Conqueror's Blade Books

A CALL TO ARMS

Let it be known that the army of a presumptuous TYRANT has captured much of the Borderlands, and even now this host of murderers and other assorted malefactors threaten the walls of the Conqueror's City. The tyrant claims to be the rightful heir to the throne and has demonstrated time and again that no outrage or crime is too terrible if it will further his aims. That this invåsion comes hard on the heels of the FAMINE blighting the Borderlands is news almost too painful to bear. His army is on the march, and tomorrow it could be your homes he burns!

For these reasons then, we call on all the great and the good, the highborn and the commoner alike to take up arms against this threat, to send whatever help they can, and liberate the Borderlands from this Tyranny.

Do not delay, the tyrant's army is marching...

Commander, I write to you as one soldier to another. Do you hate oppression, bloodshed, and war? If your answer to this question is "of course," then we are already friends. Forgive me. I've taken the liberty of writing a letter to you without introducing myself first.

I come from the great Isles to the west. Like all Highlanders, I am a farmer who makes his living off the land. I get up early every morning and work with the mountain breeze at my side. In the evening, I go home and sit around the fire with my clan, drinking and singing. If it weren't for the oppressors who have come to our land, those greedy, tyrannical Loegrians, our days could have been filled with peace. I am quite certain that they came just to start a war for the fun of it. In the beginning, they bandied about lofty ideals such as civilization and royalty. After we refused, things took a turn for the worse, and they cursed us as ignorant savages. Then came the heavy cavalry. They trampled over our farmland, killed innocents, and burned our villages to the ground.

We have established an army of resistance and vowed to defend our homeland. But the enemy is strong and we must appeal to the mainland for help.

I have heard that you are just, courageous, and an enemy of tyranny. I hereby appeal to you for help. Come to the Highlands and help us win our war.

[Much of this saga tells of the recent history of the Northlands. One passage catches your eye, however...]
...and when the great winter came upon the Northlands, many were afraid and feared it was the Fimbulwinter come upon us, the last winter of all time that will herald Ragnarok. At this time a stranger walked amongst us, who said that the green lands of the south would soon be beset by winter and war and that we should attack. Some scorned the stranger, while others rallied to his cause and departed south, clad in strange armours and bearing weapons of which we had never seen the like.

[The text is quite long, but you are able to glean a few details:]

Alchemy, depending on the era and place, generally holds that all things are composed of four or five elements, and that through the use of a universal catalyst called a "stone", any substance can be changed into any other. The creation of the "stone" is done via a long and highly secretive process generally only written down in the most metaphorical and/or symbolic manner, usually in the form of songs, poems, or elaborate illustrations, so as to keep it out of the hands of evildoers.

[The text is quite long, but you are able to glean a few details:]

While alchemists are depicted as searching for immortality through the creation of an "elixir of life", in truth their works are aimed at more everyday applications: acids to extract metals from ore, better fuels that burn brighter, and last but by no means least, the perfection of medicines to protect human health.

[The text is quite long, but you are able to glean a few details:]

The "elemental" hypothesis of alchemy in relation to medicine holds that every person is constituted of four "humours" -, with one of the four predominant: These humours correspond to the four elements of the natural world, and thus ill-health or mood derives from deficiency or imbalance of one or more of these humours. Spagyreqcs is the field of alchemy devoted to producing medicines; and borrows liberally from the study of herbs and other plants, and from the sciences of anatomy, surgery, and astrology.

The 'Ordre Spagyretigue de la Misericordia' (Spagyeritc Order of Mercy) was founded in the city of Aurelian to support the city's hospitals and the education of surgeons, and following its liberation by Gabrielle-Maelys and her army of followers quickly pledged its support to the war effort against the Loegrians.

[The text is quite long, but you are able to glean a few details:]

Bagpipes pre-date written records, possibly making them the oldest wind instruments still in use today. The musical tradition among the Highlanders dates back at least eight centuries, but the origin remains obscure.

[The text is quite long, but you are able to glean a few details:]

Pipers and the bardic tradition are closely enmeshed: it is expected that a piper will have as great a repertoire of music as a bard does of stories. Pipers and bards regularly compete in 'flyting' exchanges, a tradition they may have received from the Northlandérs.

[The text is quite long, but you are able to glean a few details:]

Bagpipes or instruments much like them are common all over the Isles, including in Loegria. This is all the more surprising, since King Edmund has issued a decree banning the playing of such music anywhere within his realm.

