East Meets West

East Meets West

Trapped inside a windowless coach, chin propped on hand, Isabelle Duecalon pondered how she earned the Divine Finnardi’s ire. Her day started agreeable enough. The Finnardian Corridor, born from Najind genius, compressed a month-long journey to the westernmost outpost into a single step. There, she shared rations with her men to remind her of simpler times, when her sole duty was slaughtering Zunarkians. But now? Her ride uncomfortably slow and her advanced enchantments had dulled. If not for Enthal Isondre’s company, she might have raced against the horses to Aurael.

“This is abuse,” Enthal grumbled, rolling his shoulders. “Belle, why did you reject my retirement?”

“Why did you nominate me as Grand Guardian?” replied Isabelle.

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

Isabelle did not share his confidence. The first daughter in the Duecalon family tree, her birth disappointed her entire house.

“You're the reason we're going to Aurael,” said Isabelle. “You dropped a divine weapon on Zohrenburg –"

Enthal almost leapt out of his seat. “At your order!”

“It seemed like a good–" Isabelle buried her face in her palms and fell into a lengthy silence. "Think they'll retaliate?"

Enthal stared straight into her soul. “Will the sky be red tomorrow?”

Isabelle slumped her shoulders. She could afford this moment of weakness with Enthal. After all, he was her father in every way but name. She grew up tugging his beard, shared flaky biscuits over crackling campfires on the frontline, and now, consulted him on…well, almost everything. Looking back, her biggest mistake was trusting the ambitious officers promising to swiftly conquer Zohrenburg instead of seeking Enthal’s counsel.

Only after bleeding the Divine Blade white like their blazers did she summon Enthal. Rather than surrendering the Grand Guardian’s golden cloak, she gave the grandmaster of divine warfare the grim assignment of massacre. Having stained his honour, she now spent every night wondering how many Finnardians would die when the Zunarkian hammer fell.

Eager to escape the dark thoughts and stifling air, Isabelle collected her things and bolted out as soon as their carriage slowed. Landing on soft grass, Isabelle stood amidst green canopies that dwarfed most churches. The acres of flowers swayed as the fragrant breeze frolicked with her auburn locks. For a moment, the fluttering petals feigned a storm of butterflies. This must be Aurael’s fabled Sapphire Glade. She smiled, wryly. May these heretics drown in decadence.

Two young women with lacquered blue collars snapped into attention, interrupting Isabelle’s musing. The pair saluted her in perfect synchronisation.

“Grace of Mercy, Grand Guardian,” the pair chorused.

“Grace of Mercy, Acolytes.”

Isabelle handed her luggage over to a girl hiding her face behind golden curls. The diffident Claire received it with trembling, upturned palms. Isabelle could not choose whether to smile or sigh. Claire had made considerable progress from their first encounter, during which she got on her knees. Her partner, however, had the opposite problem. Hurriedly, Isabelle tossed Anfer her sword before the Acolyte could give her a hug. Pouting, Anfer settled for a showy juggle.

“Anfer, stop that,” chided Claire, tugging at her sleeve. “The High Guardian will flay you.”

“It’s just a common sword,” Anfer scoffed. “Lose that bag, and you’ll have to procure Lady Duecalon some underwear –”

Swallowing her laughter, Isabelle tapped Anfer’s shoulder and pointed at Enthal. The man had turned blue with indignant fury. Decades on the western front had done irreparable damage to his humour. Having fed the horse the carrot stub, the High Guardian cast the two Acolytes venomous glare. Claire bowed frantically to the man behind their speedy promotion.

“Your men await,” declared Enthal, pointing to the distance.

Isabelle followed his finger. A phalanx of white swordsmen briskly marched past her and spun around in unison. These were the best of the best, at least according to the other five High Guardians who squabbled for their inclusion. Enthal clapped his hands, upon which the men unleashed a battle-cry and a mighty stomp that shook the earth. Isabelle cast Enthal a searching look. Why her men saluted her with an initiating technique? A test. Anfer and Claire leapt away moments before Isabelle’s devastating response ruptured the land, kicking up a wall of debris as the ground howled in agony.

Her calculated display, however, froze the onlooking Aurael entourage in crimson armour. A black hawk proudly spreading its wings on their chests marked them the spears of the neutral state.

“Grand Guardian... Duecalon,” a trembling man bowed. “My lord –"

“Lord Silver sent you?” Isabelle asked. “Please lead the way.”

His cheeks coloured like his breastplate, the young officer spun around and shouted for his men to fan out. Banging their spears together, the wall of Auraelian lancers began clearing the streets. Isabelle bit her bottom lip to cage her mirth. She knew too well the power her feminine charm had over men, especially one as green as the Glade itself.

The roads easily accommodated the Finnardian contingent despite the murmuring galleries on either side, anxious to see the eastern warriors wrapped in fabric instead of steel. Skimming them with a glance, Isabelle saw no sallow cheeks or lost limbs among the crowd. Behind her, Anfer and Claire buried their noses into the assortment of exotic baubles. While the sight of her carefree aides window shopping was heartwarming, the jeweller offering an amber necklace to Anfer was anything but. Darting forward, she seized Anfer by the scruff and yanked her away.

