EdgarFig
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26. Overheated
🕑 Added 2024-07-21 20:24:07 +0000 UTCHot, bitter liquid invaded his mouth, and Mark spat as his eyes came into focus on Mira’s gentle eyes, barely a foot from his face.
“Drink up, you stubborn mule. It’ll bring your strength back.”
Mark took the cup from her hands and gulped it down.
“Cultists,” he coughed.
Dozens of bodies littered the forest floor before him as ferals walked around kicking and looting them.
“It’s over?”
“Yeah, the battle didn’t last long.”
“Why, what happened?”
“You overdid it, that’s what happened.”
“The fire!” Mark’s eyes widened as he turned to the fort.
It was calm. A couple of acolytes were on the wall, and snow remnants capped the palisade's burned edges.
“It’s…” he raised a tentative finger.
“Everything’s fine. Henric and the acolytes got to the fire and put it out before it did too much damage. The wall is weakened, though, and it looks like it will require repairs. I think they’re still assessing it.”
“And the battle?”
“What battle,” Mira huffed. “They were basically broken by the time your little feral army reached them. Thanks to your lightning bolts. And when the line of spears crashed into the cultists… well, it wasn’t much of a battle. I’ll say that much. And thanks to the shields, the few arrows they did get off didn’t do anything. And at the end of it all, our side barely took a few scratches and bruises.”
“Really,” he muttered, surveying the carnage. “There’s a lot of corpses.”
“Yeah, well,” Mira grimaced. “That’s war. Once they broke, your men had a field day. It was a massacre.”
“Better us than them.”
“If you say so.”
Mark curled his brow as he watched Mira’s sunken and sober expression. “You don’t think so?”
“I’m a Star Maiden, Imperator. My god tasks me with healing and helping. We might serve the Imperium, but we don’t take sides in the matter of life and death. And we certainly don’t celebrate them.”
“Did you try and save any?”
Mira shook her head. “Nothing to save,” she breathed. “Your little army was pretty riled up.”
“I see.”
“It’s fine. Your job is to protect and train the next generation of Imperators while upholding the Imperium’s law. You did what you were supposed to. Understand that I don’t hold that against you. I’m just not going to celebrate death.
“That’s fair enough, I suppose.”
He might not have agreed with her, but he understood her perspective; after all, many people from back home would undoubtedly feel the same. However, he didn’t have the energy to empathize with people trying to kill him anymore. If it had ever existed, he had left it behind on earth. But it was nice speaking to someone with conviction in their morals. Henric was all law this and law that, and Mark wasn’t sure if the man even possessed the ability to differentiate between law and justice, let alone morals. And the ferals, well… they were—he watched as one of them stabbed a corpse—a little rough.
I should talk to Mira more often. I think it’ll be good for my heart.
Groaning, Mark pushed himself up.
“You should probably head back to the fort and take it easy. We’ve got everything sorted. Go take a moment to recover for once. I’m sure your God-Lord will forgive it.”
“Rest? Who do you think you’re talking to,” he scoffed. “They got way too close with that little maneuver. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“I figured you’d say something like that. But don’t go straining yourself too much. And if you do, don’t go expecting me to be feeding you at your bedside,” Mira pushed her blonde braids out of her face as she shook her head. “I’ve enough to worry about as it is.”
“Feeding me at my bedside, you say? Perhaps I’ll have to break my hands next time,” Mark joked and waved as he turned for the fort.
He eyed the ferals in the forest as he walked toward the fort. It would have been nice to get their hands on as much of the cultist loot as possible for the warehouse, but he didn’t want to go confiscating from those who had fought for it.
Besides, trade with the ferals had been filling their coffers enough as it was. And there wasn’t much he could do with more wealth right now. And he figured the gain in morale would more than pay for itself.
As he passed through the gates, ferals crowded around and cheered him. A couple of young girls even ran up to him with a wreath of evergreens and handed it to him, followed closely behind by a couple of kids that looked three or four years old carrying some prickled branches dotted by tiny yellow flowers. I guess that these are what pass for flowers in the Frontier.
