by Kal Spriggs
“It just doesn't make sense,” Captain Elias said, his voice rough. He rubbed at his face and the rough scrape of his callused hand against the stubble on his chin sounded loud in the cabin. “Why would they move to picket the north? The passage is wide enough to make it difficult to picket it in strength and we still hold both shores. For that matter, it thins their blockade force at Boirton. The Ryft, that I understand, the Southern Fleet would need to use that passage and even a small force there can threaten any ships which try the passage, keep them bottled up in the channel.”
“Agreed,” Christoffer said. “Besides that, they can rely on Noric pirates to threaten any shipping near the coast.” He frowned, “And the Southern Fleet hasn't even moved from its position at Freeport.” That last bothered him more than the two ships headed north. What kind of game does Admiral Fenteren play?
“Sir, maybe some of the Armen decided to withdraw?” Lieutenant Jonas asked. Admiral Tarken looked over at the young lieutenant. His plain brown eyes had gone bloodshot, either from the long strategy session or sleepless nights covering down on the workload of the executive officer and his normal work.
“What do you mean?” Christoffer asked.
“Well, sir. We know from the captives and from witnesses at Port Riss that several thousand Solak came south with the Semat tribes. They don't tend to raid our lands, sir. They rarely come south in strength, the Darkstar are more of a threat to them than we are. They might just have decided to withdraw... take their share of the loot and return home, before they get stuck in a greater fight than they planned.”
“That's an interesting theory,” Captain Elias said. “What do you base it on?”
Lieutenant Jonas flushed a bit, “Sir, I did some time on my uncle's merchant ship, to pay for my commission as a midshipman. I visited Sola a couple of times. The Solak Armen... they behave differently from the Semat raiders we normally deal with. They have a culture, a society even, and while they don't like us, they know exactly who is more likely to conquer them.”
“So why would they join this campaign in the first place?” Master Lorens asked.
“Doesn't matter,” Captain Elias said. “If he is right, their forces, and more importantly, their warlord Marka Pall, has decided to withdraw.” He looked over at Christoffer, “Do you think it has something to do with our prisoners?”
“You think the Semat held his daughter as a hostage?” Christoffer leaned back in his chair. For the first time in the long hours of discussion, he felt his brain start to gain traction on the many issues. “Perhaps... though I doubt even the Solak value their daughters that highly.” He looked over at Lieutenant Jonas, who nodded somberly. “I think a withdrawal might explain those two ships, as you said, Jon.”
“With that said...” Admiral Christoffer Tarken looked at the glowing swarm that represented the Southern Fleet, “We need to find out why Admiral Fenteren has remained in position. By now, even merchant ships must have carried news of Port Riss and Boirton to him.”
Captain Elias shifted uncomfortably. The movement drew Christoffer's attention. “Yes, Captain?”
Elias looked down at the table top, “Sir... I don't even want to mention it, its just that the topic we discussed the other day has... come to mind.”
Christoffer leaned forward, he frowned, and looked at the Captain without understanding for a long moment. “You mean...”
“About possibilities, sir.”
Christoffer leaned back, and he couldn't stop his jaw from dropping, “Admiral Fenteren–” He shook his head. He wanted to say how well he knew the man, how his daughter Amelia stood in as a bridesmaid at Fenteren's daughter's wedding. He could not imagine a more loyal officer. He looked around the table and then gave a sigh. “Might as well just say it, Captain. You fear, as I do, that the Armen had assistance from someone in the South, someone from Boir.”
“Yes, and it would explain the Southern Fleet's lack of movement, sir.” Captain Elias said. “I know it seems absurd, but... sir it also makes sense.”
“It does,” Christoffer said, his voice crisp, “But I would like to think it something less malevolent than treason.” He shook his head, “I trust all of you at the table to maintain silence on this subject. The last thing we need is even the rumor of treason to taint the career of any distinguished officer. Besides, the same accusations could be turned on us for our very survival.”
