Forge Of StonesChapter 22 free porn video

"Prepare for release."

Major Guighan relayed the General's order to the signals' officer with a nod and a gesture of his hand. The signals' officer then communicated it by a hand gesture to a soldier who held two colored flags. The soldier began waving the flags in a specific pattern repeatedly. In the far distance where the siege engine battalion was arrayed, an answering wave of flags could be seen shortly thereafter. The signal had been acknowledged. A few moments later, a single red flag was raised in answer and held there. The signals officer attached to the General gave a nod, and the flag-bearer raised another, similar red flag. Major Guighan reported to Tyrpledge:

"Sir, the siege engines report readiness. All brigades have reported in position, men at the ready. Brigadiers Voronoi and Edromas report harassment from the walls, but nothing detrimental. They have both requested a Thorax battalion be deployed to screen their men."

The General was looking at the City of Pyr with a strange mixture of intensity and sadness. He was standing upright, tensed on the back of his horse which lay unmoving, steadfastly following its riders commands like a valued trained warhorse should. The sight filled the General with grim determination. The plans had been laid out, his brigadiers had been notified and each one had received orders and acknowledged. Everything seemed to be progressing in a professional manner. For the most part the General's mind was preoccupied with the situation as a whole, not simply the battle that was soon to follow. A small part though was still focused on matters that had to be dealt there and then, such as receiving reports and issuing the right orders. That part of his mind answered to the Major with a flat, blatantly emotionless voice:

"Denied. The Thorax will be deployed at the breach on the southern wall. Were Voronoi and Edromas absent from the briefing?"

"No sir, they were present."

"Send a signal. Tell them not to make untimely requests. If they believed they should have Thorax attached they should have made their point when we were making plans, not at the final hour. Voronoi's brigade, that's the 5th and 6th Pyrean, is it not?"

Guighan replied curtly:

"Yes, sir."

"Poor bastards. Let me know when they have acknowledged, Guighan."

"Yes, sir."

Major Guighan saluted and walked briskly to the signals officer to assemble a suitable message per Tyrpledge's request. The General seemed to survey the assemblage of men, horses and machine laid out around the City of Pyr, but in truth his vision was blurry and out of focus; his mind was engrossed in thought.

There would be no misunderstandings and no confusion before battle was joined. The position of each brigade of men around the City could be easily regarded from the small hill the General had chosen as his headquarters. Major Guighan had proposed the specific site and Tyrpledge was pleased to see that his adjutant was an adroit tactician, equally skillful on the map as well as in the field.

The General had embarked on a journey of reminiscence in his mind. The smell of the battlefield was brought up from memory. It was the smell of blood and decaying bodies. There was no such thing as the smell of victory and defeat, they both were foul to the senses and he could not discern the real difference between them. In the end, it had always smelled sweetly sick and coppery. Like a feast gone horrible wrong; a feast for Gods that hunger for life. He smirked then, at the unbidden thoughts that had reminded him of bad poetry and idle philosophers trying to cloud his mind before a battle. He was a soldier; he had his orders and his oaths to follow, unto death if the need came. That was a soldier's life he knew, he had painfully learned it; dying a violent death, hoping something good came out of it. What good would come out of this regrettable affair though, the General could scarcely imagine.

He had seen quite a bit of action in the Pacification of Zaelin, a recently promoted centarch at that time. It had been his first and last taste of bloody battle, until now. He did not relish this second chance at smelling death once again though. War had always had little to do with reason, but somehow it always made sense before battle was joined. Duty, honor, valor: one of those always appeared in one form or another, demanding to be the focus of every fighting man. He found honor and valor to have nothing to do with this battle which could easily turn into a slaughter. And duty could be facing either way. The men inside the city felt they had a duty as well. Were they entirely wrong to uphold that duty?

He found himself questioning his actions once more. But he had never questioned his allegiance. It was simply the images of unwanted carnage which would soon take place that filled him with regret and remorse. He felt such feelings though should be reserved for another time, after the battle would end. Whether it would be won or lost actually mattered little. Blood would be spilled, the blood of his fellow men; would the innocent, the women and the children, would they be spared in the heat of battle? That much was certain: No one escapes the wrath of war. Some are simply caught in its path, and learn before their end that fate is a mindless, uncaring maelstrom.

