Savage Divinity

Chest heaving and lungs burning from exertion, Bulat unstrapped his pack and let it fall to the ground, the one-hundred kilograms worth of stone and iron bouncing off the frozen dirt. “Time,” he gasped, shivering as winter’s chill turned beads of sweat into drops of ice, not even the hard run able to keep him warm for long.

“One-hundred sixteen minutes,” Rustram replied with a smirk, keeping time with his fancy pocket-watch, a gift from his merchant daddy. A real silk-pants this one, but not a bad sort for a rich-boy. A tough bastard too, arriving before Bulat despite leaving at the same time and carrying the same load. The advantage of a wiry frame, not as much weight to carry uphill. “A tolerable performance, if a little lacking for your rank. Boss says Jorani set the record with a ninety-seven minute run today. You best put more effort in before you’re booted back down the ranks.”

“Bah, Old Bulat... regrets every... kind thought... he’s ever... had about you... Sir.” Giving the superior officer a smile and a salute so as not to seem insubordinate, Bulat stripped off his sweat-soaked tunic and exchanged it for a fresh one, briefly admiring the steam rising off his thick-barrelled chest and chiselled, trunk-like arms. His wife Dei An especially enjoyed his transformation, often running her soft hands over his muscles after a passionate toss-up between the sheets. His wife, Old Bulat now had a wife, the ceremony taking place mere weeks after returning to the Wall. He wasn’t the most handsome man around and he couldn’t give her much, spending all his savings and profits to build her a small bakery in the city proper, but she loved everything about him, even his numerous flaws. She laughed at his bawdy jokes, smiled at his awkward advances, and made him feel like the strongest, most desirable man in the world with nothing but a smile.

She deserved better, so Old Bulat will have to become better.

Problem was, Ma was already pestering him for grandchildren, often dropping by their little love nest with Dagen to check on his ‘progress’. Hmph. Dagen, pei. Like he needed or wanted Dagen’s advice on how to bed a woman, their little 'man talks' were too much considering the circumstances. A wife wasn’t the only addition to Old Bulat’s family, he also had a new step-father too, Ma and Dagen's marriage taking place not two days after his. A hulking, muscle-bound, sweet-talking step-father who could beat Bulat bloody with both hands tied behind his back, else he’d have scared the old bastard off long ago. Didn’t matter though, Bulat wasn’t one to let strength scare him. He had plenty of ways to deal with a warrior-type like Dagen, but the bastard made Ma so damned happy it was hard to justify getting rid of him.

Not to mention the fear of what Ma would do if she ever found out. His new rank was no shield against Ma’s wooden spoon, a weapon fiercer than any sword or axe in his eyes. When she raised it high, it brought out a primal, instinctive fear in him, leaving him helpless before her might. Old Bulat was an officer now, so he couldn’t afford the loss of face, not in front of his soldiers. While he technically had no soldiers under his direct command, he held the rank of a hundred-man commander, given to him by the Boss himself. That’s the way Bulat usually preferred things, all the perks with none of the responsibilities, except now with all the fresh faces in Boss’s crew, he was worried he’d lose his position as the retinue’s number three.

Old Bulat never wanted the job, but now that he had it, he wouldn't hand it over without a fight.

Take Wang Bao, for instance. When the former Butcher Bay Bandit arrived, Bulat would’ve laid twenty-to-one odds the veteran cutthroat wouldn’t tolerate the Boss’s harsh training and... unique temperament. Instead, the grizzled marauder took to discipline like a soldier-born, arriving each morning with hair groomed and clothes pressed, ready and raring to go along with the rest of his former bandits. If Old Bulat didn’t know better, he’d have thought Wang Bao was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, sharing so many of Rustram’s traits and habits. The way they talked, stood, ate, and even wiped their asses, it was like looking at a taller, older, wider, uglier version of pretty-boy Rustram. An unyielding warrior and harsh taskmaster, Wang Bao embodied the perfect soldier and officer.

So long as you ignored his face.

Then there was Jorani, whose transformation was no less impressive than Old Bulat’s, if not more. Going from scrawny scavenger to strapping soldier, he somehow grew a full fifteen centimetres in height despite being well past his growing years. Worse, the rat-eared thief was a born leader, exuding an air of natural charisma wherever he went, with his ever-present gargantuan enforcer Ral lending an air of menace to Jorani’s chummy charm. Bulat had Pran and Saluk but Ral was something else, deadly and near-unstoppable on the battlefield with his massive quarterstaff. Jorani’s persistence was to be commended and having secured a record run time with his entire squad, his prospects were on the rise.

