by Emery, Ben
The soldiers, none of whom had ever personally visited one of the Free Cities, were keen to look around. All of them willingly left their equipment in their respective rooms, to avoid it being a hindrance in the crowded streets of the town, and each went their separate ways. Placatas, intent on sampling what he called, ‘local delicacies’, settled in the first inn he could find; Vedeon returned downstairs to settle with the Count the payment for the thousands of arrows he had made for him, as well as the safe storage and transport of Count Dondillis’ precious armour. The tribesmen disappeared quickly, to where Galarus was unsure, but the younger legionaries, Jaxon included, dawdled in the markets briefly, before joining Placatas in the pub. The General himself, after an hour of aimless meanderings, headed up to the keep’s outer wall. Above the chaos of the markets, the sea breeze could be felt clearly, as it loaded the air around him with the pleasant smells of salt and sea spray.
Crimstone was indeed a small place, the entire of it visible from the battlements upon which he stood. From the cliff top castle behind him, the town sprawled down a gentle slope below, hemmed in at its limits by the town’s outer most wall that met the cliff’s edge to the north and south. The buildings and houses were unimpressive, built of wood or stone for the most part, with roofs of golden thatch. Beyond the walls lay mostly farmland, divided by fences and irrigation ditches, while scavenging birds circled in the air above. Further still, and in every direction, lay woodland, dense and vast. Stumps and dismembered trunks indicated where woodcutters had been working, and much of the timber was being transported through the town by teams of oxen to be stockpiled within the confines of the castle, ready to be winched down to trade ships bound elsewhere. It was a quiet place, and quaint, with an air of community about it that was not so evident in larger cities. That is, unless Rural’s armies were to make it this far.
The feast that night was a boisterous occasion, the Count having paid for the inns and taverns of the town to serve all customers for free. The entire population took advantage of the night, sending their soldiers off into battle with thunderous song and toasts with overflowing tankards. Inside the castle, the celebrations were only slightly tamer. The legionaries, having comported themselves with a great deal of care and decency during their stay with the Wandeer, enthusiastically joined their fellow military men in enjoying the festivities.
The tribesmen, too, joined in merriment, though Marrew refrained from drinking too much, preferring instead to keep his wits about him, even in the company of friends. The behemoth, on the other hand, was draining barrel after barrel of wine and ale, his body showing an impressive resilience to the effects of the drink. As the revellers became more and more intoxicated, the archers that had been invited to the Count’s table began lining up in front of the behemoth. After a harmless, single test of strength between the Ironhand champion and Miran, who had been eager to test the warrior’s sword arm, almost all of the soldiers present challenged the giant to an arm wrestle. Galarus, too, had gotten involved, and though, despite easily being the strongest among the legionaries, he was no match for the sheer power of the archers. The behemoth, however, had less difficulty, and repeatedly slammed Crimstone fists into the wooden surface of the table within seconds of starting; much to his opponents’ surprise and frustration.
Vedeon, moderately enjoying his drink as much as anyone else, found himself in conversation with Count Brettar, with whom he discussed the possibility of fashioning more arrows, to add to the shipment he had already delivered.
‘I wish I’d had the foresight to order more!’ Brettar slurred. ‘I originally only wanted…how many did I want?’
‘Four thousand,’ Vedeon reminded him.
‘Ah, yes. Well that was only meant for a force of two hundred I was going to send to Bannerbridge! They’ve been having problems with the Vahc on the Inner Sea, and now we know why! Thought a tactical advantage might have done the pirates some good.’
Isella, sat next to her father, smiled politely as Coran tried to string clumsy sentences together to engage her in conversation. The several drinks he had had to bolster his courage had led to several more, and managed to inebriate him beyond the point of coherence. Much to the entertainment of Jaxon and Attais, who, not so subtly, attempted to apologise to the beautiful Wandeer girl for their friend’s advances.
As the night wore on, and the supplies of food and drink began to thin, the guests retired to their own, or others, places of rest. Jaxon had staggered upstairs with one of the Count’s serving girls on his arm, while Attais was required to carry a woefully worse-for-ware Coran back to his room. Marrew and the behemoth had also retired to their respective rooms; the former wanting to be well rested for the following day, and the latter having drunk the castle’s stores dry. Eventually the whole affair wound down, until all that were left standing were Galarus, Placatas, Miran and the Count, who peppered the General and his lieutenant with questions of their journey to Crimstone.
‘Honestly,’ Galarus was mumbling into his tankard, ‘the wave must have been the height of these cliffs.’ He waved a hand in the opposite direction to the coast. ‘The Vahc just shit themselves.’
‘I can’t blame them,’ Placatas added, his arms folding across his chest and his eyelids beginning to droop. ‘He was on our side and I still shit myself.’
The Count laughed heartily, and clapped the old lieutenant across the back. Placatas’ head lolled forward with the force, having fallen soundly asleep in a matter of seconds.
‘It sounds like quite the adventure. I wish I could return to my youth and get out of this castle more often,’ Brettar admitted, flailing a hand at the rafters. ‘But tell me, what is your plan from here? If you cannot convince the other Cities that Maeoraph is just a distraction, what then?’
