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Book 5: Chapter 46 - The Path to Peace (RAW)
🕑 Added 2025-04-17 14:04:41 +0000 UTCWusaif son of Jorim, holds one virgate of arable, waste in part by fire, yet tilled with four ploughs. There are six life-contracted servants and two full freemen, with one Beast-kin servile. They sow eighteen acres with grey Emergrain along the banks of the Greenroad, a river‑mist corn whose fat kernels grind twice the meal of common Aranthian wheat; yield in a good year is reckoned at twenty‑four gold. Meadow, two acres; pasture for twenty sheep. Value in the time of the Council was three hundred gold; now two hundred and three, for the land lies in fear. Land tax, salt tax, and water tax due to Al‑Lazar are by writ remitted until the Festival of the Undrawn next, for the Nas Al‑rimal raiders carried off three Ruar and burned an out‑barn.
- Civil records of Al-Lazar collected on behalf of the Sultana Aelayah I after the War of the Wind and Waves.
My thoughts kept drifting to Elwin’s passing—where it happened, how it happened, whether it had truly happened at all. And each time, I forced the memories back down.
With the elves on their way, I glanced at my Status—both proof of my growing legend and a convenient distraction. Several proficiencies had climbed from Improved to Advanced, and my attributes now bordered on obscene. I was becoming the perfect monster.
[STATUS] Calling: Gilgamesh lvl.25 High Paladin/ Void Reaver
Strength: 46 [51]
Dexterity: 42
Constitution: 65
Intelligence: 32
Wisdom: 37
Charisma: 28
Luck: 28
Entropic Mimic [Creature of Entropy - lvl.27]
Health: 819/819
Stamina: 85/85
Mana: 2/2
Adaptive Defense (lvl.5)
Shield Form (lvl.4)
Absorb (lvl.4)
Perception (lvl.2)
SKILLS & PROFICIENCIES
Improved Pain Nullification (lvl.1)
Improved Power Strike (lvl.5) 10
Improved Endure (lvl.3)
Stealth (lvl.3)
Advanced Rest (lvl.1)
Backstab (lvl.4)
Improved Dodge (lvl.4)
Advanced Polearms (lvl.3)
Improved Dual Wield (lvl.1)
Improved Critical Hit Mastery (lvl.4)
Advanced Unarmed Combat (lvl.4)
Advanced Hammers (lvl.1)
Improved Flails (lvl.4)
Improved Maces (lvl.2)
Advanced Shields (lvl.1)
Improved Medium Armour (lvl.3)
Advanced Heavy Armour (lvl.1)
Improved Axes (lvl.4)
Improved Daggers (lvl.5)
Throwing Weapons (lvl.5)
Double Throw (lvl.4) 5
Improved Shield Bash (lvl.3) 10
Improved Riding (lvl.1)
Improved Dash (lvl.4) 10
Advanced Swords (lvl.3)
Crossbows (lvl.5)
Blind-Fighting (lvl.4)
Improved Rush Strike (lvl.4) 20
Tracking (lvl.1)
Trap Detection (lvl.2)
Improved Frenzied Strikes (lvl.3) 30
Monster Taming (lvl.4)
Lotus Palm (lvl.2) 10
Manticore Claws (lvl.3)
Bows (5)
Shield Crash (1) 10
SPELLS & MAGIC
Heal (lvl.5) 5
Rust (lvl.5) 2
Identify (lvl.5) 1
Silent Casting (lvl.4)
Advanced Mana Regeneration (lvl.1)
Purify (lvl.4) 3
Greater Heal (lvl.5) 10
Holy Aura (lvl.4) 2
Decay (lvl.4) 1
Greater Drain (lvl.4) 2
Improved Entropic Aura (lvl.2) 2
Inferno Bolts (lvl.4) 2
Sage’s Sight (lvl.4) 2
Freezing Aura (lvl.3)
Holy Strike (lvl.2) 1 [10]
Entropic Strike (lvl.2) 1 [10]
Aura Manipulation (lvl.3)
Overboost (lvl.3)
GIFTS
Curse of Entropy: -20% to all starting attributes.
Mark of the Paladin: 10% resistance to Dark/Holy magic. 5% resistance to Physical.
Embrace of the Void: 15% reduced resistance to Holy/Fire magic, 35% resistance to Mental Effects, 25% immunity to Mental Effects.
Mark of the Adaptive Helix: 15% resistance to Physical, Regeneration.
Mark of the Mantis: 15% greater affinity with all weapons.
Entropic Gift: 10% lowered experience gain, 10% greater affinity with all Entropic spells.
Heavenly Gift: 5% extra experience gain, 10% greater affinity with all Holy & Divine spells.
Gift of the Mother: 5% extra experience gain, 5% resistance to all negative magical effects, 5 bonus to Constitution.
