Andalon Awakens

by T B Phillips

  “What about ‘Society’ agents? If the council would allow us, we should arrest and return them to Astia.”

  “True, Kestrel, but our focus remains on Braston because of the prophecy. Go with Lady Esterling and ensure he doesn’t survive the exchange.” Kestrel nodded his compliance and turned to leave the study. “And Kestrel,” the Falconer turned to meet Shol’s hardened gaze, “ensure she stays alive. She’s easier to control than either of her sons will be.”

  After a curt nod, the specter exited the room and Campton chose a dispatch from his agent in Logan. Outlaws attacked a food caravan headed from Diaph to Logan. Sixteen carts of grain and five carts of salted pork were stolen along with 50 horses. Slamming the paper back onto the desk, he walked to a large perch in the corner of the room. Atop the roost sat a regal falcon adorned with red feathers around its head with white along the edges of his wings and tail.

  “Reaver, my sweet, I need you to pass on a message.” Leaning in, Shol closed his eyes and spoke with his mind directly to the bird, Fly straight away to the rookery. I authorize a full contingent to aid a cavalry regiment out of Diaph. Find the outlaws operating in the forests north of there. When he had finished, the great bird flapped its wings and flew out of the window to relay his command. Lord Shol returned to his desk to muse over the remaining dispatches.

  Chapter Ten

  Robert Esterling had risen early for sword practice and beamed as he made his way from the fighting pits to the palace. Even Maximus had been proud of the prince’s progress in single combat, praising him in front of the armorer. “Like an eel in the sea,” he had described the fluidity of his footwork and agility. Most importantly, Robert had endured the entire session without a single onset of his breathing sickness.

  As he walked, he pulled a blanket tighter around him. Winter was trying to grip Weston City. He looked out over the wall. Cold rain had fallen during the night, flooding the fields west of the Misty River. Robert had never seen anything more beautiful, but he worried that the cold and humidity would hurt his lungs in the night. Looking out over the great expanse of water, he could still see the red and orange glow and worried also over the distant fire.

  Robert had performed so well in the morning exercises, that Max had wrapped them up earlier than usual. The prince had extra time to study for the intellectual portion of the trials. Studying had become more fun as of late, but not because he had experienced anything near the success that he had with swords. No, he smiled outwardly at the thought of spending more time with Sarai. Since their kiss a week ago, she had grown from being his best friend into his heart’s desire. And, more recently, had become his tutor.

  She was not only beautiful with her yellow hair and frost blue eyes, but she was intelligent and such a strong reader that Robert admired her ability. She could read things once and then know it by heart. Most importantly, she was patient with him and did not ridicule his slow reading or scold him when he mixed up the order of the letters. Thinking about his love, he hurried to their usual meeting place, the breakfast nook off the kitchen. The place of their first kiss had everything they needed, a warm hearth, access to food, and it was the last place that her father would interrupt them.

  Abraham Horslei was a proud nobleman with old-fashioned views. He was also an elitist who looked down on anyone who was not high-born, so he would never be found near the cooking or waitstaff. According to Sarai, he was a bigot and biased against anyone who was not born a man of wealth or perfect health. He loathed the dark-skinned people of the Southern Continent and abhorred the Pescari people of the plains. Sarai had told Robert that her father had wanted another boy so badly that he had beaten the doctor senseless when her mother delivered her instead.

  Robert arrived at the nook and found his love sitting at the table, a plate of food covered and awaiting his arrival. She had cut pieces of paper into rectangles that were spread out on the table. Sarai jumped up when he arrived, genuinely excited to see him. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him long and passionately before pulling back with a smile on her face, obviously eager with some news.

  “I made something for you!” She grabbed his hand and led him to the table, pointing at the rectangular cards.

  “What are they?”

  “Pick one up.” Her smile radiated and was so infectious that he could not help but smile back.

  “You wrote on them.” He focused on the letters, sound them out in his head. “Wait, this is about taxation rates.” Smiling, she held up a large blue book. He looked closer and remembered it as the one that he had left in the nook on the night of the eruption. “You wrote down the taxation rates of villages and towns throughout the empire?”

  “Yes!” She laughed with joy that he had figured out her cleverness. “I realized that the tables were just too much and too confusing for you to learn at once. So, I broke it down. See? This side of the card has the city of Logan written on it. And if you flip it over you will see the rates in order of livestock, goods and foods.”

  “You are a genius, Sarai.” Robert marveled at how clever she truly was. In the months they had spent time together, she constantly astounded him with her ability to teach him. Everyone else who had tried had failed. He kissed her then pulled back and looked into her icy blue eyes which were beaming with joy. “I love you. I truly do, so much, Sarai.”

  Her smile turned devilish. “Of course you do, Prince Robert! I cast a love spell on you. A spell to trick you into marriage and making me your queen.”

  After a few more flirtations, they finally settled down to study. After only a few hours, Robert felt confident about the tax rates for the various counties and was ready to move on to the more difficult task of studying global economics. “What is heg…uh…moan...ic the...or...eee?”

