Blood of War

by Remi Michaud

  “Sir! What do you need?”

  He stifled the urge to wrinkle his nose when the man's fetid breath washed over him, rotted teeth giving the stench of stale liquor a sickly-sweet undertone of decay.

  “Have we rounded up all the able bodied men in this midden heap?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “How many do we have now?”

  “About six thousand in total sir.”

  Herkan hesitated, unsure what it was his commander wanted, unsure if he was dismissed or if there was something else.

  “Well? What are you waiting for? It's time to move on.”

  With another crisp salute, Herkan ran, shouting orders and Gixen watched. It was always satisfying to see his men move quickly, to see them jump to do as he commanded. They had good reason to move. The master had been very clear. He did not care if Gixen indulged himself with the odd girl. He did not care if he killed every girl in the land. As long as he returned with the prize. Soon. If his men did not move quickly, he would flay them himself.

  Gixen quickly donned a shirt, and strode through the camp to his horse, distracted, still thinking about his task and the days ahead.

  For Gixen's part, he did not care if the master got his prize. Well, not quite true. The master had made it quite clear what would happen to him if he failed so he supposed he cared a little. But the truth was, Gixen would have taken this task anyway. He wanted to wage war. He wanted to feel his sword slide into men, to see their life ooze to a red puddle on the ground, to feel the hot wetness of it splash on his face and body. It was like a cleansing for him.

  And the thought of all those young southern sunlander girls aroused him, their smooth flesh undamaged by bitter winds, their meekness, their readiness to service him. Oh he would bring death to them, soldier and girl alike. It would be a dream come true.

  But first, he had to finish building his army. He had time for that. Maybe enough time to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh once or twice more before they marched south.

  As he turned his rangy horse, as he led his growing army, six thousand strong, six thousand hard, grim faced men, there was a shriek in the village behind him.

  “Kahlia! Kahlia!”

  So that had been the girl's name. Not that it made a difference. Names were reserved for those who mattered. As the remaining villagers—women, children and men too old to piss by themselves—broke off their sullen stares at the army that had taken all their able-bodied men and rushed to see what the problem was, Gixen smiled. He got at least some of his final pleasure after all.

  * * *

  Grand Prelate Maten was feeling rather smug as he approached the great sweeping doors to Threimes's throne room. He smiled beatifically at the young page who stood at attention before the door. The young boy squeaked as he recognized Maten, and slipped into the throne room. This did not bother Maten in the slightest. The news from Thalor had been wonderful. They were only months away from destroying the Salosian dogs. He had already signed orders that Thalor would round up every available Soldier of God minus enough to keep each garrison manned by a skeleton staff and, along with any priests Thalor deemed necessary, would march by the end of the spring.

  When the page returned, he informed Maten in a squeaky, breathy voice that the king had granted him an audience, and the great double doors swung wide. Inside, he heard the court herald announce his presence.

  His soft slippers seemed to sink into the plush velvety carpet that stretched from the doors he entered to the massive throne at the far end of the room. His robe shushed as he walked, and as he walked, the courtiers that lined both sides of the deeply purple carpet grew in status, from the lowest thanes near the doors, farthest away from the king, up to the king's chief advisors clustered around the throne like a pack of hyenas around a dead antelope: the Duke of Threimes, tall and dark and with his ice cold eyes; the minister of the treasury, a stooped and withered ancient who looked a year in the grave already; and even the Duke of Grayson, his hair the obvious color, but still powerful looking for all his age, that conniving old bastard. They and half a dozen others who comprised the privileged few who had access to the king's ear.

  Murmurs reached him, muted fragments of conversation, though nothing specific, just the sounds of a crowded room, the sound of a kingdom's heart beating.

