#Steelblood Front

[ashitakaxsan]

And there came,directly from the Light Novel, the leader of the anti highlander organization  Steelblood Front,the mysterious Black Mask. So many that are unknown about him!

Whether his plans will go as he wants, or not,remains to be seen.

I do notice so many fans of the series dislike him.They have to get used to Him.I like him:)

[tsaomengde]

What Is Owed (4)

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3)

           “It is because I killed your aunt.”

           Andral pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth, at this answer to what he had assumed would be a relatively innocuous question.  Why are you here?

           The rest of his retinue sit around the table in poses of similar shock, utensils poised, faces blank.  The only person here who does not look this way is the one who just spoke.

           “Indeed?” Andral asks, putting the spoon back down, letting its portion of the aromatic beef stew return to the bowl.  Not the best he has ever had, but allowances must be made for preparing provisions while traveling.  “Wherefore?”

           Alia blinks and sits quietly for the better part of a minute.  Looking at this strange woman, Andral does not think she is taking this long to answer him because she is drunk; indeed, she is on her fourth glass of the green wine from Seraux, which Andral had hoped might last a little longer into the journey, with no visible effect.  He believes she is instead debating precisely how to answer him.

           He lets her think, taking a moment to examine their surroundings with a critical eye.  The dining deck of the Astes is elegant enough, in a sparse way.  The floor is polished ebony, imported from Tretanar – or perhaps, and more likely, purchased and installed within the bounds of that nation, so as to avoid the hefty tariffs his father has imposed upon the importation of hardwoods from foreign lands.  The tables are mahogany, deftly carved, but marred by the fact that they are obviously bolted to the floor.  Other items of decoration usual to dining rooms – hanging portraits or tapestries, drapes about the windows – are all absent, owing to the practicalities of operating a moving vehicle which can experience turbulence or sudden loss of altitude.

           The tableware is pewter, rather than the more fashionable porcelain invented some sixty years ago.  Naturally, when dropped from the table to the floor, pewter does not shatter, while porcelain does.  Upon finding pewter tableware, Andral’s personal Master of Protocol, Shariach, had flown into a towering rage, insisting he be allowed to go berate the captain for forcing a prince of the realm to eat off of the plates and with the utensils of the peasantry.  Andral had asked him, pointedly, if he would like to bring his own personal collection of Maroshi porcelain vases – Marosh being the country from which the Randran “inventors” of porcelain had stolen the manufacting process – the next time they took ship.  Shariach had declined, and grudgingly allowed that practicality, rather than the parochial aesthetics of the lower classes, might be the true culprit here.

           Andral does not especially care about any of it.  It is an intellectual exercise for him, applying the refined sensibilities of his teachers and peers.  He does not want to be here at all, or think on what awaits him in Oalla, so he distracts himself with trivialities.  Upon reflection, it occurs to him that another, more empathetic man might currently be furious or upset at the revelation that Alia is responsible for the death of a family member, but his aunt has been dead since before he was born.  It is an interesting fact, but he does not find himself much moved.

           At the sound of Alia clearing her throat, he snaps his eyes back to her.  He guesses her to be about fifty-five or sixty, though a difficult life might have aged her prematurely.  He is told, after all, that his father’s men found her passed out drunk in an alley. The idea seems to contrast sharply with the severe, battle-ready, sharp-eyed woman seated at the other side of the table from him.  But then he flicks his gaze to her wine glass before cutting it back to her face, and recalls the tidings that she spent most of the day here on the Astes’s dining deck, seated at the bar which occupies the corner of the room behind him.

           “Does Your Highness wish the full tale?” Alia asks. “Or might I offer a simple explanation so we may then return to our repast?”

           Andral steeples his fingers in front of him, a habit he has inherited from his father.  “By all means, Milady Steelblooded, give us the full tale.”

           She voices a barely audible sigh, closing her eyes briefly before fixing him with them.  They are such a deep brown as to be almost black, and he finds them difficult to match.  “Perhaps Your Highness is already aware, but your father inherited the throne of Randra from your grandfather, His August Majesty Leoran, who took it from its previous occupant, His Majesty Chandashi.”

           “I am aware,” Andral confirms.

           “Your father, your aunt Syval, and I were officers within His August Majesty Leoran’s army.”  Alia pauses, and Andral watches her glance around the table at the various members of his retinue.  Shariach, naturally, is trembling with suppressed umbrage; it is the height of rudeness to discuss uncouth matters such as wars and bloody family history at table.  But, as Andral requested the full tale, he is keeping his mouth shut.

