The Many Paths to War
Rogan squatted on the stump again, eating a breakfast of cold chicken and even colder porridge. The latter was thick to the consistency of spackle, and clung to his wooden spoon, no matter how much he shook it. Occasionally, he looked up from his meal to see others glancing at him—Prytens, Albion’s soldiers, and those who had travelled across the ocean with him. He knew that all of them had taken to referring to the stump as “his new throne,” though none save Akibeel and Xuxan had the sack to say it to his face—and they only dared when they were out of range of his fists.
He weighed his options, pondering how best to deal with Karac and rescue his children—and the kingdom he had once ruled. Rogan didn’t relish leading this haggard lot off to war, but he didn’t see any other choice, short of storming Albion by himself and hacking his way through everyone until he found his bastard son.
Morning mist rose from the ground, curling through the trees. Dew clung to the grass and dripped from the leaves. The air was chilly, but not unpleasant. Doves and whippoorwills called to each other from the treetops. Although still early, the village began to wake. Sailors tromped in from the forest path after guarding the boat overnight, and replacements hiked down the path toward the beach. Soldiers and savages sharpened their weapons after scarfing down meals. The Kennebeck and the rest of Xuxan’s crew tossed dice and gambled. There was no sign of Javan or the Pryten queen, nor were Weaver or the Troglodytes to be seen. Apparently, they had melted back into the forest. Rogan spied Zenata, however, moving among the men with confidence and strength. A quick glance at her demeanor and one would think she’d already gotten over her broken heart. But Rogan knew better. The warrior girl’s eyes told a much different story.
Akibeel approached him, walking slowly, his joints obviously stiff from the dampness in the air. He didn’t ask to join Rogan, nor did Rogan offer. He simply sat quietly, next to the tree stump, crossed his legs, and pulled a small leather bag from his waist. He opened it, shook out a few nuts, and began to nibble at them.
“Hard to eat these the way I used to,” he said, after a few minutes. “We take our teeth for granted until we don’t have them anymore.”
Grunting, Rogan handed the old shaman his half-eaten bowl of porridge.
“Thank you,” Akibeel said.
“You’re already skin and bones. Can’t have you wasting away before this business is done. I might need you yet.”
“You’re thinking of the sorcerer we saw in the vision?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it takes a wizard to kill a wizard.”
“Horseshit. Steel works just as well.”
They sat there for a long time, watching the village wake up, comfortable in each other’s company without having to fill the silence with words.
Finally, after finishing his breakfast, Akibeel spoke again. “Your nephew?”
“No word yet.” Rogan stared out at the forest. “And I will speak no more of it. If you must talk, then talk about the weather or something.”
Akibeel shrugged. “There’s a cool breeze at our backs and on our foreheads this morning.”
“Yes,” Rogan agreed. “It will be a good day to start the march to Albion.”
“Then you have decided?”
Rogan nodded. “It does not sit well with me, but I see no alternative.”
Akibeel tottered to his feet. “I will let my people know.”
“Inform Xuxan, as well. And if you see Boone, send him to me.”
“As you wish.” Akibeel performed a mock bow, and almost lost his balance. His eyes went wide with panic, and he dropped the empty wooden bowl. Rogan chuckled as the old man righted himself.
“I still think you’d make a better jester than a shaman, Akibeel, but I have been glad of your company on this trip.”
Akibeel opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. He cocked his head, staring at Rogan intently.
“Yes,” Rogan growled. “I said something nice. Now go, before I reconsider it and break your damned spine!”
Rogan waited a while. Boone responded to his summons, and Rogan told him to ready his troops. When Xuxan came to him, he advised the captain of the same, ordering him to leave a conscription of men behind to guard the ship from any pirates or the Prytens not marching to Albion with them.
Eventually, Andraste emerged from the forest, a slight smile on her face. She sidled over to where Rogan sat. He regarded her but briefly, and then pointedly looked away from her.
“I was wondering if you survived,” he said.
She snorted laughter. “You’d be proud of your nephew. He lives, as well.”
Rogan shrugged. “I expected no less from him. He is every bit as resourceful as my own children.”
“Ah, your children. My half-brothers and sisters. Do you care for us all equally?”
Ignoring the question, Rogan finally turned to face her. “Have your filthy people prepare to march. We leave today. And I want your Troglodytes at the rear of the procession. I won’t have them mixing among us. It is bad for morale.”
“So it is off to war then?”
Rogan nodded.
“You want to see Albion burn, don’t you?”
“Why do you say that, girl?”
“Because, as civilized as a monarchy has made you, barbarian lust and blood will always come down to that. You want to punish them. You thirst for vengeance. They have wounded your pride. You want to see them all die for turning on your created peace.”
“My desire is not always right,” Rogan mused. “I thought the hearth was for me, but not again. What if all of my children are dead? I will not sit on that damned throne again. All I want to do is settle this once and for all, and then leave and find freedom again. I want my sons to come with me, and my daughters …”
“How many sisters do I have?” Andraste asked.
“Who knows? Every time I think I have a complete accounting of all my offspring, another one seems to pop up, claiming to have sprung from my seed. Where is Javan? You didn’t leave him tied out there in the forest, did you?”
“He is washing up in a fresh water spring, and will join us shortly. I give you my word, father. He is fine.”
