by Kal Spriggs
She nodded. Cederic waited while she took her bearings and then finally led the way towards the west. He had a map, but he had not actually set foot on the mainland. He was island born and bred... whereas she had roamed these lands. Things had changed, he was sure, in a thousand cycles. Still, at least she had some familiarity with the area.
He wondered, though, if that were more burden than help for her. She had seen these lands when they were healthy... when an entire city lay along the bay, rather than a tiny village. She had known some of those people, could, no doubt, recall conversations with them. Such was the curse of the Viani, Cederic knew.
A part of him ached at the thought that she had loved and married, and experienced loss and love for far longer than he had lived. Another, deeper, part of him envied her that. Certainly, as a wizard, he might find ways to extend his lifespan. His mentor, Noth, had essentially done so. But he no longer lived, not in the sense that he was purely a creature of flesh and blood. He had attained the ability to transcend such things... but it made him somehow less attached to the world in the process.
Seraphai had lived... and still did. She, like all of the Viani and their kin the Wold, would live until accident, disease, or violence killed them, unlike any other races of men, even the long-lived Starborn. But she'll die soon enough unless we can change things for the better, he thought. He squared his broad shoulders and stood a little straighter. Immortal or not, she needed his help, and he would not fail her.
Even if it meant his own life.
***
Captain Kerrel Flamehair
Fort Isolation, The Lonely Isle, Duchy of Masov
Twentieth of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering
The sunsets seem to come more slowly in the north, Kerrel Flamehair thought. The sun hung just on the horizon and stained the sky the color of blood. Like a man on the verge of death, it lingered and wavered on its departure.
“Welcome to Fort Isolation, Captain Flamehair,” a deep voice said.
Kerrel turned in her saddle and her eyes grew wide. She leaped from the saddle, arms outstretched. The massive man caught her easily, despite the weight of her weapons and armor, and her own not inconsiderable weight. “Bravis, good to see you!”
“And you too, lass,” he said gruffly. He set her on her feet, and Kerrel took a step back to look him over. His blonde hair had far more gray in it and his heavy body held more weight than she remembered. His towering height and broad shoulders had not changed, nor had the creased face from cycles of life in the field.
“What brings you here, Bravis?” She asked, “Guarding some noble's interests out here from the rest of the pillaging hordes?”
His smile faded a bit, “Same as you, I'd expect, lass. We shipped out in Sopar, snow so deep we barely made it, my company and two more, Feren's and Isak's.
“I hadn't heard the Mongrels had signed on with Hector,” Kerrel said. She felt unease stir in her guts. Hector knew of her ties to the Mongrels, that he hadn't said anything when he sent her here... “Wait, did you say you came here in the winter?”
Bravis grimaced, “Yes, lass. A harsh march, nearly lost a platoon of men to the weather up here and we did lose half our horses. I am surprised you didn't know. Hector sent his Dog to offer the Mongrels a deal.” Kerrel could hear the sour tone in his voice, and she winced as she thought of what the message would have consisted of if delivered by Grel the Hound.
“It seems Hector didn't trust a band of mercenaries such as us to remain in his domain, not when the rest of his forces would march to the North. So he gave us two options, either we marched with his army, for reasonable pay, or we would be removed from the Duchy of Masov, by force, if necessary.”
“That bastard,” Kerrel snapped. She turned and had begun to climb into her saddle when Bravis's large hands caught her by the shoulders and turned her around.
“Not your fight, lass.” His big, sad, brown eyes looked down at her, “And not going to improve things here for us if you go and get in a fight with Hector... or worse, he loses his trust for you and starts to see you as a threat.”
Kerrel clenched her fists. She wanted to scream at him, to tell him how Hector had deceived her, how she would make him cut the Mongrels loose from the fight, let them return home to the lands they had held for over fifty cycles. She let out an angry breath and forced her muscles to relax.
