The Coming Battle

DATE: IMMORTAL REIGN 1023 MONTH 4 DAY 20

Ruxian caught the exact instant when resigned despair snuffed out the ecstatic light inside the fat Dracon’s eyes. Draining the chipped goblet, he choked and sputtered until Zangar patted his back.

“Forgive this old fool,” said the man, wiping his chin. “I'm Bamoc Fonkael, the man unfortunate enough to be running a state.”

“You knew mum?” asked Naya.

Bamoc stared into his cup. “How much do you know?”

“I barely remember her,” replied Naya, frustration spilling into her tone. “Nobody in the sorority wants to talk about it, not even mother.”

Bamoc, wriggling into a fraying coat Zangar tossed over his shoulders, gave a knowing headshake. As his face wrinkled and lips thinned, Ruxian could have sworn he heard the clicking of padlocks. Here was a man determined to lock away his secrets.

“Now isn’t the time,” Bamoc concluded the discussion. “The Targonians,” he drew out the word, looking to Dramien, “are raiding our outposts and intercepting our merchants. We have no swords to spare Almerynd Blackmoon even if the Goddess herself commands it.”

Ruxian hurried to fill in the void Naya created with her wistful silence. You misunderstand, General Fonkael. Lady Blackmoon wishes for you to change your diplomatic tack. She is prepared to set killing zones in the Green Divide so long as you withdraw your peace envoys from Immortrium. Targonia will not give you neutrality. The ease with which he repeated the overture surprised even himself. It appeared losing his body had granted Ruxian perfect memory. If only he had this during his university entrance exams!

“And before we can thank the Goddess that woman will fill these halls with Blackmoons,” Bamoc countered with a wit sharper than the ornamental garash behind him. “The continent sees Almerynd and Paerawyn as two sides of the same coin. Old Valnaga was right to not attack Immortrium. We, were wrong.”

With Zangar at his side and the footsteps constantly plodding down the corridors, Ruxian figured a direct assault on the frontal lobe may motivate the entire city to up their exorcism expertise. He dove back into his memory, pursuing multiple threads of thought with the speed of a supercomputer.

I am what you’d call an Otherworlder. Ruxian felt his mind slowing as he transformed into a cartoonish version of his former self. During a foreign invasion, the warlords of my country prioritised their infighting. Ruxian paused and saw Bamoc leaning forward. I’m not telling you to make peace with Lady Blackmoon. But unless you’re prepared to chop off your horns and live under the Targonian boot, I think both sides stand to benefit from a temporary alliance.

“Your capacity and control over magic are astounding,” complimented Bamoc. “Your advice, on the other hand, I must consider at my leisure.” He lifted a hand. “Three days. Until then, Zangar will ensure you enjoy your stay.”

Naya’s eyes lingered on the door long after the general lumbered out. Scowling, she redirected her ire at Zangar, who appeared to be studying patterns in the ceiling. To grab his attention, she thumped the floor.

“Before we proceed,” Naya hissed like a viper. “I believe I’m owed an apology.”

Zangar bowed until his horn scratched the ground. “I’m sorry my horse chewed on your –”

“That’s enough,” a blushing Naya interjected. “Apology accepted.”

“Look on the bright side,” teased Dramien. “It’ll be a funny story if you two really do cross horns.”

The two young Dracons turning beet red had Ruxian longing for his body. What he would give to join Dramien in laughter.

“What do you make of all this?” the Targonian knight continued in a serious tone.

Zangar turned a finger on himself. “Me?”

“Of course,” replied Dramien. “I want to hear from you. Did you think your father sat you here to pour him tea?”

“Father will decide correctly,” said Zangar after looking around, as if seeking someone to consult. “It is not up to me.”

“You never know,” Dramien dissented, leaning forward. “If General Fonkael unfortunately passes away, that duty falls to you. What then?”

Naya gaped at question. “Dramien, that’s not –”

“He’s right.” Zangar interrupted her, sighing. “If I may be so…bold. I don’t know what happened between Mogravale and Rokshama, but I fear past history has clouded father’s judgment.”

