“Uh… I… Yes?” the grounded villager was most confused of all.
“Can I have some?”
“Uh… Sure?”
Viktor vaguely gestured his hands towards the officers. “Can my friends have some?”
The villager darted his gaze between Viktor and the Arch-Commander. He was no longer terrified, but incredibly befuddled. “Sure?”
“Thank you, friend!” Viktor threw arms up in the air then playfully smacked the shoulder of the Arch-Commander, who was even further amazed. Viktor looked around and every single person, including Anton, looked at him with extreme anticipation.
“What’s your name, recruit?” The Arch-Commander squinted and smirked as he awaited Viktor’s reply.
“Viktor!” His face was animated with convincing drunkenness.
“To which officer are you assigned?”
“Um…” Viktor slouched his back and looked up in contemplation, while pouting his lip excessively. “Captain Fershanko?”
All the officers burst out laughing, except for Captain Petrenko. Anton laughed along nervously. Dozens of other recruits looked on the scene from a distance, fascinated.
“Petrenko!” the Arch-Commander bellowed out. Petrenko immediately rushed to stand at attention. “I like this recruit, Petrenko. In fact, he’s gonna ride your horse the rest of the march!”
The officers all howled with laughter. Even the villagers were joining in. Anton was wide-eyed and absolutely stunned. Petrenko was visibly shocked and unhappy, and Viktor found it especially humorous that the Captain could not protest the Arch-Commander’s decision. I didn’t plan any of this, he thought. It was difficult for Viktor to hide how amused he was. After what seemed like a long time, the laughter died down, and the Arch-Commander turned to Viktor.
“Viktor! Take your lightweight friend and take him back to camp. Make sure he can march tomorrow.” He turned towards the officers. “See that the village is generous.” Lastly, he turned to the recruits looking from afar. “The rest of you will await further orders from your squad leaders. Dismissed!”
Shouts of the words yes and sir thundered through the air. Viktor walked to Alexey, who still lay on the ground unconscious, and he knelt to pick the boy up. Anton kneeled next to him.
“What the hell just happened?” Anton protested.
Viktor smirked. “I stole Petrenko’s horse.”
“No shit, but how!?”
“I’m too likable?” Viktor humorously said.
“I don’t think our pal here would agree.” Anton looked downwards at Alexey. “Let’s get him back to camp.”
Viktor grabbed Alexey by the shoulders, while Anton was at his legs. On a mutual count to three, they lifted the boy up carefully then waddled towards camp. Viktor faced forward while Anton shuffled backwards. While they struggled their way to the camp, many recruits stopped to look. Some gazed at Viktor with admiration, and others did with jealousy. I don’t understand it either, he thought.
After what felt like an eternity, Alexey had finally been delivered to the camp. There were over thirty small white tents. The few tents that had the Winterland Snowflake on them were only for the officers, while the generic tents were for the recruits. Viktor and Anton tried to find their own tent. Viktor remembered it being next to a tree stump, so once he spotted it, he told Anton to set Alexey down. Anton proceeded to open the tent and Viktor looked back towards the village, stunned to see that it was a mere two-hundred-foot-long walk.
“Help me get him in here!” Anton told Viktor.
Viktor quickly knelt and helped Anton pack Alexey into the tent. Anton reached for the white wool blanket and started to wrap him up in it. Viktor was about to help when a booming voice interrupted him from behind.
“Viktor!” It was Petrenko, making no attempts to stifle his fury.
Viktor backed out of the tent, stood up, and turned around. “Hello sir!” Viktor attempted to salute unironically, but Petrenko nevertheless took the action as an insult.
“Listen, and listen to me well, recruit.” Petrenko moved right into Viktor’s face. “You might have sucked the Arch-Commander’s cock to earn some favor with him, but during the rest of this march you are still my property, and mine alone. If you ever forget that fact, I’ll skull-fuck you with a rusty dagger.” Petrenko’s eyes and nostrils flared as his fury reached a breaking point.
“Why does it need to be rusty?” Viktor quipped.
