War and the Wind

by Tyler Krings

  “I figured that much.”

  “Then you must have wondered what it actually is.”

  “I have tried very hard not to think about ‘it’ at all.”

  “Would you like a commendation? I’ve thought about it every damn day since it came to us in that forest. If it isn’t human, and not some race we’ve yet to encounter, it most certainly comes from…elsewhere. What’s more, it has the ear of our Emperor. When I say ‘Ambassador’ I do not mean an ambassador of the Empire—it is an ambassador to the Empire.”

  Emersin mulled the younger man’s words and let his hand drop from his head to the armrest. Fuck. “What does it want me to do?”

  “Exactly what it says. Find the woman and do as your told, and hopefully it will leave when you are done.”

  Hopefully? “Who is she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How will I find her?”

  The commander general sighed. Anarsin gestured for the older man to stand and waved him over to a map on a table near the window. “It has provided some intelligence. It thinks she landed here.” Anarsin pointed to a small notation on the very edge of the Empire. Thousands of leagues south of the capital.

  Emersin shook his head, “What is that? A shack?”

  “It’s a town. Errol’s Fortune.”

  “You said ‘landed.’”

  “I did.”

  “If this thing knows where she is, why not just go and grab her itself?”

  “I don’t know, Ivan. Just get there, get it done, and come home. I’ve already requisitioned an airship, which can have you there in a few weeks, and a contingent of Maddogs.”

  “Maddogs? So, now were sending an old asshole with no business in the field with a battalion of hitmen?!”

  “Ivan.”

  “Fine, goddammit,” the general turned to the window, but his thoughts did not allow him to admire the view. “When do I leave?”

  Anarsin straightened and met Ivan Emersin’s eyes. “First light.” The commander general swallowed. “Godspeed, General.”

  4

  The Boy

  A few weeks later

  Even in an imperial airship, the flight from the capital to a border town such as Errol’s Fortune took a few weeks. Private Romlin Terch was sure that the garrison had received word of their coming, and yet, the arrival was met with a frenzy of activity and awe from recruit and veteran alike. Now, Rom and Corporal Hamsey Frill stood with their squad at attention as the airship landed in the Town Square. Sergeant Arne Baylor made his way through their ranks, correcting minor infractions with harsh words that mostly went unheard. The other squads seemed to be having similar difficulties. Most had not seen such exotic transportation in their lives and had only heard of it in stories they’d dismissed as fiction. The Imperials that offloaded were clear veterans all, and wore armor adorned with medals and ribbons and accolades. Rom could not be sure, but he thought he saw a Maddog insignia; were that true, these men had seen more battle than the small town of Errol’s Fortune would ever in its lifetime. Well, with them here, perhaps we’ll see some after all, Rom thought.

  “Did you see that?” Ham whispered at the Imperials marched by. Strange to think of them as Imperials, Rom thought. After all, what are we?

  “Aye, I think it was Maddog,” Rom answered just as quietly. Two men exited last, one clearly an officer, the other…something else. A noble? Looks strange though. The noble walked with a hobble, as though still getting used to his legs. The other was old and strode forward with an air of command.

  “Now what the fuck do you think they’re doin’ here?” Ham asked.

  Rom shrugged. “As this is the first I am hearing of their arrival, I can safely say that I do not know.”

  “Of all the ‘fuck-all’ towns to come to, they had to pick this one,” Ham groused. “Should’ve married Lucy when I had the chance.”

  “You hate Lucy.”

  “Aye. But I wouldn’t be here.”

  “We’re not going to war, Ham. It’s probably some meaningless inspection.”

  Rom felt Ham’s sideways look, “Really? Because if I’m not mistaken those are fucking cannons on the back of that airship. And piss on my uncle if I’m wrong, but that’s a mother fucking general.”

