by Scott Rhine
Tashi resented this process being called civilized. He said, “But those rules weren’t enough. You still had wars.”
“They were . . . incomplete. The last strictures placed on us were against communication or interference with your kind. There were a few loopholes, such as your Traveler and the Stairs.”
“These didn’t cause wars. Your numbers plummeted by a factor of ten.”
Archanon put a finger over his lips again. Eventually, he said, “Becoming a member of the Dawn race wasn’t enough. Our people could still die. I can’t tell you how. The relevant issue here is why they died. Your emphasis on the numbers was very close. After many years, our dimensional mathematicians determined that, given the mana or life-energy output of our sun, this world could only support thirty-nine immortals. Can you guess why the rest went to war?”
Tashi thought for a time, realizing the weight being placed on his every response. Archanon was bending the strictures as far as he could, but he needed the right tools, the proper words to cobble together. “Like farmers living near the source of a river, they could divert it, and steal it for their own crops and wells. The thirty-nine would consume all the life energy, leaving none for the others. To survive, the Dawn people had to become one of the thirty-nine or kill all those who could.”
The fnd nodded. “As you guessed, I was one of those who opposed Osos for that very reason. The wars lasted a very long time, distracting us from a small amount of leakage. Your people sprang up in the interim, able to subsist on the barest amount of mana, like camels in the desert. Sometimes nature surprises even me.”
The form of Babu paced around the fire. “This changed the dynamic of the war. Not only did the others use your people as cattle, extra food in our sieges, but they also used your populations as buffers to protect themselves against attacks. The practice sickened me. I had to do something to stop this atrocity. There was a faction that argued for total eradication of your kind. My faction wanted to liberate your race from slavery. How ironic that you now worship your exploiters as gods and call those who fought for your freedom demons.”
Archanon moved closer to Tashi, so close their faces were almost touching. In a whisper, he said, “You were wrong about Osos being the first. He was terrible at basic research, but good at politics, stealing ideas from true men of science, and swaying the weak-minded.” Bragging in a normal tone, he continued, “I was the first to harness the Dawn race as a power source. Using the Dominance Principle, I bound six convicted captives to me. I rose to immortal status and wrought bloody havoc on his alliance.” Archanon’s voice had built to almost a shout.
“At the apex of the conflict, there were ten archfiends or archangels, and nine human-eaters. Those were terrible and glorious times. In a daring gambit, my side almost won in a single magnificent strike.” The form of the mercenary backed away until shadow covered his face. Nothing but black pits could be seen around his eyes. His voice dropped to the level of a man expressing his condolences at a funeral. “We quite nearly destroyed the world. It was Calligrose who stopped the . . . side-effects and saved us. He forged the compromise. We all agreed to limit our number to twenty immortals, and Calligrose would be the last. The rest of the Dawn race would be able to eke out a living on the half of the mana flow that remained.”
Archanon tossed another twig into the yellow flames. “That day, we became the Great Council, each with one vote, each subject to the will of the majority. More rules were made and etched upon the foundations of the world. We unanimously enacted horrifying penalties for violating even the smallest of these new laws. Mighty in battle, I lost in the committee.”
The fiend put his forehead against a stone wall support and waited until he could master his own breathing. He was back to a whisper. “Then Osos made an example of me and three others. We were judged to be retroactively in breach of the new contract. I lost by two votes. One of my former allies switched sides at the last moment. I was branded a criminal and cast out into the dark underside of reality that you could only imagine as nightmare.”
The fiend punched the wall, but the wall remained. Blood welled up on his knuckles.
Tashi guessed the rest. “With eleven council members in his pocket, Osos ruled the universe. While you suffered with new torments every day, he drank from a golden chalice in the Halls of Eternity. He stole your honor, your name, your godhood from you and left you with ash, pain, and shame.”
The mercenary turned and looked almost tenderly at him. “Are we talking about you or me, friend?” Tashi lowered his eyes. “I knew I liked you for a reason. You understand a little. Yes, it was like that, multiplied by centuries—until the blessed day.”
Again, Tashi guessed, “When the Traveler tricked Osos into absorbing the power of boundaries? Our sect teaches that Osos couldn’t hold contain so much energy and was transfigured into the Compass Star. I see. Then the Council only had nineteen members, and they could make up their own minds without fear of following in your wake.”
Archanon nodded. “Calligrose moved quickly. He amended the laws. After a sufficient number of cycles, any god could recommend parole for an offender. The sponsor would be equally culpable for any relapse or new infraction committed by the criminal. During the parole period, the offender was sentenced to a long period of penance, performing good deeds to aid both gods and men, and healing the damage where possible. Who do you think could free a prisoner?”
Tashi was struck by the simple elegance. This was the real message that the archfiend communicated. But why was he making Tashi say this? “I freed you, so it must be those being served—men.”
“More specifically?”
“High priests?” guessed Tashi.
Archanon laid a finger aside his nose. “Since Calligrose was my sponsor, I served him as faithfully as I know how. You, as a high priest, unwittingly granted me my final freedom when we met in the Garden of Harmony. This is why you may trust me.”
