Book 6: Chapter 29 - Slash & Burn

As they say in the Land of Streams, Earth is stability, Water is flexibility, Fire is commitment, Wind is intelligence and communication, and the nothingness between decisions is where good judgment is found. 

Hold a firm base, adapt your line, commit cleanly, keep information moving, and decide without undue noise unless that, too, is part of your plan. Strategy is control of time and distance; choose the hour and the ground, and most battles are settled before steel is met. 

Test, observe, find the seam, and strike only there; do not spend strength where it buys nothing. A good commander must be, or at least maintain the illusion that they are, many at once: a steady anchor for morale, a turning wheel at the flank, a spark in the enemy’s rear, and a quiet chain of orders through your camps. Show what can be counted, then act from where you cannot be counted.

Terrain matters, but will to fight matters more. Maps show terrain, the board upon which you must make your enemy reveal their intent. Strike when the field looks still; pull back when easy victory invites a trap.

- The Principles of Conflict by General Damien de Savant 234 AC.

We stood upon the brink of what de Savant had labelled as the “emerald hell” on the edge of the strange road that had led us unerringly from Narilmu and pierced straight through the jungle. The stones beneath our feet were peculiar things, each perfectly square and fitting together with an unnatural precision, the faintest seams barely visible. Depending on the hour and slant of the sun, their color shifted from black to grey and back again—a very different sorcery altogether from the magics I had so far witnessed.

“This spot shall serve us well enough,” I said, atop my mount Theodore, who gave a low snort of agreement as he stamped. “The wind favors us. Unleash your magic, Larynda.”

“You know that fire, especially magical fire, might spook an animal?” she said cautiously, eyeing the giant lizard beneath me.

“He will endure,” I answered firmly, patting Theodore’s thick, scaled hide. The beast rewarded my confidence with a thump of his tail upon the stones. “It might even serve to temper his courage. But what of your Lirkud—do flames not trouble it?”

Larynda laughed softly, shaking her head. “Hardly. Those creatures care little for fire. I once saw Blossom curled atop smoldering embers in camp; they seem to seek the heat.”

“Then let us not delay. Begin whenever you’re ready.”

The young girl lifted her staff, the skull at its tip aimed at the dense curtain of trees, and began chanting softly in a tongue whose meaning eluded me, words ancient and unknown. Her voice rose steadily until she spoke the words, Nara Sakullu, and loosed the Black Flame of Chaos, a fire that burned yet was not truly of the flame.

The sphere of raw Chaos erupted into liquid black fire among the trees, spreading like oil across still water. Larynda’s skill had grown considerably, her power obvious as the Black Flame engulfed a circle nearly fifty paces wide. It was voracious, devouring everything it touched, and even at our distance, we felt the unnatural heat of its ravenous hunger. Trees cracked and splintered, bark curling and splitting beneath the searing, dark inferno. Steam hissed angrily, life fleeing in panic before the insatiable black flames. Birds burst from the canopy in wild confusion, shrieking alongside the desperate cries of unseen beasts as the jungle burned. 

It spread like flames upon oil, yet, all along its length, the road beneath our feet was untouched, protected by some unseen enchantment that kept the hungry flames at bay.

“Again,” I commanded, nodding to the opposite side of the road.

“Your will is my command,” Larynda replied, a faint edge of rebellious sarcasm tempering her voice. 

She raised her staff again, shaping another sphere of living chaos and unleashing it across the road, into the dense greenery. Once more, the black flame surged forth, spreading wildly with insatiable desire, devouring everything in its reach.

“You have strength enough for another?” I asked firmly, watching her closely.

Larynda grimaced, sweat beading on her brow. “Just… just give me a moment.”

“Take your time.”

The strain showed plain upon her face, and not from the jungle’s stifling heat alone. At length, she drew a breath and said, “Alright. One more, but after that, I’ll need rest. And something to eat. I’d rather not drink a Mana potion… they leave me queasy for days.”

