Chapter 68: The Steppe Brothers (Patreon)

The moment that Willen van Brugh attacked the Lord of the Blue Sky, he could tell that this would be a fight to remember. An elegant savagery—that was the fighting style of the nomadic horsemen of the steppes from which this horde had come from. That, coupled with the various other aura users all around, would make this a desperate struggle.

Dorgul parried Willem’s thrust, and then proceeded to break into a deadly charge. He swung that saber, and his aura followed in a strange pattern that was incredibly difficult to track. It seemed to move as a cloth swung through the air—slow yet fast, wide but insubstantial. It was like a matador’s cloth baiting a bull. When Willem received it with his own aura-wreathed blade, it was arm-numbingly powerful. Even with a mere saber to channel it, Dorgul’s aura couldn’t be underestimated.

Step by step, Dorgul pushed Willem back. His arm never ceased gaining momentum, delivering deadly slash after deadly slash without any awkwardness to the movements. It couldn’t be called multiple attacks—rather, it was as if it never ended, each one leading into the next. It was like the relentless charge of the horsemen that he led. Few men could stand up against it without breaking.

Willem numbered himself among the few.

When he blocked one of Dorgul’s relentless blows, he braced his feet against the ground and slammed his shoulder forward. His unexpected attack was like a sheer wall blocking the path of the rush. Dorgul staggered, his charge broken, giving time for Willem to begin his counterattack. He didn’t fight like a man—he fought like an animal, lunging right for the throat with his fangs bared. He swung that huge greatsword in an arc with the whole of his body behind it, aiming to decapitate in one smooth slice.

Dorgul’s parry was swift—swifter than Willem thought possible, but blue aura scattered into the air after the monumental task of restraining Willem’s blow. The Lord of the Blue Sky put distance between them, giving his men time to fire their aura bows. Willem kept his eyes locked on Dorgul as he dodged them fluidly, having never once let those men out of his sight. He wouldn’t let his eyes wander from his foe, but nor would he forget his terrain.

The Lord began his charge again, fighting more unrestrainedly. His style of fluid, graceful slashes became interspersed with savage and dirty kicks, each of which Willem caught with a proud smile. Dorgul seemed put on the backfoot… but then, his strength had never come from him alone. Two of his men surged in to protect him, wielding sabers flashing with blue aura of their own. Meanwhile, another tossed the Lord a recurve bow.

Willem fought against the two as composed as he had against Dorgul. Their styles were shallow imitations of their khagan’s by comparison. He feinted, dodged, then speared one, before exploding toward the other with a full-body swing that wrested the greatsword out of the body of one to cleave the other in half cleanly. Dorgul fired an arrow infused with aura the moment the shot was clear, but Willem jumped over it with a fluid, animalistic grace, barely breaking stride as the khagan drew his saber again.

Willem lunged forth at Dorgul with a thrust, and the man readied a parry. Instead of playing along, Willem speared deep into the ground, then flicked his blade up, sending a cloud of dust exploding upward into the air. Dorgul swung his saber to scatter the cloud of debris, but in the brief moment of opportunity Willem’s sword snuck past at the khagan’s neck. The battle-honed man barely avoided being skewered, aura instead slicing through the side of his neck where a great deal of blood fell.

Willem, once savage and unrelenting, fell back. Dorgul held his saber up as guardedly as he could, holding his neck with one hand as blood ran past his fingers. Where once there was savagery, Willem only kept a careful, guarded distance, eyeing the wound on his neck. Dorgul’s eyes were cautious, guarded… panicked, even.

Blood had been drawn. In nature, where small wounds could spell the end of things, there was no need to risk it all. Let your foe bleed, weaken. Let them suffer. Let their senses go cold, one by one, until it came time to fall upon them and finish the job. Willem let Dorgul bleed second by second so that the fight would be won without further risking himself. He could see it in Dorgul’s eyes, too—could see the realization of what was happening.

Dorgul, knowing that defeat was imminent if he waited, took his hand from his neck. He crouched low, placing his hand upon the ground to aid in a full-body lunge. He became a spinning tornado, and fell against Willem with all of the cold fury the steppes had instilled in his bones. Each attack came faster than the one before it—half a second, a quarter of a second, a tenth of a second, until it became so that their blades spent more time in contact then they were apart.

Willem endured it all, until finally he saw opportunity.

With one graceful sweep, Willem kicked Dorgul’s legs out from under him. The khagan had neglected footwork to deliver his rapid attacks, and it showed as the man tipped over. By the time the Lord of the Blue Sky had hit the ground, Willem was already swinging his greatsword to cut him. Dorgul tried to block, but Willem feinted, then thrust his sword wreathed in golden aura forward like a lance.

Willem’s sword pierced the khan’s armor right where the heart ought to be. Dorgul’s body spasmed for a few seconds, then fell still, his head falling back limply. The battle raging between the nomads of the steppes and Willem’s few aura users seemed to lull. As each and all realized who had died… history repeated itself.

Every bowman tossed aside their weapon, drawing a knife on their person. Then, empowered by aura, they jammed it into their own skull. Each of these masters of aura had made a blood vow with the khan—as he died, so too would they. And like that, knowledge of the aura bow had faded with their generation.

