War and the Wind

by Tyler Krings

  It was this thought that bothered him. He knew that he wanted her, more than physically, and he knew that he loved her, even if his experience in such matters was woefully inadequate. But he did not know her. Her past was millennia long with memory and life and mystery. She had seen and knew of things that would no doubt shred his mind at the utterance of their existence and yet…here she was. Despite Jon’s hasty deception to cover her sudden appearance in town, she had truly chosen to be with him before gods and men and all who would know and see. He, the last remnant of a failed Heavenly line, the last practitioner of a lost Art and, to all intents and purposes, a farmer living in peace. He did not doubt her sincerity, but he was starting to doubt that circumstances were purely coincidental. The Wise had spoken of their engagement with something akin to excitement, the old man with all his hidden knowledge had feared it, and in a few short months, Ana had gone from enraged to acceptance that the betrothal was a true thing indeed. His own need for her was something that he could not deny; she was a warrior in a beautiful cage, defiant and intelligent, her eyes reflecting both the calm and the storm and greeting both with welcome arms. Yet there was also love, compassion, and knowing. And she had bound herself. The Wind, a thing that could not be held or imprisoned, could only be used by the deft hands of sailors and craftsmen, and even then, it remained unpredictable. She, the Lady of the Wind, had bound herself…to him. Again, the circumstances by which Jon found his life rapidly changing seemed suddenly suspicious. Or are they serendipitous? Perhaps this is everything I deserve. Our love is real; it is tangible. The gods are gods and must have known to some extent that our love was an eventuality….ah…but then there is Fate.

  A terrible thought found the pit of his stomach. The girl beside him, the one that he loved and knew that he would die for, a revelation new to him, seemed to sense his discomfort and raised her head. With one hand she squeezed his, and with the other she gently pulled his face to meet her eyes, something he was now very afraid of doing. What she saw there, he did not know, but within a moment she shook her head slowly. Her eyes were sad despite her growing grin, as if to deny all his doubts. She drew herself even closer and wrapped her arm around him, laying her head on his shoulder and she pulled the hand in hers to her breast, keeping it there. Yeah, he thought. She is mine. I am hers. Everything will be all right.

  Ivan Emersin’s approached the less-than-modest home of the mayor of Errol’s Fortune. Emersin had insisted that his horse would have been well enough for transportation, but his assistants informed him that, whilst the mayor was not from the grandest of noble families, some formalities must still be observed. Noble of a town on the edge of the empire was still a noble in the empire, and such things were to be respected.

  The home was not as large as Emersin’s current residence within the house of former Commander Isend, but it was large enough to boast some wealth. Several of the area’s wealthier landowners had already arrived in their finery and made their way indoors, their carts and carriages crowding the entrance. When Emersin’s carriage stopped, and his door opened, the small crowd of farmers stopped and stared at their visitor. He waved a hand politely and quickly walked past them with the aid of his lieutenant. He had not brought his finest clothes with him on this expedition, but he wore instead his cleanest uniform with minimum accolades expressed on his right breast. The mayor and his wife greeted him at the door, and Emersin’s aide, Dinly, quickly whispered their names into his ear as he extended a hand in greeting.

  “Mayor Hart,” Emersin said. “What a pleasure it is to have been invited. And you madame”—He took the hand of the mayor’s wife and gave the barest of kisses to her forefinger.—“are a sight for sore eyes.” The woman blushed and blathered about the honor of having him attend a dinner at their home.

  In truth, Emersin had little time or patience for such things and had been intent on declining their invitation. It was the Ambassador who insisted on Emersin attending with his own wealth of threats if he did not.

  Mayor and Madame Hart led him through the threshold of their home. The landowners that had already filed in were clearly familiar enough and making their own drinks by the liquor cabinet; one such landowner handed Emersin a glass of country bourbon. He tasted and found himself surprised by the quality. They toured the grounds as they sipped drinks. Emersin admired that the mayor was, in fact, not so pompous and had acquired his wealth through honest means. The house was designed and furnished for comfort as opposed to showcasing an illusion of riches, very much the opposite of former Commander Isend, who was also in attendance.

