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Book 5: Chapter 26 - Opening of the Game (RAW)
🕑 Added 2025-02-11 13:26:02 +0000 UTCThe proverb is the horse that carries our words across the uncertain terrain of ignorance. In the spirit of enlightenment, it reminds us that a single guiding phrase can restore harmony where confusion reigns. It illuminates hidden truths and steers us toward the unspoken heart of wisdom. When the beacon of truth dims, we mount the proverb, letting its sure-footed steps bridge the gaps in our understanding. By harnessing this steed of insight, we rediscover that profound lessons often dwell in the simplest utterances, guiding us gently back to the path of true knowing.
- The Manifold Paths Of Wisdom from the Land of Streams.
And that was how I found myself facing what essentially amounted to a single-horned, six-legged Ceratopsian instead of the warhorse I had envisioned. The moment I approached the creature, it swung its massive head in my direction and fixed me with an ornery glare. A soldier in freshly polished armor of bronze and steel offered me a hand up, but I refused. My pride would not let me accept help for such a simple task, so I clambered up onto the Lumashitu’s broad back on my own, settling with some difficulty on the creature’s back behind its oversized frill.
Turning briefly, I checked that the harness and saddle straps were securely fastened, then glanced down at the beast’s spiked tail. Back in my old world, paleontologists would have called such a natural weapon a thagomizer—and here, it looked twice as deadly, each spike as thick as a man’s wrist.
Captain Tikirit practically beamed when he heard the First Tamkar of the Sultana would be joining this venture. It seemed he believed my presence would make this mission less of a suicide run, so he insisted I make a grand sight atop the most formidable mount available in Al-Lazar. According to him, this was only fitting for someone with a title like mine, no matter how recently earned.
“You kick with your legs in the direction you wish the Lumashitu to go,” explained another soldier-turned-stablehand, his voice hoarse. “Both legs if you want to go forward—keep kicking if you want more speed.” He paused, waiting for my acknowledgment.
I gave him the briefest inclination of my head, and my new mount let out a low, mournful bellow, almost as if it understood what its duty would be.
“Though I doubt you’ll need it,” he continued, “a hard slap behind the saddle tells him to back up. Old Longhorn is calm enough unless there’s a fight. Don't worry too much, if you don’t do anything, he’ll just follow the Huzayfaar.” He gestured toward the lithe-limbed lizards that made up the main unit of our cavalry.
They were a head taller than the average warhorse, walking on four agile limbs. Near their powerful chest, a pair of forelimbs ended in three curved sickles that could effortlessly rend flesh from bone. Their long heads and tails were adorned with spectacular plumes of shimmering purples and greens. Seemingly restless, they chirped among themselves, and their riders murmured soothing words to keep them calm.
“What is your name, soldier?” I asked belatedly, trying to sound as though I were someone accustomed to giving orders.
“Aberash, First Tamkar,” he said, placing a hand to his chest in a show of respect. “If it pleases, I can bring you the Second Horn.”
“Second Horn?” I repeated, somewhat puzzled.
“It’s the fighting lance you’ll need when fighting atop a Lumashitu,” he explained. “You can’t hope to reach most foes from such a high seat with a normal weapon. The beasts are simply too large. This lance is heavier and longer than a normal cavalry lance, good for breaking even pike formations.”
I could certainly imagine it.
Longhorn stood placidly while the soldier Aberash wrestled the heavy weapon onto the creature’s frill, which functioned like a built-in lance rest. I gripped the stout handle, testing its balance and weight.
“The Lumashitu itself is a fearsome weapon,” Aberash added, “but the Second Horn helps smash through enemy lines. Resting the lance on the frill saves your strength. You can also use the Lance to direct old Longhorn instead of your legs on the charge.”
I smiled, hoisting the lance skyward in one hand, my arm trembling only slightly from the effort. A rousing cheer erupted from the soldiers nearby as they watched. It was a moment’s triumph, a faint echo of the leadership they hoped I would embody—even if I had no desire for the role.
“This will do, soldier Aberash,” I said curtly. “You are dismissed.”
He smiled at me, proud to have been a service.
Though it was my first time riding such a beast, my high Dexterity attribute and Improved Riding skill served me well. I soon found a steady, if somewhat strange, rhythm in the saddle. Positioned near the front of our column, I was led through the gates of the city.
