Born a Monster

379 279 – Ragged

I had imagined many visions of Rakkal. I imagined him pacing restlessly, armor still resplendent and polished to a mirror sheen. I had imagined a harrowed husk, sometimes with the broken stubs of horns pared down. I had imagined him, gone to fat and flab, no longer even able to fit into his armor. I had even imagined him older, just beginning to wither but still strong and fit.

I hadn’t imagined him physically much the same, perhaps some new scars, or ones which memory had forgotten. He did pace back and forth, but like a caged animal rather than a triumphant warrior. His palms were together on his forehead, gradually spreading to let his fingers tease at his hair.

While not tangled, neither was that hair well brushed, nor braided. With a blink, I realized that it had been a while since it had been washed, as well.

The source of his stress was a young woman, green of skin and slight of both features and frame. She was reading aloud what I presume were reports from various stations throughout the plains. She was also short enough that if we collided in the hallway, I would have to take care not to crush her collarbones with my nose.

“I’ve brought the intruder’s head, as requested.” Uma said.

“Ahh, at least my family is dependable. Set it by the brazier, I’ll try to look at it while there is still light.”

“You heard him.” Uma told me. “Go sit by the brazier.”

The woman looked up, gasped, and seemed to shrink toward the back of her chair.

Rakkal hadn’t turned to look yet. “And WHAT exactly is a pug?”

.....

“It’s a breed of dog, sir.” she replied.

Uma chuckled, gave me a shove toward a brazier half full of mixed black and gray ash, and made her escape back into the hallway.

“And someone explain to me why a DOG is worth two gold coins?” he ranted.

I made my way around the desk toward my destination. “That’s probably the diplomatic office in Boadicea’s Girdle. Rumor had it their prince and princess have adopted a dog of that type; caring for one is becoming a mark of high society.”

Rakkal snorted. “We have enough problems maintaining our war dogs, our guard dogs, we have no need for flouncy little...”

He extended his hand, and a whirling blue-gray disk of death came whizzing toward me. It struck my shield hard enough to bounce me off the wall, where I was better braced for its return. After the second dent in my shield, the disk flung itself back into Rakkal’s still extended hand.

[Shield, steel. Negligible nutritional value. High iron content. 128/160 Condition remaining. Armor rating: 4 (8 points protection, self only).]

The axe slowly returned to the more familiar double-headed red one, the icon on the empire’s flags.

Rakkal turned, his head first, the rest of his body turning to keep pace. “Finally. I had hoped the assignment would break you of those flimsy wooden shields.”

I waited, as his eyes unfocused, yet remained locked on a spot just before me. Slowly, his lips curled cruelly. “I sent you with hopes of getting a warrior back. Instead... well, at least you’ve grown taller, and I can see things that vaguely resemble muscle.”

“My System rates me five in Might and six in Strength.” I said, passing behind the woman, who now cringed slightly toward the door.

“A child, still.” He responded. “Rasheel, kick that one back to the diplomats. They want a dog, they can pay for it. What next?”

“This bit is in Furdish.” she said. “Give me a minute.”

“Little brother. Read the Furdish part.”

“Since my last letter, I have made a discovery. Heading home late from a round of discussions with the ambassador, I found his wife smoking in the alley by the kitchen side door. It was not kerrf, but tobacco, which is socially acceptable in the culture of Manora.”

Rakkal shook his head. “I do not understand or accept the habit. Read in silence, and summarize.”

Rasheel read off the next request, a plea for two kegs of nails to make repairs to Fort Black Owl after a recent attack.

“The damage simply cannot be that extensive. Send them half a keg of nails, and an inspector to assess both the damage and repairs.”

“Elder brother, Kastorlopos believes he can blackmail the ambassador’s wife.” I said.

“Who?” he asked.

“Our emissary to the Manorans in the Shining Isles, sir.” Rasheel said.

“Ugh. One of Hortiluk’s people.” he said. “Little Brother, draft out a polite response reminding him that Manorans often read Furdish.”

“And to Hortiluk, asking him to also remind the diplomatic corps as a whole?”

