“Seems we’ve been away from the Swords for too long, sire,” Hatharan said.
Ainslen focused on the old Blade, eyebrow arched. “What drew you to such a conclusion?”
“Apparently, until months before Succession Day, the Caradorii had been doing brisk business with the towns and cities that the Swords have become. Bloodleaf and Calum root have made numerous merchants rich. Black ash too. Word had it that they were mainly interested in books about us, and sometimes in gold, silver, and steel.”
Ainslen tapped a finger to his chin as he contemplated the news. Calum root was popular in many forms, dried and smoked in rolled paper, or mixed by an apothecary with certain herbs to form powder that was either sniffed or used in Calum pipes. When heated, the mixture gave off the most potent fumes, inducing a dream state that many claimed brought them closer to the Gods. The powder had become coveted by the nobility, particularly along Walker’s Row. Bloodleaf was the poor man’s version of Calum powder, and produced a more numbing effect rather than euphoria and visions. Most people smoked it in regular wooden or metal pipes or preferred to chew it. Chirurgeons and medicos swore by Bloodleaf.
More important than the manufacture of the products, was who stood to benefit from this abundant trade with the Caradorii. Humel Hill owned the towns and cities that the Swords had become, taking its tithe from them to present to the Empire. As the Hill’s leader, it was an ideal way for Count Fiorenta to pay for the Blades he was required to provide to the forts.
Ainslen had often wondered how the count had been able to cover his expenses and yet still maintain enough forces to defend his Hill on Succession Day. Fiorenta’s coin had been key in securing a treaty with the Darshanese, even if he tried to claim the support came from old allegiances. The count was a secretive man, and perhaps he hid much more from the crown. A thorough check of his books might be required, but that concern was for another day.
“Is there a point in telling me about trade?” Ainslen asked. “I sent you to the Swords to bring me news of forces rallying in the west.”
“Sorry, sire, but this was part of that same issue.”
“If so, then continue.”
“The Caradorii broke off all trade soon after Succession Day. Not only that, but they abandoned their settlements in the Wetlands or any other place close to the Swords.”
Ainslen frowned. “Any raids since?”
“None.”
“How is it that I’m now hearing of this?”
“Well, the commanders of each Sword said they mistakenly addressed the news of it to King Jemare.”
The king gave an exasperated shake of his head. He wondered why Fiorenta had not informed him. The man had to know. “Did the commanders send scouts across the border?”
Hatharan passed the leather satchel to the king. “Reports, sire. When any scouts attempted to venture farther into Carador, they were cut down.”
“So we have no knowledge of what lies out there?” Ainslen mused. The more he heard, the more he disliked. The Voices’ warning was proving to be true.
“That’s where they come in.” Hatharan nodded to the two Farlanders. “A squad of theirs went in after ours. A few of them returned, but they would say nothing of what they saw, and instead demanded that we head here.”
As per my instructions. Ainslen turned his attention to the two melders. “What did you find?”
Tethuma uttered something in his language, the tongue musical in its lilt, many words ending with a pronounced ‘e’ sound.
“In Kasinian,” Ainslen prompted.
The Jophite blew out an annoyed breath. “Signs of an army, one that could drown your lands in blood.” His tone rose and fell at odd points that still gave it a sing-song quality.
“Signs? What kind of signs?” Such a force was a frightening prospect. The Caradorii melders rivaled the Blades of old.
“Wheel marks from thousands of wagons, fields stripped bare, farms empty of livestock,” Marosim said, accent thick, words slow.
“And the actual warriors in this army?” Ainslen asked.
Once more Tethuma spoke in the Farlander tongue, but this time the inflection of his words carried a familiar hint of warning. Marosim nodded once.
“Sorry,” Tethuma said. “I am too accustomed to my own language. Only one of our men managed to return after coming close enough to see the main army. The rest of us were engaged by their outriders.”
“This man, where is he?”
“He does not speak your tongue, so he was sent to report to Warmaster Seligula.”
