched in the silence of the night. The fire has turned to embers in the grate, but my lamps are unlit. In the near darkness, I stare at the scroll. It lies where I first tossed it on to my note pad. Against the faint radiance of the scroll’s pale paper, the black patch of the unbroken seal draws my eye as effectively as any beacon fire.

  Somewhere, far off in the town, a cockerel beckons the dawn. Have I really been sitting here all night scowling at this damnable scroll? This is ridiculous. Standing up, I take a wood splint and stir the remains of the fire. A spark catches on the thin resinous strip and the tip flares. Back at my desk, I light the reading lamp. A warm glow spreads across my blotter lending the scroll rich earthy tones. The sealing wax remains thoroughly black.

  Wherever there is light there must also be darkness. I sigh. At least there is light to begin with. Snatching the scroll, I break it open swiftly. The uniquely black wax of my family seal splits across the middle, the paired impressions of a crown and a bunch of grapes parting neatly with a dull crack. Unrolling the scroll, the blue ink confirms the sender even before I read the greeting.

  It is fortunate that my father does not write to me more often. It is never a pleasant experience when he does. This letter is no different. Packed tight on the page, his elegant cursive belies the typical vitriol it contains. Guessing much of what it must say, I only bother to scan through.

  …I am both a disgrace and an embarrassment to the family in general and to him in particular…

  …Captain is a joke of a rank…

  …The Aether Guard is below the nobility of our house…

  …I should give up this pathetic attempt at rebellion and return home…

  …He has contacts and could still set me up in a minor governmental role…

  …With luck and hard work, I might even be able to achieve my limited potential…

  …Last chance to make something halfway decent of myself…

  …I should not set my sights too high…

  …And by the way, it is never too late to disown me completely…

  From the opening greeting to his flourishing autograph, it is a masterful study of poisonous criticism, exaggerated ineptitudes and damning faint praise. I lean back and consider the first occasion I received such paternal hate mail. It had reduced me to emotional tatters. A snort of surprise escapes me as I realise that this letter has had almost no effect on me. I must be hardening up to the abuse. Words just cannot bruise the way a fist can. A feeling of contentment overtakes me.

  I smile.

  The lesson has indeed been learned well. Maintain speed and distance. Out of reach is out of harm’s way. The twisted old bastard cannot touch me now. I begin to scrunch up the scroll, ready to throw it into the hearth, when the texture of the paper catches my eye. Straightening it out and holding it up to the light, I blink. I have a hunch that there is something more than just my father’s words on the page.

  Full of foreboding, I smooth out the sheet on my blotter. From a desk drawer, I remove a small bottle and tap a single drip of the contents onto the paper. It soaks in instantly. Placing the palm of my hand on the page I speak the invocation. “Pisi Zcovam te’bokae!” I remove my hand and take another look. Though my father’s poison remains unchanged, my command has clearly awoken a spirit. The paper has come alive with faint white squiggles that squirm around like maggots. I can make no sense of their wriggling until I hold the paper up to the light again. They coalesce into translucent lettering that blazes as the lamp light shines through them.

  Dear Banak,

  My love, my heart, my child, my most beloved boy. You are so far away from me, beyond reach. I hope that you are well, that you are happy, that you have found tenderness and companionship in your life.

  Will I ever see you again?

  My prayers to the Spirits are for you, always.

  Your proudest Mother.

  Tears patter darkly from behind close pressed lids.

  It is beyond all my training and resolve to curtail my weeping. If my mother’s tender words were not enough to force me to cry, the manner of their delivery crushes my broken heart with sorrow. Has it come to this? Spirit writing? Has the monster now become so terrible that my mother can no longer communicate openly with her own son?

  Despair turns to rage. The contents of my desk jump and rattle. Again and again, I smash my fists down on to the blotter. Anger ebbs and clarity seeps in.

  It must end. No. I must end it. I nod at the realisation. No one else is going to confront the beast. I can no longer run away. I must end my flight, turn back to my foe and, bearing all the weapons of my armoury, defeat him.

  I sit, flexing my bruised fists, squeezing the pain out. It sharpens my mind, focuses my thoughts. I cannot win this with my sword. An army might help, but only for the signal it sends, swords and shields cannot bring the victory I seek. I must engage the enemy on a different field of battle. I need influence. This must be a political campaign and so I need a powerful ally.