  He approached slowly, purposefully, and with back straight—it would not be seemly for the Grand Prelate to scuttle like some lackey heeling a master, though under all the scrutinizing eyes, he had to admit, at least to himself, a certain amount of apprehension—and he eyed the throne room. It had been years since he had last seen this chamber and as it always used to—in better times when he himself had access to the king's ear—the grandeur astounded him. It was huge; when he entered, the king on his throne was merely a speck in the distance. Great windows, a hundred paces tall if they were one, rose from floor to ceiling, casting the entire throne room in golden-white light. Marble pillars that seemed a part of the floor, to rise from it naturally as if everything were one solid piece, rose as thick as trees and as smooth as polished steel to hold up the ornately carved and frescoed ceiling, a ceiling that showed Threimes I bowing before Gaorla to receive blessings.

  The throne itself was so intricately carved, so expertly crafted that where gold and wood met, there was no seam, no indication that either material had ever been separate from the other. The king was a fair sized man, but his throne dwarfed him, its back reaching several paces above his head and spreading so far sideways that he looked like a child sitting in his father's chair. It gave the impression that this throne, the center of all power in the kingdom of Threimes was too much for any single man to fill.

  Above the throne, hung the great crystal chandelier that, legend had it, was created in a cooperative effort by craftsmen from each nation that had warred incessantly centuries ago, warred over who would control the land that Threimes, the first one, had claimed for his own. It was a sort of peace treaty as much as it was a symbol of sovereignty.

  “Ah Grand Prelate, so good to see you again after all these years,” the king said when Maten finally reached the bottom of the dais and knelt. Maten noted the decidedly icy undertone in the king's greeting.

  King Threimes—not his birth name but the name that all the kings adopted when they took the throne (his birth name had been Malder; not very kingly in Maten's opinion) sat ensconced in his chair, lost in it, gazing down at him, his face benevolent and open though his eyes were shrewd, calculating. He had cause, Maten supposed. They had a history. He was not a young man, but neither was he old; his face was unlined except for a few faint creases at the corners of his eyes. His neatly trimmed beard, almost black, had just the faintest hint of gray streaks at the chin, like comets in the night sky. He sat at his ease, his legs stretched out so that his feet rested on his heels, and one elbow was resting on the bunched fabric of his royal mantle like it was no more than a throw pillow instead of one of the great symbols of his power. With his fingers laced together, he appeared to be more a man taking his ease in his den as opposed to a king presiding over his court.

  “Sire,” Maten said, “It is my honor to serve you.”

  “Indeed.”

  Maten looked up sharply; the king was eying him sardonically, one eyebrow raised. A flash of irritation passed through him, but he did not let it show. Behind the king, the group of men chuckled darkly.

  “Of course, my liege,” he responded with a benevolent smile.

  “Well then, holy one, would you kindly serve me by telling me what you want from me?”

  Maten nearly winced at the cold tone and icy glare. He and the king had at one time been close. As a matter of fact, it had been he who personally tutored the then young prince in the ways of the church and politics. For years after Threimes had ascended the throne, Maten had been constantly at his side, his most trusted advisor.

  That relationship had not survived the debacle with the late princess, the king's only child. If only she had kept he
rself clear of that cult. If only Maten had not discovered her dabbling in the dark arts. If only Threimes had not doted on her so. If only...

  What was done, was done. Maten had simply been performing his godly duties. Maybe some day Threimes would realize it.

  “My liege,” he began trying to remember the short presentation he had cobbled together for this. “I come before you to reveal the location of a band of terrorists. This band has been operating without reprisal for nigh on two thousand years. I have come to tell you that they will soon be destroyed and the leaders will be brought to Gaorla's justice.”

  “I assume you are referring to the Salosian Order.”

  Maten lowered his eyes. “As always, the king is quick to grasp the gist.”

  Threimes stirred on his throne. “Yes, yes. We have not yet come to the part where you tell me why you bothered to come down here and interrupt the day's proceedings. Surely your Soldiers of God will have this in hand.”

  “Of course, sire. But these criminals have committed atrocities not only against God but against your people as well. I thought that you might welcome a chance to join forces with your church to bring them to justice.”

  “Ah. That explains why you have filled my city to bursting with your men. And it is yet more troops you want?”

