[Disclaimer: Escaflowne is copyrighted by Sunrise Bandai and entities other than myself. Except Chadon, which was born to die. For the curious; Orm is from the radio dramas (transcripts at Tsubasa no Kami site, but buying CDs encouraged) and Adel is mentioned in the Newtype art book on Folken's character design page.]
[Author note: These parts keep getting longer, don't they? Inconsistency is a bit annoying, but the writing is better than last chapter.]
Second Patricide, Part OneThe siege cannons sounded sporadically through the roaring downpour, reminding Folken briefly of the faltering steps of a dying giant. It was a mildly appropriate description he mused dismissively. He raised both ungloved hands to his forehead to supplement his standard issue helm in an attempt to ascertain how much of the once graceful Asturian castle was actually still burning despite the continuing rain.
Adel had been in charge of the siege for a month prior, but had delegated the responsibility to Folken, claiming his young protégé needed to cut teeth on siege warfare. Folken had gladly been recalled from commanding his own legion in Asturia's eastern verdant forests; the battle there had become little more than guerilla warfare. Folken was unaccountably skilled at reorganizing his divisions to better combat the Asturian guerillas, but it was tedious work with little of the hectic hand-to-hand combat he craved.
Siege combat was far more challenging and distasteful than he'd expected. While he'd studied sieges extensively under both white and black banners, he hadn't been prepared for the greatly psychological aspects of it. About half of the fight was keeping his soldiers from becoming bored during the extended periods they weren't assailing the castle walls. The realization had been distressing. To that end, he'd contrived endless new attacks designed more to take up his soldier's time than be effective torments to the Asturian garrison.
One such attack had been to use one of his few airships to release tons of tar on the white upper reaches of the castle. He had to admit he'd come on the idea when the Asturians had poured boiling oil down a tunnel a troop of his sappers had built under the castle's east wall. The smell of oil and burning flesh still assaulted him when he was drowsy, but the screams were far too familiar and muffled to recall.
It was becoming increasingly clear to Folken that the rain was not going to let up. Sparing a wry glance up at the heavy gray clouds, he wondered how soon it would be before his troops started to develop 'trench foot'. Constantly wet feet had a way of developing painful maladies. His next glance took his amber eyes toward his own feet with a small amount of amusement. Hopefully his ancestry meant he could avoid a tissue problem; pissing on his feet didn't really appeal to him, even if Adel had laughingly insisted it was better than amputation at the ankle.
In a fairly good mood despite the natural and man-made miseries of his current environment, Folken smirked his slanting smile while observing that, yes, the tar he'd ordered dropped was actually still burning. Better yet, the fire was eating its way up the battlements to the main battery of cannons that were still being cleaned. At this rate, he mused, he could actually get a requisition filled for another airship.
The Asturian gunners were exceptional marksmen. They had forced Adel to pull all but a few small airships out of combat and, being that Folken was new to sieges, Adel had taken most of the ships with him when he'd left to discuss further war plans with the Council of Elders.
Using his Dragon attributes, Folken sent his focus out to the battlements for a better idea of how bad off the battery of guns was fairing. With any luck he could order sappers to start digging under the battlements if the castle's garrison decided they couldn't be saved. He'd have preferred ladders, but the burning tar effectively botched that notion.
Folken watched closely as a crew of Asturian soldiers tried to smother the burning sludge coating one of their remaining cannons. His eyes narrowed slightly and he called on his power to take his vision even closer: it seemed to him that one of the soldiers putting out the fire was wearing a dress. A closer look revealed a young girl aiding the crew. He tilted his head to one side in interest, allowing a trickle of rain to pour across his face from the periphery of his helmet.
He'd seen her and an older sister at a political reception for Black Dragon officers in Freid after Chadon's unconditional surrender. It was, in fact, one of the Asturian princesses, though not the one he'd been obligated to avoid at Freid. He'd also seen her back when she and Van were barely on two feet. The two had never been formally introduced thanks to his ability, and the encouragement of others, to be scarce at times even faintly scented of politics. She couldn't be more than ten years old.
As he recalled his past anger surged through his veins and fueled his sudden command. "Javelin!"