[The text is quite long, but you are able to glean a few details:]

Battle standards have been a necessary part of warfare in Pays-de-Ia-Gloire for at least three centuries: Once armies grew beyond a size where every lieutenant could stay within earshot of their captain, it became necessary for units to be able to identify one another from a distance, usually so that messengers carrying orders could be sure they were delivering them to the correct recipient. Banners commonly bear the heraldry of the House that owns them, or the personal arms of the unit commander, and there is commonly a strict order of precedence among banners which can even determine the deployment of a unit on the battlefield.

[The text is quite long, but you are able to glean a few details:] 

To be chosen to carry the army's banner is a great honour; accordingly, it is granted only to those who have displayed conspicuous courage and hold the esteem of the rank-and-file. The common image of a banner-bearer is an older man of common birth who has survived many battles and has a voice that can be heard across an entire county. 

Banner Guards are sworn to protect their burden with their lives, not to allow the banner to touch the ground, to be captured, and in case of retreat to ensure its safe exit from the battlefield. To fail in any of these duties would not only be a grave dishonour, but also a great tragedy.

At first, Saffron would move the bodies out of the cave and bury them in proper graves with tombstones, But near the end of the winter, he would just numbly carry the dead to where the snow wasn't so deep and bury them in a shallow grave. He bunkered down in the cave, trying his best to ignore the voices. "Pasture, it'll be fine once we find pasture", he thought. The snowstorms finally passed leaving only a few nomads. They tended their few sheep and looked at Saffron with their dead eyes, Saffron didn't know beneath which grave the village elder was buried, but he felt that he couldn't leave this place in this state. "Time to find pastures," Saffron muttered and wiped his face.

"War in the south will reach here. Better be prepared for it. There are always people hungry for power, fame, and fortune, or guided by faith. And the Conqueror's City happens to have them all." Molex blew aside the foam on his mead.

"The lords are afraid. They're rebuilding their city walls and hoarding up food and fodder, planning to lock themselves inside their stone bastions. No wonder they were taxing us four times more."

The old man went quiet for a while before drinking taking a pull from his mug.

"We'll have to prepare more food and hay. I feel it will be an extremely chilly winter."

"Oh? How do you know? The god of shepherds told you again?"

"We're nomads, and nomads listen to the god of shepherds. He's the messenger of life and the bringer of death] He brings our inevitable fate."

"Nonsense. The lords bring you death, and you fight for your own lives."

Saffron shook his head and dismissed the memory. Before him on the pastures, there was naught but dead grass and the howling of the winter wind. Saffron stood upon the blasted land, feeling his heart slowly sinking. Something inside him seemed to shatter, but his heart also felt light, as if he'd broken free.

Saffron turned back and asked a nomad behind him.

"What mistake do you think we made?"

The man slowly raised his head, "We… shouldn't have come looking for pastures?", he answered. "We're warriors, not nomads! We wish to die honorably on the battlefield, not merely survive!"

Saffron shook his head and said, "We made no mistake. Even though the Empire is no more vultures and maggots have crawled up from its corpse, and we can never return… We will live on with its spirit! "

Fierceness began to return to the nomads, or rather, warriors as they threw the reins from their hands, and a twinkle of life returned to their eyes.

"Yes, Commander Saffron!"

Saffron looked out over the grisly scene, illuminated by the flashes of explosions. There was a figure leaning on the tree next to him, wearing grey leather armour. The emissary spoke in a hoarse and low voice, scratchy from the dust of travel.

"How about it, aren't they easy to use?"

Saffron didn't answer, watching his soldiers make short work of the fleeing enemy.

"This is the gift from the master. There will be more in the future."

Saffron looked at the dark shadow and he was silent for a long time.

"Well, long live the Tyrant, rightful ruler of this land."

The emissary seemed satisfied with this answer and disappeared into the woods. The killing had come to an end, and the moonlight was obscured by the smoke of a burning spear.

[The text is quite long, but you are able to glean a few details:]

Feudal culture in Pays-de-Ia-Gloire is deeply entrenched: From the king to the dukes, to the earls, to the baron down to the dreaded bailiffs and constables, and finally to the tenant farmers and the landless serfs, no one in this land is ever allowed to forget their place in the great chain of obligations and fealties. These obligations include fighting in the wars of one's overlord. Any chevalier who values the esteem of his peers (which is to say, all of them) will bring the best fighters he can, but since most peasants pay their rent in goods and labour, their knightly overlords often lack the funds to hire professional mercenaries. When they need to build a retinue of armed men to take to war, some chevaliers take the strongest and most able fighters from among their own tenants.