“My orders were for the scouts to return here, first,” Ainslen said coldly. Warmaster? Seligula had presented himself as a general. The Farlanders made to speak but he held up his hand. “What did this man of yours see?”
“Borina reported well over a million soldiers, split between infantry and cavalry,” Tethuma said. “There were catapults, trebuchets, and several other siege engines that flung large spears that might split a man in two.” He said that last with a mocking smile on his lips.
“Ballistae,” Ainslen said with a nod.
“If you say that is what they are, sire.”
Ainslen stood and began to pace, mind working as he calculated the possible attack destinations. He couldn’t picture the westerners venturing directly across the Banded Sea. Kheridisia spanned the length of the Blooming Coast, and its people would fight to the death against any who dared venture into their forests. Hells, the forests themselves were a threat. Although the Empire had defeated the Kheridisians once, those were the days when Cortens, Hemene, and other monarchs still had actual Dracodar fighting for them. Even Jemare’s victory during the Red Swamps had been more a combination of luck and an overzealous and naive commander rather than the ability to break the Kheridisians.
As for sailing around the Banded Sea and up to the River Ost, his control of the Islanders and the Darshanese gave him the most formidable armada. Completely overland would be the western armies’ best choice. If he were their commander he would go through the first of the Swords, Danalyn. Take it, and they would have a highly defensible foothold. Such an assault made him realize the rashness of his decision in throwing out the Heleganese Voices.
“This … Borin …” Ainslen said. “I must speak with him myself. Hearing his words directly is vital to our preparations.”
A quick look passed between the two Farlanders. A brief discussion in their tongue followed.
“So the Kargoshi are here,” Borosen said quietly, closing his book. Wide-eyed, the two men stared at the merchant.
“Who?” the king asked.
The spy turned to Ainslen. “When I heard of the attack on you, I wondered, but by the time I visited Jarod, the body was already gone, so I couldn’t confirm my suspicions. The Kargoshi, or Soulbreakers, in our tongue, are elite assassins employed by the Farlander warrior castes.” He nodded to the Farlanders. “In their histories, it’s said that the Dracodar races originated in the Farlands, far to the east, out in the ocean. They spread their seed and ruled the Farlands until one day they began to grow ill. A plague decimated their ranks, threatened their very existence, similar to our own Blight.
“A Farlander, Vasys Balbas, claimed responsibility for the disease. No one knew from where he came, and the reports of his early life are as varied and ridiculous as any myth. To prove the plague was his doing, he had several Dracodar imbibe a healing tincture he created from a rare metal found deep in the mountains. It cleansed the disease, made them stronger, but at the same time it deformed them, covered their scales in grey metal. Even worse, in order to live, they had to drink this concoction every few months.
“Yet, as to be expected, most preferred a chance to live. Balbas continued his experiments and produced more of this elixir. Terrified by the prospect of extinction, many Dracodar gave up their freedom
in exchange for life. Balbas had his first Soulbreaker army.
“One of the noted effects of becoming a Soulbreaker was their ability to disrupt another person’s soul, often ignoring melds used in defense or directed at them. With his army of Soulbreaker slaves, Balbas defeated the remaining Dracodar.
“Over the centuries, most Dracodar adapted to this plague, but the damage to their line was done. Still to this day, the warrior castes choose the strongest Dracodar susceptible to the metal’s effects and convert them to Soulbreakers. Those who volunteer are given places of honor, their families provided for and spared the fate that most of them suffer as fodder for the melders in the Farlander armies. It is this discovery, and his invention of the early firesticks, that earned Balbas the title of Warmonger.”
As Borosen relayed the story, bits of it seemed all too familiar to Ainslen, reminding him of Far’an Senjin, but his mind kept returning to the merchant’s first words. “You said these Dracodar assassins had grey scales rather than gold or silver, and they could disrupt melds?” Ainslen waited for Borosen’s nod, emotions rising to a slow boil. When the affirmation came, the king gazed at the Farlanders, expression full of murder. Sweat beaded Tethuma’s forehead. Marosim had the look of a man who’d accepted his possible fate. “The men that attacked me here, were they Soulbreakers?”
