CHAPTER 266: SONGS FOR UNBROKEN

Songs for Unbroken

Inside the Arena

The vast arena was engulfed in darkness, with light surviving only by the gates where bonfires still burned. Amid the chill night wind and the tense aftermath of defeat, a white-robed youth known to them as a cleric candidate stood near the arena’s gate, surrounded by his honored guard. He had climbed atop an empty wooden barrel, his figure bathed in firelight, and his voice rose above the restless crowd, desperate to rally them back to his cause.

"Do not avert your eyes. The Living Saint’s reinforcements have come, and the first column of the righteous is already formed. The signs have aligned. What else are you waiting for?" he shouted, eyes wild in the glow.

The newly gathered crowd of roughly seven hundred hesitated, shifting uneasily in the orange light, faces drawn and still breathless from their panicked flight. None of them showed any intention to fight. Not after what they’d witnessed on the fields outside.

But the robed youth pressed on, his voice raw as he tried to kindle one last surge of courage among the broken. "Soon, the reinforcements led by none other than the Saint Candidate will capture the Black Demon. Where will you be when that happens? Will you let your wives and sons learn that you fought for righteousness, only to flee while victory is claimed on the field of glory?"

He’d only heard this news from two fleeing officers and had no way to know if it was true, but faith alone was enough for him. Breathing heavily, he swept his gaze across the weary crowd and pressed on with new fervor. "My good people of faith, don't you want to witness this once-in-a-lifetime triumph over the Black Demon? Don’t you want the Living Saint’s blessing? She’ll know if you are present in the moment of triumph. She’ll know if you are not. Or will you lie to her?"

Many in the crowd stirred. Dozens wept. Others shifted their feet. They were uncertain, but clearly moved. Faces that had been blank with defeat now showed flickers of guilt, restlessness, and longing, though fear and exhaustion still weighed heavily on their shoulders.

The youth continued, unwavering. "I'll lead at the front, just like before with the first column. You only need to follow. But I am only a preacher. What am I to do without the Living Saint's followers? What will the Saint Candidate say if I bring only two hundred out of the seven thousand promised? My good people, brothers of faith, tell me, what shall I answer Saint Nay's very own disciple? That I had only two hundred believers, while the rest cowered and ran in the face of victory?"

A ripple ran through the crowd as men muttered to one another, their resolve beginning to shift. Some glanced at each other for reassurance. A few voices rose in uncertain support, as if the tide was finally turning.

Watching this, his self-appointed guardians looked pleased. Some even breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

It seemed they were about to gain at least another column of men. The first column of believers, two hundred of the most die-hard faithful, already stood guard outside the gate, watching the movements in the field and catching any rioters trying to escape.

They believed that if another column could be raised, at least half of the remaining crowd inside the arena would follow. This new group would be unarmed, as many had discarded their weapons while fleeing, but the guardians were confident they could search the field and gather up the scattered swords, shields, and helmets left outside.

Despite their recent defeat, they had found a new sense of purpose. Even if they were not the ones who had won the battle, they were determined to claim a share of the glory. They would make sure that no one, not even the monastery, could deny them their reward for sacrifice. After all, even though they had missed the crushing blow against the Lord’s army, there was still the siege to come tomorrow, and more men would be needed for that.

Nobody, not even the monastery men, was under the illusion that, even if they caught the Lord and put his head on a pike, the city and the remaining Lowlandians would surrender.

***

Earlier that night, before the fleeing rioters returned, a dozen odd men walked calmly at the far end of the arena, just as Lord Lansius and his army escaped north from the battlefield. They seemed unaffected by the chaos around them. Several carried metal lanterns or torches. They moved with purpose, but were largely ignored by the crowd, who were desperate to find an escape and save themselves. To the panicked rioters, the Lord had won the battle and would soon hunt them down in the arena.

But this group knew better than the rabble around them. They knew the Lord was unlikely to enter, not with another army threatening from the east. It was likely the Saint Candidate’s forces, finally emerging from their hiding places.

The situation was turning against the Lord’s favor, bad enough that the older mercenary leader had already pulled his men out.

But the other leader, younger and more ambitious, had a different idea. He saw an opportunity for a side job amid the confusion.

"Oy, old man, is this really the place? I can't see shit," the man in front grumbled as they entered an empty section of the arena.

