Chapter 23
Testing the Limits
General Ainia and General Porterhouse walked slowly, reviewing their marshalled armies. The hot sun of Mundiraj beat down on them and the potent smell of spices being immersed in hot oil wafted in on the sea breeze. It was unusual for two armies to be stationed in a single town these days. But there was a sea wall to be built and the magic was low. And the army always had need of building character.
General Porterhouse stopped before one of his troops. She was short for an Orc, but as tall as General Ainia. She stood as ramrod straight and polished as the other Orcs. As was their custom, she wore her parade dress uniform with many flourishes and rhinestones. Porterhouse narrowed his eyes then lunged at her, bellowing at the top of his lungs. The soldier didn't even blink. And when his echoes faded she shouted “Thank you Sir!” He nodded and they moved on.
Many of the town had acted warily to the alienness of the 22nd and 31st Armies. The citizen liaison office played dumb to the very tangential complaints, forcing the locals to specifically note that one was composed entirely of Orcs and the other of Amazons. By the time the conversation got to an admission of racism, it was easily dismissed. The folks of the poorer quarter, who stood to gain the most from the sea wall, had no such bigotry. They regularly showered troops returning from their work shift with marigold petals and left out little offerings of pungent food.
Now it was General Ainia who stopped. Her troops were more traditionally dressed, but it was hard not to focus on imperfections. They didn't make the soldier any less combat ready, so Ainia checked her rebuke. Instead she asked “At the battle of Anthela what act of discipline amongst the Syrosian soldiers turned the tide?”
“Holding a close spear formation in the face of a cavalry charge, Ma'am!” shouted the soldier. Ainia nodded and continued.
“Although I'm not sure how much good a close spear formation will be against the gods,” she remarked to Porterhouse as they walked on.
“If spear tip strong enough, and force behind doughty enough, I dare say we put out the eyes of god or two,” he replied.
They stopped at a table that had been set up along the line. Porterhouse picked up the long spear with a bulging tip that lay on it, and Ainia picked up the parchment note.
“It says it has a 'force multiplier tip'” Ainia read out.
Porterhouse twirled the thin shaft in his hand. He brought it suddenly to a stop and thrust it double handed into the breastplate of one of his troops. There was a fizzle, and a snap, and the tip broke off and fell on the ground. He grunted and tossed it back on the table. They resumed walking.
“Need stronger tip for god eye,” commented Porterhouse.
“Maybe some of the local curry,” said Ainia.
“Ah!” said Porterhouse enthusiastically. “Curry nice! Very nice! Too good for gods.” The Orcs were enormous fans of the local cuisine. Their own ethnic food mostly revolved around large hunks of charred meat. Northern herbs had no interest to them. But the southern hot spice along with charred meat made them quite excited and they avidly participated in the local economy.
“Ever got it in your eye?” asked Ainia. “I walked past a spice stall in a wind. Woo hoo. I thought I would go blind. Put some of that in a spear tip and then we might be talking.”
The next table contained a complicated looking bow that Ainia picked up. Porterhouse picked up the tag. “Far Range” he read.
“You,” said Ainia, to the nearest soldier. “Far side of the compound. Hold up your shield. Now!” The soldier double timed it as Ainia strung the bow and tested the pull. It was odd, in that her fingers didn't actually pull the bowstring. The string pulled itself as she moved her hand. It was hard to gauge the force, other than the fact the bow appeared to be made of solid steel.
When the trooper was in position, she fitted one of the thick arrows to it, and drew. She sighted along the draw and released. There was a bang as the rear end of the arrow exploded into flame. It rocketed away with increasing speed. “I didn't need that ear anyway,” said Ainia rubbing it. The arrow had cleared the compound, yards above the soldier and continued out above the city, leaving a thin trail of smoke behind it.
“Yes, far range,” said Porterhouse. “But how you aim?”
Ainia shrugged, and put the bow down. “Crazy mages. Don't think things through.”
Porterhouse grunted. “But this next war their war. We mostly watch.”
Ainia looked sidelong at him. “So you don't think there is much future in the army?”
“We watch from close,” he said, and flashed his large teeth at her. “Very close. If they not manage, then our turn. There is honor in being backup.”
She nodded and looked to her own troops. She saw several who had lined their shields with local cloth. As the Orcs had taken to the local food, the Amazons had taken to the fabric. The shield lining was where General Ainia had allowed her troops to express their individualism. Mundiraj was a cross roads town. There were many colors and exotic designs here that were highly expensive elsewhere. Allowing them such liberties made them complain less about the backbreaking work.
In a sudden motion General Porterhouse spun on his heel and landed an impressive punch into the abdomen of one of his soldiers. He was driven back several inches and grunted, but did not break his stance. Porterhouse nodded, and the trooper gasped out a “Thank you, sir!”
The last table contained a painted red amphora. “Flame Bottle” read Ainia.
“Hmm ah!” said Porterhouse, picking it up heartily. “Woosh boom! If not good for gods, at least good for a laugh.”
It was a bit unwieldy. He juggled it and ended up cradling it in his arms as he worked the cap loose. There was a roar and flames shot out from the end he had uncapped. The amphora shot out of his grasp, backwards. With a crunch it impacted into an Orcish trooper, and then exploded, knocking him head over heels.
They walked to where he lay, dazed and badly burnt. His lips moved and Porterhouse bent over. “Thank you... sir,” the trooper gasped out. Porterhouse, nodded, then solemnly removed one of his carpet of medals and pinned it to the soldier's chest.
“I think we go to healer now,” said Porterhouse.
Ainia motioned to her troops. Several upended the table, brought it over. They eased the downed warrior onto it and hefted him up. The two generals lead the way towards the healing compound.
“Woosh, boom, indeed” said Ainia.
“Crazy mages,” agreed Porterhouse. “Sooner gods are dead, better it is. Get back to honest fighting.”
“What honest fighting is left?” asked Ainia.
“The Black Hole,” said Porterhouse.
Ainia looked at him, startled. “What? You can't be serious.”
“They damned. They forsaken,” continued Porterhouse. “Souls in living limbo. Many tin hats say we should save.”
Ainia shuddered. “That doesn't mean it's a good idea. The living dead creep me out. How do you kill the dead? I know many say we should, but who actually wants to?”
“She wants,” said Porterhouse, pointing towards the healing house. “Says gods are culpable. Put dirty laundry there. Worse than demon lands. Older too. They should fix. If not, we should fix.”
Ainia shook her head. “I understand your sense of honor better than her sense of responsibility.”
“Not mystery to me,” said Porterhouse. “If she go, I volunteer 22nd, double time quick. They like her.”
“Now that she's back on our side, sure,” said Ainia. “I'll go if I'm ordered. But I'll not seek my death there. Why would you?”
“They there long time. Many thousand years, yes? What they do all that time?” Ainia shrugged. “They fight each other. Best fighters in world now. I bet.” Porterhouse grinned at her. “Most honest fight in world.”