“Zunarkian wares,” Isabelle hissed. “The Rievas are master gem cutters.”

Recoiling as if the trinket was a viper, Anfer stuck to her side without uttering a single word. Isabelle completed the remaining journey with a permanent frown. Short on neither bread nor coins, this populace did not seem to need a god. This must change.

The grandiose estate of Perrin Silver had enough fragrant flower rings and winding bush mazes to rival even the Sapphire Glade. The gargantuan manor mirrored the Duecalon home too much for Isabelle’s liking. Happiness dies behind doors this opulent.

Perrin Silver himself, however, was absent. Snarling, Isabelle dismissed her aides and ordered a petrified maid to show her to her room. Alone, she tossed herself onto the bed. The furniture creaked under the unrestrained thump. Perrin was twice her height when they last met. She had not contacted him until her rise to Grand Guardian, when her grandfather commanded Isabelle to congratulate Perrin for winning something called an election – a silly ritual that selected leaders from their mortal peers instead of divine providence.

Isabelle woke to knocking. She sat up and peered out the window. Night had come. She opened the door to find the same maid she terrorised earlier.

“Lady Duecalon,” the maid fixed her eyes on the carpet. “Lord Perrin Silver humbly invites you to join him for tonight’s banquet –”

“Take me to him now.”

As soon as Isabelle stepped into Perrin’s study, the maid fled down the hallway. Isabelle skirted the walls, brushing her fingers over the velvet spines of exotic literature, oblivious to the occupant seated behind an ostentatiously long desk. The dim hearth crackled, bearing lone witness to this battle of wills. Grunting from effort, Perrin rose at last, his lanky figure projecting a tall shadow over Isabelle.

“Your esteemed grandfather promised to make me king,” Perrin began. “Has he sent you to make good on the promise?”

Isabelle wiped away her smirk as she turned her gaze from the fire to Perrin. Was there ever a man who bore more likeness to the dying flame than this aging politician? Though his cadence yet carried a sting, Isabelle parried it with barbed chortling.

“Have you ever believed anything in your life?” asked Isabelle.

Not waiting for a reply, Isabelle invited herself into an armchair.

“Aurael thrives on faithless avarice,” she slammed the table to enforce her accusation. “Such unprincipled greed breeds Zunarkian corrosion. One brief stroll through your streets had your merchants offering my aide a Rieva necklace. I cannot unsee such corruption.”

Perrin produced a bottle and poured himself a drink. Sniffing the wine, he took a sip.

“We’re on dead soil,” said Perrin, unhanding the glass. “I need not remind you what that means.”

The rebuttal turned Isabelle’s knuckles white. The infidel dared to speak of the Divine Finnardi’s sacrifice, the very thing that forbade her from addling his mind. Fortunately, she had a sharper dagger at the tip of her tongue.

“When is your next popularity contest?” asked Isabelle, leaning forward. “Who will vouch for you once the arms contracts flow to your rivals in Kaiser’s pockets?”

Draining his glass, Perrin reached for the bottle only to find it empty. The lord clicked his tongue and peered at Isabelle through squinted eyes. Was this witch listening to his thoughts?

“Secure me the services of the Graystar Company,” pressed Isabelle, sensing victory. “Or a rival if they are unavailable.”

“Vangard is already two instalments late on the loan from the Zohrenburg expedition,” Perrin protested, waving his arm. “There’s no security large enough to satisfy those skittish bankers.”

Isabelle lifted a finger. “A week of visions from our Oracle.”

“Three.”

“I’m beginning to regret my generosity.”

“Deal.”

“That’s the near future,” said Isabelle. “What of the Zunarkians?”

“Any moment now,” Perrin replied, pausing to yawn. “I know no more than you do.”

“Am I to believe events in Aurael could escape your attention?”

“I prepared a report in case you didn’t.”

Perrin rummaged through his drawers and slid a pile of papers to Isabelle. Seizing the dossier like a Freak on fresh meat, the Grand Guardian flipped through the pages so quickly that sheets fanned her hair. Almost as abruptly as she began, Isabelle tossed the document aside.

“Would you have preferred a summary?" asked Perrin with a forced smile.

“The Zunarkian coalition is young,” observed Isabelle as if she did not hear Perrin. “Why, one of them should still be playing house with dolls.”

“They’ll look even younger next to your High Guardians,” said Perrin. “When was the last time you retired one?”

Isabelle leaked an involuntary wince. More than the question, she dreaded the answer. Could her High Guardians, six pensioners who fought alongside her grandfather, cow the Zunarkians as they had decades ago? The unsettling thoughts birthed a thirst for ale.

“I will always bank my coins with the Duecalons,” Perrin ceded. “But be warned, Belle. Sincrotius Rieva has the entire west beneath his boot and he wants war.”

