“Used to be,” Hagan said, “that we were the undeniable force. To put weapons like that in the hands of ordinary people would change the balance. My district is secure, and I’ll keep it that way. My villagers know what will happen to them if they defy me. But if they had access to magic…” She made a fist and held it up.
Wilfred shook his head. “Did you learn nothing from the Great Protector Lungu? That kind of power works, yes, but to make it work long-term you need an even greater force. That was his most important lesson. Right now, like it or not, that bitch Astrid is that stronger force. If we want to win, we need to get back on top and stay there.”
“Bissh!” Tal shouted at the mention of Astrid’s name.
Hagan picked up a copper cup and threw it at his head. Tal ducked and winced in pain.
“That guy’s dead weight,” Hagan growled.
“Yeah, but we need his estate,” Morgon countered.
They didn’t care if Tal heard or not.
“A friend of convenience,” Wilfred added.
“Hey,” Hagan barked, “friends of convenience are all we’ve ever been. It’s worked like that for a hundred years; well before our grandparents discovered magic That was why the old Protectors set up the lieutenants. Competition breeds strength and the strong rise to the top. That’s how it is.”
They nodded in stark agreement.
“Us three, then.” Hagan sighed. “We’ll run this thing. Wilfred, if you set up the meeting, Morgon and I will go check it out.”
Wilfred looked around the room at the other lieutenants. “Are you with us?”
They turned their bloody faces to him and gave their assent with silent, somber gestures.
“Looks like we’re the leaders of an insurgency,” Wilfred said.
“Looks that way,” Hagan replied.
CHAPTER FOUR
On the Road, A Petran
“Look alive,” Jiri said to his squire as they crossed the border. The toll road was empty—no guard sat at the border post to collect fees and take note of their passing.
He wished that he'd brought more than just three soldiers and a squire, but he didn't want his diplomatic mission to be misunderstood literally at the gate. But there was no gate. Someone had broken it down.
It had been a token barrier, anyway, and not really a gate—a single beam on a hinge that obstructed the road.
“Someone used it for firewood, looks like,” a soldier observed with amusement in his voice.
“Firewood with a serious political point,” Jiri observed. “Stay alert, Sergeant.”
The sergeant nodded as he dismounted, and the procession stopped. The squire pulled in closer and the other men lifted their crossbows and made a rough defensive circle around Jiri Petran.
“Half-eaten frozen sandwich in here,” the sergeant remarked, unable to control his amusement. “Might still be good, if you’re interested.”
Jiri tried not to join him in that amusement—or at least he tried to hide it. He did enjoy the news of Lungu’s demise and the aftermath. He took guilty pleasure in knowing the brutal bastard had met a brutal end.
His greatest concern was that the chaos left by his demise would cross the border. He needed to find out how likely that might be.
“But no signs of fighting,” the sergeant remarked as he paced around the tollbooth and dipped into the woods. “Lots of yellow snow that’s pretty recent,” he added.
That earned some snickers that added warmth to the bitter cold of the Northeastern Highlands.
“So what?” the squire asked, scratching his head—which was tough to do in fur-lined gloves while holding a crossbow.
“Let’s move out, Sergeant” Jiri ordered, still fighting a visible smirk. Normally they’d all use first names. Everyone knew Jiri was in charge. His leadership style didn’t demand titles to earn iron loyalty.
He had picked his most trusted soldiers for this mission, and the fact that he was standing on formality told everyone how serious it was. The day that Jiri didn’t join in on the wisecracks was a serious day indeed.
They rode on for another hour. The road still had some climbing to do before it leveled off and continued another few hundred feet to Keep 52. In these highlands, the woods people ruled.
Jiri never called them bandits. Yes, he’d had to fight a few. He’d even killed one or two when it was unavoidable, but he hated the fact that people were forced to live the way they did.
Still, that was the situation he had been born into. Jiri did his duty no matter what.