“Thank you,” Mark dropped to a knee, accepting the gifts.
“Imperator!” A feral called. “Saviour. Carry me daughter. Ye know, for luck,” the feral said, pressing up against Mark with his five or six year-old-daughter by his side.
“Want to ride on my shoulders?”
The girl brimmed and nodded.
“Alright, well, get on,” Mark lowered for her, and she hopped on his shoulders. The crowd cheered as they rose. “We won today. This is all for you and the other kids. To keep you safe,” Mark said as he waved at the crowd.
He spotted Venjimin and Jaryox waving from the crowd, and Venjimin waded through it until he was beside him.
“Imperator, another moment of your time if it isn’t too much to ask.”
“Speak. There’s no need for privacy on this great day.”
“Marvelous, marvelous, and I agree. The people of Fort Winterclaw are overjoyed today. You’ve given them real peace of mind. At least as much as is possible with what is gathering in the north. Some even whisper that you should lead the people, not that wannabe king gathering the tribes in the south—”
People of Fort Winterclaw? They’re already calling themselves that, are they? Well, that’s one less thing to worry about.
“–Now they want to celebrate your achievements. Most of the people around here have grown up in fear of the cultists. It may seem small to you, but they can barely believe what you have managed to achieve. To stand up to them like you did—no, it’s more than that,” he shook his head as they walked. “You crushed them. It wasn’t even a contest. Quite frankly, they’re amazed. And they’re proud. Some have even taken to affixing Winterclaw to their name already.”
Seriously? Jumping the gun a little, aren’t they? But this certainly works in my favor. In fact, I should probably lean into it. Atlas Winterclaw? No, I’m the boss; that doesn’t work.
The whole thing reminded him of someone talking about tribalism. He was pretty sure it was one of the thousands of podcasts he listened to during his daily commute. They had been comparing sports and nationalism. They talked about how they tap into a person's innate tribalism and funnel said tribalism into their cause to build supporters. And that sounded like exactly the kind of thing he could use.
Flags. That’s what I need! Fort Winterclaw needs its own flag. And colors. Heck, we could come up with some local traditions, like games and food. The list is endless.
His thoughts had already spiraled off as he imagined all the ways he could indoctrinate the people into the cult of Fort Winterclaw.
“Imperator?”
“Sorry. Yes, that sounds like a brilliant idea. Do the women know how to sew around here?
“Excuse me?”
“You know, like knitting.”
Venjimin curled his grayish-white brows curiously. “Some do. Yes. Though it isn’t the most common skill. Threads that can be worked with a needle are quite expensive in the Frontier.”
“Well, if they can sew a flag—with whatever materials are available—I’ll reward whoever comes up with the best one. I want something that celebrates Fort Winterclaw and our victory here today. Make it colorful. And iconic,” Mark waved a finger as the thought on the spot. “The winner gets twenty iron coins.”
“Twenty?” Venjimin’s eyes bulged.
“Yes, it’s important. And a dish,” Mark added as he nodded thoughtfully. “Like a competition. Whoever comes up with the best, unique dish that represents Fort Winterclaw wins. And It should incorporate ingredients found locally.”
“All dishes incorporate ingredients that can be found locally…”
“Oh, right,” Mark cringed. You’re an idiot. It's not like trade wagons or semis are chugging through the forest with bananas from Costa Rica. “Okay, scrap that part. The dish just has to be unique. Something to represent Fort Winterclaw.”
“Right,” Venjimin nodded and stroked his beard. “I’m sure there will be many people interested in that.”
“And there’s twenty irons in it for the winner as well.”
Venjimin almost fainted at that. Twenty iron coins was a fairly serious amount of money. It wasn’t a fortune by any means, but it was a significant amount and enough to buy a highly desired item, like a new axe head.
“Was there anything else, Venjimin?”
“No, that’s it,” he said, catching his breath.
“Good. You know what,” Mark said as he started walking away. “Today is special. We need a name for this festival. And we should celebrate it every year!” he added, waving his finger in the air again.
