The Warlord decided that he hated this Darius more than he hated any living man. Save for one wizard's actions, Firewalking would still be a viable offensive spell. It was some moments before Mertoris had regained enough control over himself to think clearly.
Firewalking had not lost its usefulness entirely. Traigan had long been using it for troop movements and the relocation of provisions within secure territory. These were powerful tools – time and distance meant much less to him now. If only his sorcerers were better traveled, it might mean less still. He had some of the younger ones out and about now, roving with bands of warriors who were 'recruiting' - combing towns for boys large enough to serve Pyre well on the battlefield. It would be difficult to make sure all the magicians were acquainted with enough of his territory...
Traigan's brow wrinkled as he habitually smoothed the maps he studied. There was too much land. He couldn't have his sorcerers tread every inch of it. Delightful as the idea sending the fools on an elaborate and arduous march, it would also be a profoundly poor use of their time. Fools they may be, but useful ones.
Without personal memory of a place, they could not Firewalk to it. Thus far he had relied on the individual knowledge of each sorcerer under his command, assuming that somewhere in that number would be several that fit his requirements. He had been correct as of yet. That would not continue. He needed a more reliable method...
Yes, a scattering of camps at likely points. Focus points for the movements of his troops – magical crossroads of a sort. His sorcerers need not hike through miles of territory – they need only get to know a few patches of it. There were only a half-dozen ideal places near the border. Another six or so further back in case of lost territory or shifting needs. A simple enough plan. Large camps already existed at several of the locations.
Traigan took up a piece of charcoal and marked the places for the new camps onto the map. He didn't bother writing up orders – few beyond the sorcerers and his personal messengers could read.
His mouth was open to call for one when his eyes bulged. All the air seemed to disappear from the room, accompanied by a sudden flash of the most wicked heat. He felt as if he had been set alight. Scarcely a heartbeat later the air returned – but the light fled, plunging the room into deep, suffocating shadow. Torches still flickered, but their flames were tiny islands of illumination in the abyssal darkness that now smothered his Great Hall.
"Trae'gan."
At the first word from out of the darkness, his very soul shivered.
"Trae'gan." Again, that word, that title. It had been bestowed upon him and become his second name. He had no idea of its meaning. Nor did the sorcerers.
Only the Demons knew why he was called that.
"I am here," the Warlord replied, his voice steady enough to belie his trembling.
There was a pause before it spoke again. The Warlord's eyes, adjusting to the sudden darkness, could now make out the outline of a hand in the furthest corner of the room. The few belabored flickers of firelight that made it so far glinted off of fingers so thin they were skeletal. The hand grasped the air convulsively, clutching and uncurling with sudden movements.
"The War, Trae'gan. How goes the War?"
The first question was always the same. Mertoris had his answer ready. "Well." He said simply. His impulse was always to give the awe-inspiring creature before him a title, but they never demanded nor acknowledged them.
"The Beast has been voracious of late," it said.
With each word Traigan's spirit cringed. On some deep, primal level he knew he was in the presence of something which wanted nothing but to devour him, body, mind, and soul, and it refrained from doing so only because it perceived greater gain in allowing him to live.
It was the fourth time he had been in the presence of a Demon. This was not the same being that had set the Warlord's crimson circlet upon his head. That Demon had not appeared again, though he had the feeling that it was still keeping watch over him.
"We have made great gains. Many of the enemy have died," Traigan answered, again keeping his voice steady with a supreme effort of will. He was pleased with himself. The first encounters with Demons had left him a quivering wreck, weeping in terror. During the second visit, another man, a messenger, had been with him. That man had died when first the Demon spoke.
"Good, good. This is good, that the Enemy dies. You must take care, Trae'gan. You have come close to the maw yourself."
His brow wrinkling in confusion, the Warlord waited. Before, the Demons had always brought commands, directions. Now.. a warning? He could not bring himself to ask, but the Demon continued anyway.
"You must not stray so close to the conflict, Trae'gan. The Enemy may come for you there."
Traigan's curiosity forced a question from his throat before his fear could choke it. "The Angels can find me?"
"Not you," it croaked. A long pause and a deep intake of breath, though it had not seemed to Mertoris before that the demon was breathing before. "The Thralls. The Enemy know the Thralls, know the power that is within them – the power of the Inferno."
Traigan glanced to the side where one of his guards stood silent and unmoving. Its body was held in the strange half-beast pose as always. Its eyes, however – the normal faint red glow had intensified so that it too could be seen through the darkness. The eyes of the corpse-creature were ablaze with a bloody fire, seeming to give off an inner anger – or hatred.
Nodding, Traigan spoke one word, almost to himself. "Magic."
"Yes." The confirmation was drawn out into a serpent's hiss.
Mertoris was losing his composure. With each passing second he could feel the Demon's hunger all the more. It seemed to him that invisible claws were circling his skin, carving it into tender strips. He wanted the thing to leave, to go back to whatever strange Hell it called home. He wanted to flee himself; to run gibbering from the city and any chance of ever seeing such a creature again.
