Exile

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Funky Wombat
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Exile

Post by Funky Wombat »

Part One: The Darkness of Days

The log of Cornelius Ruberungulus Castus
42nd Day at Sea

We sighted land today, after six weeks away from Bregus. Our ship’s master is hopeful that this is the land we have sought, although after such a long time we can only put our trust in Uscorius the Wavelord to tame Locorina and in Ancomius the Lord of Beasts to intercede on our behalf. May all the gods guide us to our new home.

The ships’ provisions remain at a critical level. My fellows and I have gone without for some days now, to allow the bipeds, whose constitutions are less robust, to survive. My haruspex will give an offering tonight. I pray to the gods that this will be the place we have been doomed to seek.


* * *


Eight months prior to the forty two days at Sea, on the Dragon Plains of Wickhigh…

The battlefield by the cliffs was scattered with the corpses of centaur, human and Draken. The fighting had been going on since the Legion had cornered this particular warband at dawn, and now the sun was high in the sky. The air was laced with the agonised screams of the dying, the impatient screams of the buzzards overhead, and the maniac screams of frenzied Draken warriors. They fought like dervishes, giving no thought to their own safety or that of their comrades. Most were painted from head to foot in a dark sticky substance which smelled like brimstone and ash. Dragon’s blood.

The centaur warriors and their human cohorts now vastly outnumbered the two thousand Draken, who fought with their backs against the steep slope which led to the edge of the cliffs. They too had their war cries, but in comparison to their berserk enemies they seemed methodical, disciplined. The reality, Cornelius Ruberungulus knew, was far different. He did not find combat came naturally to him, and had to force himself to remember his training and sink into the mode of the soldier whenever battle came. There were always a few moments when he doubted himself, when he was convinced that this would be the time he turned tail and galloped away, sobbing at the horrors he had witnessed. He assumed others must feel the same. How could all this bloodshed and killing come naturally to anyone?

From the battlefield, Cornelius could look to the north and just about see the ruined turrets of Castle Dagora. The Draken had been great once, like so many on the Fifth Isle. The offspring of the great dragons of thunder and fire and the elder ancestors of humanity, they were strong and ferocious, but also loyal and wise. Or so the ancient stories said. Cornelius had never seen a Draken that wasn’t ravening for his blood and swinging some sort of weapon at him. Thankfully these days only one or two in a thousand manifested the were-dragon powers that had once been nearly ubiquitous. Otherwise the pacification of Wickhigh would be a great deal more difficult.

Cornelius watched the battle with experienced eyes, his cohort behind him eager to get back to the fight. The general kept the cohorts in rotation against Draken, both to watch for other incoming warbands and to make use of the Legion’s superior numbers. “No sense in letting them get at all of us at once,” was his habitual reply when his younger officers objected to watching their comrades fighting for their lives while they waited their turn.

An ululating howl ripped through the noise of battle, combined with a terrible sound of shredding skin and shattering bone. “There sir, look!” came the horrified shout from behind Cornelius, but he had already seen. One of the Draken was a were-dragon, and he had just undergone transformation. What once might have been a breathtaking transformation was now the stuff of nightmares. The thing stood about twenty feet tall, and its features were an awful mix of draconic and human, with mismatched eyes and two mouths jockeying for position. It still shrieked at the top of both its voices. Its hands, still human-looking, had stretched and sprouted jagged talons, which it now used to rake around it, killing a man at each blow. The Draken rallied around it, though they were as much at risk from its attacks as their foes, and began to ravage the left flank.

Cornelius’ childhood friend Ennius Tibius held that flank with two cohorts, but now the legionnaires struggled to maintain their position, as they saw the monstrosity bear down upon them. Ennius bellowed at his troops, “Hold firm, it is a mortal creature, and can die like any other!” Cornelius saw Ennius hold his greatsword high and yell, “Forward!”, throwing his massive bulk into the oncoming Draken. Ennius was broad-shouldered and muscle-bound, and below his waist he had the body of a draught-horse, built for brawn. As he landed amongst the berserkers he broke bones by the impact alone, scattering them for a moment before more piled in on top.

At last the blessed order came. “Fifth cohort, to the left flank!” Cornelius’ own sword was out of its scabbard before the full order was given. All he had to do was heft his shield and begin to canter forward. His men followed. Well, not all men. Like most cohorts, he had thirty centaurs apart from himself, armed with lances and shields and swords for after the charge. These were followed by seven hundred human legionnaires, mostly Meridies or Southlanders, once the hated foes of centaurkind but now the real backbones of the Legions. The legionnaires were normally armed with javelins as well as swords and shields but they had already thrown theirs today, when the Draken first charged.

Once of Ennius’ junior officers must have heard the order for the fifth cohort to advance, because as Cornelius and his centaurs prepared to charge the Draken, the scattered legionnaires bunched together to clear a path. Some of the centaurs behind Cornelius began to laugh, clearly carried away by the terror of battle. He never laughed in battle, and saw no joy in it. That others could be affected to seem like they actually took pleasure in the death of others just confirmed the power of the fear in his mind. He held his sword high, then swung it down. The cohort charged.

The were-dragon was even more hideous up close. Its human-dragon features had now fused into an awful amalgam, with human teeth on the top and draconic tusks on the bottom, and a long slavering tongue hanging down, spilling corrosive saliva upon the ground and the bodies of those who had fallen beneath its claws. As Cornelius ploughed into its side it hissed malevolently and spun around, deceptively quick despite its size. As it moved, something slick and malformed slid along the ground behind it. Cornelius realised that these wretched piles of membrane were its wings. Thank all the gods it hadn’t managed to grow those properly!