Lieutenant Jonas leapt to his feet, “Sir, no one would ever believe that you–”
“People will believe what makes them feel superior or brings them comfort,” Christoffer said. “And unlike Admiral Fenteren, I already have an example of treason in my family.” He let out a deep breath. “No, I think that our course must be clear, at this point.”
“Sir?” Captain Elias asked.
Christoffer stood, he pinched his lips together in a dour expression as he pointed at the entrance to the Ryft. “We must have reinforcements to break the Armen blockade and end their siege of Boirton. To do that, we need the Southern fleet. Therefore, we must take the Ryft Passage to Freeport.”
“There's at least two of our captured ships, plus who knows how many Noric galleys and Armen sloops in the Passage, Admiral,” Captain Elias said. “And the channel there is tight, we'll have to face them all, head on.”
“Yes...” Admiral Christoffer Tarken smiled slightly, “Time to regain the honor of the Fleet.”
***
Lord Hector the Usurper
Fort Isolation, The Lonely Isle, the Duchy of Masov
Twenty-Second of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering
“The battle will begin at dawn,” Lord Hector said. He glared around the room at the captains and commanders. “The local battalion will form on the left flank. Commander Nasrat will have full authority. Commander Pradjahdar will command the second mercenary battalion on the right flank. My own battalion will hold the center. The Armen force we face has less than half our numbers and no cavalry.”
He glanced over at where a dark-skinned local woman stood, “Veruna will command the witches, and prevent the Armen shamans from using their spirits against us. The Semat clans we face tomorrow have no enchanters or wizards, so this will be a fairly straightforward battle.”
His gaze ranged the room, and his eyes narrowed as he saw Kerrel near the back. “Captain Flamehair, your company will hold on the left flank, until we have decisively engaged the Armen. At that point, you will move to the Armen encampment,” Hector pointed it out on the map, “and secure it. Be aware, that if any of their warriors get free from the battle, they'll attempt to kill their prisoners, as well as their women and children.”
“What?” she asked, shocked.
“It's a great dishonor, among them, to be captured alive,” Commander Nasrat said, his voice harsh. The local's dark complexion marked his mixed heritage, but the disgust in his voice spoke of what side he had chosen. “They will torture any prisoners they take, and they kill themselves and their wounded when they can, to prevent us from taking any alive. Some of their women will do the same, though they tend to be more pragmatic about it.”
“Move with speed, and secure their encampment,” Hector said. He glanced around the room. “Any other questions?”
Silence met him, and he gave a quick nod. “This will be more of a practice run than anything else, with our numbers and superior training. Make certain your people retain your discipline and remember your duties. You are dismissed.”
Hector watched his officers file out and as the last of them headed for the tent flap, his gaze dropped to the map in front of him. The markers that showed Armen encampments spotted the shoreline. Every cycle they come, less in number this time than others, but still thousands of them, he thought. The price to fight them continued to grow, yet he had no other option.
“Any orders about what to do with any prisoners we take?” Kerrel asked.
Hector looked up, surprised to see her still in the tent, “Separate their women and children. Boys younger tha
n twelve and girls younger than fifteen. The ones older than that will follow in their parents footsteps. Younger ones we can put with local families,” Hector said. “The women... some of them come from the south and those we'll try to get home, those that have homes left. Many will find places as camp followers or move south to start new lives.”
“The others?” Kerrel asked.
Hector stared at her in silence for a moment. I wonder if she's heard the stories, or if she really doesn't know, he thought. “I've made arrangements for the others. Just make sure the Armen don't kill them, and that the fanatics among the women don't kill the others. Be certain you disarm them, some of the women from other tribes besides the Semat have military training.”
Kerrel raised an eyebrow, “I can hardly imagine a woman being dangerous, it will be very difficult to convince my troops to worry about that.”
