“True,” Council member Dorlan said. “We agreed to support this war based on our possession of superior weapons, a superior force, and a clear path to capturing Fallbrandt. Since then, much has changed.” The old man stood, wincing with his palm against his lower back as he straightened. “A quarter of our force was lost in taking Hipoint. Then, we discovered Corvichi destroyed, which sapped our flash powder reserves. Now, Wayport slips from our hands and into those of our archenemy.” He shook his head. “We must rethink this conquest.”
Varius stood with fists clenched at her sides, appearing ready to spit fire. “Do you think this is a game? Should we just walk away and forget that Chaos runs amok throughout Issalia? Do you believe Brock will be satisfied with Wayport after we tried to kill him?” The glare she aimed at Dorlan made the old man shrivel. “Despite a few setbacks, the Empire retains the upper hand. We will take Wayport back, and when we do, I’ll see Brock’s head on a pike.”
She stepped down from the dais and walked past Sculdin, not stopping until she was beside Kardan’s chair. “It is time for action, Leo. Send the troops. We must take Wayport back, and we must do so as soon as possible.”
Varius exited the room with Ikonis at her side, while the Council members frowned in concern. Dorlan glared at Brighton, both men appearing livid. Kardan, however, reflected resolve. He stood and motioned for Sculdin to follow. They had much to plan, more to do, and little time to waste.
As Sculdin exited the room, his hand went to his torso, his palm caressing the book hidden beneath his coat. The Council did not know of Budakis’ journal. Sculdin had made Iko promise to keep it a secret, even from his mother. Within the journal were the plans that would lead the Empire to victory. More importantly, the Empire’s victory would seal King Brock’s fate.
Iko hurried to keep pace with his mother. They soon arrived in her private chambers. The moment Iko closed the door, she began to swear. Iko said nothing.
He knew his mother well and expected her anger to cool rapidly. When it did, she sat heavily in her desk chair and held her hand to her forehead with her eyes closed. The silence was even more uncomfortable than her rant.
Iko cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I failed you, Mother.”
She lowered her hand and shook her head. “Do you really believe that is what I am angry about?”
“You gave me a task. I failed.”
“We have multiple reports that the royal quarters were destroyed in the explosion. You planted the bomb. You were with the king, the queen, and the prince in the room before you escaped. Everything you did conforms to your mission objective.” Her mouth twisted as if she tasted something sour. “However, Brock and Ashland…they are both sly and talented. Worse, they possess a magic we barely understand. You are not at fault in this. It was I who failed by not following through to verify the man’s death.”
Iko sighed in relief at not having her anger directed toward him. The feeling was compounded by the relief he felt from Broland surviving the blast. The prince’s death – his friend’s death – had been a crushing weight on Iko’s soul. Discovering Broland alive removed Iko’s shackles of guilt.
His mother turned toward the window, her expression contemplative. “Knowing Brock lives creates new questions, such as: Where was the man these past weeks? What will he do next?” She spoke softly, as if to herself. “His recapture of Wayport appears to have cost him nothing. That brings him closer to our borders and greatly alters his ability to defend both Kantaria and Fallbrandt.”
“I agree, Mother.” Iko didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t even sure she was speaking to him.
She spun about. “Enough about Brock. I will worry about him. You have your own role in this endeavor.”
“What do you wish of me, Mother?”
“I will remain in my chamber, or next door in Kardan’s office, for the remainder of the day. The floor is guarded, so there is little need for you to be held captive here.” She reclaimed the seat behind her desk. “Go see Sculdin. He has much to do and will likely have tasks for you.” The Archon dipped a pen into her inkwell and began drafting a letter.
Iko walked down the long corridor, passing Ydith, the guard on duty. She gave him the briefest of nods and continued in the opposite direction. He passed Quinn’s room and thought, Where are you, Quinn? Are you truly chasing a spy or have you abandoned us? Distracted by thoughts of Quinn, he soon stood before Sculdin’s door. His knock was met by silence. After waiting a minute, he lifted his fist to knock again when the door opened.