Tashi bowed, accepting the answer. “If you answer all of my questions as well as this first, I shall send you on your way with my blessing.” Tashi was suddenly very hungry. Before continuing, he made good use of the stew.
Cha
pter 2 – Eve of Battle
Between the thunder and the repetition of his dream about the spinning coin, Emperor Sandarac got no sleep that night. In his former life as entertainer, all he’d needed was his wavy, black hair and bright, white teeth. He could get the crowds to do anything if he displayed enough confidence. Imprisoned as a thief, he’d escaped repeatedly by sheer daring. His role in politics combined the two careers. But for the first time, Sandarac wasn’t in control.
After his four-course breakfast in bed, he let the courier in. “Majesty,” said the runner from the rookery as he bowed.
“What news from the Vale of Reflection? Have the Prefect of Bablios and the southern armies reached our ambush point?” asked Sandarac, dabbing at the corner of his lips with a purple, linen napkin.
“They’ve stopped early due to the bad weather, sire,” said the courier. When the emperor wrung the napkin like a chicken’s neck, the messenger hastened to add, “But General Garad assures you that they might still be able to spring the trap properly. The High Gardener’s diversionary force from Semenos has been ordered to put up heavier resistance to delay the invader’s progress. Tonight’s encampment should be in the mouth of the Vale.”
Sandarac could still win. It was just a matter of the price.
By midday Ginza, his chief bodyguard, was nowhere to be found, so the elders of the Keepers of the Holy Mountain sent the news directly to the emperor. After the emperor cleared the audience chamber, the messenger reported, “Sire, a terrible disaster has befallen us. Several members of the artifact recovery and preservation team have died. For the first time in Keeper history, the Nightfall affect has not abated at dawn.”
“Damn that sheriff!” Sandarac canceled the rest of his docket for the day. Without Ginza to help hide the emperor’s inabilit
y to walk, even routine bureaucracy had become difficult. Next, he summoned Hisbet the Viper.
When the spymaster from the kingdom of Intaglios arrived, Sandarac snapped, “Our recent guest has made a mess of the Holy Mountain. Find out what he’s done and put a stop to it! We need to resolve this before anyone other than the elders knows.”
Hisbet nodded. “We’ll scout using deaf prisoners. Early experiments with them showed the most promise. Perhaps they can get close enough to investigate.”
“Are you sure you have enough deaf prisoners? This is of the utmost urgency,” Sandarac stressed.
The Viper held back a smile at the naïve comment and chose the appropriate euphemism to soothe the emperor. “I assure you, Highness, we’ll find them.”
****
As the wind gusted, the burly smith said to his Imperial friend, “Pinetto, I want to be in a dry tent by the time this weather hits.” Considered tall by southern standards, the smith was two hand-spans shorter than the thin Imperial marching beside him.
Pinetto watched the beautiful woman with the starched, red collar who was limping in front of them. Ambassador Sajika wore pants, a top-knot in her hair, and all the other trappings of an explorer, but she’d never left her birth city before. “The blisters on her feet must be getting worse.”
The smith growled. “She’s slowing us down too much. You’re an astronomy student with peach fuzz, and you’re keeping up.”
The twenty-two-year-old sighed, “She’s the head of the mission.”
“The mission is for me to deliver this sword.”
“Don’t tell her that; the starched collar and eye patch make her temperamental.”
“Oh, yeah,” the smith said, feeling a little guilty. “How’s her cheekbone?”
“The bruising made her eye swell shut. And for the record, I do shave.”
“You smear your face with cream and let the cat lick the whiskers off,” the smith teased. He’d served a dozen years in the Executioner’s Guild, and he’d never met a kinder human being. One of the kid’s warnings had saved his life.
“If you see any Imperials in the woods other than me, assume they work for Emperor Sandarac. Any soldiers that aren’t guarding the old throne at the Center flocked to him,” Pinetto explained loudly enough for the ambassador to hear, too. His friend knew most of this, but the ambassador might not. If he tried to brief her, it wouldn’t go well.
“You mean the Pretender?” asked the smith.
“He has all the qualifications except the backing of the College of Wizards. If you hear someone whispering about the emperor, it’s probably the enemy. But until the other kingdoms concede, his banners only have three lions and the Imperial crown.”
“But the other two captured Kiateros and they’re foring their smiths to make weapons.”
“That’s part of the definition of empire. But you’re right, anyone in Kiateran black will be on our side.”
“And half of Semenos is behind us, too.”
“Some of them are. King Renald is only thirteen, and the High Gardener has been a terrible regent. People who have suffered under his reign are following Renald’s older sister Lavender.”
“Following a female commander—heresy,” the smith snickered, baiting the ambassador.
“Exactly. Her symbol is the white tree. We’re supposed to give other Semenosians the chance to surrender.”
“It’s not their fault they were misled by an evil regent. We’re the good guys from Bablios.”
Pinetto winced. “I’m not sure that burning whole villages falls under the definition of good.”
