Loose
dirt shifted under Sintra's feet, packing itself between his toes as he marched
along the dusty road. He wasn't permitted to wear shoes since they were
protection for only a working man's feet, not befitting a noble of the Kingdom
of Gold. He should never need to walk on any surface but the finest marble, and
so to cover his feet in shoes is to ungratefully deny the status and privilege
the High King had graciously bestowed upon him. Right now, Sintra felt that his
status was 'having sore feet' and his privilege was 'dusty toes'.
Sintra was an ambassador of the Kingdom of Gold, sent out into the wilderness to spread the glory of the High King and welcome his new subjects into the Kingdom. The High King, in his divine right, owned all of the lands in the world. Many pretenders had claimed thrones in the names of other kingdoms, and many more lived in ignorance of the High King, but they lived on lands which were not their own. It was Sintra’s duty to tell them of their transgressions.
Magnanimously, the High King was willing to permit these trespassers to live. In fact, he had charged Sintra with welcoming them into his Kingdom of Gold, allowing them to offer their services to the crown and pay back their debts in honest, hard work. This was the good news that Sintra was walking through the jungle to spread.
Sintra was surrounded by the decadence of the High King’s armoured knights. The King called them his word-bearers, spreading the triumphs and glory of the Kingdom to those poor souls yet to be touched by its magnificence. Their gilded armour glinted in the sunlight which pierced patchy clouds above, precious stones and metals inlaid across the surface in meticulously crafted ostentation. They carried the news of his gracious acceptance, so their garb must showcase the true glory of the High King’s rule, or so he said. Sintra had been on the High King’s leash for too many years to believe those lines any more, especially since they also carried finely honed and sharpened halberds, capable of severing flesh and bone in a single blow. To Sintra, the gilded armour only served to reflect light into his eyes and embarrass him; it was gaudy to the point of being embarrassing, like marching with a team of heavily armed jewellers.
‘The High King can call them whatever he likes’, Sintra had thought to himself in his private moments, ‘the only word they bear is 'intimidation'’. They were just another part of the game. The High King walked his armies into the neighbouring towns and villages casually. With a smile he welcomed them into his dominion, barely trying to disguise the blades which were levelled carefully at the throats of any who might dare to stand against him. The word-bearers were a challenge and a warning: 'Yield to me in peace or die to me in battle'. They were a gauntlet laid down by a man who can clad even his warriors with gold, jade and pearl against those who could not afford even steel.
Sintra often had pangs of guilt about his vocation. Whenever it happened he tried to tell himself that he wasn't a murderer, but giving whole communities the choice of death by eviction, death by conquest, or death by living in squalor and servitude to the Kingdom didn't feel particularly different. Or moral. Still, it was a living, and living would be exactly what he'd stop doing if he refused to keep making these offers. Someone else would only end up doing it anyway, so he might as well stay alive.
Thick palm trees flanked the wide road on either side, spreading shadows across it like fingers and turning the sunlight into a flickering lamp. If anything, it made the reflections from the armour worse, although the dust they were kicking up in their march was trying its hardest to dampen the shine. Looking down at himself Sintra saw the dust clinging to his own delicately embroidered robe, the vibrant colours and golden thread dulled by the sandy mist. The High King wouldn’t be impressed if he knew that his ambassadorial party was going to arrive at the village with dusty robes and armour. They were to appear next to his own godliness; clean, rich and powerful, and he would not abide any insult to his reputation by this display of filth. Thankfully, though, he wasn’t there to see, nor was he there to dole out punishments for the crime. Many such punishments would be exacted this day back in the capitol however, Sintra thought. The guilt came back again.
“Do you ever wonder if we're doing the right thing?” Sintra asked the word-bearer marching alongside him. He was a towering wall of muscle called Madhevi.
“Hmm?” the word-bearer replied.
“When we march in and tell whole villages of people that they are no longer free, do you think we’re doing the right thing?”
“Of course! If we didn't tell them then how would they know? They’d fail to swear fealty and then the army would arrive and kill them all. They'd be left wondering what was happening if we didn’t warn them.” Madhevi answered innocently.
“The army tends to march in and kill them all anyway.”
“At least they know why.” He answered with a shrug. “We give them a choice and they make it. And we get to spread the word all the while.”
“I think we might be arguing at crossed purposes.”
“Really? Would you like to hear the word of the High King to set you straight?” There was an excited hope in his voice to bear the word.
“No, no. It's fine. I know his word very well thank you.”
“Me too. I bear the word and enlighten the willing. I wield the blade and rebuke the rebellious.” He puffed his chest out as he recited his mantra.
“Good for you.”
“It IS good.”
“But what I mean is do you think we have the right to keep taking people's homes away? To tell them they're part of the Kingdom now and they can accept it or die?”
“Well they chose to live on land that the King owns.”
“But they were there first.”
“But it's the King's now and it must have been before.”
“How does that come to be though? How is it fair that they had a home yesterday, but now the King says they don't? They can't have known that the King would claim it 300 years after they settled the village.”
“Well that's why we're stomping around telling them all, isn't it? Why are you asking all this anyway, hmm?" He asked suspiciously.
“Oh, I'm just trying to make sure that we have all the answers if they try to argue with us. I'm sure the High King would prefer to have more new subjects rather than another slaughtered village.”
“Ah. Well worry not.” Madhevi said, apparently completely satisfied with Sintra’s improvised justification. “I have ALL of the answers for I bear his word. I am a word-bearer. I bear the word and enlighten the wil-“
“Yes, yes. The willing and the rebellious and whatnot. It's very good.”
“It IS very good.”
Sintra smiled insincerely and then gave up on trying to appeal to Madhevi's sense of reason, on account of its non-existence.
Sintra was an ambassador of the Kingdom of Gold, sent out into the wilderness to spread the glory of the High King and welcome his new subjects into the Kingdom. The High King, in his divine right, owned all of the lands in the world. Many pretenders had claimed thrones in the names of other kingdoms, and many more lived in ignorance of the High King, but they lived on lands which were not their own. It was Sintra’s duty to tell them of their transgressions.
Magnanimously, the High King was willing to permit these trespassers to live. In fact, he had charged Sintra with welcoming them into his Kingdom of Gold, allowing them to offer their services to the crown and pay back their debts in honest, hard work. This was the good news that Sintra was walking through the jungle to spread.
Sintra was surrounded by the decadence of the High King’s armoured knights. The King called them his word-bearers, spreading the triumphs and glory of the Kingdom to those poor souls yet to be touched by its magnificence. Their gilded armour glinted in the sunlight which pierced patchy clouds above, precious stones and metals inlaid across the surface in meticulously crafted ostentation. They carried the news of his gracious acceptance, so their garb must showcase the true glory of the High King’s rule, or so he said. Sintra had been on the High King’s leash for too many years to believe those lines any more, especially since they also carried finely honed and sharpened halberds, capable of severing flesh and bone in a single blow. To Sintra, the gilded armour only served to reflect light into his eyes and embarrass him; it was gaudy to the point of being embarrassing, like marching with a team of heavily armed jewellers.
‘The High King can call them whatever he likes’, Sintra had thought to himself in his private moments, ‘the only word they bear is 'intimidation'’. They were just another part of the game. The High King walked his armies into the neighbouring towns and villages casually. With a smile he welcomed them into his dominion, barely trying to disguise the blades which were levelled carefully at the throats of any who might dare to stand against him. The word-bearers were a challenge and a warning: 'Yield to me in peace or die to me in battle'. They were a gauntlet laid down by a man who can clad even his warriors with gold, jade and pearl against those who could not afford even steel.
Sintra often had pangs of guilt about his vocation. Whenever it happened he tried to tell himself that he wasn't a murderer, but giving whole communities the choice of death by eviction, death by conquest, or death by living in squalor and servitude to the Kingdom didn't feel particularly different. Or moral. Still, it was a living, and living would be exactly what he'd stop doing if he refused to keep making these offers. Someone else would only end up doing it anyway, so he might as well stay alive.
Thick palm trees flanked the wide road on either side, spreading shadows across it like fingers and turning the sunlight into a flickering lamp. If anything, it made the reflections from the armour worse, although the dust they were kicking up in their march was trying its hardest to dampen the shine. Looking down at himself Sintra saw the dust clinging to his own delicately embroidered robe, the vibrant colours and golden thread dulled by the sandy mist. The High King wouldn’t be impressed if he knew that his ambassadorial party was going to arrive at the village with dusty robes and armour. They were to appear next to his own godliness; clean, rich and powerful, and he would not abide any insult to his reputation by this display of filth. Thankfully, though, he wasn’t there to see, nor was he there to dole out punishments for the crime. Many such punishments would be exacted this day back in the capitol however, Sintra thought. The guilt came back again.
“Do you ever wonder if we're doing the right thing?” Sintra asked the word-bearer marching alongside him. He was a towering wall of muscle called Madhevi.
“Hmm?” the word-bearer replied.
“When we march in and tell whole villages of people that they are no longer free, do you think we’re doing the right thing?”
“Of course! If we didn't tell them then how would they know? They’d fail to swear fealty and then the army would arrive and kill them all. They'd be left wondering what was happening if we didn’t warn them.” Madhevi answered innocently.
“The army tends to march in and kill them all anyway.”
“At least they know why.” He answered with a shrug. “We give them a choice and they make it. And we get to spread the word all the while.”
“I think we might be arguing at crossed purposes.”
“Really? Would you like to hear the word of the High King to set you straight?” There was an excited hope in his voice to bear the word.
“No, no. It's fine. I know his word very well thank you.”
“Me too. I bear the word and enlighten the willing. I wield the blade and rebuke the rebellious.” He puffed his chest out as he recited his mantra.
“Good for you.”
“It IS good.”
“But what I mean is do you think we have the right to keep taking people's homes away? To tell them they're part of the Kingdom now and they can accept it or die?”
“Well they chose to live on land that the King owns.”
“But they were there first.”
“But it's the King's now and it must have been before.”
“How does that come to be though? How is it fair that they had a home yesterday, but now the King says they don't? They can't have known that the King would claim it 300 years after they settled the village.”
“Well that's why we're stomping around telling them all, isn't it? Why are you asking all this anyway, hmm?" He asked suspiciously.
“Oh, I'm just trying to make sure that we have all the answers if they try to argue with us. I'm sure the High King would prefer to have more new subjects rather than another slaughtered village.”
“Ah. Well worry not.” Madhevi said, apparently completely satisfied with Sintra’s improvised justification. “I have ALL of the answers for I bear his word. I am a word-bearer. I bear the word and enlighten the wil-“
“Yes, yes. The willing and the rebellious and whatnot. It's very good.”
“It IS very good.”
Sintra smiled insincerely and then gave up on trying to appeal to Madhevi's sense of reason, on account of its non-existence.
Growing
larger in the distance of the road was a wall of sharpened tree trunks. They
spurred outwards from the ground as if thrust upwards from below, and
threatened any would-be climbers with a wholly unpleasant fate if they should
slip. In front of the wall was a dark strip which resolved itself with growing
proximity to be a dry moat. Madhevi asked an inane question regarding where the
water had got to, but Sintra wasn’t paying much attention. A land-bridge which
was twice the width of the road led over the moat and into the Ranjar village,
whilst the wooden palisade followed the moat around the perimeter. It was
defensible enough for a small settlement, but would do them no good against the
Kingdom of Gold’s army. Only obeisance could defend against that, and even then
it was no guarantee of the village’s survival.