Chey was yet another threat, though the buxom, husky-voiced commander was more at odds with Ravil, considering her skill at putting sharp objects into moving targets from hundreds of meters away. Beautiful and deadly, her squad excelled at tasks which required teamwork and coordination, taking to the Boss’s new ‘advanced maneuvers’ like ducks to water. Wasn't long before the Boss noticed either, placing her with Rustram to help train the others in the new drills and formations. Thus, she threw her name into the hat, vying with the others for position and on the fast track to success.

All this without mentioning Ulfsaar, Old Bulat’s greatest rival. Hell, he might give Rustram a run for his money soon enough. The pious, usually soft-spoken giant towered over Ral, a fearsome man in his own right. His squad held no less than thirty-three soldiers who could say the same, while the rest weren’t far behind. A unit almost entirely made up of half-beast behemoth warriors armed with two-handed axes and hammers, they were easily the most imposing squad of the retinue. Once in battle, the mild-mannered giant transformed into ‘the Voracious’, wreaking bloody havoc wherever he appeared. His squad shared their leader’s tendency to lose control and run rampant once battle was drawn, but Ulfsaar’s wife Neera kept a cool head and always knew where to unleash her husband on the battlefield for maximum impact. Not that it mattered, no one could match Ulfsaar in single combat anyway, not Ral, not Chey, and definitely not Old Bulat.

Dastan could. Handsome, athletic, Natal Palace-forming Dastan, walking around with his head held high and silky locks flowing behind him like he weren’t no traitor to the Empire. With his slave’s Oath, there was no reason for the Boss to question Dastan’s loyalty and it showed, the two almost inseparable since their return. Though everyone had been invited to young magistrate Fung’s party, only Dastan was seated with the guest of honour. Even Rustram was relegated to the side tables while Old Bulat and the rest ate outside the main hall, barely able to see the alluring, perfumed dancers.

Perhaps it was for the best. While Dei An was a loving, affectionate woman, she had a jealous streak to her and weren’t shy about using her rolling-pin to thump him upside the head. Another reason to love her, she didn’t take no nonsense from him, an admirable woman. Best not to push his luck and try for a second wife, Old Bulat already had more than he’d ever dreamt of. A beautiful, loving wife, an officer’s rank with more than decent pay, and the freedom to run his schemes and ploys with protection from above, so long as he didn’t go overboard. He wasn’t no low-down dirty cheat, but he rarely gambled and always played an angle, so he won far more than he lost which rubbed certain people the wrong way.

Not that it’d keep him from doing what he loved. Old Bulat weren’t holding no knife to their throats, forcing them to gamble. They played the odds and it was no fault of his if they couldn’t see the odds were stacked in his favour. Still, profits were one thing while debts were another. Bulat owed the Boss more than he could repay in two lifetimes, which meant he couldn’t afford to fall behind all these new faces.

Especially not after being trusted with Captain Sumila's new weapons of destruction.

Leaving the Boss and Rustram to run their drills with the retinue, Bulat gathered his cronies and headed to their training grounds, a quiet little flat-top which doubled as a shooting range. Silva took his place at the desk to prep the ink, and Bulat left him to it since he had the best handwriting of them all, having learned his letters and numbers from his Pa, a clerk or cleric or something. One haranguing from the ferocious Captain Sumila was enough to last a lifetime and Bulat would do anything to avoid a second. Poor Boss, saddled with a she-devil for a wife, at least he still had sweet Lady Mei Lin to comfort him. Captain Sumila’s compact build hid prodigious strength and she wasn’t shy about using it, giving them all a bare-handed beating for giving her illegible notes and wasting her time. If Silva wanted to risk her wrath then all the more power to him.

Rubbing his hands together for warmth, Bulat studied the others, Viyan, Birca, Ravil, Pran, and Saluk. “Aside from Rustram, we’re all that’s left of the old guard, eight out of sixty-seven.” Not even the miraculous Healing Panacea could cheat death, as evidenced by Cham’s unfortunate end. Boss took that one hard, he did. Taking a moment of silence for their fallen comrades, Bulat flashed a grin. “Means our luck is strong, don’t it?”

“Dog-shit luck is what it is.” Ravil horked into the snow. “Could be worse. We could be real soldiers instead of workin’ fer the boss.”

“Is good life,” Pran replied, nodding in sync with Saluk. “Good food, warm bed, strong weapon.” Stroking his colossal, black maul fondly, he rubbed his new Spiritual Weapon against his cheek like a favoured child. The impressive two-handed war-hammer was Captain Sumila’s latest work, boasting a spiked end on one side and rows of pyramid-shaped tenderizers on the other, alongside all the other extra trappings included in these Inspired weapons. Having received the weapon not even a week past, Pran’s enthusiasm could be overlooked, but Saluk nuzzling his almost identical maul in the same manner was a little overboard, having bonded with the weapon well over a month ago. The brothers were a little odd in the head, but they didn’t hurt no one.