Experience to next level 238/9539
Health: 1131/1131
Stamina: 111/111
Mana: 25/25
A savage grin spread across my face. Short of a vengeful meteor hurled from the heavens by some false god, nothing could kill me now. Well—almost nothing. I rested a hand on Caselel’s blade, Cutting Leaf, reminded that fifty swords of its caliber might still pose a threat. Overconfidence breeds ruin, I knew, but with only one presumptuous elf ahead of me, I allowed myself a small measure of confidence and certainty.
Across the sun‑scorched square, the elven party ambled toward us, their mounts moving at a lazy trot that almost mocked the heat. They rode horses, no fantastical beasts these, though the animals were flawless specimens all the same: lithe, snow‑white racers better suited to a royal course than a field of war.
Behind me, a knot of soldiers muttered about a shimmering haze weaving over the paving stones, a phenomenon dismissed by others as a sort of desert mirage. I, too, waved the concern away; tricks of light were as common here as grit in one’s teeth. It was nothing more than idle talk.
The elves closed the distance, hoofbeats crisp and hollow on broken granite. Each rider gleamed head‑to‑toe in flowing mithril that caught the sun like mirrors. Lances rested in polished cups; long cavalry sabres hung ready at their hips. They smiled and laughed among themselves, their faces—smooth, unlined, almost childlike—belonged more at a spring picnic, not witnesses to a duel to the death.
Their leader reined in twenty paces before me. His open‑faced helm bore an emerald plume that echoed the forest‑green of his hair and eyes. He parted sculpted, perfect lips to speak.
I did not let him. Improve Dash launched me forward in a gust of loose sand and stone, materialising beneath his snorting horse. The beast reared, nearly unseating its master; ripples of alarm coursed through the column as reins snapped taut and metal rang.
Two score elves, I counted in one heartbeat.
The elf at last steadied his mount, and I spoke first.
“Where is he who calls himself Alexandros?” My voice was calm, a blade still in its scabbard.
He looked down on me as though I were a plague‑ridden beggar. “I am—” he began, false pride quivering beneath fear.
“Where is Alexandros?” I cut in, tone flat, unyielding. “Spare me this false varnish of courtesy, lest you join the last owner of this sword.”
Indignation flared in his nostrils, stretching silence between us like tightened hide. My patience had already worn dangerously thin.
At last, he swallowed. “Lord Alexandros extends his apologies. He is… delayed—”
I raised a hand, but the fool pressed on with his rehearsed lines. “We had been told that you, Dayspawn, view time in a different way. To not cause offence, he offers gifts in apology, and entreats you to reconsider this duel altogether—”
“ENOUGH!” The bellow thundered through the dead city, ricocheting off ancient stones. Every elf fell mute.
“You will dispatch a messenger. Alexandros comes now.” I jabbed a finger at him. “Each hour he dallies, one of you dies. Choose your envoy wisely… and pray he rides like the wind.”
“You have no right…” he snapped, though his eyes screamed another story.
I swung Bellringer in a brutal upward arc. The hammer crushed his horse’s skull with a wet crack; the innocent creature collapsed before it knew it was dead. In the same motion, I grabbed the elf from the saddle, iron fingers clamping his throat as his boots kicked uselessly.
“One life each hour,” I repeated, voice cold as midnight steel. “The clock starts now.”
Steel hissed from scabbards in a ragged chorus, but terror gnawed at every hand that held a blade. I turned my prisoner to the rest of the elves, and face blanching, he managed a faint nod to his men. Frantic, whispered deliberations followed until at last one rider wheeled about and spurred away in a spray of sand.
I tossed the captive to the floor; his brethren answered with a furious hiss.
“So,” I said, resting my hammer across my shoulders, “we wait.”
Gone were picnic smiles. In their place bloomed dread—rich, ripe, and utterly satisfying. And, I thought with some satisfaction, Alexandros was not half the strategist and tactician I thought he would be.
***
Luckily for the elven commander, Alexandros came in the nick of time like the heroes of old, which, in a way, I guess he was. A shadow crossed the square, circling once before an avian scream cut through the air. This close, I could see that the giant eagle was a beast of awe and splendor, easily twice or three times the size of a warhorse. Its wingspan stretched wide, more than double the size of a Griffin’s. Feathers of burnished bronze and storm-gray shimmered in the sun, and its eyes—sharp and golden—gleamed with a predator’s cunning. Its talons, thick as scythe blades, clacked against the stone as it landed, each step thudding with weight and restrained fury. Armor adorned its chest and shoulders, etched with ancient runes and burnished Saint’s Silver. With a king’s practiced grace, Alexandros dismounted from the flying noble beast of war.
The ancient hero wore Mithril, like all the other elves. But his war panoply was different—archaic in form if not in material. Where the other elves favored the sleek, layered elegance of the modern elven armory, Alexandros looked as if he had stepped out of the old histories. His armor was a relic in design, evoking the grim nobility of the classical age, from the times of bronze-faced demigods and the unyielding phalanx.
