by Dan Zangari
Careful to keep silent, Makivan crept along the ramparts, barely staying ahead of the guard. Soon, he came to a staircase that led into the wards of the lookout station. Makivan descended the steps to get out of the guard’s way, but waited to go any farther until the guard passed.
That was close, Makivan thought, making his way through the wards. The carriage sat outside the main building, its coachman yawning. No one else seemed to be around. Makivan’s mind churned with ideas. The count’s death must have been faked. Why, Makivan didn’t know. Somehow, it had something to do with Master Iltar and whatever he was doing. But why would Iltar involve Sarn Royals?
The doors to the main building opened, and High Duke Finlar exited, shaking his head. A woman wearing a simple dress closed the door behind him.
“Let’s go, Nictin,” Finlar said, and climbed into the carriage. The coachman guided the horse back to the gate, and a man exited from a small building to open the wooden gates.
Three people, Makivan thought. That wasn’t very many servants to attend to an aristocrat. A side door was open on the main building, and the same woman who had ushered the high duke to his carriage now exited carrying a large pot. She emptied it into a trough, then nonchalantly walked back to the side door.
Makivan crept behind her as she reentered the building leaving the door swaying on its hinges. He carefully slipped in behind her, finding himself in a kitchen. The woman grabbed a serving tray with a multi-plated dinner atop it. She carried it out of the kitchen, and Makivan followed her. The woman made her way through the building, climbing to the third floor. She rapped on a door, then carefully opened it while balancing the tray.
“I hope you’re hungry, Your Excellency,” the woman said, entering the same bedchamber Makivan had spied upon while on the ramparts.
Your Excellency, he thought. So he is the count.
“You can just set it over there,” Coralis said in a preoccupied tone.
Makivan tiptoed into the bedchamber, slinking along the wall. Coralis was back in his chair, playing his card game. The woman set the tray on one corner of the table and stopped beside Coralis.
“You need to ease this tension,” she said, placing a hand on Coralis’s shoulder.
“What I need is to get out of here,” he grumbled.
“Well, we can’t have that,” the woman said. “But I can relieve your stress.”
Was she trying to seduce him?
Coralis sighed, glancing to the woman. He looked her up and down then returned his focus to his cards.
“I know I’m not as voluptuous as the countess, but you’ve enjoyed me in the past.” She ran her hand down his arm. “I’ll come back after you’re finished.” The woman studied Coralis, then left the room, closing the door behind her.
Once she was gone, Coralis grunted and shook his head. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered. He looked up and stared at the window across from his table. As Coralis pushed back his chair to stand, Makivan dismissed his invisibility and began an incantation, bringing his hands in front of his chest.
Coralis jumped, staggering backward. He almost tripped over his chair, but regained his footing. His eyes widened as orange life-draining magic surrounded Makivan’s hands.
“W-what is this?!” Coralis demanded, glancing to the door. He moved to escape, but Makivan sidestepped, barring the man’s way as the magic coalesced
“Not a word,” Makivan said, as a ball of life-draining tentacles hovered between his hands, the tiny tendrils poking through the spaces between his fingers.
“If you as much as scream you’ll be dead within seconds,” Makivan said.
“What do you want from me?” Coralis demanded.
“Information,” Makivan said. “You’re going to tell me everything I want to know, starting with what Master Iltar is doing.”
“The challenges eventually stopped and Cheserith cemented himself as the ruler of his kind. Those that opposed him—the platinum and golden breeds—fled into exile. Other breeds soon followed, seven in total. They banded together in secret, forming a new Ril’Sha.”
- From The Thousand Years War, Part I, page 18
A rowdy commotion resounded from the main deck of the Promised Maiden as Cornar came topside. What are they doing up there? he wondered, carrying a bowl of warm porridge. He ate a spoonful as he stepped onto the main deck.
Cornar had resumed sleeping in his cabin. It had taken the sailors seven days to completely clean the cabin of blood. An iron-y scent still lingered, but it was bearable.
Once on the main deck, Cornar passed a couple of sailors who eyed him warily. They whispered about him and the entire incident with the blood, arguing about whether dreaming could be fatal.