Unless they wanted to.

“Can’t disagree,” Bulat said, resisting the urge to fondle his own weapon. “So the sooner we master these weapons, the sooner we can go back to dicing our days away. Same terms as always?”

“What say we up the stakes?” Trying to appear less excited than he felt, Viyan’s wiggling fingers gave him away, eager to earn coin with his new-found skills. Birca and Silva similarly feigned disinterest, the three working hard for what might be the first time in their entire lives.

Compulsive gamblers the lot of them, Bulat sighed and shook his head. These idiots had seen him fleece so many soldiers over the years and still they called his bluff and walked headlong into his ‘trap’. He might lose money for once. “What are you thinking?”

“How’s ‘bout a silver a mark?” Viyan licked his lips, another giveaway. “Keep things interesting.”

“Too rich for my blood,” Bulat said. It’d leave him penniless for the month and he weren't one to go begging his wife for pocket money. “Ten coppers is more my speed.”

“Fifty.”

“Fifteen.”

Eventually they settled on twenty coppers a mark, which was well within his limits. As always, Pran and Saluk didn’t take part, never willing to gamble their coin but always happy to lend a hand if Bulat needed one. Their salaries went towards food and toys for the orphans, spending all their free time at the Boss’s school. A good thing too, despite having the least practice, Pran was easily second best, only a step behind Saluk. Some would attribute it to their beast’s blood or simple minds but Bulat knew the brothers were the hardest workers in the Boss’s retinue bar none. Good on them for finding their talent.

Now if only Old Bulat could find his.

Taking his position, Bulat unsheathed his Spiritual Weapon from its thigh-holster, reverently wiping the axe’s surface with a soft cloth. A veritable work of art is what it was, the haft carved to resemble a woven-reed surface with a stylized bear etched onto both sides of the handle. Only about as long as his arm with a blade the size of his palm, it wasn’t an overly imposing weapon, but it was perfect for his purposes, sneaking around the forests and scouting the lay of the land. The single-edge axe-blade was attached to the haft by two prongs, allowing him to grip the lower prong for added stability when firing the weapon. Attaching the removable handle to the butt of the haft, this curved object housed the weapon’s crank and trigger mechanisms. To prep the weapon, all he had to do was take five seconds to wind the key on the removable handle to compress the springs, drop the peanut-sized metal bullet into the barrel, and then he was ready to unleash the Mother’s fury upon Her enemies.

Presumably. It wasn’t as simple as pressing a trigger, no matter how the Boss insisted otherwise. Though he helped Inspire the concept, the Boss didn’t fully understand the difficulty behind using one of these ‘rifles’ as he called them. Closing his eyes, Bulat steadied his mind and reached for Balance, seeking out the calm, soothing touch of Heavenly Energy and drawing it into his core to mark for his use. Gripping the lower axe-prong, he brought the handle to his shoulder and lined the target to the sight. He should ask Captain Sumila to make a larger handle, something he could brace against his shoulder. Refocusing his thoughts, he exhaled, readied for the recoil, and pulled the trigger.

The springs uncoiled and with a dull ‘twhoomp’, the bullet shot out of his axe-rifle before landing in the snow around twenty meters away, well short of the target a hundred-and-fifty meters downrange. Well accustomed to failure, Bulat prepped his weapon for a second shot. Amplify too fast or too slow, even if you're off by a hair, and the shot failed. Guide the spring poorly and you’d lose power as it scraped along the barrel, resulting in failure. Stabilize the springs else your bullet might shoot out from the barrel at an odd angle, which was good as failing.

The Boss had high hopes for this weapon, but Bulat and the others were failing to deliver.

Well, most of them. While Silva, Viyan, and Birca produced similar results, Ravil’s sword-rifle let loose with a peal of thunder as his weapon jerked towards the sky with such force Bulat worried it’d fly out of Ravil’s grip. Three hundred meters downrange, a cloud of dust and straw shot into the air as the target shook from the impact, showing just why they’d excluded the dark-skinned marksman from their little wager. Both accurate and reliable, Ravil was a demon with his Spiritual Weapon, succeeding at one in four shots. Flashing his pearly-white grin, Ravil’s heated gaze caressed the single-edged sword, probably imagining all the lives it would soon take, Defiled or otherwise.

A good friend to have and the worst enemy to make, that’s Ravil in a nutshell.

Pran and Saluk’s weapons barked with successful shots and though neither hit their targets, when facing a horde of Defiled, it’d be difficult to miss. Dropping the hammer's head to the frozen dirt, Pran grunted as he pulled back the crossbar, his muscles strained and jaw clenched in order to move the handle a mere five centimetres. Two seconds later, the springs depressed to their shortest length with an audible click and he side-loaded the grape-sized bullet onto the chamber. Hefting the maul, he fired the weapon in a careless manner, missing the target once again. With an almost 60% success rate and climbing, Pran’s talent was undoubtedly the highest and well positioned to surpass Saluk’s 75% record after a short five days.

