East Meets West

East Meets West

Isabelle Duecalon resented horses. The delay, compounded with the untold suffering of animals, made this rocky trip most disagreeable. But of course, the godless Aurael was not a destination for the Finnardian Corridor, the miraculous transportation infrastructure that underpinned Finnardian supremacy. For want of security, she had not even a window through which she could feign interest in the local architecture. Had she not Enthal Isondre for company, she would’ve torn down the ride and completed the journey by foot.

“These old bones were not made for travel,” the old man grumbled as he smoothed his red collar. “You really should’ve accepted my resignation.”

“And you should’ve been the Grand Guardian,” replied Isabelle. “I guess we’re both going to be disappointed.”

“You are the brightest Duecalon and Finnardi’s favourite. You were the obvious choice.”

Isabelle wasn’t so sure. She started life by disappointing every member of her family for being the first Duecalon daughter since written history.

“You dropped a divine weapon on Zohrenburg,” said Isabelle. “You’re the reason we’re in this mess in the first place.”

“I had your signed approval,” Enthal pouted like a school child protesting his innocence.

“It seemed a good idea at the time,” Isabelle buried her face in her palms. “How was I to know that a demon who disappeared a decade ago would choose to announce his comeback over this. They have no business being that far east and –’

Despite her rebuttal, Isabell knew the fault laid with her. The siege of Zohrenburg had taken far too long. Her subordinates, who no doubt wanted to please the new Grand Guardian, had promised her a victory within weeks. When said triumph was unforthcoming, she knew retreat was not an option. Being the first woman to ever lead the Divine Blades, Enthal Isondre was the only High Guardian who favoured her appointment. A show of weakness was as good as a resignation. Instead, she doubled down.

She knew exactly what it meant to send Enthal into battle. The old man, a pinnacle of religious piety and martial mastery, would perform a miracle, erasing all life from the city. In short, she has massacred thousands upon thousands to cling to her title.

Their carriage came to a halt. Isabelle, all too glad to escape this train of thought, donned on her cloak, buckled her sword, shouldered her small bag of belongings and bounded out.

Aurael’s centre square, the fabled Sapphire Glade, lived up to its reputation as the most beautiful landscape in the world. In its vast expanse were green canopies that dwarfed mansions. Beneath the verdant giants were rainbows of exotic flowers. As the passing breeze toyed with their petals, it seemed as if millions of butterflies had taken flight.

If not for the swarm of white gathered before her, Isabelle would have gone for a stroll. With the exception of Enthal Isondre, the other five High Guardians fought tooth and nail to enlist their favourite students for this entourage. Sighting the Grand Guardian, the Blades placed both palms over their breast in salute. Isabelle returned this gesture, noting a few of her men had the right hand beneath the left. Not High Guardian material, she committed their faces to memory. To think our finest have such disregard for Finnardian rites.

“Children of the Divine Finnardi, warriors of Mercy,” the displeasure in her tone was unmistakeable. “We are upon godless land, where faith is but a moral compass for our thoughts and actions. You have been chosen for you are the best. Show benevolence to our hosts, and strength to our foes. Let the world know that even in the absence of our Divine Lord, that we represent the one true god.”

Upon concluding her speech, she summoned her aides. Claire, avoiding her gaze, bowed as she received Isabelle’s luggage. The lively Anfer saluted her before relieving her of her sword. Handpicked by Enthal, they were the closest thing Isabelle had to friends in the Divine Blades.

“Don’t play with the sword,” Claire warned. “High Guardian Isondre will skin you alive.”

“It’s just a sword,” Anfer twirled the weapon with more flare and skill than was proper. “We’ve all got the same one. If you lose that though, you’re going to have to procure some underwear for Lady Duecalon. Now that is something.”

Isabelle suspended her mirth for a moment and stole a glance at Enthal, who had gone blue. Decades on the western front had done irreparable damage to his sense of humour. She turned her attention to a small group of men in red armour fast approaching. Emblazoned on their breastplate was the black falcon of Aurael.

