Markan Sword

by Nicholas A. Rose

  Mikhan laughed. "We've got their army, but I suspect Marcus is more interested in gaining the throne than ships."

  "Not a very likely route," admitted Paul, "but what about Vertia?"

  "Again, supply problems, and crossing Prefectures hostile to him," countered Mikhan.

  "And if he lands north of Vertia?" pressed Paul. "And crosses the tundra?"

  "Back to supply problems," said Mikhan. "It's possible though, and certainly more likely than seizing the Horn."

  "Unless he makes a grab for the Horn to tempt us into attacking him," added Nazvasta. "Marcus knows gaining control of all the trade in the Bay of Plenty will hurt us in our pocket, and the only way we could again share in its wealth would be through submission to his rule."

  Mikhan nodded. The marshal knew war; he did not necessarily understand economics and commerce.

  "You have displayed unorthodoxy in the past," Nazvasta said to Indelgar. "How would you mount an assault on Sandester? How would you get here?"

  "I would ride north from Marka, then north-east," replied Indelgar. "The land is fertile for a good way, with plenty of farms to resupply my victuals. Once north of Sandester, I'd turn south. However, laying siege in my opinion would be foolish and only turn people against me."

  "As Marcus Senior discovered," murmured Nazvasta.

  Indelgar nodded. "Exactly. I would infiltrate city and palace with one aim."

  Nazvasta raised an eyebrow.

  Indelgar smiled. "To capture the claimant and force a renunciation from him."

  "And if I refused?"

  Indelgar blushed. "These are ruthless times; I doubt Marcus Vintner would order the execution of your family, but I fear he would certainly take them hostage. And, ah, use them during any negotiations."

  Nazvasta looked at Mikhan. "I think we have found our generals, Marshal."

  Indelgar and Paul exchanged a surprised look.

  Mikhan spoke. "Paul, you will command the garrisons in Maturia, in case your scenario comes to pass. With the rank of General, of course."

  Paul could not hide his delighted smile.

  "My son will be under your command, but he will look after the garrisons in Vertia," continued Mikhan.

  "And you," said Nazvasta, smiling at Indelgar, "shall have the task of ensuring my family does not fall into Marcus's hands. You will take an army north and secure our northern flank."

  "As a Captain?" asked Indelgar.

  "No," said Mikhan. "As a General."

  "Two small points before I accept," said Indelgar.

  The other three stared at him in surprise.

  "Go on." Nazvasta's voice hinted at thinning patience.

  "Firepowder and sylph scouts," said Indelgar.

  Mikhan laughed. "Told you he was the right one," he told Nazvasta. "General Indelgar, we have firepowder and, while not quite as well trained as the Calcan mob, we also have sylph scouts."

  "We do?" Nazvasta's eyebrows climbed towards his hairline. "I did not authorize setting up any school!"

  "Apologies," said Mikhan, "but Fareen decided we needed a scout school here."

  Nazvasta gave a disapproving sniff. "Under the circumstances, I will forgive this disobedience."

  Indelgar sat back, clasped his hands in front of him and smiled. "Good," he said. "Without sylph scouts, we are doomed."

  ***

  Fareen slipped silently into the study in the former observatory, but Nazvasta looked up anyway. They were alone, for the two servants who cleaned here had long since returned to the palace.

  "How did your war meeting go?" asked the gwerin.

  Nazvasta smiled. "My military people assure me we can defend Sandester and her Prefectures, but advise me that a successful assault against Marka is unlikely. We must do this Verdin's way. What have you been up to?"

  Fareen pursed her lips. "A productive morning talking to Elsin's sylph. You have an ally in Elsin, if a dangerous one."

  Nazvasta raised an eyebrow.

  The gwerin was used to unspoken communication. "Elsin believes Kana threw away the opportunity to get the Markan guilds on our side. She does not believe we can make good on that mistake."

  "Well that's something. I'm growing tired of Kana banging on about the claim she wants me to make."

  "You should make it," said Fareen. "And you received wise counsel to not press it militarily. Maintain a dignified independence for Sandester, an armed neutrality if you will, and allow Verdin to rebuild the empire for Marcus. Point to his successes whenever there is one to report."

