"No," Vasska said calmly, clinking a pair of beads he always kept wrapped around his wrists.
"My Lord?"
"The Queen is of no concern to us," The Emperor said, displaying his complete lack of tactical thought. The man would surrender his sword to a paper army if he felt the winds weren't right. "Surely you must wonder why I have come, Marciano."
Because you're a bleedin' loon, slipped into the General's thoughts but he knew better than to voice them, "Your thoughts are your own, my Lord. I am no one to question them."
Vasska smiled at that. He may spend over 45% of his day humbly subjecting himself to Argur's will but he still loved a good ass kissing. "The prophecy has revealed more of itself to me."
Oh gods and their bastard sons, not the prophecy again. The Empire had been on a relatively stable track less than ten years ago, making small inroads into the Northern lands with promises of trade for the occasional Empire ambassador to sit in the King's court (and alter the local economy in their favor). Then, on a bitterly rainy morning, Vasska ordered that the Snow King surrender the Tower of Ashar, his most prized keep.
Of course the Osteros refused, sending their ambassador back in a few bags, and overnight all friendly bridges were shat on and then burned. The Empire retreated back to its warmer homeland and prepared for war. It was supposed to go quickly enough, the Osteros were little more than backwoods yokels who still stripped naked to run into battle.
But that Queen of theirs stuck her nose into things, alliances were formed, daughters married off to princes with more vassals than sense, and Marciano found himself leading the charge against small countries that the Empire had little to no use for. The worst was Hicanth, a scrap of land so microscopic one could easily walk end to end in a day and a half. Its main exports were highly pungent cheeses until Earl got a job in Dawning.
Marciano felt sheepish as hell, standing outside the castle/stable's gates with over five hundred armed men asking nicely if they'd please vacate to new premises, the Emperor would like to own here now. A few guards made a show of attacking, but it ended in the king and his entire court moving into his cousin's castle's dungeon for a few months until they could get back on their feet.
Talk of the prophecy grew scant as the war raged on, and Marciano hoped that the Emperor had found a new toy to play with. But there was something about this year's first day of Spring; he'd always clung to it like a lover's promise to meet in the night. With the longest night past, and another Soulday spent ending more souls than guarding them, the spring loomed ever greater upon his head.
"What would you have of me, Sir?" Marciano asked the Emperor.
"You and your men are to accompany me upon my ships."
Marciano paled at that; he hated ships. The land refused to stay in place on deck, or there was being trapped in a hold with a hundred other heavy breathing men all trying to not throw up. "Sir, some of the men will have to remain in Magton," Marciano said, as if he could somehow magically be among them.
"Whatever for?" Vasska asked, his eyes wide with curiosity.
"To maintain the peace. The rebellion still bubbles beneath the surface."
"Really?" the Emperor said, as if this was the first he'd heard of the war that ravaged the coastal streets of Magton. Surely he saw the fires, heard the cries, smelled the blood and brimstone from his ship. But then, maybe he'd always been able to block all that out. Out of mind, out of sight.
Vasska shrugged his shoulders, "If you think it is wise, let ten men remain."
Marciano opened his mouth to object but knew he'd get nowhere. Hopefully the Emperor's shoddy accounting wouldn't miss an extra sixty or so men left standing on the docks.
"And where are we to set port, my Lord? Back to Avarai?" and to hell with this pointless quest.
"Sweet Argur, no. You are quite silly at times, Marciano. Playing that you do not enjoy this," Vasska laughed and the General chuckled, afraid of what would happen if he didn't play it off as a joke. "We aim for the northern coast of Isen."
"That will put us deep into the Ostero territory," Marciano exclaimed sternly as if to a child insistent upon running naked into a fire.
"Excellent, that was what my maps told me it would do," Vasska said, oblivious to how incredibly dangerous it was to sail right up to your enemy's front yard and shout "Hello!"
Marciano rubbed his forehead, "And how do you intend to land our forces safely?"