Millerna was her name. With the help of his Dragon powers, he could lend a projectile the necessary force to pierce her small heart even from such a great distance. The loss could be a morale-killer or cause such a rage that the Asturian king would make some tragic mistake.
Though shocked by the sudden and very uncharacteristic demand, Folken's aide was quick in filling his order. Through rain and mud, the soldier scrambled back for javelins, returning momentarily with a spear in each hand.
Even if his hands were wet, he still had no difficulty snapping a javelin from one of his aide's hands. He tossed it up one handed and snatched it at the far end, the appropriate grip for a throw. One arm swung backward in an arc of potential promise while the other stretched forward, almost as if the wide splayed hand would block his victim out by mere force of will.
His focus narrowed, zeroing in with minute detail. He wanted to see her expression, wanted to feel her fear, and to know who it was that would pierce her heart. His tightly splayed left hand retreated swiftly to tear away his helmet and toss it to the mud at his feet while he tightened his focus into an almost physical presence. Look at me.
The Asturian princess suddenly paused and slowly looked over her shoulder, eyes showing white all the way around her lovely cornflower irises. Through the distance and rain, they connected. Her fear was obvious and terrible. Folken's will was stronger and far more violent and fueled the monstrous effort that propelled his arm forward, releasing the javelin with deadly force and speed. She could not look away from his burning orange eyes. Not until the javelin found its mark.
A wash of crimson spattered Millerna as the deadly projectile not only burrowed into the armor and flesh of the gunner next to her, but also proceeded to blast through his back and continue on into the marble wall directly behind them. An indistinct circle of red ran pink down the white marble with the help of the unceasing rain. The rain continued on, washing the blood from the girl's round features, but only spreading the stain on her clothes as it dripped from the damp tendrils of her auburn hair, the point of her chin, and the tip of her nose.
While she was no longer staring at the distant image of a terrifying man, Millerna was still gripped by the sudden, bloody death of the Asturian soldier she'd been helping. It wasn't until another gunner seized her and made for cover that she found she could move again, but the shock still gripped her young mind.
Folken did not look away until he was satisfied the Asturian princess' fear was complete. This, then, is war. No games.
His aide proffered the remaining javelin, but Folken batted it away negligently. "I got my point across," he murmured in an unnecessary explanation. It was better he preferred to lead in a less brutal fashion than Adel; he couldn't get away with the manhandling Adel employed. Folken had shot up the ranks since the Chadonian surrender the previous year but he was still far the inferior rank to the Black Dragon tribe's military commander.
A trickle of cold water ran down Folken's neck. He suppressed his natural inclination to shudder and instead crouched to retrieve his helmet. The armor came from the mud with some difficulty. The force of his toss had imbedded the armor a few inches in the soft earth and it had already captured a good deal of rainwater. He handed the helmet to his aide, amusement returning slowly to him. One of the perks of being in charge was being able to occasionally delegate some of his upkeep to somebody else. It wasn't something he usually did, but he wasn't in the mood to be reminded of his show of anger by having to clean the annoying helm.
"Retrieve my immediate commanders," Folken ordered, his voice firm, yet devoid of tone. "I'll meet with them in my tent. Tell them we're going to talk to the Asturians about their surrender."
It didn't take long for Folken to find his way back to his tent, but it did take him a few moments to locate dry linen to rub his hair down with; he eventually made do with an undershirt. The downpour had finally discovered a weakness in his tent's waterproofing and a small stream was running down one side of the tent wall across the middle of the floor and out the front flap. Most of his materials were kept in airtight containers, but he'd failed to lock down the small one holding towels and rags.
It occurred to him that the transport drops would make much better lodgings in a siege. If he'd had one of the huge battleships to work with he would have sent word for a drop. Of course, if he'd had one of the battleships he'd be tempted to simply crush the castle outright even though Adel wanted the structure intact for future use.
His underlings found him at his collapsible table, a series of maps under his hands, and the undershirt draped around his neck. They respected him, but many had issues with his youth. From what they understood, Folken was a prodigy Adel had discovered only two years previous, when the young man had been only sixteen. Many of the unit commanders were young, but few of them had been in the military for less than four years. It was a source of tension Folken didn't improve by refusing to modifying his behavior to suit.