Hector gave her a smile, “Yes, how could I forget? But be careful, I lost two officers last cycle to Armen women. One took an Armen woman as a servant and wound up poisoned. The other took a knife in the throat when he went to help a wounded child.” Hector cleared his throat, “I would prefer you to be safe.”
Kerrel looked away, “I hadn't realized you still cared.”
“I do,” Hector said, his voice soft. “For all that we disagree... I still feel the same way about you.” He cleared his throat again, “Perhaps you could stay for dinner?”
Kerrel met his dark eyes with her own green-eyed gaze. He saw her run a hand back through her red hair, “I have to pass on the information to Baran and make sure my men are ready for tomorrow. But maybe tomorrow.”
“Good,” Hector smiled. He felt some of the tension ease in his chest. “And maybe we'll have some time after dinner...”
Kerrel met his smile with one of her own, “Maybe.”
She turned and left the tent. Hector nodded slightly, She's a fine woman and soon enough she will understand why things must be the way they are, both here at the front and back in the south.
He hoped she would understand, anyway. If she didn't, well then he would have to handle that if it happened. By my ancestors, I would hate to have to kill her.
***
Aerion
The Tucola Forest, Zielona Gora Barony, Duchy of Masov
Twenty-Second of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering
The sun had long set, and the cool night air whispered against Aerion's skin as he practiced. He closed his eyes and breathed in the night air. He felt it's crisp bite on his sweat-dampened skin. He felt more confident and more certain now, though the raw edge of fear still gnawed at him.
He had removed the too-tight tunic and he felt so much more comfortable in just the trousers, his bare feet planted in the green grass of the small clearing in the forest. It reminded him of a place he had visited as a child, on the slopes of Watkowa Peak.
As often happened when his mind visited his past, it soon returned to the massacre at his village. Though he had not told the others, he woke almost every night, tortured by nightmares. Again and again, he came back to a single question, one which he had no answer. Why, he wondered, did I survive, why didn't I die too?
His thoughts heard no answer in the silence of the night. Aerion fought back the sadness and the guilt. He drove all his rage against it, and with a grunt, he began the exercises again. He whipped the long blade through the series of drills and for one moment, it felt right. For one single moment, he felt as he sometimes did at work in the forge. Every motion flowed together, without wasted effort. He had perfect control over his limbs, and total focus on every action as time seemed to slow.
The soft snap of a foot breaking a twig behind him broke his concentration, and his sweaty hands nearly lost control of the sword as he stumbled. Aerion turned quickly, and only realized a moment later that he had taken up a defensive stance with the greatsword.
A dark form, barely visible against the shadows of the clearing, raised its hands. “Careful, boy, I'm not a tree, just here to talk,” Gerlin's soft voice spoke.
Aerion flushed at the reminder of his woodcutting jibe, “Got to stay on my toes, I guess,” Aerion said.
Gerlin kicked a small branch out of the shadows, “Been standing here a bit, Aerion, finally stomped on that to get your attention. Looks like you've improved quite a bit.”
Aerion shrugged, “I suppose.” He sheathed the greatsword in its battered scabbard on his hip. The long blade had become more comfortable there, though he still caught it on things when he forgot about it.
“You've been keeping to yourself lately,” Gerlin said.
Aerion shrugged. Most of the others in the camp were much older than him. Worse, he had never truly found it easy to make friends. In Watkowa Village, he was Eleanor's son... fatherless. It had set him apart from other children since birth. They'd ridiculed him for that and later when he grew taller and stronger than the others, they had cautiously ridiculed him further.
Aerion had kept to himself, other than the few adults he had some bond with. Old Taggart and his mother were really the only two. And now everyone he had known was dead, from Solis the innkeeper to Samen the Elder.
“I'm used to it,” Aerion said as the familiar anger caused his jaw to clench.
Gerlin gave him a nod, “Oh, I'd imagine you think so, but it doesn't hurt to make friends, you know? If nothing else, they can help you keep things in perspective.”
“Perspective? I'm not familiar with the word” Aerion said.
