“We do not need the Red Swords any longer. They have become a liability; they have ceased being helpful allies. In the last two years, they have cost us and given back nothing. It is time to let them reap the consequences of their own errors of judgment.”
Udek sat down, unsmiling and calm in demeanor. The other scribes smiled and nodded, though Sandun saw the generals were angry, staring at Udek with furrowed brows. General Kun clenched and unclenched his big hands.
Lord Vaina sat, cool as though the minister had just proposed repairs to a bridge. For half a candle’s width, he held his head thoughtfully and let Minister Udek’s words sink in. He raised his eyes and looked at his old friend, General Erdis. “For the opposite argument, I know General Erdis wishes to speak.”
General Erdis stood up and rested his arms on the back of his chair. For a few seconds, he stood silent, looking down at his chair. Slowly he spoke, choosing his words with care.
“What Minister Udek says is the truth. But only part of the truth. The minister sees words and numbers as real things. Important they are, but they are not real; they are not what men live for, fight for, or are willing to die for. The minister judges the world by costs and gains, so much taxes spent here for a watchtower, so much revenue from this customs post. But that is not why we are here today.”
General Erdis took off his heavy leather shirt, revealing his burly chest marred with three long, ugly scars.
“Ten years past, Jori, Kun, myself, and others who are no longer living—we were nothing, and we had nothing. The Red Prophet took us in, fed us, told us of his vision of Serica, a free Serica, peaceful, with food enough for all. Not like the land we knew, where disease stalked every town, where famine afflicted thousands in every province, and the only thing in abundance was locusts! Back then, the Sogands rode across our land, killing whoever they pleased. They burned down towns for trivial offenses, they raped our women on whim, they skewered our children for sport as though we were all no different from animals.
“The Red Prophet had visions, yes, and I believed them. We all did. And so we went out with sticks for weapons and wood bound with rope for armor, and we fought. We fought in small towns, in places beside the river so small they didn’t even have names. How many died? How many men and boys joined us, followed the Red Prophet, and died? I cannot count them all, but I see their faces, and I remember their blood.
“Despite the thousands of deaths, we won. It was the Red Swords that captured Sasuvi years ago. Then Mamarvi, then Solt’varkas, then Lakava. We weren’t fighting with numbers and words on paper; we were fighting with a dream urging us on. We were fighting with a vision of Serica that we had never known in our lives, but the Red Prophet made us believe in that dream. Only faith was needed—and faith we had!
“When we took Tokolas, we were still the Red Swords. My officers, my veterans—we remember. We were the Red Swords. We took a new name, the Red Crane Army, after we took this city. But if we turn our backs on our former comrades, if we let them die in Kemeklos, then what have we become? Minister Udek says we will rule all of Serica the way the Water Kingdom ruled in the past. I’m not fighting to restore the Water Kingdom! They failed. The Kitran beat them like they were women. I’m fighting for something new and better. The Red Prophet may be dead, but I still believe in his vision. I say we sail to Kemeklos and save our brothers!”
All the generals stood up and saluted him. Minister Udek sat, erect, impassive, but the other ministers bowed their heads and did not look at the battle-scarred soldiers.
Lord Vaina said, “For an unbiased view, I now ask Valo Peli. As you all know, under the name Arno Boethy, he was a general in the Kitran Empire. To him I direct the question: Can it be done? Can we accomplish this goal? I will not throw thousands of lives away simply to prove our loyalty to a dead man’s vision.”
Valo Peli nodded, his face carefully neutral. “As I count the men and ships and the needs on all our borders, Kunhalvar has the power to reach Kemeklos. With seven thousand foot, a thousand cavalry, and command of the Jupol River, we can reach the walls of the city, evacuate the Radiant Prince and his followers, and then retreat safely back to Tokolas. Nilin’s army is not a true army of the Kitran Empire, not like the horde his father commanded at the siege of Naduva. Instead, Nilin’s army is equal parts second-rate Sogand warriors and inferior Serice mercenary foot soldiers, fighting for coins and food. Nilin does have a small core of true Kitran buffalo riders, but not enough to defeat us. By fighting defensively, we should be able to fend off Nilin’s army and reach Kemeklos, but I offer no opinion as to whether this should be done.”