Satisfied they were assembled, Folken stood up and looked them over. He might have been the youngest of them, but he had height on all of them. All were in varying degrees of muddiness and most looked curious beneath impassive facades. The rest just looked irritated.
"They won't surrender, sir," one man commented dryly, when Folken's non-verbal inspection began to drag.
Folken ignored the comment, supplying them with a few of his own. "They look ragged already. Not more than a few minutes ago I saw their youngest princess out on the southern battlements trying to help smother the flames headed for that section's cannons, thank to the tar." He shrugged lightly, "I'm amazed they're becoming so disoriented to let a child of importance out on the walls. I'm more amazed she's even there.
"We're going to cease action for a moment to offer them a chance to expel whatever women and children they have kept within their walls. Then…"
Folken was given pause by the strange looks he was suddenly receiving from the unit commanders. He knew there was something in what he'd said that had alerted them, but he wasn't sure what it was. His heart beat a little irregularly, but he rose to the challenge with fresh intensity.
"What?" He snarled at the men crowding his tent, "Is there already something you don't understand?"
The man commander who had spoken before kept to expectations by speaking up again. "General Adel never let them expel their women and children. If we let them leave now it would boost their morale."
Another man added gruffly, "They'll expect us to execute any of our prisoners of war anyway."
Blood was somehow, despite no sudden movements on Folken's part, beginning to rush through his head. His vision darkened somewhat, but he responded coolly, "I dislike it when people jump to conclusions."
It was his voice, but it sounded far away to Folken. The castle was full of people, not just a garrison and king, but undoubtedly thousands of Asturian citizens.
His voice continued in a quiet tone that chilled his commanders' blood. "If I call you here to listen to a plan, I should be given silence and attentive faces as I explain it to you. If you owe our high general your loyalty, then you owe it to me if he commands it."
It hadn't been long ago that he'd been charging through Asturia, cutting off all the capital's supply lines and directing temporary dams be built that would keep the capital from being watered. They'd even sent the seized food supplies still bearing Asturian crests to the Black Dragon forces at the siege just to further humiliate the Asturian garrison. He'd found the whole prospect a satisfying project.
"If you don't like that General Adel appointed me to head this operation in his absence, I suggest you remove yourself from my presence. If he does not like your reasons for deserting, then I will have you slaughtered outright as traitorous vermin."
The Asturians were probably out of vermin to eat. The rain was blessing them with much needed water; who knew what kind of soup one could contrive with rainwater? They hadn't seen much in the way of light in the castle at night, had the people exhausted their tapers with fire or appetite?
"While I send a handful of you to negotiate, sappers will tunnel under the southern battlements. With the rain it will be a treacherous task, but we'll breach the castle there. A maniple will follow me in while the sappers continue work on collapsing the wall."
Adel had left him in charge of an atrocity. When word came out, Folken's name would be attached to one of the cruelest sieges in Gaea. There would be fear, hatred, and worse. Of course, what people thought of him mattered very little, what mattered was the buried dream of proving a prophecy a lie and being able to one day reunite with a little brother.
When he heard the choking, Folken realized his building rage was seeping out by way of his Dragon power. Before him, the commander who spoke too soon too often, was clutching at his throat which, to all present, seemed to be constricted by an unseen force. A few leaned back, having heard of Folken's abilities, others searched for the source of the attack.
Folken looked decidedly inhuman as he leaned forward into the choking man's face. His bare hand was steady as he lifted it to the man's straining neck to wrap slowly, almost delicately, around the armored throat. Amber eyes, filled with newly sparked hatred, bored into the bulging ones across from him.
"This, then, is war. No games."
It was one of the darkest nights since Folken had transferred to the siege. With the rain turning torrential, the moon below the horizon, and clouds obscuring the stars, it was darker than anyone cared for. What light that could be had came from only a few fires in the Black Dragon camp. The Asturians had kept all lights out, hoping to foil the periodically waterlogged Black Dragon cannons. It was a likely night for Asturians to attempt escape.