Petrenko instantly shot his right hand up to Viktor’s throat and seized it. His fingers dug into the flesh between the prominent neck bones. Viktor immediately tried to gasp in pain, but he could not make a sound: he could only writhe and twitch as the life was siphoned from his body.
“You are my property.” Petrenko looked into Viktor’s eyes. “Nod, if you comprehend that fact.”
Viktor resisted for as long as he could manage, but as Petrenko’s icy grip was near the point of killing him, he reluctantly nodded. Petrenko immediately released him, making him fall to his knees, gasping pitifully.
“Now…” Petrenko squatted down to hover just above Viktor’s head. “Say it.”
“I’m your property,” Viktor mumbled.
“Say it so everybody can hear you!” Petrenko shouted directly into Viktor’s ear. Multiple recruits and officers started to gather around to witness the commotion.
“I’m your property!” Viktor announced as loudly as he could. His throat ached greatly, so the words were raspy.
“Does property get to ride my horse during the march?”
“No…” Viktor half-heartedly admitted.
Petrenko grinned devilishly and stood up straight. He looked around the camp with smug satisfaction and gallivanted back towards the village.
Viktor remained on his knees, tilting his head upwards to breathe more easily. He scanned the onlooking recruits and officers, who all looked upon him no longer with respect, but with pity. He gulped shamefully and fell onto his back. He panted a few more times and rolled onto his stomach. He accidentally rubbed his face into thick, cold mud and quickly tried to bounce back up to his knees. In a fit of rage, he aggressively brushed the mud off his face, hitting his own face quite forcefully. The mud was off his face and out of his eyes, so he looked directly in front of himself, seeing a barely conscious Alexey looking at him with an innocent and sympathetic gaze.
CH 8 – Black Eyes III
Moments before departing to Miller’s Port, the Emperor needed to check on his son. Word of Asher’s incident with the Red Artifact had spread throughout Steeltower like a plague. Accounts of the incident differed—some believed Asher had been possessed by an evil spirit, while others believed Asher was the evil spirit. Whatever the truth was, the Emperor needed to see Asher for himself, since Asher’s side of the story was the only one that mattered to him.
The Emperor would not get what he wanted, since Asher was in a coma. This was no ordinary coma, however. As he looked down upon his son, Asher writhed fearfully in short bursts, all while muttering gibberish. According to Bertrand, it was the same gibberish he chanted while enthralled by the Red Artifact.
When Black Eyes visited Asher, even he felt a certain degree of compassion for the bedridden Heir-Emperor. The way Asher wriggled, whimpered, and muttered his nonsense made him seem like much less of a dickhead than Black Eyes was used to. Strange how I don’t feel like stabbing him right now, he pondered.
Even with Asher’s uncertain status, the Emperor had decided that the expedition to the Headlands must continue—the armistice was the most important thing in his mind. The ships had been anchored at Miller’s Port, and key vassals of the Emberlands had been commanded to send a thousand Emberland warriors. Messages containing the Emberlands’ timeline had been sent to the rulers of the Midlands, Headlands, and Rocklands.
The ride from Steeltower to Miller’s Port was thirty-four miles. A stone road over forty feet wide ran from Steeltower’s trading gate to the Port. Supplies, soldiers, merchants, and Deadland Exiles trave
rsed the road every single day, but the Emperor had ordered the roads to be cleared during his ride to the Port. Unimpeded by foot and horse traffic, the ride lasted only a small chunk of the day.
The men posted atop the wall sighted the Emperor’s party hundreds of yards before they were at the gates. To ensure no delays, they shouted down below to ensure the final preparations were complete. Several minutes thereafter, the party set foot upon the open gates of Miller’s Port.
Black Eyes looked up at the stone walls, impressed by the height, but noted they were nothing like the walls surrounding Steeltower. The gate was constructed with unremarkable wood. Wouldn’t even need a battering ram to bust through these doors, Black Eyes thought.
Despite the seemingly uninspired architecture of the defenses, Black Eyes was impressed with how quickly the Port’s workers and ships’ crews took care of business. They quickly and effectively moved the cargo aboard the ship, working like diligent mice. Hundreds of these workers did not impede one another, but amplified productivity to a truly astonishing degree. A group of over 1,200 individuals required a lot of supplies, and all of it was loaded onto the caravels very quickly.
