The Feral Dog Adrift - Chapter 6: Reach & Republic

Seventh day of Moernai, the fifth month of the Belasarian calendar
Abalenkrad, capital city of the Belasarian Reach
900 nautical leagues inward and counter-spun from the islands of Art Lendosk

Blood splashes across the polished green and brown stonework, and the green-skinned Delsumite chieftain slumps to the ground. Tusks grit in a scowl of defiance, a meaty hand grasping onto the intruding shaft of the halberd. He looks down, his leather harness hanging awkwardly from his torso: The head of it has cut through several straps, and bites deeply into his ribcage and lungs. If he weren't currently dying from it, the way his blood flows down its exquisitely-crafted blade would be beautiful.

From two other directions of the plaza circled in fluted columns, two other Delsumites – twins of blood-red hair and blotchy freckles – lunge in like two hunting wolves. Witnessing his daughters' plan, the impaled warrior lunges forward to grapple his killer with his dying breath, blood spilling from his jaws and down his venerable grey beard. From one side, a spear thrusts forward, while from another a glaive slices.

Their foe melts into splashing water before either weapon can make their mark, and that water boils in a flash. An explosion of steam blasts both green-skinned amazons off their feet, while their patriarch gurgles and flops down to the floor with a heavy, wet smack. The steam swirls and billows, condensing into a floating stream of water. It leans over the corpse of the bloody and steam-poached Delsumite warchief, a watery tendril wrapping around and pulling forth the fine halberd out and through the fallen warrior's chest.

Balas, God-Emperor of the Belasarian Reach, coalesces from the water as the clouds part, and the solar islands passing far overhead shine their light upon his form. The Lord of the Sea-Stallions is an immense, yet lithely-built man standing tall at seven feet, his dark bronze skin gleaming in the radiance that cascades from above. One firm hand clenches around the shaft of his symbol of office, its butt clanging against the blood-stained floor; The other passes over his mane of shimmering white hair, moving the flowing locks out of the way of his equally pale white eyes, with those strange oblong pupils.

Contrasting the leather garb and canvas clothing of his opponents, Balas wore very little: In fact, beyond a simple pair of silver caligae strapped to his feet, the bracers clad around his wrists, and the pendant about his neck, Balas wore nothing at all. A flagrant disregard for defensive measures, a boast that none could leave a mark upon him, an invitation to those he deemed worthy of combat to try and overcome.

“Warchief Tukhard lies slain,” Balas' dulcet tones echo in the column-lined plaza. The crowd of servants and civilians that lies between the fluted columns, their breath held in reverence, erupts into a riotous cheer. The Delsumite warband that held them hostage, while their warchief and his twin heirs sprung a trap upon the Belasarian ruler, now lies in muted silence. “He used my resources to seek an upper hand, and still he fell to my might. Under Belasarian law, everything that he held is now mine – for good, and for ill.” He hefts the halberd up, and makes a sweeping gesture at the green-skinned marauders of Tukhard's fleet.

“Already my soldiers take to your ships that lie in my harbor, and my Evaluators calculate the full worth of Tukhard's life. If any among you would challenge my Take, now is the time.” With that, the halberd points at the fallen warchief's daughter. Her glaive lies on the ground, as she clutches her steam-burnt arm with paralyzing agony. But wait, there was a second-

The spear-wielding daughter of Warchief Tukhard has lept to her feet, her muscled legs kicking off against polished stone and flying meters into open air. Spear pointing down, aiming for the God-Emperor's heart, her legs bulge as she launches against the air itself in a furious, downward dive. She utters a blood-curdling scream of rage, throwing every ounce of herself into this last ditch effort.

Her dive comes to a violent and bloody halt as, with the effort of a man waving away a fly, Balas steps forward and swings his halberd one-handed. The elegantly-forged axe-head bites and snags into her outstretched arms, forcibly dragging the Delsumite warrior-maiden from her downward dive and smashing her back down to earth against the plaza's flagstones. The red-haired combatant is left broken and bleeding by the impact, even as the halberd hews through her arms and digs into the flagstones beneath.

