The day before the war

Captain Giolian Xenopour buttoned up his shirt and laced the nylon ties of his breeches while Anastasia lay curled up on the bed, watching him. Her elbow pressed into the mattress, head resting in her palm as she gave him a sultry and satisfied smile, partly hidden by a cascade of ruby hair with carroty highlights shining in the sun streaming through the semi-transparent curtains. Her twinkling jade eyes and sultry smile was telling him that she wanted more. However he had far more pressing matters to be concerned with than the beautiful, naked woman on the bed. While he had been training more Lavodan warriors, Giolian hadn't been to Eskiarthonas for more than three months. Time had run out and he had to gather warriors and return to the Northern front line before the break of the next morning.

"Sure you are not ready for another round?" Anastasia asked in a voice that came out in a purr as she pushed herself to a sitting position, lightly tracing one of her fingers down his scarred biceps as he yanked on one of his boots. "I want to take you again, warrior." Obviously, she'd decided to drive him out of his mind by bringing his cock back to full attention. The red curls between her thighs matched the shade of her long hair and her lush breasts with their large pink nipples were tempting enough that Giolian for a moment considered climbing back into bed with her, obey that little punk between his legs who wanted to be in command right now. But he had got his, it was time to show restraint as he didn't have time to indulge in bedding her again.
"I have business to attend to," he said gruffly, yet it didn't deter Anastasia. Her warm vanilla scent wrapped around him as she pushed his shoulder-length flaxen hair aside and pressed her lips to his neck while he pulled on his other boot.
"Your reputation as a lover was not exaggerated, captain," she said in a husky, sensual voice, low as a whisper. "Despite your show of roughness, you are one of the most incredibly passionate partners I've ever had. It's no wonder all the women claim they'd willingly spread their legs for you." She sighed. "Rough or not, any lady, from highborn to whore, would love to have you between her thighs. You are a mystery, a puzzle to be solved."

Giolian jerked on his black leather jacket, forcing Anastasia to back away from him. Before she could touch him again, he reached for his pants and stepped into them, zipping them up and buckling the belt. Then he stood and strode over to the chair, where he had flung his weapons belt before taking her to bed. Looking around he apprehended that the room was too frilly for his taste. Pastels with wildflowers and white furnishings, lace curtains and cut flowers in wases, a woman's room. Vanilla-scented candles flickered on every surface, and the fragrance mingled with the aroma of their sex. As he fastened his weapons belt around his waist he didn't bother with looking at Anastasia. They had gone three rounds and yet she was begging for more. The thought should have given him some measure of satisfaction, but he felt nothing more than the easing of his needs and the desire to go back to the training yards.
"I wonder what kind of woman it would take to tame you?" Anastasia said casually. The comment caught him off guard and he craned his neck and cut his gaze to her. Her lips were pursed and she looked as if she truly was interested in her own question.
"No woman will tame me," Giolian growled, as much to himself as to her as he controlled that the guns were comfortably holstered before he zipped up his jacket.
"Trust me," she said with a quick grin. "One day you'll meet that woman who'll have you on your knees."

Giolian gave a slight nod and a wish of a good evening, polite, nothing more, before he turned away. His boots thumped on the wooden flooring as he headed out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him. Women!

He had to return shortly to Eskiarthonas with the younger Monsoon warriors he had been training in the skills needed to defeat the damn Sarentists. Unfortunately, none of them could be fighting the Sarentists until they'd found them. The Porsodavian mountains was a wide spread and rugged wasteland of steep hillsides and deep ravines, of avalanches and glaciers and deep caves and the guerillas could be hiding anywhere, most of them native to these mountains and safe on the feet where he and his soldiers would well stumble and fall. Still Giolian would be damned if he didn't find a way to determine what the enemy's weaknesses were.

