by Alex Sapegin
Tantre. Southern provinces. Marshal Olmar…
The old soldier drove the southern army northward in an accelerated march. Stretched over ten leagues, the regiments dove over and over again into the arches of co-axial portals, covering thirty or forty leagues in fractions of a second. By order of the King, garrisons were reduced by half in all cities that met them; all the griffon training units poured into the marching army. Special attention was paid to magicians and students of fencing schools.
The Marshal with difficulty got into the saddle of his hass. Old age is not fun. How much was left to him? The old man had not thought about death for a long time. But today, thoughts about the afterlife visited him especially often. Looking at the young faces of the reckless recruits and the stern faces of the experienced veterans, he thought about how many of them he would soon lie under the walls of Kion…
The Ariates built up an armored fist and broke through the barriers in the mountains. The northerners’ three-hundred-thousand-strong army invaded the northern provinces of the kingdom. Using the method of building co-axial portals, with which you could make four crossings a day, the invaders rushed to the capital. The numerous, artfully disguised in the mountains and hills spatial shields did not allow them to build a large stationary portal. Unfortunately, the same shields did not allow the royal mages to throw the reserve army from the south; they had to use the experience of the Ariates. Olmar grit his teeth. He needed to get there in time; tomorrow the reserve should reach the capital. And “should” meant it would. The day after tomorrow would decide Tantre’s fate. The day after tomorrow it would be clear whether there would be a kingdom in the future, or whether it would repeat the fate of the orcish kaganates. The day after tomorrow…
Tantre. Kion. Palace complex. Twelve hours later…
His Majesty[S22] [S23]Gil II of Tantre, Gil the Soft Spoken, with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning his right shoulder against the wall, stood by the window. The translucent stained-glass did not give a clear picture of the world outside, but the King did not need it. He needed clarity of thought, and that product was now in high demand and scarce supply. Breathing on the glass, he rubbed the moist area with the sleeve of his jacket. The window, polished to a shine, did not become any more transparent. How similar this was to the attempt by the state apparatus and the crown to look through the cloudy prism of war on the country as a whole. The former kingdom had survived to its last days; soon the north of Alatar would change in the most cardinal way. A new pole of power had appeared on the political map of the world. No one except for the old High Prince and himself realized this fact to the full. That’s okay; they would soon realize. The Forest Lordships would be shocked. The King’s lips twitched into a sort of smile—the dragons had caused a rustle around Orten. The Forest’s army of “wolves” had ceased to exist, but the old frienemies, with mellorny stumps instead of heads, were not the main problem and pain for today. The mortal danger was coming from the north.
The initial estimate of the size of the invading army turned out to be wrong. The Ariate generals had led at least five hundred thousand men to Kion. The interventionists’ strategists withdrew all available regiments from all directions and sent them south, rightly judging that with the seizure of Kion, Tantre would cease to exist, and along with it, the supply of food to the mountain fortresses of the Union of the Rauu Principalities, the dwarfs, and Mesaniya would sink into oblivion. With an army of hungry stomachs, you won’t gain much. The generals of the northerners staked their bet on one blow; what was most important in it—the seizure of land or the desire to get an interplanetary portal into their hands—was still unclear.
The war had long since gone beyond the goals set at the beginning of the campaign. The conquerors’ iron boots had firmly established themselves on the former lands of the gray and green orcs; Meriya and Taiir were trampled, and Mesaniya was barely breathing. Only the dwarfs and the Rauu were seriously snarling. You didn’t have to be a prophet to guess what fate awaited the Forest Elves. As soon as the interventionists have dealt with Tantre, their turn would come. Only smoldering stumps would remain of the Forest. The Ariate rulers were clearing the living space, freeing the land from possible competitors, acting in the spirit of the green orcs, who drove them from the continent several thousand years ago. Now they had returned and forced their ancient enemies to pay dearly for the grievances inflicted on their ancestors.