Even more, though, he wanted information. He had thought that the Thralls were granted to him to ensure his survival – and indeed they did. It seemed they were also a beacon, a fire-on-the-mount to the great Enemy, the Angels. No doubt to the Demons as well – those two otherworldly creatures were so alike and yet entirely opposed.
Mastering his quavering soul, he asked another question of the thing in the darkness. "You could locate the sorcerers? You must find me by the Thralls, but the sorcerers have their own magic."
"Yes. Very good, Trae'gan."
The Warlord could feel his legs weakening. One more question, he must have one more answer. "You can find wizards then?"
For the briefest moment the Demon did not answer. An instant later, Traigan felt something assault his mind, root around in his memories, sifting, searching, learning. He gasped at the intrusion. It was gone almost as fast, and the Demon answered.
"Wizards. Sorcerers. They are the same."
That violation of his mind had been too much for Traigan. He sank slowly to his knees, teeth beginning to chatter as his self-control slipped. "Th- thank you. Do you w- wish anything more of me?" he stammered.
There was no answer save a malicious chuckle – almost a giggle, child-like and cruel. Then the presence vanished, and the darkness lifted. The light of the torches, no longer held at bay, brightened once more.
For a moment the Warlord remained there on the floor, ashamed that he had not kept his resolve. He rose slowly to his feet, and glanced once more at the Thralls. The glow of their eyes was was lessening again.
Traigan was sure there had been emotion in those eyes. Whatever the Thralls were now, once they had been four humans – and one Demon, though a lesser creature than the true masters of Hell. Sacrificed and ripped apart to fuel the bodyguards of the Warlord.
Had something of its will survived to inhabit the Thralls?
Might it not feel some anger towards Traigan, as well?
A shudder ran down his spine before he let out a deep breath and pushed the recent me
mories from his mind, save only the things he had learned. No matter the embarrassment, he had been given a very valuable lesson. It was time to think on ways he might redress old grievances – and punish old enemies.
The Warlord called for a messenger.
***
"What did you think was going to happen?" Darius fumed. "How many times must we be outmaneuvered before you realize the necessity of moving quickly?"
"Darius -" Arric began, but Darius cut him off.
"You will never learn, Arric!"
Darius stalked from the council chamber before Arric could continue.
The word had come through only moments before – Fort Andreth had fallen. Despite the constant pleas from Darius – and others – to retake the Shambles immediately after the battle of Threeforts Valley, the High Council had dithered and delayed.
"Too dangerous." That worn and tired denial had once more reared its head. "The Shambles are an expensive place to attack," Arric had concluded. "The cost may be too great, and our men are weary from so many battles."
"Every day you delay Traigan will strengthen his hold," Darius said. Disbelief had tinged his voice at the time, arguing against Arric in a scene that had returned to familiarity after Threeforts. The cooperation he thought they had achieved was strained now. "Do you think it will be less expensive to take in the future?"
"We took it last in a moment of opportunity," Arric calmly explained – as if both he and Darius had not been present in those battles. "We shall have to wait for another."
"That moment is right now! This is the best chance we may have for years to come! If we do not seize it, we are left defending bare grassland. You know as well as I what that entails!"
"We have been here before, Darius," Arric had said. "The Enemy has never managed to push us more than a mile or two beyond the Shambles. We will hold."
Darius had despaired at that moment. It was blindness – madness even. Success built on success, victory upon victory. If Bastion stopped to rest itself now, it would be years before they regained the losses they had suffered in the last few weeks. Nebeth was once again in the hands of the Enemy, as was the Shambles. The borders had not been in this state for almost fifty years.
Must we bleed for another fifty to return it to where it was a scant handful of weeks ago? Darius wondered.
In the corridor, he paused for a moment. He took a deep, slow breath, letting his aggravation seep from him. Things were not the same. Bastion now had the Gryphons and their brother companies – and it had Kray.
For a month, Darius and a select few other wizards had picked the poor man's brain. They had learned much, but none of it was crippling to the enemy – not even especially damaging, in the short term. As a weak sorcerer, Kray had been excluded from the usual circles of power. The most useful things he knew had been learned even as he plotted his final betrayal, when the Warlord had taken the man under his wing.
As his anger seeped away, Darius began to regret his harsh words. It had occurred to him that perhaps Arric was not, in fact, bound and determined to aggravate him but was trying to lead Bastion as best he could. It had also occurred to him that perhaps he and Arric were simply too different in their methods to ever be in perfect harmony.
Darius turned another corner in the great stone tower of the Crown. He nearly ran into Lazarus as he did so – the old wizard nimbly stepped out of the way as Darius stumbled to avoid the collision.
"Lazarus! Forgive me."
Lazarus merely shook his head with a smile. "Another spat with Arric, Darius?"
"It is that obvious?"
"I could hear your parting words. With a voice like that, you must be quite the battlefield commander."
Darius's face flushed slightly in embarrassment. Lazarus chuckled at his discomfiture.
"So! He can feel shame after all."
With a deep breath, Darius attempted to explain himself. "It is such a wasted opportunity. There is no need for us to give up both the Shambles and Nebeth. There was no need. Now..."