His thoughts vanished from his mind like smoke when the crisp, clipped voice of Major Guighan jolted him back into the surrounding reality:

"Sir, Brigadiers Voronoi and Edromas have acknowledged. No further communications outstanding."

The General nodded and with a dry voice issued the order:

"Very well. Commence the attack. Release the siege engines. May the Gods shine upon our arms."

"Yes, sir!"

Major Guighan waved with his hand in the air, circling a finger. The signals officer stood erect with both hands outstretched. An array of flag-bearers raised their black flags and soon the dull thuds of huge ropes snapping and the metal clicks and clacks of springs and plates being released reached the General's ears from an uncanny distance. Flaming barrels of oil and tar seemed to spread over the city like a death-emblazoned fiery fan, while large rocks and steely spiked balls converged on a single section of the walls, falling down upon them like a hail of doom.

It had begun. Battle was joined.

The Patriarch was dressed in resplendent fashion wearing red velvet robes adorned with finely-cut jewels, glistening brightly in various hues under the bright light of the suns. It was the time before noon; he was standing atop the eastern tower of the Disciplinarium, the horizon filled with the daunting sight of the massed armies of the Outer Territories, waging war against the city of Pyr. The siege engines had commenced their attack against the city walls, and already large chunks of the seemingly unyielding walls had begun to tumble down, debris filling the deep moat that had been hurriedly dug the very same morning behind the section under attack.

The Patriarch stood in the middle of the tower with a magnifying glass to his eye, surveying the battle. Squads of procrastinators stood behind masses of men of all ages who had been forced to wield whatever weapon could be found around the city forges and blacksmith shops. The armory of the disciplinarium had been depleted as well, the procrastinators being issued the finest available armor and weapons, while the city folk pressed into service had been given whatever could be scrounged in the last minute.

These were men bereft of spirit, their faces drawn and pale; seeing their ends approaching fast for all they did was accept their fate, which one way or another seemed to hold nothing for them. They could not be considered as fighters, but merely as sheep headed for a slaughter.

It was folly for anyone among them to believe that this hurriedly assembled militia could withstand a determined assault from the experienced, well-trained and artfully equipped armies of General Tyrpledge. The Patriarch beamed at that prospect and gave a momentary sideways look to Ursempyre who was standing a few feet away, an elite guard of procrastinator veterans standing between them. Ursempyre returned the gaze with a venomous look, but resignation was evident in his face.

He hated the Patriarch with all his heart, but he hated himself even more for failing to do everything in his power to avert this damnable catastrophe unfolding before his eyes. Nothing short of the shackles on his feet prevented him from falling over the parapet of the tower to a well-deserved though ignominious death. The Patriarch had forced these upon him when Ursempyre's first attempt from the balcony below had failed, prevented by the Patriarch's awesome powers who had stunned Ursempyre and rendered him unable to even flicker an eyelid.

He had been scolded playfully like a troublesome child and was now being tormented, forced to witness his people slay each other in a staged battle, as the wicked stage-play the Patriarch had written was about to unfold. Everything was fake, everything was a lie; except for the blood that would soil the ground and seep through every stone in the city. Ursempyre was denied even the release of death, such was the malevolence and evil of the Patriarch. An affront to life itself. These thoughts made him physically sick, and he vomited despite himself.

The Patriarch noticed and let out a derisive snort, full of mockery; the pleasure derived from Ursempyre's utterly broken figure lacing every word of his:

"Queasy at the sight of blood, Ursempyre? Don't worry, they have still to breach the walls. Methodical, the army. Killing is their profession. Wouldn't you wish yours was as simple as that?"

Ursempyre spat, trying to clear his mouth. He felt though that nothing could wash away the bitterness inside, the foul lies and deceit the Patriarch sowed with his every word an almost tangible pool of bile. He felt unclean, soiled by the fiendish being's mere physical presence. He might have been broken and resigned of hope but there was no meaning for him in indulging the Patriarch's sick sense of humor.