“You're right,” She shook her head. “I wish you weren't, but you are.” She dropped her hands to the hilt of the saber that hung at her waist. She let out a deep breath, and opened her eyes, “You can let me go, Bravis, I won't go storming off and try to cut Hector into dog meat... not right now anyway.”
“Good, lass.” The old mercenary grinned down at her. “Which means that Isak is out fifty coin and Feren a hundred. The two of them thought you'd take at least a few hours of cursing chained to a rock to get past your anger.”
Kerrel gave him a sardonic smile, “So you bet that I'd be smart and think things through?”
He let her shoulders go and gave a wide, gap-toothed grin, “Ancestors no, lass. I owe Captain Correia of the Harbringers thirty solars. I thought I would have to knock you out to get you to listen to reason. I guess your old friend knows you better than this old dog.”
“Captain Correia's out here?” Kerrel asked. She shook her head, “I thought he still had that contract back in the Duchy of Asador?” She and Corriea had not parted on the best of terms when they had last met.
“He did,” the old warrior shook his head. “He ran into some trouble out there, he said, so he came back out this way for work, just in time to sign up with Lord Hector.”
Kerrel shook her head, “How many of the Mongrels are back at home?”
Bravis sighed, “Not as many as we would like. Basil's company has that contract with the Isolates way down south, the Black Peak Pass.”
Kerrel shivered, “I remember that place well. I don't know how he and his men can stand to stay that close to the place.” The area had a dark reputation, mostly from the foul sorcerer-spawned monsters that infested the area, but also from the many dark events that had occurred. For that matter, Kerrel thought, there's the persistent rumors that a coven of sorcerers still infest Black Peak.
“They're all a bit funny in the head, but lots of them are mageborn or have kin who disappeared into the dungeons of the Black Fortress.” Bravis shrugged, “Then the Countess took three companies to Free Port: Little Bravis, Manis, and a new fella by the name of Yunar, who took over Wagner's company after he retired.”
Kerrel's hands clenched on her saber hilt as she went through what that left, “Then it's just the training and reserve companies at the Doghouse.”
“Yes,” Bravis said. “And don't think we haven't thought that through, that our families and home are hostage to our good behavior.” He shrugged, “It's a powerful reputation we have and you can't tell me that Hector surprised you with this, not with how you know him.”
Kerrel looked away, and her anger trickled away. “That he did something like this... no, nor even that he hid it from me, knowing that I served with you.”
“Well then, now that we have the unpleasantness out of the way, how about you join me in my tent and let an old dog tell you about what he's been up to since you went off on your own and founded your little band of cut-throats.”
Kerrel glanced back at her men. Baran had drawn them back a respectful distance, but their curiosity and interest shown despite their discipline. “Sure, Bravis. Let me just tell my boys what's going on and then you can tell me all about it.”
***
Warlord Marka Pall
Armen siege camp, Boirton, Duchy of Boir
Twentieth of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering
Marka Pall, Warlord of the Solak Armen tribes, showed no sign of surprise at the cloaked figure that sat cross legged in his field tent. He glanced over his shoulder at his guards and caught the faintest glimmer out of the corner of his eye. Warded against sight and sound, he gu
essed.
“Xavien,” Marka said. He forced himself to keep calm, though he felt his jaw clench and he felt his heart rate slow. He felt each pulse of his heart, like a hammer, felt his hands tingle as his spell grafts activated, alerted to both his anger and the danger.
The seated wizard threw back his hood and Xavien's delicate features and pale face emerged. He gave a girlish giggle, “Marka Pall... you don't seem surprised.”
Marka circled the perimeter of his tent. The glimmer had alerted him, and he saw the faint shimmer of the energy field, like a cup that trapped him in his own tent. “I knew you would come. If not with more 'advice,' then to seek some way to regain control.”
“I haven't lost control,” Xavien said. “Everything continues to the plan. My plan.”
“Your master's plan, you mean,” Marka snarled. “And I wouldn't be so certain of that, wizard.” He spat the title like the curse it was amongst his people. “Or should I call you sorcerer now?”
