by T. A. Miles
He left his father’s bedside and exited the room into the hall, drawing the door closed behind him. Cayri was coming toward him from what was evidently her favorite place before the window at the end of the corridor. It had a glorious view of the ocean, but more importantly, one could see the outermost edges of the city and what may be coming at them from beyond. The mage seemed to have a knack for knowing when Deitir was going to emerge from any of his vigils at his father’s side, but he suspected this time that what had drawn her was the same disruption that had drawn him. For that reason, he didn’t bother to ask her if she knew what the commotion was. He simply headed toward the stairs with her alongside him. Whenever she walked with him so automatically, he felt his confidence emboldened. She had a way at soothing with her presence, which he resisted at first because he felt the need to be an extension of his father’s distrust while his father was away in spirit, if not mentally as well. It had rendered Indhovan’s governor an island amid people who stood in confusion and frustration at the sudden distance. It did not take Deitir long to realize that Cayri had come to help, or maybe just that she could help. The stress her calming presence alleviated was remarkable. Foolishly, he would hope to never see her go, though he knew that the Seminary at Vassenleigh was her place. And Indhovan was his, whether to support his father or to succeed him.
He put such thoughts deliberately from his mind, making his focus the very raised voice of a man he felt certain that he recognized.
“I will not quiet down,” the man protested at whomever had suggested he lower his voice. “The ship was not only sunk, it was obliterated. It was shredded—torn literally asunder! Can you understand that? Can any of you imagine it?”
Deitir felt his mood and expression both sour, particularly as he heard his mother now, attempting to calm the man—one of her activist friends, and a particularly irritating one at that. Upon arriving at the top of the stairs, Deitir visually targeted the man, who was nearing his sixth decade, if he hadn’t eclipsed it already. He maintained a sturdy frame despite his lack of youth. His dark hair shone lighter in some places and his hairline had retreated somewhat above the temples, though the exceptionally short style the man kept may have made it less apparent to an eye not quite as critical as Deitir’s in the moment. In these moments, Deitir felt helplessly uncharitable. According to his mother, Firard Mortannis and she shared a common city of origin to the south, where Deitir supposed he might have run the narrow risk of growing up himself, if his mother had not determined to make her own path away from the overly domestic expectations of her family. Deitir became acutely aware in moments like these that his mother’s past acquaintances had very likely known the man who sired him and he resented them for it, not out of jealousy, but because he had no desire to know. If the man had been such a worthy person, he doubted his mother would have been unmarried when she’d met the only man Deitir would acknowledge as his father. And it was in that thought that Deitir understood that his pronounced lack of charity just now may have stemmed from his father’s failing health more than from anything else.
He drew in a breath and headed down the steps, just behind Cayri, who seemed particularly drawn by what Firard was exclaiming.
“That ship was a scout,” Firard went on. “It attacked us immediately, and brutally, with weapons of tremendous force. It may have been fortunate that the sea rose against us when it did. We were set adrift. Thankfully, boats were recovered and we were able to bring those of us left to shore.”
“And the scout ship?” Deitir prompted, watching his mother take note of a crudely dressed wound on Firard’s right arm.
Waving away Ilayna’s concern, Firard looked at Deitir and said, “Sunk, as we were. They may have taken the brunt of the water. We didn’t encounter any survivors, but that doesn’t mean there weren’t any.”
“No,” Cayri replied. “But it probably means that they were unable to report back to their allies in a timely sense.”
“Which may explain their delay,” Deitir added. When Firard looked at him more directly, he nodded to confirm what may have been going through the other man’s mind; that their unauthorized attempt to get information from the north had been unnecessary. “We already received a report from allies regarding Morenne’s movements.”
Firard cast an expression that may have been more at home on the face of his youth, full of overly assured arrogance while he made a sound that may have suggested what Deitir said had been trite and useless. Deitir had heard plenty of stories from both parents about the vain and lax children of nobles that once resided in Cenily, and he had no intention of being bullied by one of yesterday’s brats.
“We had more cause than acquiring information of their whereabouts,” Firard said, in a less condescending tone than Deitir had been expecting in that moment.
Deitir didn’t bother to ask what their cause had been. He was certain that his mother knew and he would try to obtain answers from both her and Firard later. In the meantime, he said, “None of the ships that went out to avoid the wave reported having seen anything suspicious when they returned. I’ll assume you were much farther out.”
Now Firard seemed more confused than anything, which enabled exhaustion to begin to catch up to him. He took several needed breaths, looking from Deitir to Ilayna, then said, “You knew that the sea would deliver such a wave beforehand?”
“It was not so freakish an incident as it would have seemed to you and your companions,” Deitir told him. While the older man frowned, he added, “It was yet another of the enemy’s strategies. You should get your arm looked after and take some rest, Master Mortannis.”
Firard nodded once—perhaps defeated more by his confusion than by Deitir’s authority—and the conversation was left at that.