[The text is quite long, but you are able to glean a few details:] 

When they are not fighting wars for the king, the chevaliers of Pays-de-la-Gloire are training for battle and competing for bragging rights in the near-endless rounds of tournaments which fill up the summer months. White the peasantry toil in the fields, the chevaliers joust in the lists, or engage in mock battles with blunted weapons. The prize money for winning such contests is considerable, and it is not unheard of for capable but cash-poor landless knights to support themselves and their entourage by touring from one tournament to the next.

[The text is quite long, but you are able to glean a few details:]

While the life of a feudal retainer in Pays-de-la-Gloire is not generally a long or happy one, they have on occasion outfought enemies of much greater skill and much greater numbers. At the Battle of Lionheart Lake, the militiamen sworn to the service of Sir Henri dü Blois not only stood their ground when that noble knight was felled by the enemy, they charged into the melee after him. So surprised were the enemy mercenaries that they quit the field, allowing the loyal peasants to retrieve the body of their lord and bear it away for a respectful burial.

[The text is quite long, but you are able to glean a few details:]

Claymores developed from the longswords used by knights, but were made longer so as to save the wielder from having to carry a shield. This required the bearer to wear full plate armour. In the Highlands however, the clan warriors would wear light armour instead and rely on mobility and swordsmanship to protect them.

Day 1: Those old men on the city council are a real pain in the ass. They want us to investigate the rift. Why me? My son will be getting married in a few days. I'll need to investigate this rift -quickly. At least the team is seasoned: White, Murdoch, and Jim. Captain White -"is bringing his son along, who he assures us can handle himself.

Day 2: We ran into some bandits after we left the city. Nothing out of the ordinary. Oliver, Captain White's son, made quick work of them. What are the old men on the city council so worried about? Anyway, all I need to do is get home.

Day3: Captain White's son tried to take on a horseman by himself and got injured. Fortunately, it was only a flesh wound. Captain White and Murdoch dealt with the rest. However, it was a little strange - the bandit horsemen seemed stronger than usual, and more violent. Their attack didn't make any sense. From the looks of it, Oliver is well-trained as a fighter, but it's a little strange he got himself hurt today.

Day 4: I'm going to have a little talk with the old men of the city council about my pension when I get back. These mountain roads are no joke, and I'm beat. I barely got any sleep last night, Captain White's son awoke us in the middle of the night, saying that he saw someone lurking about, and that someone was watching us. When we got up to see who, all we could find was a wolf. Oliver is a little rash, but he knows how to fight. With yesterday's experience under his belt, he was a lot calmer in battle and took care of things pretty quickly.

Day 5: Murdoch was injured today - he broke an arm. We finally reached the summit today, and we can see the rift. As we were observing the rift from a distance, some bandits attacked us from the forest. Murdoch blocked a blade strike for me; that's when his arm got hurt. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for him. Usually, some bandit wouldn't stand a chance against Murdoch, but these brigands are different from before. Could it be that the old men of the city council are speaking the truth? The rift has an effect on humans?

Day 6: Murdoch died. Before he went he 'said that he wanted me to be the godfather to his son. Today as we were descending the mountain, we encountered many brigands. They fought like demons, just throwing themselves at us. Captain White and his son did their best to fight them off, but we still had to retreat. Murdoch charged into enemy lines with his one arm bound so that we could continue. Tomorrow, we will reach the rift.

Day. 7: The rift has altered this place. The bandits around here are insane the land looks like nothing on our maps. Captain White and Olivei guarded us while we approached the rift, then Jim went in to investigate. The second he touched it, his whole body froze. We called out to him several times, to no avail. Then, when White went forward to investigate, Jim suddenly returned and attacked Captain White in a frenzy. In a fight, Jim was never to write home about but he had White almost at his mercy. The sound of their battle drew

the attention of some bandit riders, and White told his son to help us flee.

My son, if you're reading this, then I'm already far away. There's no use in trying to find me. My leg is broken, I'll only slow down. You wouldn't get very far with me, and we could both die. We may have fought dozens on our way here, but the way back is if anything worse. There's no way you'll get home carrying me. I have asked White to bring my journal back "to the Conqueror's City and tell those old men on the city council to get ready. I give you all I have. Alas, I won't live to see your wedding day, but I wish you a happy life.

Preliminary Findings: It has been confirmed that humans near the rift become frenzied and exhibit enhanced

capabilities in combat. The cause is currently unknown, as is the cure. Deliver all assistance to the city council.