These two weren’t the first to exchange hushed whispers. News of his bizarre bleeding had spread throughout the fleet like a wildfire. Cornar deduced that one of the sailors must have overheard him recounting the incident to the rest of his band. He hadn’t made it a point to tell everyone about the ordeal, but it wouldn’t have made much sense trying to hide it. A cabin drenched in blood couldn’t be kept a secret.
Some of Cornar’s men had been to the Mindolarnian warships for Captain Salisar and overheard the sailors and soldiers whispering about the incident. Cornar didn’t mind the spreading of such rumors. It seemed that his experience was garnering some respect. At least, that’s what Nordal claimed. Nordal boldly confronted the gossipers, demanding to know what they were saying about Cornar. To his surprise, they claimed Cornar had traveled to a mystical realm, a holy place in the Mindolarnian religion. A place called Vabenack. Cornar recalled hearing that name within his dreams. The soldiers, however, claimed that only the most faithful were thought to be able to visit that place.
Cornar shook the thoughts aside as he neared the source of the commotion. His men were gathered in a circle between the ship’s masts, loudly cheering for Ordreth and Gregan. Grunts and thuds resounded from within the crowd, followed by more cheering. A few Wildmen were also watching, looking perplexed.
Sparring, huh? Cornar mused, eating another spoonful of porridge. He made his way toward the shorter warriors for a better view of the fight.
Ordreth and Gregan were wildly attacking each other with their bare fists. Ordreth ducked a hook swing aimed at his head and aimed a punch at Gregan’s stomach. Gregan brought his knee up, blocking Ordreth’s fist. Ordreth countered with a low kick to his opponent’s other leg, but Gregan evaded swiftly, landing a punch against Ordreth’s shoulder.
That sent the youth spiraling backward. Ordreth landed against the ring of men, who shoved him back toward Gregan. They engaged each other once again, blocking and evading each other’s blows.
Just as they resumed hitting each other, a hand touched Cornar’s shoulder. “You want in, Cor?” Nordal asked. “We’re still on the first rung.”
“Holding a tournament?” Cornar asked, putting another spoonful in his mouth.
“Yup!” Nordal grinned “We got nothing better to do.” He moved beside Cornar, showing him a piece of parchment with brackets and names. “Midar wanted in, but we didn’t have anyone to pair him with. So, what do you say?”
Cornar nodded, eating another spoonful.
“All right,” Nordal said, writing Cornar and Midar’s names at the bottom of the list. “Three rounds and then you’re up, Cor.” Nordal walked away, circling around the ring of men, undoubtedly to find Midar and tell him of his impending match with Cornar.
Gregan landed a blow against Ordreth’s jaw. Ordreth reeled and fell to the decking. Gregan, however, settled back into a wide stance, bobbing on the balls of his feet.
Ordreth groaned and struggled to stand. Cornar was surprised the punch hadn’t knocked him unconscious. His nephew staggered and sloppily lunged at Gregan. Poor boy must be dazed. Gregan evaded, landing a few blows, and then tackled Ordreth to the decking. He subdued the youth, pinning Ordreth belly down. Ordreth struggled, but couldn’t break free.
After a moment, Igan
entered the ring. He was undoubtedly the referee. Igan often took that role upon himself. The wizard studied the two struggling men and then began counting down from ten. The match would be over if Ordreth couldn’t break free before Igan reached “one.”
“Nine.”
Ordreth thrashed about, getting an arm free, but Gregan still held him in place.
“Eight.”
Ordreth clawed at Gregan’s face, attempting to make him flinch.
“Seven.”
Gregan turned his head, pressing his cheek against Ordreth’s neck.
“Six.”
Ordreth got a leg free and angled himself off the decking.
“Five.”
Gregan swept the leg that held Ordreth’s now freed limb back around the youth’s ankle, causing Ordreth to buckle.
“Four.”
Ordreth struggled to stay up and fell upon the decking once again.
“Three.”
Gregan shoved himself over the shoulder of Ordreth’s free arm, inhibiting its mobility.