Galarus shrugged, his drink sloshing over the brim of his tankard and onto his hand. ‘We will march to Valgaard alone.’
‘I want you to know,’ Brettar mumbled, leaning in closer, ‘as much as I believe you, I can’t commit my men to your cause alone. The alliance between the Cities demands mutual military support. If the other leaders decide to march to Auprem, my archers and I must go with them.’
The General nodded. ‘Of course; we will face Rural’s armies regardless. Each of us has a score to settle with him, even if it means just the nine of us, we won’t go down without a fight.’
The journey to Meddas was an easy one, though those with heavier heads may not have thought so. The road was wide and well maintained, and ran south from the gates of Crimstone and into the thick forests that surrounded the town, before turning west and inland toward the flowing hills of the Sennerlands, that fell under the control of the central metropolis.
All but five hundred of the archers that made up the Count’s forces followed the road to the unofficial capital of the Free Cities; the rest remained behind as a garrison, under the control of Brettar’s steward, a nephew of his, since he had no sons of his own, who was also tasked with the day to day running of the town until his uncle’s return.
Galarus and his companions marched at the head of the column, in the company of the Count, their equipment stowed safely among the supplies of the army. With the fine weather on their side, they came within sight of Meddas only a week after having left Crimstone, and reached the City itself by early evening of the seventh day.
Meddas itself was a sight to behold. Sat atop a broad hill, it dominated the surrounding landscape. Perfectly circular walls enclosed the pristine streets and flawless architecture. Above it all, seemingly scraping the very clouds themselves, stood the Ebbal Tower; the home of the Meddaean scholars and the largest library in the world. Meddas was the focal point for any and every academic in Banmer; students and teachers alike swarmed to the city in droves in the hope of accessing the extensive resources of the learned men that resided there. Its schools and colleges were among the largest buildings within the city, as well as the largest generators of income.
The Tower, circular at
its base and punctuated throughout with plain glass windows, also played host to the offices of the Ministers; a trio of exemplary academics who were tasked with the running of the city, similar to the role of the Counts of the other Cities. They did this by dividing their leadership into three branches: Order, which focused on crime and punishment, (a small task in a place of learned men,) as well as the maintaining of the city guard and army; Trade, which concerned itself with all things mercantilist, such as affairs of trading standards and pricing, both foreign and domestic; and Populace, which saw to, and dealt with, the needs of the local population and matters of the civil service, as well as being responsible for the outlying villages in the Sennerlands, under the protection of Meddas.
Roads snaked their way out from the city walls in every direction, the larger ones heading to the other Free Cities; Gerder, two weeks to the north, and Auprem and Bannerbridge, like Crimstone, only seven days march to the south and west respectively. From the high ground outside of Meddas could be seen the encampments of two of the other three Cities that had beaten the Count and his army here. The black osprey on a white field, the standard of the pirates of Bannerbridge, flew above a crowd of tents to the northwest, and, south of them, above a far smaller camp, the white eight-point star set against the dark blue of the representatives of Auprem fluttered in the gentle breeze. And lining the parapets of the City in whose shadow they sat, danced the red and yellow sunrise standard of Meddas.
‘Bah,’ Miran exhaled derisively, moving up beside the General. ‘You know why they display the sun like that?’ He pointed up to the Meddaean standard, but didn’t wait for a reply. ‘They believe they’re bringing light into the world. “Light through Knowledge,” they say. Stuck up pricks.’
Stuck up or not, Galarus thought, the city was certainly one of the more impressive sights he’d ever seen.
The army was ordered by the Count to camp in the valley south of the city, under the supervision of Miran, while he announced their arrival to the Ministers. Galarus and the rest of the group accompanied him. Upon reaching the southern gate, they were greeted by a slender man, dressed unremarkably, but bearing the sunrise emblem upon his left breast.
‘It shows he’s an envoy of the Ministers themselves,’ Brettar muttered quietly to Galarus, tapping his chest with two fingers to indicate the Meddaean badge.
‘If you would kindly follow me, my lord,’ he greeted them, with an impatient respect, gesturing beyond the gate, before turning and leading them toward the Ebbal Tower.
Those that were out in the streets parted for them, though whether due to the guide’s authority or the sight of the intimidating soldiers behind him was unclear.
Meddas was less like Caldoa than Galarus had imagined. The latter was larger without a doubt, but the streets here were more open. Buildings were not so crushed together, and did not overshadow the paths between them. The architecture itself was not dissimilar; tall buildings of white stone, with slated roofs of different colours. Many more of the abodes in Meddas possessed balconies though, and those that overlooked the main street down which they walked were strewn with garlands of flowers and greenery, some of which even ran from one side of the road to the other, suspended by thin lengths of rope.
The guards, too, presented a very different impression to those of Caldoa. They were fewer, and more poorly equipped, but were jovial, and happily engaged citizens in conversation as though they were not on duty at all.
‘This could not have come at a worse time,’ their guide observed, drawing Galarus’ attention away from the city around him. ‘We’ve had a fresh wave of merchant caravans and refugees from Auprem join us, when only three days ago the entire Trading Guild of Gerder arrived to conduct their business. It’s been a nightmare trying to organise everything.’