I, on the other hand, had no qualms about drinking potions, despite knowing of their sometimes deleterious effects. Still, unlike my ward, I had the advantage of a monstrously high Constitution attribute. 

It was also with some fondness that I realized that the years, at least it seemed, had not lessened her appetite for victuals. At times, I found myself marveling at how such a small, delicate thing could wolf down such staggering quantities of food. She ate copious amounts, yet remained slight as ever.

She began again, chanting more slowly now, her voice edged with hesitation. Was there some assistance I might offer her? My own magic had intertwined with hers before, back in Al-Lazar's fetid sewers, but I had no desire to birth another new and monstrous form of life. Yet I now possessed another means.

Carefully, I wove my threads of Overboost into her own spell. Her green eyes widened in wonder and a touch of fear alike as the very essence of Mana around us surged violently, drawn inexorably into her staff. The skull mounted atop it seemed almost to grin, its eye sockets glowing with newfound power. With a shout, she flung forth a massive sphere of chaos deeper into the verdant jungle.

You have learned Overboost (lvl.4)

You have killed Unknown. 3 experience gained.

You have killed Unknown. 2 experience gained.

You have killed Unknown. 1 experience gained.

You have killed Unknown. 4 experience gained.

…

…

It erupted with tremendous fury, four or five times the magnitude of her previous spell. Roaring Black Flame raced outward, driven by hunger and Chaos incarnate, devouring and annihilating everything before them as my vision was filled with holy messages of the righteousness of my path. It was beautiful in a terrible way, horrific and mesmerizing in equal measure.

Together, we stood silently, gazing in awe at the small apocalypse we had wrought upon the land. Inside, I laughed for the joy of it.

Beside me, Larynda’s face was alight with fascination, not horror. Her green eyes stared deeply into the twisting flames, as if seeking answers within the chaotic dance. I knew that look, having worn it myself more times than I cared to admit. Yet no answer would ever emerge from the Black Flames, no truth hidden within their endless hunger.

For perhaps two days' march in all directions, the jungle had burned. This destruction would persist far beyond the lifetime of ordinary fires. The wounds we inflicted today would scar this place for generations. And tomorrow we would ride forth to do the same once again.

***

Damien lingered two days longer at the edge of the green expanse, biding his time while Larynda and I continued our quiet war against the jungle. Each morning, the girl called upon the dark flame, and each evening, more and more of the trees fell black and smoldering in our wake. There was a fever in her eyes now, a brightness that danced too eagerly when the Chaos took hold. Wherever we passed, only husks and burned ash remained—charred, hollow, and dead.

To her credit, she had the wherewithal to temper her unleashed destruction. Knowing that ash might pose trouble for the army following in our wake, she turned her will to Water, conjuring a deluge that soaked the scorched earth, binding the ash into the soil and turning it into a black and grey mud. She told me that with Water, a subtle push here, a gentle pull there, could yield far greater results than simply conjuring it from nothing. My ward had taken my knowledge from old life on Earth and fused it with her elemental mastery in a display that left me humbled.

Now, at last, the Mercenaries were marching again. Many stared wide-eyed at the devastation. Yet even amid the ruin, life endured. Already, green shoots pushed up through the rich black carpet, stubborn and heedless, as if to say, “We are not done.” It made me think, albeit briefly, on the balance of things: destruction and renewal, flame and flower, death and rebirth. But such thoughts felt cheap, like secondhand wisdom borrowed from wiser men. Others had pondered those riddles and penned their answers in better words than I could summon. I cast aside these pretentious thoughts of mine.

Perhaps someone in the future would seek to farm here upon this fertile soil now that the jungle had been cleared? More likely, I think, that the Whispering Wastes would claim this place.