A brilliant Divine Blacksmith, Captain Sumila’s improvements were readily visible with each new masterpiece, making changes to everything from the loading method to the cocking mechanism. Since she took weeks to make each weapon, Bulat worried another faction would copy her success but when he brought it up, the tiny girl replied with a thunderous snort. “Feel free to show your weapon to anyone who asks,” she’d said, giving him a sneer worthy of the Mother herself. “Not even Papa can copy my designs, so they’re welcome to try.”

So domineering. Bulat’s heart ached for the Boss, but such was life. How could Falling Rain refuse the Chief Provost? Not everyone could be lucky to find someone as amazing as Dei An.

Having been given the first weapon, Silva had the worst of both worlds, lacking both a handy winch to wind his springs and a grip to help steady his sword-rifle. To make up for it, he practised more carefully than any other, making every shot count. Lazy though he might be, he hated being dead-last, as Birca was merciless with his taunting. Lacking both muscles and motivation, Silva was the slowest shooter, taking a full ten seconds to draw back the springs and load his bullet, then taking even longer to line up his shot and fire, but his success rate was higher than Viyan and Birca’s at one out of every eight shots.

A shame Silva was so easily satisfied. Viyan and Birca were easily motivated since they’d put effort into anything so long as there were stakes to be won, but Silva was different. He wasn’t incompetent, rather far from it, able to match the others with half the effort, but he was too easily satisfied, content to sit in the middle of the pack when he could instead excel like Ravil. Something would have to be done to motivate the man, but money, women, and beatings had all failed and Bulat was out of ideas.

Bah. Better for Old Bulat to deal with his own failings first. Saying he would succeed at one out of every ten shots was being generous, only a little better than Viyan or Birca. He’d yet to lose money on their little wagers, overcoming Silva through sheer volume of shots, but he felt the others hot on his heels. At the end of their hour-long practice, Bulat’s record stood at four-hundred-sixty-seven tries while succeeding fifty-two times, an abysmal record. Using a magnetic plate attached to a broomstick, he went about collecting the nearby bullets to be reforged into new ones while the others collected and replaced the targets to see how many of those successful shots hit their mark.

Waving his cloth target like a flag, Viyan wore a triumphant grin. “Looks like you’re gonna eat a loss this time, Baby Bulat. My best record yet, eleven shots.”

Birca grumbled beneath his breath as he tossed his target aside. “Lucky sonovabitch. Nine.”

Shrugging, Silva held his cloth up for inspection, letting sunlight stream through the various holes. Sighing because no one would count for him, he eventually counted them himself. “Ten.” Not bad considering he fired half the volume of shots compared to the others.

Heart sinking, Bulat asked Ravil, “So what’s the damage? Give it to Old Bulat.” No point asking about Ravil's shots, probably hit damn near every one.

“Bad news.” Shaking his bald head, Ravil made a big show of it, acting all heartbroken and distraught. “Six.” Bulat’s breath caught in his throat, horrified by his terrible record. Six shots hit out of fifty-two? How could it be so few? “Six more than Viyan.” Ravil continued with a smile. “At twenty coppers a mark, I’d call that terrible news. Seventeen marks for Bulat, clear as day. Nice shooting.”

It took a handful of seconds for the news to sink in before Bulat burst into laughter. “Hahaha, you all thought you finally beat Old Bulat, but today ain’t the day. Pay up you lousy deadbeats, I ain’t gonna chase you down fer it.”

With his pouch four silvers and twenty coppers heavier, Bulat strolled towards the sparring grounds, happy to match blades with Vichear, Gerel, Tenjin, and even Dagen. So what if he was no match for them? With Captain Sumila’s amazing new weapons, he could fire a shot from two-hundred meters away, easily tearing through bone and armour to deliver a killing blow. While he might never be an incredible warrior or form his Natal Palace, Old Bulat was now a force to be reckoned with, all thanks to this wonderful new weapon.

Away from the others, Ravil leaned in and whispered, “Half those winnings are mine. Put eight shots into your target myself while no one was looking. Lucky they ain’t the brightest bunch, but you got to step up Baby Bulat, else you gonna get left behind.” Tossing him the day’s notes with a smirk, he added, “Bring those to the Captain for me, will ye?”

...

Seems Old Bulat is a cheat after all. Suppose this means he'll be spending less time with Dei An and more time at the shooting range. Such a shame to keep Ma waiting for her grandkids, a real damned shame.

Chapter Meme