“Kardan.” Iko said, surprised to see the man in the doorway. “I’m sorry if I am interrupting. I came by to see if Sculdin needs anything from me.”
“Come in, Ikonis,” Kardan stepped aside. “I was just leaving.”
Iko entered to Sculdin bent over his table, writing notes on a map. The door closed, leaving Iko and Sculdin alone. Sculdin stood with a pen still in his hand. A drop of ink fell from it and landed on the tile floor in an oddly silent moment.
“The time for planning is over, Ikonis. We make our move immediately.”
“What do you need from me, Scully?”
“Prepare your things; you will soon hit the road.” The man set the pen down, circled the table, and stopped a stride away. “Commander Korbath and our cavalry are due to arrive from Sol Gier in a few days. You will join them and ride to the garrison outside Yarth with new orders from Kardan.”
“New orders?”
“Yes. Kardan is sending Captain Rorrick and the entire garrison west. They will begin a hard march to catch Mollis and Brillens, who are marching from Hipoint. We will take Wayport and then push north to Fallbrandt.”
When a tinge of fear arose, Iko swallowed it, set his jaw, and asked, “What about you?”
“Don’t worry about me.” Sculdin clapped a hand on Iko’s shoulder. “I have a part to play, but it’s better kept secret.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Iko turned to the door and left the room. He walked the corridor lost in thought, worried about the impending war while wondering how it had come to this end. Memories of his time at the Torreco Academy of Combat and Tactics resurfaced. A year had passed since he left the school – a year of growth and struggle and change. Things were simple and life was enjoyable back then – back when he had Quinn at his side. He longed for those days. Where have you gone, Quinn?
15
Musketeers
Brandt waited as Sergeant Ferdinand issued orders, repeating the same exact instructions Brandt had heard during the previous week. He and the other musketeers practiced the same process every day, multiple times a day. In between, they ran and performed calisthenics to remain fit. However, today was different. Today, they would actually use their muskets. Twice.
“Remember, this might be your last chance to fire your weapon until you are in an actual battle. We have limited flash powder and cannot afford to waste it.” Ferdinand stopped and glared at his regiment. “And, for Issal’s sake, do not shoot anyone and do not spill any flash powder. I don’t have to explain why.”
Ferdinand strolled along the line as he spoke, his stride stiff as if he were made of wood rather than of flesh and bone. “Each squad will fire upon my command. After your first volley, you will shift to the rear and reload your weapon. When you reach the front line, you will again fire on my command and then return to the rear. After all ten squads have fired twice, you will remain at attention and wait for further instruction.”
As the man strolled toward the far end of the ranks, Brandt glanced to the side, meeting Roy’s gaze.
A year older than Brandt, Roy was of a similar height and build. In fact, within the first hour of meeting Roy, Brandt had felt a kinship. All it took was a simple prank Roy pulled on Tonda, the tallest of their tentmates. When Tonda shrieked and bolted from their tent, Roy rolled in laughter before producing the source of Tonda’s terror. Roy held the empty snake skin toward Tonda when he tried to reenter, producing another shriek before
Tonda realized it was harmless. The memory of the moment brought a smile to Brandt’s face.
Roy leaned toward Brandt and whispered, “When we are finished here, do you want to watch the duels?”
“Duels?”
“Yeah,” Jorreck stood to Brandt’s other side. Short and thin, the teen had a narrow face reminding Brandt of a weasel. “Today’s dueling day.”
Brandt shrugged. He had nothing better to do, and he actually enjoyed spending time with his tent mates. “Sure. Let’s do it.”
The commander’s gruff voice emerged in a shout. “Squad One, ready your weapon!” A series of clicks marked the moment as flints were cocked into place. “Squad One, take aim!” The hundred musketeers in the front row raised their weapons. “Squad One, fire!”
A rapid concussion of blasts came from the muskets, joined by a flash of green flame and a puff of smoke. The bales of hay along the palisade wall jumped and twitched as slugs buried inside them.