Outside, the sun blazed down on the sandy expanse that sloped toward the sea. The wind carried the roar of the surf, and the tang of salt to us, mingling uneasily with the smell of sweat and leather from our ranks. The longboats had landed, but they had yet to be challenged. Free from resistance, the newcomers were even now setting up a small beachhead.
Our mixed company—cavalry, archers, and infantry—moved in a tight column formation, the Huzayfaar dancing nervously at the front as the van while I and three other stalwart Lumashitu lumbered along in the center. We were but two hundred paces away from those mysterious arrivals, and every step brought a growing tension to the air.
One false move, one misunderstanding, and the beach could become a bloody skirmish.
Still, Captain Tikirit rode confidently ahead, his gaze fixed on the enemy lines while he held up a flag of parley. I tried to steady my racing pulse, reminding myself that I was not here to do battle, but to ensure peace—or something close to it.
We had prepared as best we could, but I still braced myself for the worst. If it came to battle, it would at least grant me an opportunity to see how well Longhorn could crush an infantry line. A grim prospect, yet part of me could not deny the anticipation.
At length, both our forces stood locked in a silent stalemate, each eyeing the other across the barren expanse of no man’s land. Then, in a scene that felt bizarrely casual, a handful of unarmed men emerged from the elves’ side, setting up a grand table and chairs right there in the middle. It almost looked like someone was hosting a picnic—completely at odds with the electricity of impending violence humming in the air.
Soon after, a mounted party of ten rode forward with a languid confidence. They wore armor, though their helms were hooked at their belts so we could plainly see their faces. Their ears were long and tapering, an unmistakable sign of their elven heritage. One look at those smug, otherworldly faces and my irritation spiked.
This was clearly an invitation to a civilized parley.
Captain Tikirit—clad in his lavish bronze armor etched with strange, arcane patterns and woven through with a alien dark material—barked out orders for our contingent. A soldier approached and asked if I would accompany the Captain to parley with the elves. I agreed, remembering too well my first run-in with their kind in the tent city of Ansan. My simmering annoyance at elves, barely contained, threatened to ignite into a deep, seething anger. It demanded an outlet, but I was able to maintain my control over it.
I would master it, not have it master me. When I unleashed it would only be by my choice and design.
Our group marched forward, ten of us in total, to match the elves’ number. Before we started out across to the neutral ground, I glanced back at the walls of Al-Lazar behind us. There, I spied the faint glint of Farzan’s long glasses trained on our meeting, evidence that we had watchers on the ramparts. At least this encounter would be witnessed.
As we approached, the elves greeted us with thinly veiled smirks playing upon their infuriatingly perfect features. And to my mild surprise, I saw several women among their warriors, each appearing just as haughty as the men. Their race was beautiful in a way that was almost unnatural, as though touched by something ancient and other. In them, I saw a purer echo of the half-elven child Larynda’s features—though these elves were far more refined and, at present, far more insufferable.
“We see you, Dayspawn,” one of them called out in Trade, voice smooth and musical. “Come sit. Refreshments have been prepared for your kind.”
It was a greeting and a slight wrapped neatly together. Every elf there smiled with the barest hint of contempt.
“May the eyes of the hallowed gods not fall upon you,” Captain Tikirit answered stiffly, offering a formal Quassian salutation. He did not smile, but took a seat at their table. Our entourage seeing this as a signal, sat as bidden—except for me.
I deliberately remained standing. I chose to do so, thinking the fragile chairs would not support the weight of my armor and fearing the loss of face falling on my behind would bring.
“First, let us drink tea,” their leader announced with a patronizing lilt, the annoying manner of foreigners mocking the local speech. “That all might see we speak in the manner of peace. That one, why does he not sit with us?”
He was pale, with hair a moonlight platinum, tied high in a sleek ponytail. Neither age nor the harsh touch of the sun had left a single mark on his angular face. He wore a combination of fine chainmail and richly colored livery embroidered with gold and silver like the rest of his entourage, though his gear seemed of a finer, more impressive make. Nearby, I heard some of his companions titter in their own tongue, low remarks no doubt passing among them like a private joke.
