Chapter eleven: Morning of the Not-Undead
Four hundred years ago, a particularly brutal war between martial Alexandria and the industrial Regency of Lindblum carried over to the latter's ally, Burmecia. Burmecia had long provided troops and supplies to aid the Regency in times of need, but never before had the kingdom itself come under direct attack. Though it was the first time, it would by no means be the last, and the people of Burmecia knew it. But by the time the war ended, they were bitterly divided about how to deal with it.
There were pacifists who wanted Burmecia to isolate itself and forget the troubles of the outside world, concentrating on developing the peaceful arts, such as dance and music, a heritage common to all Burmecians. There were the militarists, who were tired of reacting to the attacks of others and felt that the best defense was a good offense. They wanted Burmecia to remind Alexandria often that the nation in the rainy valley was not to be trifled with. And then there were the moderates, who wanted to continue providing Lindblum with assistance while increasing defense at home.
The king was, in the best interests of the majority of his kingdom, forced to side with the moderates. Declining a royal offer of assistance, the pacifists went into a nearby desert and founded the settlement of Cleyra high in the branches of an enormous tree. They protected and isolated it with a tremendous sandstorm formed and maintained by their nature magic and ritual dances. The militarists accepted the royal offer of assistance, but only if certain conditions were met: first, the king would have to allow the militarists to intervene on behalf of Lindblum at their own discretion; second, that they would retain access to the central kingdom of Burmecia, and be allowed to trade openly with whomever they wished; third, that in the unlikely event of another attack on Burmecia, the king would seek the militarists' assistance; and fourth, that any dragoons wishing to leave the King's Own regiment be allowed to do so.
After a few short weeks of negotiation all conditions were met, with one being added by the King: that if both Lindblum and Burmecia were in danger, that Burmecia would receive the militarists' aid first. In return, the militarists agreed to leave the Kingdom out of their daily affairs, lest they attract any of the enemies they were bound to make to the valley Kingdom.
The militarists moved into the Aerbs Mountains that divided the three nations. The largest militarist settlement was founded at the intersection of the Burmecian, Lindblum, and Alexandrian branches of the Aerbs range. That location enabled them to attack Alexandria, assist Lindblum, or defend Burmecia with near-equal convenience. Unfortunately, there was one feature other than high altitude that made the location anything but convenient: dragons. Though not combative by nature the wild dragons were very territorial, and more than willing to fight for what they saw as their piece of the mountains.
So despite the fact that every Aerbs highlander was trained to use a weapon, the highlanders developed their own breed of dragoon: the Kindjals, named for an ancient fighting knife. In some ways, the two types of dragoon were quite similar: both relied on spear-based jump attacks; both wore headgear with a pair of triangular holes in the front, like a pair of angry eyebrows; both traveled the world on quests of various kinds, often information gathering; both were know and respected the world over for their fighting prowess; and both were able to enter almost any town, pub, or tavern they wished.
But that's where the similarities ended. Though their fighting styles were similar, their equipment and methods differed. The way they talked was different. During their years in the highlands, the people of the Aerbs had developed a strange accent that might've been called Scottish, had such a country existed on Gaia. And whereas the Dragon Knights wore pants, tunic and robe the Kindjals were known for their drab jumpsuits and cloaks. Both carried backup weapons on their belts, but while Dragon Knights used knives a Kindjal typically carried a short sword. And though both wore headgear with holes of the same shape, Dragon Knights wore hats and Kindjals wore headbands. Though both relied on multi-bladed spears, the types they used were different. The Dragon Knights used a triblade spear, which had two secondary blades, one on either side of the spear point jutting outward at a forty-five degree angle. The Kindjals, however, used a multi-purpose spear they called the Mauler. It was tipped by a large, flat, diamond-shaped blade that was sharp on all sides. But the most recognizable feature of the Mauler was its double-edged sickle, a foot-long blade attached half a foot down from the primary one. The addition of the sickle to the four-edge blade made the Mauler one of the most versatile polearms in existence.
Methods differed nearly as much as equipment. Kindjals were trained in the use of explosives, small airships, and were well-versed in many types of sabotage. They excelled at performing surgical strikes alone or in small groups. Dragoons were able to go where they pleased because they were generally well-liked and respected. Kindjals were able because they were feared, as much for their legendary tempers as for their abilities.
It was in the Aerbs Highlands that Freya found herself dumped. One of the low-slung, fire-resistant stone houses typical of the highlands stood only about a dozen feet away, and she could see more a few dozen yards beyond it. Might Fratley be in one of those houses? She approached the door of the nearest one with trepidation and anticipation, heartbeat pounding in her ears. She was about to knock when the words of a woman with a typical Aerbs accent issued from inside the house, freezing her in her tracks.