He did not answer; indeed he had decided he would not answer the Patriarch's goads. He simply stared at him through eyes blackened with rage and sorrow, the skin underneath sagging from his lack of sleep, a pallid bloodless complexion instead of his usual healthy color. The Patriarch had stopped observing the movement of the armies. He started pacing around the roof of the tower. His guards were standing like unblinking statues at strict attention, as if they were oblivious to what was transpiring before their eyes, or simply did not care. It was even possible, Ursempyre thought, that he had blinded them to what has happening beyond the roof. The Patriarch seemed to be enjoying the cool wind this high up and breathed deeply, a grin forming on his face. He addressed Ursempyre, sparing him only a small flick of the wrist towards him:

"Do you know the story of the koma bird, Ursempyre?"

The only sounds reaching them were the intermittent thrashing sounds of rock flung against the walls, mingled with the tumultuous and disarrayed yells of the men defending the city and the bristling fires that had engulfed it once more, for what seemed to be the last time.

"It is a story worth mentioning. I can divine from your strict silence I have your utmost attention, which I believe is quite a feat under the circumstances. I would congratulate myself but that would be quite flippant in such a time, wouldn't you agree? I'm sure you would, in the most vulgar of ways probably. But I digress.

The koma bird is known to lay its eggs on the highest mountains, their aeries precariously perched on the roughest and deepest of precipices. Once the eggs are hatched, the parents feed the newborns for only two days. I have not seen it for myself, but I have confirmed the veracity of such reports. When the hatchlings have been fed, their parents drop them all one by one, to either learn to fly or perish in their effort.

Naturally, most fail to do so. Only perhaps one in ten succeed and most komas lay eggs only twice or three times in their lives. As a consequence, they are quite few and far between, their numbers constantly low. They are large birds though; their wings span as large as a dozen feet. They're excellent fliers, able to soar the skies as high as the clouds sometimes and swoop down on their prey with lightning speed.

An unmatched predator, practically invulnerable by virtue of its ability to fly away from harm's way, as well as select its pray with diligent care. It is said that none have ever been killed or caught, and that once they learn to fly as hatchlings they never stop flying until they die of age. Always flying, Ursempyre. On the move. Never holding still, never in danger of stagnation. Fascinating creatures."

Ursempyre held his gaze firmly away from the Patriarch, numbly looking at the wispy clouds passing overhead, indifferent to the rage unfurling below the lands they passed. The Patriarch continued, trying to imitate Ursempyre's voice, with mixed results:

"'I spit on you, devil. Release me from my torture, there is no more need to gloat over your victory'. To which I would reply 'This is not victory, this is a prelude to the real fun. Didn't you like my story? Was it not educational? It's actually a parable where I am the koma father and all you ant-like people are the little birds and I'm killing you off one by one to see which one will be able to fly'."

Ursempyre turned to look at the Patriarch with a petrifying gaze, but said nothing while the Patriarch did not turn into stone and continued in his own voice:

"That was sort of the dialogue I had in mind. Though of course I only made up the story now. There are no such things as koma birds. Such a species would be dead within three or four generations at best. Your spite seems to have diminished to the point of simply gazing venomously, hoping some sort of lightning or other divine instrument of will smites me dead where I stand. Regrettably as it may be for you, that is not going to happen."

Ursempyre stirred somewhat, unable though to move his feet shackled as they were. He made a motion with his body towards the Patriarch, and raised his hands as if trying to grasp him by the throat. However naive and futile it may have seemed, he dearly wished to kill him. Instead he asked with a raspy voice and blood-shot eyes that radiated maddening hopelessness, a saturnine look on his distraught face:

"Will you kill me now, blessed one? Or at least let me kill myself? Have you no hope or fear left in this world or any other that you chose me and my people as playthings? What womb of evil bore you, still I wonder. What eldritch void inside you fills the place of a heart? Such a cruel fate as mine I would not wish upon no other, except you. Curse you Patriarch, I curse your very soul. I believe in no Gods, for if there were any they would have struck you down long ago. All hope is lost to me, my mind and spirit lie broken, my people will be dead by a brother's blade come the night. But this I swear to you, Holy Avatar, demon and scourge of us all: You will suffer an end far worse than mine, remember that in your dying throes. The higher you stand, the harder you fall. That's nature's law, and none of your ramblings. Remember that, Patriarch. Remember me before your last breath."