He chopped his blade down on the monster’s outstretched arm, and was rewarded only with an annoyed rasp from the creature. The thick scales that now coated its body could cast aside normal blows. Desperate for a moment as its claws scythed down towards him, Cornelius tried to step backwards out of its range. But the press of bodies behind him was too great, and he risked being speared on his own men’s lances. With a frantic yell, he leapt over one of the were-dragon’s tree trunk-like legs and into the midst of the Draken horde, swinging his sword down on the head of a bearded and blood-covered warrior as he landed. He felt his left rear haunch bleeding where the monster’s claws had cut deep, but he could spare no time to look. Kicking with his hind legs and lashing out with his heavy front hooves, he carved a swathe around him. He dared a glance over his shoulder to see how his cohort were doing against the thing.

Not well. Two of the centaurs were grievously injured, and their less-sturdy human comrades were either being crushed by the creature or attacked from the side by the other Draken as they focused on the larger foe. Cornelius gritted his teeth and prepared to fight his way back towards the monster. Better to die alongside those he must lead than to live and watch them be killed. He smashed the nearest Draken in the face with his shield and skewered another with his sword, gritting his teeth and throwing his full weight against the warriors that stood in his way. They laughed hysterically and spat upon his shield, chopping at his armoured flanks and trying to leap onto his back. He was in serious danger. He had let go of his training and allowed himself to be separated from his troops, and now he would die.

Suddenly the pressure from behind was gone. Cornelius heard the gurgling screams of men being killed, but he could not turn around to see, having to concentrate on the two in front of him doing their best to split his head open with their axes. Then from the edge of his vision he saw a blurred motion, and the Draken to his right fell, clutching his spewing intestines with one hand while the other fell to the ground, hacked away from his body. With this distraction, Cornelius lashed out with a hoof, catching his enemy on the knee and inwardly wincing at the snapping sound the bone made. He plunged his sword down into the Draken’s neck as the man slipped on the gore-matted ground, down into the heart. As a fountain of ichor shot up along the blade, Cornelius glanced around to see who had saved him, half-knowing who it would be.

Amphis Truxiubus stood beside him, the centre of a ring of whirling centaurs, the personal bodyguard and the elite cohort of their general, Rufus Fulvus Mugitus, the Bellower. Amphis was not as big as Ennius or Cornelius, but he was lithe and frightening to watch in battle. He carried two light swords, similar to the tulwars sometimes wielded by aristocracy amongst the Southlanders. Both his hair and the mane that ran down his back were black as night. His lower torso was grey and he wore only leather armour along his flanks unlike the others surrounding him. He regarded Cornelius silently, his heavy brow and dark eyes unreadable in the heat of battle. But where Amphis went, you would generally find…

“That was a close scrape, Ruberungulus!” roared a hearty voice just by his ear, and a massive hand slammed down on his shoulder. General Rufus Fulvus Mugitus had just come through the ring of protecting centaur, covered in gore himself and wielding his enormous double-headed axe. Cornelius nodded and shrugged, turning his gaze towards the were-dragon, where it still carved its way through his cohort. Mugitus growled under his breath. “We’ll soon deal with that one. Amphis! Forward!” The general’s deadly bodyguard gave no sign of assent, he just flicked the blood off his swords and leapt into the fray, followed by his equally grim companions. Mugitus yelled, “For the Beastlord!” and galloped after them, his enormous axe sweeping and slashing Draken from his path as he went. Cornelius kept behind the general, guarding his back.

Mugitus was also frightening to watch as he bellowed and killed, but for a different reason. While Amphis was intent and skilful in a fight, he kept silent. Mugitus roared with laughter and fury, appearing to be completely swept up, too close to the berserk Draken for comfort. His Legion loved him, and Cornelius was no exception. But he was unsettled by the general’s obvious lust for warfare, however much he tried to pass it off as the effects of the same sort of tension that gripped his own heart.

They fought their way through the maniac throng until they reached the were-dragon’s back, and then the real work began. Cornelius strove to protect Mugitus’ back, but the whirling currents of the struggle took him and the Draken assailants a far distance away from the general and his bodyguards, so that he could see everything that followed even as he fended off the yelling madmen.

Amphis and the general’s guard began to hack the were-dragon to pieces. They aimed for vulnerable spots, the joints and the head whenever it came in range. They were soon freshly covered in stinking dragon’s blood, and the monster began to concentrate its attacks on them, flattening one with its enormous feet, and tearing the centaur to pieces. As it was occupied with this vengeance, Mugitus hammered into its side, raising his front hooves and ending up on top of it. While it fell with his immense weight on top of it, the general hefted his axe and clambered up to the thing’s shoulders. With a roar, he let the axehead drop, and the hideous head fell free.

There was a blast of energy which knocked everyone on the battlefield flat on their back. The same potential magical energy which had driven the Draken mad now raged free from the body of the were-dragon, washing above Cornelius’ eyes like waves of heat, though he knew if he stuck an arm into this wave it would be roasted away in seconds, or transformed into some horrible mockery of its former self. He remained on his back and prayed to Ancomius. A sound like the crashing of the sea upon a beach of broken glass followed the wave, and then as soon as it had started it was gone.

“What is happening?”

The voice, cracked from long disuse and strangely accented, cut through the silence that followed the wave of magic. Cornelius cursed under his breath, and he was not the only one at the battlefield to do so. This was what he had prayed against, but it was usually inevitable following the death of a were-dragon. Whatever energies that had collected to induce the transformation had dissipated, and now the Draken at the battlefield would briefly come to their senses, regain a portion of their former selves. This was never good.

The speaker wasn’t far from Cornelius. In fact, he was sure that the stout, bearded man had been one of the ones who had tried to climb on his back to break his neck just a minute beforehand. Now, however, the light of reason was in his eyes, and the Draken had just begun to look at his own body, visibly disgusted by what he found. The man was covered from head to foot in dragon’s blood, wearing only a loincloth, which was drenched in filth and gore. Cornelius saw his nostrils flare for a moment, and felt a moment of overwhelming pity for this man. I wish you had remained as you were, friend. Better that than know what you and your people have become.