“Yes it means... a measure of scale, I suppose,” Gerlin said. “You're sharp enough that I forget you grew up in a remote mountain town.”
“I know plenty,” Aerion growled. “I can weld two dissimilar types of metal and build a forge from scratch. I don't need to know a lot of odd words to do what I do.”
“No... but you could say things quicker and more accurately,” Gerlin responded. “But I digress...” He squinted up at the night sky. The light of Aoria was enough to blot out most of the stars, but a few glittered in the sky. “Sometimes it's easy to forget that man came from out there.”
Aerion looked up, startled at the change of subject. He squinted up at the stars, his one eye sought out the light of the constellations he recognized. “Yes, the Starborn came from there.” The story seemed so distant, somehow, almost unimportant after the events of the past few weeks. The thought filled him with shame as he remembered Taggart and his stories of the past. The old man deserved for Aerion to remember the stories he told. Who else will, he reminded himself, if not me?
“The Starborn, three thousand of our cycles ago, yes,” Gerlin said. “But there are legends and stories that predate history, that say that all men came here to Eoriel from the stars and that the Starborn are only the most recent arrivals.” The dark-skinned halfblood shook his head and the starlight glinted off his bare scalp. He continued to speak, “But that's not my point. Out there, there are entire worlds, where people go about lives that may be almost incomprehensible to us. But they are still men. They still experience pain, loss, and suffering.”
Aerion felt his throat constrict. How many humans out there shared similar stories to his own, he wondered. The Starborn had fled some threat so terrible that they wiped all records of it from their histories. Did that threat remain, did it loom over the countless worlds that orbited the distant stars even now?
“It puts things into perspective,” Gerlin said. “It doesn't soften the blow or ease the pain... but it gives you some reference, no?”
Aerion shrugged, “One tiny village against the vast numbers of humanity?” The thought didn't make him feel better. His losses were too raw, to real, not just names, but faces, history, sounds, sights and even smells.
“No, more like there's someone out there who's got to have it worse off than you,” Gerlin smiled. “Just think, the odds are, that some poor bastard out there has it worse than you. You lost a village, he lost his entire world. You're far better off than him. Thank your ancestors for that.”
Aerion snorted despite himself. “That's... pretty dark for humor.”
Gerlin smiled, “I've a gift, what can I say?” He loosened his shoulders. “Since you look to have limbered yourself up, care to spar a bit? A friendly bout.”
Aerion hesitated. He'd seen Gerlin and Bulmor both go against the more skilled fighters in the camp, sometimes two or three at a time. He knew he wouldn't measure up, not yet. Still, I need to learn all that I can... and as Gerlin said, perhaps I should make a friend, Aerion thought. “Sure, why not?”
Gerlin gave him a grin, “That's the spirit.”
***
Unknown
The spy watched from the trees.
He closed his eyes as his mind raced. The arrival of Katarina seemed a sign from the ancestors. The boy's potential, on the other hand, filled him with anxiety but also eagerness. He put so much at risk, yet the possibilities made his head reel.
The boy's skill with a sword had grown rapidly, enough that he could match some of the band's more recent recruits. In time, if allowed to live, the spy felt certain the boy would become a fearsome warrior indeed. And with his intelligence and as yet undeveloped charisma... the spy nodded, the boy had much potential and his rough past made him malleable, open to thoughts and deeds that he would not have considered had he remained in his village.
The spy wondered, not for the first time, if his enemies had finally embroiled him in a trap. His own plans depended upon Lady Katarina and his opponents, nameless and faceless as they remained, must know that by now. They had certainly taken action behind the scenes and he suspected they had infiltrated Lord Hector's men, though he knew that Hector opposed them and their goals as much as the spy himself did.
Had they finally discovered him? Would he go to join his ancestors as a failure. Would his own dark deeds prove to be as fruitless as he feared? Those thoughts made him sweat, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he imagined unseen assassins creep behind him.