Fifteen minutes later, Giolian had identified himself with the guard by the gates and was heading toward the training yards. Dust swirled around his boots on the dry path and sunshine warmed his bare arms. The sounds of martial arts cries were becoming louder as he approached the three-story wooden dojo and passed a dozen of jogging men and women, their tank-tops dark with sweat and their shiny faces marked by the pressure put upon them. The man running up front, a balding, middle-aged colonel was shouting a rhyme about Sarentists men only having one testicle each and the soldiers behind him were echoing his call. Those rhymes used to be old already back when Giolian was a new recruit, but that didn't seem to bother the hefty man who was leading the younger soldiers.

As Giolian reached the dojo, he noticed with satisfaction that his new warriors looked fit and ready for battle. He would only be taking ten more with him to fight the Sarentists, but this contingent would have to be enough. They'd join the other warriors currently stationed in Morheda, just where the flatlands gave in to the mountains. The local Chieftains of Eskiarthona would allow no more to pass through their territory. Or what they regarded as their territory at least, one day Giolian hoped to be able to teach them a lesson and make them bow down to the King as well. But right now they could not afford that, they had to concentrate upon the rebels in the mountains. Going after the Chieftains would mean spreading themselves too thin and that would be dangerous in a situation like this. Prejudices between the Eskiarthonan steppe clans and the southern Lavodan ran deep, and it was a wonder that any form of agreement had been reached for travel through those lands. The rivalry extended back over millennia, stemming from arguments on whether travel or contact with the North should be considered a free commodity, or if the southern Lavodans should have the access rights without paying their way towards the mountains. The Lavodan had beaten the Eskiarthonas on the battlefield more than once, made more than one chief compulsorily bow down to the Banner of the Royal House, sometimes even to Kings and Queens in person, kissing their rings, even if the last such event laid generations back in time by now. But the Eskiarthonan clans should be beaten and made to bow down to the Banner once and for all, that was Giolian's firm belief, but he also knew that would be a later question. These days the Eskiarthonas worked as a buffer to the Sarentists, so they'd better stay where they were and be kept calm with some smaller boons form the Lavodans.  At the same time, those clans had always been more arrogant, less territorial, more for freedom and remaining uninvolved. They were also neutrally aligned, however, and on occasion would step in on the side of right and justice.

Giolian folded his arms across his chest as he watched two of his warriors spar with long bamboo poles. The pair battled at the center of a small circle of Lavodan enforcers who cheered them on. Berolita was lighter on her feet and quicker with her pole, but the young man Ezargos was gifted with a greater strength and endurance. Berolita and Ezargos clashed and for a moment they remained locked in a battle of power and will. Then Berolita whipped her pole around Ezargos' and shoved him away. In a beautiful display of strength and agility, she performed a quick backflip, landed in a crouch and swept her pole at Ezargos' knees. Ezargos however jumped to easily dodge her blow. He attacked from the left and lashed out with his own weapon, but Berolita rolled on the dusty ground, getting herself out of his reach, then sprang to her feet and swept out with her pole in a wide swing, hitting Ezargos on the thigh, the impact hard, if one should take the large smack and Ezargos' grunt as a measurement. Pride filled Giolian's chest at the sight of his warriors.

Berolita and Ezargos continued to spar, a perfect dance of power and grace. But not fierce enough to suit Giolian. He had to ensure that they'd be prepared to battle anything they faced. The loss of even a single life was one too many, and he would not see one of his brethren fall if he could help it in any way. He turned to the young man standing next to him with his own bamboo pole rested leisurely by his shoulder as he watched the combatting duo. His name was Mehail and not even 20 years of age, he was already a veteran, once wounded in the Kereselen part of the Porsodavian mountains, a few faint scars still visible on his chin and right cheek where the splinters of the bomb had hit him, more prominent scars hidden by his khaki coloured tunic. He had been lucky, three of the others with him had not returned that night.
"Mehail, your pole," Giolian asked him in a low voice.
"Yes sir," Mehail whispered back and handed over the long bamboo reed. Giolian accepted it with a clasp of one large right hand.