"Y-yes, we’re near," the older man replied. His face was bruised, and he limped along with a makeshift stick, yet there was no mistaking his powerfully built body and arms. "Thank the Ancients, the guards have left."

"Even if they hadn’t, it wouldn’t be a problem," another said with a smartass grin.

"That’d be even better," someone else added, flashing a wet grin. "Maybe they’d be willing to part with some of their heavy valuables before they run."

Rough laughter broke out until their leader, a large-built man, cut in. "Easy, boys. We're not bandits."

"Boss is right, we’re distinguished gentlemen," the lantern-bearer played along.

"Sword entrepreneurs," someone at the back scoffed, drawing more laughter as they came to a reinforced wooden gate that radiated a raw aura.

The men in front halted. Even without knowing why, they sensed danger.

"Why are you stopping?" the boss demanded.

"After you, old man," the man in front quickly said, motioning with a torch for the limping elder to go first. Another shoved a torch into his hand.

With uncanny bravery, the older man stepped inside, followed by his two younger aides. The aides’ footsteps and faces didn’t show much confidence, and the group behind them felt tense, unsure of what would happen next.

As the three entered the darkened structure, a sudden thunderous blast erupted from within, blaring like a dozen war horns. It rattled everyone; men gasped, stumbled back, and some clutched their chests from the shock.

"That’s it, they're dead," the lantern-bearer said, half joking.

Only nervous chuckles came from the group. Two turned to the leader, silently looking for guidance.

"He’s their trainer. And I doubt these ducks are as dumb as donkeys." With confidence, the broad-shouldered man snatched a metal lantern from one of his men and stepped inside.

Their boss' large silhouette disappeared into the pen-like structure. Even from where they stood, they could smell the putrid air wafting out.

The local brigands-turned-hired-swords waited for several moments but heard nothing.

"Are they dead?" the joker among them muttered.

"Fuck you," one spat, then went in, followed by the rest.

Inside, they saw two more torches burning low, fixed into iron brackets on the wall. The two young aides to the old man were trying to light another, but from the weak flame, it was clear the tallow inside was already burnt out.

Amid the putrid smell and stench of death, the men saw the beasts. Each was as large as a warhorse and stared at them in silence. Every pair of eyes tracked the men as they drew closer. Many brandished their broad beaks, the same beaks that had maimed and killed dozens who had tried to slaughter them earlier in the day.

"They’re afraid of us?" the joker boasted.

Hearing this, the old man turned. "Step closer if you want to try."

The joker gulped, suddenly aware of the ducks’ cold stares.

The old man, known as the duck meister, turned to the boss, who now stood before the largest duck the others had ever seen. Only a heavy wooden fence separated them from the dozens of beasts inside, all watching with raw, murderous intent.

"They’re grieving. They’ve lost their trust in people. But it’s alright now. I’ve spoken to them and they understand the situation," the old man explained.

"How can you tell?" the boss asked.

"They saw my face and chose not to strike me," the old man replied.

His answer failed to instill confidence. All he got were frowns from the men, and even the boss only replied, "Oh."

Sensing their lack of trust, the old man suddenly approached the fence.

"Oi, are you nuts?" Even the joker thought it was foolish.

But the boss nearest to him didn’t intervene, only watched keenly as the duck meister set down his makeshift cane and climbed the lowest rail of the fence to face the largest duck, which stood proud and unbothered. He extended one arm and laid his hand on the beast’s broad, feathery chest.

Against everyone’s expectations, the creature didn’t seem to mind at all.

The men glanced at each other and nodded. Only now did they truly trust what the old man had claimed.

"Do you trust me now?" the old man asked after stepping down.

"I’m glad we saved him from the mob," one of the men commented.

"I hear the sound of money," the joker quipped to his friends.

Earlier that day, the boss had seen a chance for profit and sent his men to intervene when the old man was beaten for trying to stop the Saint’s followers from slaughtering the ducks. Or, more precisely, from trying to prevent a tragedy. More than thirty had died in that madness just to roast a few ducks for a few monastery’s leaders to eat.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

The boss had also extended his protection to the old man’s crew. He did it because he smelled money in saving these racing ducks. They were as prized as warhorses, if not more.

The old man turned to face the boss, but before he could ask, the boss replied, "I trust that you’re their trainer, but nothing more. Now let’s get down to business."