Intelligence, which reported several times a day to the King of Tantre, spoke of millions of immigrants. Miduel and the head of the Secret Chancellery Drang were right—this was an exodus. The Ariates had laid down dozens of cities from scratch, forcing hundreds of thousands of captured orcs and humans to work. According to the calculations of their analysts, the leaders of the northern people had recruited one out of every ten, and this, according to preliminary estimates, was about one and a half million people, and now a third of the armada was moving south. Half a million warriors, among them tens of thousands of fanatics, ready at any moment to plunge a ritual knife into their own heart in the name of a lofty goal. A soulless killing machine, brainwashed by the priests, ready to go to any length…
A terrible force. Tantre had something to counter the impending lethal wave, but a victory over the northern armies would be akin to defeat. The country simply would not have any combat troops left.
The monarch grinned sadly. He still played his role of the nation’s mainstay, the hope and support of its citizens, but every day the load became heavier and heavier, and he was wary of breaking under the pent-up weight. He mustn’t, simply mustn’t show others how tired he was of the problems and that he’d long-since been ready to throw everything to Targ. If he even hinted at his weakness, nothing in the world would save the country, and for now there was still hope. There was always hope…
It was sad to admit to himself that he was hoping for the help of the winged creatures, who almost completely disappeared three thousand years ago and re-emerged from non-existence a few days ago, but… The big “BUT” lay as a gloomy shadow on his illusive hopes. War was profitable to the dragons. In any case, with any outcome, they would be winners. They received much more from the Ariates’ seizing Kion. After all, the priests proclaimed the return of the Lords of the Sky one of the main goals of the campaign on the continent, and here you go, on a silver platter. The dragons could dictate any conditions. The staff generals were still shocked by the ease with which they defeated and forced the surrender of the Forest’s professional army near Orten. It was not a secret to anyone that helping to lift the siege was a demonstration of their strength and the future possibilities. The hint was understood with all responsibility.
Governor Etran received detailed instructions, but could she cope? Did she and the Rauu ruler have enough self-control, political will, intelligence, and sophistication to persuade the dragons to join the union? He couldn’t simply place his hopes in the fact that the prince of the winged creatures looked with favor on the kingdom and was friends with the heroes of Ronmir. In big politics, personal preferences get swept away completely. Gil mentally thanked Miduel and prayed to the Twins for guiding him to the right path as he agreed to the High Prince’s offer about moving the dragon pack to the former Helrat monastery. He sincerely hoped that the points earned by this decision would go into a box of arguments that would incline the alien immigrants to join the Alliance, not the Ariates. The strong are generous, and the dragons were strong. Their power lies not only in their numbers and magic, but also in the fact that beneath their wings were excellent warriors—the miur.
The King of Tantre several times reread the reports from Rimm, where Duke Lere had gotten involved in a war with Queen Taliza, who inherited the throne after the sudden death of her father. Taliza, not being a fool, concluded a lucrative contract with the Patskoi Empire. The emperor had long dreamed of taking Rimm into his hands, and now such an opportunity presented itself. The young queen received a marriage proposal on the third day after the corona
tion. What can you say? The imperial diplomats easily outdid their opponents from other countries. The son of the Emperor, Crown Prince Marius, was still unmarried, and his father would be happy to unite Queen Taliza and his heir in marriage. He was already old and would like to see his grandchildren.
The official Church of the One God completely and wholly supported the autocrat[S24] in his choice of bride. The bride also wasn’t averse to changing her queen’s crown to the imperial crown. What happens when the two contracting parties don’t mind, even agree? That’s right, the very thing happens. Taliza spat on the opinions of advisers who defended independence, and on those who stood on the side of the freedom-loving Duke of Lere. It’s no wonder he soon announced the separation of his lands. Having on hand a personal guard more than twenty thousand strong and a militia three times greater, he could afford to disagree with the crown’s opinion, especially since he had procrastinated to the last moment with an oath of loyalty to the crown and never actually said it. Taliza sent troops to the northern provinces, and three imperial expeditionary corps came to their aid. Lere was in a difficult situation, but there is no cloud without a silver lining. One of the imperial corps disappeared somewhere one day. The communicator amulets fell silent, and the next day, a delegation of those who had a hand in the disappearance of the corps arrived at the duke’s residence. As a result, the rebellious Duke after some brief meditations gave the new allies some of the land and got a regiment of miur. He found out the next day what the cats were capable of when two thousand warriors sent fifteen thousand of the Queen’s soldiers to the halls of Hel in the battle of Esbi.