“I see no need to punish them all for the lacking wits of one. Little brother, are you paying attention?”

“Oh,” I said, “I’m just wondering if that oversight was deliberate. A way to feed the ambassador misinformation about his wife, direct his attention at her so he’s not paying attention to the terms of... what are they trying to negotiate for?”

Rakkal turned back to the veranda. “Trees. In Hortiluk’s little town they stopped planting trees as they cut them down. Lumber is now in great demand in the southern part of the empire. It is said the Manorans have a breed of tree that matures in half the time of our local variety.”

“The Empress Willow.” I said. “A gift from the Daurians,” I said, “for their help during the Oni wars.”

“Tell me you gathered the seeds of those trees.” he said.

“I did, and then later lost them when the ship we were on capsized.”

“There are quite a few things you ALMOST did for the empire.”

“And the fruit seeds that I did manage to smuggle back in the diplomatic pouches?”

“It takes the work of a second level Agrarian and a Botanist to grow them.” Rasheel said. “Even then, they suffer; our climate and soil are not favorable to their growth.”

I sighed, and she cringed away again.

“You can stop doing that.” I said. “I don’t often bite; it is considered rude.”

Well, that and my fangs were capable of injecting a poison lethal to most soldiers, let alone the mundane populace. Honestly, it was embarrassing; I’d often thought of poison as the weapon of cowards and weaklings, and here I had grown it into two of my forms as a survival mechanism.

Rakkal chuckled. “Little brother, have you considered that you are crusted over with a mix of blood and dirt?”

I blinked. “I admit that had slipped my mind. I apologize, Rasheel.”

“No, no. I’ve... sometimes the emperor doesn’t wait until he’s not bleeding before calling me forward.”

“I’m not certain you’ve heard,” Rakkal said, “but things have not been calm while you’ve been away.”

“Things were not often calm in the islands.” I said. “It was hardly a vacation.”

“You are too valuable to send on a vacation. I need you to help carve a path northwest, and we’ve few enough soldiers remaining.”

I cleared my throat. “Such a path would be directly through the elven wood.” I said.

“Yes. Three years ago, such a war would have taxed our empire. Today, it might well break us.” He looked off in that direction. “Still, it is where we must go.”

“By the laughing gods, just go around!” I said, louder than I intended. “Cyclops land is beyond, and the hills beyond that are a mix of ogres and... oh.”

He clucked his tongue. “Of minotaurs. The Mazes of Othello, one of the few strongholds of my people, and the only one local to us. If Uma is to find her husband-slaves, if my remaining brothers are to have families and children of their own, then it is there I must lead them. This empire, that is Hortiluk’s plan, and he is welcome to it.”

He rubbed a thumb along the flat of his axe. “It will be dangerous. Armor or not, legendary weapon or not, there is little chance that I will arrive alive, less that a runt like myself will find a mate. And woe unto the woman who tries to break me to her will. No, this is not a path of my happiness. It is no vacation. My family reaches the Mazes, or our bloodline vanishes from the world.”

He stomped a foot. “And here, in these useless plains, not even fertile farmland, a bunch of mangy horse-lords have stalled my soldiers. For. Three. Years.”

“Actually, I have two ideas about that.”

“They’d best be good ones, or I’m going to throw you over the lip of this veranda and see if you grow wings.”

“The first,” I said, “is to gather the fortresses to secure fresh water from the rivers...”

I had forgotten. Rakkal knew Flash Step, and he had worked his fingers into the neck of my breastplate before I even saw him moving.

Rasheel squeaked as the sudden wave of wind scattered her papers.

“Your second idea had best be MUCH better.” he said, casually lifting me, and strolling back toward the veranda.”

“The Moot!” I said. “Every five years, the centaurs have a Moot, or meeting. Even your enemies will want passage to it, and your allies will not want to fight to prevent them. It’s the time to broker both peace and passage; you just need to prove you have enough strength to force the Moot to happen on less favorable ground.”

“Let me show you how little I desire peace.” he said, and hurled me with a decent portion of his strength.