  Who
do I know that has the capability to be of assistance?

  The answer is as simple as it is obvious. There is only one person powerful enough to take on the House of Doneir, to confront the Master of Wynea Bnotsga. The image of her smiling face fills my mind. I shake the whimsy from my head. The queen can no longer be the object of my fantasies. I do not need her pity. I need her tyranny. Rather than wiping away my tears, I must move her to wield her political mace and crush my enemy.

  But how? I cannot just ask her. That would be pathetic. Regardless of the history we share, she is the monarch of the Homelands, the Queen of Fates. With the duties of the throne and crown to attend to, she left our friendship behind in a different life. It probably does not even occur to her that she has. No, she can spare no attention for the snivelling and whinging of a forgotten playmate. I must become someone worthy of receiving her help. Who else has she ever bestowed favours upon?

  My lips curl at the answer. Though our enmity reaches right back to our first meeting in basic training, Captain Poagonz Drickter has often enjoyed what I now seek. Whenever that detestable specimen trumpets a pitiful triumph, the palace bestows a favour. Though it is true the gifts are as minor as his victories are trivial, that is not the point. It is the nature of the relationship that matters. The size of the win dictates the size of the prize. To gain a big favour simply requires a great victory. I nod. To turn the Monarch against the might of my own family requires something truly enormous.

  I laugh at the naivety of my recent ambition. Though gaining first place in the patrol rankings will be an invaluable first step, it is nowhere near enough. That is the kind of thing Drickter claims gifts for. I must achieve more than any other soldier before me to become the greatest champion the Homelands have ever seen. I will drive back the Spawn, defeat Chaos and finally finish the work the Ancients abandoned so many aeons ago.

  How does Hero of the Homelands sound?

  I lean back in my chair and imagine the scene. Parading into the Home of Fates beneath a shower of petals. The cheering of the crowds slowly ebbing as I stride into the heart of the palace. The stillness of the throne hall as the court hangs on my every word. The gasp as I make my request. The commotion as the queen voices her decree. Her smile as I take her in my arms.

  I chuckle.

  Perhaps she will indeed throw herself at me. But once I have achieved my goal, she will not be the only one. I grin at the image of the queen standing in line for my attentions. It shall be a grand day when that happens.

  The clang of the watch bell brings me back to the moment. My victory is still a long way off. There is much that I must achieve first. Our training shall have to be stepped up even further. We must create a new standard for the word elite. A hero must ride at the vanguard of a host of champions.

  My window is already paling with morning. Mounted training today. Our four leggers are going to have to raise their game too! Chalka is certain to rise to the challenge. I shall go to the stables and get her saddled and warmed up before the men muster. It is always good to lead by example, demonstrate the level of commitment I expect from them.

  With a sharp clap of my hands, I stand. Scooping up the letter, I ball it and toss it into the smouldering grate. An ember catches. Watching the lazy flame slowly turn the paper to whispering ash purges my mind. Today is going to be a good day. My stomach growls in agreement. I pat it and smile. I shall stop by the officer’s mess and see what is on offer before heading to the stables. Great works are built on the foundation of great breakfasts.

  Mid-morning, the air not yet thick with the day’s promised heat and the men are already struggling to cope. Again, the charge has become a directionless melee. I shake my head in frustration and give a blast on my whistle. “Break it up! We shall try it from the top again. Sergeant, everyone to their starting positions, if you would be so kind.” Haddar gives me the same filthy look as on the previous two occasions I called for the exercise to be repeated, but wisely holds his tongue. Instead he salutes and gets on with it.

  The men are familiar enough with the basic exercise. Split into three teams they must gallop through a tangled field of targets and obstacles. Whilst remaining at their assigned station within the team’s attack pattern, each member must, in turn, strike a fresh target until all have been cleared. To succeed, the whole team must not only manoeuvre as one but also exchange the lead of their diamond formation as they weave and jink.

  If a target is missed because it is out of reach, they fail. If a rider breaks formation to strike a target, they fail. If the same rider strikes two consecutive targets, they fail. If a rider does not down a target with the first strike, they fail.

  Though complex the task does come from the training manual and the men have practiced it often enough before. Normally, they would complete it easily. Today, I have raised the bar.