The name of the small village located in fifty leagues from the capital of the duchy will henceforth be a household name. Its flimsy dunes and fences witnessed the deafening defeat of the sixty-thousand-strong army by the Duke’s twelve-thousand-strong force, which put the miur at the front and didn’t regret it. The miur and the Duke’s personal guard interrupted the perishable existence of two imperial corps and dispersed the royal army, driving the most battle-worthy enemy regiments into the swamps, where they were safely drowned in the quagmire. Agents reported that after the battle, Lere circled Raston, the capital of Rimm, on the map and sent to the dragons an ambassador asking them to send a hundred fellow tribesmen to his aid; in return he was ready to give away some more land. A small sacrifice on his part, when at the end of the road lay a royal throne. With or without Taliza; that didn’t matter. The Duke was probably dreaming bright images of festive Raston and scenes from his own coronation. Unlike some…
Gil couldn’t remember the last time he slept and dreamed happy dreams. What dreams can there be when you fall into a dark oblivion as soon as your cheek touches the pillow? For the last three months, he’d gotten no more than four hours of sleep per day. If it weren’t for potions and decoctions, the medical sorcerers and life mages would have long since been clucking over the crowned patient, who had fainted out of pure fatigue. He could not relax and live a peaceful life. The war forced him to work himself to death.
War, a curse be upon it. The King leaned slightly to the side to face the clear glass. The high-ranking government officials sitting in the Little Red Reception room noticed the pale knuckles of the monarch’s tightly clenched fists. Based on his frozen, constant gaze at the Gulf of Kion in the Long Sea, people could guess his thoughts. His Majesty was looking at the harbor overflowing with ships and at the thousands of human figures flooding the quays and floundering like ants—small ants, which was especially noticeable against the backdrop of the armored royal guardsmen, who were maintaining order on the evacuation piers. Dozens of ships hastily loaded women and children.
Gil squinted, looking at his son, nestled in an armchair in the furthest and darkest corner of the waiting room. Wright flatly refused to leave the city and move to the islands. Oh son, son. What a pity your brightest years fell at a time of strife and bloody war, interrupting your youth and dipping it into mud and blood. Seventeen years old—a time to fall in love. With the thoughts of his son, the image of two young men appeared before the eyes of His Majesty. They were drowning in fire and blood, and continuing to draw from the cauldron war that was burning the walls of Orten. Gil looked thoughtfully at his son. Indeed, it was a good and doable idea to bring the heir to the throne and the friends of the were-dragon together. It was a pity that fate made its own adjustments. It would be nice to have a relationship, a friendship with the were-dragon, especially in light of the recently discovered circumstances. Although politics doesn’t deal with concepts such as friendship, who knew what Targ had in store. It was always easier to find mutual understanding with a familiar person.
The King pushed away from the wall and went to the tapestry depicting the north of Alatar and Tantre. Orten, a large point on the bend of the Ort’s stream, was flickering with a calming green color. The city was hit by the most terrible calamities of the war. His Majesty ran a hand over the tapestry and turned to the guests.
“Drang, tell us what’s going on in Orten.”
“The delegation of dragons interrupted the negotiations an hour ago.”
“The reason?” the King asked impassively. Targ, this wasn’t good. He needed progress. Twins almighty, how he needed it!
“The Empress is arriving in the city.”
“Really now? Where does this information come from?”
“From our esteemed chancellor’s people and from Governor Etran.”
“Well. So, Garad, what can you add?” the King addressed the chancellor.