"Is that not what you are paid for?" Vasska asked seriously. "We will have many weeks for you to devise a cunning plan to take the beach and bring us all safely to Ashar before Springday."
"You still aim for the tower?" Marciano's voice dropped down out of fear for what fresh hell his boss would unleash next.
Vasska's tiny fingers lightly tapped the grizzled General's cheek, brushing down the greying stubble taking roost, "Dear Marciano, I have always aimed for Ashar. It is what this is all about."
The general shuddered at Vasska's "all", it sounded like he meant much more than a single campaign. More even, perhaps, than the entire war itself. Just what did this prophecy of the mad Emperor entail anyway?
"Very well, my Lord," Marciano said, standing slowly to break the Emperor's physical contact. "I will inform the men and organize the troops for the sea tomorrow."
"Oh no, tonight. It must be tonight, or we'll miss the whisper of Argur," he said, nodding to his priests who were currently fanning their burning grass and sage at a particularly demonic set of drapes. "I noticed you did not bathe your battlefield in rosemary, Marciano," Vasska said, his mind jumping tracks completely.
"No, my Lord."
"That is most dangerous, you do not wish to anger the arm of Argur," his distant eyes focused upon the General. A terrifying sight for the few who suffered his gaze, rarer for those to live to tell about it.
I'd rather not risk the idiocy of telling the enemy exactly where we're camped thanks to pungent burning herbs, Marciano thought, but bowed to his Emperor deeply as if he were accepting the sage advice. He glanced over at the priests, one now flailing about after he managed to light his drooping sleeves on fire, and turned to go.
"Marciano," the voice was a false warmth, like one felt the moment before freezing to death. "Did you perchance find that missing Ostero boy?"
"No, my lord. There has been no reported sight of him since the King was killed." Marciano had yet to hear from Gian, either the man was on the child's trail or he'd given up and gone home. If he were wise it'd be the latter, but the General knew the man well enough to suspect he was probably spending his nights face up in the snow on the trail.
"A curious thing that, a child walking right under your nose," the Emperor mused to himself. Marciano shifted in his armor, the rivets touching upon his unguarded skin starting to freeze in the unheated home.
Just as quickly as it came, the mood passed, "Well, I am certain you will find him. I have my best man on the job after all."
"Yes, Sir," Marciano said, grateful to finally have an exit. He walked calmly over to the flailing priest who had his robe half off and was dragging it across the floor, begging the others to extinguish it. But they refused, pointing to their soft slippers. In one quick stomp of metal boots, Marciano extinguished the flames, charred bits of holy fabric clinging to his shoe.
He nodded curtly to the gaggle of priests then exited the room, pushing aside the banner and picking up his helmet. His men would whine and beg, trying to weasel out of having to face another long trip to almost certain death, but Marciano knew they'd eventually fall into line. He'd trained them to.
In the corner, unwatched by any, Vasska counted out the beads on his arms, his fingers coming to rest upon a small charm, carved to a point. The sword that Argur used to cut the tendrils of magic. If he shut up his eyes tight enough, he could almost see it.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Three exhausted sets of legs climbed up the iced hill, fingers digging into the rock to keep from sliding all the way back down to the bottom, until th
ey stood above Putras; the city that never breathes.
It had been a major port back in the days of the full pantheon, before gods started to vanish after going out for a carton of golden milk and suffered demotions. Only a handful were mentioned on their respective feast days while everyone turned to either the light or the dark. Life was too complicated to have to pray to three different deities before you could get out the door. A quick wave to Scepticar was enough to keep your house from being struck by lightning now.
But the ruins of the old hospice remained, a building that rivaled some of the marvels of Aravi. It stood nearly four stories tall with what was once white stone that glistened in the sun. The Hospice covered nearly an acre of land, large enough to house both the college and the only major hospital for Arda that didn't involve a shave and a haircut to go with your appendectomy.
