Chương 1381: [1294] – Y06.194 – A Fool IV

"Do you see it?" Scholar Muh asked, sipping away at his kafa, the warmth spreading through his old bones. Unlike most his age, his bones did not ache, something he was thankful for, but something he had achieved through a lifetime of forging himself, like a finely honed blade.

"I see it," Yasmin replied, the young woman staring out to the large procession, in which roughly a hundred civilians had been drawn up, each wearing traditional garbs from years past, long flowing clothing, longer and more flowing than their modern attire, each cream coloured with red embroidery all throughout.

They had to train every evening for no pay, but they got to say they were a member of such an important procession, worth its weight in gold, or at the very least, worth one's tongue in silver, if they were able to show off appropriately at the various taverns, restaurants, and even temples, if their tongues were golden.

"The Sixtieth Company," Scholar Muh said, noting the soldiers, almost a hundred, each marching through the roads, with thousands crowding all around, the various guards and soldiers drawn up to keep an eye upon the crowd, mostly to make sure they did not trample one another, rather than for bad actors. Sayf adh Mashi'aya was only slightly hidden, as hidden as one could be while standing atop a roof top, arms crossed behind her back, ready to give chase to any courageous fool.

There was no doubt there were others, for many of the older figures who had retired enjoyed watching the processions, and out of respect, Scholar Muh hadn't gone to greet Two Finger Demon, who only ever used two of his fingers to fight. The grumpy old man, who looked as though he was sleeping roughly on the road, though surely he wasn't considering his vast wealth, may have shot out a beam of light towards him if he had.

Somewhere, Sayf adh Shabah was most likely watching too, though Scholar Muh hadn't noted her around the area he had expected her.

"Every tenth company is, was, the Eastern Faro's," Yasmin stated.

"Except?"

"The Thirtieth and Seventieth, since the numbers three and seven were the Shen of Shen's favourites. Every third, fifth, and seventh companies belong to the Shen, including those of the thirties and fifties." Scholar Muh raised his brows.

"Thirties and seventies, excuse me," Yasmin replied, frowning at her mistake, the young woman having spoken too quickly for her mind.

"Careful. Think twice, speak once."

"Yes, Scholar Muh…" Yasmin hadn't heard the saying in such a long time, not during the last mistake in which she named the type of apple incorrectly.

"What is this company called?"

"The…" Yasmin paused, unsure if she was right.

"The Sixtieth was once known as the Bright Swords."

"What is it known as now?"

"Bright Swords?"

"Correct," Scholar Muh replied, smiling warmly, the same warm smile that had seduced thousands of women, even as an older man.

"You must know of the First Hundred Companies at the very least." Yasmin had studied the First Hundred Companies quite a bit as a youth, and referred back to it once a season to check, as Scholar Muh had taught her.

"One hour of physical training, one hour of studying, and you too shall be known as Scholar Yah one day, or perhaps Scholar Yasmin, if you prefer," Scholar Muh said, sipping his kafa lightly. Yasmin wasn't sure if that was true, especially since she had spent so much of her youth studying and training much longer than a single hour each day. How many times had she lost her breakfast, lunch, and dinner while training? How many hundreds of books had she already studied?

She was thankful it was only a three mile run every morning, with weight training and some swordplay, followed by a half hour of reading and a half hour of essay writing, and that didn't include the time she spent journalling.

"The Bright Swords, the Sixtieth Company, whose home is made up in the East, stands tall and proud here before us. Yet, there are those who fought in the Bright Swords six years ago against Aldland who still stand proudly within their mountains to the East. Both will say they are part of the unbroken lines of the Sixtieth Company, but who shall be considered so?" Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

"Whoever claims victory," Yasmin replied. The Scholar raised up his hands, flashing a knowing smile, before bowing his head.

"Shukhur, what can we do? All we can do is train our bodies, our minds, and pray we are able to live well in such a turbulent time." The young woman let out a small sigh, but she understood there was little she could do, she had already trained with the old man for years, and he had already forged her into an Expert, though she was so young.

"You sigh now, but do not forget, there are those your age who are also Experts, and some who are greater geniuses, those who are Masters at your age."

"Do you really believe what they said?" Yasmin asked, raising her brows towards her mentor.

"What is rumour? What is truth? I only know when Iyrmen speak, they do not lie."

"Perhaps they consider Masters in a different manner?" Yasmin replied.