“Dragon’s blood? Has one of our kin died this day?” The man seemed confused, which would not last long. Usually some memory of what they had done remained with the Draken in this state, and even if they completely forgot as this one evidently had, it was not for long. He stood, shaky on legs which had probably been running for days straight. “Centaurs, here? But these are the Cliffs of Dunfarrow, what are you doing here? Have we fought a battle this day? Where have the enemy gone. I…cannot remember.”

As other Draken began to get to their feet and look around, Mugitus approached the speaker. The rage and exultation which had suffused his features were now gone, replaced by sorrow. “My friend, before I tell you, my name is Rufus Fulvus Mugitus, of the 3rd Legion, the Hammer of Rundus. What is yours?” Mugitus held out his hand, and the Draken grasped it reflexively, halfway up the wrist in the traditional manner. “Well met, Rufus Fulvus Mugitus. My name is Krohur of the First Flight, Clan Banehide. Now please, tell me what has happened here.”

Mugitus’ chest heaved with emotion, and for a moment he hesitated. Then, with a shake of his head, he began to tell the tale which he and his soldiers dreaded. “We fought against you and your brethren, Krohur. Some time ago, perhaps as long as two centuries, there was a…cataclysm. The gods warred amongst themselves, and rogue magic raged throughout the land. Your people were driven into madness, becoming little more than animals. Castle Dagora stands as nothing but an empty shell. The Baron of your time reigns still, but as a demon-possessed husk in the caverns beneath Failti, with a horde of yidduri at his command. We centaurs were spared because we were closer to the natural world than any other magical creatures, and we have forged an alliance with the remnants of Fabon and Ecosse to combat the Baron and to…pacify these regions. Which means to purge them of you and your kind, because in two hundred years we have found no cure, save for the inexplicable return of sanity whenever we have killed a were-dragon.” He motioned to the still-twitching corpse he had so recently dispatched. “I pray that you do not remember much of what you have done, but if you do, believe me that your current condition is only temporary. You will return to the beast which you were in a matter of minutes, if not sooner.”

As Mugitus finished, Krohur bowed his head, tears flowing freely down his face. “I…begin to remember,” he croaked, his shoulders heaving with emotion. Cornelius felt his own chest burn, his throat tighten. Other Draken continued to rise, and they had all heard what Mugitus had said, the general’s booming voice had covered the entire battlefield. Some cried out upon recognising dead brothers-in-arms, but their cries were if anything more sorrowful as they embraced their living comrades. “We have fallen, and from these depths there is no return. Even now I see you spoke the truth, the madness threatens to rise up and conquer me again. On behalf of my people, I must offer you our deepest regret.” Mugitus shook his head vehemently, “You owe us nothing, friend. We have failed, and this is why your people still suffer as they do.”

“Nevertheless,” Krohur said, and by now Cornelius could hear a trace of what he must have sounded like, before his voice was taken by decades of rage and insanity. As Krohur spoke, his hands appeared to have a life of their own, running through his hair and over his face, where a matted beard hung low. “We cannot allow ourselves to sink so low again.” He looked about him, and saw that he had the attention of his brethren. “Draken! We know what we must do. These centaurs and these men have done their best to save us, but now that we own ourselves once more we can die with pride.”

Many of them nodded, as if such a thing was obvious. Cornelius was confused. The centaurs would not kill them as they were, it would be a grievous sin. He saw Mugitus’ face, and knew the general was thinking the same thing, his eyes already set upon a refusal. But the request never came. Instead, the Draken began to gather together. Some of them had already begun to revert, and they were constrained by their fellows, whom they did not instinctively attack.

“Rufus Fulvus Mugitus,” Krohur said, as the Draken began to walk towards the cliffs, away from the battlefield. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You have given us a few precious moments, from the horror of centuries. As I die, I will remember my mate and our children, and the glory of days long past. When we are gone, please burn our fallen brethren as was traditional, on a great pyre. We would be honoured if your fallen would burn with us, so that they may all meet again in Calaspir.” Then he went to join the rest of the Draken, who had linked arms.

Mugitus nodded his consent, and stood staring at the ground for a moment, where the grass was now dyed purple with blood and entrails of all sorts. Cornelius regarded his general for a moment. The request to die had not been given. The one time before that Cornelius had fought and seen a were-dragon killed, Mugitus had had to refuse the plea, and the Legion had waited until the last light of reason had faded from the Draken’s eyes, and they once more took up their weapons. Cornelius had not been the only one to weep as he fought that day.

But now, was this any better? Cornelius stood alongside Ennius, who was still bleeding from a deep wound in his side. With their cohorts, they watched the Draken walk in a line towards the cliffs, which Krohur had named Dunfarrow. There were already a few trills of furious laughter rising amongst them, but as they approached the edge they began to sing in a strange language. Even though the sounds were strange, and the words unintelligible, it could not be mistaken for anything but a dirge.

“Draconic,” Mugitus rumbled somewhere behind Cornelius. Everyone else remained silent, they understood that this was a moment to remember. The dirge came to an end, and the Draken stood in a long line along the cliff-face. Fifteen hundred of them, gazing out across the northern seas. It seemed that the Legion stood watching them for an eternity, seeing for an instant the nobility of these warriors whom they had been forced to consider as dangerous monsters. Then, as one, they stepped out in oblivion, and left behind the evils of the present. Cornelius closed his eyes. May you find peace on the other side, Draken. I fear that Calaspir no longer stands, but I pray that you find it standing still, its pennants flying in the divine breeze, and the eternal feast still within. May the Sun bless you with her light, and Earth keep you in her warmth.

Later that day, when the grim business of collecting the dead and building the enormous pyre was complete, the Legion stood assembled in parade formation. They had all done their best to repair and clean their equipment, but there was a certain rag-tag look to them all. Nothing that could be done about that, after a three-month campaign and a hard day’s battle. Still, their discipline and silence showed their respect for both the legionnaires and the Draken who had died that day.