  They came at last to the dining room where a large table housed several folk already seated and laughing in conversation. Emersin took a moment with a smile on his lips at the simple harmony by which these people lived. In fact, he nearly coveted it. Nearly.

  The figure sitting at the head of the table, raising a glass and laughing with the rest of them, was none other than the Ambassador. It wore a mask of skin covered in such powders and creams that it damn near looked the real thing. Upon seeing Emersin’s arrival, it raised a glass and drew everyone’s attention.

  “There he is, ladies,” it said. “The finest general the Empire could ask for.” He elbowed a farmer’s wife. “Recently widowed, if you take my meaning.” He winked as the woman laughed and took in Emersin’s figure. He felt a rise of anger that he quickly repressed. He sipped his bourbon. At the Mayor’s behest, a space was cleared for him next to the Ambassador and across from the mayor. Drinks refilled and platters of food came from the large kitchen at the rear of the house. Conversation continued as servants produced the first course: a modest affair of local meat and produce, not at all unappetizing. Emersin leaned toward the Ambassador’s ear where he could not be heard.

  “If you mention my wife again, I cut your head off where you stand.” He turned again and smiled pleasantly at the mayor’s wife, who looked as though she wished to ask him a question.

  “Come now, Ivan,” came the Ambassador’s purring answer. “Just because she’s dead doesn’t mean you can’t still have sex. You’re not getting any younger. Live a little.”

  Emersin felt the heat rise to his face and covered it quickly with a swallow of bourbon.

  “—what say you, Commander?”

  He turned to the woman who had spoken. “I beg your pardon?”

  “She was asking how you find their dear Errol’s Fortune,” the Ambassador replied. “Really, Commander, pay better attention; you’re embarrassing us. I assure you all, we really do have better manners in the Capital—his mind is just so preoccupied with work.”

  They laughed politely as they awaited Emersin’s answer. “Yes,” he said, “My apologies. I find it quite well. Your beautiful town has much to offer. It has been a pleasure these last few months.” They beamed and silently applauded one another. The mayor’s wife leaned in over her plate.

  “Commander,” she started, “is it true that you are, in fact, a general from the days of the Expansion?”

  Emersin nodded. “Yes, that is true.”

  “I see. What, pray tell, has you all the way out here? Surely these borders have harbored no war for a thousand years?” She leaned forward, exposing pleasantly rounded cleavage that the general ignored.

  “I think that’s a subject that has been on all of our minds,” expressed former Commander Isend through his wine glass. Emersin ignored him, too.

  “You’re not trying to get rid of us, are you?” the Ambassador asked. “Have we been such dreadful company?”

  The woman laughed and teased the Ambassador with a hand on its arm. “No! Of course not. It has been the subject of nearly all the gossip circles, and I am dying to find the truth.”

  Emersin smiled politely as he pushed around some food on his plate. “We are conducting a search for a known fugitive.” His statement was followed by a small collective gasp.

  “Now, now, now, not to worry,” the Ambassador intervened. “Why do you always worry people?” it chast
ened Emersin. It turned back to the those gathered and assured, “You’re not in any danger.”

  “It has been months,” said former Commander Isend, “Surely this… fugitive has moved on by now.”

  “Jossen,” warned Mayor Hart. “Please be polite.”

  “I’m merely suggesting that a special expedition, led by a hero of the war, may be wasted out here,” Isend continued. “Surely the fugitive would have shown his face by now.”

  “I’m sure the good commander knows what is and is not a waste of the Empire’s time, Jossen,” replied a woman to his right, Isend’s wife perhaps.

  Emersin nearly retorted, but the Ambassador beat him to it. “Truth is we’re still looking,” the creature shrugged. “In the end we all are just doing what we’re told. May I be nosy for a moment, not to change the subject?”

  The mayor’s wife perked up. “Please, darling.”