“Two.”
Ordreth grunted, attempting to push himself up again.
“One!”
A thunderous cheer erupted from the ring, and several of the warriors chanted Gregan’s name. Everyone clapped, applauding both participants. There was a special kind of camaraderie among the members of Cornar’s band. Even in competitions like this, there was no ill feeling.
The Wildmen who were watching, however, still looked confused. They obviously didn’t know what to make of the match.
“And the winner is Gregan!” Igan announced.
Everyone continued cheering and the two combatants stood, then embraced each other in a brotherly hug. Gregan said something to Ordreth, but he couldn’t hear what. The elder warrior patted Ordreth on the shoulder, and the youth nodded.
They cleared the ring and the next two fighters entered: Grensil and Shen.
Cornar finished his porridge partway through the match, but the sailors drew his attention. Captain Salisar’s first mate was giving orders to prepare their ship to link with the Executor’s Breath. Cornar watched as the sailors prepared the metal poles and the gangway for the maneuver. Soon, the two ships sailed closer together.
Most of the Wildmen on deck turned, awestruck at the maneuver. They gawked as if witnessing the most wondrous event in the world.
The match with Grensil and Shen continued amid the maneuver. Both warriors ignored what was happening with the ships. Some of the onlookers noticed, but quickly returned their attention to the match.
Unlike his men, Cornar’s eyes wandered. He glimpsed Krindal coming topside with Jahevial and a few other scholars. The scholars moved toward the starboard rail, waiting for the gangway. As they talked among themselves, Krindal noticed Cornar studying him. After a moment, the old scholar waved Cornar over.
What does he want? Still holding his bowl, Cornar moved from the ring toward Krindal.
“Prince Kaescis is summoning us,” Krindal said. “All the leaders of the expedition are to gather on the Executor’s Breath.”
Cornar hadn’t received the summons, but perhaps Krindal was relaying that message. “Even me?” he asked incredulously. Krindal’s deceit in Klindala was still fresh in his mind.
“Uh, yes,” Krindal said, averting his gaze. “You may bring some of your men, if you’d like. His Grace said you should bring them.”
Cornar raised an eyebrow, studying Krindal. All the while, Igan counted down.
The match was over in a few seconds, and Igan announced Grensil as the winner.
Cornar hurried away from the scholars and pushed through the ring of men. Kalder and Nordal were in the middle, getting ready to square off with each other.
“Wait!” Cornar commanded. “Kaescis has called a meeting aboard his ship.” He studied each of his men before continuing. “I want some of you to come with me. Kalder, Gregan, Nordal, Igan, and Vargos.”
Nordal sighed with disappointment, dropping out of his fighting stance.
“I guess that means we’re putting the tourney on hold?” one of the men asked.
“Yeah…” Nordal grumbled.
Commands resounded across the main deck of the Promised Maiden. The crew hurried about, lowering the poles and the gangway. The Executor’s Breath loomed over the starboard side of the ship, with its own crew preparing the vessel to receive the passengers from the Promised Maiden.
Cornar handed his empty bowl to one of his warriors, then pushed past his men toward the lowering gangway. Those Cornar had called to join him followed. Face stern, Cornar folded his arms, standing stoically as he watched the gangway settle onto the decking. He had decided to be cautious around the other leaders of this expedition. Yes, he would work with them, but he didn’t consider his band to be subject to the prince. They were Sorothians, after all.
Once the gangway was secured, Cornar strode ahead of the others and climbed the plank to the main deck of the Executor’s Breath.
“Welcome aboard,” said the servant named Practil. Practil bowed and gestured toward the aft portions of the ship. “You will be meeting in the war room, behind the bridge. We still need to receive the other captains, so it might take some time. Do you care for anything to eat or drink?”
“No, thank you,” Cornar said with stern courtesy and walked toward the stairs leading to the quarterdeck, passing several Wildmen. He heard Practil greeting the rest of the Sorothians in the same manner. Cornar didn’t pay much attention to their replies.