“Yes,” Marosim answered.
“Did Seligula send them?”
“That I cannot say.”
“Cannot or will not?” Ainslen asked.
“When he learned of the Soulbreaker attack, the Warmaster was most upset,” Tethuma said. “All were ordered to keep them secret.”
“So he knew?” Ainslen hissed. “And did not approach me with his knowledge” He was seething inside.
Marosim and Tethuma began a conversation in Farlander, at times voicing what sounded like differences of opinion. Ainslen made to yell at them when Borosen touched his arm. The king bit down on his rage. The argument continued for a bit before the two men realized everyone was watching them. They stopped, gazes flitting between the king and the spy.
“What did they say?” Ainslen asked quietly, eyes hard as he watched the two Farlanders.
“Neither believes Warmaster Seligula was responsible,” Borosen said. “They think the attempt was the actions of one of his rivals, one of the other Warmasters, or perhaps even Balbas himself, who has been in seclusion for over a century. Seligula is slated to be the next leader of the warrior castes, the next Warmonger. If this campaign is successful he will be raised upon his return.”
More power than their emperor, then. Ainslen tapped his chin with his forefinger. “So, I might have been the target of a plot to undermine Seligula.” It’s past time I paid the man a visit. Something nagged at the king. He thought back to all he’d heard so far. “Tethuma, you seemed to think little of these siege engines. Why?”
“That method of war is outdated. They do not stand a chance against our firebreathers.”
“Firebreathers?”
“The weapons we used against your precious cities to the east,” Tethuma bragged. “They are a larger form of our firesticks, made completely of metal. They have a range of five thousand feet and can shoot a metal ball this big.” He made a space between his hands almost a foot in length. “They can fire even farther when a group of melders link together to add soul to the shot. The effects must be seen to be believed. It tears through the strongest walls, and what it does to a body …” the Jophite shook his head, admiration clear in his eyes.
Speechless, Ainslen allowed his mind to work, considering how easily Ernassa had fallen. As his initial shock wore off, he sorted possibilities, drew up strategies. Despite his successes over the past months, the world had felt as if it were closing in on him. For all that had gone right with his ascension, so much more had gone terribly wrong. And yet, here he was, standing with his back to a wall as enemies approached from all sides, and the wall had become a door. Smiling inwardly, he thought of High Priest Jarod’s words. You might be right after all. The Dominion is shining on my rule.
Hours later, after he’d made preparations to meet Seligula near the Dreadwood, Ainslen headed down to the dungeons. On this trip he brought Curate Selentus, whose precisely trimmed beard and oiled hair seemed out of place with his red and blue robes, the black sash of his station running from right shoulder to left waist. He disliked his reliance on the wiseman, but in this he had no choice. Delisar’s soul had proven too strong to steal with the inner cycle, entope, either directly or by the use of his mosquitoes.
With his retinue of Blades a few steps behind, Ainslen strode along the walkway that spanned from one side of the dungeon to the next, inky blackness yawning at him from below. Cells stood over that gaping maw, atop grey metal spires that defied reality, too thin, too pointed to support them. But nonetheless they stood. A Blade guarded the door to each cell. Moans and cries echoed within the chamber, and the smell of blood, death, and sickness permeated the air.
At Delisar’s prison there were a total of twelve guards on the outside, four before the door, one for each corner, and one for each side. The four at the corners held arms-width chains that passed through holes in the wall and were connected to Delisar’s ankles and wrists. The man had almost escaped twice, displaying a near unrivaled ability in unarmed combat, even against melders. Ainslen thanked the Dominion that soul no longer seeped from inside.
The king signaled to two of the guards, and they proceeded to open the door, first using soul to deactivate their wards, and then sliding back the massive bolts. He gestured for his men to wait, nodded to Selentus, and the two of them entered.