  "Why is Elsin so dangerous?" asked Nazvasta quietly.

  "She is ambitious," replied Fareen. "She wants the best for her daughters, particularly in finding husbands for them, and is aware that as a widow, she now stands on the periphery of events here."

  "Her daughters are barely five years old," retorted Nazvasta. "I'm sure we can find some princelings to –"

  "I think she has merchant families in mind," interrupted Fareen. "To build her own influence. She wants you to press your claim, because she understands the advantages to commerce when the empire is united."

  Nazvasta sighed. "Another one prodding me in a certain direction."

  Fareen smiled. "But prodding rather more gently than the other widow. Kana tries to bludgeon you into it, Elsin wants to be more... subtle than that."

  "Oh?" Again, Nazvasta raised an eyebrow. "She's hardly spoken two words to me since she returned from Marka."

  "She wants to marry you." Fareen's pale brown eyes stared into Nazvasta's blue.

  "Not a chance," growled Nazvasta. "I'm happy with Heylena. Besides, it's bad luck to marry your brother's widow."

  "Superstitious nonsense," retorted Fareen. "If she doesn't marry you, she's thinking of marrying Verdin."

  "What?" Nazvasta raised both eyebrows this time. "Is the woman mad?"

  "Very clever, I would say," replied Fareen. "Do you want me to recruit, ah, Millan?"

  "Sounds to me like you already have," said Nazvasta. "But let's stay with Elsin. She can't marry Verdin!"

  "Actually, yes she can," said Fareen. "They're not related in any way, except that Verdin's father married her first."

  Nazvasta nodded. "Certainly not desirable though."

  "True, people will talk." Fareen nodded. "And the thought of those two minds working together... Verdin and Elsin, gaining power and influence, one due to inherit all of Sandester's lands."

  "What?"

  Fareen blinked. "Branad's renunciation concerns the claim to the Markan Throne," she pointed out. "Verdin remains Branad's rightful heir here. If Sandester keeps her independence, Verdin is the legal ruler."

  Nazvasta sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. "Are you serious?"

  "Very." Fareen smiled. "And I am certain that Elsin has already worked that one out for herself."

  "This has turned into a mess." Nazvasta shook his head.

  "All the more reason to press your claim to the throne," replied Fareen. "It doesn't matter then, because Sandester will be absorbed into the new empire."

  "What do you feel I should do about Elsin?" Nazvasta blinked.

  "Marry her," said Fareen immediately. "For political purposes, of course."

  "You're asking me to marry a viper!"

  "You don't have to take her to your bed," added Fareen quickly. "Better she marries you than Verdin. The Father only knows what might happen as a result of that union."

  Nazvasta shook his head and laughed. It sounded tired. "Recruit her sylph, and try to recruit Elsin. String her along. We can keep her hopes up for a year or so where. With luck, I'll have the throne before she realizes I've got no intention of marrying her. We can find powerful merchant families to marry her daughters into. By then, she might already be a powerful merchant in her own right. She'll have to make do with that."

  Fareen inclined her head. "Very probably a wise course of action," she said, in tones of deep satisfaction.

  ***

  Now firm friends, Kullin and Egr
an helped ready horses. Both had been assigned to the same light cavalry regiment. They were yet to be issued with their own horse, but both had armor and sword, a lance and leather clothes. A bedroll with a scrap of canvas to keep the weather off their faces when asleep. Eating utensils and a wooden bowl. Boots and polish. A set of brushes and small metal tools for horse maintenance. A saddlebag to keep it all in.

  "Reckon we're on the move somewhere?" asked Kullin, with a wink. "Be good to see some fighting again."

  Egran, who had hoped for a few more nights with his willing ladyfriend, nodded. "And look what they've given us as a General," he whispered. "Does he shave yet?"

  Kullin chuckled. "Be finding out soon enough how good or otherwise he is. But for now, we stick with him, in case there's any field promotions coming our way. Make the most of every opportunity."

  Amid the preparations, both men realized something big must be planned. Two light cavalry regiments, one of armored cavalry, thousands of infantrymen. Carts, horses, farriers, laundresses, physicians and their attendants, carpenters, smiths, cooks; all assembling just outside the city.