“Is the Imperator fine, or someone got ‘is yarn?” A feral asked Venjimin as Mark whirled away from them.
“Yes, everything is fine,” Venjimin nodded. “It's time for celebrations. Today is the first day of the new face of Fort Winterclaw,” he raised his hands triumphantly.
This is working out better than I expected. Mark smirked as he walked toward the inner gate.
Lowing himself, he let the little girl down and scruffed her hair.
“For you,” he flicked her an iron coin.
“Thank you, mister Imperator,” the little girl waved and ran off.
“Imperator!” One of the acolytes waved as Mark tried to pass into the fort.
“What now?” Mark twirled toward the voice.
Running over to him, the acolyte froze and straightened into a salute.
“Relax, Acolyte. We’re celebrating today.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So?”
“Oh, yes,” he bobbed and stammered. “It’s the ferals, sir. They brought these horses that they took from the cultists. But they’re claiming them as loot. They say they want to sell them to us.”
Mark looked over to where the boy was pointing. Three ferals smiled, and Trumus gave a two-finger salute from beside the four horses.
So he managed to get his hands on the remainder of the cultist’s horses. I guess that means their war camp has already been looted as well. Damn it, not exactly how I wanted things to turn out. But now’s not the time to sour our celebrations.
“How much are they asking for?” He finally said.
“I, uh–fifty iron coins each.”
“Give it to them,” Mark waved.
“B-but sir,” the acolyte raised a tentative hand.
“It’s fine. They fought well today. They deserve to be rewarded.”
He wasn’t about to squabble over loot with his followers. It would have been nice if someone other than Trumus had gotten it, but the early bird had gotten the worm, and he wasn’t about to look petty in front of his people. Especially not when they had proven themselves in battle. Today was going to be enshrined in Fort Winterclaw’s mythology if he had any say on it. And that meant keeping everyone’s spirits high.
“Yes, sir,” the Acolyte saluted and turned to another, waving them off to the storeroom. They didn’t carry coins on them.
“To victory,” Trumus cheered, and his men echoed.
Mark nodded. “To victory,” and passed into the inner walls.
His body felt heavy and tired, but he made a stop at Mira’s cabin before his own.
Pushing through the door, he called, “Acolyte.”
“Yes, Imperator,” Erald swung around from his duties.
“Mira’s still helping outside of the walls. Can I get you to ask her to prepare as many bottles of rum as she can when she returns? Let her know that I’ll have the storeroom provide whatever ingredients she needs to distill more.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Alright, well, carry on,” Mark nodded and left.
Mark practically collapsed on his bed the moment he reached it. He pulled his side drawer open, slid his hand into it, and removed a bag of dried meat. The meat was something Treff made and tasted similar to jerky but softer, like biltong. It was a combination of two of his favorite things before his untimely end and a comforting treat after the battle.
“So good,” he mumbled as he stuffed his mouth.
He wanted to pass out but forced himself up with a groan. The suit needed to come off. And it wasn’t going to be pleasant. He had come to call it the Sweat Generator 3000. And boy, did it build up a stink after prolonged use. Thankfully, Mira had provided some dried herbs at his request at his request to freshen it up.
They had a sweet, floral scent that left his suit smelling like a combination of lavender and strawberries—after smacking it with the dried up bunch of herbs.
Hygiene wasn’t an unfamiliar concept for Imperials, though. They had plenty of soap in the storeroom. But when he had asked about bathing—eliciting a confused furrow from Elowen—she had pointed out the buckets in the courtyard. A tin pot and a fire would melt snow and boil water. Then, you just needed to fill your tub. Being an Imperator meant he had his own space within his cabin. Unfortunately, that was a lot of work, and he was exhausted.
What I wouldn’t give for running water. I wonder if these people know about pipes… not that the acolytes pretending to be smiths are likely to be able to make them.
Mark sighed as he pulled his suit off. It looked like he was sleeping in stink today.
Comments
Rodmin
Love the idea with the festival and how you constantly keep the focus also on the economy. A part I really like in stories.
