Chapter 49: Respect is Earned (Parakles)

  Suited up for the day, the paladin straps himself tight. His armor shines bright in the deep blue of his home. There are many things on his mind as he buckles his belt carrying his short sword. He ponders the success rate of such an attack, not so much for his own safety, as he is aware that his own abilities eclipse those of the average man, so much so that his personal safety parameters in combat seem a wall that only the fiercest in Wiera can scale. Perhaps he is right? Yet, this understanding is not a thought born in pride or delusion. This is an echo of his record in taking the field and remaining when all others flounder and fall to ruin. Parakles grabs his shield now. "Griff, what do you think?" he calls to his squire, who is readying himself for the fight ahead as well. "Should I stay atop my horse for this fight or descend and stand as a man on my own feet in the ranks as the rest?"

  "Parakles, ride your horse. You are strong and difficult to hurt when on your feet, but your ability to maneuver and ride clean whilst the battle lines around you swell, bulge, and buckle is inspiring." The paladin knight is taken aback by the gravity of the remarks shared by the young man. He is honestly just doing what he was trained to do his whole life, and what his body allows him to do, nothing more. In reality, the knight is more impressed by Griff, a young boy who has real courage and bravery. Parakles remembers the boy demanding a chance to stand at his side in the fall of Runsa, and how he survived the rough handling given to him by the prison guards, a pain that would have ended the spark in most people. Yet here Griff stands, lacing up his bracers for another fight as the freed men of the South move to formation and ranks to march directly at the gates of Madrol. The paladin thinks for a moment as the men move to their ranks. He knows that what Siphon and the others have said is becoming true and that the visual of the man on his horse is a strong and towering symbol for the fight against the Bruin House. He walks to his steed, a strong horse, with legs thick enough to carry the knight and his armor and weapons with ease. The horse smells the trouble in the air and yet he kicks dirt with his front hoof as if to tell the knight that he is ready for the day. The paladin smiles as he mounts the beast and pets the mane tenderly.

  All around the people, some clad in real armor, but most missing pieces such as helmets or bracers, shin guards, or even breastplates and shields. These men, though, line up with power in their eyes and fire in their chests. The names of the fallen and the missing on their armors and shields bless them in combat. Parakles sees these; he is honored by these.

  Madrol, under the lead of Melorian, has positioned their army at a choke point in the road just ahead of the entry gates of the city. As a trading hub, their city was never set up for true defensive battles. The Bruin regulars, under the shipping magnate, understood this, but the ship baron did not. Melorian gave field command to Lycon, a halberdier and seasoned man of combat. Prior to the war, Lycon had been a pugilist in the arenas of Dol, as Marcion had, yet Lycon was the reigning champion, whereas Marcion was just a contender. Lycon was a quick study once given a spear to wield, and he spiked the tips of his gauntlets to give himself an edge in battle in case he needed to resort to hand-to-hand combat. The halberdier knew this would be a true challenge and smiled when, as he positioned the men in their lines with himself at the lead, he spotted the Paladin mounting his horse. Lycon halted all in his company and pointed at the man standing a tower from his mounted position. "That man there, HE IS MINE!" he calls to all the men bearing the Bruin. Lycon truly did not care for war or the riches it brought to people with the talent sets that he possessed for violence. He sought only the opportunity to risk his life in pursuit of that which anyone touched in the head as a prize fighter is: that sweet chance for a person to come along who can actually and truly beat them. Lycon had seen many large-framed men in his day, and many men who stood with bravado, who slammed their chests and attempted to make themselves appear a colossus when, in fact, they had the prowess of a dead mouse. Though, as the halberdier at the head of the Bruin forces looked down across the lines at the paragon, at Parakles, he could tell, as so many others when near him could as well, that something was different. Lycon thrusts his spear into the ground in front of him as all settle before the advance forward occurs. He reaches down and grabs a small sample of the dirt and sand beneath his feet. The man then rubs it into his palms; the coarse sound of the grains on his hands is a noise normally drowned by the world, and yet it echoes and vibrates in the silence hanging along the air. Men take note of his action as he then slaps his palms together several times, billowing a small cloud of dust into the air directly in front of his person. He breathes deep as the small cloud dissipates into nothing. He smiles next as he grabs his spear from the dirt. He is ready for whatever is to come.

  Parakles sees this from across the field, and he grabs his lance from Griff. The two champions are roughly three hundred yards apart, and yet they both know they are looking at each other and only each other. "Griff, try and stay back when the fighting starts; I am going to have my hands full with that one," he says to his squire.