Mugitus walked up and down before the Legion, nodding to each of his commanders as he did so. He seemed to hold Cornelius’ eyes for a long time, although it was probably just his imagination. The fluttering of the Legion’s banner was the only noise apart from the crashing of the waves against the cliffs far below. No-one had had the heart to look down and see if the Draken had been washed away yet by the surf. The general halted between the centre of the formation and the pyre.

“A lot of good men died here today. Once, the Flights of Castle Dagora soared overhead and guarded these lands for the Dragon Knight. Once, the Draken were a proud people, as we have seen today. What has been done to them is evil, and our appreciation for this evil is only increased because we were spared. Krohur of the First Flight, Clan Banehide, was a great man, I knew it when I looked into his eyes. He absolved us of blame, but he has not seen the Fifth Isle as it is today. As we have seen it. So we must still bear our burden, not because we caused the great evil which consumed the Draken and so many others, but because we have survived it. Our federation with the Fabonaar and the Ecotch will endure, and one day we will return peace to the Fifth Isle. Until then, we have our duty. Until then, every day, we must mourn the passing of Krohur and his brethren. Until then we will fight the dark things that have awakened in our own age. That is our purpose. By the Beastlord Ancomius, by Rundus the Smith, by Dovarca the poet, and by all the gods, I swear that this shall be my purpose. Third Legion, Hammer of Rundus, is it yours?!”

The Legion roared in approval. There were many oaths to Ancomius and to Rundus, and Cornelius found himself cheering along with the rest. His heart wasn’t in it, though, and he soon stopped. Mugitus spoke truly, but this talk of fighting and war always left a sour taste in Cornelius’ mouth. Centaurs were supposed to be teachers and advisors, like the Ancient Kiron. That was why they had been spared from the fate of the Draken, to lead the world into a brighter future. The idea that they would have to fight every step of the way…it disturbed him.

When the cheering had died down, Mugitus gave the order for the pyre to be lit. Torchbearers stepped forward from all sides and soon the flames were crackling. Then the Legion got ready to move. They would be making camp some miles away to the south. Not only to avoid the terrible smell of the roasting flesh, however. The enormous pyre was almost certain to attract further bands of Draken, and the Legion was not ready to fight a second time that day.

* * *


That evening, when the Legion was camped, its watchfires making an orderly pattern on the stretching Plains, a group of centaurs met in secret atop a nearby hill. They were shrouded, not to hide their identities, but to make the proper respects in the rites they would conduct that evening. One of them had brought a young hind with her, led by a rope. The animal was frightened, as if it could sense the fate that soon awaited it.

Amphis Truxiubus was the first to speak. He held his arms up, with the elbows crooked. “Great Lord Veradroon, Bear of Slaughter, we hail you and give you praise.” The rest of the group intoned after him, “Hail and praise to you, Lord of the Hunt, Lord of Blood.” The centaur holding the hind dragged it forward, into the centre of a circle the others had marked out with red stones on the hillock. She drew out a wicked-looking dagger and held it in her left hand as she grasped the hind’s throat with her right.

“To you, Great Lord Veradroon, we give this sacrifice as thanks for our success in today’s battle. We pledge this and more blood in the days that come, for your continued protection of our people from the madness of the Draken.” With a practised motion, she drew the dagger across the deer’s throat and held it out over a bowl which another of the group held out to collect the blood.

Amphis continued, “So that you know we still uphold our compact, as we did during the Fall, we share now this blood of the Hunt with you, O Great Lord.” The bowl of hot blood was passed from hand to hand, and the centaurs each drank. The rest of the hind’s lifeblood poured out onto the earth inside the circle of red stones, as a tribute to the god.

When the ritual was complete, one of the centaurs drew back his hood. “That was a close battle today, but by the Bear I hate it when they regain their senses,” rumbled Rufus Fulvus Mugitus, “It unsettles the men and makes it all the harder to get them to see the reason for what we do up here.”

“They need not fight for our reasons, General, so long as they fight,” said Amphis. “The Great Lord requires only that we give offerings to him, he does not truly care why the offerings are made. Our race will endure.”

“Very well. I wonder sometimes, if a few of the younger ones are not growing suspicious. That Ruberungulus lad looks at me strangely, his eyes seem to grow sadder by the day. Today he threw himself into the middle of a bunch of Draken and he didn’t even seem ready to fight them!”

“I saw. He does not have the Rage, as many do. It will come to him, or he will die. These are not pretty battles we fight, General. Our enemies are not misunderstood, they are consumed by evil and madness. If he feels too much pity for them, he will soon discover how much pity is left in their souls.”

“Harrumph. Precious little. Still, he fought well when he fought! A fine young lad, he and the elder Tibius did well to hold the left for as long as they did. Did the Hammer proud.”

The rest of the gathering of nine centaurs stayed quiet. Many of them had just come along for the ritual, exhausted by the day’s events they were unwilling to discuss them in detail. The general and his bodyguard talked over the disposition of the cohorts for another minute or two, then as chief ritualist, Amphis dismissed the gathering. They returned to the camp, to sleep amongst their individual cohorts.

It had been a long day.
Funky Wombat
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Scott Alexander
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Re: Exile

Post by Scott Alexander »

Well, that sure got dark in a hurry. Too much Malazan, probably.

Latinized Treesian gods are weird, but at least VERADROON! remains in action under his proper name.

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Funky Wombat
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Re: Exile

Post by Funky Wombat »

Scott Alexander wrote:Well, that sure got dark in a hurry. Too much Malazan, probably.

Latinized Treesian gods are weird, but at least VERADROON! remains in action under his proper name.
Too much Malazan? Or just enough?!

Veradroon is indeed still around. Where the rest of the gods are remain to be seen!
Funky Wombat
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Re: Exile

Post by Emir of Raspur »

Brilliantly gory nonetheless. The En Lugal should study this to learn how matters are conducted properly.