Jiri blamed Lungu and his father’s policy for creating the woods people. He rode with years of resentment on his shoulders for forcing him to act against people pushed to banditry to feed themselves.
But, it didn’t change the fact that as a Protector’s son, he was responsible for law enforcement. That was the way it worked in the Petran Protectorate.
“Shitty job,” Jiri muttered. “Gods, I hope I can change it.”
“What’s that?” the squire asked with raised eyebrows.
“Caught me responding out loud to my own thoughts again,” Jiri replied sheepishly.
“Don’t worry, sir. We are all with you, as always. We understand.”
“If we do our jobs right, we have a chance here to bring the Lungu—“
“Can we call it that anymore?” the sergeant interrupted.
“This protectorate, I mean.” Jiri shifted. “We can enter into a true alliance for the first time—”
“Ever,” the squire continued the thought.
Several miles later the appearance of a familiar face dimmed that hope. Jiri motioned his men to stay behind as he rode forward and called out with a fake smile and loud voice.
“Hello, First Lieutenant Wilfred.” Jiri kept the reins in his left hand, held high, and raised his other hand palm-out. He wanted to keep those hands far away from his sword.
Wilfred kept his men close, and they spread themselves out across the road behind him.
Shit, Jiri thought. I know that look.
“State your business here, Petran,” Wilfred demanded with a sour face.
“Oh, First Lieutenant,” Jiri chided, clicking his tongue. “Is this any way to treat a valued peer and fellow participant in the Protectorate Charter?”
“This is no time for your buffoonery, Petran,” Wilfred growled. “The borders are closed. I am here to secure them.”
“We have had no official word of such actions,” Jiri replied in a serious tone.
Had such a drastic action been officially sanctioned, protocol demanded the surrounding protectorates be notified. Wilfred’s claim told Jiri that either Wilfred was lying or he was the one trying to close the borders. In any case, something was wrong. The lack of communication from what was no longer the Lungu Protectorate was one of the main reasons Jiri was there.
“If you’re having trouble,” Jiri replied in syrupy tones, “what better time for your neighbor to happen upon you? I am only here to offer you the help you deserve.” A swift kick in the ass, Jiri continued in his head. Possibly two, followed by one more to the head, assuming I can tell the difference.
“I am in no mood for your games, you puffed-up bearded lady!”
Wilfred hopped off his horse and Jiri quickly did the same.
“Do we have a dispute?” Jiri asked, holding his hands up palms outward. He spoke while trying to restrain laughter at the childish insult. “How shall we settle it?” He snapped his fingers. “How about a simple submission duel? I say we—”
The touchless strike caught him in the chest plate and drove the wind from his lungs.
“I accept!” Wilfred shouted as he attacked.
It wasn’t an illegal move as long as Wilfred’s men didn’t go for their—
Thoom! came from the crossbows. Jiri was relieved to find that his men were ready. Petran was known for its fine cheese, its finer weapons, and the practical minds of its people. His men had been ready with their shields.
“Th
is isn’t a duel anymore, you gutless worm!” Jiri bellowed as he recovered. He slammed his wrists together, fingers stretched out and thrust forward. A stream of braided fire tendrils hurtled toward Wilfred, who managed to avoid most of the force with a touchless block.
But now Jiri was good and angry, and so were his men. That they were outnumbered didn’t matter. Petrans were most dangerous when insulted, but it took a lot to do so. Lopsided attacks outside the bounds of honor certainly constituted a grave enough insult to draw out their best.
Wilfred tried a touchless stranglehold as Jiri charged, sword glowing with magical fire. Jiri lowered his head, so the telekinetic force barely stressed the high metal collar that he wore to protect against exactly that sort of attack.
“You don’t learn!” Jiri accused, and used his sword to drive his point home. Their blades clashed and Wilfred was too busy trying not to have his limbs removed by a red-hot sword to argue. “I’ve been kicking your sorry ass since we were cadets at War Festival!”