His cuirass was a muscle-wrought thorax of silver Mithril trimmed in gold, shaped in the idealized image of the heroic form—each contour of the chest and abdomen a tribute to a masculine ideal. Etched upon the sternum, a coiled serpent devouring its tail—symbol of eternity, and of war without end. The flanks were bound with gilded bronze rivets, and beneath it hung a war skirt of pteruges—not simple leather, but lamellar scales of darkened metal and scaled, monstrous hide that was dyed the color of dried blood.
His greaves rose from ankle to knee in a single molded sweep, shaped to the leg and flanged outward at the edges to deflect attacks. They were chased with patterns of lightning and thorns, and fastened behind the calf with braided cords. His feet were clad in open-faced sandals of hardened hide, fitted with metal-studded soles.
The epomides—his shoulder guards—were massive, rising in sweeping arcs over the deltoid and upper arm, made of overlapping mithril plates shaped like stylized wings. Where most elven warriors bore lighter, more flexible protection, Alexandros had chosen a much more conservative style: weight, protection, and presence over agility. On each plate was inlaid a screaming gorgon’s face, meant to ward off evil, but more likely to instill dread.
His helm was the centerpiece of his panoply: an echo of Corinthian design reborn in elven craft, with a high-domed crown and a long nasal bar trimmed in pale gold. A crest of dyed hair, deep crimson, streamed from brow to nape in a sweeping plume that seemed to flicker in the wind like flame. When he turned his head, the sun caught the edge of his helm and made it burn.
A heavy shield was slung over his back; Alexandros had chosen the aspis of his ancestors, the ouroboros design on his chest repeated on its surface. At his hip was a double-edged long xiphos, a classical sword. Along its crimson scabbard were geometric patterns that were crafted with perfect symmetry. The weapon was made to thrust in the gut or under the chin after the spear was lost or broken.
In his right hand, Alexandros held a sarissa—a long pike more than six paces tall. Its haft was dark-lacquered wood, reinforced with spiral metal bands near the base for balance. The spearhead gleamed in sunlight, a leaf-shaped blade nearly two feet long, honed to a razor’s edge. As he strode forward, it looked to my trained eyes as if the weapon itself was an extension of his will and readiness for conflict. A warlord in the mold of Achilles, of Pyrrhus, and of wrathful Ares himself.
Perhaps he might even be able to put up a challenge.
His expression darkened the instant he took in the elven commander’s swollen cheekbones and split lip—tokens of the little catharsis I had allowed myself to the applause of my men. Yet almost before the anger finished flashing across his eyes, Alexandros smoothed on a blithe new smile. The speed of the transformation chilled me. Men who could swap faces that quickly were the truest kind of monster. He was a psychopath.
I chuckled, letting the sound drip with mock‑gratitude. “Fortunate you arrived when you did, great Alexandros. One of your knife-ears was moments away from paying the price for your fashionable lateness.”
No doubt he had hoped the delay would needle me into recklessness, but I had long since learned to bottle fury and burn it as fuel. His gaze hardened behind that counterfeit grin, and I despised him more when the elves’ shoulders eased at his mere presence and expressions loosened. It was as if my mantle of dread had been blown away by a fresh spring breeze. People like him made others orbit in fawning adoration; the thought rankled me like sand in a wound.
I burned hot with jealousy, but this too was fuel for my pyre.
“I fear you misread my overture,” he said, voice steeped in condescension and regret sharp as hemlock. “I sought to end this without bloodshed—only a sliver of honor lost on my part.”
“Oh?” I tilted my head. “Enlighten me. Or better yet, shall we stop chattering like women at the market and cross blades?”
He waved the barb aside. “Whichever of us falls, the world forfeits a man who could achieve greatness in this life. I offered you an escape: brand me craven, claim victory, and pave the road to peace at the cost of my pride alone. Yet, you spurned it. An easy victory. Are you truly so enamored with death?”
“Are you truly so enamored with death,” I repeated mockingly, laughing straight in his face. “Afraid of death, are you? Hypocrite. You have ordered and delivered more slaughter than I ever will, by stroke of the pen or sword. At least I admit why I want to kill you. So, do you wish to fall by your own sword or by mine? The sun is sinking.”
“Why?” he asked softly.
“Because purpose sings in my bones. Too many men drift rudderless, but in slaying aberrations like you, I find meaning. If you really are Alexandros, then your legend ends today. Be grateful—I’m granting your long-dead soul rest.”
“Forgive me if I’m not effusive,” he replied with that infernal smile. “Having tasted one bitter death, I intend to savor this life a while longer. But words are spent—let steel speak.”
“You truly adore your own voice,” I muttered, snapping my visor down. “Time to remind you of your insignificance, that your time is long past.”
Alexandros unslung the aspis etched with the ouroboros, hefted his sarissa in one hand, a great feat of strength that would have impressed me when I had first come into this world. Now, it was just so very basic. He slid into a stance as light as a dancer’s, sandaled feet whispering over the stones. The air between us shivered, ripe with imminent violence.