  Kullin nudged Egran. "What're they for then?"

  Egran looked to where several sylphs, clearly not officers' servants, clustered around a man in drab clothing. There were fifteen, painted gray, green and brown, and who looked to be almost naked.

  "Look like undressed scouts to me," said Egran. "These mainlanders will never cease to amaze. I'm more interested in what might be in those wagons."

  Kullin turned to look at three wagons, which were locked and under guard. "The cash I reckon," he answered. "If it gets too hot here, we can break in and set ourselves up for life."

  "The gold's in that one," said Egran, pointing another way. "Because that's the one with the administrators clustered around it."

  Kullin glanced across. "You're right." A thoughtful expression crossed his face. "Maybe it's the secret weapon we talked about."

  "My thinking too," agreed Egran. His attention returned to the painted sylphs, who listened to the human in drab clothes attentively, but not submissively. Something about their stance looked oddly familiar, and they spoke with the human as equals, rather than as slaves to their master. Egran preferred sylphs being at least quiet, and better yet cringing.

  He had seen this sort of behavior from sylphs before, but where?

  Kullin inspected his lance, clearly unused to the weapon. He twirled it around and looked along the shaft to the point.

  "So we'll be fighting Markans and Calcans," he said.

  "They're supposed to be the same thing now," pointed out Egran.

  Kullin sniffed. "So are we. Well, Sandesterans are anyways."

  Egran shrugged.

  "Can tell you weren't an officer," laughed Kullin. "If we all follow this Emperor Zenepha, then why are we getting ready to fight Markans? Why is Sandester so happy to welcome us into their ranks, when Marka isn't?"

  "Maybe Marka is," retorted Egran. "We only came here because it's nearest. Maybe other Re Taurans went there and joined their army."

  Kullin grinned again. "So we might fight our own countrymen. Serves 'em right for choosing wrong then. So long as they keep paying us."

  "Right." Egran nodded. "So long as they keep paying us. And feeding us." He glanced again at the sylph scouts and the way they held themselves, and recognition dawned.

  "I know who you remind me of," he muttered. "Neptarik."

  ***

  Chapter 7

  Marka

  The two boys were sent to the darkened storage room to polish the sword. They carried candle lanterns and whispered ghost stories to each other, pretending they were too big and old to fear the dark. Being boys, they could hardly resist practicing with the sword, one pretending to attack the other when they finished polishing. When the Imperial Armorer arrived to give the weapon its monthly inspection, he sent the boys on their way, with an empty threat of a cuffing for disrespecting the ancient sword ringing in their ears.

  The sword would not have minded being used for its intended purpose once again.

  If it had awareness, which of course it did not, the sword would want to taste sweet, fresh blood, as in its distant youth. To be used as a weapon of war, taking lives in its owner's service.

  But now, it served as nothing more than a symbol. Of government and administration no less, but still only representing some abstract ideal which had nothing to do with war.

  Made from plain steel, its existence began in one of the many forges in Magiere. It could tell a tale of more than seventeen hundred years; it had seen empires rise and empires fall. It had seen yet more lands destroyed and ravaged, or annexed to stronger nations. It knew the euphoria of victory and the bitter taste of defeat.

  Lettering etched into the blade had been worn to illegibility centuries ago, and the copper inlaid to enhance the etching gone long before that. The sword would miss the copper; fresh blood had the metallic taste of copper.

  Still the sword continued its existence, preserved only because of its illustrious owner, the man who founded the first successful empire and began the long task of reintroducing civilization to a continent.

  Whenever one of the man's descendants died, out came the sword, laid across the new Emperor's lap to serve as a symbol and reminder of what awaited whenever humanity abandoned order for chaos.

  The sword had seen it all. Hope, success, victory, failure, loss and defeat. It had seen battles, it had seen hopes dashed. Wherever the Founding Mark had gone, the sword went too, and was used, perhaps too well used, to steal lives and secure victory.

  And now, as the Imperial Armorer completed his monthly inspection, the sword was again returned to darkness. It had seen greatness pass and, if it had awareness, which of course it did not, would see greatness return.