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ari
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Re: Exile

Post by ari »

THE BLOOD OF AMNESIAC WEREDRAGONS HAS BEEN SPILLED

No reason for that outburst other than that I like the term "amnesiac weredragon". It's certainly googleable.
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Funky Wombat
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Re: Exile

Post by Funky Wombat »

Part Two: Power and Those It Enslaves

The log of Cornelius Ruberungulus Castus
1st day on Longinquissima Insula

The fleet have anchored in a wide bay sheltered by two enormous capes, and Ennius, Nestor and I have gone ashore. Towering sand dunes barred our view of the land for a time, but once we had surmounted them we saw a land abundant in opportunity. Beach gave way to savannah, which peppered with forests runs to distant mountains, which seem to dominate the northwestern half of this, the largest island in the archipelago.

Some scouting is in order to see if we can find a better harbour, for if the weather turned our ships would be run aground surely. Nestor and his Southlanders will range to the east, while Ennius and I and two cohorts will investigate the lands closer to those far-off mountains. But that is a matter for tomorrow. Tonight we feast and give thanks to the gods, who have taken pity on us and ensured that our destination is not too harsh a prison.


* * *


Eight months prior to the first day on the Farthest Isle, on the Dragon Plains of Wickhigh…

The next morning was breezy, as the Legion might have expected from the springtime weather. The night had passed peacefully enough, but for ominous howls in the far distance and the ever-present red glow off to the southeast, where the Fires of Llacheu still burned, and would burn forever, some said. The Legion had learned to ignore this sight during the Wickhigh campaign, but it had unsettled everyone for the first week. It is one thing to be told as a foal that the madness of a god doomed his followers and the land he loved to writhe in flame forever, it is quite another to see it for yourself, Cornelius often reflected when he could not sleep and spent the night gazing out at the inferno that was once the greatest site of magical learning in the whole of Tirlar. Last night had been one of those nights. The demise of the Draken had stuck in his mind, and he caught himself wondering what it would be like, to take that step and leave everything you had ever been behind. If I find battle so terrible, should I not do the same? If I think that centaurs were not supposed to live as warriors, how can I continue as one? Do I become a greater coward every day when I lift my sword in anger?

But these thoughts never took on the full depth of melancholy. Cornelius knew his own temperament, a philosopher rather than a thinker. He did not allow his increasing despair gain mastery over his actions. Yes, he loathed the “good work” he did day by day, as Mugitus had described it in any number of so-called rousing speeches. Yes, when he wielded a sword against another being he could feel something deep within him begin to bend, threaten to snap. No, he would not stop, not yet. He believed in the future that Mugitus had promised time and time again, that one day the Fifth Isle would be at peace once more. Centaurs lived a long time, longer than anyone except the elves, but they were gone now, leaving their forests behind to grow dark and evil. The story of Ancient Kiron returned to him again and again when his thoughts grew too gloomy. Hadn’t the First Centaur fought in battles, before he became the great teacher? Hadn’t his first piece produced upon the anvil of Rundus as part of his apprenticeship been a sword, soon used in anger against Yétal when Kiron foiled one of the Forsaken’s innumerable plots to destroy the Heavens? And hadn’t his first ode written under Dovarca’s watchful eye been the record of that battle? Yes, before he was Ancient. Before he became the venerable teacher and wisest of all Ancomius’ children. Still, there was a lesson there for the taking. Do not go looking for wisdom, allow it to find you. Cornelius held onto that thought, that one day he could put down his life as a soldier and find all that he was supposed to be.

So he had whiled away the night-time hours with this sort of internal monologue, while at the campfires the Southlander legionnaires sang of the Meridian Desert, the heart-stoppingly beautiful maidens (not for long) who hid amongst every oasis, and the foolhardy young warriors who went to seek them. Cornelius had only ever heard one Southlander song that wasn’t shamelessly bawdy. The Song of the Burning. He had only ever heard that the once, when one of their wise men had died back home. It was a song every Southlander knew, that they were taught from the earliest age to sing and sing well. Last night, thankfully, had not been a night for the Song of the Burning. That one had chilled Cornelius to the bone, and filled his heart with incandescent shame. Instead, when he had roused himself from his thoughts, he had caught the final lines of one of the longer and less restrained ditties of desert love.

I held her tight (oh so tight!)
To her I’d be true (oh so true!)
But she left me behind and she’s broken my heart and I never even got to…
(Ohhhhhhh!)


The legionnaires fell about laughing as the singer's song ended in an unfinished crescendo. Then he stood up and began a sort of obscene dance. That was how they usually ended, alright. When their women were with them the singing usually took on a competitive aspect, with couples taking it in turns to recount each half of a ballad of love or lust, while the rest cheered, jeered and danced. But there were no women amongst the Southlanders in the Legion, or in any Legion. Since the Desolation of the Southland, when the Southlanders placed bans upon themselves to keep from repeating the terrible mistakes of the past, bans which were reinforced by the vengeful war conducted upon them by the centaurs of the north of Breigh. Southlander women owned property and managed households, while Southlander men became warriors or scholars and generally roamed as nomads. The Southlanders were an emotional people, never ones to keep anger or sadness very deep under the surface.

Of course they didn’t talk of all this to the centaurs very much, most of them keeping a diffidence towards their social betters. Cornelius had learned most of it from Nestor Tibius, Ennius’ younger brother. The cheerful young centaur was beloved by his Southlander legionnaires, and it was rumoured amongst the Legion that the second son of the Piper’s House had taken a lover amongst the Southlanders, a woman of great prestige and power. Centaur-human trysts were not nearly as common now as they had been in legend, and the enemies of House Tibius had tried their best to make Nestor a laughing-stock. But there was something about Nestor, his earnest joy as every day dawned and he was still alive to experience it, which silenced those who wished him harm. That and his brother Ennius, a solid wall of muscle and utter humourlessness where his sibling was concerned. Ennius was not nearly as friendly with the Southlanders as Nestor, but he was respected as a great warrior, far more of a natural where battle was concerned than Cornelius was, truth be told.