  ……

  As the cheers and the shuttling sounds of large amounts of men in military dress fill the air of the city and the surrounding fields, the small party headed by Siphon, who left camp early that morning before dawn, moves to position along the marshy banks outside the eastern bulwarks and walls of the city. Their goal is simple: to move around the defenses by drifting into the water banks and then attacking the villa where Melorian would be holding up inside, or in the worst case, to hold the docks and ensure that the renegade leader and shipping baron would not be able to simply board a vessel and escape once the fighting became heavy.

  "Siphon, we have a problem," Djent called out to the leader as he reached the muddy banks they were to cross around. The thief looks back to see the tall blind knight sinking quickly into the mud. The mud isn't so thick and deep that it threatens to fully consume the man, but he is blind and already struggling with the maneuvering, let alone keeping himself from being swallowed by the weight of the mud. Even so, what would happen if, when they emerge onto the docks, they are weighed down by all the extra mud on their armor? Siphon and his party did not account for this in the planning. Perhaps this is why that side of the city did not have the deep walls and gate series that many others would consider having for securing the people inside.

  "Bors, Marcion, help Djent backward, but don't get yourself stuck either." Siphon had to think quickly. The fight on the field would start any moment, and he knew that while the combat lines were thick and fresh, it would be the moment best to slip to the docks unnoticed or less seen than otherwise. Bors stripped himself of his heavy armor and greaves to help ensure his weight would hold in the mud, and the two men pulled the blind knight back onto the dry shores.

  "This isn't good. This mud will cake on strong and take too long to dry and crack. We need to move now," Djent spoke as he wiggled his legs, noticing the extra pressure upon them from the mud accumulated upon the boots and greaves. Bors knew that with his heavy armor he would have the same issue. The party found themselves frustrated as to what to do.

  Gage found himself observing the scene and noticed a wench hook over the minor wall of the city, used for when larger objects had to be lifted around the city walls. The hook stood, but did not have any rope through the hooks to allow pulley lifting at this moment. The archer was still weak and on the mend but felt perhaps this would be his best chance to be of service to the party in this moment. "Hey Siphon," he calls as he unbands a sling of rope that he had tucked above his tunic. It wasn't a long mass, but it just might be enough to reach the top of the hook. "Think if I can barb that pole up there, that you could climb up and find a proper rope to let down for us all to then be hoisted up by?" The thief agreed that such an option might work or was at least worth the effort in comparison to sitting around as the tensions across the city were reaching a fever pitch.

  The archer, with the little bit of rope he had, tied it true to the back of an arrow, making sure it was secure but that it would do minimal damage to the flight pattern. Gage tried then to pull back on the bow. He got as close to the wall as possible to allow him more ease in how strong his pull needed to be. He had previously switched the type of bow he had to one needing less strength to draw, but the archer was still less accustomed to the lack of weight and tension, so his technique, while precise, found his accuracy wanting for the moment. He pulled back on the bow and loosed the arrow. "THUUMM!" The arrow missed the target, drawn under the beam by the weight of the rope attached at the rear.

  "Don't worry, Gage, try again," Gina gave encouragement. All were tense as Bors and Laroux used this brief pause to scrape mud from Djent's armor. The archer then pulled the rope back to himself and then tried once more.

  "THUNK!" The rope connected with the beam, but the connection was weak. Gage pulled hard on the rope to simulate and test the hold of the arrow before Siphon would climb up the rope. Yet, the arrow on the second tug came loose and dropped back down to the ground, bouncing about on the ground below the party.

  "Damn, that was close, but I need to drill the shot just a bit deeper," Gage said as he grabbed the arrow, seeing that now the bolt was too damaged for a third shot. He needed to change the arrow for a new one. Djent, by this point, was as ready as he could be, with enough mud knocked off to at least no longer drastically hinder his movements. Bors then began getting his heavy armor back on, knowing that he had a much higher rate of survival with the protection on his body than off. Siphon and Gina stayed focused on the next shot of the archer as he clenched hard and drew with greater effort than on the prior two shots.

  "THUNNNNKKK!" The shot drilled back into the beam. The bolt visibly and audibly had gone far deeper into the beam than the other arrow had gone. It was now up to Siphon to scale up and then secure and attach a proper rope that could then be used to pulley all the remaining party up with all their armor and weight. The thief stripped himself of all heavy clothing and material on his person, save for one dagger still on his side to still give him protection but make his lightweight self as little a strain on the rope and arrow as possible. He then fastened his hands around the thin rope and pulled hard, hoisting himself with his eyes closed as the concern that maybe the rope was not strong enough or perhaps that the arrow would not hold played on repeat in his mind. Yet the man could not succumb to these thoughts, and as he climbed and trusted the strength of both a little more with each small pull higher of himself, he shook his head back and forth to purge those intrusive thoughts attempting to rob him of focus.