The old Willem van Brugh would’ve been ecstatic after such an overwhelming victory. Now, after having shadowed Senior for months…

“What a waste,” he said with a sigh.

Then, perhaps not. This place couldn’t impart information that Lazzaro didn’t himself know—even if they captured one alive, they’d never learn the method to infuse arrows with aura. It was lost to history.

“Let’s get back,” Willem called out to the men.

“Is it over, Your Majesty?” one of the knights asked.

“For us? Mostly,” Willem confirmed. “For the other… well. He knows what to do.”

***

After the battle against the Lord of the Blue Sky, Willem van Brugh had returned to his other half. Instead of immediately moving to capitalize on the information, however, Jansen was interrogating one of the scouts that’d been captured days ago. As a scout, he knew some of their language.

“Why are you wasting time learning about these people?” Junior asked.

Senior stared ahead idly. “I once knew a man that endeavored very, very hard to learn everything he could about different cultures. He learned what they loved, what they hated. He learned who they idolized, who they feared, whatever. Top to bottom, he’d learn them.”

“What, you want to negotiate with these people? Recruit them? Even if we could, all these people know is plunder. They’re useless to us.”

“No, no negotiations,” Senior said, shaking his head. “That man I spoke of was a virulent racist. The reason why he learned their culture, Junior, was to learn how best to hurt them.”

Junior scoffed. “Hurt them?”

“We’ve still got tens of thousands of roaming horsemen around these parts. We need to get them out. Considering they have steeds… I’d prefer not to chase them around for months, exhausting our troops. It makes economic recovery trying when you have internal saboteurs.”

Junior nodded in agreement, seeing the sense. “Do you have any ideas?”

“I do,” Senior confirmed. “It’ll require some… finesse, but I think we can manage.”

***

A scout peered out across the grasslands of Ravenveld at dusk. The Lord of the Blue Sky had departed this morning, and had yet to return. Until he did, he could only wait. It was frustrating, to see such tantalizing lands blocked off to them. Then… he spotted movement. He trained his eyes toward it, watching and waiting. Soon enough, a horse trotted into view. When he saw the steel armor, he realized it was a foe. He grabbed the horn at his waist, prepared to signal the others, but… what he saw next chilled him.

The horseman in front… he led a horde of others. But they weren’t living, breathing horsemen. Instead, corpses sat aback those horses—corpses, one and all, of the men that had gone into this territory under the leadership of the Lord of the Blue Sky. Flame danced above their heads—their souls, enthralled. And among them, his blue crown resplendent, was Dorgul Khan himself.

“Death…” muttered the scout despite himself, in abject fear.

The scout quickly grabbed his horn and blew it thrice. It was the signal for abject retreat. Leaving that last favor behind, he quickly mounted his horse and fled, telling all he came across what he had seen—that the God of Death was coming.

***

Willem van Brugh toured the lands occupied by the horsemen of the steppes for a few days acting like the God of Death from their myth. To many, it was straight out of their stories. To the nonbelievers, it was still a symbol and a message—death was coming. Whatever the case, it served as a very strong message. Some would surely remain, but nevertheless, the striking display of their leader and all his men dead would live in their hearts and minds for a long, long while, shattering morale.

Now, both Willems had returned to the royal palace of Ravenveld, where their council awaited instruction.

“So… now that they’re rattled, what do we do?” Junior asked of Senior.

“Now it’s just simple conquest. Or, as you put it, it’s time to establish their dependence,” Willem said sagely, looking over the map of territories beyond Ravenveld. “It’s clear the old rulers couldn’t protect them, so it’s time for you to sweep in and earn their fealty. Then… I can start doing my thing.”

Junior nodded. “And… this economic recovery, you think it’ll be difficult, easy?”

“It’s a huge kingdom, more than quadrupling in size. It won’t be easy, no, but…” Willem looked over. “Do you know why I’m not afraid to tackle any business?”

“Why’s that?” Junior asked, curious.

“Because I’m good at spotting when people know what the hell they’re doing,” Willem said. “And I’m very good at enticing those people to do it for me.” He looked back over. “If that can’t make a kingdom positively hum, then nothing will.”

***

Arnoud sat on the throne, tapping his foot against the ground. It wouldn’t be long until the Eye of Sovereigns began to release its hold on people. He was very eager for it to assess the abilities of those remaining. Day by day, people had failed. The earliest failures had been reduced to gibbering wrecks—their minds were utterly ruined.

They were of no use to the kingdom. All show, no substance—he was glad they were broken.

Those that failed later had been stunned, concussed, inflicted with serious migraines, sometimes even forced ill. Some exceptional few walked away with scars of sky blue aura—scars given to them by the Lord of the Blue Sky or his soldiers. Considering their sources were long dead, the scars faded quickly, but it was a testament to the strength of the magic in the Eye if it could replicate such a feat.

Now… only a few hundred remained.

Among them was Raphael and Willem, the two candidates who Arnoud had paid the most attention to. Also prevailing was his daughter, Clara. Arnoud couldn’t help but feel some special pride. She had ever made him proud, and he earnestly hoped that she would receive the highest assessment from his ancestor. If she could emerge from this contest as the most fit to rule, he could pass the crown to her without reservations.

But… only time would tell. And Arnoud waited for the results.

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