The word-bearers and Sintra fell into a tighter formation as they crossed the land bridge and entered the Ranjar village for the first time, with a train of caravan-runners and servants bringing up the rear with carts of supplies and treasures. It occurred to Sintra that these Ranjar people had gone to all the trouble of constructing fortifications but just let him walk straight in with a detachment of armed guards. It was this kind of carelessness which got people slaughtered by megalomaniacal despotic monarchs, but the damage was done. He couldn’t exactly walk out again and give the Ranjar people a do-over on this one.
The village was bustling with life. Children ran excitedly between houses, men and women carried jugs of waters, sacks of grain, folds of cloth, buckets of fruits, and manifold other sundries back and forth, and animals played in the sunlight. Sintra didn’t have time to question why so many things needed to be carried around in seemingly arbitrary patterns with such urgency, he was far too taken aback with how there could be so much activity in the small village. The majority of such settlements were far quieter and more sparsely populated, perhaps a few hunters and fishermen clustered together in family groups. This was almost a small township in its own right. To his immediate right stood a high-roofed bamboo temple, draped with white and blue tapestries depicting what Sintra supposed to be idyllic life in the village. It was heart-warmingly similar to the scene unfolding in front of him, which made him feel all the worse for the ‘good-news’ of the High King which he would have to deliver.
Faces and activity dropped together when the Ranjar people noticed the gaudy train of outsiders who had arrived from the jungle, shimmering with more precious metal on their armour than the village had seen in its lifetime. Hushed voices spoke in excited and apprehensive tones, ushering one another away from the unknown band of warriors and the man in his decorative bathrobe.
Without introducing himself or pausing for too long, Sintra led his procession into the village, walking with a practiced ease and confidence among the gawping locals. They whispered to one another as the outsiders clad in gold marched in step behind the ambassador, looking upon the idols made manifest who silently paraded their gaudy wealth through the simple village. The children were the first to follow along, but it was only moments before the adults joined them, intrigued by what these outsiders were doing among the Ranjar. Where the youthful eyes were full of admiration and wonder, however, those of age were masked in distrust.
Around huts and shanties, the smithy, the bakery, the potter, Sintra led his parade of gold through the village of the Ranjar, until his following had become a crowd in its own right. When he reached the centre, a large square dominated by a vaulted village hall building, Sintra called the word-bearers to a halt, and the Ranjar slowly filtered around them until they had formed a circle of curiosity and anxiety.
Behind the word-bearers, the civilian caravansary released the handles of their carts and laid their packs of treasures on the ground in the village square. The High King would have had heads rolling if he had seen it, his possessions (for everything was his) laying in the dust and the dirt, but Sintra turned a blind eye.
There, in the centre of the village, they stood; the envoy of word-bearers from the Kingdom of Gold proudly displaying the raiment of the High King, and the Ranjar people staring at them from all sides. Sintra’s word-bearers were the showcase of the Kingdom of Gold, a taste of the riches which could await all who submitted to the High King’s rule, and they were made to be on display. The Ranjar, on the other hand, were a dusty and destitute people of the jungle. They had likely never seen anything even half as grand as Sintra’s robes, let alone his ornate escort. It was this disparity that the High King exploited wherever possible.
Across the empty village square, the two peoples stared at one another. No-one spoke, no-one moved, and no-one knew what was going to happen. Sintra had a fair idea of how events might transpire, but he told himself to be more optimistic than that. There was always an outside chance that this meeting wouldn’t lead to a bloodbath.
Eventually, whether it was because she was tired of being blinded by the golden armour or because the silence had become far too awkward to withstand any longer, an old woman shuffled forwards, away from the group of gawping onlookers. Stooped over with age and wrapped in a long sarong with a shawl around her shoulders, she made her gradual way towards Sintra, who stood in his rightful place at the head of the envoy party.
“Welcome to our village, travellers. We are the Ranjar, and we open our arms to you.” She said with formality. Her words were warm but guarded; she knew what to say to an outsider and the impression to put across, but she wasn’t naïve. If she was at all intimidated by the word-bearers then she didn’t show it.
“Your simple hospitality is gratefully received.” ‘All others must be humble before the High King’s glory. Treat them that way and, if they have any sense, they will come to act like it.’ Sintra had been taught.
“I am Sintra, and I am here to congratulate you on behalf of his eminent majesty, High King Wadevi Mandalam Nawaabi, Unifier of the Continent, purifier of hearts, and father to us all. You have been granted a place in his dominion, which rightfully stretches from sea to sea, and with it the honour of serving the Kingdom of Gold. Your times of darkness and ignorance are at an end, and that which holds you need be feared no longer. You will have the Kingdom's protection and wisdom until the end of days.” Sintra recited with practiced perfection. ‘The kingdom is the only thing any of us need protection from' he lamented to himself.
The Ranjar looked on impassively, biting their lips if they had anything to say. It was often the way when Sintra made his introduction to a new people; they heard his words, they dismissed their meaning, and then they died. No matter how many times Sintra rehearsed his delivery, no matter how much false sincerity he put behind his words, they ignored the meaning hidden between the lines and then they felt the wrath of the man who must be loved by all.
“Please, follow me.” The old woman replied simply, turning away and shuffling toward the grand building in the centre of the village. Sintra and his entourage followed respectfully behind the woman, still under the watchful eyes of the other villagers. The decadence of their dress and the directness of their manner was having the desired effect of holding the peasants’ attention, at least. They were a spectacle to the Ranjar people, a civilisation beyond anything they could have imagined.
The woman led Sintra and his word-bearers into the village. Sintra gave orders for the caravan-runners to remain outside with a handful of word-bearers, and for the rest of the party to follow him.
“Remember" Madhevi whispered into Sintra's ear as they entered the bamboo structure "I bear the word if they ask any awkward questions, and I bear the blade if they won't listen." He patted his halberd and winked at Sintra in what he thought was a conspiratorial manner. Madhevi secretly hoped someone would resist so that he could put his blade work to practice, and Sintra concluded that Madhevi wasn’t very good at keeping secrets.
Tapestries adorned the interior of the building, likely the richest decoration that the Ranjar could muster. Woven into immortality was the history of their village, proudly displayed around the chamber. Starting from the right, disparate groups or tribes were represented on a crude map of the vicinity, each one pressing against the others. Great battles were depicted between the rival tribes and families of old, stretching on without change until weaver women appeared behind the ranks of the group which Sintra took to be the Ranjar. Soon after, blood red, faceless giants wrought a terrible toll on the fields of war. Sintra’s education in art was cursory at best, but he presumed the giants to symbolise the darkness and barbarism of the bloodshed, and that the simple weavers represented the widows left alone after years of endless conflict. The faceless giants seemed to mark a crescendo in the violence, with the tapestries giving way to the construction of homes the unification of the warring tribes in front of a rich red sunset, with weaver women featuring unusually prominently. Another reminder of the wages of war, Sintra concluded.
The old woman stood on a dais in front of the tapestry, flanked by two tall warriors with long, curved scimitars suspended from their belts. They wore loose, puffy purple trousers, sandals crafted from some kind of stringy leaf, and bare chests, apparently placing more faith in their combat skill than sturdy armour. Two more such warriors stood behind the word-bearers on either side of the doorway.
"We are pleased to hear that the Kingdom of Gold prospers, and will allow the High King to visit our land himself to parlay with us if he wishes to do so. The Ranjar look forward to many peaceful years alongside the Kingdom of Gold and the trade which may blossom between our two civilisations.” Her eyes moved slowly between each of the outsiders in her home. “We thank you for your offer of absolution from our isolation, but we need nothing from your king, least of all his protection." The old woman wore a friendly smile as she rejected the rule of the High King. Sintra knew better than to think she was ignorant of the consequences of her words, but he had to play the game.
"The High King would be displeased not to add the Ranjar to the Kingdom of Gold. Any fate could befall you without his armies to safeguard the village. There are no alliances to be found here; you either accept the High King’s claim to these lands or you do not. We offer you the opportunity to lift yourself from this isolation and come together as one with us. Ask of our word-bearers and they will tell you of the glory of the kingdom." 'Specifically, the glory it has taken in a crusade of blood against others who sought their freedom.'
"I have seen the threads of the word that others like these golden toys bear, and its resemblance to a sword is not coincidental. I have seen the threads of the glory they have to speak of and I find it to be theft. I see in the threads of your robes the trappings of a liar and a bully who sends others to intimidate the world for him. Your high king is a flaccid coward and a tyrant." Sintra could hear that she didn't capitalise High King when she spoke, in a display of the utmost disrespect. Her tone had become cold and dark, and even the bright red sunset of the tapestry seemed more of a crimson wave of blood now, threatening to engulf them all. The old woman's eyes were sharp and unforgiving, unyielding to the High King's display of gilt power. "I will pull on his loose threads and he will unravel in front of us all."
Sintra was caught between anger and respect. He agreed with what she said but her resistance meant bloodshed. To argue with her was to argue against himself, an argument he which had raged in his mind countless times and never reached a conclusion. However futile the effort may be, however, winning her over was the only way to spare the lives of the Ranjar; at least for the short term. If they all shared this rebellious sentiment then nothing would save them from the High King’s wrath.
"The High King brings light to our lives and peace to our lands. His rule is fair and just, his decrees laid out for the good of all people under his wing." ‘The High King is the light which guides us and the shield which protects us from the evil of the word’ he had been taught. Sintra kept his composure and focused himself on avoiding a conflict. The old woman had made it clear she wouldn’t be intimidated but fear was only a single weapon in Sintra’s armoury. The promise of a better life could be more powerful than the threat of ending their current oe.
"He is a feeble man propped up by fear and carried by the lie that none need stand against him." The old woman said with a sneer.
"These lands belong to the High King, and your people do too. You cannot deny him, but you can live well under him. The High King safeguards all who swear fealty to him."
"If he never shows his face here then I shall never need to deny him. Walk away from this place while you can, puppet."
"We act as the High King’s voice. If you deny us then you deny him. His word-bearers act as a welcoming hand, but such a hand can also form a fist."
"Your golden soldiers did not fool me, voice-of-another-man. Hard as it may be to believe of a peasant village, we recognise a threat when we see it."
“Then you should also recognise when it is not empty. The High King wishes to lift you from your darkness, but if you stand in his way and refuse him his right then you will be crushed.”
“We are not so feeble as that, puppet. Your tyrant and his pet bullies will find more of an opponent in us than he realises.”
Sintra sighed and placed his fingertips together, lowering the bridge of his nose to his index fingers with closed eyes.
“You will not win. You are choosing death for everyone here.”
“You walk into our home and tell us that we are to die or give ourselves to your king? You have offered us no choice and you know it well. Declaring our death sentence in public was in poor taste, but it will make our rebuttal all the sweeter.”
