The Time Surgeons
Chapter 13 Praximar the Mighty

Praximar the Mighty sat in his tent, a luxurious bearskin at his feet and two of his favorite concubines by his side. They may have been his favorites but they, and the rest of the luxuries he owned, were a mere surface pleasure, without power to distract the thoughts in his great mind.

He had not named himself the Mighty. That title had been bestowed upon him by the fierce band of men under his command; a band that had become a horde.

For years, times had been good in the North. Perhaps too good, for now the weather had become colder again for season after season, and the expanded population found itself struggling for food. This was not unusual in the North. Usually the hungry hordes turned on each other, seeking to acquire land and food from their neighbors, until a new balance was reached. Often, those further south would also turn their avaricious eyes on the rich lands of the Concord. Though the risks were great, the wealth that might be found there was a temptation resisted less often than it should have been, something that many a powerful chief had lived to regret or more often died regretting.

This time was no exception. What was exceptional was Praximar. The third son of a minor chief, he had always known that his fortune must lie within himself. Such men had little trouble gathering bands around them, for there were numerous other second and third sons with few prospects among their own families, and many simply driven away from their ancestral lands by lost battles. And there were plenty of aspiring leaders like Praximar happy to accept their fealty.

There have been many men who have sought war; not so many generals who have excelled at it. Fewer still could aspire to the status of an Alexander or a Caesar, military geniuses whose exploits had survived millennia until the world had lost its memory. Praximar had never heard of these men, but he was their equal.

His strategies and tactics were innovative and savage. First he crushed and absorbed competing bands in his home territory. Feeling secure in his power, he sent an emissary to his father the chief, suggesting that Praximar had proved his worth and earned his own title to the chiefdom. His father was impressed, but not that impressed, and sent his own army to assert his authority over his disrespectful and rebellious third son.

Praximar became chief shortly thereafter.

His ambition did not end there, nor did his genius falter, and he rapidly extended his dominion. Then he turned his eyes to the south, considering.

Because the world had become colder the Concord knew there would be trouble from the North, so they were worried about attacks, and destruction, and death. But they were not worried about the survival of the Concord itself. Barbarians had attacked many times in the past and been repulsed. No doubt they would do so again. As always the Concord would be ready. The Defenders polished their weapons and their alliances, and began to recruit young men who imagined they were eager for the dangers of battle.

Praximar was bold but he was not foolish. He knew the Concord was a dangerous enemy, with deep reserves and unknown strengths. He would attack, and measure the enemy like a hunter encountering a new and dangerous form of prey. He would stab and they would bite back. If at any point they proved too strong he would withdraw. If not, perhaps one day he would rule them all.

He attacked in the east, where the forests were denser and the Concord less closely knit. When Defenders came he drew them into a trap and routed them. He gave the Concord no time to gather a response, but began to sweep through the country, taking city after city.

The barbarian attackers were usually concerned only with plunder, and would take what they could and more often than not destroy what was left. They approached their raids as bandits, keen to steal then carry their gains back to their safer homelands. Praximar had bolder plans.

The Sages were in many ways a mystery to him, with alien thoughts and motives. But still they were men, and it was not long before Praximar’s method for dealing with them became established.

Some Sages were brave and unbending. They would never join cause with a murdering barbarian. These would be made to watch the spectacle of their daughters being raped by his ugliest soldiers and their sons being put to the sword, before their own heads ended up displayed on spikes outside Praximar’s tent.

If a Sage were more amenable, his daughters would join Praximar’s harem. If that were not the fate their fathers had dreamt for them, at least their lives would be ones of relative peace and comfort, and the only man who would impose himself upon them was Praximar and the occasional honored ally. His sons would join Praximar’s horde as servants, perhaps one day to rise to high positions. The Sage would remain in his city as Praximar’s vassal, his loyalty guaranteed by his hostage children.

Praximar made sure that these alternative fates were well known to all the cities in his path.

And now Praximar sat in his tent, pondering the next day. Until now the cities he had conquered or looted had been relatively small and isolated. Now he was entering richer lands, and finally a large force of Defenders had managed to collect itself and barred his way. He had received the reports of his scouts and spies, discussed the matters with his generals, and now sat alone with his thoughts and his concubines, seeing the lay of the land and the enemy in his mind’s eye, weighing and calculating.

Finally he had his strategy. He nodded to himself. It was good. As usual with a foe of equal or greater strength, it was based on deception and meeting strength with deflection, and weakness with a deadly thrust.

He snapped his fingers, and a servant hurried in bearing wine and fruit. He began to eat and drink, as his concubines began to work their arts upon his willing flesh, and smiled.

The battle was going well.

One wing of Protectors was withdrawing in good order, but they would soon replace it was either rout or death. Another wing was advancing against desperately crumbling opposition, but would soon replace themselves doomed. Praximar was heading down the center toward where the cusp of the battle would lie. Then his ever alert eyes noticed a movement high in a nearby tree and his head spun to examine it.

Hidden among the tree’s leaves, a Concord archer lay in wait. He was one of several arrayed around the field of battle, hoping for the chance this man now saw: the vicious barbarian general Praximar, striding arrogantly into range of his crossbow.

It was an improved crossbow designed and constructed by a Sage from far to the south. While somewhat slower to arm, it delivered its finely crafted metal quarrels with unparalleled force and accuracy. It was a new invention, difficult to make, and few could be armed with it yet; but the emergency of actual defeats at the hands of this barbarian had seen the ones they had rushed to the front lines. The Concord had risked its best marksmen with a weapon it hoped would put an end to the threat cleanly, and suddenly here was this man’s chance. He moved the leaves aside to give himself the best aim. The damnable killer must have had the eyes of a cat, for he instantly turned and looked straight at him. But he was too late: the man fired.

Praximar wore armor. He was a man of bold courage, but not stupid courage, and he knew the vagaries of war. But his armor could not withstand the force it was struck with this time, and he looked down stupidly at the deadly metal shaft protruding from his chest. Then he fell over into the dust.

The archer’s quarrel had not penetrated his heart. But it had penetrated his lungs and nicked an artery. Within minutes, Praximar the Mighty lay dead, his blood soaking into the soil of the land he had sought to conquer.

Within an hour his horde were in retreat, demoralized by the loss of their mightiest general, facing an army energized by the same event.

The Concord was never threatened so closely again. Wars still sometimes happened, as had been humanity’s curse through the ages. But times were improving, knowledge was growing, and civilization continued the slow process of clawing back its place out of the wilderness, taming both the forests and the barbarians.

As it grew fat in peace and prosperity, as had happened in far forgotten ages there was exploration, development, conquest and discovery. Great centers of learning sprung up around the seats of the most revered of the Sages, as humanity began its halting steps back onto the path to science and technology. Then finally it began to follow that road toward the achievements of the Ancients themselves.