“Anyone else?” Is all Balas has to say. The surviving paragon of this Delsumite fleet, looking at the broken bodies of her sister and father, can only lower her head in defeat as tusked teeth bite back the shame, the grief, the rage, the failure. Indeed, even the still battle-ready marauders of the fleet can barely muster the fire to raise an axe or javelin.

“From this day, you are soldiers and citizens of Abalenkrad, and blades of The Belasarian Reach. As Tukhard led you to glory, so shall I lead you to tomorrow. Report to the Four-Fold Bureau to begin initiation, starting with the House of Burdens.” Balas commands, and his new warriors slowly move to follow

“You, and you.” The Emperor points at two of the servants who had not yet gone back to their duties. “Find some slaves. Have the Warchief and his daughter delivered to their vessels in the harbor. Their funerary rites will need tending.” Reverently, his servants jump to the order.

Within short order the column-lined square is clear of the Delsumite warhost, even the corpses of their leadership, and what servants remain are dutifully mopping away the viscera.

“Now,” Balas turns. Already the trail of reports, petitions, invitations, and results he had been responding to back in his throne room has started lining up in front of him out here in the plaza. “Finish your report, my good man.”

The first of these petitioners, a slight male human clad in the Belasarian blues of a military bureaucrat, gives the traditional salute: one arm straight at his side, the other arm crossed over his chest, fist clenched, and tilted at an angle to emulate a horse's hoof. He speaks in a reedy voice, his tongue obviously new to the lyrical Belasarian language: “Fleet-Commander Brahe has sent his report via Cauldron-wake. His report is negative, and he begs immediate dismissal and the promotion of one Captain Kelsettro to his position. Their exploratory voyage failed to secure the trade enclave with the natives of the Tavish Isles, and are currently anchored three leagues out.”

The Emperor's face remains passive and stoic. “Anything else?”

“They were beaten to their objective by the Conthas Republic, my Emperor.” The small man continues to deliver his report, holding the salute like a stubborn rock. “And further observations from Brahe's stationed Evaluators and Recorders show that the Tavish Isles have a native pantheon.”

“Thwarted by my long-standing rivals, and faced with the obstacle of a long-standing and entrenched faith.” Balas muses. He gestures, and his immaculate halberd – his personal symbol, his implement of station – disappears into a puff of light and mist. “Are there any specificities on the native pantheon?”

“Six, there are. Called the 'Six Winds' in their tongue. In addition, they have a class that serves as religious leadership, liaison between the Isles' warring clans, and a mediator between the various species and peoples of the Tavish Isles. These so-called 'Animists' that serve as the word between their native Gods and the common clans, although the report is light on details about them.”

Balas runs a hand along his chin, thinking, as his other arm crosses over his chest to prop up its opposite elbow. His eery, milky-white eyes stare into open air, even as they seem to bore into the hapless bureaucrat who sweats with a sudden flush of nervous energy. Finally, that hand snaps its fingers.

“Deliver the message back to Fleet-Commander Brahe. Tell him he retains his position, and is given a second chance to prove his competency. Infiltrate the clans of the Tavish Isles, and continue gathering as much information as possible on this island chain. Find the gaps of trust, find the weak links. Every land that has joined our Reach has borne them.”

“Immediately, my Emperor.” The nervous bureaucrat bows low.

“And send one of the Zaratani Wharfs his way, make sure the next communication by Cauldron-wake includes his coordinates. This will be a lengthy campaign, if the Conthan upstarts have anything to say about it. And of course, even just a single native God will not take kindly to the expansion of another's influence. Six will be...” Balas' lips briefly part, his teeth making a hungry smile, as his gaze turns up to the massive solar islands that drift high overhead. “Six will be a proper challenge.”