The Patriarch's eyes seemed to glaze for a moment before suddenly becoming clear again, the faint cracks of a grin slowly appearing on the Patriarch face. He seemed to relish the fact that Ursempyre had bitten back an answer, even if it was only a curse. He bit his lip faintly as if pondering which words were to follow from a bustling cloud of possibilities. His grin turned into a wide cold smile when he said with a degree of cynical mirth:

"And he never surrenders, I'll remember. That is so much more like you Ursempyre, bitterly defiant to the very end. A soothsayer as well, a man gifted with visions of the future. I am almost impressed. The fact that I already know I'm going to die someday does take away some of the points in your favor, but I'm glad you tried to make me laugh. I would pity you but it's so much more satisfactory to watch you go rampant on these mood swings. Broken puppet the one minute, fiery rebellious martyr the next. Do you think anyone is watching, Ursempyre? Do you think anyone would genuinely care about what is happening here? These are the end days of Pyr, my Castigator. Breath deeply; let the charcoal gristle on your skin and smell the iron heavy in the air. That's blood and fire for you, Ursempyre. My sermon of blood and fire."

Ursempyre's stare remained on the Patriarch, deeply seated hate emanating from his eyes. He lowered his trembling arms and sagged his shoulders, speaking in a dim echo of his former voice, still audible though over the din of the battle surrounding the city and the mayhem caused by the fires who were sprouting like incandescent blossoms:

"You wish to bless us with your interminable wisdom as well? A parting gift for your vaunted afterlife? Would it amuse you so if everyone who dies here today greets death thinking he had received a lesson well earned? Do you see yourself as attending to your flock? How committed! As their dying breath leaves them, your guidance will surely be remembered and praised when they reach the righteous heaven they await. And they will never know the nothingness beyond. Is that what you seek, a charnel of souls chanting your name in an afterlife that does not exist?"

The Patriarch's response was to laugh heartily and come closer to Ursempyre with hands knead together in front of his stomach, the guards making way in his path. He spoke then with a voice that emanated menace, as if blood stained his tongue and venom coursed in his veins:

"You balance on a tight rope, Lord Castigator Remis. Do not speak of the afterlife so vainly. What would you know about something you so feverishly avoid? Something that reeks of the death you people so stridently shy away from, and never grasp or understand. I've died and been reborn a thousand times, and yet another thousand more I shall. It is a circle, that's all there is. Even stars collide and die in terrific splendor, while others silently ebb away and vanish as if they never were. Yet their light reaches everywhere, Ursempyre.

Would you know what a star's death feels like, Remis? I know. I've seen with bare blinded eyes. I've watched worlds consumed in the dying flames of their stars. I've witnessed billions spill their blood willingly on a whim of mine, chanting my name in unison. And you would dare insinuate before my very presence indeed, that my sermon is a charade, a mockery designed to bring you low? Do you think so highly of yourselves? And you have the ignorant audacity to call me a blasphemer and an affront to life. How petulantly ironic. But only understandable. Though if I were you I would have kept my mouth and ears shut, unable to fathom or understand a single moment of the numbing madness around me. In that respect, I can almost admire you. But you test my limits, Ursempyre. And I do have limits that I only very rarely reach. Perhaps it's the real reason I'm keeping you alive. A sort of challenge. A test of character."

Ursempyre had heard enough to believe it might be an opportunity to goad the Patriarch into killing him outright and save himself from further torture, excruciating aggravation and utter disgrace. He spat on the Patriarch with fury, a large blob of spit splashing against his features and slowly running down the creases of his leathery face. The Patriarch did not even flinch, and said in a deadpan voice:

"How quaintly juvenile."

