KriamBook: Beginning Draft
They rang the anticlimactic bell.
Soldiers in red cloaks hopped to their feet and prepared themselves for battle as the dull clanking of the bell echoed in the blue sky above them. The newest soldiers chuckled and sneered to hear their bell; some call to war that! Clank, clank! Here come the Rangers! Better watch out! They can smash pots and pans together!
And the veterans frowned down from their complacent perches and chastised the greenhorns; that is our rallying call you’re mocking! Who are you to criticize the glories of war? Perhaps you don’t belong here…
The greenhorns ignored their veterans but took more caution in their joking and were more wary of who listened. The veterans, the greenhorns whispered, they hear something beyond the bell. They hear glory and war and the kisses of a thousand grateful wives. They hear the embraces of a thousand loving husbands and the jubilant cries of millions of children who have missed their victorious parent. The veterans, the greenhorns murmured, they hear greatness in that clank. Maybe we will one day, too; maybe it is a Magic of a sort. And so the red-cloaked soldiers assembled and prepared for battle. They pulled on their boots and donned their armor. They polished their swords and slipped them into the scabbards at their hips. A handful of greenhorns reached for helmets but the veterans again set to scolding and said, That is not the Ranger’s way. We do not wear helmets to our battles; you won’t need those, don’t bring them. And the greenhorns didn’t, though they would want them.
Beasts of burden entered the now bustling bivouac. Tents were taken down and made small, compact, and given to the animals to bear away. All unnecessary items were given to the care of animals and taken away for safe keeping and all items necessary for war were brought in by animals and given to the soldiers to be utilized fully. The soldiers packed and unpacked as though it were the most natural thing and when all was done they stood in bright morning light and looked to a rock jutting out of the landscape and listened to their leader speak.
The Rangers’ Leader, whose title was simply the Head, was a Dog Raeth named Maroc Baylinthe. His eyes were hard and dark and his hair, close-cropped, a rich mahogany brown. He stood tall, strong, and horribly confident. His smile was self-assured, his posture cocky, and his short tail flicked back and forth with the impatience of one who would prefer his wishes to be carried out the moment they came to his mind rather than almost-immediately.
His secondary stood a step behind him and to the left side. This man was an unfriendly, scowling Horse Raeth with muscles that looked more like mountains than anything anatomical. His one left eye was hazel and bright with life and vigor and a dark eye-patch covered the place where his right eye should have been. He was Maroc’s closest friend and advisor though he was at least twenty years older than the Head; his mother had named him Brue Naidr forty-four years, two months, one week, and five days previous to that particular moment. He, like his leader, was brown of hair and fur and kept the former close-cropped though more militarily so.
A step behind and to Maroc’s right stood a woman that Maroc found to be a nuisance but who he could not reasonably be rid of without alienating a good portion of his Rangers, and that wouldn’t do at all. Her name was Arren Minetelle, and though she did know how to smile, not many would believe it as her usual expression was a distant one that was vaguely reminiscent of disapproval. Arren was pale blue of eye and white of hair and fur. She was an (Arctic) Fox Raeth, and she wore her hair long and braided. Maroc’s dislike of her was equivalent to her dislike of him and, in all likelihood, she would have left the Rangers given their present activities if it were not of use to her and her fellows to have someone within the Rangers’ ranks, gathering information.
Maroc looked over his soldiers, his followers, his disciples. He smiled benevolently upon them (though the cockiness never did leave the smile), and addressed them:
“My friends and fellow warriors, justice-seekers and peace-makers, officers of our great continent, Raeth, whose sworn duty it is to uphold all that is good in the world, we stand here this morning to win the first battle of a war that we have long been fighting.” Wild cheering answered this dramatic (and cliché) opening sentence. Maroc continued once the cheering had settled. “We have swept through this country in the name of science and knowledge and been obstructed time and again by the ignorant, the cruel, the wrong, and the power-hungry.” There was some general booing to show the crowd’s distaste for the obstructers. “Today we ready ourselves to fight one such enemy!” More cheering. “From the very beginning, the people of P’tak have shunned custom and tradition to live strange lives. They did away with all involvement in Magic that they might engage in technological pursuits. They tossed aside the accepted modes of dress and created new, strange words that speakers of the Common Tongue could never hope to understand and they would still call these words a part of the Common. They built a massive city, sealed themselves inside, and infused their air with such things as no one of us could breath that air without launching into a fit of uncontrolled wheezing. Their citizens breath horrid air such as that every day; how can P’tak’s leaders permit such cruelty?”
