Battle for the Wastelands

by Matthew W Quinn

  The wind picked up, blowing in from the west. The smell of cattle struck Andrew in the face. Andrew followed the smell through three rows of tents before he found dozens of cattle penned behind a crude wooden fence.

  “We rustled them from the Flesh-Eaters just before we found you.” Andrew nearly jumped at Zeke’s sudden appearance. “The bastards were collecting tribute from all the towns and ranches along the desert and we collected it from them.” He smiled. “Now follow me. Since you’re walking around, it’s time we found you work.”

  Keeping the Peace

  Dressed once more in his black finery, Grendel looked out the window of the Nicor. His personal airship floated smoothly over the teal waters of the Buni River and the farmland it watered around the city of Hamari. The Leaden Host’s regional seat of power sat in a relatively wet spot amid the dry lands. At last, he was through with the desert.

  He turned to his bed where Jessamine lay asleep beneath a black blanket decorated with silver serpents, lions, and bears. She could afford to sleep off the afternoon’s exertions. He, however, had work to do.

  He sat at an ornate desk bearing carvings of longships and serpents and opened the folder with the intelligence reports about the Carroll Town uprising.

  The guardsmen had searched Carroll Town after the survivors had been dealt with. No Old World arms were found. Although the grenade almost certainly came from one of the local trading clans, Clark stuck by his accusation. Per the treaty formalizing his submission to Grendel, Clark had the right to file a grievance. This meant Grendel would have to hold a perfunctory hearing to exonerate his old friend.

  His gaze returned to Jessamine. Based on what he knew of the local culture, she would be left with the officers’ women while the men did business. If she were still tired, she could sleep there. If not, she could gossip and relay anything interesting to him. He stepped over to the bed.

  “Jessamine, wake up.” He pulled back the blanket, unveiling the planes and lines of her back and shoulders and the twin hemispheres of her buttocks. Jessamine murmured in protest. “We are at Hamari. I am not leaving you here. Get up.”

  Jessamine obediently rolled over and sat up, giving Grendel a delightful view. He felt himself stir, but that needed to wait. There simply was not time before the dirigible docked.

  Grendel affectionately ruffled her dark hair. “Good girl. I will leave you with the commander’s wives if he has any. I want you to see what information you can pick up.”

  Jessamine’s green eyes widened. “With the commander’s wives? Do you want me to —”

  Grendel’s jaw set. It was no problem if he were to spread his seed — all he needed to do was make sure all his children were acknowledged and accounted for. For one of his women to cuckold him, that was different. His former concubine Alexandra had slept with a guardsman, hoping he would help her escape. He hanged both before the windows of his harem as an example. And that was merciful compared to his initial plan to send them to Mangle’s breeding pits.

  “No, then,” Jessamine said.

  “He would be on his guard, knowing you share my bed. His women, however, might be less careful. Talk to them. Make friends, if not more.” Now that he had no objection to. “Report any interesting gossip to me.”

  “What would you find interesting?”

  “Anything military. I want to know if the soldiers here intend to attack the Flesh-Eaters or expect to be attacked. I also want to know about relations between Hamari and anyone under Flesh-Eater jurisdiction.”

  Jessamine nodded. She climbed out of bed, gathered her things — drawers, lacy black Cassandra dress, red shawl, and gold bracelets – off the floor, and disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.

  Grendel watched her ass until she was out of sight before returning to the window. The dirigible had passed over Hamari’s adobe and wood buildings and now approached the cannon-studded ramparts of Hamari Fort on the large rocky outcrop overlooking the city. Within lay mooring towers for airships, water tanks, silos to hold grain during a siege, and a star-shaped concrete citadel housing even more cannon. Grendel did not envy any men sent to take the place.

  The airship slowed as it passed over the thick walls of the fort. Distant hatches clanged open. Guardsmen rappelled from the gondola. Beneath their watchful eyes, the ground crew pulled the Nicor toward the central mooring tower. A slight shudder rolled through the dirigible as it docked.

  Grendel put the papers in his leather satchel. Many would leave this to a servant, but a sneaky courier could tamper with them. Keeping important things in one’s own hands was always the best policy.