  “Hegemonic theory. I’m really not sure.” Taking the book, Political Theory and Practice, she found the reference and read aloud, “Hegemonic theory is the principal that, in an international economic system, stability depends on a single nation-state rising as the world power. Thus, is the premise for the formation of the current Esterling Empire.”

  “Way to go, great-great-great Grandpa.” Robert chuckled.

  Sarai kept reading, “The strength of the unification between Eston, Weston and Loganshire established a military force that can withstand attacks from Fjorik or the Southern Continent with little consequence. International order breaks down in the absence of a single powerful nation-state, resulting in higher impacts from famine, crime, terrorism and warfare. The Empire, or a semblance of such, must be maintained at all cost.”

  Robert nodded. “That’s true. There hasn’t been a real attack from outsiders since my father drove back the Braston family. Now, Mother talks about them as if they’re her puppets. The same can be said for the Pirate’s Guild. Did you know that they pay taxes on their spoils from attacks on all trade ships? That includes attacks on our own. That has minimized their impact on the economy and was easier and cheaper than destroying them completely.”

  Sarai stared at him in disbelief. “You aren’t serious! Your family taxes their raids?”

  Robert laughed, “We also collect the insurance money paid out after their attacks, and, now that I think about it, we own the insurance companies. So, we receive a portion of the premiums on every shipment. We allow them to take a few each year to appease their animalistic need to pillage, and we’re paid either way.”

  “Wow,” Sarai feigned shock. “You are wealthier than I thought.” After a pause she added, “And you had better make me a queen.” They laughed and kissed and then both paused when their thoughts drifted to the current situation in Weston. Sarai broke the silence. “I wonder what impact the arrival of the Pescari will bring.”

  “There’ll be a humanitarian split in the minds of every person in the Empire. Some will view them as people in need; refugees in need of a hand up. The social aspect of their welfare will be a
concern of those in Eston or Loganshire, those furthest from the actual migrants.”

  “But people in Weston will fear their coming, won’t they? They’ll fear their competition for jobs or worse, the crime that they may bring as a desperate culture with a different view on social norms.” A tear streamed Sarai’s face as she thought about the next option. “And then there are the bigots like my father. They will want to cut them out like a disease or send them back to face the erupting caldera. Either way, they’ll refuse to accept responsibility for their welfare.”

  “Exactly, Sarai.”

  “Then what do we do? Do we let them in the gates or feed them outside of the wall? We can’t send them back.”

  “But we can’t let them in. This is the need for a hegemon, to provide the welfare where they live, in their home nation-state. We must create an arrangement that is like our relationship with Fjorik or even the Pirate Guild. Only then will they be able to self-govern within the construct of their own culture, while we minimize the impact of disaster.”

  Sarai let Robert’s wisdom sink in before adding, “That’s considering that they’ll even want us to affect their culture. They’ve been wronged by the people of Weston for years. We’ve exploited them for their furs, made treaties that they kept but we’ve broken, and we forced them to stay on their side of the forbidden waste with the threat of war. Now that they’re crossing, we have no choice but to modify or keep the terms of the treaty. I fear what my father will do.”

  “I fear what my mother won’t.”

  Sarai sat up with a new thought. “What about Cassus Eachann?”

  “Isn’t he your father’s political rival?”

  “He is.” Sarai was aglow with excitement at the prospect of reaching out, even if it went against her father. “But he’s the wealthiest man in the city, next to my father of course. He leads most of the programs within the city to help curb vagrancy and to help create and find jobs for the beggars. He’s a humanitarian. He’ll have ideas.”

  Robert shook his head. “That’s dangerous, Sarai. Your father rules Weston under the favor of my family. If you were to go against him, then he’ll resent you.”

  She smiled. “Then he’d have to marry me to you to curry back more.”

  Robert laughed. “Just be careful what you set up with him. Politicians are snakes and only act when something benefits them, even when they appear to be helping the unfortunate. There is always a motive, whether it’s to gain bigger popularity or political base.”

  It rained during the night, but Taros did not feel the cold. Rather, his body burned with internal heat, most likely from excitement and anticipation. During the past week across the desert, his group had grown to ten thousand Pescari. All viewed him as a savior or a god who held the power of Felicima. When they camped, strangers would stroll by where he and Lynette bedded down, just to get a glimpse of him. When they trekked during the day, he rode at the front of the procession, leading them further into the desert and closer to aid.

  Surprisingly, not a single member of his troupe had died during the march. Unfortunately, Lynette had never regained her lucidity, and had begun talking to Felicima as she stared up at her all day long. After a few days in the desert, she had lost her sight completely. An image of Felicima burned across both eyes from exposure. At first, Taros had tried blindfolding her, but to no avail. She always managed to wiggle the cloth from her face. As a result, her mind was as burned as her eyes.

  When they had camped during the previous evening, scouts reported that the Andalonian city of Weston lay a mere thirty miles ahead, one more day’s trek if they did not experience any setbacks or obstacles. As a precaution, he ordered his warriors, now a force of three thousand, to march in the front of the formation, range weapons at the ready, just in case. All spare mounts were saddled with the best warriors, and each sled was fitted with a knot that could be released very quickly if they ran into trouble that required fighting.