“What say you, Opmi Sandun? What would you counsel?”
“Lord of Tokolas, let me first start by saying that Nilin Ulim has twice tried to kill us Keltens, first using bloody-handed hired killers and second with foul poison. We Keltens have sworn vengeance against him, and so my thoughts are colored by hate! Beyond our thirst for revenge, we Keltens would not hesitate to strike a blow at the Sogands, if victory were but an even chance, as we hold them the enemies of all mankind. Finally, to rescue allies from terrible peril seems a most laudable task, one fit for a ruler of renown, one worthy of a man who would one day be king of Serica. What will the people say about this? They will say: here is a ruler who does not forget his debts; here is a leader who puts at hazard his finest soldiers to rescue allies of old. Soldiers will say: there rides a ruler who I would follow into a very storm of arrows, knowing that my efforts will not be forgotten even if I do not live to see the days of peace. I counsel saving Kemeklos.”
Lord Vaina’s face was set, almost as if it were made of stone. Only his eyes were alive as he looked at Sandun and then glanced around the table, drawing in his civil advisors and his generals. The silence built, and the tension in the room grew like a bowstring pulled to a full draw.
“Minister Renieth has something to say,” Lord Vaina said quietly. “Speak now, and do not be afraid.”
Renieth, the junior minister of Rituals, remained seated, but he spoke lucidly and with economy.
“My lord, I propose that we do both. Send seven thousand men to Kemeklos and also send a smaller force to take control of Sasuvi and all of Zelkat province. The city of Sasuvi is without strong leadership; their defenses have been stripped. The people are rightly fearful of attack from a new Sogand horde coming from the north or Vasvar striking at them from the south. Their new governor, Talmeksi, may be capable, but he has had only two weeks to put right a province that has been in chaos for years.
“As to defenses, we know that only a skeleton garrison was left behind in Sasuvi when the Red Prophet left for Kemeklos, and new recruits have been urgently summoned against Nilin Ulim’s assault. Sasuvi and all the cities in Zelkat have been deprived of their trained soldiers. If, as Number Eight says, Two-Swords Tuno sails south for Buuk, this gives us a window of opportunity for a small army, as little as two thousand men, to take over Sasuvi and bring it under our control.”
He continued, gathering strength as his ideas became words.
“Should we succeed in snatching the Radiant Prince from the jaws of the wolf, why then would we then return the boy to power in Sasuvi? Would it not make sense to keep him safe but confined, under our control? We could add the Red Sword army to our own, dispersed among our troops, bolstering our strength. Minister Udek is correct: the Red Swords are mostly incompetent fools, and I believe it is time for us to take control of Zelkat province and run it properly. Ever since Master Donath of the Great Sage Temple pledged to you, we have had new scholars offering to join us every day. Many are men of distinction and will themselves cause others to offer their services. Within a month, we will have enough people to administer Sasuvi, Mamarvi, and the entirety of Zelkat.
“Now is the time to expand our reach. If we do not take Sasuvi, General Tuno will, and then we will be ground to dust between Vasvar to the west and Dombovar to the east. It is
to our good fortune that Tuno has set his eyes to the south instead of the north. No doubt he seeks the easy victory, knowing nothing can stop him from taking Buuklos. We must seize this opportunity and take Zelkat now, adding it to our dominion. By sending the bulk of our army to rescue the Radiant Prince, the Red Swords in Sasuvi will be loath to oppose us when we arrive at their gates. With boldness and determination, we can take Sasuvi with minimal bloodshed. This then is my counsel: do both.”
Renieth’s bold compromise caused General Erdis to tug on his short beard, a thoughtful expression on his face. After a long pause, the general nodded.
“The young minister suggests we do both. I agree. If the prophet is dead, is not Lord Vaina the man to rule? Zelkat, Sakhat, Kisvar—all of these provinces should be run by us now. We are ready to govern more than just Kunhalvar; now is the time to expand. Yes, it is a risk, but so was our attack on Tokolas nearly four years ago.”