It was towards Ennius’ cohort that Cornelius’ wandering feet began to take him. The camp was just waking up or catching a quick nap after the last watch of the night, and it was quiet enough for Cornelius’ hooves to clop eerily loud as he stepped upon a patch of stone under the grass. Two of the retiring sentries looked up from their game of dice and stood up, saluting. “Welcome this morning, Cornelius Ruberungulus,” one said, flashing a grin which exposed his blackened teeth. One of the northern-most tribes of the Southlands, the Blackteeth had been particularly pernicious foes in ages past. Now, they were amongst the most loyal soldiers in the Legion, and surviving records said they had been the most assiduous in bringing the rest of the Southlands under the authority of the Knight in Bregus. Still, Cornelius remembered tapestries in his family’s home, of fearsome dark-mawed figures, more daemon than man, carrying off young centaurs for their cookpots. Whether Southlanders had ever eaten centaur flesh or not, those charcoaled teeth still conjured up the old mother’s tales, still told in some of the more traditional households to force good behaviour and a sense of social and racial class upon the young and impressionable. Cornelius’ father had preferred the tapestries as a daily reminder, and all of his bed-time stories had been of Ancient Kiron, of the time before the Desolation and before the Five Isles, before the Southlanders became a true people.

“By Ancomius’ antlers, Cornelius, you are looking pensive this morning!” Ennius’ voice drew his childhood friend out of his reverie. “Come in, I’ve got coffee on, finest Fabonaar brew. It was a devil to get, I was just about to send Salin Janar here off to get you,” he motioned to his manservant, who gave Cornelius a companionable nod, recognising the centaur as a friend of his people. “Well, Salin Janar, be off with you and fetch my brother. I think he could use this coffee just as much as Cornelius Ruberungulus here.” Like many centaurs who spent a lot of time around Southlanders, Ennius slipped into the habit of giving people their full names, something that they insisted on as a people. Nestor had tried to explain it to Cornelius once as a result of the huge importance that was attributed to motherhood in their culture, but he had had to admit defeat. Names were mutable, and having your soldiers often refuse to acknowledge you unless you could remember their full name was immensely frustrating. They never did it during battle, thank Rundus, but an officer had to have a mind like the Encyclopaedia the rest of the time to make himself obeyed.

“There he goes again! Kneel down, Cornelius and tell me the news. I haven’t seen you since after the battle yesterday, and I’ve been meaning to thank you for saving our necks when that thing appeared.” A meaty arm encircled his shoulders and guided him to one of the enormous cushions that centaurs used for relaxation when away from home where proper chairs couldn’t be easily transported. He knelt down, and accepted a steaming mug of coffee from Ennius. “Sorry,” he muttered, and took a first tongue-searing sip of the thick black liquid. He winced, and his friend snorted in amusement. “Serves you right for not wanting to talk about it. No use avoiding speaking the truth, Ennius, that’s what my father always told me. The gods will ensure you regret it immediately.” He knelt down himself, settled his great haunches comfortably and leaning his elbows back on a wooden frame that was placed on either side of the cushion. “So tell me, what’s eating you? You’ve been so quiet lately, so obviously thinking those deep thoughts of yours, that we haven’t had a chance to talk.”

Cornelius met Ennius’ eyes, and heaved a sigh. Ennius would drag it out of him anyway, and he was right, it was best to speak his mind. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this, Ennius. Be a soldier. It’s expected of me, expected of all young centaurs of noble birth. But this is against what we are. We were spared because we were closest to nature, because we would be good teachers for those who survived. And yesterday, when those Draken had given up hope, it was because we gave them no hope. Mugitus told them that they were doomed, and they knew it must be true because he is a centaur and would not lie. I wonder when we gave up hope for this world. It was before our time, I think. When I remember the stories of Ancient Kiron-”

“Is the Redhoof being as much craic as usual, dear brother?” Nestor had burst into the tent halfway through Cornelius’ sentence. The sweet smell of churned grass emanated from his hoofs and he carried the scents of woodsmoke and the coarse alcoholic brew of the Southlanders with him into the tent. Nestor Tibius was like a younger, lighter version of his brother. When he had been his age, Ennius was nearly a ton and a half in weight. Nestor took after their mother, barely making a ton on his own. His cohort was responsible for scouting missions, where the superior speed and quick reflexes of him and his hand-picked centaurs came in most useful. It seemed he had spent the night in revelling with his lower-ranking centaurs and probably most of his legionnaires. Such fraternisation was again more common in stories than in reality, but Nestor was the exception that proved the rule. He peppered his language with Treesian words not as an affectation, but because he thought they better expressed his thoughts than Kironis could at times. Most days, Cornelius loved him as the brother he had never had. On others, the young centaur was insufferable. Jury’s still out this morning, Cornelius thought.

“The esteemed Ruberungulus was just telling me his thoughts on our current situation when you so rudely interrupted, dearest younger brother,” Ennius rejoined, mock-severely. He would walk through fire for Nestor, however, and his brother was too wise to this to ever take Ennius’ jibes seriously. “Oh, sorry, I just heard mention of Ancient Kiron when I entered and I presumed he was talking about our destiny as a people like some oldhoof in the Equorum. These are different days, and we do what we must. You don’t see the Southlanders wondering about the metaphysics of it all. Each day comes and they accept it. I think it’s time we did too.” Nestor crossed his arms over his torso, and eyed the pot of coffee. “Any more in there, Ennius? I’m feeling it this morning.” “Well of course there is, that’s why I sent Salin Janar to get you.” “Oh? Must’ve missed him.”

There was something in Nestor’s posture as he dismissed Cornelius’ worries that interested him. The young centaur could never be called disingenuous, but he was capable of wanting something to be true even if it wasn’t. His words had been somehow defensive, as if he was rejecting his own doubts. Not as sure as he lets on, Cornelius thought, as he blew on his coffee and prepared to take another sip. At that moment, the tentflap opened and Salin Janar re-entered, doing a good imitation of Ennius’ snort when he saw the younger Tibius already standing inside. “I couldn’t find Nestor Tibius, sir, but I see he has found his own way. I have other news, if you would hear it.”

