by Joseph Malik
Like most Gavrian warriors, Loth was copper-skinned and thick-browed, with a blocky build and a heavy forehead. His eyes were the color of tobacco and set unusually distant from each other, as if his fighting skills would be augmented by a widened field of vision. His jaw, clean-shaven, was emotionless.
His hands were leathery and broad, his dark forearms slashed with scars and his left hand, Ulo noted, had lost the last joint of the thumb. He wore a sword and an axe at his belt side by side, the sheaths ornate but not jeweled. Gold embroidery denoting awards, campaigns, and marks of rank decorated his jerkin.
“No orders yet,” said Ulo.
“Then are you getting up, my lord?”
“No,” said Ulo. “I’ve got a few things I want to do first.”
“Call for me, my lord, when you need me.” And touching his fist to his forehead and snapping it out in the Gavrian salute, Loth spun on his heel and disappeared from view.
Ulo chuckled silently, pleased with himself, and with his new bodyguard, as the concubine returned.
She stood silently before the bed, averting her eyes and awaiting his word.
And at that moment, the shimmering feelings that had taunted Ulo since his arrival began to turn to certainty. Certainty that after his years of toil, the great wheels were turning for him again, and that this fragile, obsolete world truly had no idea what it was in for.
Later, in the Parliament’s war chambers, Ulo sipped at a mug of herb tea, eyeing the others in the room with cautious interest.
Like most Gavrians, Ulo Sabbaghian was tall and muscular. His kingdom of Ulorak—now a state, he had to remind himself—was a rainy, fertile, high country; he wore sandals and light, loose clothing of silver and black tied up with cross garters, and a dark silk cape with a hood that was usually up because there were no sunglasses here and the Gavrian sun was fucking relentless.
Sabbaghian The Silver, the Gavrians called him.
His skin was the tone of most Gavrians; on Earth he would have been regarded as American Indian were it not for his electric blue eyes. His hair was long and straight and black, parted in the center with a wisp or two in his face.
Ulo radiated quiet and calm. He was a mountaintop among men.
Directly to Ulo’s right, Loth crammed his mouth with hot sausages and tea.
Kaslix, Lord High Chancellor of Gavria—and until recently, the leading contender for Lord High Sorcerer—opened the wide oaken door with a wave of his hand, as he often enjoyed doing, and greeted Ulo, Loth, and the other warlords and members of Parliament with a shallow nod of his black hood. The door slammed shut behind him, and all was silent for a long moment as the echoes faded.
“I would like you all to welcome our newest court advisor,” said Kaslix, “Master Ulo, Lord of Ulorak, son of Sabbaghian the Black. But this is not Sabbaghian the Black. This man is Sabbaghian the Silver.”
“He’s still a Sabbaghian,” grumbled Parliamentarian Rute, a thin, grave man with a long black beard and purple robes.
Kaslix continued, “He has returned not to avenge his father’s persecution, but to aid us in laying the foundation for our next undertaking.
“Though his family name has been bane to our lips, we must forgive this, and interpret with broad minds all he has to offer. The War Council has chosen Sabbaghian the Silver as our next Lord High Sorcerer.”
Before Ulo, the plates and mugs were cleared away, and the maps unfolded.
“And that’s a pegasus,” Carter said to no one in particular. “Yep. Sure is.”
The pegasus was bigger than most horses he’d seen. It kept its wings, raven-black and massive, tucked close to its body as the rain battered them. A stablehand led it around the corral while two others readied a massive saddle with a whole hell of a lot of straps.
Daorah Uth Alanas was the commander of the Royal Mounted Air Guard. Tall and tough with a tangled black bob and a muscular neck, she was an immense presence. Her face was honest and athletic; her nose, tan and freckled, had been badly broken and never set. She wore a shirt of black mail with twin silver commander’s braids on her shoulder.
“Carter Sorenson,” he introduced himself with a hand out.
She took his hand, locking her hand around his wrist, and nodded an acknowledgement. “I know. Commander Daorah Uth Alanas, Royal Air Guard.”