A long discussion ensued as the men at the table talked about numbers of ships and soldiers and whether the army from Kunhalvar would be seen as friends or enemies. It was an ambitious plan with many unknown consequences. The tension at the table gradually eased as both factions saw a way forward that combined all their goals. After several hours, the plan took on solid outlines, and notes were written swiftly, sketching out the troops required and supplies needed. Excitement filled the room, everyone was smiling, and the generals and civilian advisors were sharing ideas and talking together.
Sandun noticed that Lord Vaina said little though he seemed to approve of Renieth’s “do everything” plan. Sandun thought back to the few meetings he’d attended where King Pandion had asked for advice. In his memory, King Pandion had refrained from revealing his thoughts, perhaps out of concern that an indication of his preference would cause the discussion to be nothing but arguments for the king’s position. Sandun knew Lord Vaina well enough to know that he had at least three different arguments to support his favored plan, yet he took no position during the debate and seemed unusually passive. Was this the way to get the best advice? Were his advisors more fully committed to the plan because they helped create it?
Tea was brought into the room along with fresh pomegranates and other fruits. Sandun ate some pomegranate seeds before memories of his day with Ashala flooded his mind, like a bucket of cold water poured over his head. With an effort, he forced them back to the dark cave where he kept all his memories of her imprisoned.
“I am fully satisfied with the proposal of this council.” Lord Vaina declared. “General Kun will lead the western army to Sasuvi, with Minister Momen as his civilian advisor. Minister Udek will govern Tokolas in my absence, as I shall lead the expedition to Kemeklos with General Erdis and General Modi. I have no doubt that the opmis from Kelten will join us in this attack on Nilin Ulim. We set out no later than four weeks from today!”
Chapter Four
The Red Swords
Kagne Areka had to make a decision. Ever since the night of the burning tower and the krasuth’s strange command to “seek the True Master,” Kagne had been pulled in several different directions.
He felt the mysterious call, the lure of the hidden. Hadn’t the krasuth, Orinok, invited him to join his order with his final words? Who was the True Master? Could he teach Kagne a secret power over fog and wind? Even now, months after the battle, he heard Orinok’s voice in his head, and he felt…different. Not himself.
Yet he was part of the Kelten embassy, officially an Opmi of Serica, one of the founding eight—or nine if one included the now-dead Gloval. Including Olef and Niksol, there were only ten Keltens alive in all of Serica. Would he leave his companions and head north, traveling through unknown lands into war purely on a feeling that this was his new purpose? Absurd, and yet what else was he going to do? He was not a soldier; he was a trader, a traveler, a peacemaker. Back home, people asked him questions, and he consulted the stars and gave answers that pleased most those who listened to him. In northern Erimasran, he was a respected man; people talked about him becoming a chief someday. He had agreed, without much choice really, to go with Sandun and guide him for a year. That year was over, and yet here he was, in the middle of Serica, with no way home.
The road back to Erimasran was long and dangerous. It could not be attempted alone, nor could it be attempted at just any time of the year. You had to start in Gipu in the spring and then walk without stopping for four months, avoiding bears, wolves, Sogands, and other dangers along the way. Even if he retraced the route exactly, would there be enough food? What if he slipped and broke his ankle? What if snows covered the entrance to the tunnel at the top of the soaring cliff next to Mount Pandion? So many dangers lay in wait, dangers that they had avoided the first time thanks to luck or to the blessings of Sho’Ash.
It was too late to leave now; he had to stay on this side of the Tiralas for at least another seven months. He knew that Wiyat was planning on returning next spring with Trader Rogge’s nephew. No one had asked Kagne if he wanted to return. But then, he didn’t know if he was ready to make the trip either.
What should he do?
He could embrace a role as one of the Opmi of Serica, although he wasn’t much of an archer and felt uncomfortable with Sir Ako’s vision of a new Holy Order of Knights. That wasn’t his vision; it wasn’t an idea that fit with who he was. Although he was Kelten, he came from the least Kelten-like place. He hadn’t grown up with knights and temples and jousting tournaments. His people were sheepherders and cultivators of dream weed; their villages were just wandering wagons tracing out paths through the grassy valleys of Tokivanu.