Pensive, Isabelle gazed into the whimpering fire. Having participated and later directed multiple shadow operations against the Rieva clan, she found nothing new in Perrin’s report. As a nameless soldier, he challenged and slew a High Guardian in single combat, earning the epithet, First Son of Zunark, before disappearing for more than a decade. His last-minute inclusion in the summit prompted Isabelle to dismiss her spymasters. In hindsight, hurling the ink tray at them was probably unnecessary.

“I fear no demon worshipper,” declared Isabelle, “especially one that fled his rightful duty. If he is the best the west has to offer, then the Zunarkians are finished.”

“His people love him, unlike most Rievas,” countered Perrin. “Men kneel to him while women swoon in his presence. Everywhere he goes, laughing children clamber over each other to his scars. They believe him the saviour.”

“Perhaps he’s here to sign up for your silly little election. By the sounds of it, you have some serious competition.”

“Not that you’d let him,” Perrin’s hearty laughter quickly escalated into chesty coughs. “I say this as a friend, Belle. Do not underestimate him. The west must have a good reason to call him Zunark reborn.”

“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's only notable feature was his impeccable grooming. Folding his hands over his chest like any devout Finnardian, the small man led her out, making not a sound when he opened and closed the door.

With each silent stride, Isabelle found more reason to question her first impression. He had the straight spine of her swordsmen and a fluid gait of a more western origin. While one arm swung about with mechanical precision, his other hand stayed by his belt as if expecting to find a weapon there.

“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 droll,” Isabelle said tersely. “You smell of death.”

“That’s nice,” Valac donned a smiling mask. “I pray your vivid imagination does not keep you up at night, Lady Duecalon.”

Isabelle began her next day before the crack of dawn. A sole candle lighting her table, she forced down a slice of the toast and concluded she had no appetite. Nodding at Anfer and Claire who joined her in the banquet hall, Isabelle made for the courtyard to see her men in waiting. While they gathered in a disciplined square, several men had dozed off while others reeked of liquor. The sorry display made Isabelle glad she had skipped her meal.

“Anfer,” Isabelle spoke flatly. “My sword.”

Anfer obeyed with trembling hands. Isabelle wrapped her fingers around the pommel. After a brief pause that made even Enthal flinch, she decided against drawing her weapon and returned it to Anfer. As sweet as it would be to punish incompetence, publicly humiliating her men at this key juncture with Perrin watching was ill-judged at best.

“Deployed these men to the western front,” Isabelle breathed ice. “No rotations for six months.”

The six red collars bowed.

“We meet the Zunarkians today,” Isabelle shouted. “Either we face down Sincrotius Rieva or invite an attack on our homelands. Now march!”

The alabaster skeleton of the elephantine Winter Palace, the sole surviving relic of past conquerors, hosted this summit. Footsteps ringing down corridors wider than the Auraelian streets, Isabelle studied the gilded portraits of past kings to distract herself from the battle waiting for her in the throne room. Did these monarchies in her history books ever foresee the end of their dynasties? Could she stop the Finnardians from meeting the same fate?

Settling into a cathedra with jagged armrests, Isabelle cast her stare at the opposite side of the cavernous throne room. In a matter of hours, Sincrotius Rieva would step through the marble door and place himself in an equally uncomfortable antique chair. For the first time since rising to Grand Guardian, her golden cloak felt heavier than lead. At this point, she prayed the historians would title this as the meeting of sore bottoms.

“You seem troubled, Grand Guardian.”

It was Claire. Isabelle squeezed her hands and felt a quiver. Peering around to ensure no one was looking, Isabelle pointed her aide into the neighbouring chair. She could afford some favouritism right now.

“You always comforted others when you’re nervous,” said Isabelle. “Are you afraid?”

Claire cast her eyes to the ground, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Fear is healthy,” advised Isabelle. “Fearless men are either mad or dishonest.”

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

“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, Isabelle closed her eyes to focus on the immense pulse approaching. Sinking deeper and deeper into a void, all human presence became beats and melodies. Her consciousness faded, until it untethered itself from her flesh and shot out. She sped past the war drums that were her High Guardians, two tepid currents that marked Claire and Anfer, and paid no mind to the Auraelians, who were but droplets falling on mud.

Soon enough, she found herself confronting a fierce storm. Zunarkians. Yet, the screeching gale was but a cocoon sealing away a primal horror. Nothing she experienced prepared her for the sensory assault. A vortex of mad souls bellowed mad blasphemy in a thousand tongues, taunting the uninvited guest. The swirling slowed, coalescing into a wall of faces, laughing, yelling, screaming, crying. A voice more macabre than the first breath of an exhumed tomb, silenced the shifting horde.

Hello, blade witch.

Isabelle blinked, returning to her seat. Nauseous and pale, she shook her head and murmured a quiet prayer. A firm hand on her shoulder alerted her to Enthal, who had somehow escaped her attention until now.

“I believe that’s Sincrotius Rieva,” remarked Enthal. “You ready?”

Isabelle exhaled and smoothed her cloak. “I’ll have to be.”