Soon, Cornar passed through the ship’s open-air bridge. Some of the Mindolarnian officers nodded or bowed to him in respect. Cornar waved but remained silent. He soon arrived at a semicircular enclosure of glass behind the bridge: the war room.
Cornar opened a pair of wood and glass doors and entered, with his men trailing behind him. The war room was quite large, larger than those found on the Sarin-class vessels of the Sorothian Navy.
A rectangular table sat in the middle of the room, large enough for twenty to twenty-five men to stand around it. The tabletop was sunken and had sea charts rolled out across its surface, held down by polished gray stones, all uniform in shape. Miniature figurines of ships were clustered along the backside of the table, undoubtedly used for planning sea battles.
Besides the table, there was nothing else in the war room. No one else had yet arrived.
“So, where is everybody?” Vargos demanded, sounding perturbed.
“Calm down, Vargos.” Gregan nudged the old barsionist. “Didn’t you hear that servant when we came aboard?” Vargos grumbled.
The warriors spread around the table, eyeing the sea charts. Cornar, however, stood at the side of the table nearest the entrance. He rested his hands on the table’s edge, leaning over it.
The scholars entered soon after, and Krindal strode along the left side of the table. He carefully set his mapping tevisral at the table’s center, activating it with that oddly shaped gem. Magic wisped from the tevisral, forming the topographical map of the world.
The other scholars entered the war room as Krindal magnified the map.
Cornar caught Jahevial eyeing him as the scholar moved throughout the room. He still hadn’t discovered any more about what Jahevial was doing. Cornar had told Sharon to spy on the man, but Jahevial hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary. Nor had she caught him using that odd tevisral.
Bratan entered the war room not long after the scholars arrived. The sight of him caused Cornar to flinch defensively; the encounter with Bratan in the dreamland was still fresh in Cornar’s mind. The Praetorian had been brutal and crass when they fought. That left Cornar wary. Bratan, however, simply glanced at Cornar but didn’t pay him any further attention.
Shouted orders echoed into the war room, pulling Cornar away from Bratan. Officers yelled for the sailors to detach the poles and gangway attached to the Promised Maiden. They ordered the sailors to transition the equipment to receive those from the other warships.
More of the ex
pedition’s leaders filed into the war room: Grand Marshal Hezidex, Admiral Kaetet, and a few commanders from the Mindolarnian army.
Cornar heard the equipment outside settle into place. Not long after, Captains Hetarin and Regader entered the war room with a pair of their own officers. They were followed by the Wildman ambassador, Gevistra, and one of the Wildmen women. Lastly, Laeyit and Kaescis entered.
The prince strode gallantly through the war room, eyeing everyone who was present. His violet eyes settled on Cornar, staring fiercely. There was a glint of hostility in Kaescis’s eyes that grew into something menacing. The prince stopped at the opposite side of the table, his eyes still fixed on Cornar. Suddenly, Kaescis smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile, by any definition. It held a sense of malevolent anticipation.
Is that an attempt at intimidation? Cornar wondered. He didn’t shy away, instead boldly staring Kaescis down. News of his incident in the cabin must have reached the prince. Cornar wondered what Kaescis thought about the incident. The prince seemed to be a religious man, so would he share the same opinion of those Nordal and the others had encountered?
Kaescis finally turned his gaze to the mapping tevisral. He looked like a man obsessed.
Who are you, really? He hadn’t thought about it until after his last night in the dreamland, but Kaescis couldn’t be an average man. How could an average man live for as long as Kaescis had and still look youthful? Cornar had heard of arpranists using their magic to stall their aging, but he didn’t know for how long exactly.
At that moment, Krindal finished magnifying the map. It showed mostly open waters, with an occasional island dotting the vast topography here and there. The scholar then took one of the markers and placed it in the southern part of the map, near Cornar.
“Thank you all for coming,” Kaescis said, his eyes still fixated on the flowing magic. “Seeing as we haven’t held a council since our separation at the foothills of Anigar, I thought it wise to gather us all to discuss the next leg of our expedition, the Isle of Dalgilur.”
Nordal grunted. “You are going to share all the information about this ‘next leg,’ right?” he asked, sounding skeptical.