“You always cheated!” Wilfred finally managed to reply. He sounded like the overgrown child he was.
Around them, men screamed and grunted as metal met metal. Jiri was grateful there was only one Mover in the crowd. His squire was young and had only rudimentary magic ability.
“Like you cheated by attacking a peaceful party with superior numbers?” Jiri parried and used his free hand to shoot a stream of flame that set Wilfred’s sword arm on fire.
It was a lucky hit, because Jiri had been bluffing. Wilfred had gotten much stronger since their cadet days. He was a handful now.
It appeared his men were losing the fight. A quick glance told him none of them were dead, but some were wounded. They came together in a last-stand formation.
Suddenly a shrill whistle split the air and crossbows sang from the woods. Wilfred’s charging men suddenly fell over with bolts sticking out of their arms and legs. Nothing fatal, but the hits broke their attack completely.
The road was swarmed by a ragged collection of what looked like former Civil Guard and bandits. They all wore matching armbands.
“Nobody move!” a voice roared like a lion. “Because I’ll treat every last one of you like fucking pincushions!”
A burly wild-eyed man with a red beard strode out of the forest with an ax over his shoulder. “My friends call me Woody,” the man bellowed, “but you assholes may call me ‘Commander.’ I’m in charge of these parts, and you fuckers are disturbing my shiny new peace!”
But Wilfred called the bluff. He shouted, “Retreat!” His men scrambled for their horses and took off down the toll road.
“Hold your fire!” Woody shouted. “Don’t waste any more ammunition on those shit-sticks.”
Woody strolled over to Jiri and looked him up and down. “Petran, eh?”
Jiri’s sword hung by his side as he panted for breath. As tired as they were, there was nothing he and his small group of men could do against such numbers, so he just smiled and nodded his head. If Woody had wanted him dead, it would have happened by now.
“Got any cheese with you? I love Petran cheese.” A wolfish grin spread across Woody’s face.
“What’s not to love, Wood— Ah, ‘Commander,’ is it?” Jiri smiled.
“You call me Commander, for now, Petran,” Woody answered. “Anyone who fights against the human version of shitty underwear like Wilfred isn’t automatically a friend of mine, but pretty damn close.” He pointed at Jiri’s men. “If your folks will keep their hands off their weapons, they can come to my keep.”
“Your keep?” Jiri asked in complete shock.
“Well, yeah,” he replied as his men jostled each other and laughed at the inside joke. “What the hell do you think I’m the commander of?”
“Keep 52?” Jiri asked, completely confused.
“And I thought Petrans were smart.” Woody shook his head. He removed a wineskin from his furs and tossed it to Jiri. “That might help with the confusion.”
Jiri caught the wineskin with a wry smile. He was starting to like this Woody character.
CHAPTER FIVE
Return to Argan
Three weeks in the city was enough. Astrid announced her plans to Vinnie and left for the stables as soon as the door to the jail levels closed behind her.
Vinnie’s objections chased her down the hallway, but she just waved her hand without looking back. The ride to Argan Village would do her good. She needed to clear her head.
She didn’t even bother going back up to her chambers to pick up her weapon.
In her basic leather armor and borrowed furs, she headed out. It took nearly an hour to wind down the steep road into the Fortress wards. Her horse set confident hooves on the icy road but seemed relieved to reach the slushy, cobblestoned city streets.
Astrid rode the wide boulevard that followed the shoreline of Lake Bicaz and connected to the toll road. Here and there, massive chunks of an ancient dam were still evident on the beach. Most of that material called concrete had been brought up the mountain by magical means to form the fortress’s foundation.
The New Ancients had been powerful enough to create buildings that could stop the flow of rivers. The lake had been much larger in ancient times than it was now. When the world had ended, the old magic had lost its hold over nature.
Not only had the magic of the New Ancients been weak, but it had been terribly misused. She recalled the name Vinnie used to describe the old-world power. “’Technology,’” she said aloud. “That was what they called it.”
