Forge of StonesChapter 5
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Forge Of StonesChapter 19 free porn video
General Tyrpledge was riding his horse making an inspection of the City walls from a safe distance, his personal guard along with his adjutant following him from a respectful but close distance. He still could not believe he had been tasked with the sacking of Pyr, and if it came to that, its razing. The Castigator had been blunt in his orders and frugal in his explanations.
He had told him that the Patriarch was in league with a cluster of rebellious religious fanatics that wished for total domination of the Patriarch over the ruling council making the first move against peace and prosperity.
A messenger had shortly arrived bearing a message from the Patriarch, citing that the Castigator had been deemed unworthy in the eyes of God and that the Noble Representative, Lord Ursempyre Remis was the new Castigator of the Outer Territories. The General was dumbstruck, utterly flabbergasted at the turn of events, and did not know how to react.
The Castigator talked to him in earnest, urging him to uphold the Law, honor his rank and office, protect him and the Council as a whole and crush the rebels before they could take root firmly. Tyrpledge had asked about the Arch-minister, who had seemed a reasonable enough man. He believed he could intervene, somehow mediate, so that balance could be restored and things would not deteriorate into profuse madness at the speed of a rushing waterfall, as it seemed it definitely would.
The Castigator had informed him then that sadly enough the Arch-minister had been found dead, assassinated by the rebel scum, the henchmen of the unholy demon that posed as their Patriarch. Most of his staff were also cruelly killed, their skin flayed out to the bone, while the Arch-minister himself seemed to have been made the object of a ritual to the Deceiver, the False God. The Castigator expressed his demure belief that it been solely through divine will that he had escaped unscathed so timely.
The Castigator, with tears in his eyes had insisted that there was no better way to avenge the Arch-minister's memory other than to bring those heathen scum that had infiltrated their society to their knees, grind them into oblivion and spread their ashes in the oceans.
The effect on the General was devastating; in one night everything that he had been taught, everything that he had built his life upon was crumbling down around him, around them all. The Patriarch, in league with rebels? Absurd! The very word had fallen into disuse, and was used only in an historical context of ages past, or in thought-provoking discussion that rarely allowed its participants to delve deeper into such subjects.
The notion of rebellion was indeed, taboo. It had been so ever since he had learned how to read and write. He thought to himself with bitterness that he might have been spared such skills, but then again, how would the army live and breathe without notices, requisition forms, and orders in triplicate?
And the Castigator, fleeing into the night, beset on all sides by danger and hounds sent out for his blood? All that, the design of the Patriarch, with the Noble Representative aiding him? Him, the most noble of the Lords, ruler of a family of great tradition and honor, an arch-demon in the flesh, thousands of men doing his bidding like minions? 'Incredulous, inconceivable, unimaginable, ' the General had thought.
It was only until he had seen the orders, written and signed from the Patriarch, to have his army stand down and ignore the Castigator before him as a traitor and conspirator set to overthrow the Rule of the Council; to disarm the men and dissolve the Army peacefully, under the watchful eye of the procrastinators.
The letter had been signed and sealed by the Castigator of the Outer Territories as well, Ursempyre Remis, the acting Arch-minister Burge Freis, and that buffoon, the Procrastinator Militant, Gomermont. That had been enough to bitterly set his mind and order the immediate assembly of all fighting units. Once General Tyrpledge reaffirmed his army's oaths to Castigator Olorius Menamon, he had ordered the army to march toward the City of Pyr.
They would march in a campaign to uphold the Law and free their land and people from the tyranny of evil men. Men whose sinister purposes knew no bounds and would stop at nothing other than the utter desecration of the Gods, the dissolution of the Law, and the destruction of their divinely crafted society.
As these announcements had been made in front of the whole army, the few procrastinators spread around the staging grounds having received word of the General's orders fled with alacrity in an unusual sign of intelligence.
And so it had begun, the campaign that would forever change the history of the Outer Territories for better, or for worse.
The General had been musing on these recent past events for some time it seemed, because he could hear anxiety and worry in the words that his adjutant repeated in the same staccato manner:
"Sir, are you alright? Sir? Should I call for your physician, sir? Sir? Are you alright?"
Tyrpledge flashed red hot with anger, and suddenly violence seemed to seep from his voice:
"Gods dammit Guighan! I'm not bleeding to death, am I?"
The Major stood to attention crisply and bellowed as if he were still a young cadet at the Agogeia Militant:
"No, sir!"