“Yesterday our acquaintance requested a portal to the helrat monastery, from which he returned fifteen minutes later. After that, he appeared in the Governor’s residence and flew to the dragon camp. Literally half an hour later, our observers noted an increase in the dragons’ activity and the construction of several portals.”
“Don’t you find that our winged friends do not care about the low level of mana in the vicinity of the city and the protective screens in the north of Tantre?”
“We do,” Drang first responded. “My, uh, observer at the central portal site of the city reports an amusing fact: the portal to the monastery was nourished and supported by none other than the well-known Kerrovitarr. The mages conducted evening measurements of the field which showed twenty bell. The portal complex was literally saturated with energy. For domestic needs and to meet larger needs, the dragons brought with them a huge stone monolith. The mage observers even refused to guess the amount of mana pumped into the pebble, for its power is overshooting all imaginable limits. So, the dragons couldn’t care less about the low level of the magical field. I don’t think their pebble will be low on power after the construction of a few portals.”
“Understood, Garad. Go on,” said the King.
“Today at six o’clock in the morning, the dragons built three portals. Our people recorded the transfer to the camp near Orten of several thousand Forest Elves and humans. Dozens of dragons are constantly patrolling the sky.”
“Forest Elves? How is that possible?”
“The analysts of our esteemed head of the Secret Chancellery,” Garad returned the courtesy. “are certain the elves in the dragons’ camp have no relation whatsoever to our accursed ‘friends’ from mellorny grove. The specialists agree that they arrived on Ilanta along with the dragons and cat people, so no enemy activity is expected from them at all.”
“Good.”
“Allow me to continue?” The King waved his hand. “The elves immediately set about revitalizing scorched earth and planting trees. The work is carried out on a grand scale. When Governor Etran inquired from Prince Ruigar why he had caused the dragons to do the gardening, he shrugged his shoulders and said that the heads of the clans and families were expecting the Empress. At noon, the dragons’ council will meet.”
“Targ…” the King whispered softly. Were they doing this on purpose?
A knock sounded at the reception door. Gil gave permission to enter.
“Your Maj
esty.” The valet entered the small waiting room. “Marshal Olmar requests an audience.”
“Call him in,” said the King. A least some good news. This meant the old soldier had managed to succeed; the magicians were able to move the southern army with the help of co-portals faster than the Ariates appeared at the walls of the capital.
“Your Majesty.” A messenger entered the reception room coming ahead of the marshal. The young guy’s face reflected a range of emotions, and none of them said that the news he brought was good. “Ten leagues from Kion, the mages registered the opening of several large portals…”
Ariates. There were twenty portals. A massive transfer of troops guaranteed the northerners’ protection from the counter strike. The new arrivals managed to install fortress chuckers and began building magic shields. The score was equalized.
“Garad,” the King turned sharply to the chancellor, who stood at attention. “Tell Governor Etran to agree to any reasonable conditions.”
Tantre. Orten. Andy…
Andy, stretching his legs out and stroking Mimiv, who climbed up onto his lap, was sitting in a comfortable armchair and sipping hot, fragrant herbal tea. The adjacent chair was occupied by Tyigu and Lilly. The girls dragged a sweet crumbly biscuit from the basket and were explaining something to each other on their fingers, as the language barrier and the orc’s ignorance of Edda prevented them from enjoying full communication. Ilnyrgu had long since vanished into the garden. There, in the shadow of the surviving peach trees, in front of the white dragoness, who was holding Timur on a couch in her paws, a mini-battle unfolded. Irran’s miur were laying around near the wall of the house in the shade and watched as the two orcs knocked dust and sweat from one another.
Andy glanced sideways out the window, noting with satisfaction that Il was tired of pretending to be a rug and was taking the rival seriously, chasing Vatyra with everything she had. The huge gray orc was not ready for a clash with the real master of the sword and dagger. The slender Wolf surpassed her opponent in all respects, skillfully playing on the physical strength of the opposing side, which she considered to be an advantage. The duel with the combat master showed the gray-skinned northerner that an experienced fighter can reduce the strength of the opponent to nothing.