A statue of the goddess Hospar towered above the entrance arch, her arms outstretched in a welcoming embrace. Time had been unkind to the old girl, one of her arms caved centuries past and slipped through the crumbled roof. Parts of her side had been chiseled away by those who believed a piece of the goddess was enough to heal them. It looked as if a giant land shark took a bite from her torso and then a smaller nibble out of the thigh. Flocks of ravens nested upon her head, sharpening their beaks upon her eyes. On occasion, one would cry out to the dying city and swoop from its perch, scavenging for a new meal from the few who still made the pilgrimage to Putras in hope for salvation.
A mist clung over the blackened stones cracked from weeds fighting for dominance from the machinations of long dead men. The snows shifted in the dancing wind, burying most of the crumbled architecture like a shroud.
"Charming place," Isadora said, her cheeks as pink as her tiny lips from the cold.
Ciara looked over at Aldrin, who'd tried this leadership thing but proceeded to almost lead them off a cliff, though he did do it heroically with lots of rallying shouts and royal cursing. After that Isa took charge, gesturing to the obvious road with her staff. The old Empire road signs were long since rotted or stolen away by some kid who thought having "Beaver Crossing - 10 Miles" over his bed was hilarious.
But the locals and merchants preferred not wasting months walking around in circles causing the wolves nipping at their heels to get rather dizzy. So they made their own versions of signs, piling up rocks to symbolize the distance and carving the top stone with their personal interpretation of the towns and a direction. Putras was a skull with a snake climbing through its eye socket.
Aldrin breathed heavily, unused to so much walking. Isa led them from sun up until sun down on a straight path through a couple feet of snow, never pausing. If either the prince or Ciara begged for a moment to catch their breath the witch would turn on them as if she forgot they were even back there. But she'd have to acquiesce. After all, their only ticket in was through the letter securely locked away inside Aldrin's coat.
He pulled at the collar of his shirt, embroidered with what must have been golden hay the way it itched into his skin. Medwin insisted that the historian robes be left behind, and after some digging through everyone else's belongings, a green shirt, mercifully without the current popular doublet ruffles and oversized upper arms, was found. Ciara favored her original dress, leaving behind the one she earned for her Casamir stories. The original was already in such bad shape, another trip out and back again couldn't do much damage. Though he'd never say it, Aldrin preferred her in that one. The fading ivory offset her soft skin and oh, she was looking at him again. Curses.
"Let's try the door," the prince said, trying to pass off his blush as a snow flush, which was rather easy to do as they hadn't been warm in three days.
"You mean the one shattered upon the ground?" Ciara asked, pointing to what had once been a mighty set of siege proof doors, now resting in their own stone graves.
Aldrin shrugged and headed haphazardly down the hill, his boots sliding in the wet snow. Isadora looked out across the valley shrouded in shadows, the few pillars bursting through the mist like fractured bones.
"It smells of death," the witch said.
"Could be worse," Ciara responded, watching Aldrin finally succumb to gravity as his backside hit the ground, still sliding. She laughed quietly at the sight of the prince trying to maintain his dignity while sledding ass first down a hill.
"I suppose you are correct, it could taste of death as well," Isa said plainly and more cautiously began her own descent.
Ciara shivered under her coat. The witch had kept mostly to herself, only making the occasional comment or direction, but every now and then Ciara'd overhear her talking to herself. Most of it was muttered in a foreign tongue that clipped by indecipherably, but there were moments when she'd seize upon a familiar phrase or word and the soft winds carried back the muttering talk of "blood after the snow, summer's delight."
She still didn't believe in magic, the most she'd seen the witch do was preserve some fruit and keep Aldrin from dying. If that was all it took to be a witch, Ciara should be a full hag by now. But that didn't mean the witch wasn't dangerous. Anyone could wield a knife to the back. Ciara glanced behind her once more.
There'd been no sign of the assassin from the moment Aldrin ventured into the woods to find Isadora already packed and ready to leave for the dead city. No boots crunched in the shifting snows and no shadow followed behind far in the distance of the flat landscape. The fact she'd had no proof Taban was with them made her all the more certain the assassin was closer than she feared. Shaking her head, Ciara resigned herself to her fate and joined the others down the hill.