  “You said General Emersin’s presence here was nearly all the gossip. Do tell what else is on everyone’s tongues?”

  Many of the women at the table had something to add whilst the men seemed focused on their drinks and plates. The conversation turned pleasantly to nothing at all to do with Emersin, and he was able to eat in relative peace. The food was purer than he was used to, fresh off the ground or freshly slaughtered, and relied less on the aid of spices. He believed he could taste the difference, but his meals lately had consisted of military rations, so his palate was not hard to please. The Ambassador bumped his elbow, and he looked up.

  “I’m sorry, my dear.” The Ambassador interrupted a lengthy dissertation from Madame Hart. “Could you say that last part one more time?”

  “Of course, dear,” she smiled. “Jon West’s wedding has been planned for the Moon. The Council has been up in arms about the whole thing. First, he doesn’t ask permission or make any introductions, and then he has the gall to say that there won’t be any formal wedding. I can assure you that his wife was less than pleased.” Emersin looked at the Ambassador, wondering why this information was relevant.

  “Jon West?” the Ambassador asked. “I’m sorry I do not think I know the man.”

  “He was the most eligible bachelor,” said one of the women down the table bitterly. “If that hermit father of his would ever let him out to play, I’d have had him married off years ago. But there you have it, he runs off and steals some baron’s daughter.”

  “Tari!”

  “Oh, it’s true, you know it is. The girl seems nice enough, but trust me she’s running from something, and I’m willing to bet all my silk that it’s her father.”

  Emersin spoke. “I thought they were already married?”

  The conversation paused, as the participants were surprised at his input. The woman named Tari replied, “Oh, by Roamer tradition, yes, but the council’s intent on having them wed in Imperial fashion.”

  Emersin took a moment to wipe his mouth with a napkin. “I was under the impression she had been here for more than a year. Is that not true? Why wait to marry them?”

  The woman named Tari puffed. “Perhaps that’s true, but who can know? The boy almost never reveals anything of what goes on at their farm, and his father is even less forthcoming. All I know is that she only just recently came into town, just before the winter set in, or we’d have had ‘em married with the Spring Tide.”

  “You know,” said the Ambassador, “now that I think about it, I may have seen her. She came to market one day, yes? Tall, pair of tits that could start a war?” The heads of the men not involved in the conversation suddenly rose and some of the older women bore sour faces at the Ambassador’s language.

  Tari laughed. “Aye, that’s her. Had her way with damn near the whole town at the Rooster that night.”

  The Ambassador blew out a large breath. “Ooo boy, that Jon West is a lucky fellow.” There was not a subtle enough agreement from the men at the table.

  Emersin and the Ambassador entered the carriage at the end of the affair. He waved polite goodbyes to the mayor and his wife while the carriage pulled away. When out of earshot, he turned to the Ambassador.

  “Weeks ago!” Emersin yelled. “You found her weeks ago?!”

  The Ambassador held up its hands in surrender. “Easy, easy. I knew it was her. I know she is here, but there have been some complications.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means there have been some complications. There are…other hands in the pie, so to speak. I am currently working on a new plan.”

  “New plan? What the fuck was the old plan?”

  “Don’t you curse at me, sir. You’re not so perfect either, Mr. Census. How the hell do you miss ‘Jon West’?”

  “We didn’t miss him. The census has her listed as a resident for over the last year. We are interviewing tomorrow. But if this is her, then we are bringing the garrison.”

  The Ambassador made a sound. “Yes…however…there are complications.”

  Emersin started and stared at the imbecilic Ambassador. “So you’ve said. What complications?”

  The Ambassador sighed. “Uh, listen, you know how I am…not from here? Right?”

  The general said nothing as the carriage rocked.

  “Well,” the Ambassador continued, “there are other folks who are, similarly, not from here.”

  The general breathed, “Gods.” He meant it more as a curse.

  “Precisely.”

  Emersin rubbed his beard irritably. “How many?”

  “Only a handful, I think. At least one who holds real power.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “I…uh…well…persuaded? One of my friends to hunt the woman down. He…uh…lost his head.”