“It will fall on deaf ears! Please, spare the lives of your people. There is no other way than-“ A song of steel against steel rang out in the hut, bouncing from the walls and amplifying the sound. Sintra span to see Madhevi decapitate one of the Ranjar warriors in a clean, swift movement of his halberd. The sword which had been inches away from Madhevi’s head fell to the ground as the corpse dropped limply form the air.
The woman stared silently at the body as it spilled blood onto the bamboo floor, dripping between the canes onto the ground below. Sintra turned to face her again, his face a mask of unfeeling severity hiding the revulsion inside.
“There is worse to come. The storm of steel will rain upon you all if you do not accept the High King’s right.” Sintra’s eyes pierced into the weaver woman as he struggled to hide the remorse behind them. ‘I’m saving them.’ He told himself desperately.
“You cannot defeat us all. There are but a handful of your bejewelled bullies against all of our warriors.”
“And there is a full battalion of men a short march from here waiting on my word.” Sintra countered. “You will not win.”
A little of the colour drained from the woman’s face, but she fought to keep her expression straight.
“I need to take his body away from here.” She said quietly.
“Do not let us make more. You will learn that the High King can be merciful to those who accept him.” Sintra told her, not looking away. The woman rose without acknowledging his words and directed her three remaining men to lift the body; she took the head herself and, wordlessly, led them out of the building.
When they were alone in the hut, Madhevi wiped his halberd clean on one of the tapestries and then patted Sintra on the shoulder.
“Looks like we’ll be calling in Commander Jindal after all. I’m glad I got to spread the word a little bit myself already.”
Sintra didn’t even have time to formulate a sarcastic response before screams and thuds sounded outside the hut and distracted him. Madhevi and the word-bearers burst out of the hut to see their caravan under attack by dozens of Ranjar warriors, cutting down the caravan-runners and loosing arrows into the messenger birds that they were frantically trying to release. The word-bearers who had been left to defend the caravan were already in action, blades swinging high and fast with deadly precision as more and more of the Ranjar flooded out of houses and alleyways.
Madhevi leapt into the fray immediately, spreading the High King's message with brutal efficiency. His blade cleaved a man in two as he struggled to free his sword from a wooden trunk, then span in the air to catch a blow from another assailant. The handle of Madhevi’s weapon crashed into the man's cheek, followed by a kick to the groin and a second clean decapitation. Though his helmet covered all expression, Sintra suspected that Madhevi would be smiling like a goon.
The word bearers outclassed the Ranjar warriors easily, weaving away from scimitar blades and maces swung by the thick-muscled locals, then lashing out with lethal blows from their halberds. Sintra looked on helplessly from the doorway of the village hall. As a noble he was not permitted to carry a weapon, because after all, no noble needed a weapon in court save for the High King's honour guard. Quite aside from that, men in Sintra’s position were not warriors, so had no need to battle. It was another of the High King’s games, keeping his advisors disarmed lest they ever dare to rise against him. Keeping them disarmed so they could not defend themselves if someone else rose against them.
Although he was desperate to make use of himself, any action taken in battle could be misconstrued as misconduct for a noble in his position. To a reasonable man this wouldn’t be a problem, but reasonable men did not make it to the position of High King, nor did they populate his word-bearers. Although Sintra was less guarded around Madhevi, any misstep carried the risk of being reported back to the High King, who treated his representation to new lands deadly seriously. So, despite the vicious battle unfolding in front of him, Sintra stood still and watched the bloodletting with forced stoicism.
Although they were the better combatants by far, the word bearers were surrounded and outnumbered. The civilian caravan-runners had all been run-through, and the Ranjar warriors were pressing hard on the word-bearers. They tried to assume a circular formation, backing themselves towards and around Sintra, but they were beset by a wall of hatred on all sides.
A hard blow struck Sintra on the side of the head, sending him hard to the dusty ground. Through blurred eyes he saw the billowing trousers of a Ranjar man standing in front of him, preparing for a killing blow. Before it could fall, the handle of an ornate halberd slammed into the Ranjar warrior’s knees, knocking them to the floor. A brief flash of reflective steel was all that Sintra saw of the blade passing through the man’s torso. In the spray of blood, Sintra fell into unconsciousness.
The word-bearers and Sintra fell into a tighter formation as they crossed the land bridge and entered the Ranjar village for the first time, with a train of caravan-runners and servants bringing up the rear with carts of supplies and treasures. It occurred to Sintra that these Ranjar people had gone to all the trouble of constructing fortifications but just let him walk straight in with a detachment of armed guards. It was this kind of carelessness which got people slaughtered by megalomaniacal despotic monarchs, but the damage was done. He couldn’t exactly walk out again and give the Ranjar people a do-over on this one.
The village was bustling with life. Children ran excitedly between houses, men and women carried jugs of waters, sacks of grain, folds of cloth, buckets of fruits, and manifold other sundries back and forth, and animals played in the sunlight. Sintra didn’t have time to question why so many things needed to be carried around in seemingly arbitrary patterns with such urgency, he was far too taken aback with how there could be so much activity in the small village. The majority of such settlements were far quieter and more sparsely populated, perhaps a few hunters and fishermen clustered together in family groups. This was almost a small township in its own right. To his immediate right stood a high-roofed bamboo temple, draped with white and blue tapestries depicting what Sintra supposed to be idyllic life in the village. It was heart-warmingly similar to the scene unfolding in front of him, which made him feel all the worse for the ‘good-news’ of the High King which he would have to deliver.
Faces and activity dropped together when the Ranjar people noticed the gaudy train of outsiders who had arrived from the jungle, shimmering with more precious metal on their armour than the village had seen in its lifetime. Hushed voices spoke in excited and apprehensive tones, ushering one another away from the unknown band of warriors and the man in his decorative bathrobe.
Without introducing himself or pausing for too long, Sintra led his procession into the village, walking with a practiced ease and confidence among the gawping locals. They whispered to one another as the outsiders clad in gold marched in step behind the ambassador, looking upon the idols made manifest who silently paraded their gaudy wealth through the simple village. The children were the first to follow along, but it was only moments before the adults joined them, intrigued by what these outsiders were doing among the Ranjar. Where the youthful eyes were full of admiration and wonder, however, those of age were masked in distrust.
Around huts and shanties, the smithy, the bakery, the potter, Sintra led his parade of gold through the village of the Ranjar, until his following had become a crowd in its own right. When he reached the centre, a large square dominated by a vaulted village hall building, Sintra called the word-bearers to a halt, and the Ranjar slowly filtered around them until they had formed a circle of curiosity and anxiety.
Behind the word-bearers, the civilian caravansary released the handles of their carts and laid their packs of treasures on the ground in the village square. The High King would have had heads rolling if he had seen it, his possessions (for everything was his) laying in the dust and the dirt, but Sintra turned a blind eye.
There, in the centre of the village, they stood; the envoy of word-bearers from the Kingdom of Gold proudly displaying the raiment of the High King, and the Ranjar people staring at them from all sides. Sintra’s word-bearers were the showcase of the Kingdom of Gold, a taste of the riches which could await all who submitted to the High King’s rule, and they were made to be on display. The Ranjar, on the other hand, were a dusty and destitute people of the jungle. They had likely never seen anything even half as grand as Sintra’s robes, let alone his ornate escort. It was this disparity that the High King exploited wherever possible.
Across the empty village square, the two peoples stared at one another. No-one spoke, no-one moved, and no-one knew what was going to happen. Sintra had a fair idea of how events might transpire, but he told himself to be more optimistic than that. There was always an outside chance that this meeting wouldn’t lead to a bloodbath.
Eventually, whether it was because she was tired of being blinded by the golden armour or because the silence had become far too awkward to withstand any longer, an old woman shuffled forwards, away from the group of gawping onlookers. Stooped over with age and wrapped in a long sarong with a shawl around her shoulders, she made her gradual way towards Sintra, who stood in his rightful place at the head of the envoy party.
“Welcome to our village, travellers. We are the Ranjar, and we open our arms to you.” She said with formality. Her words were warm but guarded; she knew what to say to an outsider and the impression to put across, but she wasn’t naïve. If she was at all intimidated by the word-bearers then she didn’t show it.
“Your simple hospitality is gratefully received.” ‘All others must be humble before the High King’s glory. Treat them that way and, if they have any sense, they will come to act like it.’ Sintra had been taught.
“I am Sintra, and I am here to congratulate you on behalf of his eminent majesty, High King Wadevi Mandalam Nawaabi, Unifier of the Continent, purifier of hearts, and father to us all. You have been granted a place in his dominion, which rightfully stretches from sea to sea, and with it the honour of serving the Kingdom of Gold. Your times of darkness and ignorance are at an end, and that which holds you need be feared no longer. You will have the Kingdom's protection and wisdom until the end of days.” Sintra recited with practiced perfection. ‘The kingdom is the only thing any of us need protection from' he lamented to himself.
The Ranjar looked on impassively, biting their lips if they had anything to say. It was often the way when Sintra made his introduction to a new people; they heard his words, they dismissed their meaning, and then they died. No matter how many times Sintra rehearsed his delivery, no matter how much false sincerity he put behind his words, they ignored the meaning hidden between the lines and then they felt the wrath of the man who must be loved by all.
“Please, follow me.” The old woman replied simply, turning away and shuffling toward the grand building in the centre of the village. Sintra and his entourage followed respectfully behind the woman, still under the watchful eyes of the other villagers. The decadence of their dress and the directness of their manner was having the desired effect of holding the peasants’ attention, at least. They were a spectacle to the Ranjar people, a civilisation beyond anything they could have imagined.
The woman led Sintra and his word-bearers into the village. Sintra gave orders for the caravan-runners to remain outside with a handful of word-bearers, and for the rest of the party to follow him.
“Remember" Madhevi whispered into Sintra's ear as they entered the bamboo structure "I bear the word if they ask any awkward questions, and I bear the blade if they won't listen." He patted his halberd and winked at Sintra in what he thought was a conspiratorial manner. Madhevi secretly hoped someone would resist so that he could put his blade work to practice, and Sintra concluded that Madhevi wasn’t very good at keeping secrets.
Tapestries adorned the interior of the building, likely the richest decoration that the Ranjar could muster. Woven into immortality was the history of their village, proudly displayed around the chamber. Starting from the right, disparate groups or tribes were represented on a crude map of the vicinity, each one pressing against the others. Great battles were depicted between the rival tribes and families of old, stretching on without change until weaver women appeared behind the ranks of the group which Sintra took to be the Ranjar. Soon after, blood red, faceless giants wrought a terrible toll on the fields of war. Sintra’s education in art was cursory at best, but he presumed the giants to symbolise the darkness and barbarism of the bloodshed, and that the simple weavers represented the widows left alone after years of endless conflict. The faceless giants seemed to mark a crescendo in the violence, with the tapestries giving way to the construction of homes the unification of the warring tribes in front of a rich red sunset, with weaver women featuring unusually prominently. Another reminder of the wages of war, Sintra concluded.