...

Upon the duck meister’s persuasion, the local brigand leader, who had not revealed his association with the Lord, agreed to save the race ducks. With the Saint Candidate’s army approaching, the ducks’ lives would soon be at risk again.

The duck meister and his two remaining arena crew members —the rest had already fled— worked quickly to prepare the ducks. They needed water and a light feed. Woolen wraps still covered their strong webbed feet to keep them from injuring each other in confinement.

While the hired swords watched the crew work, one of them, holding a metal lantern with a reflector that let them see better in the dark, asked, "Why are you putting a saddle on it?"

"Because I'm going to ride it," the old man replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

His answer quickly turned heads.

"You must be joking," the joker muttered from the back, irony thick in his voice.

The duck meister snorted and replied without turning. "Boy, they’re race ducks. They're meant to be ridden. Besides, with my leg like this, I can hardly outrun anyone."

"He got a point," the lantern-bearer said.

From inside the pen, the duck meister turned to the boss, who leaned on the fence, one hand resting casually on the wood. The biggest duck gently nuzzled his muscular arm and neck, sniffing him with curiosity.

"It’s almost ready. We should make our escape," the older man urged.

The boss and many of his men raised their eyebrows. "We?" he echoed.

"I need more riders, or they'll get scattered."

Almost everyone scoffed at the idea. Some shook their heads, others just rolled their eyes. Even the joker was perplexed.

"They are race ducks," the meister insisted, repeating the fact.

The boss snorted at the idea, but as the wide beak touched him gently again, he paused. His thoughts wandered to the five newly minted silver coins with their fresh design. It was clear House Lansius controlled the silver. And in his mind, the minstrel's warning echoed:

You’d do well to support the House of Blue and Bronze. Not even this riot, or the loss of several cities, will change the course of things. So lend us your cooperation, or someone else will, and you’ll regret missing this opportunity for the rest of your life.

He came to the realization that being an enforcer wouldn’t be so bad. The old mercenary had certainly accepted it, and so had several others. Besides, there would be plenty of side opportunities if his mercenary talents went unused.

"Times change," he muttered, gazing at the proud duck that looked more like an ancient monster than livestock. The beast could be his way to rise above the rest.

"Can you ride a horse?" the meister asked.

"Certainly," the boss answered without looking at him.

"They are braver than most horses and more intelligent," the meister claimed. "Forget about common giant ducks. Try talking to them, they'll understand. Introduce yourself."

He snorted, but even a brigand like him couldn’t mock the eyes that glinted as if they shone in the darkness. "You can call me Boss, like my men do. I am the leader of a hired sword company."

In a spectacular sight, the largest duck bowed, and the rest followed, surprising everyone, even the two young crew members.

"They respect you for bringing me back. Now, make your offer. Promise them freedom and a meal," the meister urged.

The boss smirked. He had a different idea. "O, great warduck, the rioters who slew your kin, don't you hate them?"

Suddenly, the feathered beast spread its massive wings and puffed out its chest before letting out a deafening, violent blast of sound that shook the entire structure. The rest of the ducks grew agitated, each determined to prove their own fury. Even those standing far from the fence stepped back, stumbling; their ears rang painfully, and several ran away screaming, terrified of being trampled. To anyone still inside, it was clear that the beasts understood and were eager to unleash their wrath on the perpetrators.

"I thought so," the boss remarked, grimacing as his ears rang with pain. "Then, let me ride you, and I'll show you where to strike."

The duck meister grinned and lowered his hands from his ears. As their trainer, he was familiar with the creatures’ behavior and had recognized the signs before they let loose their blast.

"Boss, are you serious?" the joker asked, repeating himself as if unsure he’d heard correctly.

"We're going to get rich from this," the boss explained to his men. "Certain payment for keeping them safe, and a bonus if we help the Lord escape."

Hearing that, the ducks perked up, looking fierce and ready. The meister and his crew wasted no time, strapping on more saddles while a handful of men, driven by youth and excitement, volunteered. This was the kind of challenge they only saw once. Some grinned at each other, ready to ride for the thrill, with or without reward.

The joker was level-headed enough to inform the boss that he would lead the rest to safety on foot.

Then, from outside, hurried footsteps echoed on the stone. "Boss, boss!" someone called. He burst into the pen, breathless. "There’s a problem."