He turned to one of his guards and made a sort of hand signal. The guard bowed reverently and was quickly gone, hurrying down the stairs of the tower. The Patriarch spoke to Ursempyre, as he produced a finely embroidered silk handkerchief and wiped his face clean:

"I'm not a lesser man Ursempyre, and I will not hold this against you. I do not think of these as insults to my person. I consider insults to the universe much more grave. I shall speak soon to the mass of people remaining in the city. I shall spur them onwards to a great struggle against the treacherous blasphemers of the Army, remind them a bit of history and send them to their deaths yelling both our names, thinking how righteous their deaths will be. Once you hear that sermon, Ursempyre, perhaps you will understand."

The Patriarch finished wiping his face and threw the handkerchief away, walkin towards the stairs. Ursempyre's hateful gaze followed him for a while but then he caught a glimpse of the handkerchief. He couldn't help noticing the curious dedication delicately hand-stitched on it: "to my good friend Philo, Celia.

Faint light entered the quarters they had sequestered for her and her newborn child. It was not so much a room as it was a crevice, a hollowed out cavity of rock somewhere underneath the city, just another small cave forming part of a complex network whose size she could only guess. Her mind wandered to such meandering thoughts whenever Amonas came to mind. Their child was here in her bosom, being fed for the first time. Where was the father? Where was her love?

An instant later her eyes locked with the tiny sparkling things that were her baby's windows into the world, and saw the crystal blue water of the oceans staring back at her. She could almost hear the gurgling of virgin waterfalls in his small cries and throaty sounds. The boy was a heart-tearing reminder of his father, even from the way he stretched when he fell asleep kindly, craning his neck before it settled cosily on her chest.

He had only been born the night before in a damp cave full of strident men, their endless, mirthless cacophony silenced by the sudden and unexpected cries of a child gasping for air and a mother suffering the pains of labor. They had turned and looked with astonishment; their croaks and hawkish, almost unintelligible cries had been choked in concert, replaced with whispers of amazement and gasps of wonder.

The two men had been very kind and helpful to her, mindful of her dignity as a lady. A doctor was among the crowd of kinsfolk, and he alone was allowed to attend to her. Some more men offered to hold their cloaks and form a screen for her to give birth in something that could almost equal a privacy of sorts under the unfortunate and inappropriately timed circumstances.

She had given birth then and there, amongst the company of complete strangers but somehow the feeling in her heart was that she was among family indeed, something more than friends. The kinsfolk seemed to embrace her the minute they saw her distress and need. After her labor, all that remained of the pain was a numb memory. Her heart soared as high as the suns when she laid her eyes upon her son for the first time, and she wept from joy. Only after the doctor asked of the boy's father, did she shed tears of sorrow.

The men in the large underground chamber had been in constant fruitless debate only minutes before, but the sight of a woman seeking refuge and help stirred them to action and concordance. In her matter there were no voices in disarray, no arduous discussions with no end. They offered their help and assistance immediately, as if she were to them a sister, a wife; indeed like a mother to them all. Someone sent for nursemaids to attend to her and see to the child. Others pulled their cloaks and stripped themselves of their clothes to make something soft for her to lay on, as well as sheets to feel warm in the dampness of the cave.

They all seemed eager to help in any way they could. The birth had seemed to offer some sort of rest from their incessant deliberations that had seemed to lead to nowhere in particular, far from an agreement. She was not told the details, but they had been trying to decide what their next action would be. As far as she knew, laying in her makeshift cot and cradling her baby in his serene sleep, they had yet to reconvene and decide while at the same time a young girl that brought her water had told her the army had begun the attack on the walls of Pyr only minutes ago.

And still these people waited, idly sitting on their hands, knowing not what to do. The thought painted her face with a bitter grimace. What good would it do them, hiding in these caves wishing everything that caused them trouble would simply go away? Was this the kinsfolk indeed? Were these people ready to give their lives at the flick of an eye in a moment's notice, for a bright future free of tyranny and lies?