The old woman stood on a dais in front of the tapestry, flanked by two tall warriors with long, curved scimitars suspended from their belts. They wore loose, puffy purple trousers, sandals crafted from some kind of stringy leaf, and bare chests, apparently placing more faith in their combat skill than sturdy armour. Two more such warriors stood behind the word-bearers on either side of the doorway.
"We are pleased to hear that the Kingdom of Gold prospers, and will allow the High King to visit our land himself to parlay with us if he wishes to do so. The Ranjar look forward to many peaceful years alongside the Kingdom of Gold and the trade which may blossom between our two civilisations.” Her eyes moved slowly between each of the outsiders in her home. “We thank you for your offer of absolution from our isolation, but we need nothing from your king, least of all his protection." The old woman wore a friendly smile as she rejected the rule of the High King. Sintra knew better than to think she was ignorant of the consequences of her words, but he had to play the game.
"The High King would be displeased not to add the Ranjar to the Kingdom of Gold. Any fate could befall you without his armies to safeguard the village. There are no alliances to be found here; you either accept the High King’s claim to these lands or you do not. We offer you the opportunity to lift yourself from this isolation and come together as one with us. Ask of our word-bearers and they will tell you of the glory of the kingdom." 'Specifically, the glory it has taken in a crusade of blood against others who sought their freedom.'
"I have seen the threads of the word that others like these golden toys bear, and its resemblance to a sword is not coincidental. I have seen the threads of the glory they have to speak of and I find it to be theft. I see in the threads of your robes the trappings of a liar and a bully who sends others to intimidate the world for him. Your high king is a flaccid coward and a tyrant." Sintra could hear that she didn't capitalise High King when she spoke, in a display of the utmost disrespect. Her tone had become cold and dark, and even the bright red sunset of the tapestry seemed more of a crimson wave of blood now, threatening to engulf them all. The old woman's eyes were sharp and unforgiving, unyielding to the High King's display of gilt power. "I will pull on his loose threads and he will unravel in front of us all."
Sintra was caught between anger and respect. He agreed with what she said but her resistance meant bloodshed. To argue with her was to argue against himself, an argument he which had raged in his mind countless times and never reached a conclusion. However futile the effort may be, however, winning her over was the only way to spare the lives of the Ranjar; at least for the short term. If they all shared this rebellious sentiment then nothing would save them from the High King’s wrath.
"The High King brings light to our lives and peace to our lands. His rule is fair and just, his decrees laid out for the good of all people under his wing." ‘The High King is the light which guides us and the shield which protects us from the evil of the word’ he had been taught. Sintra kept his composure and focused himself on avoiding a conflict. The old woman had made it clear she wouldn’t be intimidated but fear was only a single weapon in Sintra’s armoury. The promise of a better life could be more powerful than the threat of ending their current oe.
"He is a feeble man propped up by fear and carried by the lie that none need stand against him." The old woman said with a sneer.
"These lands belong to the High King, and your people do too. You cannot deny him, but you can live well under him. The High King safeguards all who swear fealty to him."
"If he never shows his face here then I shall never need to deny him. Walk away from this place while you can, puppet."
"We act as the High King’s voice. If you deny us then you deny him. His word-bearers act as a welcoming hand, but such a hand can also form a fist."
"Your golden soldiers did not fool me, voice-of-another-man. Hard as it may be to believe of a peasant village, we recognise a threat when we see it."
“Then you should also recognise when it is not empty. The High King wishes to lift you from your darkness, but if you stand in his way and refuse him his right then you will be crushed.”
“We are not so feeble as that, puppet. Your tyrant and his pet bullies will find more of an opponent in us than he realises.”
Sintra sighed and placed his fingertips together, lowering the bridge of his nose to his index fingers with closed eyes.
“You will not win. You are choosing death for everyone here.”
“You walk into our home and tell us that we are to die or give ourselves to your king? You have offered us no choice and you know it well. Declaring our death sentence in public was in poor taste, but it will make our rebuttal all the sweeter.”
“It will fall on deaf ears! Please, spare the lives of your people. There is no other way than-“ A song of steel against steel rang out in the hut, bouncing from the walls and amplifying the sound. Sintra span to see Madhevi decapitate one of the Ranjar warriors in a clean, swift movement of his halberd. The sword which had been inches away from Madhevi’s head fell to the ground as the corpse dropped limply form the air.
The woman stared silently at the body as it spilled blood onto the bamboo floor, dripping between the canes onto the ground below. Sintra turned to face her again, his face a mask of unfeeling severity hiding the revulsion inside.
“There is worse to come. The storm of steel will rain upon you all if you do not accept the High King’s right.” Sintra’s eyes pierced into the weaver woman as he struggled to hide the remorse behind them. ‘I’m saving them.’ He told himself desperately.
“You cannot defeat us all. There are but a handful of your bejewelled bullies against all of our warriors.”
“And there is a full battalion of men a short march from here waiting on my word.” Sintra countered. “You will not win.”
A little of the colour drained from the woman’s face, but she fought to keep her expression straight.
“I need to take his body away from here.” She said quietly.
“Do not let us make more. You will learn that the High King can be merciful to those who accept him.” Sintra told her, not looking away. The woman rose without acknowledging his words and directed her three remaining men to lift the body; she took the head herself and, wordlessly, led them out of the building.
When they were alone in the hut, Madhevi wiped his halberd clean on one of the tapestries and then patted Sintra on the shoulder.
“Looks like we’ll be calling in Commander Jindal after all. I’m glad I got to spread the word a little bit myself already.”
Sintra didn’t even have time to formulate a sarcastic response before screams and thuds sounded outside the hut and distracted him. Madhevi and the word-bearers burst out of the hut to see their caravan under attack by dozens of Ranjar warriors, cutting down the caravan-runners and loosing arrows into the messenger birds that they were frantically trying to release. The word-bearers who had been left to defend the caravan were already in action, blades swinging high and fast with deadly precision as more and more of the Ranjar flooded out of houses and alleyways.
Madhevi leapt into the fray immediately, spreading the High King's message with brutal efficiency. His blade cleaved a man in two as he struggled to free his sword from a wooden trunk, then span in the air to catch a blow from another assailant. The handle of Madhevi’s weapon crashed into the man's cheek, followed by a kick to the groin and a second clean decapitation. Though his helmet covered all expression, Sintra suspected that Madhevi would be smiling like a goon.
The word bearers outclassed the Ranjar warriors easily, weaving away from scimitar blades and maces swung by the thick-muscled locals, then lashing out with lethal blows from their halberds. Sintra looked on helplessly from the doorway of the village hall. As a noble he was not permitted to carry a weapon, because after all, no noble needed a weapon in court save for the High King's honour guard. Quite aside from that, men in Sintra’s position were not warriors, so had no need to battle. It was another of the High King’s games, keeping his advisors disarmed lest they ever dare to rise against him. Keeping them disarmed so they could not defend themselves if someone else rose against them.
Although he was desperate to make use of himself, any action taken in battle could be misconstrued as misconduct for a noble in his position. To a reasonable man this wouldn’t be a problem, but reasonable men did not make it to the position of High King, nor did they populate his word-bearers. Although Sintra was less guarded around Madhevi, any misstep carried the risk of being reported back to the High King, who treated his representation to new lands deadly seriously. So, despite the vicious battle unfolding in front of him, Sintra stood still and watched the bloodletting with forced stoicism.
Although they were the better combatants by far, the word bearers were surrounded and outnumbered. The civilian caravan-runners had all been run-through, and the Ranjar warriors were pressing hard on the word-bearers. They tried to assume a circular formation, backing themselves towards and around Sintra, but they were beset by a wall of hatred on all sides.
A hard blow struck Sintra on the side of the head, sending him hard to the dusty ground. Through blurred eyes he saw the billowing trousers of a Ranjar man standing in front of him, preparing for a killing blow. Before it could fall, the handle of an ornate halberd slammed into the Ranjar warrior’s knees, knocking them to the floor. A brief flash of reflective steel was all that Sintra saw of the blade passing through the man’s torso. In the spray of blood, Sintra fell into unconsciousness.
* * *
A few
hour’s march away, along the jungle road, rows of tents and banners decorated
in the colours of the Kingdom of Gold stood neatly in the sunlight. Hundreds of
soldiers practiced drills, oiled their blades, and prepared for the eventuality
of battle with whomever it was they marched on today. The soldiery weren’t
privy to such details as the name or creed of their targets – the king found
that such information only bred sympathy. Better that they march into the
unknown and crush whatever they find. The only people were the people of the
Kingdom of Gold; all others were simply animals.
Commander Jindal waited in his tent, reviewing maps of the area and the location of the target village. An empty perch stood next to his table, waiting for the messenger bird to arrive with news of Sintra’s attempts at diplomacy. One way or another, the High King would take the lands which were his by divine right. Either word would return from Sintra soon after his departure, or the army would march in anger.
Looking at the position of the sun in the sky, Commander Jindal decided that he had waited for quite long enough. Sintra was a punctual man when it came to these things, and if he had been successful in his negotiations then word would have been sent back by now. Why waste any more time sitting on his hands here when glorious battle awaited out there in the village? He shook with excitement.
Forcing himself back into aloof composure, Jindal shouted for his adjutant to rally the troops into formation and prepare them for a march through the jungle. It would be a journey of a few hours but they must not tarry; word should have reached them from Sintra by now regarding the subjugation of the village. The adjutant questioned if they’d waited long enough, but Commander Jindal assured him that the suspicious absence of any communication could only mean that ambassador and his escort had been attacked or waylaid in the village, which in turn could only mean resistance. He licked the corners of his thin lips in anticipation of the battle, and only hoped that the Ranjar could muster some decent sport.
Commander Jindal waited in his tent, reviewing maps of the area and the location of the target village. An empty perch stood next to his table, waiting for the messenger bird to arrive with news of Sintra’s attempts at diplomacy. One way or another, the High King would take the lands which were his by divine right. Either word would return from Sintra soon after his departure, or the army would march in anger.
Looking at the position of the sun in the sky, Commander Jindal decided that he had waited for quite long enough. Sintra was a punctual man when it came to these things, and if he had been successful in his negotiations then word would have been sent back by now. Why waste any more time sitting on his hands here when glorious battle awaited out there in the village? He shook with excitement.
Forcing himself back into aloof composure, Jindal shouted for his adjutant to rally the troops into formation and prepare them for a march through the jungle. It would be a journey of a few hours but they must not tarry; word should have reached them from Sintra by now regarding the subjugation of the village. The adjutant questioned if they’d waited long enough, but Commander Jindal assured him that the suspicious absence of any communication could only mean that ambassador and his escort had been attacked or waylaid in the village, which in turn could only mean resistance. He licked the corners of his thin lips in anticipation of the battle, and only hoped that the Ranjar could muster some decent sport.
* * *
Cold
water ran traces along Sintra’s head, dripping from his nose and chin onto his
lap. The smell of blood assaulted his nose, mixed with wet dirt. He sat bound
to a hard bamboo chair with his arms restrained behind it, elbows and forearms pressed
together so that his shoulders were pulled back hard. They burned. His skull
ached. This was not the successful negotiation that he had been hoping for.
“How large is this army and from where does it march?” A voice said from behind. It was cool and even but without patience.