  But for now, alone in the dark, the Markan Sword waited.

  ***

  Zenepha stared out of the window across rooftops towards the huge black pyramid that dominated the countryside and dwarfed the city built alongside it. Despite his position of power, he felt troubled.

  The Eldovans' siege of Marka had been broken and the enemy forced to return home. The threat from Re Taura had abated, with the old mametain restored, the usurper dead and his army, if not disbanded, at least greatly reduced in size.

  Lands bent knee to his rule, submitting once again to Marka's suzerainty, if not her direct authority. The shadow riders had returned from their long self-imposed exile and reaffirmed their vows; two gwerins who remembered the last Markan Empire had returned home and accepted their collars, with a third almost two years old and already beginning her schooling.

  But worries furrowed Zenepha's brow. Despite all his success, he still felt like a pretender, as if living a lie. A sylph, sold as a chattel to Marka's Supreme Councilor... His earpoints twitched. No collar had graced his neck for almost two years and he still missed it. No slave could be an Emperor, even a sylph Emperor, a caretaker before the genuine ruler stepped forward to take his throne. A human ruler.

  He failed to convince himself and squeezed his silver-gray eyes shut. As his previous owner had pointed out to the Senate on the day of his manumission, nobody really knew whether Zenepha had been born into slavery or not.

  But surely all sylphs were born as property, the cost of their bargain with humanity, security in exchange for service, an alliance with the more aggressive species, instead of competition and enmity. Then wild sylphs had showed up and given lie to his belief.

  Not even he knew his early history. All that remained from his early days, from before, was a vague memory of a gentle touch and a strange tattoo of many black lines that permanently marked the inside of his left biceps. He wanted to believe the touch had come from his mother.

  He could not even remember her face.

  He felt uncharacteristic anger rise as he considered his stolen memories. Nobody knew the how or why, but he wanted them back more than anything else. He needed answers that he believed to
be his right. Did he have a family who missed him? Did his mother still live? Zenepha ached for knowledge to plug the gaps in his mind.

  As Emperor, he wanted to command the return of his memories. Still unable to believe it, he whispered the mantra.

  "By Siranva’s Wrath: Emperor of Marka, Dominator of the World, Guardian of the Key, Commander of the Shadow Riders, Lord Protector of Gwerins; His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Zenepha."

  Opening his eyes, he blinked a couple of times and felt no different. He still lived the lie.

  Oh, he understood what had happened and even admired his former owner's cunning. There were many claimants to the throne, but only the two with the strongest claims had been invited to Marka. They met, they fought, and one captured the other. A clear choice.

  Except that someone else decided the defeated claimant was now an encumbrance and murdered him, triggering events that led to claims being suspended and an unwilling sylph thrust onto the throne of the most powerful land in the known world.

  Trickery had been involved of course, not least of all to himself. His old life had been quite comfortable, with a good owner and a loving wife, but he knew he could never return to that now. Come what may, that old and familiar life existed only in the past.

  He missed it.

  "I am a sylph," he muttered, as if to remind himself.

  That humans had allowed his coronation still amazed him. Had his previous owner planned to make Marka a laughing stock?

  But if anybody had ever laughed, it happened quietly and in private.

  Had he really wanted to be removed from this unwelcome position, Zenepha knew he should have behaved very differently. But no, he'd played along and trapped himself.

  His values and loyalties transferred from his owner to his country. He served Marka with the same diligence as he had Olista. He no longer belonged to one man, but to an entire nation and he made it his duty to serve them.

  Then the siege cemented his position.

  He had been nothing more than a figurehead. Yet people cheered him in the streets afterwards, soldiers cheered whenever he came close. Everybody pretended that they couldn't see blue skin, or silver hair, or earpoints, or anything else that marked him out as being non-human.

  They pretended they had a real human as Emperor.

  Which they did not, of course.

  Sylphs regarded him with awe. They had elevated him to something more than he deserved, treating him almost as a god and all but worshiping the ground he walked on. Wild sylphs, freed by Marcus Vintner, held him up as an example of what sylphs could achieve without human ownership. Civilized sylphs muttered that he was an exception, yet argued among themselves whether or not they should continue wearing collars.