A sequel for Myhler's "Memory: Challange" story.
Unrest
The drums came again. As they always did, thumping a deep beat in his mind. He followed the rythm, moving from stance to stance, blocking with his elbows, then reaching out to strike his opponent. His fists were lead astray, yet Cardanith was like fire, snapping in a moment's notice to a different form, letting Malossel's swings miss him by a hair's width. They were almost evenly matched, the two of them.
"The Swallow's Stance? You seem to be on the back foot, autarch!" She joked, daring a chuckle from the pale Noldo.
The drums quickened their beat, and Cardanith pushed on the offensive. The two danced, accurate hits blocked and led aside a split second before impact, before Malossel finally found her chance. She swung upwards, taunting the captain's block, then coiled, landing a solid blow to Cardanith's ribs.
They split, panting.
"Perhaps you are slowing down!"
"The yrch would disagree, I reckon." He wiped his the corner of his mouth, trying to calm his breathing.
"Come now, autarch, all I hear are excuses."
Cardanith shook his head, before leaning up to his full height, stretching.
"That shall be all for tonight, I'd suppose. I must see to the company, lest they begin to slack behind."
"You know... The First are not as bad as you'd lead some to believe. You could go easy on them, at least a little."
The First Autarch sighed, pulling his arming jacket over his shoulders, beginning to buckle up the knits which held it shut.
"No, far from it. They're disciplined, by to serve the First is an honour, and I would not let them get dulled one bit. They all knew what they were in for whence they ascended to the veteran company."
"Yet a little respite would not go amiss. They'll hardly get any, once we reach Eregion."
Malossel tapped her chin lightly, before going to retrieve her regular attire.
"Which is why I wish them to be as keen as their blades. The enemy shan't go easy on them, and neither shall-"
The folds of the tent slid upwards, letting the backlit form of Baelor inside.
"My Autarchs." He bowed curtly. "You might wish to see this."
The three descend from the officer's camp and into the lower parts, threading between the members of the fifth and sixth company. Cardanith offered a quick salute to the many visarchs and quartermasters as he strode by before his eyes finally settled onto the large circle that former just on the borders of the war camp. He saw that which he dreaded most. A flame-haired warrior, standing beneath the most recent member of Cardanith's company, the quick end of her blade placed against his neck.
"Duelling. In the camp of *my* men, no less."
"I was unfairly judged."
"Unfairly?" Cardanith snapper back, his long, crimson cloak whipping close behind. "You would deem my Autarchs to be ill-judged?'
Amathlan raised his chin, his upper lip folding in a scowl. "I have as much right to be here as any of *them.* I beat the trials!"
"You have *no rights* here, boy. *You are not of the Host*, and you will never be, so long as you keep your ire unchecked."
The Autarch turned, hands folded behind his back.
"I denied you entry for a reason. You are brash, immature, and most of all, undisciplined. I will not let you stain the good name of the Host."
"Undisciplined? I am a soldier, as are we all here!"
Cardanith whipped around, leaning over the oak table. "You are not meant for the Host! Now stand idle, for I am trying to teach you a lesson, *child.*"
Amathlan sneered, flames flicking from his close maw.
"If you wish to be of the Host, then you must learn to *obey* first, to follow the chain of command, to do as you are told. Think on that, and then you may come to speak to me of joining."
The proud son dug his heels into the ground, but soon left the crimson drapes of the tent behind.
Cardanith slid back into his chair, reaching for the bottle of wine nearest to him.
"He shall be the end of me." He thought.
And perhaps, just perhaps, he was correct.