Deitir turned to Cayri, who gave him her attention in turn. He couldn’t even begin to guess how her green eyes regarded him, but he knew that he trusted her. He trusted her guidance, but he knew also that it was his guidance Indhovan needed now. His father was in no condition to prepare for what was coming, even if he were to come to full consciousness within the hour. It was on his own shoulders now. He knew that.
“I’ll speak with Firard more after he’s rested,” Deitir said to the lady mage. She approved with her silence and Deitir continued. “I fear that we can hope no further where Morenne’s attack is concerned. We must consider it not only pending, but imminent.”
“Yes,” she agreed.
“I’ll have Fersmyn call a meeting,” he decided.
He was relieved when Cayri said, “I think that’s wise.”
The office of the governor had taken in as many bodies as it may have been capable of holding. Vlas noted that not only were the governor’s immediate officers present, but there were soldiers in attendance as well as members of the constabulary, including Rahl. And Imris. Vlas regarded her with a glance that extended itself in duration when the lady constable noticed him in return. Unquestionably, he felt a bond formed by their shared experience. They had both seen the cult’s lair of operation, they had both witnessed Serawe, and they had both been in attendance to Vaelyx’s death. He couldn’t help but to doubt that Imris missed the man terribly, such was her censure regarding his mistakes, but he wondered about her reaction all the same. Her gray-green eyes—helplessly bright against the darkness of her complexion—moved away from him when the governor’s son began to address the assembly. Vlas let his own gaze linger for a moment, long enough to admire her exotic features—which were quite rounded and girlish, actually, in spite of her seriousness. He admired more than he knew he ought to. He’d been charmed by his share of pretty faces in his time and his instinctive habit was most often to maintain a secret of it. The few times he hadn’t, he had not been successful in forging lasting relationships. He’d written it off to being the preoccupied sort, which considering his lot happened to be largely true. And, where individuals outside of the Seminary were concerne
d, it would have to suffice.
He sensed Cayri look at him in the corner of his vision and glanced her way while her attention was returning to Deitir Tahrsel, which he realized his should have been doing as well. Granted, they had heard the tone of this and many of the details already. A battle was imminent. It had technically begun with the wave, crafted by the former priestess of Indhovan’s coven to weaken the city, structurally and also by striking a blow to both its human and demon population. That had, of course, been unbeknownst to the demons the witch had been conspiring with. Once they learned of the betrayal, the resident Master of the Vadryn set out to assassinate the witch. Mages stepped in before either side anticipated they would. The wave had been averted, but the city had still taken damage. The witches in Indhovan had come around under what would hopefully be better guidance and the Islands cult was at least scattered, if the core of it wasn’t quashed altogether. Vlas would have been more comforted knowing for certain what had become of Korsten and the demons he’d lured away. In the meantime, they’d lost Merran to injury. With him back at the Seminary for recovery and Korsten absent, they were without hunters. Not that hunters were what they required at the moment. Not specifically. Vlas anticipated that any further colleagues to arrive at Indhovan would be specialists in battle. With none to arrive yet or any firm word that they were to, however, it would seem that their ranks were already spread too thin. That seemed always to be the circumstance since the siege on Vassenleigh, the event that had marked the start of the war between Edrinor and Morenne, elevating a battle that had taken place in the shadows to the surface of the mortal world. One day it would make a fascinating fairytale, he imagined, or a dreadful one.
That line of thinking wasn’t entirely uplifting, not that it was intended to be. With a heavy internal sigh, Vlas stole another glance at Imris before he forced his concentration to be elsewhere.
“This city is on highest alert,” Deitir said to everyone present, undoubtedly punctuating words that had preceded and been lost to Vlas’ straying attention. “We’ve had multiple sources confirm that Morenne is on the water and on course for Indhovan. We now know for certain that they are already armed with the fire tactics from the Islands. Our own skill with such weaponry is insufficient, at best. We have mages present and it is our hope that Vassenleigh will send more. Morenne has magic users of their own, though we’re led to believe that they are of an inferior skillset and application to what ours possess.”
Ours. Vlas didn’t know whether to feel comforted or impeded upon by the statement, all things considered regarding the past relationship—the lack of it—between Indhovan’s governor and the Seminary.
Regardless of Vlas’ internal considerations, Deitir continued. “I believe that’s true, else the enemy would not have searched for and derived a new form of weapon. Unfortunately, their offense involves worse than weapons. It involves the Vadryn.”
Vlas steadied himself for the typical response from groups of people who’d settled themselves in comfortable denial. Granted, it was no longer quite so comfortable since the crone’s work was uncovered and witnessed to the full. With the consistent presence of mages—the known even if not regarded opponents of the Vadryn—it became increasingly more difficult for anyone frequenting the manor or its office to deny or ignore. That must have been what held the uncomfortable shifting and groans of contempt or disbelief to a minimum.
“The demon army which meant to ambush us from within our own city has been routed,” Deitir informed his people. “We have only the mages to thank for that. And for that, both the Seminary and this city may have suffered two casualties already. Two mages expert in dealing with demons. One still lives, though the whereabouts and state of the other remains unknown. We must take that to heart, not in persisting to fear this onslaught, but in strengthening our resolve and in regarding this threat with the utmost seriousness. We no longer hold the luxuries of ignorance or of time. The enemy is upon us.”