  “Once again, your quick grasp of-”

  Threimes leaned back, nearly disappearing into the depths of his massive throne. “Stop flattering me. You have a large enough army of your own to deal with this matter. Unfortunately, I am not disposed at this time to lend aid.”

  “But my liege-”

  “No Maten. I will not be assisting you in this. This is a church issue. I will not impede your army as long as they do not display any hostility to those not of your Salosian Order, but I will not send anyone with you.”

  Maten passed a helpless gaze from man to man around the throne, silently imploring them to help him but all glared at him, mirroring Threimes' own expression. All except Grayson who, though he kept silent, had a more speculative air about him.

  But Maten did not let on that he had seen the hint. He bowed once again to the king and begged the throne's permission to withdraw. Threimes waved his hand uncaringly, already turning away to speak with the Duke of Threimes.

  Swallowing the sharp words that sprang to the tip of his tongue, words that would most certainly see him hung for treason, Maten bowed again, not so deeply this time—though deeply enough to hide the appalled rage he knew must be seeping from his eyes, and he strode from the throne room. His back seemed to burn as a hundred and more sets of laughing eyes watched him leave but he stood tall and walked out as gracefully as he could. I will not flee like a whipped dog.

  As he stepped from the throne room, he could not help sagging a little in relief, breathing deeply to calm his surging anger. It would serve them right if the kingdom toppled. Fools.

  “Your eminence? May I be of assistance?”

  Maten snapped his eyes open. He caught sight of the young page boy who looked back at him with a concerned expression and a tentative smile.

  “Away with you boy,” he snarled.

  The pang of guilt he felt as he watched the child scuttle away did not help his mood.

  He still felt a twinge as he thought of the relationship he had once had with the king. He had loved the man like a son and the feeling had at one time, he thought, been reciprocated. If only Annalise had kept to her proper studies. He pushed the thought away, for that was the past and he needed to look to the future. A future, he hoped, without the constant thorn in his side that was the Salosian Order.

  As he straightened up and made his way to his carriage, he rallied, knowing that though the king would not help, he would at least not hinder. With Thalor leading the bulk of their troops, they were assured victory, with or without Threimes.

  And what of Grayson? Had Maten imagined the interested look? He would have to send oblique inquiries to the duke's attention. It would be useful having allies so close to the cursed Salosian hive.

  Though feeling cold fury at his mistreatment at Threimes's hands, he boarded his waiting carriage and ordered the driver back to the temple with a grim smile on his face.

  Chapter 11

  In the world of early spring, life begins anew. Buds appear as if by magic on on trees like emeralds; flowers peek up and gently unfurl their silken petals, dotting the landscape in a riotous rainbow; wildlife that has been ensconced in warm dens sleeping away the winter tentatively poke noses into air that has lost the chill edge of winter. Life begins. It is a time of joy, it is a time to get outside, bathe in the reborn sun, and revel in the wonder of the world, of life.

  So why did Jurel feel like finding a deep, dark hole and crawling into it? Why did he want nothing more than to curl up, weep until he fell asleep, and then with a little luck not wake up for a long, long time?

  A year ago, death had tainted the wonder of life quickening. A year ago, his foster father had been murdered before his eyes. A year ago, he had rampaged through a temple in vengeance, ripping, crushing, maiming, killing everything in reach, leaving an ocean of blood and broken bodies in his wake. A year ago, he had lost everything he held dear when he gained what he hated most.

  A year ago, he had become the God of War.

  Then what? Then he had spent the next year a ghost haunting his own life, aimless, drifting rudderless. What had he accomplished in the past year? He had learned about history and geography and politics, religion, philosophy, linguistics, mathematics, alchemy. He had learned about arcanum—enough at least to know that he would seemingly never have access to it.

  And to be honest, for all his learning, the only thing he knew for certain was doubt. He understood that he had always harbored doubts, but now he was educated enough to coherently express it, and consciously understand it and all its ramifications.