Ennius gave the nod, and Salin went on, “They say that Rufus Fulvus Mugitus has received a messenger from the city of Bregus. Whatever news the messenger brought, the General has been roaring and shouting ever since. Listen, he bellows even now.” All fell silent, and Cornelius stopped blowing on his coffee. Indeed, they could hear Mugitus’ voice, carried on the light morning breeze. Cornelius thought he caught a snatch of, “…by the Seven Hells, he has no authority…”, but couldn’t be sure. News from Bregus, which made the Bellower rant and rave about authority? It could only mean one thing. He had finally gone and done it.

Cornelius set his coffee down and met the eyes of one Tibius, then the other. “I’ll go see what the matter is, although I think I know.” Ennius and Nestor both nodded ruefully, one of the few gestures the brothers shared. “I’ll lay you even odds that he dissolved the Equorum first, then declared himself,” Nestor said. “Ah now, don’t make bets your purse can’t back, dear brother,” Ennius rejoined gruffly, “You never win at dice when you’ve been drinking the Southland grog.” He left the brothers behind, arguing good-naturedly. Often this good nature could result in a brawl, but ten minutes later they’d be laughing together again. Such was the nature of the Tibii, the Pipers.

Ennius and Nestor had been orphaned young when their holdings close to the Vembrian border had been destroyed by the Folk. There had been many such attacks at the time, when the Folk had decided that the borders of Vembria were not only the edge of Faoileos Forest, but a couple of leagues beyond that. These were the early days of the Federation, before the concerted effort to reclaim something of civilisation when everyone had still been running scared. The pair had been rescued by their tutor, a Southlander who had been a family retainer for many years. They were left with their parents’ large holdings, a hereditary seat in the Equorum they could gain when they had been elected to a magistracy, and a familial determination to make the Fifth Isle a safer place. They had been fostered in Cornelius’ household, as was traditional. It was the responsibility of the Knight of Breigh to ensure that children were fostered with rivals of their parents, as custom and the worship of the gods demanded, as Ancomius had once been fostered to Salio Gemsmith in the Beginning. The Ruberunguli and the Tibii had never been friends, and Cornelius and Ennius had mistrusted each other at first. Nestor had been too young, and it was really his charm, youth and great need that removed the wedges between one proud household and the shattered remnants of another.

By the time they were twenty-five and had come of age, Cornelius and Ennius were the best of friends. They joined the 3rd Legion as was considered right and proper for young centaurs of noble birth, as they both were. They were trained for six months, and then each put in charge of a cohort, expected to rely on their noble blood to see them through where talent could not. It had been five months now, fighting on the Dragon Plains. Cornelius remembered feeling so much younger less than a year ago, convinced that this was the first step on the path to being more like Ancient Kiron, half-afraid to discuss his dreams even with Ennius. Every morning those dreams seemed a little further away. The grim realities kept intruding, as they doubtless were this morning. As he approached Mugitus’ tent, he could clearly hear the General shouting.

“Not even a word, not even a summons back! If I hadn’t paid off someone to tell me, it could’ve been months before I’d heard! And he expects to get away with it! Why? Because those doddering old fools will let him! They’ll see his ambition and call it strength and they’ll fritter away everything we’ve tried to do! You see he’s said it’s a temporary solution until the war is over, to increase stability! As if six months ago he hadn’t stood in front of the Equorum and had the gall to say that the Legions were taking too much resources away from the Knightship! He’ll ruin us, he’ll send us on the road to doom! Him and this dynasty of his!”

These last words were spat out as a curse, as Cornelius entered the command tent. Nothing he had heard had made him any less thankful that he hadn’t taken Nestor’s bet. Young gadabout he may be, the younger centaur had a head for politics. The command tent was full of centaurs. Mugitus was in the centre of course, waving a scroll about in a clenched fist. Amphis lounged in a corner, keeping quiet as befit his social station but nonetheless watching everyone in the tent with keen eyes. Cornelius was not among those cohort commanders who considered Mugitus’ bodyguard an upstart who had been given honours above his rank. He just considered him a dangerous and unpredictable centaur capable of extreme violence who it was best not to cross, so he gave him a nod as he entered. Amphis merely cocked an eyebrow in response, his grey eyes only meeting Cornelius’ for a second before darting away again. He was on alert, which meant the Bellower was really and truly ready to do violence to someone. Most likely Knight Augustus, whose powerplays seemed to have finally come to fruition.

“Ruberungulus,” Mugitus growled when he saw Cornelius standing there, “has your father lost what little is left of his wits? Or has he and the entire Equorum lost their balls? How can they let him do this?” Cornelius tried to keep his cool. Impieties, rages, insults against himself he could stand and do so with fortitude. But his father was a wise centaur, in his opinion much better in most ways than the arrogant warmonger in front of him, and he could not easily stand to hear him be insulted. “Let who do what, sir?” he decided to ask, as the nearest thing to seeming-respect he could conjure. Mugitus seemed to recognise it, and gritted his teeth. Then, rolling out the scroll in his scarred fists, he read, “Our Knight, Ramus Augustus Zephyrus, has dissolved the Equorum, with their consent. Also with the consent of our venerable lawmakers, he has declared himself Knight in perpetuity, immune to re-election until such time as the present war conducted by Breigh and its allies in the Federation is concluded. The position of Knight will be held by the Augustus family until this time, to bring greater stability and strength to the greatest Knightship of the Fifth Isle.” There was more on the scroll, doubtless information on the movements of Mugitus’ rivals in Bregus, but he didn’t deign to share this. “In other words, he’s done what his family has always wanted to do and almost crowned himself Emperor, or as good as! He’s destroyed the Equorum, and undone in one day what has taken us years to set up. Our allies in the Federation are conscious that our power grows every day, and either they’ll submit to his authority or the alliance will break. He can’t be allowed to do this.” By now he wasn’t just talking to Cornelius, wasn’t even talking to the rest of the centaurs in the tent. He seemed, like Nestor had earlier, to be convincing himself. Cornelius wondered at that. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one with inner daemons.