  Instead of each team going in turn, all three teams must run in parallel, each with an assigned target colour of red, blue or yellow. If a team strikes the wrong colour, they fail. Also, many targets of different colours share swing arms or are otherwise interconnected. Strike one target and a different one might move, hide or even appear. I have even mixed in a few invocations to animate the obstacles and targets so that they fight back a little bit.

  With everyone ready, I hold up my hand. “On my signal and remember today’s training motto, ‘Beer for the Best!’” With a blast on my whistle, I drop my arm and the men launch into the exercise once more. The promise of a round of drinks for the winning team has more than triggered their competitive spirit. As they charge into the obstacle course, they are more than hot with determination, they are almost incandescent.

  As before, they are perhaps just a little bit too hot.

  Though the peripheral targets are downed with ease, the cracks soon show. Once amongst the active targets, the teams lose momentum as their paths unexpectedly intersect. I let them struggle on for a bit until they degenerate into yet another tangled churning mob. Shouts of recrimination turn rapidly into a frustrated barging match. Aggression rises.

  Another fail on multiple counts.

  I blow my whistle to call a halt. “Circle up! I have something you all need to hear.” After they form a tightly bunched ring, I begin my address. “Let me start by saying that I am more than a little disappointed with your performance this morning. The task is certainly a bigger challenge than usual, but it is nothing this patrol should not be able to master. You have had three goes at it now and each attempt was worse than the previous. Let me repeat that. You are getting worse not better.” I let the message sink in for a moment. “Anybody have a suggestion as to why you are failing so spectacularly?”

  After a moment’s thought one of the men salutes. “Sir!” His brow is furrowed in reflection.

  “Yes, Hoot, what do you think?”

  One of the more muscular axe wielders, Corba Hoot’s brow wrinkles even more as he finishes formulating his thoughts. “Sir, first everything goes well but just as we have a chance to clear our targets and win, the other teams get in the way and mess it up for us.” Gruff murmurs of agreement rumble through the patrol.

  I nod. “Thank you, Guardsman. I can tell many of you agree with the sentiment. However, it is not the real problem here. You are failing because you appear to have forgotten what the Aether Guard is all about. We stand or fall on teamwork. For the love of the Ancients! Is the promise of a jar of ale all that is needed to break this patrol apart? What is going to happen in the Borderlands when it gets tough? You all know well enough how it is over there. By halfway through the cycle you are usually beginning to question the reality of every pebble and twig. With each guard for himself, how long is it going to be before you start slitting each other’s throats for the attentions of some harpy?” A glance around the ring confirms their embarrassment. “Yes, that is right. When one of you fails, all of you fail. Not just each team either, the whole patrol, all of us together. You all have the horsemanship and weapon skills to clear this task wit
h ease. What you are failing to do is communicate. Without communication there can be no teamwork. The strong carry the weak, the fast defend the slow. It is the first and primary task of every single one of you to make sure that everyone else succeeds.” The mood has changed now. Most of the men are nodding, some are even smiling and shaking their heads at their own foolishness. Good. Hopefully they have taken the message onboard. “Very well. Let us try it from the beginning again. Sergeant, if you please.”

  The fourth run goes much better. Only one blue target is missed. The fifth attempt is not only blisteringly quick, it is also a faultless run. I smile as the reds even pause in front of the finish line so that all three teams can cross together. As I address them again, they are all grinning from ear to ear. “Well I see that you have taken this morning’s lesson to heart. A little too well, perhaps. I said a round of drinks for the winning team. It looks like I shall be spending far more than I was budgeting for this evening. You are all the winning team now.”

  Their impromptu cheer is cut short by a thunderous command from Haddar. “Quiet, yeh rabble! Where’s yeh respect? Show some sympathy for the poor captain’s purse!” The men begin to wail and weep.

  I give Haddar a wry smile before continuing. “Alright, enough comedy for today. Take a break to tend to your horses. They have put in most of the effort this morning, after all. Tack and mount drill this afternoon.” I let the communal groan ebb away. Repeated re-saddling and re-mounting is probably about the least loved of all exercises. “What? Did you think you could sit on your arses all day and let the horses earn your mead for you? Dismissed!”

  As they disperse, Haddar comes up alongside. For a moment, we sit quietly watching the team head back to the stables before I speak. “Sergeant, I think an apology is in order!” I try to keep it as deadpan as possible, but a smile still leaks out.