Folken could care less. He'd opted to enter the sapper's narrow tunnel early despite the danger of collapse. The thought of suffocating under a ton of mud didn't bother him as much as it should have. Mud was up to his elbows and thighs as he crawled face to backside with the sapper in front of him. The worst of the mud was ahead, at the bottom of the tunnel's arc. It was going to get worse, he'd been cautioned, as the rain continued to fall. Folken did not doubt that it would. While the mud was sucking at his hands and legs, the water was beginning to hit his chin.
He avoided letting his mouth enter the water for as long as possible, going so far as to turn it to his extreme left while stretching his neck up as far as he could. Eventually it was unavoidable and he found himself half swimming, half crawling completely underwater for a short distance before his head surfaced again. The feeling of water draining out his helm might have been disturbing, but he was feeling very little other than cold fury.
After a few more moments of slogging uphill through the tunnel, he could hear the rain's steady droning again. When the sapper he'd followed disappeared from Folken's superior sight, he felt the rain on his helm. He raised his face to the downpour as he dragged his long body from the mouth of the tunnel and stepped aside. It was slow going, getting troops through the tunnel, but conditions improved marginally as the sappers dug more tunnels off of the first and redistributed the water.
Outside the tunnel the soldiers did what they could to clean off their armor, but found the rain the most effective solvent. They checked their swords, assembled a few collapsible javelins, and shook out their helmets. What sound they made was muffled by rain and what faltering steps they took were sucked at by mud.
It took far longer to assemble his seventy men than Folken had expected, but that didn't concern him as much as the possibility they hadn't properly committed the castle's layout to memory. They were going to make the best of a charge for the west gate while the men outside would renew their assault on the main gate to the northeast, and the sappers continued work on the south wall.
The siege had lasted far too long, but it was Folken's anger that made further waiting completely intolerable. He was burning with the pain of further, deeper, betrayal and the only balm he knew was violent action. It was not unlike the moment that spelled out his inner death. Only this time he was equipped to inflict his inner turmoil on the world outside his mind.
He set out at a brisk pace, his arms and legs moving with deliberate grace. In the rain and darkness there were none to admire his fluid form, the sheer beauty of armor-clad destruction. He distantly enjoyed the muted feeling of taut muscles as they stretched and contracted under his skin like the inner workings of a barely contained machine.
There was little light to see by, but Folken was not hindered by dimness; his ancestry provided him with excellent night vision. The castle's citizens were clear to him before any of his soldiers. They stalked the lanes and allies, unseen thanks to the haze the Asturians were left in after months of feeble rationing. They swept along, cloaked in darkness and rain. Where the Black Dragon tribe found open eyes or voices raised in fear, they left stillness and hush.
Where his soldiers' sight ended, Folken's sword licked out to savor the thin blood of the hidden, but not often, for his anger could only begin to be slaked in the heat of fierce combat. He moved his troop quickly knowing they would eventually be discovered. While he only cared for battle, he still held on to the notion of defeating his enemies.
The first watch they ran into was so shocked at their advance they momentarily mistook them for an early replacement. Their sheer numbers quickly gave lie to the assessment. The watch soon fell under the Black Dragon heel, but not before their screams resounded off marble and into the rain. The watch's lamps were doused, but their cloak of darkness only lasted for a short time. In moments the pop and glare of flares lit the night in eerie phosphorescence, casting the scene in morbid shades of green and gray.
The light made it possible for the Black Dragon soldiers to break into a run for the far off gate. The flare was also the cue for the attack to commence at the northeast gate where false negotiations had distracted the weary Asturians.
Folken's thirst for bloody combat was soon engaged when a regiment of the garrison crashed into them. Blazing in cold fury, he ripped through them with hateful ease, leaving a swath of severed limbs and death in his wake. He found himself anything but satisfied with the poor showing they gave him. The Asturians were weak; it seemed the insufferable bastards had actually opted to feed their citizens. The understanding only drove Folken's madness deeper. The chance to be with Van was dying under his very hands.