“And I certainly won’t be the one to let him, anyway. Neither will one or two Legion Generals I know. Baiana, fetch the map.” One of Mugitus’ close aides, a shapely female centaur who nevertheless wore the wicked-looking dagger at her hip in a dangerous fashion, soon had a map of the Fifth Isle spread out, and had placed weights on each of its sides. Another aide placed figurines on it in particular areas, each carrying the banner of one of the Legions. The 3rd Legion with the ox-head banner in the Dragon Plains. The 1st and 2nd at home in Breigh, with their archer and piper. The 2nd was commanded by Brutus Tibius Sequester, a cousin of Nestor and Ennius’, and if they had not been fostered perhaps they’d be “safe” at home patrolling the Vembrian border. The 4th Legion with their sun-snake banner was in the southern part of Koroch, or as far south as anyone dared to go these days. The 5th Legion with their otter banner were in the northern part, near the Fabonaar border. The 6th Legion, the 3rd’s old rivals, with their anvil banner, were in Fabon itself, near the ruins of the City.

“Pacuvius in Fabon will help us, as will Pardus with the 5th.” Mugitus appeared to think for a moment, although Cornelius always suspected that the General allowed these pauses so that his soldiers would not think he committed their lives on spur-of-the-moment decisions. Perhaps he even used these moments to reconsider his original impulse, but Cornelius doubted it. “Tamesis, you will take your cohort and go to Fabon. Tell Pacuvius that I’m calling in a favour, and he is to join us in Bregus before the season is out.” Another pause, and he tapped the little figurine with its otter banner, the Heralds of Dovarca. “Ruberungulus, you will take the Tibii and all of your cohorts, and bring Pardus and the Heralds to Bregus. He will not want to come, but I think you can persuade him.” There was silence following this order, and Cornelius felt all eyes on him. Save for Nestor, he and Ennius were the most junior cohort commanders. Giving them a mission like this showed that Mugitus held them in high esteem, or at the very least expected them to come out of it successfully. Cornelius knew that half of the centaurs there were eager to prove themselves. Members of a race where the oldest often lasted in their prime well into their second century, chances to do so were few and far between. Cornelius and his friends had been handed a chance in a thousand. No sense in angering those others who had lost out by betraying his own misgivings.

“At once, General. We’ll leave this morning,” Cornelius said and bowed from the waist, taking his leave of the command tent as quickly as he could. He was about two tents away from Mugitus and his fellow commanders when he realised he was being caught up. He turned and saw Amphis Truxiubus keeping stride with him. “You left before the General could say that I was going with you, sir. I once served with the 5th, and he feels that I might be of some use in persuading General Pardus to do what General Mugitus wants him to do.” Cornelius nodded, able to hold the piercing grey eyes for only a moment before he had to look away. “Oh yes, and does he think that General Pardus will be difficult to persuade?” Amphis shrugged. “Only as difficult as it is to persuade a brother of anything that doesn’t want to be persuaded, sir.”

Cornelius was non-plussed by this, but he took it as a reference to Ennius and Nestor. “Well I’ll be glad to have you along, Amphis. I’m proud that the General has put so much trust in me.” “I’m sure he’s right to do so, sir. You and your friends show a lot of promise, if you don’t mind me saying.” This was all said in Amphis’ usual unemotional unctuous tones, and it took little thought to see why a lot of the cohort commanders disliked him. Centaurs not of noble birth usually kept such comments to themselves, and Cornelius could feel a slight bristling at the familiarity. But Amphis was not just any commoner, he was Mugitus’ favourite and a brutal fighter. “My thanks for the compliment, Amphis. Come with me and I’ll rouse the Tibii.”

Apparently news travelled faster than they did. When they reached Ennius’ cohort, the legionnaires were already getting their packs ready, and Nestor had evidently gone to get his own cohort moving. Ennius strode out to meet them, his greatsword sheathed across his back. “We hear we’re going on a trip, Cornelius!” he shouted above the general din. He glanced at Amphis, and then back at his friend. “The General has given you a great boon by giving you this mission, and us for sending us with you. Your father must have voted against the dissolution after all!” Cornelius smiled at this, and laughed along with Ennius. Probably not, my friend, he thought, We Ruberunguli have never been known to set aside a course we’ve decided to follow. He’d have voted to end the institution our forefathers set up simply because he wants these wars to end, for me to go back to him, and apologise on bended knees. Maybe he even knew the Legions would march. No, Mugitus has some other reason for singling us out. I wonder what.

Still, for once there was little time for contemplation. With a nod to Ennius, he cantered away to his own cohort, where again everyone had heard the morning’s orders. His centaurs were ready and waiting, and his legionnaires were packing away their tents. Within an hour, they were ready to march. As the sun rose towards midday, a third of the 3rd Legion broke away. Three cohorts headed south, the other one headed west. Both groups could move more swiftly than the full Legion. They would summon Mugitus’ allies, meet the main body of the Legion as it headed through central Koroch, and then begin the journey back to Breigh. The war to restore peace to the Fifth Isle was the centaurs’ sacred duty, but only if it was mandated by all centaur-kind. One could not set himself up above the rest and expect to get away with it. So it was that Cornelius Ruberungulus began his journey into the wilds of Koroch, where a daemon in the body of a Baron ruled over the dead and those who wished they were dead.
Funky Wombat
"Been around for a long long time, ain't seen nothing new"

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Scott Alexander
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Re: Exile

Post by Scott Alexander »

Poor Llacheu. I always knew it would end in fire. Which god was it that finally did it in?

As for Ennius and Nestor, how many more people have to lose their families before people realize that you can NEVER TRUST A VEMBRIAN?

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