Andraste removed a leather cord from her neck. On this cord hung a tiny glass vial. She offered it to him.
“What’s this?
“Inside are some of the ashes of Tancorix. It has been my totem since she died. I give it to you freely now. Carry them with you as a good luck charm, and I pray the omens will follow you from my mother.”
Looking at the gift, Rogan said flatly, “Tancorix never loved me.”
“But you loved her,” Andraste replied. “That is what counts…to you.”
Rogan made a fist over the vial. His hands had snapped spines and trees, ripped the throats and hearts from men and beasts, shattered columns and pillars, bent iron bars, and moved stones—but he cradled the vial gently, tenderly, and then tied it around his neck.
* * *
The ragtag army began their march a little over two hours later. They spread out their diverse forces, staggering the groups and their movement, in an effort to confuse any spies and also to better withstand a surprise attack. Rogan and Javan walked far ahead of the rest of the throng, followed distantly by Akibeel, Zenata, Boone and the Albion soldiers. They were followed by Andraste and her Pryten savages, who were flanked in turn by the Kennebeck braves and Xuxan and his sailors. Finally, far to the rear of the procession, hidden amongst the trees, came the Troglodytes.
They journeyed all day and made camp in the evening. The forest had begun to thin, giving way here and there to rolling hills and grassland. Rogan ordered the various regiments to camp apart from each other, in the same order they had marched. Then he and Javan walked ahead, hiking to the top of a rocky hill. They stood on a boulder, and Rogan scanned the tree line and the sky as the sun disappeared behind him. Javan stood beside him, not speaking. The boy had two black eyes, a bloodied lip, and scratches all along his limbs and chest. Alone, they looked across the lessening forest that separated them from the lovely green land of Albion.
“What think you of the consul of war a day back?” Rogan asked. “I can believe what you say about trusting these sub-human Troglodytes or her ideas for destruction.”
Hands behind his back, Javan said, “I am glad to hear the scattered forces of the Albion army are gathering in the territories around Albion. At the very least, if such an army is getting ready for war, they may encounter this force coming at us from the south, if indeed such a force exists. Karac will surely see this—and us—as well. If that is the case, we will need the Troglodytes.”
“True.”
“However,” Javan continued, “the idea of you and I going ahead of the rest of them, sneaking into the capitol city, and attempting to, shall we say, handle this ourselves …”
“You would prefer that?”
“Not specifically, sire. Need I remind you of what I did last night to secure this army for you?”
“You agreed willingly, boy.”
“I did. I am your servant and will follow your command, whatever my own preference. Nevertheless, I comprehend what your true desire is more than these folk. You don’t want war. You want revenge.”
Rogan chuckled. “Andraste said something similar this morning.”
Javan’s countenance darkened at the mention of the Pryten queen’s name, but he held his poise and said nothing.
“So, what would our forces back yonder do while you and I forged ahead?” Rogan asked.
“Send men on foot to reconnoiter with the other resistors and armies. Have all of them march simultaneously, so that they arrive to keep order should you and I succeed.”
“And avenge our deaths on top of all the others should we fail,” Rogan said. “Tell me, Javan, what we would do once in the city?”
“You and I will gain access to the palace ground via the secret tunnels you had installed specifically for escape in case of a seizure. We will enter the castle and find where Karac is. Then, you will kill him without prejudice.”
“A simple plan, no?”
“Indeed,” Javan agreed.
“And you are right. I would prefer it to all this marching and commanding. Would we take any soldiers with us? Or Akibeel, perhaps?”
“We would move better and faster were it just the two of us.”
Rogan stood silently, staring out at the horizon, mulling over his nephew’s words. The wind tossed his silver bangs and nuzzled the vial around his neck. Finally, he turned back to his nephew.
“You are correct, Javan. I would much prefer this method. I would much prefer to rely on myself, with you by my side, rather than count on this lot we travel with. Do you think me foolhardy in this?”
“It is as good an idea as any, sire,” Javan replied. “You have faced similar odds before. If I may speak personally, I would much rather see myself at your side than those ape-things Andraste has aligned us with. And, should we succeed, it would fend off a full-scale war, and we wouldn’t need Andraste’s army at all.”
“Good,” Rogan declared. “Then it is decided. You and I shall leave at once.”
“Very good, sire.”
“You will be okay to travel? You are sufficiently recovered from your time with Andraste?”
“I will be fine, Rogan. The capitol is two days away by foot. If we move quickly, we can reach the border before dawn. Then, we shall only have to rely on stealth.”
“We’ll probably encounter sentries before then. They will be good practice. We can wet our blades on them. And then, when it comes down to it, I will kill Karac myself. Cutting the head off will make the rest of the snake die.”
“Possibly, sire. At the very least, we will find Rohain after this is done and order will return.”
“We should return to the camp, and inform the others.”
They climbed off the boulder and walked down the hill. The sun had set and the moon was just a sliver. Rogan had ordered that no campfires be lit, and the countryside was swathed in darkness. Despite that, neither man had trouble finding his way in the gloom.
“Javan?”
“Yes, sire?”
“I am glad to see you well.”
The young man smiled. “Able bodied at least, sire.”
“Remember, you have the rest of your life to worry on romance and love.”
Javan frowned, and Rogan knew the youth was thinking of Zenata.
“I may only have a few days left to live, sire, but thank you for reminding me of my sacrifice.”