  The general looked away from the creature to the window. Complications indeed. “I find it hard to believe that you have any friends. Who did you send?”

  “There’s no need to be hurtful,” the Ambassador said peevishly. “Truly, I was quite upset.”

  “Who,” Emersin seethed, “did you send?”

  “The Lord of the Hunt, naturally,” the Ambassador confessed. “He was the best option.”

  Emersin turned slowly back to the Ambassador. “The Hunt is dead?”

  The Ambassador shrugged. “As I said. Complications.”

  They rode in silence, the general in thought and the Ambassador nervously bouncing its knee. More gods on the field meant blood would be shed. It also meant the whatever power the Ambassador held no longer held much advantage over the enemy, and the balance would not likely be offset by Emersin’s battalion.

  “You said you have a new plan?” the general queried.

  The Ambassador nodded.

  “And would it have anything to do with the missing girls?”

  The Ambassador said nothing.

  Emersin grunted. “Fucking gods.”

  Ham finished wiping down the cannon with an oiled rag, taking care to massage all the moving tidbits and parts he still did not know the names of. A month of practice and he could only just graze the broad side of a barn. His new squad mates were unhelpful, content in their knowledge that he had only been placed in their squad temporarily. He and the other locals struggled daily with disciplined routines that had been ignored for most of their military careers, their presence doing little more than pissing off the weathered veterans. As the evening became the night, Ham realized that he would soon be the last cannoneer among the guns as he stared at the backs of his retiring squad mates.

  “Oh, sure, yeah, I’m fine. Can handle this myself,” he grunted. “Assholes.”

  With effort he managed to get the gun back into its bay, cleaned and ready for the following day. He wiped his hands and threw the rag into the basket before jumping out of his skin with a yelp as Rom tapped him on the shoulder.

  “What. The. Fuck?!” gasped Ham. “Why, why, why?!”

  Rom wasted no time. “I need you to come with me.”

  “So, just fucking say that. What’s with all the drama?” Ha
m eyed Rom’s dark civilian clothes. “Oh, shit. What are we about to do?”

  Rom and Ham approached Commander Isend’s mansion under the cover of night, avoiding the streetlamps and torches of the night guard. Those in the town not busy drinking in the taverns had enough sense to turn in early to counter the coming morning. No one noticed a pair of soldiers in civilian clothing. They slipped through the shrubs and low-lying trees to the side of the house, near the servant’s entrance. The mansion was a large three-story structure in keeping with modern imperialist curves and arches, boasting many rooms and anterooms and whole walls dedicated to windows. Rom and Ham had grown up on stories of when the former commander had first built the house, and what would essentially become his retirement home, half of Errol’s Fortune had been enlisted in its construction. The pair crouched and waited in the brush, watching the servants’ door by light of the moon. They listened and waited as the chill winter wind caressed the trees behind them, unhindered now by their leaves, the sound of bare branches scratched the air.

  Ham kept his voice a low whisper. “You sure about this?”

  Rom nodded. “Aye.”

  “Because if you’re not sure—”

  “Shut up, Ham. Look.” A figure with the same build and gait of someone they knew approached from the garden path, holding a large parcel the size of a small person.

  Ham moaned quietly. “Fuck.”

  Rom grunted assent. They waited until Arne brought the body in through the servant’s door before they followed as silently as they could. They listened at the door for any sound and peered into the windows for sight of their quarry before slowly entering the manor. The halls were dark, not a lamp nor candle was lit, and the only light came from the moon through the windows. A loud thump led them to the narrow stairs that allowed servants access to the upper floors. They used the sides of the stair to keep it from creaking and followed the sound of struggle to a long hallway on the second floor. There was not a servant or guest in sight, and the only audible footsteps were their own. A sudden light at the end of the hallway revealed Arne pushing his prize through the door before quickly closing it behind him. The door in question was darker than the rest of the manor; the light of the moon seeming to shy away. And the smell.