Carter got as far as “Commander Day—” before being interrupted.
“I appreciate that you’ll have trouble with our names. Daorah.”
“Daorah,” Carter bowed, and kissed her gauntleted hand.
Iron. Sweat. Horseshit. Leather.
“And it’s ‘Commander’ if anyone’s around.”
His eyes went to the gold-filigreed scabbard at her side. “Right,” he admitted under his breath. “How do we do this, Commander?”
It had been a long, long time since Carter Sorenson had been afraid of anything.
Carter looked down and wiped his blurry eyes, and saw the broccoli-tops of the forest whizzing by beneath his feet, the clouds so far overhead not moving at all, and saw that they were near the tops of the trees and moving at a respectable clip. The huge black wings of the pegasus whapped loudly, weirdly, against the sky, and a biting wind whistled around the edges of Daorah’s armor.
He concentrated on the armor. Looking down, he realized, freaked him out.
Her armor was expensive-looking with ornate leatherwork, heavy black chainmail, and a high-crowned iron helm. He smelled moldy, oniony, fermented sweat and the blood-taste of iron, and as he put his hands around her breastplate she raised her voice.
“You’re belted in!” yelled Daorah. “You can’t fall! Let go! Let go!” she repeated.
Carter let go, and grabbed at the saddle instead. His legs were folded back on themselves in a wide kneeling position he’d only seen in yoga; the saddle rode above the wings. It felt hideously unstable and it was killing his knee. “Where are we going?”
“The Manor at Rogue’s River! Just over those hills!” She pointed toward the horizon, to a rift of carpeted hills which was coming up at them really damned fast.
She guided the pegasus down as they topped the hills and skimmed the treetops. As they came upon a clearing, Carter could see a stone manor, really more like a small castle, nestled in the trees beside a foaming, roaring river that carved a sharp cliff from the hillside.
They dove. Carter’s stomach, much wiser than the rest of him, stayed at a hundred feet for a while and judged the gap, then rejoined him when the pegasus braked and backwatered, its wings hammering against the wind.
Carter crashed against Daorah, righted himself, and apologized.
They set down with a c-c-clump, and the pegasus whinnied and snorted its dislike of having to carry the extra weight.
They had landed beside the stables. Daorah dismounted, then reached up and unbuckled Carter.
Carter patted the pegasus behind the saddle. He became dizzy when he found a warm, trembling, sweating creature under his hands. No machination, no hallucination.
No explanation.
After a moment of fawning over the beast, he slid off, easy on the knee, remembering enough to dismount on the right—the same side she had used.
“I, ah, didn’t mean to—” Freak out up there. She’s not listening.
Three pages had appeared, and she wasn’t paying any more attention to him. She was ordering them to take care of her beast, to prepare baths and rooms and lunch for the two of them, and to alert the concierge that the Crown’s charge had arrived, and half a dozen other things he didn’t get all of, but a good bit was about armor.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed as the pages ran off. “What?”
“Nothing, Commander.”
It was around noon, after a bath and breakfast and a few calisthenics, when Carter jogged out to the front gates of the manor to meet Daorah.
She was dressed conservatively in a white tunic with half-sleeves and loose buckskin trous
ers, her sword around her waist on a wide, gold-embroidered baldric with a long dagger beside it. Carter figured her ten years younger than his forty-three years—maybe even Jarrod’s age. She was six feet tall, and had the worst haircut he’d ever seen, broken ends and ragged spikes jutting in all directions. But what she lacked in cheesecake she compensated for with striking power: earthy, hungry, rough-and-tumble. Carter liked her on sight.
It was early summer, the sky bright with a few lazy clouds, the big ringed moon prominent overhead, casting a slight pinkish hue that he was sure no one else noticed, and the temperature was perfect. Carter’s tunic of straw-colored hemp was unlaced at the chest and rolled up to his forearms, tucked into his breeches.
Daorah looked him up, and down, and up again, and her eyes settled on the sword hung on its baldric across his back.