[The text is quite long but you are able to quickly glean the most important points:]

This book is a collection of accounts from Loegrian soldiers sent to the Northlands to enforce the rule of the council. Their complaints are many: the food, the hostility of the locals, the weather. One group were stationed at a wooden fortress (Fort Bolton) on the border with the so-called "Frost tribes" in the far north, the second were stationed a day's march south of them at a fortified village (Grima's Farm). Much of the book lists their duties which include collecting taxes from the peasantry, patrols on horseback through the deep pine forests of the Northlands, ditties from which a deep mood of homesickness can be felt.

Shuisheng finished his bun when the man with the arquebus stepped closer and asked, "Who was that? I haven't seen him before. He isn't one of us, is he?" Shuisheng wiped his hands with a cloth he took out of his inner pocket and sipped from his waterskin. "He claimed to be from Hao Jing, probably a scout of Qian." "That's bizarre. Why would their scouts come to our kitchen?" "There's nothing strange about that. The Qian Army is not far away. He just asked me what salt wås. He'd probably never seen refined salt before." Shuisheng cleaned up and stood up, stretching his arms and saying, "No need to dwell on it, we have a long way ahead of us.

Pack your things. I think we're about to get back on the road, traveling west past Qinguan to Anliang. It'll be further from home. "

"Dasuo Fort. We're finally on the other side of it," Shuisheng muttered to himself. The general's order was that after leaving Dasuo Fort, they must march fully-armed in case of enemy ambush.

Shuisheng's company marched in the middle of the column. The wagons ahead stirred up dust and dirt along the road, making midday seem like dusk. The spearhead was already a mile ahead, but apart from their allies nearby, there were only barren mounds to look along the winding trails.

Shuisheng and the rest were all born and raised in Yan, where rivers and lakes abounded and none had ever before seen such a desolate place, but the initial curiosity had worn off after endless marching, and Shuisheng now felt as if the sand dancing in the air was pouring into his mouth and into his heart. The group marched through a mountain pass into a wide open plain. Shuisheng could finally see things other than rock faces: blinding sunlight, trees dead and shriveled, parched riverbeds.

The captain ordered a halt, and so the troops moved off the road into the meagre shade and rested. Shuisheng lowered the brim of his hat, squinting at the sun above as a sense of disorientation washed over him. He started to question why he and his one thousand comrades of the Shenji Grenadiers came all the way to these outlands which he didn't even know the name of. Yes, it was a soldier's duty. And they received pay to feed their whole families, so it wouldn't matter where he was sent to. He closed his eyes for what seemed like a moment...

"Enemy attack. To arms!" Shüisheng loaded his arquebus without thought. The sun above was obscured by swirling sand and dust, and the dismal view of the outlands was completely gone. A gale blew up sand and dust into a storm. Shuisheng could only hold up his arms in panic, trying yet failing to shield his face from the dust.

"Enemies to windward!"
"Battalion, charge!"

Without any time for preparation, the warriors instantly moved, holding out their modaos and standing like an unbreakable wall of blades. Two hundred steps, one hundred steps, their enemies were charging from up the hillside. Qiu could now finally; make out their faces—they were a group of masked lancers, no more than a hundred, holding short spears and wearing simple padded armor. Qiu sneered and straightened his modao. Fifty steps, thirty steps, the enemies would soon be crossing swords with them! Qiu could almost imagine how it would feel when the lancers clashed against him. But none of that happened.

The lancers reined in their horses a dozen steps away and turned back all of a sudden. Qiu saw countless javelins flying towards them. He swore under his breath at the cowardly enemies, while waving his blade about to btock the flying javelins. But a javelin exploded the moment his blade touched its tip, jolting him, almost falling if not for the man behind him. Qiu tried to ease the ringing in his ears as he glanced down and saw blood seeping from beneath his armour. The lancers were almost at his face when he let out a shout and pushed one step forward with the others, trying to slash at the conniving bastards. But his knees felt unnaturally weak.

"Shenji, grenades!"

It was a command that he'd never heard before, and even the voice sounded unfamiliar: Upon the command, a row of black balls flew over Qiu's head, before exploding among with the enemy ranks with a thunderous sound. Some fell, some sprung up, and the masked lancers scattered in panic.

"Modao, move! Shenji, fire!" Qiu moved to the rear as the grenadiers fired a volley at the fleeing enemies, leaving only a few scattered survivors. Qiu was astonished as if he'd just witnessed a miracle.

 [The text is quite long but you are able to quickly glean the most important points:]

The Varangians trace their lineage back to bands of mercenaries who contracted themselves to the Empyrean throne in bygone years. "Varangian" is an old Empyrean word relating to "one who swears an oath". These early Varangians fought using unusual (to the southern kings) tactics and weapons, and were thus placed in high esteem by Empyrean generals.