He was on the wrong side. He was killing virtuous men. His name was on starvation, murder, and atrocity. It wouldn't have been any different if his hands were soaked to the elbows in the blood of the White Dragon tribe. Frustration took a bite out of his heart and rendered his inhibitions useless. Nothing stood before him, not even his own men if they were so blind as to venture into his peripheral vision.
The most horrible scream any of the soldiers on either side had ever heard pierced the night. It was a keening of such despair, it sucked away the will to fight or flee. The noise was an eruption of purely mad frustration and did not end before death cries joined it in an unbearable cacophony.
Adel was interested in Folken's blank stare when he dismissed the rest of his battered commanders. The boy had left the reporting to others, which opened up the common possibility of glory thieving, a practice he'd just witnessed in full flower. They had been careful not to take too much of Folken's credit, but had encroached on several of the boy's accomplishments. Not long ago the boy would have bristled in indignation at the merest affront. It was well known that Folken would do everything in the bounds of slavish loyalty to curry Adel's favor. Behind his back, the young man was even referred to as 'Adel's Dog.'
His lack of response was highly unusual, but not so much as his lack of report. Adel did not mind the unexpected, it was the sudden absence of predictability that intrigued him. With studied nonchalance, he snapped his fingers in front of the boy's eyes. He noted a delay as the orbs fixed obediently on him. For once, there was nothing to read there, the strange golden color of his eyes reflected Adel's inquiry back at him.
"What's wrong with you, boy?" Adel asked in calculated concern that turned more sincere when the young Dragon made no move to respond immediately.
The young man's lips finally broke the seal of silence he merely murmured, "It isn't me that is wrong; I did everything right."
The comment wasn't what he was looking for, for all its understated confidence. Adel pressed on, watching the boy's face hawkishly for any sign of emotion. "One of the princesses escaped along with a small retinue of bodyguards and you expect me to believe you did everything right?"
Folken's slow blink conveyed disinterest and dumbfounded the sly general. Something had happened to the boy, something or someone had affected the boy's outlook, that or the boy had used too much of his power, as he'd explained to him a year prior. Or, perhaps, an emotional weakness had been exploited and the young dragon had finally built up solid defenses.
"And you executed all your prisoners," the general remarked. "Not what I expected of you at all."
"It was more merciful," Folken replied in a firm, yet quiet, voice absent of emotion, "than cutting out their tongues and severing their hands."
Adel leaned back in no small amount of shock. This was no White Dragon child before him; this was more of a man, and a ruthless one at that. It seemed Folken had broken free from the shell of his naïveté sooner than expected. Adel smiled broadly; the change was sudden and complete and entirely to his benefit. When Orm have him the boy, he had rightly predicted the Dragon child could mature into a useful citizen of the Black Dragon empire.
"Next time we'll need prisoners," the general chuckled, seeing Folken in a new light. He was finally ready to see the Dragon as more of an equal, though no less a tool, to bring in more territory for the empire.
Folken nodded slightly, without emotion, "I can do that."
"Good." Adel continued to be impressed with the change wrought in his most deadly weapon. It caused a more benevolent feeling to rise in him. "Despite leaving my best sappers under tons of mud, walls, and cannons, you performed better than expected. I see another promotion in your immediate future."
Like a predator scenting his prey on the wind, Folken lifted his head up, looking at Adel with the first sign of interest the entire morning. "I only desire one reward, sir."
"Name it," the general smirked, wondering if he would discover evidence of a new weakness, "and I'll consider it."
The flat surface of the golden eyes took on shape again and outshone the dim light the room's lamps offered. His proposed offer was stated in an equally quiet tone, laced with steel. "We will suffer no prisoners to live when we take the White Dragon's lands."
Interesting times were always at hand when the sorcerer known as Orm came through any land. Adel never knew if he would be more amused or perplexed when he ran into to the sorcerer, but he could usually count on a game of wits. The complexities surrounding the sorcerer were easier to rebound from than the stodgy old men on the Council. His fast mental reflexes reminded the Council that his teeth were no less sharp, but their old ways could slow him down.
When Orm requested to see him, Adel irritated his lesser generals by sending them away forthwith and immediately having the old man brought to him. He remained standing over his maps and supply charts, never worrying that his war plans would be discovered. Orm had always had better things to do with his time than play spy.
