Whinnying, two horses rested side by side, with one shaking its head, unsettled, and another disciplined, reacting little to the battle like its rider. The creatures had a sixth sense that humans did not, hearing the clamor, many presumed that it was constant and usual battle that unfolded. Neither side had known rest since their first contact then and there, and it would appear to be a stalemate to those who could not determine with their own eyes how the battle proceeded. But the aura of the heavens shifted. The gods leaned over their clouds, watching not them but their enemy. What was so much more entertaining, a young man gazed up and wondered, as if he could see the currents of the wind flocking south. His instincts brought his rose red eyes to the disturbance where his troops streamed towards, wrapping around a general’s bodyguards like water around a rock. It seemed like the decisive moment that would determine the fate of the battle had finally begun but the younger officer was skeptical.
Observant on the source of the noise, his grip on his glaive tightened. “Have they sallied out?” Judging from the scale of the movement of their reinforcements, the colonel mumbled.
Half a cape hung over his arm, a newly promoted third general walked his mount a few paces forward, clicking his tongue. “Indeed they have…” The eccentrically-dressed man gleamed at an opportunity.
Extravagant details ornamented his armor, a fair layer of riches over a silken gambeson. The metal was silver in the shade, and it only turned gold beneath the sun, its distracting tone protecting his full body, head to toe. His pauldrons of steel were shaped into two bears’ heads, accompanying a helmet of a third whose jaw devoured half his face. A touch of powder was smudged on his well-kept skin with two long bangs of near black hair dangling down to his mustache, a handlebar with outrageously curled ends. The flamboyancy of the third general made him a landmark on the field, recognizable to both friend and foe. Although some would reel from such attention, especially with the threat of becoming a target of lead and steel, he basked in it. The man’s demeanor was telling of his belief, that the world revolved around him. But whatever it was that gave him this confidence, he must have had something to show. Afterall, he rose to his position quicker than his peers. The general in his mid-twenties was no more the child that his tutor found him as. Their personalities may have differed like fire and water, yet, Igor Rzhev was the first and proudest student of the Summer Lion.
The mud kicked up from the hurried advance of his troops splattered and tainted his greaves, but he could not care as much for it. “A foolish endeavor that crushes what malign hope they had.” Rzhev mocked with an accent of inflections as he wiped off the stain with a handkerchief.
“There must be a reason.” The colonel was inclined to believe, biting on his finger which felt his teeth break through his velvet glove. “Warneńczyk is not so incompetent.” Troubled, he sought for hints in his immediate presence.
From the cavalry to the footmen, to the guards and the regulars. Even by considering the armaments of his troops, nothing came to his mind. It was in his blankness of thought when a messenger emerged from beneath the tides of horsemen. His colors and uniform was out of place, but he was of the very same Confederacy. Among splendor around him, of furs and heirloom sabers, and the glitter of armors polished by their squires which were ceremonial-like, more sensible for a parade, the messenger’s attire appeared far too humble to ever belong. However much he thought the guards were pretentious, he kept his head low, avoiding the eyes of his comrades who were no doubt laughing behind their helms at his poverty. The soldier ignored their sniggers and came forth before the third general and the colonel with the rightful seal of a runner in his hand. Even when the messenger had arrived by their side, Rzhev did not bother turning himself to face his troop, and gave a side-eye out of the slightest respect.
Clearing his throat, the messenger snapped to attention and saluted. “Order from the colonel general!” It was relayed by a resonant voice.
The general leaned over, holding up a hand that was released from the rein. “Allow me a guess.” Rzhev stopped to entertain himself. “Full assault?” Twirling his mustache, he speculated.
A play amidst a battle had the messenger wanting to deliver a blatant answer to end his baseless speculations. Although the colonel may have accepted the jab, he doubted that the noble-esque man before him would. Never to risk his work nor his head, it seemed the better choice to respond dutifully.
“The wings are to assault the walls as the center withdraws.” The messenger knelt, resting an arm over his knee, as he spoke with his head down. “Withhold the reserves and await further orders.” The transmission ended without so much as a letter but the order must have been rushed.
Rzhev chuckled, “Oh, is that so?” Waving his hand, he dismissed the messenger.
