by Garon Whited
I drew a crude map and considered. If I were in Byrne’s shoes, I’d use the Quaen as a barrier. Conquer or subjugate everything east of that river, consolidate my hold over it, declare it the new Kingdom of Rethven, and promptly take both Bildar and Formia to control the two main crossing-points of the river. That would still be a long way from taking the old capitol of Carrillon, but if Byrne could hold that large a section of old Rethven, the resources should be more than enough to creep along the coast, one city at a time, taking Maran, then Tolcaren, and finally Carrillon.
But it wasn’t up to me, and that might not be a good plan if you tried it on the ground. Still, I didn’t see any reason it wouldn’t work. I planned to run it past Kelvin, Tort, and T’yl and see what they thought.
Prince Parrin’s appeared to be strongly in favor of the iron fist approach. Between Tort’s reports and my own satellite reconnaissance, we determined that the ruling families were put to the sword or burned alive, depending on whether they surrendered their cities before or after the fighting. Much of those cities were burned, as well; a not-unsurprising result of angry men running around and trying to kill each other.
More surprising was the violence done in the little towns and villages attendant to the major cities. Those were generally not well-defended in the first place, so surrendering to a clearly superior force was the expected thing. Parrin seemed fond of the concept of decimating them; that is, killing one person in ten. As far as we could tell, it was just to make a point. Then he conscripted anyone in the slain person’s immediate family to serve in his armies—men for soldiers, women and children for support duties—as well as taking a hefty tribute to feed the war effort.
None of our scrying attempts found his “great bronze rams.” We didn’t know where to look. He hadn’t needed to use them in over a year, since this was a consolidation cycle. For all we knew, they were hidden in a cave, or in a dungeon, or just sitting in an old barn somewhere.
Tort felt certain that with a little more effort, we could at least try and track the wizards in charge of the cannon. I agreed that would give us a bit more to work with, so she started that program running.
For my part, I had Kavel work on casting a cannon of our own. Someday, we might have to face them. People should be prepared.
Who am I kidding? Of course we’d have to face them.
The good news was that I rummaged in my mental junkpile and found a thing I’d read on how cannon were made. While Kavel is working on casting a jumbo steel cylinder, we’ve already got the drillhead and rollers for the Wilkinson-style borer.
I’m cheating again; I’ve enchanted the edge of the drillhead.
I’m also wondering about how to defend someone from cannon-fire. I mean, a deflection spell can deflect grapeshot, or even a cannonball… but it has to be so ridiculously over-powered that I’m not sure a wizard could do it; it might take a magician.
How good is the new armor, I wonder? Will it take grapeshot? Maybe. But even if it survives a cannonball, the man inside won’t; he’ll be pudding on the inside of the armor.
Hmm. Momentum and kinetic energy, acceleration… I may have an idea.
On a lighter note, a small caravan of medieval mobile homes showed up this afternoon. Shada’s adopted gata—that is, Utai’s; that was her original name—rolled up the canal road and parked near the bridge. I had to go out and invite them in, which I found vastly amusing. The vampire had to invite the humans in. Color me tickled.
They rolled on in, visibly growing more impressed with almost every foot. It took a while to convince them that most of the city was empty and that they were welcome to stay anywhere they liked. Yes, it’s a city; yes, it’s mine; yes, I’ll share it with you.
The concept of actually staying somewhere permanently seemed to be a new one.
When we halted along a street of houses, their matriarch emerged from the inside of her wagon and greeted me more formally. She was a question mark, bent and wizened, dressed in a hundred colors. One eye was sharp as cut glass and the other covered in a greyish film. I couldn’t help but think she was looking at me with both eyes, maybe even seeing more with the filmed-over one. A young man helped her through the door in the back of the wagon and down the steps, cautioning her to mind her footing.
I didn’t need prompting, this time, because I was looking for any resemblance. I recognized her from our conversation so many years ago, when I made rocks talk for the amusement of children. I moved to bow over her hand.