Annoyed at this display of rudeness, I sent Identify to work and gleaned a translation. They were plotting something to poison us. I caught fragments of their sneering commentary: wagers on who among us might succumb first. Despite the identical pot from which they poured their own cups, I suspected a trick with the cups themselves or a separate additive. Their arrogance was staggering. I itched to respond immediately, but I knew timing was everything.
“You will forgive me if I do not sit,” I answered in my clumsy, broken Elvish, or whatever their savage speech might be called. This caused a flicker of annoyance to mar the sneers of their contempt. “I fear your chairs might not bear the weight of my armor.”
I took the momentary lull to lean in and whisper a warning to Tikirit, who stiffened in his seat as I spoke. The tension gathered thick in the air.
“It is the custom among our people to ensure safety,” Tikirit lied brazenly, loud enough for all to hear. “Perhaps one of your servants might taste the brew first?”
“Of course,” said the elven leader, that smug smile never faltering. He snapped his fingers. A human servant stumbled forward, dread written in every line of his body.
“Only,” The elven leader said slowly, “if one of yours also drinks from the same cup—simultaneously. Refusal would be a grave insult among our people. Drinking together is a sign of peaceful intent.”
“But of course,” Tikirit answered smoothly, taking up the gauntlet.
“I will do this, Captain,” I whispered in High Quassian, eager to turn their condescension back on itself.
I pulled off my helm, meeting their gazes, and lifted the delicate jade cup, raising it in a mock salute to the trembling servant. He quaked under my gaze but dutifully brought his own cup to his lips. We drank together. The tea burned its way down my throat like a living flame. I felt and saw my Health ebb momentarily, but my high Constitution and regenerative abilities seized the poison and arrested its spread. All without even the use of the Purify spell.
The servant’s fate was far more tragic. Het collapsed, thrashing in violent spasms as foam frothed at his mouth. Shock lit his eyes for a moment, then the light in them died. Around me, the elves looked at the pitiful display with blithe detachment, as though a human life was less worthy than the tea spilled on the ground.
“This tea,” I murmured, lowering my cup, “has quite a bite. Though I think it best that the rest of us refrain from sampling any more of their hospitality.”
Tikirit’s eyes flicked toward me briefly. “Your forms have been observed,” he said, turning back to the elves. “We have shown we mean to talk in good faith, yet it seems that you tried to poison us. Perhaps we can dispense with pleasantries and get to the point.”
Their leader feigned a gracious nod, then regarded Tikirit much the same way a teacher might eye a slow-witted pupil. “So direct you are. So hurried. Very well then, I will grant you the great honor of my esteemed name. I am Lechilod Lugnarlinae, Tirawar Kaelanon of the Cutting Fleet and commander of this expedition.” He sounded as though he deigned to speak only for his own personal amusement.
Abdul Tikirit of Al-Lazar refused to meet the elf’s politeness with any of his own. “So just tell us, what do you want? Clearly it isn’t friendly trade.”
Lechilod quirked a pale brow. “Again, such bluntness. An affliction common to your race.” He gave a delicate shrug. “Consider it a test—an assessment of your perceptiveness and worthiness to join us. You have passed… but barely.” The elf’s golden gaze flicked dismissively to me, before returning to Tikirit. “Now, to more important matters. Our king demands your fealty under a geas, of course. One in every five of your people will be taken across the ocean… as chattel, I believe you call it. Slaves or indentured servants, it matters not.”
My hands clenched into fists at his words.
“And in return,” Lechilod went on, “we shall allow one among you to serve as Satrap—ruling in our king’s name. A generous arrangement, wouldn’t you say?”
“Al-Lazar is a free city. There are no slaves here” Tikirit growled, white-knuckling the arms of his chair. “And what makes you think we’d ever submit to these ridiculous demands?”
Lechilod’s laugh was as musical as it was scornful. “Ah, but you are not the leader here, yes? We have no reason to justify ourselves to primitive, lesser races. You should be glad for what you are given.” He cast a pitying glance toward the dead servant sprawled in the dust. “Still, if it pleases us, we shall let you carry our message back to whoever cowers behind your walls. We are allied with the beings of the sea—enough power to starve you or take your city by force if it comes to that. Believe me, those walls of yours will not stop us from having what we want.”
His final words carried a chill that sank into the party’s bones. At least we had gleaned some information: they had made allies of the Mer. We had little choice but to return and deliver the news of this unholy alliance.