Among the fleet was the flagship dreadnaught of the Emberland fleet, the Firestorm. The ship was among the most massive in the world, weighing over 5,000 tons. From bow to stern, the Firestorm was over 750 feet long, and 300 feet wide. The largest cannons in the world were larger than a dozen horses, and the Firestorm was equipped with four of them. Eight smaller cannons complemented the largest ones: the ship was truly majestic. The Emperor had chosen to come aboard the Firestorm for the voyage to the Headlands, and it was easy for Black Eyes to understand why.
The Firestorm had four distinct levels. At the bottom was the crew deck, which housed all the oarsmen, lower-rung crew members, and servants. One floor above was both a recreational area and upgraded quarters designed for highly esteemed soldiers and relatively important crew members. Atop the second level was where the captain’s quarters and luxurious cabins were located. Lastly, there was the top-floor surface-level deck. Each level was lively with foot traffic, aside from the third. There weren’t even ten people on the third floor, only the ship’s Captain, the Emperor, Black Eyes, and a small handful of Emberland Guardsmen.
“I trust your ride was without challenge, your Majesty?” Captain Halbert had been entrusted with the Firestorm for over twenty years. He had a full white beard and a great belly he had been cultivating for years. A gray-red cotton and wool coat encased his torso, and he wore ragged wool pants.
“Mostly absent of it,” the Emperor replied. He sat in one of the Captain’s chairs casually, leaning far back with his legs sprawled across the footstool before him.
Black Eyes scanned Captain Halbert’s quarters. Paintings and drawings of the Emberland Flame were impossible to miss, and a glass case displayed Emberland Sailor’s Armor: Sailor’s armor had the same iconic red and gray color scheme but was not nearly as dense as the traditional armor, and it covered less of the body.
“I have given Navigator Garran explicit instructions to keep our fleet no less than ten miles within the main coast. Once we are within two hundred leagues of Kaiyotan, we will depart our coastal route and head straight for the town through the Angel Sea, as you have commanded.”
The Emperor nodded. “Good work, Halbert.” He stood up and looked down on the seated Captain. “As you know, you will remain aboard this vessel anchored by the Kaiyotan port. However, the armistice may not go as planned. It may come to battle, and if I am still on the mainland, I want you to protect the ship at all costs, even if it means departing without me.”
“You want me to… I would never—”
“Follow orders? That’s unfortunate,” said Black Eyes, slowly pacing around the cabin.
“That’s enough!” the Emperor commanded. When Black Eyes yielded, the Emperor turned back to the Captain. “This ship is a symbol of our country and our strength. The Firestorm is older than I am. I hope for it to remain that symbol long after I am gone.”
“Of course, your Majesty.” Captain Halbert looked down and nodded, accepting the Emperor’s words. “The ship will depart shortly.”
“Very well, as you were, Captain.” The Emperor turned towards Black Eyes. “Come.”
The Emperor swiftly exited the captain’s quarters and Black Eyes followed closely behind. The floor, walls, and ceiling of the hallway were a dark-brown wood. Animal-skin rugs were strewn about the floor, and maritime-themed paintings were spaced along the walls. Fresh torches were being maintained and replaced by the Emperor’s servants. When the servants laid eyes on him, they bowed.
“Time for me to clue you in on everything.” The Emperor approached an ornate dark-red door with a gilded handle. He opened the door and led Black Eyes into the ship’s war operations room. The center of the room was occupied by a round table with a diameter well over ten feet. Painted atop the table was an incredibly detailed map of the Dawnlands. Black Eyes scanned the map, moving his eyes from Steeltower in the East, to the Furakuhold of the North, and to the Robinsfort of the West. A map legend with a bar scale reading 1,022 Miles per Foot gave perspective to just how massive the continent truly was.