  Quickly, the nimble thief reached the top and found a true rope for lifting nearby the crane beam, coiled up for future use. Siphon was happy, and after surveying to see if anyone had seen him, he then threw the rope down the beam through the hooks for the others to be pulled up one by one. Marcion threw all of Siphon's garbs and other knives up the wall, much to the frustration of the man, who was still alone at the top and not seeking to draw attention. Marcion could tell Siphon was angry by the display of fingers over the side of the wall as the small man then braced himself to pull the first of the group up. He started with Gina, who, even for just the small Siphon to pull, went up very easily. She then braced herself to pull with her lover after kissing his cheek briefly. Next up was Marcion, who took a bit of effort, but now they had a stronger man on the crest with them to make the next few pulls rather easier by comparison. Up then, without trouble, went Gage and Bors, with now only the blind knight and the lady sage below. Djent was guided to the rope and latched on strong, even though he was scared of being hoisted without the aid of sight.

  "I'm trusting you guys," he called with a slight knot of terror in his voice as they pulled with all their might. The knight was taller and slightly heavier than the rest of the party, even more so in his armor and weapons. "Laroux, please stand back; I don't want to accidentally crush you."

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  "Don't you trust us, Djent?" Gina playfully hollered as she heard the exchange below them. The knight blushed red.

  "I do, but I am afraid I may fall trying to get off the beam." This was the particular trouble of hoisting a blind man up the wall via the pulley system of the hook that they had not considered.

  "Hey, this beam has a gear system to swivel below it," Siphon mentions as the knight is about four feet from the top. The others in the party begin to laugh as they were afraid for nothing and asked the knight to stay calm as they then cranked the gearbox around to safely drop the knight on the wall with them. Djent was dripping with sweat from the fear of the moment and was most thankful to no longer be dangling off the ground once the party put his feet onto the solid ground of the wall landing. He then tilted his head over the side of the wall and threw up the contents of his stomach as the party dropped the line back down to retrieve the final member of the party, Laroux. She was an easy pull by comparison, and once at the top, she immediately patted her blind knight, letting him know she was there and set herself up to once more be his eyes in the battle ahead.

  Siphon scanned the horizon of the port city. Getting around the small wall and into the city proper had taken quite the amount of time, but it was needed to make sure that all in the party retained their armor and weapons without the added weight of thick mud upon them. Nothing of note. The focus was on the storm across the way, at the front gate. The people had all either retreated to the bar or conveniently taken their ship out to sea for the day. The docks stood mostly empty save for a few vessels. The party got down from the wall and readied themselves for any trouble that they might run into now inside the walls. Siphon glanced back one more time to the scene at the gate before he dropped down below to march on the Porter family villa. "Give 'em hell, Anvil!"

  …..

  The lines previously formed and obvious as a parted body of water split down the middle now collide and attempt to thwart the other side with displays of force and violence. Griff follows the words of the paladin and keeps himself at the ready but back from the front line as best he can. He is not contested as the battle line collides. The free men fight with a passion that outweighs the disadvantage of their lacking skill or fatigued physiques. The heart measures up to the superior armaments of the men of Dol as the chaos grows in volume. Parakles, who would normally be the driving force of the slaughter and the man who has the wettest weapon of red in the ranks, finds himself occupied, however. He rode strong, and with the speed of his horse under him, he was able to claim a few men with his lance before the focus had to be shifted and devoted solely to the halberdier, Lycon.