“Welcome, young lady. It is a pleasure to see you again, Anni,” I told her. She chuckled, an old, evil sound.
“Flatterer,” she accused. “I’ve changed far more than you.”
“Ah, but surely for the better,” I said. “Welcome to Karvalen. Will you do us the honor of being the first on the Street of Seers?”
“Street of Seers?” she repeated.
“I have in mind to invite all who scry or prophesy to have their shops—if they choose to sell their services, of course—along one street, as in ancient Zirafel. I could not do so, however, until you arrived. That place of honor is yours, if you will have it.”
Anni looked at me keenly.
“Have you really waited for me to come?” she asked, “or are you just a honey-tongued demon made flesh?”
“I am sure one of your wisdom will divine that for yourself,” I countered, smiling, and winked at her. She chuckled again.
“Aye, and I will, then! But what of the rest?”
“As I’ve told this young man—your son, perhaps?”
“Great-grandson.”
“That can’t be; no one could have a great-grandson and still look as lovely,” I protested. She chuckled yet again, and I continued with, “But as I’ve told him already, the majority of the city is empty—truly empty. Pick a street; pick a house. I own the whole thing; it’s mine. I welcome you to live in it, however, for as long as you choose to stay.”
She held out her hand to me; I held out mine. She took it, loosely, and closed her eyes. I recognized magic, but it was something too quick to analyze. When she opened her eyes, one filmed over, the other clear and sharp, she was looking past me, past everything, possibly past the world.
“You’re a good one, that you are,” she said, softly; I found that slightly confusing. “You’re kind, more than most men, and more than most will ever know.” Her eyes widened, still with that distant gaze. “Kindness, and a hidden heart of deepest black. Who will tip kindness into the pit? I cannot see.”
We stood there for maybe half a minute, then she let go of my hand and her gaze returned to things closer than the horizon.
“Well,” she said, more loudly, “your kind have loved us, and we’ve done for you what we might. Where else would we go? We accept, and, so long as you live here, we’ll bide with you.”
I bowed to her, and she bowed to me; a curtsey was a bit beyond her, I suspect. Someone started playing a reed pipe and other instruments joined it. Anni climbed aboard her wagon again, with a little help from me and her great-grandson, and they rolled on, searching for a street they liked.
Oddly, no one in Karvalen had anything to say about them. Or, come to think of it, maybe not so odd. No one in Mochara would have ever met anyone in a gata, after all; they might not even have heard of them. It was kind of a good thing that the gata didn’t have to overcome a reputation. And, of course, being able to claim a personal friendship—or maybe just alliance—with the King didn’t hurt them in the realm of public opinion, either.
We finished the hand mirrors, all one hundred of them, in a single night. The wizards who had drawn all the lines had taken a while to do it, but it was well-done. I made sure to etch a number on the inside of each case; that would be important, later. Then, with the symbolic connections drawn between all the mirrors, it was just a matter of laying the linked scrying and speaking spells on them, wrapping them up into one great enchantment, and investing it into the polished steel.
It sounds simple. It w
asn’t. But it was possible, thanks to lengthy and detailed efforts by Loret and Reena. And I did thank them, personally, and offered to do something for them in return. They both declined, however, claiming that it was enough for them to have done a service for the King.
I suspect they think I’ll remember them. They’re right.
Now each of my knights and my council has a personal communicator. For most people, they take a little effort to use; trained magical types like Thomen or Tort can do it almost without thinking about it. But now, if someone needs to reach me—or anyone else, or everyone else—all they need to do it take out their magical mobile phone and concentrate on the number. Or on all the numbers. Or on each other’s numbers.
We’ll see if I find it more useful than annoying. Here’s hoping I’ve given these things to people with the judgment to avoid using them.
When I gave one to Seldar, he took the opportunity to ask me about getting paid.
“Paid?” I asked. “Of course you get paid. Has no one given you money?”
“No, Lord of Forgetful Finances. But, to be fair, I have not asked until now.”
“We’ll fix that,” I promised. “Anything in particular you need the money for?”