“Might I suggest a strategy, my lord?” came the low, measured voice of Constable Rahl. The elder was encouraged to continue by way of a nod from the city’s current acting governor. With hands neatly folded behind his back, the chief constable said, “I believe it would be advantageous to plant a small force on the nearest of the Islands, as a contingency unit and also to be in observation and ready for a possible strike from forces embedded within the Islands population. We already know that the enemy controlled a faction that was conspiring both politically and militarily against us. We don’t know that there aren’t any remnant seeds of the group in hiding, hoping to be overlooked in the urgency of the hour.”
“He’s right,” someone else said, a man who, by the look of him, was one of Indhovan’s soldiers. His uniform, while not unlike that of the constabulary’s personnel, boasted a more vividly colored tunic and sword slung at his side rather than the slim club issued to constables. “We could afford two ships to patrol the flanking side of the nearer Islands. Of course, our fleet—if we should call it that—is small and dressed primarily for the policing of the merchant routes along the coast. We have no warships, as such.”
“Right.” While it seemed in tone and expression that Deitir was not pleased with the information, he wasn’t surprised by it either. Apparently, he’d had no illusions about the readiness of their city for a war few had genuinely anticipated, his own father having been among the more stubborn of disbelievers.
“We’ve devised a plan to utilize the fire tactics as a defense,” the solider continued. “A line of skiffs, chained together with all of them carrying a supply. Bowmen will shoot fire arrows to the line when the enemy ships have come near enough.”
Rahl was nodding with approval as the soldier spoke, as were others among the gathering. Some demonstrated more skepticism in their expressions, in spite of the overall agreement the room had come to. It was warranted, considering how quickly they were being forced to gain a useful understanding of a new and very dangerous weapon. Fortunately, the basis of it was simple enough. It was in the handling and application of it where they lacked. Having seized only what had been stockpiled by the cult members, their supply was limited. There was no time for collecting more or for putting anymore raw material through whatever processes were required. As well, devising serviceable weapons from this basic supply left them with only the most rudimentary examples. They had no means by which to do more than orchestrate how to best achieve the end result, as had been done at Serawe’s well. They had needed enough force to bring the well down on itself. And now they needed enough force to set back ships that were undoubtedly better armed with these very same weapons.
“It will be in our greatest interest to disable the enemy ships first,” Fersmyn said, in unconscious agreement with Vlas’ thoughts. “But we also have to anticipate that Morenne has been on the march. We have to protect the north wall and the cliffs.”
Deitir made eye contact with several people as planning and debate carried on. Vlas noted that he allowed them a certain amount of freedom to discuss without allowing them to overpower his voice or presence. Still, he wasn’t as quick to assert full control as a man with more experience or years may have done. Vlas hadn’t determined yet if that was better or worse for their situation.
“The arbalests have already been set out on the wall,” the soldier from before said.
He must have been of rank, Vlas determined. In age he may have been nearer to Deitir than most of the city’s officials. He was thicker in build and his complexion and features suggested he may have been of mixed breeding between an individual of the mainland and someone native to the Islands. Considering what Vlas and Cayri had learned about the strained growth both cultures had undergone—something akin to adoptive siblings who were too alert to that fact—he imagined this soldier must have had to been very persistent and enduring to acquire such a strong voice, even in spite of their governor’s people of origin. Considering Imris, who was a woman, on top o
f fully native to the Islands, Vlas came to an acute realization in that moment of just how progressive Indhovan truly was. Growth included the pains of growth, of course. The city seemed to be maturing well in that regard, but it was doing so ahead of the rest of Edrinor and undoubtedly Morenne as well. Vlas realized that the city had to survive for more than strategic reasons alone and the sake of survival. It had to continue to lay down an example of progress and integration, so that Edrinor might emerge from the darkness of this era into one optimistic and better balanced. The activists in the city were perhaps prodding their society along too quickly in their enthusiasm to forge a brighter path.
Before Vlas could become too focused on future politics and how the Seminary might play into them in Indhovan and ultimately the rest of Edrinor, he decided he ought to give due attention to the fact that they had to survive the war first, and the Vadryn.
“The areas that were evacuated for the wave remain so,” Rahl was saying. “Some of that is owed to damage. Public venues throughout the city have been allocated for the displaced. There’s room for more, though I imagine these locations will fill quickly.”
“Let’s move people from the outer fringes of the city on all but the lower west and south sides,” Deitir decided. “Constable Rahl, make that an immediate priority.”
The elder nodded.
“Captain Oshand, arm the skiffs and set them out. Also see to it that the patrol ships and any converted vessels are prepared and out of port as soon as possible.”
The soldier of mixed parenting gave an affirmative reply and Deitir’s next target was another man in similar uniform, perhaps a few years senior to Oshand and entirely of mainland descent, though they both had sharper features than most. “Captain Gairel, organize units and position them for the defense at the wall.”