  Jessamine emerged from the bathroom dressed and no longer smelling of sweat and sex. Grendel stepped over to the brass cage hanging next to his desk and released Alrekr. The pterosaur hopped onto his wrist and then onto his shoulder. He removed the bag of dried fish parts hanging from the cage and put it in his pocket before leaving.

  Others joined Grendel and Jessamine as they walked down the corridor running the length of the gondola. First came guardsmen. Next were intelligence personnel and dogsbodies for any unexpected tasks.

  Across the gangplank linking the mooring tower to the Nicor, flanked by a pair of black-clad guardsmen, stood the local dignitaries. Grendel recognized a tall, dark-haired and beak-nosed man in a white uniform as Colonel Ibrahim Mifshud, the city’s Leaden Host governor.

  “Welcome to Hamari, my lord. We’re glad you have chosen to grace us with your presence.”

  Grendel forced himself not to roll his eyes at this obsequiousness. “I have come to discuss a matter concerning your relations with your friends across the river.” Grendel locked eyes with Mifshud. The man did not flinch, but Grendel discerned a slight trembling in his hands.

  “What have they accused us of this time?” Though Mifshud’s voice was flat, there was an undertone of anger and longstanding hatred. The man could be useful when the time came to unleash Havarth. Assuming he still had his responsibilities or his life.

  “Old World weapons and secretly helping the Merrills. Border disputes and absconding peasants likewise, but those are small potatoes.”

  Mifshud’s breath quickened. He no doubt pondered the devastation of Hamari by the Obsidian Guard and how he would be drawn and quartered like a common criminal if he survived. That was the punishment for allowing Old World weapons to fall into unauthorized hands. And that was not the only accusation.

  That is something he should fear. Being loved is optional; being feared is essential.

  “Alexander Matthews is on his way,” Mifshud said. “He should arrive by supper.”

  Grendel nearly smiled. The commanders of his loyal Hosts and those smart enough to kneel could govern their territories as they saw fit, provided they paid tribute and obeyed certain rules. Mifshud clearly knew how things worked and invoked his master as a shield.

  “Jasper Clark should be arriving soon as well. With everyone here, we will get this sorted out quickly.” He paused. “Do you have the maps you use to mark the border between your territories and those of the Flesh-Eaters?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Gather them. We will discuss this matter after supper.”

  “Excellent.” Mifshud was a bit too eager. “I will find a place for you, your lady, and your soldiers while we wait.”

  Clark and his entourage arrived next. Grendel paid him the usual courtesies and sent him on his way. He stood with some guardsmen in the shade of the citadel across from the empty tower reserved for Alexander’s dirigible, the Old Epharim.

  The first sign Alexander had arrived was the rhythmic scudding of his airship’s propellers. Soon afterward, the flying leviathan itself appeared in the northern sky. Alexander's vessel was as long as the Nicor — about six hundred feet — but its balloon was brown, unlike the Nicor’s distinctive black. Grendel’s dirigible bore the skull of a saber-toothed cat on its balloon, but Alexander’s bore the Leaden Host’s heraldic grizzly, its chest protected by a pair of huge
brass shell casings.

  It did not take long for Alexander’s entourage to descend from the airship. His guards stopped fifty feet away, leaving Alexander to approach his master alone.

  Alexander was shorter than Grendel, with close-cropped brown hair that was starting to thin and brown eyes. He wore a knee-length brown coat and jeans atop leather boots. A large six-shooter hung on his left hip.

  Grendel extended the hand he had cut open long ago. Alexander extended his own, which bore a matching scar. The two shook.

  “It has been too long,” Grendel said.

  “You know how it is,” Alexander replied.

  Grendel knew that all too well. “It is good you came so quickly.”

  Alexander paused. “I wish I could agree.”

  “Alex, Clark is full of shit. We both know that.”

  “Then why did you summon me?” Alexander demanded. “I don’t have time to answer lies from some hill trash cannibal who’s gotten too big for his britches.”