“Ugh…” Sintra replied, not entirely satisfying the question. The questioner highlighted this to Sintra by stabbing something into his forearm from behind. “Argh!” Sintra screamed, no more helpfully than his previous answer.
“How large is this army, and from where does it march?” The voice asked again.
“If I tell you I will die.”
“If you don't you'll suffer something worse.”
“The High King does not show mercy to traitors.”
He felt a stabbing again, but it was accompanied by the sensation of something burrowing or being pulled into the wound.
“I would advise you to speak soon, since I do not show mercy to the lapdogs of tyrants.” Came a second voice. It was one Sintra recognised though; the old woman.
“I was trying to protect you. Either you give yourselves to the High King or he will march on you and burn you from your homes.” A stabbing pain shot through Sintra's other arm, along with the same burrowing sensation. It pulled through both arms and dragged them together.
“You are no longer in a position to threaten us, puppet.”
“It was never a threat! It was a warning!”
“How sizable is this army?” the unfamiliar voice asked again.
“Large enough that you will never defeat it.”
“Watch us.” Spat the woman.
“A village against a thousand is suicide.”
“As I feared.” The woman muttered to her unseen companion. Sintra cursed himself for mentioning details. “I will continue preparations.”
Though he could not see it, she gave Sintra a look of disgust. “Let him tell no more lies for his puppet-master ‘king’.” She instructed her companion.
Light briefly flooded the room as the woman left, but Sintra was too preoccupied to notice his surroundings. The tall, dark frame of the torturer had at last stepped into view with a needle and thick thread in one hand. He grabbed Sintra’s face in the other. Bound to the chair with his arms restrained behind, he was unable to fight the burly torturer away, even as the needle punctured his lip, spilling blood and pulling the thread through, inch by agonising inch. Sintra tried to pull his head away, but the torturer was too strong. Seemingly unhindered by the ambassador’s resistance, he pushed the needle into Sintra’s other lip and pulled the thread through again, pinching one side of his mouth together. Trying his hardest not to humiliate the High King by screaming, Sintra was powerless to stop the man as he continued his work.
“How large is this army and from where does it march?” A voice said from behind. It was cool and even but without patience.
“Ugh…” Sintra replied, not entirely satisfying the question. The questioner highlighted this to Sintra by stabbing something into his forearm from behind. “Argh!” Sintra screamed, no more helpfully than his previous answer.
“How large is this army, and from where does it march?” The voice asked again.
“If I tell you I will die.”
“If you don't you'll suffer something worse.”
“The High King does not show mercy to traitors.”
He felt a stabbing again, but it was accompanied by the sensation of something burrowing or being pulled into the wound.
“I would advise you to speak soon, since I do not show mercy to the lapdogs of tyrants.” Came a second voice. It was one Sintra recognised though; the old woman.
“I was trying to protect you. Either you give yourselves to the High King or he will march on you and burn you from your homes.” A stabbing pain shot through Sintra's other arm, along with the same burrowing sensation. It pulled through both arms and dragged them together.
“You are no longer in a position to threaten us, puppet.”
“It was never a threat! It was a warning!”
“How sizable is this army?” the unfamiliar voice asked again.
“Large enough that you will never defeat it.”
“Watch us.” Spat the woman.
“A village against a thousand is suicide.”
“As I feared.” The woman muttered to her unseen companion. Sintra cursed himself for mentioning details. “I will continue preparations.”
Though he could not see it, she gave Sintra a look of disgust. “Let him tell no more lies for his puppet-master ‘king’.” She instructed her companion.
Light briefly flooded the room as the woman left, but Sintra was too preoccupied to notice his surroundings. The tall, dark frame of the torturer had at last stepped into view with a needle and thick thread in one hand. He grabbed Sintra’s face in the other. Bound to the chair with his arms restrained behind, he was unable to fight the burly torturer away, even as the needle punctured his lip, spilling blood and pulling the thread through, inch by agonising inch. Sintra tried to pull his head away, but the torturer was too strong. Seemingly unhindered by the ambassador’s resistance, he pushed the needle into Sintra’s other lip and pulled the thread through again, pinching one side of his mouth together. Trying his hardest not to humiliate the High King by screaming, Sintra was powerless to stop the man as he continued his work.
* * *
Dusk
was falling, and Sintra had been alone for a few hours, bound to the rough
bamboo chair in the dark hut. What little light spilled through the gaps in the
cane walls was dim and weak. It failed to illuminate the room around him, and
he was too far away from the walls to see out properly.
Whoever and whatever these Ranjar were, they seemed blind to the futility of their resistance. Perhaps this was simply fate; after years of intimidating the simple villages around the Kingdom of Gold, Sintra was finally receiving a taste of powerlessness and cruelty. He knew that the High King was liberal with his punishments, but as a loyal servant he had been spared from them so far. Perhaps this would be the end, the last time Sintra would have to tear families from their homes in the name of a narcissistic demon-king. He only lamented at the price he had to pay to be free from his life of intimidation.
Sintra attempted to shift his weight in the chair, but was stopped short by shooting pains from his arms. He could feel the stiches binding them together and the blood trickling down through his hands from the wounds. The torturer had finished that job after ensuring that the ambassador could tell no more lies.
Half-drunk from pain, Sintra wondered if any of his word-bearers or caravan-runners were left alive. He seriously doubted it. The word-bearers weren’t known for their receptiveness to surrender. There had been no sounds of fighting since he’d woken up, and the rest of the sounds from the village had been terrifyingly normal. It was almost as if they were accustomed enough to the wholesale slaughter of any outsiders that it didn’t register with them. Sintra shuddered at the thought of the High King’s rule of iron being vindicated here.
The noise of the village had died down as dusk closed in, with fewer people running between homes and families settling in to eat and rest. The nocturnal birds and animals of the surrounding jungle commenced their calling now that the village had calmed down enough for it to be heard.
All of a sudden, however, there was a commotion outside, and the sound of panic seeped through the cracks of the bamboo hut. Sintra lifted his head and listened hard to pick out what the cause was. The familiar sound of war horns in the distance gave him a ray of hope – the army had arrived.
Urgent shouting came closer to the hut and the door slammed open.
“...and get word to the weavers. It is time.” An unknown voice finished as it entered the room.
“Right away.” Another replied as he ran from the hut.
“You! Up!” the voice shouted at Sintra. He tried to stand but his ankles were still bound to the chair.
“Umf.” Was the best Sintra could muster through sewn lips. A heavy sword blade crashed through the legs of the chair, shattering the wood and sending Sintra hard onto the ground.
“I said, UP!”
Sintra had landed on his arms, and was rather busy mutedly screaming in pain through his stiches, but did his best to acquiesce to the order regardless. Shakily he staggered to his feet, large chunks of wood still bound to his ankles making it nearly impossible to stand properly. A hand roughly grabbed the dangling ends of the strings which secured his arms to one another, tearing at the skin and muscle through which it had been threaded, and dragged him towards the doorway.
“Your warmongering tyrant will see what his misdeeds have wrought.” The man spat.
The sounds of terror were greater outside the hut, between screaming children, shouted orders and steel being unsheathed. The distant echoes of marching, armoured feet sounded from the direction of the road.
The Ranjar warrior dragged Sintra roughly by the threads, yanking hard on him every few paces, supposedly to make him keep up. Sintra suspected it was just to hurt him. The dust they kicked up stuck to his open wounds and stung, creating a crimson paste along the length of his arms.
Back past the smithy they went among a throng of Ranjar warriors, clad in mailed skirts but still bare-chested. Some gripped huge two-handed scimitars, others maces or bows. The warriors were taking a much more direct route back to the entrance of the village than the ambassadorial party had taken on the way in, dragging Sintra directly to the front lines. This journey was no longer a showcase of power, but a man being led along death row to his execution. Once again the strange blanketed temple loomed into view, but now its doors were barred shut and red tapestries had been hung along the façade showing scenes of violence and war. At the gateway of the village the Ranjar forces congregated, fortifying themselves against the incoming invaders.
The livery of the Kingdom of Gold was already in view along the road, torches burning brightly to highlight the banners which bobbed among the organised ranks of armoured men. Though they were without the decadent raiment of the word-bearers, they were still an impressive sight to behold, and a tantalising relief for Sintra.
A single torch-bearing man walked along the road, unarmed. Sintra recognised him as Commander Jindal’s adjutant, undoubtedly on his way to offer the Ranjar a final chance at parlay and peaceful surrender. Jindal would almost certainly have argued against this, since it would delay the commencement of combat, but tradition demanded it.
Then the adjutant arrived, Sintra was dragged forwards past the ranks of the Ranjar. The warrior pushed the ambassador forwards, tripping him so that he fell to the ground at the adjutant’s feet
“This is what we make of your power and your promises.” He said with a snarl as Sintra’s body rolled in the dirt.
The adjutant recoiled in horror at the mutilated ambassador thrown down before him, mouth and arms sewn shut, soaked in blood and caked in dirt.
Whoever and whatever these Ranjar were, they seemed blind to the futility of their resistance. Perhaps this was simply fate; after years of intimidating the simple villages around the Kingdom of Gold, Sintra was finally receiving a taste of powerlessness and cruelty. He knew that the High King was liberal with his punishments, but as a loyal servant he had been spared from them so far. Perhaps this would be the end, the last time Sintra would have to tear families from their homes in the name of a narcissistic demon-king. He only lamented at the price he had to pay to be free from his life of intimidation.
Sintra attempted to shift his weight in the chair, but was stopped short by shooting pains from his arms. He could feel the stiches binding them together and the blood trickling down through his hands from the wounds. The torturer had finished that job after ensuring that the ambassador could tell no more lies.
Half-drunk from pain, Sintra wondered if any of his word-bearers or caravan-runners were left alive. He seriously doubted it. The word-bearers weren’t known for their receptiveness to surrender. There had been no sounds of fighting since he’d woken up, and the rest of the sounds from the village had been terrifyingly normal. It was almost as if they were accustomed enough to the wholesale slaughter of any outsiders that it didn’t register with them. Sintra shuddered at the thought of the High King’s rule of iron being vindicated here.
The noise of the village had died down as dusk closed in, with fewer people running between homes and families settling in to eat and rest. The nocturnal birds and animals of the surrounding jungle commenced their calling now that the village had calmed down enough for it to be heard.
All of a sudden, however, there was a commotion outside, and the sound of panic seeped through the cracks of the bamboo hut. Sintra lifted his head and listened hard to pick out what the cause was. The familiar sound of war horns in the distance gave him a ray of hope – the army had arrived.
Urgent shouting came closer to the hut and the door slammed open.
“...and get word to the weavers. It is time.” An unknown voice finished as it entered the room.
“Right away.” Another replied as he ran from the hut.
“You! Up!” the voice shouted at Sintra. He tried to stand but his ankles were still bound to the chair.
“Umf.” Was the best Sintra could muster through sewn lips. A heavy sword blade crashed through the legs of the chair, shattering the wood and sending Sintra hard onto the ground.
“I said, UP!”