“Ah.” His tone and manner changed markedly. He seemed much more diffident, bordering on hesitant. “I was… that is, I hope to offer a bride-price,” he admitted.
“Really! Good for you.”
“You do not object?” he asked.
“Should I?”
“I do not know,” he admitted. “I was not certain if you would allow members of your personal guard to marry. It could be a division of loyalties.”
“Oh, that. By all means, marry; how else are you going to raise children who can be in my personal guard?”
“Thank you, my Generous King.”
“Not a problem. Who’s the lucky girl?”
“Carella, if her father will agree.”
“That’s the blonde who sits next to you at dinner?”
“Yes, Sire,” he replied, blushing. He didn’t think I noticed. He might even think he was being subtle about his affections for Carella. I’m pretty sure everyone knew. He’s a sharp guy, but he’s not always the most perceptive person.
“If you like her that much, go ahead. See what sort of bride-price her father wants. But don’t let him hold you over a barrel; offer him something fair,” I advised. “If he’s stubborn, don’t agree to anything; let me know.”
“I will, Sire.”
Poor Seldar. It looks like he’s going to get married. Well, maybe that won’t be a bad thing.
Hmm. I better brush up on marriage services and the like. I bet they’ll want me to officiate or something.
Bob was doing very well. His right hand was complete and he was feeding himself as quickly as he could force it down. His left hand still had a couple of knuckles’ worth of fingers to go. That, combined with the existing spells on him to encourage healing and growth, should have him in perfect shape again in another couple of days. I felt that was good enough for government work, so I had T’yl help outfit him in some appropriate armor and weapons—I’ve got quite a bit of elf-work stuff just lying around for some reason.
When T’yl showed him into the main hall, I was tying off a well-wrapped magic mirror so it wouldn’t bounce against Bronze’s side at a gallop. I already had a spell on it to cushion it against impacts, just in case. As I finished, I noted that Bob seemed very pale and more than a little frightened. I wondered what T’yl had done. Then, when I reached down from my seat on Bronze’s back, to help swing Bob up behind me, he actually blanched and stepped back. He looked terrified.
I looked at T’yl.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“Me?” he asked, surprised. “I did nothing to justify his horror.” I gave him my Disbelieving Look and turned my attention to Bob again.
“What is it?” I asked. “I’m just taking you back to Vathula.”
“Anything you wish, Na’irethed zarad’na ,” he said, voice shaking. He was sweating. He made no move to approach.
“T’yl?” I asked. “Are you sure you didn’t do something?”
“I am innocent, Sire.” He grinned at me. “Bob seems not to appreciate what a gift you have given me.”
“Gift? Oh, the elf-body. I think I get it.” I turned to Bob. “Does the presence of a human soul in an elf body bother you, Bob?”
He nodded, apparently unable to speak. He seemed unreasonably terrified. I didn’t want Bob terrified; I just wanted him to be a loyal vassal lord over a region I didn’t want to deal with. Respectful, yes. Obedient, yes. Innovative, creative, and helpful, yes. Pants-wettingly terrified, no.
“Okay, Bob. Calm down. Take a couple of deep breaths. Maybe you can explain why this seems to be such an awful thing. Can you tell me what happens to an elf when he dies? Do you have souls? All I know for sure is that you’re delicious.”
Not the most tactful thing I’ve ever said.
Bob did his best to explain that elves don’t have an afterlife, as such. It took a while, but I was in no hurry. When an elf died, the spirit that moved them—the thing they used for a soul—disintegrated. It washed away in the magical fields of the world, dissolving in the great life-ocean, never to return. Calling back a dead elf had been tried, too, in the process of creating a new elf.
Apparently, elves make other elves; they don’t reproduce in the same way other living things do. Bob claims that elves were created by something called the heru. These heru were a race of beings born from the primal forces before the world, and were responsible for its creation. Rendu, the greatest of the heru (naturally) created the elves as the most perfect creature in the world. What he didn’t do was give them the capacity to create more of themselves. Why would he? They were “perfect,” right?