Tyrpledge instantly relaxed when he saw the Major acting like a young trainee and managed a sigh. He turned to look at his adjutant, seeking eye contact:
"Guighan, this is not a parade ground. This is war. War between brothers, between family. If I am bristling with anger and exasperation, it's not because of your stupid questions. It's because of this stupid war. However, one must choose a side. And I chose what I've believed in all my life. If that fails us, then what hope will there remain?"
"Sir?"
"It was a rhetorical question, Guighan. Don't fret about it. I was ensnared in thought. I still find all this impossible to digest; yet it seems I will have to."
"Sir."
"You must be an expert in terseness, Guighan. Let's continue the inspection. I need to find a weak spot, something we could use to our advantage. If possible, I would like to keep bloodshed to a minimum. The insurgents could be hiding anywhere, posing as innocents and sheltered by anonymity. Unless they put a jester's hat on with bell's and whistles, our soldiers will be unable to differentiate between the enemy and the common folk. Though the distinction by the time all this is over could become a lesson in semantics. Carry on, major."
"Sir."
Major Guighan saluted briskly and rejoined the guards further back, where he relayed the order to continue. With that they set off, the horses picking up the pace of a slow trot, and the foot-soldiers following briskly behind.
For the most part, the insurgents seemed ready to hold their ground and the walls looked well defended, with no exceptionally weak points in sight. No significant breach had been made from the first shots of the siege engines, and the rest of them had barely began to be assembled at that point.
Once these were completed and a point of entry selected, they would fire a barrage concentrated on a specific point in the walls, hoping to tear it down and gain entry. His cavalry had made attempts at reconnoitering but had not succeeded in gaining much other than some fatal injuries and lots of worn out horses. It seemed that the men defending the walls would not be caught napping so easily.
The General from this distance could see the milling masses of men, assembling to receive their orders for the day, cleaning their swords and tending to their armor and shields. He could see the pike-men polishing their halberds in an almost ceremonious fashion.
The bowmen were stretching the chords of their bows, testing their tension limits and filling their quivers with arrows. The swordsmen were up and about ready to be called into action, their longswords a mirror sheen, their chain-mails and helmets a steely dull gray.
The General was pleased with what he was seeing; the men were following orders, adhering to protocol, and going about their business as usual. As if this was one of many exercises, as if they were not marching for war against their own people. In a rare moment in his career, the General did not know what to make of that. Did his men care not at all? Or was their sense of duty overshadowing their other emotions? That remained to be seen.
The outlook of his army, he deemed, was a professional and determined force ready for action. But some of the units though required special attention, because of their special nature and their special abilities.
The men of the vaunted Thorax regiment were still trying to put on their monstrously over-sized armor; they were huge burly men encased in thick sheets of plate metal, almost impervious to arms, even against steam rifles. They would form the front line of the assault, to cover and shield the men behind them.
And far behind, at their maximum range, while all the rest of the army was preparing for battle, the crews of the steamers were making sure their machines would be ready when called upon.
Everything seemed as it should be; everyone seemed professional, going about their work. It somehow felt wrong for an army to be this distant, so indifferent to an enemy that was in fact their own people, though wildly misled and utterly wrong in their decision to upset their way of life with shattering consequences. Or so Tyrpledge felt. He didn't know and could not know though, what his men thought and felt. He'd have to wait for them to show their true demeanor and spirit in the ultimate test: battle.
When battle would be joined, the true feeling of his men would emerge. Beyond wrath and blood lust, beyond the will to survive and in doing so kill a man, would they show remorse? Guilt? Would they stay their hands in a moment of doubt? When they would see their own brother coming at them with ax and sword, would they judge him wrongly, the animal inside having the final word? When all this is said and done, will there be victory? Or nothing but loss? It would be for the Gods to decide. Himself, as General of the Army of the Outer Territories, he decided he would follow his own path to the end.
His look was now veritably sullen, withdrawn. He had reined his horse to stop its trot. He was not even looking at the walls now or his men, or any of the machines. He was looking at his own hands with the gloves taken off, fearing that somehow blood had already soiled them. The blood of his own people. But their lives were forfeit now, he knew, the very moment they decided to carry out every unholy blasphemous act ever imagined. What did they hope to gain, other than seed war, bloodletting, misery, and hate? He could not fathom. He could never remit their folly now. They may have dug their own graves, but the thought that he would have to fill them saddened him immensely.