  The champion boxer ran to the front of the mounted knight, corralling him from further reducing the ranks and gaining the focus of Parakles fully. "You fight me now, knight!" Lycon roared as he forced the horse with his lance to stand on its hind legs, robbing the paladin of a chance to maneuver about and gain a chance to pierce a man or more. Lycon smiled as the horse stood raised; he then pulled the tip down of his spear and used the heavy pommel of the lance to slam into the side of the horse's face, knocking the beast silly. With the strength of the shot, he forced the horse to react poorly and drop to the ground. The steed flailed about on the ground, kicking up much dirt. This proved helpful for Parakles, as he was able to sense the horse's coming fall and dismounted in haste to avoid the chance of a leg being crushed or pinned, but with his heavy lance, shield, and medium armor, he was staggered by the sudden drop and needed a moment to collect himself and reset his breathing. The pugilist turned halberdier swatted his lance about, searching for the man as the horse soon regained his footing and thundered out to the back of the line, back to the camp of the free men. Parakles felt himself still wobbling when the distraction had fully cleared. As the road they were fighting on was not some dirty desert or some tilled farmland, but a robust and well-used highway for trade, dust, even when flying about in the air, did not linger as in other settings. Lycon smiled as he pinpointed the target. He thrust ahead, but the blow was absorbed by the paladin as he took the hit on his strong shield, causing the man zero injury or need to yield ground. Parakles steadied his right arm as he then fired back his own lance shot, but Lycon, being of quicker orientation, found the thrust of little trouble to dodge. Both men quickly knew that this conflict between them was to be the true test of this battle, even as the others clashed without concern or thought to the duel of their leaders; the two men felt the sheer driving power of their enemy resting squarely upon the shoulders of the man standing in his way.

  "Lycon, Champion pugilist of Dol, undefeated in organized sport in 64 bouts." He smiled as he touted himself to the taller man clad in blue armor.

  "Sir Parakles, son of Jothar, in service of House Cavan of Runsa." Parakles felt compelled to return the same respectful greeting, though he found himself absent any laurels he felt needed to be presented alongside his name. To him, prize fighting was a noble way to provide for a man and his family if done with honor, and as such, he did not look down on the man of sport as perhaps some lords would. Yet, he knew, or at least believed, that prize fighting was not military warfare. The paladin offered no remark or speech of deprecation upon the man, and yet Lycon felt the lack of faith in the man's practiced art in true combat. The stand was broken swiftly by the halberdier as he twirled his body around toward his backside and back through to the front, letting his body create a whipping arc with his spear in the process that he unleashed at the front of Parakles. The shot clanged against the shield, harder than previously, even leaving a small dent in the front as the man had upped the speed of his strike. Parakles felt the sting on his arm holding the shield in place but made every effort to conceal and not reveal the notice of pain. He then, on the next strike by Lycon, punched his shield hand forward to bang back the blow and see if he could knock the man off balance. Parakles then followed the punch up with a forward lunge, and then once his front foot landed, he shoved ahead his right arm with the spear full to purpose, hoping to catch the opponent in the ribs. Yet, the pugilist instinct took over for Lycon, and while he was off balance and his spear shifted off to not protect his flank, his right arm with his buckler was ready to intercept. He pushed off on the harder ground beneath him with the tips of his toes and pressed the buckler into the farthest point of the lance that he could reach and used what force he could muster to change the flight line of the bladed tip of the spear to miss his body entirely. He then, once safe from the thrust, kicked forward, aiming to connect with the chin of the rebel leader. Though Parakles had rotated his shield from his lower left to his high center quick enough to eat the attack from the foot. However, the force of the shot separated the men by several feet as Parakles slid back along the ground, kicking up dust as his feet glided atop the roadway.

  Both men took stock of the situation, and each needed to rotate their shield arms to knock loose any stiffness felt from the prior round of strikes. Respect was had by both, and the other soldiers and men running about, despite seeing the separation of the two leaders, did not dare to interfere with the duel taking place and stuck to opponents more on their level. Lycon offered no quick offensive toward men with their backs turned to him, and Parakles dared not shift his focus away from this challenge staring him down in the face—a man looking at the paladin not as the anvil the others saw him as, but as prey. Worthy prey, but prey nonetheless. Lycon licks his lips in happiness. He feels perhaps this is a right challenge for him. He stated earlier to the paladin his record of 64 victories in organized sport but failed to mention the fact that 60 of them were by knockout before the 3rd round of the fight. The halberdier had hoped in joining the war effort that he could meet a true match for his power and thus either taste true defeat that all warriors secretly desire to fall by or find a new motivation to improve himself to the next level. Lycon thinks he has this man in his view in the form of Parakles.

  The two circle around as they prepare for the next contest between them. Blood-curdling screams and the clashing of iron and steel occur all around the two, and yet they are deaf to the outside as they both internally devise a stratagem in this next round.

  At the rear, Griff hurls a javelin ahead past his lines into the chest of a Bruin soldier, eliminating his future. The shot emboldens the young man, but he still remembers his command received from his knight at the beginning to stay back. He grips his main spear firm and keeps his form and watch up as Parakles makes the next lead offensive at the halberdier.

