Kontroks: A Short Story

[Kendo 2]

    In the shadow of Red Mountain, the sun rose over the broken badlands far to the East.  It was late in the year and the sun was far south in its annual trek through the heavens.  Daylight crept in, like it was battle weary and the chill night had the upper hand.
    A lone Dwemer general stood at the forefront of his troops.  He squinted as he scanned; from left to right, as far as the eye could see there was a solid line Dwemer heavy foot.  Rank upon rank, one hundred Mer deep.  The bronze and gold sheen of their armor stood in bright contrast to the rust-colored sand they stood on.  The general hated this desert.  He longed for snow capped mountains, the rich green of secret valleys, the crispness of glacial springs.  He hated the desert, and he hated its inhabitants.
    When the sun finally broke there was an uproar to the East.  The Chimer were there and they announced their presence with cacophony of drums, discordant horns and savage war cries.  This horrible sound drifted to the lines of the Dwemer, but it didn’t have the intended effect.  It never did.  The Dwemer troops were stoic, barely swaying under the weight of their thick plate.
    The general casually cleared his throat and spat into the sand and motioned for a runner.  “Tell her we’re ready and to make haste.”  The general looked at this Falmer messenger.  His white skin darkened and burnt by this despicable desert, his pale white eyes bleary from too much sun.  “Go.” and he turned away in contempt to look at the enemy line.

    From behind the Dwemer lines there was a rumbling and the ground began to tremble.  The Centurions had arrived.  They towered over the heavy troopers, clanking and squeaking and blowing steam in all their mechanical might.  There was an entire squadron of them, supported by three platoons of the smaller sphere Centurions and a full host of Falmer skirmishers.
    As if on cue, the Dwemer ranks parted and cleared a swath for the Centurions.  With every step a cloud of red dust puffed under their plodding feet and the general’s lips contorted into a snarl.  The Centurions were painted a dull ocher to hide the shine of their metallic bodies. The paint was worn and chipped and all the Centurions had signs of battle damage.  Heavy leather belts and straps had been fashioned and from those hung a bizarre mish-mash cooking pots, tarps, tents and other baggage train gear.  There were also the heads.  The desiccated severed heads of Chimer. The general hated this corps of mechanical monstrosities; or to be more precise, he hated their commander.
    The Centurions and their supports troops made their way to the front of the Dwemer lines and set up in a classical wedge formation.  As of a single mind they all blew gouts of steam and boiling water and then shut themselves down.  Once the process was over handfuls of Falmer skirmishers climbed and scrambled over the machines, performing what service they could to ensure the behemoths were in good working order.
    But one Centurion stayed active, as if shepherding over its fellows.  After things settled the Centurion turned and tromped towards the waiting Dwemer general.  This Centurion was different.  In place of the standard maul and blade at the ends of its arms, it had hands.  Thick mechanical hands with wide digits.  On its back there was a enormous two-handed sword, fashioned like the blades issued to regular Dwemer troops.  And on its shoulder there was small figure clad in desert tribe robes and rags, its face hidden inside a deep cowl.  This figure swayed with the movement of the Centurion, like a rider on a horse.