"Speak," the boss instructed, his tone calm.

"A robed young man is trying to rally the crowd. They’ve seen the Saint Candidate’s army coming."

"This could be bad," the old meister muttered, eyes narrowing.

"How many?" the joker asked.

"Many. Hundreds," the messenger replied indifferently; numbers weren’t his strong suit.

Some of the men looked troubled, but the boss let out a faint smirk. He had a feeling he knew who this young robed man was.

***

Inside the Arena

"You," the robed youth called out, pointing at a fit, strong-looking man. "Are you coming with me?"

The man hesitated, reluctant even as hundreds of eyes pressed him for an answer. Seeing this, the robed youth quickly turned to another. "You with the great mustache. Will you stand beside me?"

Still, there was silence until a voice rang out from the crowd. "Pick me! Candidate, I'm going with you."

It was just a boy, barely fourteen, and his shout surprised many. Some men muttered for him to keep quiet, while others cheered his courage. Angry voices and curses flared up, but were soon drowned out as men began stepping forward. Dozens volunteered, forming up beside the guardians.

Even though many had died for believing the cleric candidate's words of victory, the rioters had originally numbered in the thousands. There were at least several thousand who weren't anywhere near the destroyed northern line, and these men were susceptible to his words.

The momentum was building amongst the crowd of rioters. More and more men joined, filling out the ranks as the column began to take shape. The pressure mounted until even the previously reluctant stepped forward. Many saw safety in numbers and were drawn in by the growing crowd. They quickly surpassed a hundred, and another column was soon underway.

With an ecstatic smile and swelling pride, the robed youth watched as the columns filled. The rally was a success.

His return to the arena was not in vain.

But even more satisfied were his guardians. They were the most staunch believers, but even they were not immune to resentment. They felt it wouldn’t be fair for the new army to sweep in and claim the prize before them. They wanted a share of the reward, especially after their role in the battle. Many were not monastery men, and they feared their contributions would go unrecognized.

And this was of tremendous importance. Soon, there would be a new Midlandia, and they didn’t wish to see lesser men overstep them to become influential and powerful.

It began with devotion, but easily slipped into greed.

"One hundred," a remnant man of the hired sword column counted loudly, and the men cheered in raw excitement.

"By the Living Saint. Third column, make ready!" the robed youth exclaimed, his eagerness plain to see.

The second column had been filled. Now they proceeded with the third. Unlike before, the crowd simply joined in, with less and less resistance.

What started as a desperate rallying cry was now churning out column after column. Even from the shadows where the rioters had hidden themselves, many were now returning in droves.

The situation grew loud with premature celebration, masking the approach of a steady thumping from the far side of the arena.

Even those who heard it thought nothing of it. While many were unarmed, there was confidence in their numbers.

"One hundred!" a man called out for the third column, and again the crowd cheered. By now, so many had volunteered that people lined up to be counted.

Meanwhile, the guardians deliberated among themselves.

"We'd better make them double strength. We don't have enough officers to lead a fifth column," one voiced his concern.

"There must be some with the ability to command, or we can just order them to follow," another offered.

"Better ask the Candidate," a third remarked.

Hearing himself mentioned, the robed youth stepped down from his makeshift podium and said, "Let's make them as many as we can. I want our numbers to swell. I want it so that when I report to the Living Saint," his face turned somber, "I can say I managed to rally that many columns for her. She needs to know our true importance in this magnificent moment."

But before they could agree on anything, disaster struck.

Out of the darkness, moving with unbelievable speed, dozens of powerful creatures charged into the crowd.

"HONK!"

A deafening blast split the night, heralding the beasts’ assault. The great ducks charged, giving the crowd no time to react. Many were snatched up by powerful beaks and tossed aside, their bodies crashing to the ground with sickening force. Others were mercilessly trampled under clawed, webbed feet as the ducks barreled through, wings flapping furiously. The rush of air and flying dust blinded dozens, who scattered in panic before the onslaught.

"The ducks, they've escaped!" someone screamed in terror.

"Protect the Candidate!" a guardian shouted, his voice trembling as he saw the ducks bearing down on them with riders atop their backs.