He looked up again, squinting slightly at the bright light of the suns. He noticed from the corner of his eye Major Guighan approaching almost sheepishly, a trait that usually provoked his anger and irritation even though he did not consider himself an irascible man. It was probably because he expected men around him to perform their duties to the best of their abilities. Major Guighan was his adjutant so he was supposed to stay close to him, advise him, and confide in him. How could he do that from all that distance? He was an exceptional logistics officer, very capable at handling personnel and men via manifests and report forms, but his communication skills were somewhat sub-par. Perhaps the Major was for some reason intimidated by the General or his rank and office, but that would not do for the position he currently held, in the General's opinion.
When the Major approached him at a respectful distance as if the General emitted some kind of aura he did not wish to step on, he saluted crisply and asked him in a most professional, clipped tone of voice:
"Sir. You seem to have stopped here for no apparent reason. Is there something of specific importance at this part of the walls, sir? You also seem to have lost your color sir, if I may add. Perhaps you are feeling ill? Should I fetch the physician, sir?"
Tyrpledge turned and stabbed the man with his eyes, his face a mixed expression of exasperation and wild disbelief. The General was thinking he would give the Major one last chance before he placed him at the front of a Thorax battalion, with no armor whatsoever. With evident effort to restrain himself he replied:
"Should I require a physician, Major, I will ask for one myself. Unless of course I'm bleeding to death. But that's the reason you are my adjutant, it seems. You always remind me blissfully that I am not bleeding to death. You accomplish that with your hollow remarks and repetitively inane questions. I will ask you just this once Major, to act accordingly and spare me the dung. If there is something of import to be said, say it. If you think a question in matters of tactics and strategy is pertinent, ask. You've proved to be an efficient man. Now, please prove to me you are an efficient soldier as well. There will be death around here by nightfall. Don't ever ask me again if I'm feeling ill."
Major Guighan stood stock still as the General's incisive remarks made their way to his heart and mind. Before the General could turn his gaze elsewhere, the Major managed to speak:
"I will not, sir. I realize now I had been wrong to assume you were a cold hearted bastard, sir. I could not bring myself to speak openly to a man who seemed not to care. I know differently now. With that being said, I believe we have made an extensive examination of the walls and no notable weaknesses have been spotted. The patrols will try again at nighttime, though we are not expecting any hopeful results. The men seem to be ready as they'll ever be for such a fight. Should we return to the staff tent and plan our tactical approach on the matter?"
Tyrpledge was stunned to hear the man speak his mind after all this time. He believed no one had called him like that since he had become the General, and he also felt kind of hurt that a member of his staff would think him so. It actually meant then that the others thought so as well. He guessed the Major would make amends though. After a somewhat awkward moment of silence, Tyrpledge replied:
"I'd never thought I'd pass for cold-hearted. Very well, Major. Tell the guards to lead on, and stay with me for a change. Tell me what you think about our approach."
Ursempyre was fretfully looking over the tall arched balcony of the Disciplinarium's east tower. His gaze was deeply woven with sorrow and hurt. His soul felt empty and broken. Whatever he had been planning, was now nothing but a dream. The gale of the wind brought to his nostrils the smell of ash and cinder.
Fires had started in some parts of Pyr. Fires from the siege engines of the Army. Tyrpledge was leading them, a good man as far as he could remember, as far as he could judge a man. He believed he no longer had that privilege. Who was he to judge others? A consummate traitor, by any account. He was bereft of the things he valued most: Truth, honor, friendship.
He had lied, and he had deceived. He had lost his honor and sworn oaths that had filled his mouth with venom and choler. He had sacrificed everything, to save something. And now this. Within a single night he had been duped not once, but twice. He had been played like a puppet, and now his people would pay the price. All of his people, not just the kinsfolk, not only those that were prepared to pay some price. Everyone would now pay for his failure, his lack of wisdom and foresight. He had been arrogant, he could see that now.
He had believed himself capable of achieving the dream of countless generations, becoming the leader behind which the kinsfolk would spread like wildfire, uniting the people against a tyranny as old as stone and earth. He believed he could have liberated them all and usher a new era where every breath would smell of freedom instead of fear and oppression. He loathed him! That was what had blinded him. Loathing, unquenched passion and blinding wrath. The Patriarch was more than merely shrewd; he was a demon incarnate, laughing behind their backs, toying with their minds and souls. Every single thread of fate firmly in his hands like reins.