Aldrin was already shaking the back of his borrowed shirt trying to get the snow out by the time Isa joined him, delicately setting her feet upon the broken road that made up Putras' main street. For being of a rather intimidating girth, she moved silently in her strange slippers as if she spent most of her life trying to not be seen.
"There's a door up ahead," the witch said, peering through the broken shambles of eras long since lived. A set of ravens perched on top of the half shattered arch watching the new flesh. The descended keystone made for a great leaning spot for Aldrin as he lifted off one boot and dumped snow out.
"How is it you cannot keep out of the snow?" Isa asked, watching the boy replace one shoe and then attack the other.
"Dunno. Snow's just clumpy water. I've never had any aversion to swimming," Aldrin admitted watching Ciara try to cautiously balance her way down, one-foot sliding forward as her arms waved about like a very poor juggler.
"Cold, clumpy water," the witch pointed out. Her hands vanished into the folds of her own coat and cupped around the crystal she attacked the assassin with. Every now and again, she'd pull it out at night and wave it about, as if she were casting some spell. Then a huge nothing would happen and she'd carry on as if it were all perfectly normal.
"You don't much care for snow?" Aldrin asked, surprised to find someone who hated the white wash. If it weren't for the ease of a fearsome dragon's head, the Osteros probably would have drafted a snowflake for their crest. Entire weeks were lost building terrifying snow forts that would melt before Springday. But it kept the knights busy during the dark winter months and away from the handmaidens.
"I don't much care for any of this land," Isadora said, rubbing her pale fingers against the charred carbon still clinging to the aching pillars from an ancient fire.
"So, you're not from around here," Aldrin pointed out to her.
Isa looked over at him, her thin eyes narrowing more. She seemed uncertain if he was playing with her or really that stupid, "Didn't my face give it away?"
He shrugged, "It's not like it has scales or anything."
"Charming," Isadora muttered. She looked over at the Dunner who spoke like a backwater Ostero, shivering from the drifts that clung to her skirts.
Ciara's hair scarf slipped back in the fight to the bottom and black curls framed her face, growing ashen in the rising cold. "We should get inside quickly, fe
els like a storm's coming."
But in the forgotten city it felt more like the storm long since passed, and the souls of those left behind were still waiting for their own ship to the underworld. Aldrin dropped his foot and stood, shaking off what he hoped would be the last of the snow for a while. Turning, he began to lead them through the cracked teeth of the giant's mouth. "Maybe they'll have hot buttered rum inside," he mused aloud. He may be an Ostero, but he still preferred the feel of something warm against his skin over the bite of ice.
"We'll be lucky if there's anyone alive in there," Ciara muttered, falling in beside Aldrin. She glanced into the void where errant wind whistled through cracked stone. Aside from the clop of their feet, no foreign sounds echoed through the dead city.
"There's life moving," the witch said confidently. Her walking stick was out again, carefully measuring each of her steps.
"And you just happen to know that because..." Ciara started, favoring the sound of a voice over the deafening silence of ages past.
Isa focused her pale eyes, the alien white appearing a haunting shade of blue in the shadows of the half goddess. She stared the girl up and up some more. It wasn't always easy intimidating someone when you barely broke five feet, "You do not want to know."
Ciara folded her arms, "And maybe I do. Maybe I want to hear all of your witchy secrets. Teach me how to throw about fire, and ride on broomsticks, and get cats to do my bidding."
The air crackled as Isadora laughed, sparks jumping off her fingers from the buildup of static charge in the dry air. "Ha ha ha ha, anyone can toss about fire if they have the means to douse a rag in alcohol and are none too attached to their fingers. The closest a witch can come to flying while on a broom is jumping from her roof and then an umbrella is preferable. As for the cats, there is not a man or beast alive who can command a cat."
"So it's all trickery then. Know more than the peasant you just snickered a few coins from," Ciara stuck her chin out.
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