  Swooping from the left back across to his right as he leaps forward, the knight collides his spear into the spear of Lycon as the Bruin champion is forced to move on the defense and take a step back, yielding the offensive position for the barrage. The anvil of the freed sees this and shoves his shield laterally forward, attempting to connect with the jaw of the top rim of the guarding object. Though stunned and pivoting backward, Lycon leans himself toward the spear arm of Parakles and away from the shield bash, causing the thrust to miss just above his upper right side. He is in too poor a position to attack with the blade portion of his spear but jabs into the center of the breastplate instead with his own shield, knocking the wind from the chest of Parakles and forcing the anvil to step back. Though the paladin, after moving just one foot backward, hardens himself and kicks into the chest of Lycon, knocking the wind from the man in return. The close clinch breaks as the kick forces Lycon back two steps, and the two exchange a series of glancing clashes as Parakles has the man forced to pivot and shuffle backward to maintain himself, as the paladin has no flaw in his offensive posture to create for the halberdier a counter.

  "THUMP!" In the process of pivoting, Lycon trips over a dead soldier adorning the ground. The man stumbles a step or two before he fully loses balance and lands on his back with his spear in a position that he would not be able to offer any challenge, defense, or even a quick surprise attack to a man standing over him. He is rattled and frustrated, as in the heat of the challenge he had forgotten a fact known by men of war that is unknown to men of sport: the accumulation of the dead and dying upon the ground and the obstacles they become as battles prolong. Lycon isn’t injured but knows that from his back he is beaten, and even if he quickly moves to return to his feet, he knows that his body will be open to the long lance strikes of his opponent. He hears steps toward him; the man shuts his eyes for a quick second in shame.

  Though nothing occurs. He reopens his eyes as he knows the steps; the only steps he hears, in spite of the bloodshed all around him, are within reach of his frame. Though upon opening his eyes, he sees a hand, a hand wearing cavalry gauntlets but still a hand before him, open. "Come on, get up." The voice of the paladin calls to the halberdier. Lycon is stunned; this isn't a ring for money; this is a battle for life. He recognizes the action but, on instinct, looks to his left and sees a rock in reach, not big enough to kill but enough to stun. He sees this rock, and quickly thoughts and desires to bash this man as he reaches for his hand run through his mind as he knows the knight will not have his right arm free to offer a defense to an attack from the left side. This is his thought.

  …..Lycon grabs the hand of his enemy. Parakles pulls him up to his feet, and the two separate as Parakles moves back to allow the man of Dol to regain his footing and weaponry. Lycon is floored as he breathes deep and refocuses himself. He is stunned by his own action in that moment, but even more so by the action of Parakles. He has to ask, "Why did you do that? You had me beaten."

  "You tripped; you weren't beaten," the paladin replies as he retakes his posture after kicking a body toward the enemy lines, creating more open space beneath them.

  "So what? It would have been fair; I failed to recognize the dead amassing around me. I was not aware of my surroundings. That would have been a fair death."

  "If you were just another soldier, then maybe, but I am struggling in battle with you, and we are in this duel together; I cannot allow a dead corpse to be the true winner in our contest." Lycon is humbled. He wasn't so much full of false pride to begin with, but the actions of his opponent earned the man a new level of respect in the halberdier's eyes. As he exhales and winces his face a few times, catching his breath better as the battle rages around them with similar pace to their duel, he feels pulled by something inside him to confess his thoughts while on his back earlier.

  "When you had your hand extended…I noticed a rock within my reach to my left." Parakles nods in awareness of the stone, which is illuminated all the more by Lycon pointing his spear at the impediment. "A lesser man would have grabbed your hand and then bashed your brains in with it," he says, aiming to simply confess his thoughts.

  "A lesser man… yes," Parakles replies. They both share a smile together. A soldier of the Bruin then lunges at the paladin from behind, nicking the top of his spaulder but causing no injury to the knight of Runsa. The knight turns his attention to the side, but the man is already felled as a spear strikes true into his chest, piercing deep and clean into his center, robbing the man of intent and violence. The unnamed soldier falls to his knees before Parakles, and then falls to his side and death. Lycon walks up empty-handed with only his buckler on his left arm. The spear was cast by his arm. Nothing more was spoken as the man collected his weapon from the remains of the man, pulling it clean from the chest of the dead without concern for retaliation from his opponent. Lycon turned back as he returned to proper starting distance, readying his hand for the next round. As he had been treated by the knight of Cavan, so he returned the treatment. Respect is just something that is earned that way.