Kagne liked cities, in small doses. His year spent selling dream weed in Seopolis with Sandun had been fun and games, but he hadn’t missed it when it was over. He’d thought he would like Gipu, a small town surrounded by the lofty mountains and forests, but four months there was more than enough. The people of Gipu didn’t live in the land; they lived in a city, a small, walled city, insular, inward looking. Tokolas was a hulking metropolis, more populous than any place he had ever seen before, at first, frightening and later, just huge and mysterious. All these people doing things, layers on layers of jobs and activities. It didn’t make sense to him, and he didn’t know if he wanted to learn.
Two weeks after the burning tower, Kagne had gone to find the surviving krasuth. The meeting had been short and unproductive. Kagne related his experience with Orinok to the krasuth, who was named Polkinombu. He looked silently at Kagne for some time and then nodded suddenly like a pigeon.
“There is some truth in your words. I shall meditate on this. It may take some time before the sky brightens.”
“But what do I do?” Kagne asked.
“If the call is strong, you will know what to do,” the krasuth replied unhelpfully.
A month later, after Kagne had fully recovered from the poisoned soup, he again sought out the krasuth, Polkinombu. Did Kagne feel the call? The world seemed different, slightly. He felt something. When he smoked the local herb, which was similar to dream weed, the feeling was stronger and unsettling. It was like a faint pressure and it had a direction. There was no mistaking it—the feeling came from the north.
This time the krasuth was more open, and their talk lasted several hours.
“You may be chosen, like I was,” the krasuth said. They were sitting in a square courtyard deep inside the palace. The sun was high in the sky, beating down the dust with heat, but a thin layer of fog just overhead blocked the sun’s energy. The fog did not dissipate, nor had Kagne seen it before he entered the krasuth’s chambers. It was odd but pleasant to sit there under the krasuth’s personal cloud.
“But you will have to go to him; the master will not come to you. Think of it as a test of your will, determination, and desire.” The krasuth closed his eyes, and his accent become more pronounced. “I traveled many months from the south to find the True Master. I once lived in Prempol, a city in what
the Serice call Murkathaz. You have come a long way already, but it may be that you will not go beyond this city. Are you content here? Orinok saw something within you.” The man hesitated and then continued. “I see something within you. The restless spirit. The eyes that perceive more of the world than other men.”
The krasuth deflected Kagne’s more pointed questions with vague platitudes or meandering replies that said little. Kagne returned to the Kelten embassy still wondering what he should do.
That night, after smoking the local dream weed, he had a disturbing vision. Again he was on the tower, again Orinok came up to him and looked into his eyes, but now behind him there was a figure in the sky, titanic and black; its voice was telling him to seek the True Master. The roof he was standing on shook like it was made of willow twigs, and then he was falling, and his fall into darkness lasted till he woke with his heart pounding. The vision so terrified Kagne that he did not smoke again. Despite Polkinombu’s words, he didn’t feel compelled to leave Tokolas and head north. Why would he do that? Why?
Frustrated, bored, discontented, Kagne took to wandering the streets of Tokolas. He stopped at temples and watched the street magicians. His knowledge of conversational Serice was now sufficient to allow him to talk about more than just food and the weather. He tried discussing with the priests of Eston more complex subjects such as life after death and the nature of sin, but most of their explanations left him confused. The concepts they thought were basic and needed no explanation seemed to rely on building blocks that Kagne did not possess.
The night, Sandun’s and Sir Ako’s announcements about their respective engagements brought the notion of women to mind. A woman might provide a sense of direction and purpose to his life. Sandun and Ako were getting married to women from this part of the world, and though Kagne argued with Sandun about the idea of marrying the woman from Shila, he later reconsidered his words. Perhaps Sandun and Ako were doing the right thing after all. How long were all of them going to be in Serica? Years? Decades?
The Fire Sword Page 15