The Squad One musketeers spun around, slipped through the ranks, and fell in line behind Squad Ten. Brandt and his fellow squadmates advanced two strides and waited while the next squad fired a volley. A minute later, Brandt and the other Squad Five musketeers stood at the front with nothing but two hundred feet of open dirt between them and the hay.
Ferdinand called out for them to ready their weapons. Brandt cocked the flint and suddenly became acutely aware he was about to discharge a small explosion. The sergeant commanded him to take aim and he did, pinching one eye shut while staring down the long metal barrel in his hands. His pulse thumped in his chest, his breath rasping as the anticipation built higher and higher.
“Fire!” the commander shouted, the word causing Brandt to flinch. He pulled the trigger, heard a deep bang, and felt a thump of pain in his shoulder, nearly causing him to drop the musket.
Grimacing, Brandt lowered the weapon, spun around, and hurried toward the back of the line. His shoulder stung mightily, his arm hanging limp as he winced in pain.
“What are you doing?” Roy asked as he pulled a cartridge from the long pouch across his chest.
“I forgot to hold the musket tight to my shoulder,” Brandt said between clenched teeth.
The comment caused Jorreck to snicker and shake his head. “The sergeant warned us about that. Many times.”
“I know.” Brandt opened his pouch and removed a cartridge. “I guess this is a learning moment.”
Roy smiled. “Some people have to learn the hard way. I’m not surprised you fall into that group.”
Despite his pounding shoulder, Brandt grinned in return. “You have no idea.”
Brandt bit the end off his cartridge, tearing the paper away and spitting it out. He then half-cocked the flint on his musket and tilted the strike plate open. With care, he poured a bit of flash powder from the cartridge into the opening behind the strike plate. He slowly uncocked the flint and tipped the musket up with barrel aimed toward the gray sky. The cartridge, which included more flash powder and a metal slug wrapped by paper, was stuffed into the barrel. He detached the ramrod from the barrel and used it to shove the cartridge down, thumping it four times to make sure the load was well packed. By the time he was reconnecting the ramrod, Roy and his fellow squadmates were doing the same.
Kenten, Brandt’s squad leader, shouted “Squad Five take position!”
They scrambled forward and formed a straight row two strides behind Squad Four. Shots rang out and the squad moved forward, again and again until it was Squad Five’s turn. Brandt cocked his weapon, aimed, and fired. He then scrambled to the rear and waited for the remaining squads to complete their second volley.
During the wait, thoughts of Quinn invaded. Brandt missed her, not having seen her even once since they had joined the Imperial Army. I wonder how she is faring. Memories of their time together in Yarth had him oblivious to his surroundings until Roy elbowed him.
Friendly barbs and laughter surrounded Brandt as he and his four tent mates passed the camps of other musketeer squads. As the target of Jorreck’s jokes, Lewin did his best to counter, but he lacked the quick wit of his opponent. When Lewin had had enough, he tried to grab Jorreck, but the squirrely teen ducked, weaved, and scurried away, leaving the heavy-set Lewin frowning in frustration.
A crowd had gathered – a variety of soldiers wearing the colors of their regiments. Brandt and his companions wore brown coats cinched at the waist by black belts. There were women wearing dark blue, some in tunics and breeches; others wore leather. He also saw men dressed in black, all with their heads shaven, their expressions grim. Among the uniforms and armor was the familiar sight of standard infantry wearing white tabards over chain mail.
Jorreck reached the crowd first and began to wiggle through. Roy, Brandt, and Tonda did their best to follow, the three continuously apologizing as they jostled the people they passed. Lewin trailed behind, requiring a path twice the width of the others.
At the heart of the crowd was a dirt field separated by ropes tied to four stakes. The spectators pressed against the rope, a meager barrier between them and the sparring ring.
A man dressed in a black uniform stepped onto the field and spun about as he reached the center. Gold stripes marked the man’s shoulders, and an Order rune of the same color was stamped on his left breast. The man raised his arms and the crowd cheered. Moving his hands in a lowering motion, the crowd quieted.
When the noise subsided, the man shouted to the crowd. “Welcome to this week’s contest. I am Sergeant Aladar, leader of the Infiltrators. My regiment prides itself on being the bravest, toughest, most dangerous element of the Imperial Army.”