Only last night, he had thought that the worst fate could have in store for him was horrible and meaningless torture at the hands of the Patriarch. Now, he was in living hell unable to even scream in agony. There was no point, none would listen to him now. He had been crushed, mind and spirit, in one blow. He had been quite effectively made redundant, irrelevant, obsolete. He should not have given the Patriarch's offer any thought. He should have denied him. Denied his immense powers, his demonic shell and form. He should have told him that his people were not afraid of death. That it did not matter to him if they perished in eldritch hellish flames, or bled their lives away one by one by sword and bow.
But that would have been a lie, and the Patriarch would have seen through it. There was no hope all along, Ursempyre thought. As fate had brought things together, and life had shaped him into the man he was, there was indeed nothing that could be done. He had lost this fight before it had even began. He could now do nothing but watch idly from afar, hoping his people would survive, that they would endure.
What would become of them then though? What had his mind devised? What end did the extravagant machinations serve. What reason lay behind this endless pulling of strings and turning of dials like the movement of wheels within wheels. They left them with a dizzying sensation meant to disorient and mesmerize, while right behind the shadows the real stage was being set, Lord Remis thought in silence.
The Patriarch's purpose might have been unfathomable, but Ursempyre was only certain that it held nothing good in stock for the people. If there was one thing he might try as a last attempt at redemption, was to try and learn as much as possible from him. He somehow felt that was as if trying to squeeze water out of stone, an impossible task either way one might look at it.
Sooner or later Ursempyre thought, the army would find a way into the city. They had the men, the equipment, and the time to do so. And then the procrastinators would perhaps find a deserving end unable to put up a fight; under-equipped and overwhelmed by numbers they would lose the fight for Pyr. Even though the total strength of the procrastinators had been summoned, it would take days, perhaps weeks for them to arrive in time to stem the tide of Tyrpledge's men.
Ursempyre tried to imagine what must be going through the General's mind at such a time. Was he torn between his devotion to duty and his feelings for his fellow men? Or did he relish the prospect of exacting vengeance in the name of the rightful Castigator and the Pantheon? What lay in his heart? Was it furious anger? Was it righteous wrath? Blind dedication and dispassionate will, the markings of a professional soldier?
He rather hoped the General was dumbfounded, left vacant inside at the realization of this horror. Perhaps he regarded all this with deep-seated consternation, and was troubled at his every step haunted by images of the monstrous consequences his actions would have for all of them. Was he such a man? He could not know and was deadly afraid that he would not like that question to be answered.
Lord Remis was standing in front of a stone arch, the weight of his body supported by his hands touching the granite as if they had been attached to it for ages. Servants had offered to bring him food and water. He had waved them away, but he could hear the frailness of their voices, their disbelief and fear. He did not know what it was that they feared most: the coming battle, the Patriarch, or the sudden realization that the world had come upside down in a single night?
His guards outside the chamber had seemed equally perturbed. Though hand-selected from the ranks of the procrastinators, they were not as blind and unintelligent as their lesser comrades. He had seen the complexion on their faces turn into the color of ash, blood pumped away from their hearts lest it explode in shock when they saw him appointed Castigator, in the stark middle of the night with only the Patriarch and a few Disciplinarium officials to attend as witnesses. It all seemed wrong, even to simpletons such as these.
He did not question for one second though that should he try to act wildly, fear would overcome them and their instincts would not be reined; they would bring him down, as the Patriarch had ordered them to, 'for his own good'.
On recollection it seemed to Ursempyre that the Patriarch was somehow swinging this whole affair, precariously navigating between duplicity and lawfulness, trying to rewrite the Law and everything it had stood for since the very founding of the Territories. It was as if he had no clear view of the future he wanted to create for them.
If, indeed, the Patriarch had been planning for any future at all. Ursempyre thought such a being incapable of planning anything else than their complete extermination. The total annihilation of the Outer Territories starting from Pyr, the seat of power and Law. That would not be beyond a hateful being of such power, malevolence, and intelligence. The only thing that such a path would lack, would be reason. But then again, Ursempyre thought as he smiled bitterly and shook his head, who said reason had any part in all this?
Ursempyre could see now the smoke from the fires rising, procrastinators running in the streets, forcing people to follow them and press-ganging them to be used as firemen, workers, craftsmen, and ultimately, fodder. The siege engines of the Army were starting their baleful song again, the thudding and creaking of huge catapults and trebuchets launching stone and lit barrels of tar against the city, indiscriminately, randomly. They were killing the same people they were meant to protect. How very much like something the Patriarch would have conjured in his ineffable mind and ultimate wisdom.
He sniggered bitterly despite himself. Then he heard a sparkling voice and could almost see the insipid smile behind the words of the Patriarch without needing to turn:
Fay
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