Later, there was some sort of argument or conflict among the heru. They went away, or dissolved, or did whatever it is that ancient gods do to explain why they aren’t around. During this thing, men were brought to the world by another of the heru, one called Maddarrah. That’s when elves needed to reproduce and increase their numbers. Without Rendu to make more, they had to learn to create elves through their own arts—as Bob described it, their “feeble copies of the Great Art of Rendu.”
They figured out a way, all right. They would kidnap a freshly-pregnant woman, work their magic on her unborn child until it was ready—a matter of seven years or so!—and then cut the elf-baby free. It only worked one time in ten or so, but that didn’t stop them trying.
I decided I liked elves even less. I tried not to show it. But what he said rang a bell. I had heard of Maddarrah, and the elves I’ve eaten pretty much agreed with his story.
The fact that I could eat an elf-spirit didn’t bother him too much; it was just to be expected that a life-drinking horror could drink any life. The fact I could then put a human soul into the unoccupied flesh bothered him a great deal.
The elven perspective was of a total unity of flesh and spirit; the two were inseparable and indivisible, united throughout eternity or until they were destroyed together. Having a human soul inside an elf body was as horrifying to him as waking up to the rotting corpse of a loved one trying to cook breakfast for you. They’re in there, but they’re the rotting dead and bits are landing in your bacon.
Maybe it’s the cultural differences. Maybe it’s the fact I had my Dark Lord hat on. Maybe I’m just inured to the idea of death, dying, the soul, and various forms of afterlife. Whatever the reason, I found I wasn’t too terribly moved to sympathy for the poor elf.
“Thank you. I’m sure T’yl appreciates the lesson as much as I do. Get on the horse. We’re leaving. Now.”
Bob visibly forced himself to take the hand of the Thing that demanded it. The Thing hefted and swung him up onto the back of the Thing’s magical horse. Bob didn’t want to put his arms around the Thing, and the Thing allowed him to hang on to the Thing’s belt. I’m such an understanding Thing.
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br /> Shortly thereafter, we went up the pass and approached the gate. No one gave us any trouble. They shone lights down at us, of course, but they didn’t bother to call out a challenge. Once they actually saw us, the thuds and clanks of the gate opening process began. It was a very nice gate, brand new.
Bronze strutted through the streets of Vathula. The place seemed very quiet. There was a strong smell of decay in the air, and I asked Bob about it.
“By now, if your mercy has been granted, there are a thousand dead, Na’irethed zarad’na . They are doubtless the source.”
“If there are any survivors of that curse, let them live; they can serve as examples of what it means to defy me.”
“As you command, so shall it be, Na’irethed zarad’na .”
Bob was obviously feeling very formal. Usually, he just settled on “Dread Lord” and left it at that.
I rode into the palace and the throne room, dropped him off on the steps to the throne. Several dozen unpleasant faces watched from the doors, but didn’t quite dare to go in.
“Get another chair,” I told him. “Set it lower and to the right of the throne. That’s yours, as my regent in this place. Let no one but me sit on the true throne of Vathula.”
“As you command, so shall it be, Na’irethed zarad’na ,” he repeated. Well, maybe he would become a little less terrified of me when I was farther away. I cut the cords on the mirror and lowered it to him.
“Put that in a safe place. It will contact another mirror just like it in the capitol. Another of my servants is always ready to answer the mirrors, so you may reach me whenever you find it needful.”
Bob went to both knees, one hand supporting the wrapped mirror. He repeated his new catchphrase again.
Bronze and I left without another word. Bob used to be a better conversationalist.
Thursday, July 15th
My talks with Drannis, Palays, and Rogis convinced me that Drannis and Rogis were fairly reasonable people. They agreed they had no real reason to be ill-disposed toward Mochara and would even welcome the opportunity for trade, except for the current difficulties with Byrne. Drannis, especially, seemed more than willing to be an ally to the Kingdom of Karvalen, especially if it got his daughters home.