  Overhead, Taros noticed another hawk. He squinted and knew that if he looked hard enough, he would see the second falcon keeping pace with his group from the air. They had strange behavior for birds of prey. At first, he thought them to be buzzards, circling and waiting for scraps or for a weak member of the party to fall out. Something did not bode well with the presence of these birds.

  Ahead he could see the walls of the city appearing on the horizon and sat a little taller in the saddle. Glancing back at the hawks, he called a woman over. Flaya was older than he, and he should consider her pretty like the other men did. But he could not see her in that fashion. Lynette had long urged him to find a woman who was pure, and to be wary of women who lied or had many partners. He was discouraged that Flaya was very popular among the warriors, many of whom had known her.

  He whispered in her ear, in case the hawks could hear, and she walked quickly away to a skid to retrieve a torch. This done, she lit the end and walked alongside Taros. He smiled knowing what he was about to do and wondered why he had not done this sooner. As the torch suddenly snuffed out, Taros tested his range and looked at the closest of the hawks. They circled just a little bit higher than the arrows had been when he burned them in the air. Abruptly the bird squawked, and his tail feathers smoked and singed, sending both birds flying very quickly toward the city walls. Taros’ mood improved.

  Chapter Eleven

  Skander Braston wrapped his fur cloak around his burly frame as he walked toward his father’s former chambers. The chill had finally cooled the thick walls of the keep so he assumed that winter was close to gripping the kingdom. Huddled so against the cold, the large prince thought about his father.

  Skander had hated the man. Truth be told, he had hated his father more than he hated his own mother and brother. The Braston family crest proudly displayed a winter cat with saber teeth tearing apart a lifeless wolf on a blue background. Skander frowned at the thought that his father had resembled a craven more than a saber cat, with palace doors open to allow the lowly wolves entrance for an easy handout.

  Krist Braston had ruled the northern city of Fjorik more than thirty years and his people had loved him. Skander felt the elder lord had lived more to pander to their open jowls and had fed them better than he had his own family. True nobleman enjoyed feasts such as those thrown by the Esterling Queen Regent. During her coronation tournament ten years ago, however, the “Lord Craven” had refused to allow his sons to compete because he had felt that the northern people faced a longer winter than they had in past years. Lord Krist had instead forced his sons, both eligible princes, to remain at the hearth to oversee “building strategies” for the grain silos and salt cellars.

  But now Skander Braston ruled the entire northern peninsula and mined its wealth and splendor from its snow-capped mountains. His mountains contained resources that could fuel an empire. Fjorik could potentially surpass the Southern realms in both power and might, perhaps even rising as a rival to the Esterling Empire. Skander knew his duty and would correct the order of the kingdom. He would return Fjorik to its ancient glory and break apart the southern empire.

  Alas, this year an early winter had set in, much as it had ten years earlier. His people faced another harsh famine, and Skander was not prepared. He frivolously spent too many resources from the mines in his attempt to industrialize, ignoring his father’s warnings to horde grain. Feeling like the failure that his father had predicted, he had been forced to broker a trade deal with the Esterling family. In return for allowing the Falconers unfettered access to conduct a census of the Northern people, he would receive grain and meat. Of course, they sweetened the deal by promising weapons if he sent them extra iron. He had accepted out of desperation.

  He felt the walls of what had once been his father’s room, absorbing the winter spirit of the stones. Dark and icy rage had pierced them, and he heard his father’s words belittle him in his head. Why can’t you be as levelheaded as Braen, Skander? Think be
fore you act, Skander. He felt cold fury enter his skin. Once inside, it cooled his heart and lungs. He then breathed out an icy mist that coalesced around the stone in front of him, then froze as a thick sheet of ice on rock. You will never be the ruler your brother will, Skander. He hated his father, but his father was dead. He also hated his brother and Braen was alive.

  “You should light a fire.” Hester spoke from the doorway.

  Without turning, Skander responded, “I won’t be here long.”

  “It should be yours. You’re the king, and these should be our chambers.” Hester knew that he would refuse to make this room his own. Skander had ordered it sealed like a tomb after they had removed the body of his father.

  “Not as long as his spirit walks.”

  “You need to get over that superstitious nonsense. His ghost doesn’t haunt these walls. And if it does, it’s because it fears your strength.”

  “If it does, it’s because it couldn’t get into the Heavenly Hall.” And who’s fault was that, Skander? You didn’t even place my axe in my hand when you killed me.

  “That’s his problem. He was a cowardly king.” Hester entered the room, wrapping her fox fur against the chill. “He didn’t deserve to rule, and you were the one who told me that he must be removed.” Grabbing his forearm, she turned him to face her. “Be the king that I married.”

  “I killed him in his sleep and now the warriors won’t welcome him. He at least deserved to hold an axe when he died. I didn’t even give him that courtesy.” No, you didn’t, did you? After all that I taught you about respect for tradition, and you slit my throat and ran. Skander raised his free hand to his head, closing his eyes against the voice of the spirit.