Nodding, the messenger rose and braced up before giving a departing salute. He pivoted and marched off, finally to be done of being in the presence of his sickeningly egotistical noble guards. They pettily gave way to the soldier only when he raised his seal again, brushing his shoulder against the muddied boots of the cavalry. Such is the way of the unprofessional, immaturely delaying his return to his regiment. The upper class men fought simply for prestige and fame whilst their families sat atop scores of wealth. There was little danger to them in battle and death as promised by their motherland’s premier, but no doubt, they were the most hated band of troops, a title difficult enough to attain in an army numbering in the hundreds of thousands. Even the colonel, an aristocrat himself, was ashamed to have been considered a part of this gang of shameless fools. Regardless, orders were orders. He should not betray command, choosing silence over words against those he found most despicable.
Kicking his mount to walk on, the young officer came nearer the general. “Shall I give the order?” The colonel gave a pre-emptive, temperate response.
“No!” Rzhev sternly declined. “What a waste of my precious time when I could be tasting wine in Lutet by winter.” He turned to his subordinate as if he understood.
The colonel looked away in avoidance, with pride that disallowed him from ever being considered equal to Rzhev. Though the third general had pride of his own too, it had led him to refuse a direct order from his commander. Whipping his head forward, he shouted and rode forth, trotting a few paces outward behind his men. From his hip, he unsheathed a sword that glinted as the thin blade was drawn. The rapier carried a basket hilt that was golden like strings of honey wrapping around his hand. From how he held it, it seemed as though the sword required no strength to wield. Straightening his arm, Rzhev pointed the tip at the sky where a corridor of light opened. The clouds dispersed and rained down the heat of the sun, but as if its holy rays had been absorbed by the steel, the soldiers who raised their heads to heed felt only the cool breeze. His noble cavalry collected themselves, fitting their helmets and bouncing their weapons in their hands, they anticipated an order that they would find reason to care for. But one did not.
Having heard the voices of the gods, a language that he did not understand however could be interpreted as a bad omen, the colonel rode towards the general and implored for his reconsideration, “Third general,” He prayed that negotiation would help the man find reason and attempted to persuade him, “The colonel general would not have issued this order unless his judgement was clear.”
But the ears of the receiver had already silenced every rational thing, too impatient and too rash to listen. “And is my judgement unclear, colonel?” Rzhev’s eyes comically widened, turning his head only to ridicule his aide.
Fists clenched, the colonel took a breath, wanting to take his head for defying him. But he knew his place. If he was still his old self then it was certain he would have erupted into a tempest. The younger let out a noiseless sigh, having learnt that the wish of another did not always satisfy his, and ignored and let him be. Quiet behind his general, with no intention to disturb his commander any longer, he reduced himself into accepting his own role of insignificance.
Upon expelling his subordinate’s words, Rzhev returned to his loyal troops who was better behaved that he preferred, “Men, this will be the day when yet another nation and her people shall be liberated from the chains of the Aelon!” Looking around him and judging from their reactions, the general joked, “They stay put, believing that passiveness will win them the war!”
Laughter rolled across the cavalry and infantry whose smiles broadened as each jeered. Thousands spoke ill of the enemy for they were certain that their words could be heard. But in their minds, they believed that it was to be an easy battle that their spirits were prepared for. The colonel watched on, finding no reason to partake in such stupidity, when a scented eifer whiffed by. Blood poured from gashes in flesh, flooding the field and rivers echoing the ringing steel striking bone. For a second, he envisioned a face whose aura seemed familiar to his. As he remembered that he had encountered that very same scent eight days past, his hands tensed. It only confirmed that his allies have been deceived.
Plunging forward his rapier, the third general stood his troops to attention, “All units!” Rzhev had been blinded by the enemy before him and the thought of claiming victory without a care for risk. “The first man who delivers Warneńczyk’s head will earn themselves an estate in the capital!” With the means to back his reward, it was a tall offer that none could refuse.
Especially among the footmen whose majority had never seen nor taken the slightest peek at the interior of the red city were crazed by the thought. Like madmen, they charged, screaming with bloodlust. Nobles rode hurriedly, to disallow the opportunity of a lowly troop to rise the ranks, crashing through the army. At incredible haste himself, seeking to claim a general’s head for his own prestige, Rzhev led on a squadron of mounted companions, knights who fought not for coin but for loyalty. He dashed off, forgetting his colonel who was set back to assume the command of the rear guard as tens of thousands mobilized. A cloud of dust shrouded his face captured in disgust. The air about him changed, from that of a harmless creature, dismayed by the greed of man falling into the traps of dishonor, to that with eyes of a wyvern.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlyK3KIaVBf