  “If it was just personal preference, I would tell Clark to piss off. However, I need to avoid brother-in-law politics or else the whole thing will collapse.”

  Alexander scowled. “I understand the need to keep order. But do you really reckon Clark can threaten you?”

  “Not by himself. But it is no secret Clark is not the only one I dislike. If I start playing favorites, the ones I disfavor will ally and wreck everything we have built.” Alexander nodded, but his lips were still thin with anger. “Enough. Mifshud prepared us a proper feast. It will be a good dinner, and it will be on his coin, not yours.”

  “That’d be swell. But don’t expect me to have a hog-killing time here.”

  Once dinner concluded, Grendel put on his armor and helmet and took the high seat in the vast hall where Mifshud held court. More chairs were brought up for Alexander and Clark at Grendel’s right and left. Guardsmen stood on the four corners of the dais and by the doors, repeaters ready. Mifshud stood before the three overlords. Beyond him, local officials and members of the rulers’ entourages formed an audience.

  “I have come to hear the grievance Jasper Clark has made against the Leaden Host, in particular, Colonel Ibrahim Mifshud,” Grendel intoned.

  Short and stocky Captain John Anderson, the new commander of Fort Vallero, emerged from among Clark’s entourage. “The rabble of Carroll Town had an Old World weapon,” he declared. His left shoulder twitched when he spoke. “They certainly didn’t get it from us and the Nahada herdsmen hereabouts don’t much like us any more than they did the Merrills. The Leaden Host’s got the motive to needle us and the Old World arms to do it.” He looked at Mifshud. “How hard’d it be to have some pikey smuggle grenades in? Or maybe an agent of the Merrills?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Mifshud retorted.

  Grendel resisted the urge to yawn. The accusation was almost certainly a pack of lies.

  Alexander leaned forward, locking eyes with Anderson. “Do you have any proof the grenade came from Colonel Mifshud?”

  “He’s got the motivation,” Anderson replied. “And we keep track of our Old World gear.”

  “Do you have any more evidence?” Grendel asked. Anderson shook his head. “Dismissed.”

  Anderson withdrew. A big man missing his right hand and sporting a formidable mustache stepped forward. Grendel recognized him from the intelligence reports as Major Thomas Ward, a Flesh-Eater officer who ruled the territory across the river from Hamari. Ward glared at Mifshud before focusing his attention on the overlords.

  “I don’t claim to know about the accusations Captain Anderson has made about Old World arms, as serious as they are,” he began. “But I have another complaint.”

  “Speak.”

  “Over the last two years, Mifshud has cost me taxes by not returning absconders from my territory. I’d say a couple hundred have shirked their obligations and hid in Hamari.”

  Grendel raised an eyebrow. That was a substantial number in the dry country in the southwestern part of his empire, only slightly more hospitable than the badlands around Carroll Town. Clark certainly complained about the situation, but he never even hinted at the scale.

  “This is a most grave claim,” Clark said. He glared at Mifshud. “Does the little Nahada bastard have anything to say about this?”

  Alexander glared at Clark. “I would imagine so.”

  Mifshud stepped forward. “I will concede Major Ward’s accusation.” Clark leaned forward, a predatory gleam on his face. Alexander’s expression hardened. Grendel’s eyebrow rose higher. He did not expect Mifshud to confess.

  “Although Hamari is wealthier and more populous than much of Clark’s realm, we still have more sheep than people,” Mifshud continued. “If we want to build, to provide more tribute to our superiors” — he looked at Alexander and Grendel — “we need more people working the land, engaging in crafts, and trading with the Menceir. And considering how our neighbors would rather destroy and extort than properly rule —”

  “This is irrelevant,” Clark interrupted. “And a goddamn lie. We’re in the middle of a drought right now, especially in the southern parts.”

  “That certainly isn’t helping matters, but even so, I’d imagine people would still take their chances here. After all, we’re not in the habit of eating them.”

  “You’re a right liar, you little —”

  “Irrelevant.” Grendel focused on Mifshud. “Continue.”

  “We have allowed those willing to risk absconding to remain here if they work and pay their taxes.”