Some emotion besides arrogance flashed across Xavien's face. “Use caution with the words you choose, Armen.”
“Or what? You will follow through with your threats?” Marka circled around behind him and he bent low to whisper in Xavien's ear, “But you can't do anything to me now, can you sorcerer? She's beyond even your reach now, isn't she?”
“No one is beyond my reach,” Xavien said. He stood and spun to face the warlord. “Or do I need to remind you of that? She may be captive, but that does not mean she cannot be reached.”
Marka smiled, “So... you can be manipulated. She lives then, I wonder what price you would have charged me for that knowledge?”
Xavien's pale face flushed and his rune covered staff spun. Marka grunted in anguish as green energy struck him squarely in the chest. His limbs twitched as he sagged to the floor. He tasted blood in his mouth as his lips drew back in a grimace of pain and hate. His hands still shook with tremors as he caught his breath again, “Careful, you wouldn't want to break your toys.”
“Do not provoke me further, Marka Pall. I could wrench your mind to make you little more than a puppet, I could rip your soul from your body and infuse it with that of one of my pets,” Xavien stood over him, pale face flushed, and his dark eyed gaze bored into him. Marka had no doubt the wizard wanted only to destroy the mere mortal who not only managed to trick him, but gloated to his face.
“We wouldn't want you doing anything rash, now would we?” Marka said. “You can't replace me, not with a mindless puppet. My own people would kill me in a week. And you can't touch my soul... even you wouldn't challenge the one who's already claimed it.” The Armen Warlord stood shakily. “So lets drop the act, shall we? You need me alive and whole.”
Marka watched the wizard's pale hands clench on his staff, so hard his knuckles seemed ready to burst from his pale thin skin. “A fact which you seem determined to make me forget...” Xavien took a step back and his dark gaze searched the tent. “It seems I underestimated you, Pall, a fact I shall not soon forget.”
“Good,” Marka smiled slightly. “Now that we've established I know what I'm talking about, let me tell you what I have done for you, what I'm going to do, and what you won't do.”
Xavien sneered, then gestured grandly, “But of course, Marka Pall, please, enlighten me.”
“I have followed your wishes, my shamans and warriors gave the Semat tribes the strength to break the Boir fleet sent to stop their raids. I have supported Turan Khal and his Darkstar 'adviser',” Marka couldn't keep a sneer of his own off of his face, “And I even delivered my daughter as a hostage of good favor to them.” Marka Pall looked to the side wall of the tent. He could sense the walls of Boirton behind that tent wall, shrouded in the darkness. “I even followed them here, to this fool's siege.”
“Their plan has sown chaos, done damage from which Boir will not recover and gained much support from your people...” Xavien said, his voice soft.
Marka spat to the floor, “The Darkstar seek to keep both of us weak, as they grow stronger. Many of my tribes have paid the price for such victories. Boir's fleet never truly threatened us, their great ships could never breach the mountain passes and hidden villages of my tribes. No... what I did served the Darkstar's purposes, which is reason enough to oppose that course. And whatever you goals, and those of your master, Xavien, I doubt you have the well-being of my people at heart.”
Xavien didn't respond, but Marka gave a broad smile, “Yes, you see now that I opposed you all along, but I figured something out more important than the survival of my daughter.” Marka leaned forward, and his deep blue eyes locked in staring contest with the dark gaze of his would be master. “You truly need me.”
Xavien looked away first.
“So what I am going to do now, is order my people to withdraw from this siege. To take their loot and their captives, and sail back to our coast. They feel flushed with victory now, but they have come far from home and they will obey me when I tell them that our war here has come to an end.” Marka smiled, “And Turan Khal will not oppose me, not when I control the supply ships and the ships that protect them. As a gesture of my generosity, I will leave him sufficient transports that he can withdraw when the inevitable relief force arrives to break the siege.”
“You would not dare-”
“I'm not finished, sorcerer,” Marka snarled. “What you will do is realize that your plan has not unfolded to your direction, that other players have taken part in this game of yours. You will allow me to withdraw and moreover, you will ensure that no harm comes to my warriors as we leave.”