Sintra had landed on his arms, and was rather busy mutedly screaming in pain through his stiches, but did his best to acquiesce to the order regardless. Shakily he staggered to his feet, large chunks of wood still bound to his ankles making it nearly impossible to stand properly. A hand roughly grabbed the dangling ends of the strings which secured his arms to one another, tearing at the skin and muscle through which it had been threaded, and dragged him towards the doorway.
“Your warmongering tyrant will see what his misdeeds have wrought.” The man spat.
The sounds of terror were greater outside the hut, between screaming children, shouted orders and steel being unsheathed. The distant echoes of marching, armoured feet sounded from the direction of the road.
The Ranjar warrior dragged Sintra roughly by the threads, yanking hard on him every few paces, supposedly to make him keep up. Sintra suspected it was just to hurt him. The dust they kicked up stuck to his open wounds and stung, creating a crimson paste along the length of his arms.
Back past the smithy they went among a throng of Ranjar warriors, clad in mailed skirts but still bare-chested. Some gripped huge two-handed scimitars, others maces or bows. The warriors were taking a much more direct route back to the entrance of the village than the ambassadorial party had taken on the way in, dragging Sintra directly to the front lines. This journey was no longer a showcase of power, but a man being led along death row to his execution. Once again the strange blanketed temple loomed into view, but now its doors were barred shut and red tapestries had been hung along the façade showing scenes of violence and war. At the gateway of the village the Ranjar forces congregated, fortifying themselves against the incoming invaders.
The livery of the Kingdom of Gold was already in view along the road, torches burning brightly to highlight the banners which bobbed among the organised ranks of armoured men. Though they were without the decadent raiment of the word-bearers, they were still an impressive sight to behold, and a tantalising relief for Sintra.
A single torch-bearing man walked along the road, unarmed. Sintra recognised him as Commander Jindal’s adjutant, undoubtedly on his way to offer the Ranjar a final chance at parlay and peaceful surrender. Jindal would almost certainly have argued against this, since it would delay the commencement of combat, but tradition demanded it.
Then the adjutant arrived, Sintra was dragged forwards past the ranks of the Ranjar. The warrior pushed the ambassador forwards, tripping him so that he fell to the ground at the adjutant’s feet
“This is what we make of your power and your promises.” He said with a snarl as Sintra’s body rolled in the dirt.
The adjutant recoiled in horror at the mutilated ambassador thrown down before him, mouth and arms sewn shut, soaked in blood and caked in dirt.
* * *
Commander
Jindal, waiting with the front line troops a few hundred paces from the
village, was watching through a spy glass. There were few fundamental
principles of right and wrong that most savages could be expected to uphold,
but the sanctity of a diplomat was always one of them. No civilised man would
do this to an unarmed representative of another kingdom. These people were
animals, and honour need no longer apply.
“Fire at will.” He told the archers, lowering the spyglass and preparing to don his helmet. Out of sight of his men, Commander Jindal rubbed his hands gleefully. They were about to get going with his favourite part, the initial charge it battle. There was even a narrow bridge to take, a glorious focal point of which tales could be told for years to come.
“Fire at will.” He told the archers, lowering the spyglass and preparing to don his helmet. Out of sight of his men, Commander Jindal rubbed his hands gleefully. They were about to get going with his favourite part, the initial charge it battle. There was even a narrow bridge to take, a glorious focal point of which tales could be told for years to come.
* * *
Blood sprayed over Sintra from the warrior who had stood
over him. He was wrestling an arrow from his throat in blind panic, which only
caused the blood to spray around farther. All around the mouth of the village was
shouting and mayhem; the adjutant had retreated immediately, the Ranjar were
diving for cover or preparing their own counter-barrage, and arrows fell from
the sky like rain. Sintra lay helplessly on the floor, desperately trying to
quiet the fierce agony in his arms and his mouth long enough to get his
bearings. All around him was chaos and noise, Ranjar warriors shouting orders
to one another as volleys of arrow-fire slammed into flesh, ground and bamboo
cane wall. Writhing there on the floor amid the battle he had been forgotten.
The charge of the vanguard came like a battering ram into the Ranjar defenders. Steel armour plates crashed into bare flesh and halberd blades arced murderously through the air as the villagers attempted to repel the outsiders. Although it was now the Kingdom of Gold who boasted far greater numbers, the channelling of the narrow land bridge prevented them from leveraging their advantage and surrounding the Ranjar. Instead, the entryway to the village formed a choke-point in which perpetual battle raged. Commander Jindal, front and centre of the charge, roared feverishly as he hacked his sword across a bare chest in front of him. He ducked a sword-swipe at his neck and then head-butted the perpetrator squarely on the nose. It was everything he’d been waiting for and more.
Underfoot on the Ranjar side of the battle, Sintra struggled his way onto his feet. He was unsteady from the pain and the chunks of wood still bound to his ankles, and the rushing, violent combat around him overloaded his senses. Seeing a gap in the Ranjar lines he ran as best he could, awkwardly hopping his way towards the friendly forces, but jerked to a halt as the lines from his arms pulled taut. Behind him many of the Ranjar were falling back, and none were willing to part with their prize, their symbol of defiance against the High King. Scrabbling ineffectually on the dusty ground, Sintra was dragged backwards into the heart of the village.
The choke-point had slowed down the High King’s army but for every man who fell there was another to take his place, and the Ranjar front lines were soon overwhelmed. Once it hit more open ground in the village the fighting spread backwards quickly, with warriors fighting in the streets and alleyways which ran between the shabby bamboo structures. Bodies littered the floor and blood soaked its way into the tapestries hung from the walls, covering the culture of the Ranjar in the carnage of war.
When the High King’s forces reached the town centre the sounds of desperation from the Ranjar had reached a fever pitch. They knew they couldn’t stand against the better-trained, better-equipped and more numerous foes. They were unwilling to surrender but unable to win. Sintra lay at the door of one of the houses overlooking the village square, facing the village hall building in which he’d tried to prevent this bloodshed. He’d thought he might be able to convince these people to save their own lives, and he’d been mutilated for it.
A man came running from the doors of the village hall with wide eyes, shouting something that Sintra couldn’t make out. Whatever it was, it had far more of an effect on the other Ranjar than anything he’d ever said himself; the warriors who weren’t already fleeing now turned and ran, abandoning the square to the Kingdom of Gold with an animalistic terror as more and more of the Kingdom’s soldiers flooded in. Even Sintra himself had been abandoned in the rush to flee.
A deep rumbling sounded from the village hall, like a stampeding elephant crashing through the jungle, mixed with a ship’s rope pulling taut. Sintra’s gaze was locked on the blackness visible behind the open door, desperately trying to make out who or what was making the noise. Soldiers from the High King’s army rushed forwards in the sudden absence of an enemy holding them back, some pressing onwards against the fleeing foe and others searching for any stragglers, traps or ambushes. Taking him by surprise, a pair of armoured hands grabbed Sintra by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet again.
“Are you alright ambassador? Try to hold still.” Said a gruff, controlled voice. The man drew a dagger from its sheath at his belt and cut through the stiches which bound Sintra’s arms together. They fell to his sides immediately, still searing and swollen but at least freeing his screaming shoulders.
“We’ll get you out of- By the King!” exclaimed the soldier as he rolled Sintra over and took a look at his face, frozen in disbelief at the barbarism of what had been done. The rumbling from the village hall grew louder behind them. The soldier brought his dagger up to Sintra’s mouth and delicately cut through each of the threads in turn. Bloodied and limp, the strings dangled away from the ambassador’s face like the monstrous facial hair of an ogre transposed onto a man, each one ending with a bright red, raw wound.
“Thank you.” Sintra managed, garbled though it was through a dry throat, but the soldier wasn’t listening. He was distracted by the cracking and splintering coming from the village hall. The thin bamboo walls bulged and split, coming apart like an eggshell to reveal a dark red mass unfolding from within, like a ball of string wrapped around a chunk of raw flesh. Bamboo canes slid like pine needles to the ground as the gargantuan beast grew from the building. As it rose, the shape of a head sewn onto a set of shoulders became discernible, along with two mighty arms which were encircled by helixes of thick white binding. All over its body were stiches, threads and shreds of cloth, apparently holding its bloody form together, and the tapestries of war and conflict were draped over its shoulders. The monstrosity was a patchwork of flayed muscle, stitched together into a human shape of gargantuan proportions.
“By the King…” Sintra muttered to himself.
The golem of flesh, blood and thread swept one colossal arm through the front of the hall, splintering bamboo and straw into a fine cloud of structural detritus. That was the start of the new screaming, this time from the soldiers of the Kingdom of Gold.
The golem unrolled itself upwards, unfolding like a bedsheet in its grim parody of a human body standing up straight. Its back arched backwards much too far, like a sail caught by the wind, and its neck was tilted to one side, like a puppy contemplating the path of greatest mischief with least effort. One leg, threads dripping with blood, kicked forward and dug a trench through the elevated floor of the building, leaving wreckage where the village hall had once stood.
Behind it, connected on long tendrils of thread like umbilical cords and sinuous cords, were the old weaver women of the village, joined to the golem like marionettes with eyes rolling back in their heads. Their bodies were riddled with threads which led upwards into the golem, their own blood coursing through them like veins into the monstrous fabric construct.
“What have they done?” the soldier asked out loud, staring up at the beast.
The golem took its first steps into the village amid shrieks of primal terror, the bloodied effigy of hatred and rejected oppression made manifest in a self-destructive torrent of power. None would be allowed to subjugate or extinguish the Ranjar but themselves, it seemed. They were more willing to tear their own village apart and give themselves over to dark powers than submit to the High King’s rule; such was their prerogative, but for the first time in his life Sintra felt that the High King's crusade was at least partially justified. If these Ranjar were able to field such monstrosities then they could not be allowed to remain uncontrolled. It was a dangerous precedent for Sintra to agree with a warmonger in his decision to wipe out a whole culture, but he could let it slide on account of the agonising torture to which he had been subjected by that culture, followed by the black magic.
“Can you run?” The solider asked Sintra urgently
“Not with these around my feet.” The soldier knelt down and hacked at the ropes around Sintra's ankles, revealing sore rope burns and sticky skin.
“Ok, now come on.”
“Thank you.” The ambassador said as he burst into a run.
The golem lifted one huge foot and brought it slamming down onto the hut beside it, spraying bamboo and timber shrapnel into the soldiers who hacked and stabbed ineffectually at its ankles. A sickening pile of broken bones and armour were left smeared and embedded into the flesh as it took another step.
"Don't run you cowards! In the name of the High King bring it down!" Screamed Commander Jindal from one corner of the square. He emerged at a sprint, soaked in blood which dripped from his polished armour. He stared up at the golem and cursed his advisors for refusing to load up the siege engines. They aren't necessary for taking a bamboo village, they had said. If a battering ram can bring down a wall it can bring down a man, damn it, and then you don’t get caught short like this!
A threadbare hand swept towards the soldiers on the ground as they charged forwards. Some managed to roll or leap out of the way, but more were caught by the fleshing and bindings. The sound of crumpling armour was unfamiliar and horrifying, with the sound of cracking bones playing a sickening undertone. Loose strands dangled limp and bloody from the limbs and torso of the monster, trailing behind it with every motion like a horrifying streamer. Each impact of its disgusting fists left a pool of fresh blood and torn fabric caught on the hooks and snags of the wreckage.