Amid the blinding dust and rising chaos, the four columns tried to stand their ground, but only a handful still clutched weapons. Even if they’d had more, it would have meant little; their earlier confidence shattered at the sight of men being picked up and hurled aside like scarecrows. Dread swept through the ranks as more bodies were trampled or tossed. Most stumbled backward, pressed together in a desperate crush, until fear finally broke them and they scattered, running for their lives. Everyone remembered that thirty men had died just that afternoon, even separated by a sturdy fence and with every precaution imaginable.

Watching his four columns break and flee, the cleric candidate’s heart skipped a beat. "My brothers in faith! No!"

"HONK!" The mightiest duck answered, the sound so loud that the candidate clapped his hands over his ears, gritting his teeth in pain at the thunderous blast.

The alpha duck crashed through, trampling no fewer than three dozen men beneath its powerful, agile, reddened feet and tall, sturdy legs. Speed and strength ran in its bloodline.

Facing this monster, three guardians lunged desperately together, but the creature seized the nearest with its beak and hurled the ring-mailed man aside like a hay scarecrow. The second suffered worse; the duck snapped its beak around the man's torso and held him fast. He managed to slash the creature, but at the cost of his bones breaking, the sound echoed through his screams. The last guardian, frozen for a heartbeat, was knocked aside by a brutal sweep of the beast’s wings.

Everyone was stunned. The remnants of the four columns broke and scattered, desperate to escape certain death.

The duck dropped the dying man from its beak, only to stomp him again.

"HONK!" The duck and its pack bellowed.

The biggest one, a smear of blood bright on its white-feathered neck, advanced with a slow, menacing gait, each step landing with a heavy thump that radiated disdain. The guards could only gulp. Now there were just two of them left, standing with the cleric candidate.

"Candidate, flee!" one guardian shouted.

"But the columns—" the candidate tried to protest, but the other guardian seized his wrist and dragged him toward the gate.

It was a foolish move. In just a few strides, one duck barreled into them, hurling a man into the spectator stands with a sickening crash. Two others were crushed underfoot.

As the victims cried and groaned beneath the duck’s foot, the rider looked down, a mocking smile on his lips.

"We meet again, monastery boy," he called, flexing his thick neck and broad shoulders as if tensed. "You said you wouldn’t forget me. I assure you, the feeling is mutual."

"You—you! We paid you, you mercenary bastard!" the cleric candidate howled.

"What can I say? Someone outbid you by a wide margin. Besides, I never liked you or your ilk. And your lot killed the ducks, so your quarrel is with her now. Let me tell you. She hates your guts."

"Wretched scum, the Living Saint and her monastery will punish you for this!"

Undisturbed, the boss leaned in and whispered into the creature's ear. "Eat him."

With a thunderous stomp, the beast pinned the victim’s legs to the ground, then lunged, tearing viciously at the candidate’s robes and flesh. Blood splattered as fabric and skin were ripped apart. When the young man was left bloodied and mostly naked, the creature picked him up, lifting him high before swallowing him feet first.

The candidate could only groan, tears streaming down his face, unable to resist. Many of his bones were already broken from the brutal stomping.

"Say hello to the dead you sent before you," the boss sneered. "I'm sure you'll find their welcome on the fields of glory brimming with hatred."

"I'll be sent to heaven!" the candidate gasped, voice shaking as the duck’s massive beak crushed down, half his body disappearing inside.

The boss merely chuckled. "You'll find out soon enough."

With a wet, sloshing gulp, the duck finished swallowing him whole.

The boss patted the creature's feathers with respect. "How's the wound? Do you need some treatment?" he asked.

Meanwhile, the duck meister, his men, and the pack of ducks assembled behind.

There were still rioters hiding in the shadows of the arena, but most had fled, their courage utterly broken. With the preacher and the last of his guardians dead, they posed no further threat.

The boss turned to the duck meister. "Be sure to tell the Lord of my deed here. I’ll claim the full reward now that I’ve thrown my weight behind House Lansius."

"I shall do so, gladly," the duck meister replied, a thin grin on his lips. Like his ducks, he was not one to forgive easily.

"Boss, what should we do with them?" one of his riders asked, nodding at the fleeing crowd.

"Not our problem. I have other business and money to make." He gently guided his duck to the gate and spurred her forward. For many, the night had been full of loss and sacrifice, but for him, it was a night of great opportunity.

***