“Why would I do any such thing?” Xavien asked. His hands caressed his staff, and several of the runes had begun to give off a faint glow of green energy.
Marka reached in his tunic and threw an object straight at Xavien's face.
A shimmering ball of energy surrounded Xavien immediately, and the slip of parchment struck that shield, where crackling green lightning held it transfixed. Marka cocked his head as he contemplated the defense. He made note of the speed at which the wizard had activated his runic defenses.
“What is this?” Xavien dropped the defense and snatched the scorched parchment out of the air. His pale hands clutched at it as he stared down at the handful of words. Marka smiled as he saw a shudder go through the wizard, even as his hands crumpled the parchment into a ball. Xavien threw the crumpled message back to Marka, who caught it easily. “This... this is a lie.”
“This comes from one of my spies at Port Riss, a man who owes me far more than his life... Xavien Tarken. He did not lie. And now you must see that I knew why you would find this information disturbing.” Marka smiled, “Did you think that we savages from the North would never piece together the identity of yet another southern nobleman who seeks to use us again?”
“If your forces are to withdraw, what makes you think you remain of any value to me?” Xavien asked. “Especially, as you have proven a threat?” The wizard leaned on his staff and a cruel smile began to grow on his face. “What makes you think I won't simply shatter your fleet and leave the warriors of your people starving and stranded at the heart of such a perfect trap? That I won't watch your tribes succumb to hunger, predators, and the cold winter without your men to protect them?”
Marka stood tall. A part of him cringed against that vision, but the rest of him recognized the predator in this wizard, something that would attack anything that showed weakness. “Because you know that this has only just begun. Something stirs the spirits of my ancestors, wakes my holy men in the night with visions of war on a scale this world hasn't seen since the times of Andoral Elhonas... and that war only sets the stage for what will come. You need me, you need my army and you don't need it here in a meaningless siege. You know me, know my weaknesses and you know that you will find the right traction to bend me to your will again, to force me to put my armies at your bidding.” Marka pointed at the ceiling of the tent, “But most of all, Xavien Tarken, you know that if you kill me, you destroy the one ge
neral who your master knows can fight the best of what the Darkstar and the Southerners can marshal. And I know that the one thing you absolutely can not afford is to... disappoint your master.”
Xavien drew himself up to his full height. For a moment his hands clenched again on his staff and his dark eyes seemed to become pits of shadow on his pale face. “Very well, Marka Pall. I think we have an understanding,” the cruel smile returned to his face, “Though you may well regret the fashion of your bargaining when I next call upon your services.” He drew his hood up over his face again and then faded from sight.
Marka Pall waited a long moment. He sank to his knees finally. Only one thing mattered, the one thing that made all of Xavien's threats meaningless. He felt the hand unclench from around his heart. Tears that he could never afford even one of his warriors to see welled up in his eyes. “She lives.”
***
Lord Admiral Christoffer Tarken
Aboard the Ubelfurst, the Boir Sea
Twenty-Second of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering
The charts scattered across the table showed the hours spent in discussion as much as the faint glow of dawn visible through the armored porthole. Admiral Tarken sat back in his chair, “You are certain of these positions Master Lorens?”
“Yes, sir.” The artisan wizard made some slight adjustments to his display chart, which showed six glowing pricks of light. Three hung off the coast, part of the blockade for Boirton. Two more continued their recently begun movement north, headed towards the exit of the Boir Sea and, presumably, the northern continent. The last two held position near the entrance to the Ryft. “There may be some delay, due to the transmission lag between the Mircea's equipment and my own, but no more than a few hours my Lord.”
Admiral Tarken nodded and like his other officers, he wondered at the movement of those two ships to the north. They must, by now, have learned of the Mircea's capture, or at least assume it destroyed. Perhaps they suspected another such warship had survived and their course might indicate an intention to blockade the northern passage.