           Ora, normally dispassionate, appears quite interested in the direction of the discussion.  Flencher, Andral’s swordmaster and dueling teacher, is outwardly uninterested, continuing to eat his stew, but Andral sees how his eyes watch Alia rather than his bowl.  The twins, Rana and Eana, in charge of Andral’s wardrobe, grooming, and presentation, look nervously at the other diners, trying to judge reactions.

           “Stryga and Syval were there, of course,” Alia continues, “to give support to Leoran –”  

           Alia stops as Shariach slams his hands down on the table, stands, and stabs a finger at her.  “You,” he bellows in his impressive baritone, “will refer to His August Majesty Stryga and His August Majesty Leoran by their proper titles, or –”

           “Sit down, Shariach,” Andral cuts him off.  “Sit down, and meditate upon the import of the word silence.”  He pins Shariach with his gaze like a physician concentrating upon a boil they are about to lance, and does not blink until the old man sits, the sepia flesh of his face darkening with a dangerous, angry flush. Then he turns back to Alia.  “Pray continue.”

            “Stryga and Syval were there to give support to Leoran,” Alia says, giving Shariach her own withering glare before returning her attention to Andral.  “The family’s coffers swelled near to bursting from their trade in cinnabar to the alchemists of Quresh, who prized the quicksilver which might be gotten from it for use in their rites.  With such wealth, and a weak king upon the Randran throne, Leoran recognized opportunity, and raised him up a mighty army, paid in gold, most of it still bearing the face of the Qureshi God-King.

           “I was at that time not yet consecrated of Yeda, and was by trade a mercenary.  Leoran might have had my sword arm for Qureshi gold, but in fact I joined his cause for Syval.  We, and Stryga, had given battle together two years afore, against the Irtii raiders who had cut their way south from their lands and threatened Randra’s borders. She came to me, me in especial, and asked my aid in support of Leoran.”

           Andral nods.  He can read much from the far-off look in Alia’s eyes, the seemingly uncharacteristic wistfulness in her voice.  She is telling this story because he, the Prince, asked her to, not because she wants to. “I take it you agreed,” he says, “and for reasons other than fancy for the likeness of the God-King.”

           Her lips twist in a harsh smile, and he knows it is not in response to his joke about the dead-eyed reptile that adorns those golden coins.  “Yes. I wished to ride again into battle with her.  I believed we loved each other.”

           “You were lovers?” Andral asks.  He hides a smile at Shariach’s mute outrage that his Prince should ask such a rudely personal question.

           “We were.  Both in the aftermath of the battle against the Irtii, and as we rode to take the throne from Chandashi.”  Alia stops, drains her wine glass, indicates to the porter standing nearby that she wants yet another.  Andral restrains himself from telling the porter to begin giving her half-measures; she would only ask twice as often.

           “What, then, fell betwixt you?”

           “The Conclave of Randra found Stryga to have permissible claim to the throne through combat,” Alia says, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table.  “To this end, it was determined that this should be a formalized War of Succession, to be fought in limited style away from cities and towns, with no dishonor done to the losing side.  The Conclave desired it thus, to avoid the introduction of skyship combat or other magical warfare into the dispute.”

           It makes sense, naturally.  Andral knows well the enormous costs associated with the construction of even a single military skyship, as well as the vast destruction which they might inflict upon the countryside in full, open war.  The Conclave of the Randran noble houses would have wanted to avoid such an outcome at all costs, and would doubtless have pooled their resources and private armies together to destroy anyone who threatened to bring it about.

           “Stryga,” Alia continues, “desired this thing also, for while his forces outnumbered Chandashi’s, if the King brought forth the skyships in full civil war, he would be destroyed for certain.  And Chandashi, sensing an opportunity to prove he was still strong, agreed to the terms.

           “The issue was this: Chandashi was weak, but no fool. He knew Stryga possessed superior numbers, so as challenged, he elected to fight the War of Succession upon the Dandelion Fields.”

           Andral looks at Flencher, who straightens and clears his throat.  “The Dandelion Fields,” the blunt-featured swordmaster begins, “are a strategic location within northern Randra, Your Highness.  Bounded by the Red Mountains and the inland Diroc Sea, accessible only through the Credesh Valley and the pass known as Angyrod, yet within two days’ march of both the capitol and Fanral.”

           “Chandashi planned to hold the valley and Angyrod pass against us, annulling our numerical advantage.”  Alia shakes her head.  “Leoran’s army was some seven thousands of infantry – five thousands of mixed pike and sword, and two thousands of bow – and three thousands of cavalry. Chandashi’s army was only seven thousands, but it was all of infantry, some four thousands mostly of pike and three thousands of bow.  Against this force – unable to flank, and unlikely to break through pikemen – our cavalry were useless.”