She found it hard to believe. Perhaps they were indeed good men through and through, but this reluctance to commit openly to battle, however grim and dark their chances were, had the smell of cowardice about it. She did not wish to dwell on that thought any longer though; it would only make her remember Amonas and the pain inside would make her cry like a poor lost soul. She still had an obligation to her child, and she intended to keep it.

Once the child woke up and she regained some of her strength, she would ask to see their leader; ask to talk to him and try to stir him into action. That was the first and simplest thing that she could do, she thought. Make them fight as they should. Terror filled her when her mind recoiled at the possibility they just might give up; simple-minded fear taking over them, begging for their lives to no avail. She hoped that would not come to pass, for then that would mean that her son's life was forfeit along with everyone else's in these caves.

The child seemed to stir slightly, as if his sleep was troubled. Her brow furrowed at the thought that perhaps he was already sensing there was something wrong with the world he had been delivered into: it was harsh, demanding, and uncaring, but did her son have to know so soon? Perhaps he could sense the absence of his father's touch. She certainly did so, and felt a twinge in her heart as she saw a shadow touch the cloth screen to her chamber. Her heart skipped a beat hoping it was him, that it was Amonas who had at last come back to them both. But her mind told her otherwise, and soon her eyes proved her heart wrong once more.

The shadow belonged to the young girl that had been called to tend to her. She had brought her a small basket of food, and a jug of water. She looked up at the young girl who was eying her sheepishly, afraid to make eye contact as if Celia were some noble woman or a priestess of some sort. The girl had hair like amber fire and held a small lantern, letting off just enough light for her to find her way in the dark maze of caves.

The girl approached Celia with hesitation, and left the small basket of food at her feet where she lay. There was some honey-bread in the basket, some goat's milk and boiled eggs as well; a small feast indeed under the circumstances. Perhaps they had brought some supplies down with them or had stashed some from beforehand, in case of an emergency. Still, they were being deprived of food that would be surely needed sooner or later. It only meant these were indeed good men, and caring people.

As the girl bowed slightly and turned to leave without speaking a word, Celia asked her in a hushed voice, the rocky walls adding an echo of strange authority to her words:

"Do not bow to me, girl. I am not special in any way. Thank you for the food but please, I need some answers, I would have to speak to the person you call leader. Please, I need to see them now. Lead me to them through these caves, for I cannot find my own way."

The girl was surprised at that request, worry flashing on her face:

"But lady, you have just given birth. You should not move so soon! You're still weak and-"

A fiery look on Celia's eyes was all the girl needed to know she had chosen the wrong words. Celia's voice was like steel when she said:

"I was never weak, and I would not be called so now. Can you take me to someone in charge, someone who makes the decisions, who knows about things? We're all wasting time here."

The baby stirred uneasily in his sleep. While Celia instinctively rocked him gently, the girl nodded with bewilderment before speaking in a confounded voice as low as a whisper:

"We have no leader, not now anyway ... I'll show you to the one who gives us advice and holds our knowledge, my lady. There's no one else who could answer your questions better."

"I see ... Please, help me up. Hold my child for a while."

The girl nodded briskly and took Celia's son in her arms carefully and gently so as not to wake him up. Celia managed to stand up on her own, though she felt her sense of balance was off and her feet felt heavy and cumbersome. She nodded then to the girl who promptly returned her the child with a faint smile on her lips. Celia returned the gesture more broadly and nodded for the girl to lead the way. The girl then picked up her lantern lighting the way for Celia as she turned and they left the chamber.

She had been quite dizzy and disoriented from labor when they brought her in and she had given only a passing amount of attention to the sprawling system of caves that seemed to branch out in many different directions. Small chambers of sorts were arrayed almost randomly; some seemed natural and some were seemingly carved out by men, the signs of chisel and pickax still easily spotted, not eroded by time yet. Some seemed to be occupied; many housed families, small and large; children trying to play hide and seek in the dimly lit passages that had become their impromptu playground.