“Grace of Mercy, captain,” she greeted an armoured lancer before he could introduce himself. “I am Isabelle Duecalon, Grand Guardian of the Divine Blades.”

“Good…good evening, Lady Duecalon,” the man stammered, fumbling as he lifted his visor. “I shall guide you to your place of abode.”

With that, he turned his heel, shouted for his men to form a triangle and to clear the streets. Isabelle suppressed a snigger. She was all too aware of the power she had over men, especially one as green as the Sapphire Glade. Curious citizens filled the alleyways and rooftops so they could catch a glimpse of the famed Finnardian warriors. Without the red guards herding them aside, there would be no passage.

This slow tour made for a perfect chance to study Aurael. The roads were wide, clean and smoothly paved. Towering mansions, usually located in the inner circles of Vangard, dotted the distance. Some folks wearing silk, a luxury reserved for the distinguished members of the Finnardian orthodoxy. The flushed cheeks of frolicking children told her that the folks did not know what it meant to starve. The thriving nation did not appear in need of a god.

Their destination was the estate of Perrin Silver, a local politician Isabelle had limited dealings with. Since rising to Grand Guardian, she once sent him a letter congratulating the man for his election victory without understand what it was. For someone selected by divine providence, the idea of being chosen by one’s mortal peers felt – silly.

Inside the wall of trees was a mansion with two rows of apartments to its side. A group of servants swarmed the Vangard contingent the moment they stepped in. Isabelle and the High Guardians were invited directly to the main residence while their followers were diverted to the wings.

The entourage regrouped in the dining hall for dinner, where they met their host for the first time. Isabelle enjoyed her meal as much as it was polite to. Lost in thought, she did not keep up with the banter and on more than one occasion, drank out of an empty cup. Instead of staying for the ensuing concert, she found a maid to pass a message to Perrin.

“Lord Silver is ready to see you,” the girl whispered upon returning. “Please come with me.”

Compared to the grand hall, Perrin’s study was modest. She found him seated by a dim fireplace with a glass of wine in hand. He rose, casting a long shadow over Isabelle with his lanky figure and pointed to the bottle but the Grand Guardian waved her hand.

“Grace of Mercy, Lord Silver,” Isabelle placed both hands over her breast. “I apologise for interrupting the merriment. I shall be brief.”

“You are too kind, Grand Guardian,” Perrin sang. “How might I serve?”

“It is time for you and your people to serve the Divine Finnardi,” said Isabelle. “Better late than never.”

“You were a girl last we met. And what a fine woman you have become. This talk of politics besmirches –”

“Don’t patronise me, Perrin,” Isabelle snapped.

The man was impervious to this calculated outburst. Perrin took a sip of his wine and settled back into his chair. He stared intently at Isabelle, as if beckoning her to go on. Isabelle expected this much. Harsh language alone was not going to humble a mighty politician who had such vast assets at his disposable.

“Your nation derives its prosperity from avarice and faithlessness,” Isabelle accused, lending weight to her words by slamming the table with both hands. “This cannot last. Aurael fills its coffers with both Finnardian and Zunarkian gold. I’m not sure how long I can continue to overlook such heresy.”

“We’re on dead soil,” Perrin toyed with his wine. “Gods mean nothing here.”

Isabelle nodded, acknowledging his response. True enough, this was the land where Finnardi battled Zunark. The blood spilt by the two deities, strangely enough, nullified all divine powers. Fortunately, she had a more temporal threat up her sleeve.

“We’ve been thinking of awarding our contracts to other nations,” said Isabelle. “We are currently in negotiation with Ricigar. Failing that, we are entertaining other suppliers within Aurael.”

Perrin unhanded his glass and took a searching look at Isabelle. He began to ponder whether she could read his mind. Was this another one of the blessings the eastern god gave her?

“I see you came not for my wine, but my blood,” Perrin chuckled bitterly. “Very well then, Grand Guardian. What will you have me do?”

“I want an advancement to secure the services of the Graystar Company,” said Isabelle. “If they’re not up for it then you may contact a competing rival.”