Carter had brought as much of his own gear as Jarrod had, but his was on a wagon, slowly headed north.
“I took a look at your sword earlier,” she said. “Impressive.”
“It’s just tool steel,” Carter said, failing to add, Five grand worth of hand-tempered L6 with a Bainite spine and a Martensitic edge. Any bad guys might as well be wearing aluminum foil.
Carter’s greatsword was a late 14th-Century design, smaller and slimmer than a Claymore but massive by any standard. It was a foot longer than Jarrod’s gran espée de guerre, five feet pommel to tip, just under a foot of which was hardwood handle with a polished steel egg for a pommel and a graceful, curving crossbar. Above the crossbar was the ricossa, a squared, blunt section of blade wrapped in leather to match the hilt, which served as a left-hand grip for close-quarters fighting. The weapon was built from L6, an industrial tool steel used primarily in band saw blades, which can be hardened to an extreme degree while retaining magnificent durability and super-hard edges.
“Show me,” she said.
Carter moved the baldric from across his back to over one shoulder, and rested his hands at his sides. In a single motion, he shrugged out of the baldric and cleared the sword, then snapped it with both hands into a fending guard, dropping the scabbard and belt in the grass with a jangle.
In the trained hands of a man Carter’s size, the greatsword appeared graceful and agile. A small crowd gathered as he moved through the major defensive positions with it.
In the right hands, a greatsword combines the strengths of spear, poleaxe, war sword, and rapier. It can parry spear thrusts, pierce breastplates, cleave helms, split mail, rend shields, lop the heads off of spears, and dissuade a charging warhorse. The hardened steel pommel doubles as brass knuckles for infighting. Levered in a series of teardrops and circles, it could hold off multiple opponents, or hold and defend a battlefield position.
The sword weighed less than six pounds, meticulously balanced so that he could wield it with one hand if necessary. He demonstrated this, too, including a spear-type thrust holding it by the pommel to maximize the reach.
He showed them how to fence two-handed using the ricossa.
When he had finished, the crowd applauded. He bowed, sheathed the weapon, and hung it across his back again.
“What is that weapon?” asked a bearded man with a heavy war sword at his belt, a sword a good foot and a half shorter than Carter’s. He was powerfully built and hyper-alert, with fierce blue eyes and a heavy brow. Carter noted the scars on his hands and arms.
“It’s called a greatsword,” Carter replied. “It’s from my homeland.”
“I've never seen one that large. Could you train me with that?” the man asked.
“Gladly,” said Carter. The man introduced himself as Master Gronek, the master at arms of the castle.
Carter nodded and stuck his hand out. “Carter Sorenson. Uh, Chancellor. Come get me tomorrow afternoon. I’d be happy to show you.”
Gronek declined the hand, but put his fist over his heart and nodded in the Gateskeep soldiers’ salute. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Nice guy,” Carter noted. Daorah grunted in agreement.
“So, that pegasus of yours,” said Carter. “Do I get one, too?”
She laughed, and he sank.
“They pulled me from my command to train you,” she grumbled. “We see the field from above. Since they want you making strategy, they figure I’d be the best one to show you how everything moves down here.”
“Well, thank you,” Carter said, buckling the sword around his shoulder. “You’re making a great sacrifice, and I appreciate it.”
She dropped on her hip and jackknifed, taking his legs out from under him.
“Ow!” He winced, rubbing his elbow where he’d banged it on a small rock. “Man, what the —?”
“Get up.” She was already on her feet again.
Carter stood, eyeing her carefully. “What the hell was that for? And watch the knee.” He swept grass from his stubbly head with a flick of his hand, and straightened the blade on his back.
“Never trust anyone,” she gave him his first lesson. “You’re going to be a Chancellor, counsel to the king, and you’re probably going to be the most important figure in this war. So you never trust anyone. Least of all someone close to you. Besides, your balance is pitiful.”