  The general admired the garrison from the balcony of the commander’s office, a room in a house that was perhaps even larger than that of the local mayor. Pristine and expensive furniture shipped no doubt from the heart of the Empire, portraits and tapestries gave the room an unneeded touch of aristocracy. The man plays at being a noble. Emersin did not bother to hide the displeasure from his face to the other man in the room. The current commander of the garrison, Jossen Isend, lounged in a chair by a lively fire sloshing brandy liberally as Emersin inspected the room. Emersin’s own tastes were decidedly more spartan in keeping with usual military décor, and the garrison below reflected the old commander’s neglect of military procedure and protocol.

  Since their arrival, the local troops had dispersed to what the general thought must be their usual posts. Men lounged about, playing cards or rolling dice, and there was even a keg of ale tucked away under a lookout tower. What guardsmen held a recognizable post leaned on walls with eyes half closed, and the majority did not even have their spears in hand. No drills, no patrols, and barely enough men to fill a third of the barracks, let alone field an actual defense. The Maddogs would vastly improve their numbers.

  “They’re farmers,” said Commander Isend. The brandy spilled from his cup before it reached his lips on what was clearly his best uniform, the leather and steel of his insignia freshly polished. “They all sign young. Collect Imperial pay for a few years or until they can afford the dowry of whatever girl they can find, and then it’s back to farming. Why you have any interest in this backwater is beyond me.”

  “The Empire has interest in this backwater,” Emersin replied.

  “And they saw fit to send you of all people?”

  Emersin turned from the balcony and walked to the desk. The top was layered with notes, missives, and lists of supplies. A casual glance told him that the food supply was more than adequate, a new shipment of horseshoes and workable leather had yet to arrive—nay, had not even been ordered—the wine coffers were overflowing, and that the old commander’s mistress wished recognition among the nobility. In a town this small, surely whatever nobility resides is already well informed of the proclivities of the local commander. With a scoff Emersin said, “I assure you my stay will be as short lived as I can make it. However, if I am to command the garrison then rest assured, I will command it.”

  Isend laughed and shook his head. “Do what you will. Feel free to even use my office—”

  “I was going to.”

  Isend’s lips drew a hard line as he grew annoyed. “What are you looking for?”

  “Not a thing. A who.”

  “I can have a list of the townsfolk drawn up.”

  “Thank you, but I have one. She won’t be a native, and for all I know she’s hiding out in the wilds.” The general seated himself behind the desk and made use of the open bottle of brandy.

  Commander Isend gestured dismissively with the cup that held the brandy. “Gods help you then. Early expeditions explored the wilds, but all our maps are somewhat outdated. Beyond the farmland, it’s all untamed. Further north you’ll find settlements of Murkers eventually; the Barons to the south are at constant war, and none answer to the Empire.”

  “My information assures me that she is closer than that.”

  The Isend drained his cup before standing. He walked to the desk and picked up the open bottle. “And just what does the Empire want with a girl from a backwater town so far removed from the center as to barely be a part of it?” Isend asked as he poured.

  The general looked up from the desk and glared at the commander he was ousting as he took a long drink. He waited impatiently, his brow furrowed as he breathed a heavy sigh through his nose. His glass drained; Commander I
send reached again for the bottle. Emersin snatched it from him. “She’s not from a backwater town.” With a quick motion, Emersin scooped the cork and popped it back in its place. “And that’s my brandy you’re drinking.”

  Jon woke early. The sun hid beneath the horizon, and the dew soaked the grass beneath his bare feet. He carried his sword and had been careful to not make a sound as he left the house. Ana had finally found sleep after some time weeping. He had lain awake, listening to her fitful dreams after the old man had carried her to her room. There had been no sound the remainder of the night, and none when he left as morning arrived.

  Jon grunted and shook his head. Try not to think of her. He emptied his mind as he walked away from the homestead into the woods. He was comfortable in the fields, but they had never felt like home to him. The trees, however…the trees were where he belonged. He walked past the well on the edge of the forest and took the worn path guarded by the two young oaks. What brush had carpeted the path had long been cleared away, and his feet took to the packed earth unhindered. The River Midas lazily lolled some distance away, and small waterfalls harbored a quiet purr over the nearest hill. He walked until the sun crested the horizon, its light fighting the curtain of trees. The path led him to a circular clearing of his own making near the edge of the river.