“Bless the Goddess,” sang Naya, her earlier resentment forgotten. “There’s a man beneath that fine robe.” Her sweet giggling made Zangar swallow a retort. “Will you aid us?”

She needn’t have asked.

DATE: IMMORTAL REIGN 1023 MONTH 4 DAY 24

While Naya’s appreciation for Rokshama delicacies grew at Zangar’s expense, Ruxian further nurtured his magic. Although his clone quota remained at two, Ruxian discovered that shutting out sight or hearing from his partitions made the information manageable. Presently, he was following Naya down the city streets and attending the war council at the same time. This must be what it’s like to be an e-sport world champion with over three hundred actions per minute.

For all his misgivings, Bamoc had no qualms inviting Dramien to the conferences. Given the lord’s smug smirk, Ruxian sensed this was a deliberate attempt to provoke and motivate his conclave of grizzled officers. To his credit, the Targonian only ever spoke when questioned and refrained from making suggestion. Whenever Ruxian probed Dramien, he felt a weight from the connection that he assumed was knight’s reluctance.

If the war council was an episode of top-tier historic drama, then his time with Naya and Zangar was the most awkward romantic comedy Ruxian had ever experienced. The pair would travel three blocks without conversing, only to talk over each other at the next turn. It took Ruxian back to chemistry class, when he had written a lazy report on the interaction of oil and water.

“Your father wasn't in this morning,” complained Naya, draining a cider she had come to favour. “It’s been three days.”

“I haven’t seen him since your arrival,” said Zangar, as if to prove his innocence via joint victimhood. “In case you haven’t noticed, war is everywhere.” He brought a hand to his ears. “Hear that? Horns.”

Naya frowned. “Ruxian?”

The general is quite bogged down. Ruxian shrugged. I asked him for an answer yesterday but he insisted that he did not want to speak to me alone. Ruxian could hardly argue the point, considering the numerous ambushes he sprung on unsuspecting community leaders during their westward travels.

“I almost forgot,” said Zangar. “Ruxian, I got permission to visit the prisoner I told you about. Still interested?”

“Changing subjects?” accused Naya, folding her arms. “And what took so long?”

Zangar tilted his head one way, frowning. “Well pardon me, but the guards are a little suspicious about why a spectral horror wants to speak to an important captive with violent tendencies.”

It took a brief circle around the unassuming city prison for Ruxian to realise why permission took three days. Just like the Green Divide, the guards had fully warded the compound. Had they not scrubbed clean a path for him, the wraith would be oozing on the cold, damp tiles. He was forever grateful to Naya, who had the presence of mind to come bearing large bags of meat kebabs for the wardens.

The said prisoner of interest lay in his pile of hay. Sunlight snuck through a small aperture, illuminating his dishevelled black hair and glittering jewellery. Linen with brown blotches covered his torso, a silent witness to the injuries he had suffered. Yet, it was the tiger tattoo that Ruxian recognised.

Destora? Ruxian’s message startled the big man. You escaped Immortrium?

“Wow!” Destora exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “What the hell are you?”

Ruxian attempted once again to reconstruct an image of himself. Remember me?

Destora squinted his eyes. “Ruxian? What happened to you?”

Long story. Ruxian pointed a phantom appendage at the tattooed man. How did you end up here?

“I escaped, of course,” Destora boasted. “It’s easy for someone with my powers until they sent out the warrior priests…”

The gangster movie extra regaled Ruxian with the tales of his daring escape. He punctuated his confabulations with animated gestures and a surprisingly wide array of sound effects. The ghost watched with undivided attention. This was the closest thing he had to entertainment since arriving in Targonia.

“…then these horned freaks ambushed me,” said Destora, pointing at Naya. “Would’ve slaughtered them but couldn’t use my powers. Bastards fought dirty. And that’s how they caught me.”

These folks are Dracons. Ruxian extended an arm towards Naya. They’re the ones keeping the empire from turning you into human yoghurt. They even have magic to send you back –

Destora turned his back to Ruxian. “Who said anything about going home?”

The ringing bells cut short the reunion between the two. Zangar and Naya raced outside just as the citizens ran for cover. From the distance came a rhythmic, resonant boom. It was the drums.