Carter slowly widened his eyes. “Is that so?” He dropped back into a fighting stance, knees bent, his fists up in a Muay Thai guard. “You just try that again,” he dared with a nod.
Commander Daorah folded her arms and stood back. “No one in their right mind would attack you, now.”
Looking dejected, Carter lowered his hands a bit. “Oh.”
“You’re going to get used to being hit off-guard,” she was saying. “At your size, no one’s ever going to fight you one-on-one, much less face-to-face.” She took a step forward and looked him over again. “So first, we’ll work on alertness, and today, I’ll ensure you’re passable at swordsmanship. Though it certainly seems you are. Eventually, we’ll teach you to fight three-to-one, five-to-one, and even ten-to-one.”
“I thought I was going to be commanding. You know, strategic-level stuff.”
“Yes,” she said. “And a lot of people are going to want to kill you over it.”
The sun was feeble and cold above the Hold of Gavria. Ulo dunked cookies in his tea as he perused a journal written by his father during the last days of his reign.
A knock at his door jarred him; he’d been on edge since beginning the book some days ago. He took a slow breath, then another for good measure, and telekinetically opened the door without looking up.
The newcomer’s presence in the room was so massive and grave that Ulo didn’t have to turn from his reading to know when the man had entered the study.
“You would be?” Ulo asked, still not looking up.
“Mukul.”
“And?”
Mukul was beside the desk, now. “Your time would be better spent learning of the early days of your father’s life. You already know how it ended.”
Ulo marked the page and closed the book. He knocked hard on the desktop. “Out.”
A barely-dressed Gavrian woman scurried from under the desk and left the room in a flash of dark skin, long hair, and jewelry.
Mukul watched her go as Ulo adjusted his robes and looked his visitor over.
Mukul was southern Gavrian, toffee-skinned and wiry, not particularly tall, and older than Ulo. His tunic was fine purple silk, inlaid with gold threads and padded at the shoulders, and his feet were sandaled, gnarled, and black. His hair was gray at the temples and clipped short in the style Ulo had become accustomed to seeing on warriors. His right hand was crossed with scars that disappeared into his sleeve. “You’re a soldier,” Ulo remarked.
“Once,” said Mukul. “I commanded the legions at Axe Valley in the Succession Wars, some years ago.”
“And now?”
Mukul gestured broadly. “They come to me for advice.”
“’They?’” repeated Ulo.
“All of them.” I
t had the ring of a boast. “Most of the War Council, at one time or another.”
“Who pays your retainer?”
“The Crown.”
“And you don’t find that that clouds your judgment?”
“Do you?”
“Not yet,” Ulo admitted. “So, you’re here to peddle your services?”
“Do you need them?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s a refreshing answer from one with such close ties to Parliament.”
“What sort of things have you done? What’s your most recent accomplishment?” A wind skittered through the arrowslit, rustling parchments on the desk.
Mukul let the moment pass before answering. “You.”
“So, what’s your end?” Ulo pulled his cloak tighter. They stood on the top of the great tower, and the wind carried their voices away from the sentry on the far side of the roof. “You didn’t bring me here for nothing.”
“I didn’t bring you here,” said Mukul. “I simply opened the door for you. Whispered in a couple of ears.”
Ulo shook his head slowly. “You shouldn’t have had to do that. I’ve paid them enough damned money. The way they’re acting, it’s as if I’m supposed to be wowed by the novelty of it all.”
“Are you?”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
“This doesn’t impress you?”
“Impress? No. I built a nicer castle than this, faster. I’m richer than any of these men. My army did what theirs couldn’t. My family history alters my place in things. On its own merits, however, I fail to be impressed with Gavria.”
“What would it take to impress you?”
“More than you’ve got.”
Mukul grunted. The wind blew the hair on the left side of his head upright for a moment. “How would you know what I’ve got?”
Ulo was careful to keep his thoughts tucked close. He spoke even more slowly than usual. “You’re a warrior who no longer fights, who earns his keep as an advisor.”
Great mists of rain hung from the horizon. The wind brought the smell of damp dirt.
