General Zimossa awoke to the sounds of hoarse commands, the clash of blunted swords, and the thump of deep, methodic drums that led the daily marching at the Megiddo Stronghold. It was early. The sun's rays just crept over the edge of the horizon as the General rose from his bed, stiff with age, placed his feet firmly on the floor, and stood in defiance of the cruel pain in his joints. It was rare that he wake after the day's training had already begun. He preferred to dine in the hall with his men each morning, taking time to get to know those who might one day have to fight and perish for the sake of the nation. Another in his position might have become complacent, even lethargic. There had been no major battle in nearly five hundred years, and even the Culling was more a slaughter than a battle.
Yet, this lack of fighting did not dull Blademaster Zimossa, a strong man of deep conviction who came from an ancient line of kings from the Buthani lands. He had been up late to receive an intelligence report from a spy within a rising revolution to the East. The information told of encampments, young men being taken from their homes and forced into a sort of pit to see who would be strong enough to fight and lead. There were worries of desertions and disappearances from the King's own peacekeeping army. Bandits and brigands had increased their attacks, their bravado much greater than it had ever been, their tactics more precise. They were hitting supply lines, out of greed or some larger purpose, Zimossa could not say, but he felt uneasy.
With that mindset the general drilled his men daily. Some fifty-thousand strong lived, worked, and trained in the mountain stronghold of the south. The remaining portion of the King's troops, over 200,000, were spread throughout the six provinces in order to maintain the peace. Yet without a mission men are prone to mayhem. Here in the southern stronghold that violent compulsion was directed and honed to a fine edge by the General. He knew the state of men's hearts, their bloodlust and how to direct its fury towards a proper goal.
He stood looking out of the high tower in which he lived, gazing over the battle formations and recalling to mind the names of as many men as he could. He had been here almost twenty years, since before the boy he knew as Theo took the golden masekha of ruler as King Theon IV. He made a point to meet a new solider by name every day. Never mind that his memory misplaced the names from three days or more before, he wanted to know his men as best as any mortal could.
His men were not mere faces in formation, they were sons to him who had never borne a son. His eyes rose from the morning drill and gazed east at the sun's ascent shooting colours across the sky. A red dawn. Omens and signs, the colour of the sky tells us little of the world, he pondered. As the sun caught the glint of swords and spears and shields, the battle formations shone like a field of diamond fire, and the old General could not help but smile and bask a moment gazing upon the might of Shir. Despite his misgivings he dared to hope that the King would produce an heir soon, and that all would remain as it had been for generations – peaceful.
"Perhaps it is time," he mused to the open sky, "to visit my old protégé."
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The Commander was going through formation drills with the men when General Zimossa arrived. "Shields up!" the Commander cried, "put yer spines into it lads. This ain't a toddler’s ticklin' contest. Lock yer bloody shields and push."
Two formations of fifty men each shoved each other with brutal force, shields locked, heads tucked in behind. Sweat poured down their faces as the sun rose and baked the arid air into a dreadful heat. A soldier about halfway into the formation began to strain, his legs buckled, his helm smashed against the back of his own shield, and suddenly the line was broken, and wooden short swords came out with fierce blows, taking the fallen man's line apart segment by segment, eviscerating the formation from the inside out and scattering its body.
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Commander McCrae shook his head, a look of disgust coming across his face. "What in the bloody Void was that atrocity, ye half-ass cowerds? I've seen more constitution from ma mornin' shite than from ye lads."
"You don't think you are laying it on a bit thick, Commander?" General Zimossa's quiet voice right next to him somewhat startled the large, Highland Lord.
"Oi, I'm only tryin' ta sound a bit more like ye, General. They've got little respect for meself it seems."
The two formations of men stood panting in the hot sun, spears and shields dropped on the ground. The soldier who had fallen was roused by his troopmate with a series of not so gentle taps to the face.
Commander Sean McCrae, Eldest of the McCrae sons, snapped out at the troops again, "Get back at it ye lazy grubs!"
A couple of the more senior men spurred on the others and got everyone back in their formations. Shields were gathered, the sound of spears clattering against each other and quick, choppy steps in the gravel played an overture of chaos to precede the final, well-ordered units.
The General shook his head, a goodhearted smile brightening his aged face, "Leadership isn't a matter of mimicry, Commander. You've to find what works for you. I berate them, and then build them up, sure. It works for me, but there are plenty of other methods you could employ."
By the time the General had finished speaking, the formations were complete and Sean McCrae bellowed, "Push!" The crack of his voice shattering the growing silence. He looked back at Zimossa. "Not sure why ye took me on here honestly, General. Wasn't ever all that disciplined, ye know, ta begin with."
The General was forced to raise his voice to overcome the clash of the two shield formed beasts locked in mortal struggle. "No, you weren't, my friend, but you were fearless, raw, and naturally born for people to follow."
"Can't get them to follow me as is, General..." Sean leaned back, and stared into the blasted blue sky, putting his hands on his hips and taking a deep breath, as if trying to swallow the sun.
"That's because you are trying to lead like me, to be like me." General Zimossa said, giving Sean McCrae a sharp rap in his gut with his fist, knocking the wind from his lungs and doubling him over, "Knock it off, you dense Highland mutant. Use what you have instead."
The Commander coughed, agitated, and looked up at the General from his bent position, "And what's that?"
The General pointed to the nearby shields and spears which rested in orderly rows against the great southern wall of the Stronghold. "Quiet capability. Stop telling them what to do. Show them."
A smile crossed the big man's face, his mind grasping a bit of what was being said. "I am goin' to need all the officers." He walked over and picked up a tower shield, loosening the straps to fit his bulky arm, and donned it before he walked back to where the General stood, the sound of straining men still hanging in the air. "We have forty-two here, excluding ye, General. Time to show 'em how it's done proper like."
The formations broke again, another weak link the impetus for a total route, but this time on the opposite side. Chaos ensued, single fights, fleeing, some hand to hand, yells from sergeants to reform ranks, and the Commander didn't even bother to think about them for the time.
The General watched with a sort of twisted amusement. The youngest troops always fascinated him, the chance to perceive and polish potential was invigorating. "I see where you are going. I like it. First, I will be departing for the capitol in the next few days. You will be the one responsible for all these men in my absence."
The Commander was stunned, but looked back at the maelstrom of confused men, and had mercy on them, "WATER!" he shouted across the field. The men broke out in groups to large containers filled with now scorching hot water. Some tried to force their way ahead of others. A fight broke out, and the Commander stepped forward, leaving the General for a moment, shouting, "ORDERLY ye scoundrels. We'll make soldiers of ye yet, or ye'll be scraping shite in the stables fer the next six months, ye hear?" Sean walked back to the General, embarrassed by his men's lack of discipline, "See, General, bit soon fer my taking full command isn't it. Been servin' a long while, but haven't been leading."
"You'll be fine. Just keep training them, and keep them alive."
"If'n ye say so, General. Do what I can." Order restored itself slowly to the mass of weary men.
"That's all I can ask. Now, Commander..." The General paused, straightening his aging frame, glanced at the now pacified men, and looked up into the Commander's eyes, "Don't muck it up."