  Sitting near the tree line, in the shadow of the trees, some few hundred paces from the Abbey compound, Jurel gazed sightlessly at the new spring. He pulled disconsolately at long blades of grass as thought after tired thought oozed, each one dragging him down just a little bit farther.

  He was useless. He was pointless. He had this great and wonderful destiny ahead of him and he had no idea how to take the first step. He had no idea what the first step even was. So instead, he wandered the corridors of the Abbey, listened with all the attentiveness and politeness that Daved had instilled in him to Metana's lectures, performed all the duties asked of him without hesitation or complaint as the disappointment and doubt grew to crushing levels in the eyes of those who saw him. He filled his days with ephemera hoping perhaps that he could fill the gaping hole in his soul. And yet here he sat, in the shadows, pulling disconsolately at blades of grass, feeling dead inside, while life stirred all around him.

  What would he do? What could he do?

  * * *

  Wandering through the western courtyard, Jurel watched men-at-arms going through their drills while sergeants bawled encouragement. Practice swords clacked, men and women grunted, and the mass shifted back and forth like a tide as they shuffled through their stances. Surrounding the combatants in a dense ring, stood their comrades calling encouragement as they awaited their turns on the field.

  He had already passed two courtyards in the east, both filled to capacity with Mikal's soldiers.

  Brow drawn down, he hurried to the west courtyards, and then the south. His suspicions were confirmed when each one he passed also had soldiers milling and practicing. Even the barracks, usually half empty when every man and woman under Mikal's command was accounted for, was teeming.

  Hurrying, he made his way into the main building and toward Mikal's office. At the door, he was surprised to see the mass of yet more people—some full fledged brothers and sisters; some of Mikal's officers, a few of whom Jurel recognized; some acolytes and servants who looked nervously about them as though they were not supposed to be there—lining up. Seeing no other alternative, he joined what he thought was
the back of the line and waited. No one seemed to notice him, so embroiled in their own discussions were they.

  Soon, he saw a crack of spilled light from Mikal's opening door and a young acolyte, a rather powerful looking young man, stepped out behind a brother who stormed away in an apparent huff. The acolyte made his way down the line, sharing a few quiet words with each person waiting and making notes on a board in front of him. He was a few paces away from Jurel when he glanced up and caught his eye. With a start, he stared, his mouth opening and shutting before he whirled and nearly sprinted back into Mikal's office, slamming the door behind him.

  Jurel nervously shuffled his feet as those waiting in line, searching for what had caused the acolyte to flee, caught sight of him. All of them stared and the sounds of conversation ground to a halt.

  Just as Jurel decided to turn tail and bolt, Mikal's door opened again, but this time it was Mikal himself who stepped out. The bluff, stocky man, ignoring the storm of shouted requests from those waiting in line, gestured to Jurel.

  Relieved to be away from all the prying stares and guilty to have jumped his turn, Jurel stepped out of the line and followed Mikal into his office. Though Jurel had never been here, it felt familiar. A plain, serviceable desk faced the door. The walls were bare stone except for a small bookshelf behind Mikal's chair. Mikal's office was like a mirror of the man himself: strictly utilitarian, no nonsense, dour and reticent. Mikal gestured to the ladderback chair in front of his desk as he sat in his own.

  The acolyte took up position by the door like a guard.

  “What brings you here, Jurel?”

  With a shrug, Jurel tried to hide some embarrassment. “I just wanted to ask a question, really.”

  Mikal nodded. “Anything to do with why there seem to be so many soldiers lately?”

  Mutely, Jurel nodded.

  “I figured. There have been rumors flying for the last few months that the prelacy is starting something big. According to reports, nearly all the northern regiments of Soldiers of God have been massing at Threimes. And there are reports of a similar massing in Grayson. It doesn't take a genius to know what they plan. As long as our location remains a secret, we have little to fear but if we are found, we need as many soldiers ready for battle as we can get. I've been recruiting hard over the winter while you've been holed away with your learning. We've managed to nearly double our standing army with more on the way.”