Lazarus nodded in understanding even as he spoke against him.
"Darius, it is not as certain as you make it."
"Yes, I've heard the arguments. Few of them hold merit."
"You deal too much in absolutes, Darius. You consider Firewalking to be a threat well and truly countered, but until we work a version of the spell that is both acceptable and accessible to us, the Enemy has greater flexibility. We know the sorcerers have to be familiar with the land in order to go there – but the Enemy has held the Shambles many times. I daresay they could speed reinforcements to the battle."
Lazarus had already voiced this opinion to the Council. In a moment of evil mood, Darius felt betrayed by the older man, in so many ways his confidant on the Council.
"We can stop the spell!"
"Only when it is close. Do you think Traigan would be so foolish as to give us that chance? You have said yourself the Warlord is a master of warfare."
"All the more reason to keep him off balance."
"Or perhaps have us stick our heads out too far and afford him the chance to lop them off. As I said, Darius, I do not disagree with you. There was a good chance we could have taken the Shambles back. The risk was very high, though, even had we been victorious. Losses are always severe there."
The arguments had already been aired, too many times. Darius did not want to hear them any more. It was late in the day and he was tired – he now had to try much harder to exhaust his trainees on their morning runs. Even Jotan was keeping up splendidly, more proof that wizards aged more gracefully than other men.
Thinking of them lightened Darius's mood. Soon they would go to the field, and he with them.
"Lazarus, you were the Council Leader once."
The older man nodded slowly. "Yes, a long time ago. Why?"
"You stepped down. After so long and so much success, you left. Why?"
Lazarus paused a moment before answering.
"I could no longer bear the burden, Darius. Nearly twenty years I led the Council, through countless battles. Some won, some lost. Lives lost in numbers beyond reckoning.
“As Council Leader, you bear the weight of each one. The Council as a whole gives the orders, but the blame for failure falls upon the man in the center seat. I could stand it no longer,” Lazarus repeated. “Because I also thought I could win the war. I did not. Every gain we made was retaken, every victory we secured came to naught in the end."
“Just as always,” Darius said.
Lazarus nodded. “Just as always. Keep that in mind the next time you have harsh words for Arric. Somewhere in his heart, he may agree with what you say. That does not always mean he can heed it.”
Darius nodded. “I will remember.”
"Apologize to him, Darius. You two have come far. Arric is not difficult to handle, really. You need not always agree with him, but he should know that he has your support even so." Lazarus cocked his head. "He does, yes?"
After a moment, Darius nodded reluctantly. “Of course.”
Lazarus parted without any more words, leaving Darius to brood. He knew perfectly well the burden of command. He knew the guilt of having to sacrifice good men's lives even for a cause he knew was worth the price. It troubled him from time to time, but he had long since reconciled himself to the task.
To be Council Leader must be a very different sort of leadership than Darius knew. No Gryphon would ever question his orders. He could not quite imagine feeling responsible for the Council's every decision whilst faced with the unrelenting noise of their bickering. He resolved to apologize to Arric on the morrow.
***
Shadow had long since fallen on the city of Bastion, as the sun set behind the mountains which formed its cradle. Watches upon the walls were changed with the first of the three patrols who would keep guard in the darkness. In the taverns, the raucous drinking and games of the daytime gave way to the more relaxed drinking and games of the evening.
Soon those to
o would cease as the soldiers succumbed to their discipline and made for the barracks. In the morning they would have their daily training and drills, and if a sudden emergency cropped up some may even be called upon to head for the border. None feared the eventuality – most were veterans long since. In any case, by all opinions the war was slowing from the frenetic pace it had kept the previous couple of months. The Beast had dined, men dying by the thousands to feed its terrible – but inevitable – appetite, and now it would sleep, sated for a spell.
There were some few in Bastion who barely noted the War's moods. As both the city and the War prepared for sleep, Balkan's attention was wholly focused on the silver tube he held. Despite having risen early to teach the acolytes of Bastion, he felt no fatigue. As long as his mind had something to fasten on, lethargy could never get a hold of the man.
At home, his wife was tucking their daughter into bed, assuring Kaylie that they would both scold Balkan for staying too late in his work. No doubt he would be suitably chastised and regretful, and for a time would carefully remember to curtail his work in time to be home for supper. For now...
Balkan stared at the tube. Torch light flickered across the burnished silver surface. As with his earlier attempts, this tube was covered in Angelic runes. This time the patterns were more focused – and, Balkan hoped, more meaningful.
Finally he moved, taking the tube in his left hand. He began to rub his right thumb over one of the most recently added symbols, applying magic to the metal. Slowly, so as not to damage the rest of his pain-staking work, he smoothed away the symbol until the silver was once again polished and unmarked in the spot. He then picked up the steel stylus and began to etch a new symbol to replace the old.
For another hour he worked. Much of the time he simply sat and stared. Occasionally he replaced a symbol, or added a new one. The runes steadily filled the metal surface until there was no longer any room to add them. Balkan stood the rod on the table in front of him, and a smile spread slowly across his face. In a way that relied half on intuition, half on experience, the patterns felt right.
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