In a few rapid steps he was at the center of the mock battle. "You must be callous!" he growled as he blocked blows from both Berolita and Ezargos, who displayed surprise only for a brief second before opting to work as a team against him. "The Sarentists won't spar with you!" he snarled as he drove his pole at Berolita's midsection. She barely blocked it and the power of his stroke was so great she grunted with the effort. "In a close combat," Giolian continued as he spun in the air to parry with Ezargos, "these bastards will bring you down with one swipe of their dreaded iron clawed rakes. So you better strike first, and show them no mercy!" In two swift blows, Giolian had both Berolita and Ezargos dropping their poles, bringing them rattling down on the wooden floor of the dojo. "As you can expect none from them," he finished, barely breathing hard. The two warriors looked chagrined as Giolian stopped moving and lowered his pole, hitting it twice against the floor, to indicate that the fight was now over. Berolita's and Ezargos's hair were plastered to their foreheads, the sides of their faces glistened with sweat and they were breathing hard when they also stopped moving. They must've been sparring for quite some time even before Giolian arrived.
"Off to the showers now!" He slapped both Berolita and Ezargos on their backs. "Then come with me! It's dinner time. And tomorrow morning we will go to war."

The other recruits laughed and began joking and jeering with one another good-naturedly and the captain felt a strange warmth in his chest. The Lavodan army was his family, the only real family he had ever known. He respected these people, relied on them in battle and held the certain confidence that they would watch his back, as he would watch theirs. Outside of war and training, Giolian tended to keep to his own, but not when these recruits needed him to be the glue in their camaraderie and in battle. They were young and required the spirit of teamwork in every way, so twenty minutes later, when they all were showered and changed, he followed them to the cantina. As they crossed the sandplain, which was now turning pale orange in the discoloured light of the setting sun, Ezargos caught up with him. He had not only washed his hair but combed it out and fastened into a new warrior's knot on top of his head. He looked smart and strong.
"So it's time, Captain?" he asked the older warrior.
"Yes, tomorrow," he nodded his head. "The words have come in from the Office, we set out tomorrow one hour before down, to be in Morheda before the worst heat hit us. Although heat would be the least of our problems when we ascend into the mountains."
"It's be cold as hell, right."
"Worse than hell," Giolian replied.
"Those rebel bastards," Ezargos glanced over to Mehail who was walking on the other side of Giolian, talking to Berolita and another female recruit, called Samada. "I saw what that bomb did to Mehi, and I've seen worse things too." He lowered his voice. "May I admit something?" he then asked.
"Go ahead," Giolian said, already suspecting what the younger man carried within his heart.
"I'm shit scared," Ezargos said after a short while.

He was probably hoping for his captain to tell him to not be, to assure him that everything would be fine. But it was a lie, and they both knew it. And there was never any reason to lie about these things. People died in wars, that wasn't exactly a classified secret. And Giolian just looked him over from the corner of his eyes.
"You know what," he began. "Being scared is nothing strange. It's only natural. I'd be more worried if you'd said you weren't scared, because that'd be a sign of stupid recklessness. Recklessness that'd be dangerous both for the soldier himself and his comrades. So, Ezargos, use your fright as the edge you need to be vigilant out there. It'll sharpen your senses and make you more observant, more prepared to counter hazards and to work preemptive."
"Is that true?"
"Yes, with vigilant eyes, you might discover an ambush before the trap slams against you. And the next time people like Mehail might not lose his friends or two fingers on his left hand out there."

Ezargos thought those words over in silence as they entered the noisy canteen, where about a hundred of soldiers were dining on chicken, mashed potatoes, corn and tomatoes, crowding and boasting, talking loud, showing with their entire  body language how tough they were. And perhaps they were too. Here on the plains of Lavodan, a thousand kilometers from the mountains of the Sarentists. But that distance would soon close to nothing.  

Tomorrow they were going to war.