    As the Centurion approached the general strode out to meet it.  “You there!  Climb down at once!”  He was pointing, his tone commanding.  And the Centurion stopped, rearing up to its full height.  Its shadow enveloped the stunned general as it blotted out the morning sun.  Regaining his composure, he issued the order again.  Louder this time, as if demonstrating his courage. “I said come down!”
    The robed and hooded figure stood on the Centurion’s shoulder for a brief moment and then deftly climbed down.  It was a natural act, like a monkey in a tree, and the figure landed softly on the sand.
    The general was furious, more angry at his sense of being intimidated than anything else.  He strode forward again, this time with purpose.  Without warning the Centurion’s pistons fired in its right arm and it slapped the flat of its hand on the sand between the general and the robed figured.  There was a billowing cloud of red dust and the general was nearly crushed.
    “Kontroks! NO!” and the robed figured dashed forward and wrapped its arms around the Centurion’s wrist.  The voice was female, the cultured lilt of a highborn Dwemer.  Her tone wasn’t commanding, it was pleading.  She pressed herself to the Centurion’s forearm, like she was attempting to restrain it.  And she rubbed her cheek against warm metal.  “No.” and she repeated it several times.
    This commotion didn’t go unnoticed.  The Dwemer troopers nearby drew their weapons and started to move forward.  The Falmer skirmishers erupted and were ready for whatever might come.  “ENOUGH!” and the robed figured tossed back her cowl and pointed a shortened staff at the Dwemer line.  “Get back in your ranks!  Do it!”  And the Dwemer did as they were commanded.  She then turned to her own skirmishers and said one word.  “Dah-neh.”  Without hesitation they sheathed their weapons and went back to the squadron of waiting Centurions.  She then turned her attention to the Dwemer general.
    The impact of her Centurion’s slap on the ground had sent him sprawling.  He was on his ass in the sand, wound up in his flowing general’s cloak.  The robed Dwemer female looked down at him and smiled sweetly.  ‘Who is this person who speaks to me as if he knows me?” and with that she used her booted foot and pushed his helmet off of his head.  And she stifled a laugh.  The general’s curled and oiled beard and hair were a dripping tangled mess.  His jet black eye liner was smeared and he was sweating.  She didn’t know him by name but she had seen his face before.  He was a fop and a fool.
    “You’re dressed for a party, not combat.” and she planted her foot against his shoulder and gave him a hard shove.
    “Cuh-cuh-CAPTAIN!  Arrest her!  Arrest her NOW!” The general was practically shrieking.  And then he went for the dagger at his belt.
    In one swift move she whipped off her robe and threw it his face, and then she was on him.  By the time he recovered she was sitting on his chest and had his shoulders pinned with her knees.  She had parted his perfumed beard with a small bone blade, like the ones desert natives carry.  The tip was pressed against his adam’s apple.  “I am Nyrissa of the Clan Rourken, and I’m not in the mood to be arrested today.” She smiled and made a rude hunching motion with her hips, like she was riding him.  The general’s eye were wide with fear.  Not only of the blade, but of her clan name.  He had made a mistake and it would probably cost him his life.
    Nyrissa stood up and walked on top of the prone general, her foot squarely in his face as she trod up to the line of stunned Dwemer troopers.  “Who is in charge here?  Who is this ‘captain’ he was screaming for?”
    “I am here, my lady.” His voice wasn’t nervous or flincing and he took off his helmet so she could see his face.  He was older, clean shaven and his hair cropped close.
    “My fine Captain, I wish you to take charge.  Are you capable?”
    “Yes, my lady.  But my caste doesn’t allow it.”
    “Nonsense.  Skill and aptitude know no caste.  Come, we have things to discuss.”

    And they stood in the shade of Kontroks, Nyrissa’s hulking Centurion and devised a quick plan as to what her part would be in the battle.  She was very casual, and leaned against the machine’s leg like it was an oak tree.  She wasn’t condescending or commanding and her presence was off-putting.
    Nyrissa was dressed like a savage, like the Falmer skirmishers under her command.  At one time she might have been considered beautiful.  Her blonde hair was long and thick, pulled back in a tight braid.  Her skin was bronzed by the desert sun and she was lithe-muscular.  The captain tried not to stare at her blatantly but he failed.  Nyrissa pretended not to notice the captain looking at her face.  There was a bad scar on the left side, like a puckered and forked lightning bolt.  She was blind in that eye and the tip of her ear was missing.
    “Yes, I used to be pretty.  Swords on flesh do these sorts of things.”  She was looking at the toe of her boot when she said that and the captain was at a lost for words.  A weak, “I’m sorry.” was all he could muster.  As if sensing the mood, her Kontroks shifted and gently pushed her with its finger.  “Yes, enough of this.  We have a battle to win.” and she was lifted on to his shoulders and they marched back to the squadron of Centurions.

    The battle formation was set and the Centurions steamed back to life.  They moved forward, holding a tight wedge that could not be broken.   Nyrissa knew there would be conjurers and sorcerers waiting in the Chimer ranks.  She wasn’t concerned.  Riding on each Centurion she had sorcerers and conjurers of her own supported by archers and the bravest of her Falmer.  She would use the wedge, break the Chimer lines and then hunt down their spell casters, and then their musicians, and finally the officers.  Without spell casters and musicians the Chimer would have no way to communicate.  They would become disorganized and they would break.  They always did.

    As they neared the Chimer lines the arrows began to fall and destruction spells were cast.  Nyrissa barely noticed.  Kontroks would protect her.  The steady thudding of his feet and the gentle swaying was mesmerizing and she let her mind drift back to a time that was both sweet and painful.