Adel was just beginning to write down a note concerning the water rationing of a desert area when Orm was finally seen in. He would have written the note down anyway, but he hadn't expected the old man to be accompanied.
Irritation washed over his face at the ragged-looking teenager at the sorcerer's weathered side. "Apprentice?"
Orm smiled brashly, "Yes, but not mine. And good day to you, too, General Adel."
Adel snorted and tossed his pen down, keeping his gaze on the sorcerer but his attention on the young boy. The lanky youth had an odd look to him the general didn't trust. "It isn't a good day, old man, when you come to see me. You're here to irritate me."
The older man sighed and shook his head in a fair approximation of sadness. "Since when have I ever been talented enough to raise your ire? I'm really not that important."
A firm nod, but an otherwise expressionless face was all he gave Orm as he deadpanned, "True. Get out."
"Now don't be too hasty!" Orm exclaimed in rough delight. "I've come to do you a favor and all you can do is be rude?"
The general smirked at the old man. If there was anything the man loved it was a bit of hard-to-like. "I don't recall asking you for any favors, Orm. I don't have any interest in owing you one and I have less interest in being talked into any."
Orm opted for a more serious expression. The sorcerer slipped his hands together, steepling his index fingers in thought before leaning forward to speak. "Actually, General, it is a favor that pays for itself."
Adel raised an eyebrow in slight curiosity, but opted not to reply.
Orm gestured vaguely at the boy beside him. "Here is your new apprentice; a lad of extraordinarily tragic past, but with," the man's voice fell to a hush, "the god's armor in his future. If he were to be properly trained, you might find him useful and in return, he might find a place to belong."
A snort of disgust ripped the air, "God's armor? Hardly. Another orphan to fill our ranks but not," and Adel glanced at the boy dismissively, "worth an apprenticeship. Look at him, old man, he's cowering."
The child was indeed shaking, but as Adel looked more closely he saw strong hands contorted into angry claws. The head was bowed but his tousled hair did not effectively hide the defiance in the shimmering gold eyes. He was shocked to feel the air become almost electrified.
"Dune," Orm whispered in an attempt to placate the boy, "torching General Adel is not going to help you find a roof over your head so much as a marker for your grave."
To Adel's amazement, the heady power evaporated from the air. He was about to demand if the boy really had sorcerous powers when memory served him. Dune was the name of the White Dragon king's first son. It wasn't a particularly unusual name, but coupled with the power and golden eyes, it became clear Orm was preparing to hand over a potential problem of unparalleled danger. The Black Dragon tribe, though spoiling for a fight with the distant White Dragon tribe, was not yet equipped to handle them in a serious conflict.
"Are you mad?" The general snarled in outrage, "His father will raise the call to war if I'm seen with a hostage like this. Take him and go before I have the good sense to kill you both and feed your bodies to wild dogs."
"There's no danger of that, I'm afraid," Orm sighed sadly, looking at the boy, who was digging rough fingernails into his callused palms in fine display of self-destruction.
The general remained unconvinced and highly agitated. "How so?"
The White Dragon's offspring finally raised his head, dry lips parting to give voice to a brief and harsh explanation. "He ordered me to take my own life."
As hard as he tried to project it on the boy, Adel could sense no cowardice in him. Possibilities began to form in his mind, infecting him with ideas of taking the Dragon off Orm's hands after all. "So tell me, boy, why didn't you do it?"
Dune ran callused fingers over his sword's curving hilt. "I was going to do it…" With a familiar flick of his thumb, the hilt jumped, baring a few inches of polished steel. "But it is one thing to volunteer and… another to be commanded."
"If you swear loyalty to the Black Dragon," Adel was quick to state, "I could very well order you to your death."
The boy nodded his acceptance, "I wouldn't take it personally."
A look at Orm confirmed the boy's reply. "So, as long as you don't take anything I tell you to do personally, I can trust you?"
"General Adel," Orm cut in before the boy could form a reply, "you aren't the type to treat the boy personally."
Adel nodded, wearing a grim smile; it was true, he wasn't the type.