In the idle hours—of which there were many, for I had no duties in camp beyond merely existing and fighting when called upon—I wandered over to the traveling smithy that followed our column, a battered wagon belching smoke and ringing with the hammer’s song. I missed my Lucerne. The swords at my hope served well enough, but I longed for something with reach, something that could sunder mail and crack bone. Even Mithril, unempowered by my skills, faltered against plate. And, it felt a rather unsporting thing to use such fine weapons on lesser foes. I wanted something brutal with a bit more heft.

The smith was a scarecrow of a man named Delenzen, long of limb and lean of frame, with a scar running like a fault line from brow to jaw—a wound, he told me, from some forgotten skirmish in his youth. His wife, Alhambra, was a round, red-cheeked woman, plump as he was gaunt, her thick body corded with muscle beneath her leather apron. The pair of them worked with a practiced ease, hefting iron and steel as though they were balsa. It made me wonder if they, too, were blessed with a capacity for unnatural growth as I was.

“So, you’re after an axe-hammer, are you?” Delenzen rasped, spitting into the forge’s coals. “Can’t promise you anything pretty, not out here, but I can give you something that’ll kill a man just fine, I think.”

“Bah,” said Alhambra from his side. “He says that, but he always ends up carving fine patterns and polishing the damn thing like it’s a king’s wedding gift.”

I cleared my throat. “A polearm, aye. With a spike at the top and a metal butt. Reach and weight both, good Smith.”

“Sounds like a halberd to me,” he grunted. “How soon you need it?”

“As soon as you can make it, without skimping on the work’s quality. Two gold for the materials, and eight as a mark of respect and tribute to your craft.”

That made Alhambra’s head turn. She leaned in close to her husband, whispered something soft and low. Ten gold was no small sum. For most, it meant two years of honest toil.

Delenzen inclined his head, slow and deliberate. “Well then. I won’t say no to your respect, Gilgamesh, sir. It'll take a ten-day to craft it proper.”

“There is one more thing,” I added. “I would also like a Second Horn.”

He squinted. “The lance? For your Lumushitu?”

“Just so. Can you forge it as well?”

“I could, aye. But wood's the trouble. I’ve nothing long and strong enough for a shaft like that.”

“What of metal?”

“I can forge it in steel, cast the shaft hollow if you like. But even then, it’ll weigh more than a man can lift.”

“You know what it is I wear.”

“Ad—” he stopped himself, eyes flickering down to the armor that clung to me like a second skin. “Right, Adamantium that is. Though I’d forgotten because you wear easy as a noble wears silk. That must have enough weight enough to it to bury a horse or two. Whoever forged that must’ve been mad. Skilled, but mad, I tell you.”

I laughed. “Perhaps. But it has served me well.”

“Steel, then, and with solid haft,” he muttered. “The Second Horn will take three more days, if we’re marching. You’ll want your halberd first, I’d wager?”

I gave a nod. “That won’t be a problem. Take the time you need.”

Delenzen grinned, his thin lips stretching into something half-feral. “Might have something for you while you wait. Can’t have you running about unarmed, now can we?” he said, looking at the fine swords at my hip.

He disappeared into the wagon that served as both forge and home. Alhambra gave me a knowing smile, folding her thick arms across her chest. A few moments later, he returned with a long bardiche, its blade a half-moon’s kiss.

“Will this serve, while you wait?” he asked, offering it with the weight of reverence and memory. “Was mine once, back when I fought for my supper and a dry place to sleep in the line.”

“You honor me, Master Delenzen. I will see it drinks deeply of the—”

“Not too deeply,” his wife cut in, I think misunderstanding me on purpose. “Last time he drank too much, he was sick for a week. Gave the place a stench no woman should suffer.”

Delenzen laughed. “Are you married, Gilgamesh? We wed when we were your age when we didn’t know any better.”

“No,” I said, flatly.

“Well, this is what you’ve to look forward to. I’d rather face ten berserkers than another row with my sweet Alhambra.”

He pinched her cheek, and the plump woman swatted his hand, blushing like a maiden.