“But Vangard is already two repayments behind on the loan from the Zohrenburg expedition,” Perrin lifted a hand in objection. “And I doubt you have security large enough to satisfy the bankers. They’re a cautious lot, as you might know.”

Isabelle lifted a finger to indicate what she was about to offer would tolerate no bargaining.

“A week of vision from our Oracle. Prepare the contract before I regret my generosity.”

“They do say the Finnardian seers are the best,” Perrin fell into a pensive silence before scratching something in his notebook. “You have a deal.”

“That’s for the near future,” said Isabelle. “I have a more pressing concern at this moment. What news of the Zunarkians?”

“They should be here by now,” said Perrin between a mouthful of wine. “Maybe we’ll hear about it tomorrow.”

“I’m no child, Perrin. Do you expect me to believe that there are events in Aurael that escape your attention?”

“Well, I have a report from my agents in case you didn’t.”

Grumbling, Perrin produced a thick pile of brown papers and slid it across to Isabelle. The Grand Guardian flipped through the pages quickly, murmuring to herself as she went. Moments later, she placed the dossiers down and closed her eyes in intense concentration.

“You…finished?” Perrin asked, incredulous.

“Yes, why?” Isabelle pressed on. “What do you think of the Zunarkian Alliance? They seem awfully young.”

“That they are,” said Perrin. “Especially when they stand next to your High Guardians. When was the last time you had a new one?”

Isabelle grimaced. She did not want to hear, much less answer this question. The High Guardians were warriors who fought alongside her grandfather. She doubted the six pensioners, who terrified their foes decades ago, could have the same effect on the Zunarkian contingent today.

“I’m old enough to know not be bet against a Duecalon,” Perrin continued. “I just hope you’re ready, Belle. The new Rieva holds all the power. He alone speaks for the alliance and he wants war.”

Despite the extensive efforts to understand the Rieva clan, the demon named Sincrotius remained a mystery. He was but a child when he challenged and killed a High Guardian in single combat. Shortly after earning the epithet, First Son of Zunark, the young Rieva disappeared without a trace. His inclusion in the conference, declared but weeks ago, was the first time the world heard his name in almost a decade.

“I fear no demon worshipper,” Isabelle did not bat an eye, “especially one that fled his rightful duty. If he is the best the west has to offer, then the Zunarkians are finished.”

“He is loved by his people, hardly something one would say about a Rieva,” replied Perrin. “Men kneel to him, while women throw themselves at his feet. He is welcomed by laughing children everywhere he goes. They believe him the saviour.”

“Perhaps he’s here to sign up for your silly little election. By the sounds of things, he just might win.”

“Indeed. But know this. In Aurael, we are elected to bring forth prosperity. The Zunarkians, however, revere power. Word is that he has a divine spark.”

“Then I’ll need to be at my best. Good night, Lord Silver.”

“It is indeed getting late. Valac, please show Lady Duecalon to her bedchamber.”

Barely reaching her breast in height and plain of the face, Valac was not one to turn heads. Like any humble servant, he bowed and gestured for her to follow. With each step she followed him however, Isabelle found more reason to question her initial assessment.

He made no sound, not even when he closed the doors. His spine was dead straight, much like her swordsmen preparing for combat. Yet, there was a graceful fluidity in his gait, a distinctive trait of Zunarkian martial disciplines. This unusual combination could only mean one thing.

“I didn’t know Lord Silver kept such odd company,” Isabelle mused.

“The good lady is observant,” Valac chuckled in good humour. “I am indeed extraordinarily short.”

“Very drawl,” Isabelle said tersely. “You smell of death.”

“That’s nice,” Valac smiled ever so brightly. “I hope your vivid imagination does not keep you up at night, Lady Duecalon.”

Isabelle chose not to waste anymore mental capacity on this matter. She was to confront the Zunarkians tomorrow with her aging army but pennies away from fiduciary apocalypse. Instead of heading straight to bed with these mounting worries, Isabelle meditated. Slowly, just as it had for the past two decades, her troubles sank into the dark oblivion. She dove deeper out of habit, further and further from her body. There was no light in waiting. She would not find Finnardi tonight, not upon these defiled soils.