Dragged along on their threads the weaver women wore the open mouthed expression of one who is completely outside of their own mind. They moved blindly and dumbly, stepping through the debris of the village and following the golem on its path of spiteful vengeance.
All around himself, Sintra saw carnage; from the broken bodies of the Kingdom soldiers who had faced the golem, from the Ranjar who had been cut down by the Kingdom soldiers, and from the village which had been destroyed by all three parties. This whole diplomatic mission was turning into a disaster; a fabric-heavy nightmare in the name of the High King.
The golem was perversely silent as it tore through the soldiers of the Kingdom of Gold. It should have screamed or wailed or bellowed a deafening roar, but instead it silently pursued a path of destruction, murdering loyal soldiers of the Kingdom with every swing. It was a difficult scene to reconcile with the absence of any bestial vigour from the atrocity which the Ranjar had begot. Everything about this nightmare had reeked of the unnatural; the blasphemous weaver women of the Ranjar had toyed with powers darker than the High King would allow.
“Ambassador!” Commander Jindal shouted as he saw Sintra running from the golem. Sintra reflexively turned towards the familiar voice and moved in its direction.
“Commander Jindal. I couldn’t send word, we were ambushed.”
“And forcible un-shaven by the look of you.”
Blood still dripped from the cut stitches.
“I was… I was sewn shut to silence the word of the High King.”
“This cannot be allowed to stand. Take up arms with me and you can taste your own vengeance!” The commander boomed, sprinting forwards before Sintra could object.
Commander Jindal darted through the square, leaping over the fallen and dancing away from the blows of the golem in a daring flanking manoeuvre which brought him to the side of the left-most weaver woman. She was open-mouthed, white-eyed and entirely oblivious to the commander’s presence. Under normal circumstances he would consider attacking an unarmed, unaware, blind woman to be below the belt; conduct not fit for a warrior. In this case, since she was feeding a demon of catastrophic countenance with her lifeblood and indulging in unspeakable black magic, he was willing to make an exception.
He drove his sword into the woman's chest with both hands, aiming for the heart and bracing for the cascade of crimson which traditionally followed that sort of thing. The Ranjar, it seemed, we're not traditionalists in any sense. Where they should have worn armour they were bare chested, where they should have fought man-to-man they summoned demonic flesh and thread golems, and where they should have bled from a sword wound to the heart absolutely nothing happened. Commander Jindal pulled his sword out and peered into the wound, moving his face far closer to it than a man of honour should. He could see clean through the old woman's chest but she didn't seem inclined in the least to make a fuss over it. He rested his sword point on the ground, handle against his waist, and pondered the situation. In all his years of warfare, Commander Jindal had never known that particular technique, basic as it was, to fail. The heart was always critical, no matter who you were stabbing. The chaos still ensuing around him had faded from his mind as he concentrated on this conundrum. He supposed that most people weren't connected by bloody threads to a monster, so that could have been a factor. He idly cut the woman's leg off while he thought. Still nothing, not even when caught unaware by an amputation. There was still a lot of blood flowing along the surface of the threads which led up to the golem though. Cutting string was rarely a decisive tactical manoeuvre but since everything else was being unauthentic today he felt like he may as well try.
With an overhead swing he brought his sword down on the threads, severing them and finally seeing the spray of blood he had been looking for. The weaver woman crumpled to the ground almost immediately, as was befitting a woman in her position, and Commander Jindal felt far more at home with the whole situation.
The flesh and thread golem did not take so kindly to this development. The other weaver women screamed in unison at their suddenly extinguished companion, and sent the titanic atrocity into a frenzy. Where his attacks had been ponderous and lumbering before, they were now desperate and furious. Its mighty fists hammered at the ground, crushing dozens of men and driving their weapons into its own body. The threads dangling from its limbs were alive, winding themselves around those who strayed too close and constricting them. They were left suspended like baubles and swung as flails when the golem resumed its spiteful assault.
Commander Jindal rolled narrowly from the path of a hard kick, only to be caught by the section of wall it had displaced. The bamboo shattered against his breast plate but propelled him over backwards. There wasn’t even time to stand before he was rolling away again from a stamping foot; it seemed that his tailoring had caught the attention of the weavers.
“Attack you dogs! Kill the old women!” he shouted wildly. It was the first time he’d issued that order, but now hoped that it would not be the last. The decimated Kingdom soldiers used the distraction that their commander had afforded them and rushed at the weaver women.
The golem’s guard was not completely down, and several more devastating blows landed on the ground around its marionette women. Soldiers became red smears in the dust as the monster defended itself, lashing out at anything within reach. Even straggler Ranjar warriors who had been hiding in huts or launching hidden strikes against the Kingdom soldiers were crushed or snapped by the unbounded might of the golem.
Despite its violence and barbarism the golem could not fully fend off the Kingdom soldiers, another of the weavers was severed from the monster, tumbling backwards into a pile of splintered bamboo. This shifted its attention away from Commander Jindal, who was able to cease his feral rolling on the floor.
“That’s the way men! Slaughter the elderly!” he cried, rushing towards the next closest of the women. He ducked as a bound soldier soared towards him and slammed into the ground with a bone-rending crunch, but miscalculated the return trajectory and took an armoured foot to the head. Blood spilled from his scalp, stinging his eyes and partially blinding him, but he pushed on towards his target.
Another of the women fell on the other side of the golem, sending a shuddering wave of anguish up the monster. It seemed to be weakening from the severance, less able to control its limbs and weakening, but it was panicking even more. Its arms and feet slammed into the floor with human flails crashing all around it. Another body struck Commander Jindal on the back, bowling him over forwards into the legs of the weaver woman. She staggered backwards, also struggling to cope without her companions, but remained connected to the golem.
The commander groaned and pushed himself back up to his feet, lifting his sword again for a severing blow on the threads when one of the golem’s bindings lashed out and restrained his arm. He cursed loudly and dropped the weapon, taking it up in his off-hand. The binding tightened, cracking his armour plates and pressing torn steel into his flesh as it lifted him from the ground, when another of the women was cut-off elsewhere. The binding slackened and drooped enough for the commander’s feet to hit the ground again, and he seized the chance to swipe at the thread in front of him.
The golem swayed as the commander’s blow hit its mark, like a drunk trying to stand against a headwind. Commander Jindal yanked at the binding around his arm but it was stuck fast, snagged and pinned by his ruined armour plating. His sword was long and awkward to lift towards the string, and he was unable to fit it between his own reach and the mass of flesh that was the golem. He leaned away as far as he could to make room for the blade as the rocking and swaying of the monster grew more violent, making it increasingly difficult to steady himself and aim the sword.
Once again, Sintra stood helplessly by as he watched the struggle ensue. He could see Commander Jindal straining against the golem and attempting to lift his sword up, and he could also see the beast start to topple backwards. In a gut-wrenching moment, the commander’s footing slipped away underneath him, sending the blade through the thread at last. Commander Jindal had just enough time to look up and see the threaded flesh dropping like an avalanche on top of him.
The charge of the vanguard came like a battering ram into the Ranjar defenders. Steel armour plates crashed into bare flesh and halberd blades arced murderously through the air as the villagers attempted to repel the outsiders. Although it was now the Kingdom of Gold who boasted far greater numbers, the channelling of the narrow land bridge prevented them from leveraging their advantage and surrounding the Ranjar. Instead, the entryway to the village formed a choke-point in which perpetual battle raged. Commander Jindal, front and centre of the charge, roared feverishly as he hacked his sword across a bare chest in front of him. He ducked a sword-swipe at his neck and then head-butted the perpetrator squarely on the nose. It was everything he’d been waiting for and more.
Underfoot on the Ranjar side of the battle, Sintra struggled his way onto his feet. He was unsteady from the pain and the chunks of wood still bound to his ankles, and the rushing, violent combat around him overloaded his senses. Seeing a gap in the Ranjar lines he ran as best he could, awkwardly hopping his way towards the friendly forces, but jerked to a halt as the lines from his arms pulled taut. Behind him many of the Ranjar were falling back, and none were willing to part with their prize, their symbol of defiance against the High King. Scrabbling ineffectually on the dusty ground, Sintra was dragged backwards into the heart of the village.
The choke-point had slowed down the High King’s army but for every man who fell there was another to take his place, and the Ranjar front lines were soon overwhelmed. Once it hit more open ground in the village the fighting spread backwards quickly, with warriors fighting in the streets and alleyways which ran between the shabby bamboo structures. Bodies littered the floor and blood soaked its way into the tapestries hung from the walls, covering the culture of the Ranjar in the carnage of war.
When the High King’s forces reached the town centre the sounds of desperation from the Ranjar had reached a fever pitch. They knew they couldn’t stand against the better-trained, better-equipped and more numerous foes. They were unwilling to surrender but unable to win. Sintra lay at the door of one of the houses overlooking the village square, facing the village hall building in which he’d tried to prevent this bloodshed. He’d thought he might be able to convince these people to save their own lives, and he’d been mutilated for it.
A man came running from the doors of the village hall with wide eyes, shouting something that Sintra couldn’t make out. Whatever it was, it had far more of an effect on the other Ranjar than anything he’d ever said himself; the warriors who weren’t already fleeing now turned and ran, abandoning the square to the Kingdom of Gold with an animalistic terror as more and more of the Kingdom’s soldiers flooded in. Even Sintra himself had been abandoned in the rush to flee.
A deep rumbling sounded from the village hall, like a stampeding elephant crashing through the jungle, mixed with a ship’s rope pulling taut. Sintra’s gaze was locked on the blackness visible behind the open door, desperately trying to make out who or what was making the noise. Soldiers from the High King’s army rushed forwards in the sudden absence of an enemy holding them back, some pressing onwards against the fleeing foe and others searching for any stragglers, traps or ambushes. Taking him by surprise, a pair of armoured hands grabbed Sintra by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet again.
“Are you alright ambassador? Try to hold still.” Said a gruff, controlled voice. The man drew a dagger from its sheath at his belt and cut through the stiches which bound Sintra’s arms together. They fell to his sides immediately, still searing and swollen but at least freeing his screaming shoulders.
“We’ll get you out of- By the King!” exclaimed the soldier as he rolled Sintra over and took a look at his face, frozen in disbelief at the barbarism of what had been done. The rumbling from the village hall grew louder behind them. The soldier brought his dagger up to Sintra’s mouth and delicately cut through each of the threads in turn. Bloodied and limp, the strings dangled away from the ambassador’s face like the monstrous facial hair of an ogre transposed onto a man, each one ending with a bright red, raw wound.
“Thank you.” Sintra managed, garbled though it was through a dry throat, but the soldier wasn’t listening. He was distracted by the cracking and splintering coming from the village hall. The thin bamboo walls bulged and split, coming apart like an eggshell to reveal a dark red mass unfolding from within, like a ball of string wrapped around a chunk of raw flesh. Bamboo canes slid like pine needles to the ground as the gargantuan beast grew from the building. As it rose, the shape of a head sewn onto a set of shoulders became discernible, along with two mighty arms which were encircled by helixes of thick white binding. All over its body were stiches, threads and shreds of cloth, apparently holding its bloody form together, and the tapestries of war and conflict were draped over its shoulders. The monstrosity was a patchwork of flayed muscle, stitched together into a human shape of gargantuan proportions.
