15th of Cylus, 721
It was a sad sight to watch a life coming to an end, more so when it was once announced and now was due. When Peake entered the room, he was partially overcome by the infinite existential dread of having to face mortality one day, as if it had been something he had not considered before. It was a grandiose bedroom, with art and rugs and vases and all sorts of valuable junk scattered on an almost overbearing over-decoration. It reminded the nobleman of Andaris Manor, a vomit of black marble, white gold and red banners. He could understand the need for luxury in powerful people – he just never got around to digesting it. Not completely, at least. Here, in Fensalir, the decoration style was different, more raw and more savage but even more so out of place considering there was a whole ocean and a whole continent between Andaris and the Melrathi lands. Drakes and other tribalistic figures were engraved everywhere, reflecting the savage roots of Fensalir, their conservative tradition and what gave them the smoked ginseng flavor as a nation. On the royal bed laid a man, old and withered, who donned a small, kind, forgiving smile proper of a man who had surrendered to his fate after a life-long battle against the end.
Former Warlord Fererro laid between thin silk sheets, and Peake quickly noticed he was shaking. It wasn’t fear nor anything dramatic, but mere cold. The Warlord’s flesh was thin, blue veins drawn wherever tattoos didn’t fold with his numerous deep wrinkles. His body, once supple and young, now seemed to melt off its bones, and his face was barely more than a skull veiled by a hair-thin skin. Two wet, bulging eyes protruded almost unnaturally, as if about to fall of their sockets and roll somewhere amid the smooth white waves of the sheets. Admirably, he still held a full mane of hair, white as the bed’s sheets. He laid there, this former Warlord, in the darkness, illuminated and heated only by a quaint fire in an otherwise humongous stone fireplace big enough to incinerate any thieving nurses or caretakers. Or guests. The Warlord’s breathing was harsh, an effort, a wheeze squeezed into two prune-like lungs that threatened to deflate for the last time with every breath. Peake recalled seeing a similar image in his past, when he was a child, wherein his Grandfather on his mother’s side laid in a similar condition. He still remembered the look of horror and despair the dying man gave the young child, as if wishing to be reborn and to redo his life.
Peake approached the bed, quietly so, as if fearing his footsteps would cause a stroke. The Warlord looked over, slowly, his eyes trying to adjust to see but being pearly white, completely blind. Those empty eyes, although terrifying, looked different than those of Peake’s grandfather. These eyes were calm, expecting, and almost welcoming. Peake sat on a chair near the edge of the bed, close to the Warlord, and couldn’t get himself to relax.
“Warlord Fererro,” Peake whispered. “I’m sorry, sir, for bothering you. I didn’t know…”
“What?” the Warlord interrupted with a very surprisingly strong voice. It took an effort, clearly, but the Warlord was willing to pay it. “Didn’t know I was dying?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know either until I was told this was my deathbed. Imagine my surprise.”
Peake smiled. He had to swallow a chuckle lest he’d be perceived as disrespectful. “You don’t seem very scared if you don’t mind me saying so, sir.”
“I’m fucking terrified, boy,” the Warlord said. “Then again, some battles you can’t win no matter how hard you try. It’s just putting on a front before it gets you.”
“How long have you been fighting?”
The Warlord thought for a moment. He looked so weak it seemed his body would dissolve and he’d be left a ghost lying in that bed forever. “A hundred and two arcs,” he stated almost longingly. “I dare you to beat my record, boy.”
“Impressive,” Peake acknowledged. It truly was, especially for a soldier. The Iron Hand had a saying that for every arc fought ten were lost. The Warlord proved it wrong from the other corner of Idalos. “Warlord, I’ve come to seek your wisdom.”
“Who are you?” the Warlord replied, unceremoniously.
“Name’s Peake,” Peake replied, somewhat offended at having to present himself. “I sent you a letter on behalf of Glynt asking to meet you.”
“I don’t know you,” the Warlord replied, dismissive. “Don’t fuss over it; I’ve been having meetings with all sorts of people lately, most of them strangers.”
“Seeking the dying man’s knowledge, yes?”
The Warlord seemed offended. At least, his voice showed so. “Like maggots on a corpse, yes. There’s this idea that the longer you live the more you know about the world. That’s all bullshit. I’ve seen boys know more than many veterans.”
“You’ve been a Warlord, however.”
“What, looking for an endorsement for promotion, boy?”