The crowd became a barely controlled frenzy of booing and hissing. They swore, cursed, stamped their feet, drew their swords, and yelled until every voice in the crowd was hoarse. Maroc silenced them after several minutes to continue. “The P’tak people have now decided to do away with their own traditions just to hinder our noble cause. They now harbor Magic-users within their city and fill the poor people with their propaganda and lies and so turn them against us. I ask you, my friends, is any of this right?”
The chorus of No’s was deafening and it brought a small smile to Maroc’s lips.
“Then I see we are of like mind, my friends. You know how I loathe violence, but in this matter there is a necessity. Today, we will fight and we will win our battle against such treacherous people. It will be no simple battle, to be sure, but I have every confidence that you will be victorious. Onward to war and victory, my friends! Onward!”
The crowd lurched forward in the direction of P’tak with a wild cheer.
Maroc stepped down from the rock on which he stood to address Arren and Brue. “Arren, Brue and I will return to headquarters; I’d like you to stay here and direct the troops as planned.”
Arren bowed formally though resentfully. “Of course. I’ll return to headquarters once everything is in hand here, then?”
“Quite right. Come, Brue, let’s be off.”
Unge S. Chickt turned the air conditioning down and resumed her seat at the head of the conference table. “But they wouldn’t actually attack us. I mean, we’ve got better technology than them, they’re lacking in magic-users because of their bloody crusade, and we don’t actually have to send people into battle; they do. It’d be suicide and foolhardy, anyway. I mean, really, we could stop this if we’d just—“
“Need I remind you, Mrs. Chickt, that you are not a member of P’tak’s leadership committee and you do not have the authority to be calling any of the shots. I have come here because your organization is a valuable asset to us and we would appreciate any information you can provide in this time of looming crisis.” The bureaucrat snuffled and blew his nose into a monogrammed handkerchief.
“And I appreciate that,” Unge replied eagerly, “particularly given how our city’s last government didn’t see things that way, but this is an injustice that needs stopping. I’m too undermanned to—“
“Mrs. Chickt, please. I do not care to hear of your unsanctioned political actions.” In a whisper the bureaucrat confided, “If I am not told of them, then I do not have to shut your organization down, you understand?”
Unge nodded her understanding, but sighed in disappointment. Politics.
Keera, sixteen-year-old secretary to Unge who, by her clothes, looked more like she belonged in the slums on the outskirts of P’tak than working in its opulent heart, shuffled into the room, looking a bit flabbergasted. She was succeeded by a woman in a black trench coat who was looking not at all pleased.
“Unge,” Keera began. “There’s trouble.” The kind of trouble was all too apparent in her face.
The eyes of both Unge and bureaucrat widened in horror.
“No. Maroc isn’t that stupid, is he?” Unge shook her head in perplexed denial.
The bureaucrat mumbled something and hastily left the room to place a phone call to the committee presently in charge of P’tak (it went through governments frighteningly often and the people seemed mostly indifferent to such) to inform them of the approaching battle.
Sirens rang both above and below P’tak, capturing the citizens’ attention. Over speakers and large televisions used for advertising located throughout the city, government officials informed the people of what was coming their way, told them to prepare, not worry, and please stay within the city’s limits while the Automated Armed Forces took care of the threat.
Unge sighed and looked to the woman in the trench coat. “Why in the world did Rien make the AAF?”
The woman’s face twitched into a small smile. “I think her idea was to aid the town in case Maroc did prove to be a mental case which he apparently has. I noticed you turned the AC off in the Fox. Could you maybe just use the phone next time you need me?”
“That wouldn’t be fun at all. I just thought perhaps that Rien should like to see the AAF in action and perhaps you and Miss Talke should accompany her. You never know who will be with the Rangers, after all.” Unge gazed out over the city, looking past it to those parts of the sky it did not block out.
“I understand, but please use the phone next time?” Tarrin bustled out of the room to fetch her little sister.
This is archival. You can find my current work @tryskits