‘Oh, I know!’ the Count replied mockingly. ‘Wars can be so ill-timed can’t they?’
‘Exactly!’ the guide said, happily, seemingly oblivious to Brettar’s tone. ‘It’s always the administrators that suffer!’
He shuffled onward, their destination looming larger and larger as they neared. He led them around a bend in the street and the whole structure came into view in front of them. Beneath a decorated stone archway, the road opened up into a circular courtyard that surrounded the base of the Ebbal Tower. Beautiful gardens adorned most of the area, and, dotted around them, were low stone benches, many of which were occupied by scholars, either engrossed in conversation with one another or with their noses buried amidst the pages of large volumes.
They were led down an even flagstone pathway, toward what appeared to be the only entrance into the tower. The wide, wooden doors were open and unguarded, as a constant string of people came and went.
‘Here we are, thank goodness,’ their guide breathed a sigh of relief as they entered the building, as though the walk from the city gate had been an immensely trying ordeal. ‘The others are expecting you inside.’ He pointed out another large door directly in front of them, in the very centre of the tower. On either side, a spiral staircase curled up and out of sight, leading to the levels above. But it was here, on the ground floor, that the Ministers housed themselves. ‘But I must insist; only the Count may enter.’
‘Ha!’ Brettar laughed in their guide’s face. ‘You’re welcome to try and stop them!’
He pushed the haughty Meddaean to one side and led the way, opening the door without knocking, and strode into the circular room within. It was a large area, for only three men to call their offices, with wooden bookcases, stacked full, built into every inch of the walls. In the very centre, there was an unlit fireplace, with a circular stone chimney that disappeared into the vaulted ceiling. Spaced evenly around the hearth was a selection of comfy-looking chairs, a neat stack of books at the feet of several of them. There was very little light to see by, other than that thrown out by bracketed torches and strategically placed candles. The whole room was filled with the smell of dust and smoke. At the edges of the room, in front of the bookcases, were set four long tables, three of which were cluttered with more books and papers, and seemed to have been pressed into service as desks. At the fourth of these tables was sat three of the five occupants already waiting for them.
‘Ah, Count Brettar,’ the youngest of the three greeted him. ‘We’ve been expecting you. Please, do come in.’ Though younger than his colleagues, the man was by no means young himself. Perhaps in his mid-fifties, his hair was heavily flecked with grey and receding from his forehead. ‘I am Kin Canael, Minister of Order. I don’t believe we have met before?’
Brettar shook his head. ‘Not us, Minister, though I do know your associates.’ He turned to the other two men seated at the table, both wizened, with white hair, looked to be in their early seventies at the very least. ‘Minister Lendar, Minister Skirn.’ He greeted the Ministers for Trade and Populace in turn, and they bowed their heads in acknowledgement.
‘And of course, you know the others,’ Minister Canael cut in, raising a hand to indicate the other two occupants of the room, but did not take his eyes off of the company that had arrived with the Count.
‘Of course!’ Brettar’s face lit up as he greeted the man nearest to him; a tall fellow, and lean, his long dark hair scraped back into a messy ponytail that hung over a baggy, black linen shirt. His trousers were of the same colour and material, and met a pair of cow-skin boots at his shin. He also sported numerous golden earrings in each ear, and an exceptionally long and broad scimitar. Brettar grasped his forearm and embraced him like a brother.
‘Troven Reiga!’ the Count addressed him. ‘You salty bastard! Couldn’t have taken a bath before meeting company?’
‘I’m surprised you can still see me you old goat. Eye sight not lost completely yet then?’ Reiga replied.
‘Who needs eyes? I could smell you the moment I stepped foot in the Sennerlands!’
Reiga burst out laughing, a loud, cackling sound, and clapped the Count on the shoulder, who was chuckling heartily himself.
At the young man’s words the laughter ceased immediately.
‘That’s “Count” to you, boy,’ Brettar corrected him. ‘And who I travel with is my own damn business.’
There was no reply.
‘Lannian is here in his father’s place,’ Minister Canael explained. ‘Count Polna preferred to maintain the defences of Auprem himself; the matter for which we are all here to discuss.’
Brettar looked around the room. ‘Dondillis still a week away?’ he asked everyone present.
‘He is expected tomorrow,’ Minister Skirn replied. ‘We were fortunate enough that he was running a military drill several days outside of Gerder. We were hoping to begin discussions without him, and have him caught up upon his arrival.’
‘Balls to that,’ Brettar scoffed. ‘I’ve got plenty to say and I’m not saying it twice. Reiga, fancy a beer?’
‘Like you wouldn’t believe,’ the pirate captain replied.
With that the Count led the General and the others out of the door and into the cooling Meddaean evening, the soldiers somewhat confused at the lack of any action, given the urgency of the situation and the distance they had come to carry the news.
‘Don’t worry, General,’ Brettar said to Galarus before he could speak his mind. ‘Nothing will be decided until Dondillis arrives anyway. It would have been a waste of time to explain everything today. Now, if I remember rightly, the nearest tavern is this way.’