    They had met by chance, crashing into one another in a crowded hallway.  Instead of walking on he had stopped to help her up, apologizing profusely.  She was furious with him, as that was her privileged way.  He wasn’t fazed and had called on her at home afterwards.  He pursued her like no other and she fell for him.  Nyrissa was promised to another suitor at the time and she rebelled against her family’s will.  She met with her new beau in secret and they became lovers.  They were happy and her family finally accepted him.  They were married in a full ceremony and things were bliss.
    Then he contracted ‘the Wasting’.  There was no cure and they both knew he was going to die.  Towards the end Nyrissa came up with a plan.  She went to him but he was unconscious and near death, so she did something that is forbidden.  She trapped his soul and with a final kiss, she smothered him where he lay.  Nyrissa screamed like a banshee at the loss of her husband but she vowed she would have him back, that he would live once more.  Years passed and she never took another lover.  She held on to him, her husband.
    And then the news came of the war.  Rumors spread and she heard of what the Chimer were trying to do.  They would make themselves gods and be immortal.  Without hesitation Nyrissa liquidated all she owned.  She freed every Falmer slave in her household yet most stayed by her side.  With her accumulated wealth and the help of her former slaves she built a small private army of Centurions.  And she built one special one.  She used the soul gem of her one love and made Kontroks.  Her husband.  Her husband’s name had been Kontroks and his soul powered his namesake.
    Nyrissa would fight the Chimer and steal what they would have.  She would use this power they sought and bring her husband back to life.  They would do this thing together.  So Nyrissa volunteered and her caste allowed her to be a commander.  The Falmer that served her now were the same slaves she had freed.  They here as free Mer, fighting at her side...

    “MY QUEEN!  The battle is joined and my sword tip is hot!”  The voice of a smiling Falmer brought her back to reality and she could see the shapes of Chimer helmets above Chimer shields; the roar of battle was upon them.  Nyrissa stood on Kontroks’ shoulder.  She drew her blade and swirled it over her head and she yelled orders in the Falmer tongue.  The Centurions churned forward, the blare of steam-powered whistles announcing their charge.
    They broke the Chimer line and the screams of the Mer being crushed under foot sent a charge into Nyrissa.  Through the smoke of elemental fires she could see the first command banner.  Sorcerers, officers, musicians; they would be rallied there.  Kill them, and move to the next banner.  This was they way of things and Kontroks knew.  He stomped, he cleaved fully armored Mer in two with one swing of his mighty sword.  Emotionless and merciless.  On the battlefield he was a god of war and death.
    As Nyrissa and Kontroks neared the first banner she realized something was wrong.  The rally point around the banner was not breaking.  The Chimer were standing their ground.  To her right she heard an explosion.  It was distinct and she dreaded that sound.  One of her Centurions been severely hit and she looked to see what was happening.  The Centurion had stepped into a pit and was stuck.  Hidden in the normal ranks of the Chimer there were archers and they had arrows, arrows with soul gems on the tips instead of normal points.  She watched in horror as the archers darted in and shot the Centurion, punching huge gaping holes into it.  Each arrow strike popped with an electrical sizzle as it tore into the metal skin.  Then she heard a similar sound behind her, and another to her left.  It was a trap and her Centurions were being decimated.
    Nyrissa turned and was ready to tell Kontroks to stop, to go back to the Dwemer line.  And when she looked down she saw him; a Chimer archer was crouched directly between Kontroks’ legs when he shot.  There was a sickening sound like someone striking a gong.  There was a gout of steam at every joint and seam and Kontroks exploded.  It didn’t seem real at first and Nyrissa lost track of time.  One moment she was at Kontroks’ shoulder and the next she was on the ground.  She tried to stand up.  Her right leg was broken below the knee and she could see bone tearing through her skin.  She went to touch it and she saw the pinky and ring fingers on her left hand were only hanging on by a few threads of skin.  In a fit of rage she flung her hand and popped the dangling fingers on to the red sand.  She looked for Kontroks.  He was there, and in pieces.  She crawled to his head and he was gone.  The source of power, the light that drove him was gone.
    Nyrissa stared at him.  Her face was blank and the sounds of battle were muffled, like she was listening to it under water.  She sensed someone moving and she saw the Chimer archer.  He had been caught in the explosion and was using his drawn sword like a cane.  He was smiling when he reached her.

    Nyrissa felt at ease when Kontroks pulled her up.  It wasn’t the Centurion Kontroks but her Kontroks, her husband.  Nyrissa was so stunned she laughed and he smiled and held her to him.  It was his smell, his warmth.  It was really him.  She tried to push him away but he held her and kept repeating her name.  And then she cried.  She had forgotten what his voice sounded like.  She looked at her hand and it was whole.  She touched her face and the scar was gone.  Her hair was loose, the tight braid gone.  She had been so excited she didn’t realize she could see out of both eyes.  She was clean, and also naked.
    Nyrissa made herself small in his arms the way she used to. “Kontroks, my love.  You’re crushing me.  I can’t breathe.”  And he kissed her hair, then cradled her face as he kissed her lips.
    “Nyrissa, we need to leave this place.  We’re going somewhere better.  I’ve seen it with my own eyes.  It’s as real as anything we’ve experienced before.  We can be together, have children.  Do whatever we want.  Our people were right.  All of this is a lie.”  He relaxed his hold and she looked at him.  She always knew when he was lying, he was horrible at deception.  What he was saying was true.