“By the King…” Sintra muttered to himself.
The golem of flesh, blood and thread swept one colossal arm through the front of the hall, splintering bamboo and straw into a fine cloud of structural detritus. That was the start of the new screaming, this time from the soldiers of the Kingdom of Gold.
The golem unrolled itself upwards, unfolding like a bedsheet in its grim parody of a human body standing up straight. Its back arched backwards much too far, like a sail caught by the wind, and its neck was tilted to one side, like a puppy contemplating the path of greatest mischief with least effort. One leg, threads dripping with blood, kicked forward and dug a trench through the elevated floor of the building, leaving wreckage where the village hall had once stood.
Behind it, connected on long tendrils of thread like umbilical cords and sinuous cords, were the old weaver women of the village, joined to the golem like marionettes with eyes rolling back in their heads. Their bodies were riddled with threads which led upwards into the golem, their own blood coursing through them like veins into the monstrous fabric construct.
“What have they done?” the soldier asked out loud, staring up at the beast.
The golem took its first steps into the village amid shrieks of primal terror, the bloodied effigy of hatred and rejected oppression made manifest in a self-destructive torrent of power. None would be allowed to subjugate or extinguish the Ranjar but themselves, it seemed. They were more willing to tear their own village apart and give themselves over to dark powers than submit to the High King’s rule; such was their prerogative, but for the first time in his life Sintra felt that the High King's crusade was at least partially justified. If these Ranjar were able to field such monstrosities then they could not be allowed to remain uncontrolled. It was a dangerous precedent for Sintra to agree with a warmonger in his decision to wipe out a whole culture, but he could let it slide on account of the agonising torture to which he had been subjected by that culture, followed by the black magic.
“Can you run?” The solider asked Sintra urgently
“Not with these around my feet.” The soldier knelt down and hacked at the ropes around Sintra's ankles, revealing sore rope burns and sticky skin.
“Ok, now come on.”
“Thank you.” The ambassador said as he burst into a run.
The golem lifted one huge foot and brought it slamming down onto the hut beside it, spraying bamboo and timber shrapnel into the soldiers who hacked and stabbed ineffectually at its ankles. A sickening pile of broken bones and armour were left smeared and embedded into the flesh as it took another step.
"Don't run you cowards! In the name of the High King bring it down!" Screamed Commander Jindal from one corner of the square. He emerged at a sprint, soaked in blood which dripped from his polished armour. He stared up at the golem and cursed his advisors for refusing to load up the siege engines. They aren't necessary for taking a bamboo village, they had said. If a battering ram can bring down a wall it can bring down a man, damn it, and then you don’t get caught short like this!
A threadbare hand swept towards the soldiers on the ground as they charged forwards. Some managed to roll or leap out of the way, but more were caught by the fleshing and bindings. The sound of crumpling armour was unfamiliar and horrifying, with the sound of cracking bones playing a sickening undertone. Loose strands dangled limp and bloody from the limbs and torso of the monster, trailing behind it with every motion like a horrifying streamer. Each impact of its disgusting fists left a pool of fresh blood and torn fabric caught on the hooks and snags of the wreckage.
Dragged along on their threads the weaver women wore the open mouthed expression of one who is completely outside of their own mind. They moved blindly and dumbly, stepping through the debris of the village and following the golem on its path of spiteful vengeance.
All around himself, Sintra saw carnage; from the broken bodies of the Kingdom soldiers who had faced the golem, from the Ranjar who had been cut down by the Kingdom soldiers, and from the village which had been destroyed by all three parties. This whole diplomatic mission was turning into a disaster; a fabric-heavy nightmare in the name of the High King.
The golem was perversely silent as it tore through the soldiers of the Kingdom of Gold. It should have screamed or wailed or bellowed a deafening roar, but instead it silently pursued a path of destruction, murdering loyal soldiers of the Kingdom with every swing. It was a difficult scene to reconcile with the absence of any bestial vigour from the atrocity which the Ranjar had begot. Everything about this nightmare had reeked of the unnatural; the blasphemous weaver women of the Ranjar had toyed with powers darker than the High King would allow.
“Ambassador!” Commander Jindal shouted as he saw Sintra running from the golem. Sintra reflexively turned towards the familiar voice and moved in its direction.
“Commander Jindal. I couldn’t send word, we were ambushed.”
“And forcible un-shaven by the look of you.”
Blood still dripped from the cut stitches.
“I was… I was sewn shut to silence the word of the High King.”
“This cannot be allowed to stand. Take up arms with me and you can taste your own vengeance!” The commander boomed, sprinting forwards before Sintra could object.
Commander Jindal darted through the square, leaping over the fallen and dancing away from the blows of the golem in a daring flanking manoeuvre which brought him to the side of the left-most weaver woman. She was open-mouthed, white-eyed and entirely oblivious to the commander’s presence. Under normal circumstances he would consider attacking an unarmed, unaware, blind woman to be below the belt; conduct not fit for a warrior. In this case, since she was feeding a demon of catastrophic countenance with her lifeblood and indulging in unspeakable black magic, he was willing to make an exception.
He drove his sword into the woman's chest with both hands, aiming for the heart and bracing for the cascade of crimson which traditionally followed that sort of thing. The Ranjar, it seemed, we're not traditionalists in any sense. Where they should have worn armour they were bare chested, where they should have fought man-to-man they summoned demonic flesh and thread golems, and where they should have bled from a sword wound to the heart absolutely nothing happened. Commander Jindal pulled his sword out and peered into the wound, moving his face far closer to it than a man of honour should. He could see clean through the old woman's chest but she didn't seem inclined in the least to make a fuss over it. He rested his sword point on the ground, handle against his waist, and pondered the situation. In all his years of warfare, Commander Jindal had never known that particular technique, basic as it was, to fail. The heart was always critical, no matter who you were stabbing. The chaos still ensuing around him had faded from his mind as he concentrated on this conundrum. He supposed that most people weren't connected by bloody threads to a monster, so that could have been a factor. He idly cut the woman's leg off while he thought. Still nothing, not even when caught unaware by an amputation. There was still a lot of blood flowing along the surface of the threads which led up to the golem though. Cutting string was rarely a decisive tactical manoeuvre but since everything else was being unauthentic today he felt like he may as well try.
With an overhead swing he brought his sword down on the threads, severing them and finally seeing the spray of blood he had been looking for. The weaver woman crumpled to the ground almost immediately, as was befitting a woman in her position, and Commander Jindal felt far more at home with the whole situation.
The flesh and thread golem did not take so kindly to this development. The other weaver women screamed in unison at their suddenly extinguished companion, and sent the titanic atrocity into a frenzy. Where his attacks had been ponderous and lumbering before, they were now desperate and furious. Its mighty fists hammered at the ground, crushing dozens of men and driving their weapons into its own body. The threads dangling from its limbs were alive, winding themselves around those who strayed too close and constricting them. They were left suspended like baubles and swung as flails when the golem resumed its spiteful assault.
Commander Jindal rolled narrowly from the path of a hard kick, only to be caught by the section of wall it had displaced. The bamboo shattered against his breast plate but propelled him over backwards. There wasn’t even time to stand before he was rolling away again from a stamping foot; it seemed that his tailoring had caught the attention of the weavers.
“Attack you dogs! Kill the old women!” he shouted wildly. It was the first time he’d issued that order, but now hoped that it would not be the last. The decimated Kingdom soldiers used the distraction that their commander had afforded them and rushed at the weaver women.
The golem’s guard was not completely down, and several more devastating blows landed on the ground around its marionette women. Soldiers became red smears in the dust as the monster defended itself, lashing out at anything within reach. Even straggler Ranjar warriors who had been hiding in huts or launching hidden strikes against the Kingdom soldiers were crushed or snapped by the unbounded might of the golem.
Despite its violence and barbarism the golem could not fully fend off the Kingdom soldiers, another of the weavers was severed from the monster, tumbling backwards into a pile of splintered bamboo. This shifted its attention away from Commander Jindal, who was able to cease his feral rolling on the floor.
“That’s the way men! Slaughter the elderly!” he cried, rushing towards the next closest of the women. He ducked as a bound soldier soared towards him and slammed into the ground with a bone-rending crunch, but miscalculated the return trajectory and took an armoured foot to the head. Blood spilled from his scalp, stinging his eyes and partially blinding him, but he pushed on towards his target.
Another of the women fell on the other side of the golem, sending a shuddering wave of anguish up the monster. It seemed to be weakening from the severance, less able to control its limbs and weakening, but it was panicking even more. Its arms and feet slammed into the floor with human flails crashing all around it. Another body struck Commander Jindal on the back, bowling him over forwards into the legs of the weaver woman. She staggered backwards, also struggling to cope without her companions, but remained connected to the golem.
The commander groaned and pushed himself back up to his feet, lifting his sword again for a severing blow on the threads when one of the golem’s bindings lashed out and restrained his arm. He cursed loudly and dropped the weapon, taking it up in his off-hand. The binding tightened, cracking his armour plates and pressing torn steel into his flesh as it lifted him from the ground, when another of the women was cut-off elsewhere. The binding slackened and drooped enough for the commander’s feet to hit the ground again, and he seized the chance to swipe at the thread in front of him.
The golem swayed as the commander’s blow hit its mark, like a drunk trying to stand against a headwind. Commander Jindal yanked at the binding around his arm but it was stuck fast, snagged and pinned by his ruined armour plating. His sword was long and awkward to lift towards the string, and he was unable to fit it between his own reach and the mass of flesh that was the golem. He leaned away as far as he could to make room for the blade as the rocking and swaying of the monster grew more violent, making it increasingly difficult to steady himself and aim the sword.
Once again, Sintra stood helplessly by as he watched the struggle ensue. He could see Commander Jindal straining against the golem and attempting to lift his sword up, and he could also see the beast start to topple backwards. In a gut-wrenching moment, the commander’s footing slipped away underneath him, sending the blade through the thread at last. Commander Jindal had just enough time to look up and see the threaded flesh dropping like an avalanche on top of him.
* * *
The
dust of the monsters earth-shaking impact cleared slowly, unveiling the
ruination that the Ranjar had unleashed. These were not simple, innocent
peasant folk being evicted from their homes. They were not going to be honest
citizens of the Kingdom of Gold. The High King would not be shedding his light
upon a single one of them if Sintra had his way about it.
The ambassador with his threaded muscles, mutilated face and dead friends reached to the ground and took up a fallen halberd in both hands.
“With me men!” He shouted at the soldiers who still stood. “There are yet Ranjar in this village who stand against the High King. Let us spread the word.”
The ambassador with his threaded muscles, mutilated face and dead friends reached to the ground and took up a fallen halberd in both hands.
“With me men!” He shouted at the soldiers who still stood. “There are yet Ranjar in this village who stand against the High King. Let us spread the word.”
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