The Lonely Fall of Andal Brask: Part 2 (Destiny)

by iconicbanana, C2-H5-OH + NAD, Portland, OR, Sunday, February 01, 2015, 00:00 (3585 days ago)

The humming pulses of the Winter’s skiff hung over the southern bulwark of the Citadel; Draksis, highsprung champion, ‘the Unrivaled,’ leapt down to the bulwark, like a great tiger coiled and ready. The pack of vandals who stood guard around the ramparts flitted nervously about, not daring to match the gaze of the Winter’s Kell; Fenrik primefed, the high Baron of Kings, approached cautiously from the cresting hall of the fortress, doing his best to stand tall, and not flinch. He was a full half of height shorter than the giant Kell; his clean yellow cape and brilliant gold mail looked out of place on a battlefield, and the tarnished silver and blood encrusted royal blue of the peerless champion made clear what duties were familiar to each. The eyes of Fenriks were not on the armor of Draksis, however.

“Esteemed Draksis, it would do my masters great injury if I did not ask to bear your swords for you. May I carry them, by your gracious consent?

“Your masters are ever cautious, are they not?” Draksis laughed back. “Do they believe me to be so chivalrous? When did the Kells of the Proud Regents become so fearful? I have ever shown my fealty to their…birthright.”

Fenriks seemed unsure how to proceed. “Do I understand you refuse to relinquish your arms, as is tradition?” The sentries surrounding them seemed to be bracing, they’re weapons surreptitiously rising. Draksis laughed boisterously again; he unsheathed his swords, deftly twirling them to offer to Fenriks, hilt first.

“Forgive me, dear Fenriks,” he brushed aside the conversation and past the Baron simultaneously, carelessly sauntering by him into the hall. “My weary mind forgets the formalities of all these trappings.” Fenriks did his best to keep up without sprinting, but the huge stride of the Kell was impossible to match. At the far end of the hall, Sneviks, highsprung imperator, ‘the White Wolf,’ was standing in consort with Riksis, primefed and aged, the wiliest of Archons. Draksis approached them both, resting his higher hands on their shoulders while clapping their backs with his lower ones.

“Is our mettle set, my brothers?” Riksis placed his own high arm on the shoulder of Draksis in reply.

“Our fates are twined, my friend,” the old Archon rasped. “What has been set to motion, I am confident will avail us of our ends.”

“Our path is before us, Primeborn,” added the White Wolf. Sneviks was ever nervous; he cast furtive glances to the entrance, where the approaching clamps of armored boots heralded the nearing monarchs.

*****

It was still several kilometers to the fortress, and as Brask flitted through the brush the silence was intermittently broken by the buzzing whir of skiffs overhead. He had not killed the sentry needlessly, nor had he left trace of it; he carried the corpse up the largest of the nearby trees like a leopard, crammed it in the bifurcating limbs where it would not be found hastily. He wanted the fallen alerted but skeptical; when the sentry went missing, he anticipated they would spread to search, but not scramble a larger force. Those sentries currently patrolling the jungle would spread further from the castle; but Fenriks would not be bothered to send more. The skiffs were more blessing than nuisance; he doubted their captains would bother to disembark, rather staying high to survey for aircraft then to anticipate solitary scouts on foot. The sentry was no doubt resting or sleeping; would be found, demoted, and mutilated; there were more pressing matters their attention required.

He turned his own attentions to the Kells. He knew little of the Devil’s young Kell; it was understood that one of their Archons, Riksis, was the de facto mouth of their prime. Riksis’s influence was not strong in the houses of the fallen; the Devils had never recovered from the blow Saint had dealt them at the six fronts. Sneviks of the House of Wolves was a mature Kell, but not a frightening one. The House of Wolves seemed to kowtow to whatever alpha authority was present; Sneviks the Sniveling was not a viable target for his purpose.

Draksis was a different beast entirely. Brask had sent numerous assassins after him following the six fronts; rumors and myths were all that ever came back. Brask doubted even he could manage the task of kiliing Winter’s Kell. He had seen the Kell of Devils at the six fronts, an enormous creature gorged on the vapors of a Prime. How the Saint had managed to slay it, and with a single blow no less, he couldn’t imagine.

The quiet snap of a breaking sprig drew his mind back to the present. He could hear another pair of sentries now, beyond the obscuring of the trees, perhaps a quarter kilometer. He slid low to the ground, creeping with surprising agility through the fronds and thickets, soundless. He had no need to slay more sentries; he moved like a wraith through the quiet trees, quickly circling the patrol and continuing on.