Lechilod, apparently bored now that he’d revealed his plans, straightened with a condescending smile. Perhaps he had realized his mistake in revealing too much, but he covered it well.
“And you,” the elf said, voice dripping with mock courtesy. “Run back to your masters. Tell them what our king demands. And do hurry. I feel my amusement waning with each passing moment.”
I stood there, seething, every fiber of my being howling for retribution. My gaze drifted toward the elven line, where their cavalry was slowly forming up, infantry parting like waves to clear a path for the riders. A sudden, feverish inspiration flashed through my mind. Leaning closer to Captain Tikirit, I whispered my plan—a dire warning calculated to suit my own ends.
“You can’t be serious,” he murmured in halting High Quassian, his eyes darting nervously toward the elves.
I simply nodded, offering a casual shrug.
“We request an exchange of hostages while I bring your words to our leader,” Captain Tikirit declared, voice tight with the tension of the moment. “To show your sincerity. We offer Gilgamesh, First Tamkar of the Salahaem, as a hostage for the honor of Al-Lazar.”
“Very well. Then we shall provide you with a hostage of equal worth,” the elf said with a cold laugh—one utterly devoid of humor. He jabbed a long, pale finger toward one of the trembling servants who had set up the meeting ground.
The servant practically bolted to join us, relief at leaving the elves evident in every hurried step. The Al-Lazarian group began to depart for their lines, moving slowly enough to maintain the pretense of delivering the message. This was now all about buying time—time enough for Tikirit to slip back to the city and warn Farzan.
“Your arms and armor, First Tamkar,” another elf demanded. This one, a woman with a shock of orange hair, sneered at me.
“Surely you do not fear a lowly Dayspawn such as I?” I asked, voice dripping with mock humility.
Outrage flared across her otherwise flawless features. “Of course we don’t fear a single—”
I cut her off smoothly, angling to exploit their smug, misplaced superiority. “I have an interesting animal for a mount,” I said, pointing to Longhorn—a hundred yards away. “I would like to show him to you. Perhaps you have never seen one of his kind before?”
“I’m more interested in how you survived lesser Dragonroot tea,” one of the elves, interjected with a thin, false smile. “Perhaps it has something to do with that creature’s horn. I might even make it into an ornament someday. Still, I will allow this little demonstration.”
“You dare go over my head, Fanon?” hissed another elf—Lechilod Lugnarlinae—in their own musical tongue. “You think yourself the Tirawar Kaelanon now?”
Fanon’s expression remained infuriatingly composed. “You take yourself far too seriously since the king appointed you. A gift of twenty trained slaves upon our return, if you allow me to indulge my curiosity.”
The elf leader—their Tirawar Kaelanon—gave Fanon a long, considering look, then smiled. “Fine. I can deny those eyes nothing.” He turned toward me, his lip curling. “I will allow it, Dayspawn.”
“Then by your leave,” I replied, bowing low for effect. “Have Longhorn brought to me!” I shouted back to the Al-Lazarian line.
Captain Tikirit acknowledged with a sharp, precise gesture, barking orders. Moments later, a cavalryman on his lithe Huzayfaar led Longhorn forward, the Second Horn still mounted on the beast’s elaborate harness.
Reaching up, I gently patted the Lumashitu just above his brow—knowing, somehow, that was a soothing spot. Longhorn relaxed at once, loosing a low, resonant bellow that vibrated in my chest. Monster Taming skill or not, I could not believe how easily he responded.
Fanon approached, his fascination plain. “So, how exactly does one ride such a creature?”
“If you like,” I offered, mustering the most obsequious smile I could manage, “I will give you a demonstration.”
He laughed—a brittle, condescending sound. “Of course! I do say, you primitives are far more accommodating than I expected. If we had known it would be this simple to put you lot in your place, we wouldn’t have bothered sending Champion Alexandros along with us.”
I could not believe how easily this was going. Did my recent gains in Charisma have something to do with it? I noticed too the Tirawar Kaelanon’s glare at the mention of Alexandros, a dark flash of warning passing between them. But Fanon continued to smile with smug indifference.
They have no idea, I thought, my heart hammering, my loins stirring in anticipation. Their arrogance would be their sweet undoing.