She began her next day before the crack of dawn. A sole candle lighting her table, she consumed but a slice of toast and concluded she had no appetite. Her men had begun to gather by the time she reached the courtyards. Rather than being sharp and alert like the girls by her side, many of her finest resembled wandering corpses animated by the threat of dismissal. Angrily, her eyes clawed the army, searching for the High Guardians who bred such slothful behaviour. The red collars either found trifles to occupy their attention or averted her gaze.

“Skies ablaze,” hymned Isabelle, “bleeding rain, thus stands the penitent men.”

Her canorous voice, echoed long after she had uttered the first words in the holiest Finnardian prayer. Captivated, many of her men looked on instead of joining her. Fortunately, the booming High Guardians more than made up for their silence.

“Armed and blessed, a sword and a prayer, the faithful warrior marches.

Black tide rises, light is devoured, nightmare spawns bare their fangs.

Louder than thunder, brighter than a thousand suns, a star crashes upon the land.

Darkness fled, foes in ashes, Mercy shines once more.”

“Are you awake now?” Isabelle punched her blade into the earth. “If not, maybe a month in the western front will prove sobering. Now march!”

Their destination, the Winter Palace, was an elephantine architecture. The alabaster masonry, sole surviving relic of past conquerors, dwarfed all other nearby establishments. Isabelle, nodding occasionally with false enthusiasm to appease her energetic guide, committed the decrepit corridors and cavernous halls to memory. She had little interest for the names of past kings, ministers and treaties, being more concerned about how posterity will record this summit today.

Isabelle entered the dining hall and settled into a cathedra. In a matter of hours, she’ll be facing Sincrotius Rieva, who will be seating in an equally uncomfortable antique across the room. Outside, and at nearby hallways, her men stood vigil. Enthal insisted on this buffer and even went as far as to plan escape routes.

“How are you, Grand Guardian?”

The question came from Claire, who placed a hand on her shoulder. Feeling a quiver, Isabelle pointed her aide into a neighbouring chair. The girl sank down with the hesitation of someone expecting the woodwork to nibble her backside.

“Grace of Mercy, Acolyte,” Isabelle blessed her and patted her on the head. “Are you afraid?”

Claire cast her eyes to the ground.

“Fear is healthy,” Isabelle squeezed her arm. “It’s our connection to reality and sanity.”

“Lighten up Claire,” Anfer joined the conversation uninvited. “I hear the western men are better looking than ours. Is it true?”

“Wicked child!” Isabelle admonished aloud and continued in a whisper. “Just don’t get too attached to what you see. We are at war.” She raised her voice again. “Now find me High Guardian Isondre before I have your tongue!”

Having dismissed the girls with a loud but empty threat, Isabelle rose and smoothed out her golden cloak. Hands over her breast, eyes closed, the Grand Guardian mouthed a silent prayer. Something immense was approaching. With a short, sharp burst of focus, she scoured the perimeter. Presence became pulses, each with its own rhythm and volume. Her mind broke into a sprint, running further and further away from its master.

Racing down the corridor, she passed the war drums that were her High Guardians. Turning, she slipped through two flowing rivers, Anfer and Claire. The Aurael guards and citizen were mute as she traversed the streets towards the distant rumble. As she neared, she heard fierce storms brewing – Zunarkians. Yet, compared to the one signature in its eye, these sworn enemies were but the summer breeze.

Nothing she has experienced could prepare her for what was to follow. A discordant choir of countless souls broke into the screeching crescendo that was their chorus. In a vortex of insanity, they bellowed mad blasphemy in a thousand tongues, as if to mock and taunt this uninvited guest. Nauseous, the Grand Guardian opened her eyes and was in the palace again.

“You feel it too?” asked Enthal.

“Must be the Rieva,” said Isabelle. “This is going to be very interesting.”