           Andral nods.  He is not a military strategist or tactician, but he comprehends the issue well enough.  “I expect that Angyrod pass is too narrow for cavalry to give battle?”

           “It is narrow enough that eight soldiers might walk abreast, no more.”  Alia’s gaze lowers to the table.  “And yet, knowing full well what foolishness it was to attempt, Leoran nonetheless gave orders to Syval that she – being in command of the cavalry – should, upon the day appointed for the beginning of the War of Succession, make every effort to take Angyrod pass with her three thousands.”

           Perhaps impelled by the already-present discourtesy of even discussing these affairs at table, Flencher forgets his place and speaks out of turn.  “By the Pale One!  Cavalry, trying to take Angyrod pass from pikemen?”

           Andral gives him a small smile, and he remembers himself and shuts up.  “My swordmaster is overpert, but I share his sentiments, uneducated in warfare through I am. This, then, was the issue of contention between you and my aunt?”

           “Syval was a true noble daughter of Randra,” Alia says, and there is no mistaking the bitterness in her tone.  “She swore an oath to Leoran as his captain, above and beyond the demands of filial loyalty, and she would die sooner than be forsworn.”

           “And you swore no such oath?” Andral asks.

           “As a hired arm I was never asked to, and as Syval’s lover I felt I never needed to.  It was well, for when I perceived she was set on this suicide, I attempted to counsel her against it.  I suggested that we might, by bringing forth timber from Janmar forest nearby, fashion rafts, large enough to carry horses and armed troops, and circumvent Angyrod by night over the Diroc Sea.  By my guess, we could have done this thing for some five hundreds of us and our mounts with a day’s work, leaving the rest behind to decoy the force set to hold the pass. Armored cavalry as we were, for setting upon even three thousands of bowmen from behind, five hundreds would have been surpassing plenty.”

           Andral nods.  “Syval said no.”

           “She asked me if I did not love her, and if that love were not sufficient to face death together.”  Alia finishes her glass, but does not call for another.  Out of the corner of his eye, Andral sees the porter wilt slightly in relief.

           Letting the silence stretch out to ten heartbeats, Andral finally speaks.  “How did you then do this thing?”

           “Upon her status as highborn of Randra, I called her out before our troops.  I accused her of putting honor, and the advancement of herself and her family, above their lives.  I challenged her for her command.”

           “And you defeated her?”

           Alia finally makes eye contact with Andral again. “I killed her, Your Highness.”

           “Honorably?”

           “She was a better sword-fighter than me.  I let her spill me to the ground, and as she stood over me, hesitating for the critical moment upon which I had gambled, I kicked her in the stomach with a blade hidden in the toe of my right boot.”

           Flencher makes a roiling sound in the back of his throat, but restrains himself.  Shariach looks as though he is about to have an apoplectic fit.  Ora’s eyes are wide, her lips pressed tightly together.  Rana and Eana wear identical, stony expressions of disapproval.

           “Afterward,” Alia goes on, “I took my five hundreds over the Diroc Sea in the midnight hour.  Our flanking charge broke the ranks of Chandashi’s bowmen, carrying the day. His troops within Angyrod surrendered.

           “I admitted what I had done to Leoran and Stryga. Leoran ordered my execution, but Stryga begged the new King to stay his hand, to let his first act be a merciful one in recognition of my role in his victory.  My punishment, then, was to forever owe him and his the blood-price of Sylva, who was called out and murdered outside the Dandelion Fields.”

           Andral nods, slowly.  “My father never spoke of this, or of you.”

           “I accomplished things for your father,” Alia replies, “of which it were better he not speak.  I was his executioner when he was called to war.  I fought the Shiadel Reavers when they scaled the walls of Randra Palace as its hellcannon laid waste to their city, twenty years ago.  After that, Randra’s borders secure, he dismissed me from his service, with understanding that the blood-price was not yet repaid, and might never be.”

           “And now you are here,” Andral muses.  “To guard me.”

           “So I am.”

           The silence returns, then attenuates as Andral picks his spoon back up and resumes eating.  “Well,” he says after his first bite.  “I am answered, and I do give gratitude for your indulgence of my desire that the whole tale might be told.”

           Alia nods, and looks meaningfully at the porter. She does not speak again for the rest of the meal, and when Andral retires, she remains on the dining deck, returning to the bar.

[ashitakaxsan]

The leader Steelblood Front,the Mysterious Black Mask.He’s an Intelligent,Serious and cool Dude. “Be careful.The prettier is the Rose,the Sharper are its Thorns.Sometimes they’re poisonous”. He thoroughly quoted outstanding and eloquent metaphor.I wonder,who is he? What sort of books has he read?I daresay he’s not evil.

I want the two of them,in the future,to smoothly cooperate.