The word had little meaning in the present day. Sometimes people used it to describe simple machines like wheat threshers or waterwheels. Mostly, though, it was a derisive term where Astrid came from. Often it was a word of warning.
The elders of her former home had often spoken of the dangers of misused power, and Astrid had taken that wisdom to heart. Her Code made that easy.
Trust in the Well, and observe its intention, since the Well sustains all life.
Defend the Well; keep it always pure.
The people here didn’t think of magic in the same way, and Astrid was still coming to terms with that. Until three years ago, she had never been more than twenty miles away from her homeland. People back home shared common thoughts and ideas.
But she was hundreds of miles away now. It had never occurred to her that people could think so differently—but it should have. Irth was vast, after all. She had seen that for herself. The wide world made for wide differences between people.
Still, it was hard to reconcile this new reality. It only made her more certain of her beliefs.
She resolved to rely even more on the Well to guide her as she passed through the last city checkpoint onto the toll road that cut through the thick woods.
After several hours had passed, Astrid heard the clatter of hooves and the shouts of a driver guiding a team of horses.
“Ho, there! Easy, Mabel,” the woman commanded. “That’s a good girl. Don’t let that mean Duke give you a hard time. You’re lead horse. Own it.” Her voice carried around the corner. “Lower the scraper!” she shouted.
Astrid smiled even before she saw the plow wagon. She knew what it was as soon as she heard that last command. The wagon was the reason it was so easy to travel the toll road in winter.
“Hello, there!” Astrid shouted as the plow came into sight.
The driver flinched and the two men who operated the scraper that hung down at the wagon’s belly froze. A woman riding next to the driver stood and readied her crossbow.
Astrid pulled back on the reins, brought her horse to a stop, and held up her hands. “No need for alarm,” Astrid told them all with the biggest smile she could muster. “Don’t mind me. I’m just passing by.”
The second woman lowered her crossbow. “It’s…” She gasped, mouth gaping wide.
“Astrid?” one of the plow operators asked. He almost fell off the plow as it came to a stop.
“One and the same!” Astrid replied. “Ma
y I approach?”
“You don’t have to ask,” the driver shouted enthusiastically. She calmed the horses, then pulled with both hands on a lever that activated brakes with a metallic squeal.
“Need more hog fat on that lever,” one of the plowmen suggested. “And on the scraper arm, too.” The other muttered agreement as they jumped off and went under the vehicle to check out the mechanisms.
“This is some machine,” Astrid remarked as her eyes traveled the wagon from stem to stern. It was half again as long as the standard protectorate vehicles. It took four horses to draw it, whereas normal wagons took just two.
“It’s our pride and joy!” the driver exclaimed.
“Her name’s Chloe!” one of the men beneath the cart exclaimed. He stepped out from under the wagon and lit a pipe while his colleague applied generous handfuls of grease to mechanical things Astrid couldn’t hope to understand.
“You named it?” Astrid wondered with a chuckle.
The driver looked a tad insulted as she hopped down from the plow, but she softened and spoke like a person explaining a hammer to a well-meaning fool. “Yes, indeed. She deserves a name. Many hands went into building her to serve a purpose. It’s only right she has a name.”
The crossbow woman chimed in. “With this one cart, we cleared the road from the Northeast Fortress Ward Checkpoint all the way to Keep 52! We only had to change the horses twice during the last storm.”
“I see.” Astrid smiled even wider at the infectious pride of the crew. “I just realized I’m almost at the keep and it took half the time.”
“Almost as fast traveling in winter as in summer now,” the driver declared.
“Oh!” the man under the cart exclaimed. He bumped his head coming out. “Can you deliver a note to the Big Man? We made some improvements, and he asked us to let him know so he can add them to his designs!”
It took Astrid a moment to realize he was referring to Vinnie. “Of course.”
The man wiped the excess grease on his already-stained overalls. He began rifling through one of the overstuffed sacks attached to the side of the cart.
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