  He lay down his sword and shed his parka. His bare skin accepted the cool morning with ease, as he sat cross legged. Slowly, he counted his breaths letting the trickling water and brushing leaves drown out the small conversations in his mind. As he reached the end of the count, he took one last breath and reached for his sword. He began.

  The sword leaves its scabbard as Jon comes to his feet in a single flowing movement. The movements are precise and perfect, flowing like the water of the river, the air through the leaves. The Art was a creation of his home, and one of the last reminders of his Natheran heritage. One was not considered an elder until they were masters of the Art, and its basic tenants were taught at the youngest age. He had not yet earned the right to carry a blade when his home burned to the ground.

  From quick and concise, he moved to long and extended. He passed the hilt from hand to hand, using the unhindered arm as counterbalance, spinning and dancing as a versed performer. The sword did not touch the ground, and the low whistle through the air was the only evidence of its passing. His feet stayed in constant motion, squaring when guarding, bouncing on attack. He spun his weapon and leapt, and trails of dust attempted to follow his feet. The air nearly let him stay, but gravity always called him back. He stretched his sword arm in a killing pose and landed without sound. He had not yet started to sweat, but the Art had only just begun.

  “Two hands, son,” said his father, “Square your feet. Good. Make them light.”

  “He’s been at it for hours, Sen,” said his mother from somewhere over his shoulder. “Its nearly sunset and the boy has yet to gather a single herb.”

  The boy groaned and continued to practice with the wooden sword as if he had never heard her. His father watched him and smiled.

  “Best do as she says, boy. She’ll be the death of you if you let her.” The boy let his guard fall, slumping with reluctance. He turned and faced his inevitable doom, forceing a smile. “Be right there.” He oiled his sword—though wooden it was still a source of pride—and laid it on its rack.

  “Elder Sen!” He and his father turned to see Mar hurrying to them. The villager stopped in front of the boy’s father and gave a quick bow. “Imperials on the march. A week’s ride out at most. Just rolled over Lake’s Edge.”

  “So, they’re here,” his father sighed. “Go about assembling the rest of the council, then ready everyone else.”

  Mar nodded and hurried off. The boy stared at his back, and then he turned to his father.

  “Not this one, Naven,” his father said to the unasked question, “You’ll be fighting in the next, I think.”

  Jon spun to the edge of the water and, in a swan pose, tapped the flat of his blade on the surface of the water. He swept his blade among the raining droplets, cleaving them in half.

  He snuck into the council proceedings with three other boys, each of them taking turns at look out as the others climbed their way up the massive elshen tree that housed the Chamber of Careful Words. They avoided the spiral stairs as best they could and used the cover of darkness and foliage to keep from discovery. The Chamber was built around the trunk of the largest tree in the forest, able to hold nearly two hundred men and women, held in branches over a hundred yards from the ground. While taught skills for war, boys were not considered men until they carried their own sword, and war was the way of men.

  They had made the climb before, but they had not done so under the fear of discovery. Minor limbs and avenues between the bark allowed for good handholds and sure footing. The council trusted the boys with the wisdom not to interfere with men’s proceedings, therefore there were minimal guards at the door and on the stair. The would-be spies reached the Chamber and hauled themselves through the storeroom window. They navigated carefully toward the meeting hall and ascended into the rafters to get a better view of the gathering.

  Jon feigned left, then right, letting his sword guide him. The wind at his back gave him speed; the enemies in front of him, remembered and imagined, gave him fury. His knee took to the earth and he slid the distance toward an unseen foe.

  “War is their occupation, but it is our passion!” Elder Din shouted. The crowd stomped one foot in agreement but did not speak. The elder’s voice carried well to where the boys listened. Tall and balding, Elder Din walked across the stage, the rest of the Elder Council stood back to let him finish his sermon.