“No, no,” Peake dismissed. “I’m not a Melrathi. I’m looking for some advice on leadership.”
“Leadership! Ha! Now that’s a word as false as honorable death, as if you could do this and that and you’ll be a good leader. You’re a foolish boy if you think you’ll learn something by asking.”
“I have some people under my care I need to manage and I’m trying to consult various people to go with a clear plan,” Peake continued, trying to ignore the mockery of the Warlord.
“What, and play puppet-master? Have you ever met a person before, boy? Have you ever felt strings from which to pull?” The Warlord laughed, the sound a coarse rumble escaping his throat in a guttural cry, as if Death itself laughed from within him.
“That’s not what I want,” Peake replied, still trying to keep calm. Maybe coming here was a mistake. “I want to know what makes a good leader.”
“A good leader has a big pair of hairy balls, boy, and I’m sensing you’re all out of those. What, you are overseeing a bunch of lumberjacks or something? Taking care of some chicken coops?”
“I’m leading a bunch of blood thirsty mercenaries, and I’ve seen battles so large and violent I could share and you’d fucking die on the spot, you wrinkled cunt,” Peake exploded. It felt good to be honest momentarily, but then a heavy weakness befell him for having betrayed himself, for having had to excuse and justify himself. It was a victim’s move and victims he loathed.
“And you still need fucking advice like a woman needs gossip?” the Warlord replied with his own vicious tone. “How do you think leadership works? Plans and prospects and fronts and all that fake bullshit? What kind of idiot are you?”
“You’re a fucking cunt,” Peake replied. “I feel no sympathy for you, either. I hope you choke.”
“I’ll fucking choke on my own fucking balls at the very least, not because I swallowed my impertinent tongue. If I were in better shape I’d stand and kick your ass.” The Warlord coughed a couple of times. Peake feared he was to fall dead right there.
“Too bad you can’t, so share something useful or I’m leaving you here in your misery.”
“You want useful? Make yourself useful first. I’ve yet to meet a man that’s got his head up his ass that made a good leader. You want to lead, you do so by example and fucking truthfulness. Prove yourself useful to your men and you’ll get their respect. If they don’t respect you, you’re nothing to them but another cunt hair.”
“What, that’s it? Respect? A hundred arcs old and you’re quoting fucking clichés,” Peake snarled.
“Clichés are clichés because they fucking work,” the Warlord replied. He was vicious, indeed, despite his weakness. He must’ve been a formidable man in his early years. In a way, he still was at the end of it. “I told you there’s no formula for making a leader, boy. You’re either it or you’re to be led and that’s it. Find your place and do it soon or you’ll get someone killed.”
“Any tips on that, grandpa?”
“You’re a real piece of work,” the Warlord gruffed, but he was yet to call anyone or dismiss him. Peake suspected he liked this confrontation. “When the shit starts raining and everything’s brown, everyone will look to someone to lead. If they look at you, you’re the one. If you look at someone else to do the shoveling for you, you’re a sheep. Once you figure out who you are, you live up to their expectation to the best of your ability. They don’t want some manual to guide you; they want you, with your dumb flaws and bad logic and all your stupid ideas in your head to lead them. You, not whatever you think a leader is or should be. Be a fucking example.”
“Like you were, right?” Peake mocked.
“I was a fucking example, alright. I’ve given everything for this land and this land then became mine. I’ve never had to lie or cheat about who I am or what I want, and those that didn’t like it said so, but those that did followed me into the grisliest bloodbaths with a grin. Can you say the same?”
Peake thought back at the Battle for Andaris, how he stood in the front line as the gates fell and the rebels poured through. He remembered the Sesser, with it’s burning red eyes and animalistic fury, and how he, and he alone, chose to drive it away from the troops he led. He had confronted mortality that trial and lived to remember but not to tell. Even if he was a coward, he was the leader and had proved it many times.
“I can,” Peake stated, truthfully.
“Then you’ve already got what you’re looking for, so get out and never come back again.” The Warlord, for all his might, fell into a coughing fit and reached a frail hand for a bell rolling in the sheets. He rung it once or twice, the doors flew open and a couple of nurses came to assist him.
Peake had what he came for, and so he stood up, looked down at the dying Warlord, and left. It made him sad to think about mortality, but he felt quite the indifference for the Warlord. Dead or alive, the Warlord had had his turn. Now it was Peake's moment.