  “Which they should be paying to us,” Clark interrupted. “Either where they’re at now or somewhere else in our domain, with the proper permission.”

  Mifshud ignored the Flesh-Eater overlord. “We are, of course, open to the possibility of negotiating a financial settlement.”

  Ward exploded. “Financial settlement? I offered ransom for my brother when you bastards got your hands on him and you went and cut his goddamn head off!”

  “It is not Leaden Host policy to give quarter without good reason,” Alexander interrupted. “Your brother obviously wasn’t worth taking alive.”

  “Silence, all of you!” Grendel roared. “I did not come here to mediate a fight over somebody’s goddamn brother. Major Ward, you are dismissed.”

  The chastened Flesh-Eater slunk back into the audience. Grendel returned his attention to Mifshud. “And the Old World weapons?” He let menace flavor his words.

  Mifshud narrowed his eyes. “A pack of dirty lies. Major Ward and his master are upset I harbored their runaways and hold land on the other side of the river. They’re trying to provoke you to destroy me.”

  Grendel let his silence hang on the air for a moment. “This is my judgment. If Mifshud wants to continue eroding the Flesh-Eaters’ tax base, he should pay for it. For every runaway he keeps from now on, he will pay two hundred gold dollars to those holding legitimate authority over them.”

  Mifshud nodded, his eyes narrow. The Nahada officer would be a lot more selective with his benevolence if he personally had to fund it. However, allowing him to continue weakening the Flesh-Eaters would also serve Grendel’s long-term goal to replace Clark.

  “Is this acceptable, Alexander?”

  “It is.”

  Grendel’s gaze fell upon Clark. “Do you agree?”

  Clark glanced from Alexander to Grendel. “It’s acceptable.”

  “I have examined the reports from Carroll Town about the Old World grenade,” Grendel continued. “Although it appears the grenade came from outside the town, we found no evidence it came from Mifshud. Clark will pay ten thousand gold dollars to Mifshud for this rash accusation.”

  Clark’s eyes bulged. This would mean fifty escaping Flesh-Eater territory before he gained a single coin.

  “However,” Grendel continued. “In the interest of caution, Alexander will appoint an inspector for Old World arms caches in Hamari. If indeed a leak is found, Mifshud will return the settlement to the Flesh-Eat
ers with interest.” That would be the least of Mifshud’s problems if it turned out there were Old World weapons getting to rebels.

  “It will be done,” Alexander said.

  Clark frowned. Although Grendel made sure the Flesh-Eating Legion would be compensated for runaways, Mifshud would obviously not feel the wrath of the Obsidian Guard. The lord of the Flesh-Eaters needed to learn something was better than nothing.

  “Now about the territory on the other side of the river,” Grendel said. “Colonel Mifshud, show me the border.”

  A pair of Leaden Host dogsbodies emerged from the spectators and set up a map on a large stand. Mifshud pointed to a pair of towns on the other side of the river from Hamari. “Terry and McDougal belonged to the Merrills. After you defeated James Merrill, they submitted to us.” Mifshud grinned. It must have been wonderful to see his old enemies groveling before him, seeking his protection from the triumphant Flesh-Eaters.

  “We beat the Merrills,” Clark growled. “All that’s theirs is ours.”

  “You didn’t beat them alone,” Alexander retorted.

  Grendel nodded. When James Merrill defied him, he had first invaded the northeast of the Merrill domain. There the Merrill’s writ ran thin and it was Clark who ruled. He had made Clark an offer he could not refuse. It had not taken much — the Merrills had killed his wife and son over a decade before. After the Blood Alchemy Host drew off enough Merrill strength, the Flesh-Eaters struck south and the Leaden Host swept east, crushing the Merrill armies in the center of their realm and paving the way for the final victory at Fairmont.

  Clark pointed at Mifshud’s map. “Look there. The river makes a natural border. And if you’re concerned with absconders, giving us Terry and McDougal means they’ll have to cross the river rather than a fence.”

  “A fair point,” Grendel said. “But that does not address how the Leaden Host participated in the dismemberment of the Merrill realm. To the victor go the spoils, after all.”