The statement caused a stir and raised more than a few jeers.
Roy poked Brandt. “Maybe they should have stuck you with him.”
“What are Infiltrators?”
Jorreck leaned toward Brandt and said, “I hear they are armed with bombs. Their job is to infiltrate and destroy enemy strongholds even if they die in the process.”
Brandt blinked at the idea. Having seen flashbombs in action, he was well aware of the destruction they could render.
Aladar roared. “Quiet!” The crowd simmered and he resumed. “Each week, a warrior within my ranks steps forward in the hope of claiming the title of best Infiltrator duelist. This week is no different.” He spun and pointed. “First, I give you Harron Buddig, our current champion.”
A tall man with a shorn scalp stepped forward, lifting his arms high. He had muscular shoulders and a barrel chest. When Buddig flexed his thick arms, Brandt envisioned the man snapping a tree in half with his bare hands.
The cheering fell away and Aladar announced, “Welcome this week’s challenger, Sandar Grange.”
A combination of cheers and jeers greeted the soldier as he entered the ring. Also with shorn hair and dressed in black leather, Sandar Grange was neither as tall as his opponent, nor as muscular. At roughly ten years younger than Buddig, Grange’s movements were fluid and effortless, his body lean and athletic.
“That Buddig guy is a monster,” Brandt said aloud. “Do you think Grange is good enough to beat him?”
Roy shook his head. “I doubt it. Buddig has throttled every opponent thus far. Most don’t last more than a minute.”
Aladar led the two men to the weapon rack at the far side of the sparring field. Buddig chose a massive wooden great sword. Grange stepped back with a longsword in one hand and a shield on the other arm. The trio returned to the middle of the field with Aladar standing between them.
“When I give the word and vacate, you will begin. The duel ends when I call it and not before. Got it?”
Both men nodded. The crowd stilled in anticipation. Aladar backed away and shouted, “Duel!”
With a roar, Buddig drove forward, swinging his massive great sword with both hands. Grange lifted his shield to block the strike. A loud clack sent Grange stumbling sideways. Another swing followed and Grange opted to scramble away. Buddig advanced with a dark scowl as Grange backe
d away in a circle.
Apparently having enough of the cat and mouse, Buddig burst forward with another massive swing. In a blink, Grange ducked beneath the strike, his shield protecting his head as he lunged with his longsword extended.
The thrust took Buddig in the stomach, resulting in a grunt. However, Grange was too close and couldn’t avoid Buddig’s backhand swing. The smaller man hastily raised his blade to block it and was able to redirect the strike enough for a glancing blow off his helmet. Grange rolled with the impact and rose to his feet. He shook his head and blinked repeatedly.
Perhaps sensing his advantage, Buddig charged his smaller opponent. Grange blocked a swing with his shield and stumbled from the impact. Altering the angle of the next swing, Buddig chopped down at this opponent hard enough to drive Grange to his knees when he tried to block the overhand stroke. Buddig kicked, his boot striking Grange in the chin. The result was immediate.
With his face toward the sky, Grange fell backward, his sword tumbling to the ground as he fell to the dirt. There, he lay still with his eyes rolled back and blood running from his mouth and chin.
Buddig raised his sword to the sky and spun toward the crowd, who cheered his name as a small woman in a blue cloak ran in and knelt beside his vanquished challenger. A moment later, Grange opened his eyes and sat up, wiping the blood from his chin. The woman offered Grange a hand, but he shook his head and stood on his own. He shot a frown toward Buddig and stomped toward the sidelines before slipping into the crowd.
Commander Aladar stood beside Buddig and lifted the man’s hand. “Once again, Harron Buddig is our champion!”
The cheers continued as the sergeant and the victor walked toward the gap in the rope. There, Aladar spoke briefly with a woman dressed in blue leather armor. The woman had short, dark hair and angular eyes. Like the man she spoke with, stripes marked the woman’s shoulders as a notation of her rank. She then walked into the sparring ring and held her hands high.
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