Dozens of heavy statuettes were placed on the map at various locations—they were shaped like infantrymen, horses, and ships. The Rocklands had multiple infantrymen and few horses based near the indented mountain range bordering on the Midlands, which had more of both. The Headlands possessed the most ship statuettes, but the least infantry or horses. The Emberlands bore more horses than all the others, and slightly fewer ships on the map than the Headlands. Black Eyes chuckled at the sight of a single infantry statuette placed in the middle of the Winterlands.
“Poor guy has to defend that frozen shithole alone.” Black Eyes looked at the Emperor, his grin unreciprocated.
“He has the cold to do it for him,” the Emperor stated dryly. “It’s not the Winterguard that concerns me, they barely have 15,000 soldiers.” He walked around the table to the northern face of the Dawnlands. “The Northern empires have more than twenty times that amount combined, and we are busy fighting each other. It’s a terrible waste of potential.”
“You’re saying we ought to kiss and make up with our enemies, so we can conquer snow-people?”
The Emperor mustered a chortle while shaking his head. He looked over the table, his stare fixed on the statuettes. He remained silent as he contemplated the miniaturized geopolitical landscape before him. Black Eyes thought it best to break the silence.
“You look as if you are planning for war. I thought we were headed to an armistice,” Black Eyes prodded.
“You do understand the survival strategy of preparing-for-the-worst-case-scenario, do you not?”
“Is the worst-case scenario the most likely one?” Black Eyes put his palms on the table and glared down on the map.
“Most likely.” The Emperor backed away from the center table and pridefully paced around the room, “Howell is known for his treachery. You remember the Battle of Mercy?”
“That village in the Rocklands?”
The Emperor nodded. “There was nothing merciful about the Battle of Mercy,” he said. “Howell descended upon and slaughtered the people of Mercy. Thousands of civilians were killed, and the sole purpose was to lure a Rockland army out of the nearby fortress of Stoneguard—Howell left a detachment of 1,000 men at Mercy and sent the bulk of his forces to take Stoneguard. While the Rockland army thought they were fighting Howell, they only fought his distraction force. Howell’s true army seized Stoneguard and executed every member of the Hatman family, extinguishing a family line that had been around for thousands of years. He then went to relieve the Mercy detachment, slaughtering the Rockland army, which had numbered over ten thousand men,” The Emperor said. “In a single day, the Robinsons lost a sizable chunk of their military manpower and lost one of their longest-standing and most faithful vassals.”
“Smart play,” Black Eyes co
mmented.
“Exactly.” The Emperor looked over to Black Eyes. “An intelligent and treacherous man is a terrible enemy to have.”
“So, you are expecting Howell to betray his word.” Black Eyes backed away from the table and crossed his arms. “Then why are we even bothering negotiating with him? I’d rather snort firedust than trust this guy.”
The Emperor sighed loudly from his nostrils. He looked down at his feet deep in thought. Black Eyes decided not to interrupt and awaited his response. The two remained silent as the Emperor remained in a contemplative state. After a few more moments had passed, he looked back up at Black Eyes and readied a confident answer.
“Because a two-front war is not in Howell’s best interest. Dealing with the Rocklands is already enough of a headache. He’s won impressive victories, sure, but over twenty thousand Midland soldiers are dead because of this war. Even if he can manage to replenish his forces with Headland troops, a war against the Rocklands and Emberlands would be crippling,” the Emperor answered. “A peaceful resolution to this armistice is in everyone’s best interest, and if there is even a sliver of a chance that I can facilitate that, I’ll take that risk.”
“We better hope Asher can manage a war, if the armistice goes to shit and we all die.” Black Eyes thought back to the promise he made to Becky. Don’t let them hurt you. The words echoed in his mind.
The Emperor took a few steps towards Black Eyes. “If he can handle you, and if he can handle this coma, he can handle a war.”
Black Eyes chuckled. Just then, the ship started to list, and he could feel the Firestorm’s movement coming to fruition—the voyage had begun.
CH 9 – Vaishalla I
Lady Vaishalla Robinson, known as Lady Vai, was a twenty-three-year-old originally from the Headlands, a daughter of the Kashin family. Her father, Lord Daniel Kashin had arranged a marriage between her and Emperor Peter Robinson with hopes of currying favor with the Rocklands.
The Darkness of Dawn Page 6