“My definition of good always includes keeping each other alive till the mission’s completed.”
“I could support that.”
After another hour, the smith lost patience and handed his pack to the astronomer. When he attempted to sling the woman over his shoulder, she almost kneed his teeth down his throat. The men escorting them to the camp stared. Pinetto intervened. “Pardon, ambassador, my mistake. I told him there was something wrong with your right boot.” He dropped the pack and made a show of inspecting her calf.
“You need help,” whispered the smith.
“I’ll walk into that camp with the dignity due my station,” she spat. “Lay hands on me again, and . . . oh . . . that’s better.” Pinetto had removed a dagger from her boot sheath and salved where the hilt had rubbed. He may have lingered on the shapely leg a few heartbeats longer than necessary.
The smith set her down and reclaimed his gear. He said nothing when the torrents began to fall. After dark, drenched to the bone, they slogged into the allied camp. Their fine, Kiateran livery had been ruined by the mud. It was just as well that it was raining, for it hid the stray tears Pinetto noticed running down Sajika’s cheek. The two men were stuffed into a tiny, oilskin, servant’s tent while the ambassador went ahead to report to the generals.
They talked while wringing out their clothes. The smith eventually struck a chord with, “Why’s she acting so high and mighty? I was trying to help her. Just a little while ago she was undercover as a kitchen tart. When we were alone in Cardinado, she was military but human.”
The Imperial astronomy student, Pinetto, checked for eavesdroppers before replying. Up until a few days ago, Sajika had been a member of the Library Secret Police. “She has to maintain her cover role, as do we. And please don’t say the word ‘tart’ again. She might hear you.”
The smith stared at his friend, who had coined the term. “All I want to know is how to treat her. How do I know what mask she’s wearing or what she wants?”
Pinetto pondered the rain through which they’d soon have to run. “I think there is a piece of her in every disguise, to make it real. As for how you treat her, I’m working that one out myself. For now, we should let her do all the talking, because she’s the only friend we have in this mess. Friends trust each other. If you say the wrong thing to one of these generals, all three of us could end up worse than dead. As far as how to treat her personally, she’ll teach us how if we let her. But it begins with listening and respect.”
“Wise words. Who from?”
Pinetto blushed. “My father. It was the only thing he was ever able to tell me about women.”
“Does it work?”
“My mother’s always been very happy.”
Moments later, their summons came. They put on their gambling faces and slogged through mud to the command tent. Once inside, the smith stood at attention. Pinetto stood one pace behind the ambassador, guarding her back.
Prefect Khalid was the only noble present when they arrived. He looked fifty and had his hair cut short on top in the fashion of executioners. His body had a fit tone that came from a combination of daily workouts and good parentage. The Prefect was only a top-knot shorter than the smith. Though he massed half again Pinetto’s weight, there wasn’t an ounce of fat visible anywhere on him. His skin had an olive tinge like many from the old capital city of Bablios. His sole facial flaw was a broken tooth behind the bicuspid, visible when he grinned like a predator. Unlike many commanders, he carried his own sword and wore no ornamentation other than a gold tabard on his right shoulder. Even now, he wore leather under-armor so that he could be ready to fight in moments.
Emanating charisma like a king, the Prefect asked, “Has the ambassador been telling me the truth about you?”
Without hesitation, Baran Togg the smith, bearer of the magical Defender of the Realm snapped out, “Yes, sir!”
“Good,” rumbled the Prefect. “Briefing is at sunrise. Dismissed.”
****
The next morning, Baran Togg and the others in his band were milling around in a large tent waiting for the important members of the southeastern alliance to arrive. The rain had tapered off to a miserable drizzle, and the men ate yesterday’s biscuits at the rear of the tent. Ambassador Sajika had an actual seat in front of the podium and was served hot tea with her muffin. She arrived a little later than most because Pinetto ha
d hidden her boots until he could scavenge salve and fresh bandages for her blistered feet. Eventually, Queen Lavender of Semenos and her retinue were the only ones holding up the meeting. Everyone was grumbling about the wait.
While Pinetto propped Sajika’s feet up on a stool and took notes, the smith overheard someone mention Lugwort. A motley gang of thugs clustered in one corner, passing around a wineskin. Their leader was a twentyish rogue with unwashed, curly, black hair, and muddy, brown leather armor. He was short, with several scars on his ears and hands. There were patched holes on his outfit where several other weapons might have intruded upon his flesh. The golden patch on his shoulder maed the one on the smith’s dandy-like, courtier outfit. The smith strode quietly over to the rabble to get a closer look.
Pausing in his ribald story, the near-dwarf leader turned to the smith and snapped, “What’re you staring at, you dumb ox? Why are you wearing our silkies?”
Baran Togg dreaded what would come out of his mouth next, but being the messenger of a god, he had little choice in the matter. “Art thou the Heir of Lugwort?”
The man’s companions fanned out around him, hands on weapons. The curly-haired rascal sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Aye. Legato’s the name. What’s this about?”