  “They raped Lake’s Edge. They’ll plunder our forest. They come with steel and armor and mock our Lord. I tell you, we will show them the meaning of War!” The crowd remained silent, but their eyes shone with approval.

  Elder Han, white haired and as stern now as the boy could remember, stood beside Naven’s father at the back of the upraised stage and raised a fist. The old man came forward. “They come in numbers. Our decision must be unanimous. If we submit, we will live. Should we defy…one or two of the younger ones may die.” They shared small laughter, and Han waited for the calm. “I personally have no desire to allow these steel men passage through my forest, but I am but one man. Any who would oppose open war speak now. You won’t get another chance.”

  None raised a fist in opposition.

  “Then the elders shall gather,” said Naven’s father. “Kiss your wives in the places they like, then make to sharpen your blades and dull your armor. No need for them to see us coming.”

  The men gathered gave a mighty roar. They clapped each other on the back and raised hands in celebration for the coming bloodbath. They laughed and they cheered, and even the boys in the rafters silently praised their fathers’ ferocity. Naven looked to his father with a smile that that held the upmost pride, and found his father was looking right back at him. But his father’s face did not share his joy.

  Jon somersaulted over the tree stump and came to a rest in the center of the clearing. He poised at the ready for an impossible length of time, controlling the slightest twitch of his muscles, holding his body and agitating his form for the next strike. He jumped to the nearest sapling, lashing out with speed. Only the highest leaf trickled down in a slow spiral, and he did not move from the killing stroke until it reached the ground.

  Naven waited for his father on the steps that led to their home some fifty yards above him. As an elder, his father would be one of the last to leave the Chamber of Careful Words after the gathering had dispersed. Battle plans and tactics would be discussed at length, and Naven did not expect his father until well into the night. He did not think his father was angry with him for sneaking into the gathering, but he thought, perhaps, his father was angry he got caught. Boys had been sneaking into meetings since they were old enough to crawl, but a certain amount of discretion was expected from them. Naven had never
seen them go to war before but was well versed in the knowledge of war should the time arrive, and his father was taking far longer than usual.

  The boy waited a long while until he thought he should make for his own bed before he saw his father coming through the dim light of the glowing lanterns. He walked alone and appeared to be talking to himself, moving from tree to tree, unsure of which one was his. He shook his head left and right, as if not in agreement with his own thoughts. Naven thought he might be a little drunk.

  “I’m not drunk,” his father called, clearly drunk, as he walked to where the boy sat. Whiskey it was then. His father sauntered over to him and sat next to him heavily, with a great sigh. There were other men moving amongst the trees as well, each with a similar gait, save for the guards that patrolled the ground.

  “War is our passion,” his father said, though seemingly to himself.

  Naven looked at him. “Are you mad at me for listening in at the meeting?

  “No,” his father said. “But I am…wary.”

  “Wary?”

  His father looked at him. His eyes were sad, but the smile on his face spoke of pride. “War. True war is something even our Lord fled from. I am wary. Even with the legacy we carry, we’re still chomping at the bit like a colt in the ring at the thought of bearing our swords.”

  “But…are they not threatening us?”

  “Oh, I am not saying we shouldn’t fight them. I’m only suggesting we be less…willing.” His father paused and took out his pipe. He took his time digging out the old tobacco and banged out dead embers against the heel of his boot. “I rather like my home, my family,” he said. “Would hate it if something were to happen to them.”

  “Should we not fight them, father?”

  His father grunted. “Might have been something we should have considered. Too late, now.”

  * * *

  The sweat dripped off his forehead and into Jon’s eyes. He held the final pose of the Art’s first form for the space of a few breaths before he dropped his guard. He walked to where he had begun and picked up the scabbard from the ground. He stared at his reflection in the blade as he pressed it home. The sun was well over the horizon, and it was near time to bring in enough wood to cook breakfast. He walked to the river and splashed the sweat from his face. He donned his parka and threw his sword over his shoulder.