The room stank. For all his time imprisoned, Delisar appeared to be no worse for wear. His skin had long since healed, hiding his golden scales A mass of hair covered his face and matched the black mane that fell past his shoulders. He sat cross-legged in the center of the flagstoned floor, the black manacles that once held him replaced by grey ones Seligula provided. Eight Blades helped to keep him imprisoned, applying pressure to his vital points to inhibit his ability to touch his soul. Ainslen doubted the need for that last precaution, but it made him feel safer.
“I see you’ve come to steal once more.” Delisar’s amber eyes, so much like a snake’s, tracked Ainslen, and reminded him of the Soulbreakers. “You will never amount to much, no matter how high you rise, for the skills you steal will never truly be yours. It’s like taking the face of a handsome man and putting it on an ugly one. He wouldn’t know exactly what to do with his newfound beauty. You can try to hide what you are, but those like me will know.” The Consortium leader’s lips curved into a slow smile that never reached his eyes. He extended his left arm, palm up, and then folded his hand into a tight fist.
Selentus stepped forward and removed a leather cord, a small knife, a length of extremely slim metal tubing, and a glass container the size of a cup used for ale or mesqa. He kneeled next to Delisar, used the leather cord as a tourniquet, made a small incision near the joint between elbow and arm, inserted the tube, and then held the container beneath it. Blood began to drop, splattering against the glass. The drops grew to a steady trickle. Delisar continued to stare at Ainslen.
Although transfusions were at their most potent when done directly between bodies the king did not wish to risk being in Delisar’s vicinity any longer than necessary. And not with any items the man could use as a weapon. Ainslen waited for Selentus to complete the task and step outside before he spoke to the Consortium leader. “This is the last of your blood that I will take.”
“Oh? Why is that? Don’t you need to continually augment your stolen power?” Delisar chuckled.
“You will be executed soon, and then I will take all of you for myself, flesh, blood, and scales.” Ainslen expected the Dracodar to struggle against his bonds, but instead Delisar smiled, a cruel thing that looked more vicious with his eyes. The ex
pression sent a chill through the king. He wanted to wipe that smile clean. “Your sons will die shortly afterward also. I know where they are in the Treskelin. They, I might feed to one of the counts or to the Soul Throne.”
This time, Delisar did struggle, kicking out at Ainslen, straining against the manacles. Soul pushed at his vital points, but it was paltry compared to his past efforts. The eight Blades made certain the points remained closed, a task made easier by the new restraints. After a few minutes, Delisar calmed, but his glare was pure hate.
“All of this, the persecution of my family, the destruction of the guilds, all because of the death of your wife and child,” Delisar said, fists clenched. “But if I must die, I can at least leave you with something to ponder. The order to attack your loved ones came from someone of status within the city, someone you know well.”
Truth emanated from the man. Delisar believed in what he said.
“Lies,” Ainslen blurted. Who else could it have been but the guilds? Jemare had been busy pursuing and fighting Elysse at the time. And the old king had wanted Kenslen for himself. He would have been careful as to what transpired with Marjorie. The Consortium had to be responsible.
“Are they lies?” Delisar was smiling again.
“Regardless,” Ainslen said, turning away so Delisar couldn’t see his uncertainty, “that is now behind me. I am king, and I have a wedding for which to prepare, and an empire to rule.”
“A wedding? Who are you marrying?”
“Terestere.”
Delisar chuckled, and then broke into a laugh. The cackles chased Ainslen from the dungeon.
22
Fertile
From behind the large windowpane Queen Terestere took in the villa’s grounds. Like the other counts’ homes, Hazline Hill was a sprawling affair that overlooked much of the city. The other Hills were visible to her left and right, spread in a circle with the Grey Fist at the center, the old castle’s limestone and grey granite standing out amid the newer structures. Once the main barracks for the King’s Blades, the Fist was poised to reclaim that position. People had begun to visit the examiners stationed there, presenting themselves or their young for testing and training.
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