He had set his mind on the Kings’ Kells for two reasons: first, because he suspected that the assault on the city was at their behest or order; and second, because he felt confident that the death of any of the three would be sufficient to derail the resolve of the whole house. The timing of the attack was not lost on him. The Kings were tacticians and, more importantly, cowards; they never fought on the front, delegating such tasks to the lower houses. If they felt an actual threat to themselves, they would flee, and the Vanguard could break the unbacked soldiers of the houses without the Kings’ technological superiority.

Furthermore, the Kings were not the battle tested masters of swords and spears that Kells like Draksis were. He had rarely met blades with the Kings’ Captains, but they had not presented the challenge that the fiercely drilled masters of Draksis’s battalions presented; nor were they near the equal of the Devil’s wicked lieutenants. If his plan were to work at all, the only hope he had lay in the equal and probable indolence of the chieftains of the House of Kings.

He continued through the ferns, always low, cautious. He had traveled perhaps two hours with good speed, without another sighting of the fallen. Cayde’s transmit hissed in his ear. “I’m at the base of the castle hill. 100 meters uphill from jungle to wall.”

*****

“Warlords, our peers, why have you requested such audience with us? Draksis, what is the meaning of our retreat from the high fortress the vermin hold in the pass above the mountain line?”

“I think you have failed to give due honor to the valor of our foes, Arakvis.” Draksis’s reply was calm as a dead ocean; he sat across the table from the three Kells of Kings, flanked himself by the Devil and the Wolf. A vivid red holographic projection of the human metropolis lay before them; the wicked white sphere hung above the crimson battlements. The subtle venom of Draksis’s demeanor betrayed his efforts to conceal his contempt. “Perhaps you would like to join the front, champion of Kings?”

“We would not deign to such low errands, save for the disaster of an enemy at the gates. Such labors are for our vassals, not our hands.” Aramiks made no effort to conceal the contempt in her own voice, delivered in typical, cold dispassion. “ My brothers may itch to draw their blades with the enemy, but that is not their place. It is yours.” Her arms were spread on her settee; she reclined, one high arm absentmindedly clicking sharp claws on the back. “Why have we withdrawn? The armament we have provided you with is more than ample.”

“I will not be disparaged by a dilettante,” growled back Draksis. “Your censure is baseless; I did not wish to assault that fortress, nor did I lead that doomed assault. Sneviks’s efforts at the pass have been stymied by the flighty meddling and fey whims of your indolent siblings. You seek to assault our enemy at the crux of their power, at the seat of their strength; their counter assault is bolstered by their own dead, risen on the field as our brothers fall.” He gestured to the wavering line of vivid blue positions on the map, indicative of the lines of armor that lay broken against the enemies fortifications. “You divert our power to the heights when we should reinforce our battered engagements at the walls themselves.”

“Your charge is the behest of your monarchs,” spat back Amaviks, eldest Kell of Kings. “We will not be belittled nor reproached by your tongue, Winter’s Kell. You will heed our whims if we wish it. The mountain fortress must be reclaimed, and if Sneviks is not capable of such an impossible task, you will do it in his place. We have other matters to address.” His hiss was punctuated by the crash of his mailed fist on the chart. A furtive glance between Sneviks and Riksis escaped his notice.

*****

“—provise if necessary, and execute. Good luck Cayde.”

Perched on a narrow shelf on the edge of the castle bulwarks, Cayde watched the persistent march of sentries patrolling the far rampart; across the broad width of the castle roof, the gaping maw of the Ketch bustled with vandals and captains. The bulk of Fenrik was a monolith among the spindly forms of the elite troops of the Kings; beyond him, rows of Pikes and Walkers were visible in the broad divide of the deployment hanger.

“Going dark; anticipate pulse in twenty minutes on my count,” Cayde whispered. He activated camouflage and drew his thin machete, breathing calmly and steadily. The Baron was affixed in his sights, the focus of his attention.

“Three.” His memory was clear. Two years. Seventy-eight days. Fenrik was a brilliant fire in the angry sun.

“Two.” Fenrik’s giant hand bore the decapitated corpse of Yari aloft, his merciless laugh peeling in the dry red dirt creek, mocking Cayde where he lay, pinned downstream, powerless.

“One.” First the tank. Then an old score to settle.