Valdemar smiled. The man thought he deserved the honor of a clean death. He still did not comprehend the nature of his enemy.
Valdemar turned and strode toward the castle gates, which creaked open to admit him as if by mental command. His cape fluttered behind him as he faced the countless faces atop the walls of his city. A thunderous roar greeted him. His people cheered and showered blood-red rose petals from the ramparts to acknowledge his victory. He closed his eyes as the soft petals fell on his head and shoulders, bathing him in their fragrance.
Oebarsius' voice was strained with torment when he spoke. "Finish…me. Don't…leave it like this."
Valdemar paused and turned slightly with a thin smile on his lips. "Do not worry, Oebarsius. I have already seen to it you receive the type of death you deserve."
He gestured to the gates, where six black-armored soldiers trotted toward the fallen warlord. In their arms was a well-oiled, freshly sharpened stake.
Oebarsius' eyes widened. "No." He grimaced as a shudder shook his body. "No! I deserve…a warrior's death. A lord's death. You — owe me that, my lord. Kill me."
Valdemar walked toward the rejoicing city, followed by Oebarsius' desperate pleas.
"Finish it. Lord Valdemar. You cannot…walk away. Please. Kill me. Kill me!"
His voice rose in wordless cries and curses. They were quickly followed by screams, shrieks so gut-wrenching they carried over the din of the celebrating crowds.
Valdemar didn't pause until he entered the city gates, where his Dragonist soldiers immediately surrounded him in a protective semicircle. Only then did he turn, just as the crowds roared anew. He smiled at the sight.
Oebarsius dangled on the stake some eight spans above the ground. It had been thrust through his crotch and ruthlessly worked until it ruptured through his chest. The stake was then raised and fitted in a prepared hole in the ground. Oebarsius' body jerked like a macabre puppet as the final breaths left his body and his blood slid down the dark wood in streams of crimson.
"Well done, Lord Commander." General Ganbatar spoke from behind a red-lacquered face shield fashioned to depict a monstrous leering face. It was attached to his elaborate helmet, which included sweeping side and neck guards and a frontal plate that featured a roaring dragon. His black armor was similar to Valdemar's but heavier and more ornate, lined with scarlet thread and cords that bound the hundreds of tiny plates together. Every Dragonist soldier was garbed similarly, the only major difference being the varied monstrous helmets and bestial face shields.
His father established the Dragonist Order — men sworn to him by blood. One and all would follow any order and die to protect him. He had tested that when he became their master, ordering one of them to kill himself. The man drew his dagger and thrust it into his heart without a word of protest.
Valdemar never questioned their devotion again.
"Thank you, Lord General. Although I sense a reproach behind your compliment." Valdemar strode up the broad cobbled avenue, awash in the adoration of the throngs that called his name from behind the stoic soldiers that lined the street. He waved to them as he passed.
Ganbatar hesitated before answering. "No one doubts your skill in battle, milord. But you risk much. One small mistake, one slip and it might have been your blood staining the ground. Everything you have worked so hard for would be ashes."
"Oebarsius openly challenged my authority. He boasted if Marcellus Admorran could defeat me so easily, I had no business leading the Bruallians in a war against Leodia. If he thought it safe to say such things, how many others thought the same in silence?" Valdemar's mouth twisted as the pleasure of his victory soured. "I had to make an example of the man."
"There are many ways to punish defiance and treachery." Ganbatar kept his eyes straight ahead and his voice carefully neutral. "None of which involves mortal combat."
Valdemar turned to him. "You are my brother, Ganbatar. But not even blood allows for you to question my decisions."
Ganbatar dipped a respectful nod. "Of course, Lord Commander."
The second pair of heavy gates shut behind them as they cleared the outer courtyard. The cheers of the crowd continued from behind. The people would celebrate their lord's victory into the night. But Valdemar thought little of Oebarsius' defeat. It was over before it began. Oebarsius put too much pride in his strength and speed, neglecting to improve his swordsmanship beyond a crude brawler's style. It made him easy to predict, and thus simple to defeat. The act itself was a foregone conclusion.
Valdemar's thoughts focused on an entirely different combatant. One who nearly destroyed everything he had built in a single act of desperate bravado. Marcellus Admorran was never distant in Valdemar's thoughts. He longed for the day when he would see the Champion of Kaerleon again. He was sure it would happen, even if he had to raze the entire kingdom of Leodia to make it so.
White-garbed stable servants arrived with fresh horses in tow. Valdemar mounted Fever, a spirited blood bay stallion. The horse nickered and pranced a bit before Valdemar exerted control by touch and subtle pulls of the reins. Fever was still in training but would become a marvelous warhorse soon enough. Valdemar enjoyed the process of training his own mounts. There was a bond between horse and rider impossible to duplicate if someone else trained the the horse.
A squadron of Dragonists mounted at his signal and rode with him at a brisk trot in the direction of his castle. "Has Oebarsius' family been detained?"
"Yes, milord."
"Have them impaled alongside Oebarsius. He should have company on his journey to hell."
Ganbatar gestured to the nearest Dragonist, who turned his horse and galloped in the direction of the barracks where the family was imprisoned. Oebarsius had three wives, fifteen children, and six grandchildren. All would adorn stakes alongside him, a forest of bodies arranged to greet any who entered the gates of Dragos. It was almost an honor, but Valdemar didn't mind. It was also a message, one that worked well to ruthlessly quell his enemies' ambitions.
"I want the army to arms, Lord General. We are to move to Stravaholme."
The only indicator of Ganbatar's shock was a slight widening of his eyes. "In the midst of winter, milord? There is nothing in Stravaholme except ghosts of the past. We will lose men marching through snow and treacherous paths."
"Weaklings, Ganbatar. Chaff. Dead weight." Valdemar clenched his gloved fist until the leather creaked. "We have lost sight of who we are. In the protection of Dragos, our soldiers have become fat and contented. They must learn what it means to survive, to live by the sweat of their brows if they are meant to be conquerors. The move will unite them. We are the dragon folk, Ganbatar. We are not meant to be content. It is hardship that breaks us, determination that molds us, and blood that makes us strong. That is what Bruallia is."
He turned in the saddle and gazed at the jagged, snow-smothered peaks of the Dragonspine. The sinister range of treacherous mountains had long served as the main impasse that prevented his people from properly entering Leodia with an army large enough to be a true threat.
That time was over.
He nudged Fever forward and allowed the stallion to take the rein. The squadron of Dragonists followed as they galloped toward the dark, imposing walls of Castle Basilis. Winter was upon them, but Valdemar's ambitions were too lofty for the weather to impede him. He was a hammer, and Stravaholme was an anvil. The army was simply uncured metal that would be beaten into shape between the two. The fact that some might not survive would only serve as a testament to the strength of those who did. It was imperative to test their mettle in the mercy of the unforgiving elements rather than at the blades of Leodian soldiers.