"If Iyrmen do not know what it is to be a Master, then no one knows what it is to be a Master," Scholar Muh stated, speaking as a man who had crossed blades with countless Iyrmen, which was countless too many for his liking. If not for his swift feet, he would have died to several Iyrmen already, thankful he had retired in the last two decades, for he had missed out upon being called to deal with Butcher Marmak. Rather, he had refused, stating his retirment.

Yasmin noted her mentor's face, the kind in which he was thinking of something difficult. Scholar Muh recalled the figure. The handsome half dragon fellow whose scales were not blue, but azure.

'What is he doing in this land?' Bael yawned, watching the procession which was… could one even call it a procession? Why was there only one hundred? Where was all the fighting? Less than three deaths? What an unfortunate procession.

'They will die in their first battle.' The trumpets blared, the drums thundered, and Kizwolima reached up to her ears, trying to block out the sounds. It was the crowd which were the loudest, cheering and shouting with excitement, while the Mulazim who led the guards shouted out orders, or made loud grunting noises as the rest of the soldiers marched with their spears over their shoulders, their free hands upon their shorter blades upon their sides.

It was once they approached the open area, the large courtyard, where a statue of a pair of golden lions stood tall and proud, that the crowd began to quieten, and a figure in all white, with a large golden scarf over his shoulders, holding a book within one arm, and wearing a silver chain around what appeared to be a golden cross, though looked like the sun, though with a single ray that was long than any other, almost like a cross.

The Priest of Noor, an older man with a whitened beard, his bald head hidden by the turban, which was wrapped in a golden scarf, held up a hand and began the prayer in Aswadic. He almost muttered it, but every so often, he would speak aloud Lord Noor's name, in which the others around echoed the words while he continued to prayed. The silence was eery compared to all the loud noises previous.

Adam glanced around, noting how many figures had taken off their hats, some holding it over their hearts, while others bowed their heads, crossing their hands over their chest as they prayed, while the children held their hands up as if to cup the rain, and though they were probably expected to pretend to pray, some where off within their own worlds, glancing up here and there, sometimes towards the soldiers, sometimes towards a particularly interesting fresco, and other times a bug they had spotted flying all around.

"Noorshukhur," the Priest finally called out, the others whispering it after him, though with thousands of people whispering, it wasn't quite so quiet. Once the Priest was done with his display, he prayed again, this time summoning a creature made of light, like a large soldier, which stood at attention behind him as the Mulazim shouted, slamming her boot into the stage, causing the soldiers to shift their spears from their right soldier to their left.

"Shukhur, the world is truly falling dark if the Mulazim is a woman," a man muttered to his friend, raising his brows as he smirked.

"What can we do with the Reavers?" the other replied.

"Are you signing up?"

"If they conscript me, I will go," the fellow replied, shrugging his shoulders.

"The Northerners are having trouble."

"Typical." The soldiers began their display, marching in place, some them rippling out like a flower, before others shifted between one another, until they finally formed ranks, eleven by ten, though with spaces missing seemingly at random. The Mulazim shouted at the soldiers, each of whom adorned in scale, chain, and wore helmets that appeared almost like turbans, stood tall and proud, and still like statues.

There were about a dozen or so soldiers beside her, and she shouted, calling out their name, causing the soldier to step forward towards her. She shouted something in Aswadic, but in such a way that no one could understand outside of it being loud, though they could feel the heaviness within her tone.

"They are replacing those who are no longer in the company with fresh blood," Dunes explained, while the woman then handed the soldier a short blade to wear at their side, before they took their place, filling each empty place, until finally there were ten rows of ten, though with a space upon the third column.

"They are the soldiers who are gone," Dunes whispered, motioning to the third column.

"For those who died for us, and those whose bodies we could not retrieve."

"Oh," Adam whispered, nodding his head. The Mulazim continued to shout, until finally the soldiers began to march in place and the Mulazim took her place behind the third column, and once she took her place, the soldiers stopped, each saluting ahead of them, towards the crowd, while the Mulazim stared ahead, and though she saluted forward, she was not saluting the crowd.

"Not even the Mulazim can stand within such a spot," Dunes whispered, nodding his head towards the woman, who hadn't even stepped through the spaces, but around to take her place behind the soldiers who had died under her watch. The Mulazim stared at the empty spaces, flashes of faces entering her mind, and she wondered which of the fresh faces would join them.