"Fratley, Fratley. Calm down, cousin! I'm sure it was just a dream. An' even if it wasn't, you got to see her, didn't you?" Then came a voice that threatened to shatter her frozen state.
"I did indeed, Lira. And yet, it seemed so real . . ."
"But it couldn't have been real! Freya died in the fires of Cleyra, in full uniform. Why would you see her in plain clothes, with a gash in her side instead o' burns as the fatal wound? It makes no more sense than any other ordinary dream."
"Intellectually, I know you're right. But the rest of me feels that there was an undeniable sense of reality to it." He sighed heavily. " I know it's not my fault that Freya was hurt so . . yet I still feel responsible somehow."
"Might yer untimely guilt have somethin' to do wi' the fact that her funeral's this mornin'?" Freya nearly gagged at that. My funeral? "Look, yer feelin' responsible because you don't like seein' anyone hurt. Especially those that don't deserve it. Truth be told, I feel guilty, too. Poor lass . . . Gone through such hardship an' waitin', only to be disappointed. I can't imagine what it must've been like for her; a bitter end for a noble Lady." There was real sadness in her voice, but Freya barely noted it. To her, things had now officially spiraled beyond the surreal and into the nightmarish.
"Her bitter end and forgotten love also worry me for another reason: what if her restless spirit becomes vengeful? I wouldn't normally fret, but there was a sense of foreboding in that dream that I can't ignore."
"From what I've heard of 'er, she wasn't the vengeful sort. If anythin', I think she'd want us to move on with our lives, an' not let 'er death ruin 'em." Lira's voice came closer to the door. "An' if her angry spirit shows up, I'll make sure she doesn't get you. Come along now, or we'll be late for the funeral. You're presidin', remember?" Freya could hear footsteps now, and her shell-shocked mind made a jump: when they opened the door and saw her, they'd likely attack.
What if this isn't a dream? I'm unarmed. What if they really DO think I'm just an angry spirit, made real by the need for vengeance? They might kill me . . . Her stomach leapt into her throat as she realized that yes, what seemed to be happening could, in fact, be real. All that she'd heard began to make a sickeningly great deal of sense. As the doorknob turned, she knew she'd never make it to the Gate in time. Freya could think of only one thing to do: she concentrated on the link between herself and Crimson, and tried to subvocalize through it. 'Crimson, I may require some assistance.' Much to her relief, she heard in her head his reply.
'I am coming!'
'Just don't kill them.' This confused him a little, but he agreed anyway.
'They will live, but not over you.'
Then the heavy wood door swung open, and the dragoon got her first look at Lira. Her mahogany fur contrasted nicely with her flaxen hair and blue eyes. Her own pants and tunic closely matched Freya's old uniform, but was made of dark green fabric. She wore a grey cloak over it to shield her from the high-altitude winds. A short sword was sheathed at her waist, and a knife was belted to her thigh. Also conspicuous were her Kindjal's headband and the retracted Mauler slung over her back. As soon as she saw Freya she drew back as if bitten, her expression tinged with a healthy bit of terror at the sheer otherworldliness of the situation in which she now found herself. Fratley stood behind her, holding his half-moon bardiche like a lifeline, also utterly unable to accept what he was seeing.
When Freya saw the two of them and the look of horror on their faces, her face scrunched up uncontrollably as she fought back tears. Here at last was the man whose memory had troubled her so, whom she'd given up for dead, alive and breathing. To hear his voice was one thing; to actually see him was quite another. Her arms half-raised, as though to touch Fratley one last time.
Panicked by the very sight of this slain dragoon on her doorstep, Lira took the slow movement of Freya's arms to be an attack, a casting of some devious kind, and the Kindjal responded as quickly as she could. Lira's kick knocked Freya back, but she recovered in time to block the next one. Her arms were no match for the butt of Lira's retracted Mauler, though, and she winced as her left forearm took a blow. It had probably not broken, but it certainly hurt like it. She leapt over a low kick, and jerked back to avoid a backhanded slap. This was the fighting style of the Kindjal: relentless attack with whatever was available, leaving the opponent no time to regroup. It was fortunate for Freya that Lira thought extending her Mauler would give the dragoon too much time. Her weakened and dispirited body her only weapon, the dragoon knew she could not win. But she didn't have to win; she only had to survive long enough . . . she felt a surge of hope as she felt Crimson approaching the Gate, a surge of hope that was crushed when the distraction allowed Lira to land the butt of her spear against the side of Freya's head.