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Stith Drakas
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Viscount Helprig felt beads of sweat breakout along the rim of his mitre. The emperor’s displeasure radiated like a hot torch, but it was a foolproof plan; he was sure of it. Just the thing needed to punish the Timberkeeps an assault on Wedgewood.
“Explain to me again, Helprig, why the Drakan Empire should march through Darnkilden to punish upstart Doromen because you feel slighted?”
“Your Majesty, they did more than slight the Church and my eminence, they murdered most foully five of my personal guard. They did accost me personally, breaking my arm, throwing me to the ground, and rendered me unconscious.”
Emperor Exelir Tyr Violorich smirked, the barest twitch of his lips. He’d been briefed on the Wedgewood debacle by Commandant Fritach, head of the Washentrufel. The haughty, bombastic prelate had gone to the Timberkeep enclave expecting the locals to quail in his presence, and instead, they handed him his head. Emperor Violorich sat on the throne in the receiving room, elevated above the petitioners on its lofty dais. Incense burned in the corners of the colonnaded chamber. As the emperor preferred, the sconces on the pillars were damped, casting the room in a perpetual gloom except for the two lamps on wrought-iron pedestals either side of the petitioner’s box. The emperor liked to see his subjects clearly. On his right stood Commandant Fritach; on his left Lord Orn Blannach. Overlord of the Drakan Militaristrium. Attired in a purple silk robe, gold armor shoulder boards, and a jewel-encrusted gold circlet, the emperor appeared eminently comfortable. His two petitioners were not.
“An attack you say unprovoked and undeserved.”
“Indeed, your Majesty! We were there in that Ancient-spurned hollow to serve a lawful writ of claim against Ancient property. In the course of pursuing the writ, we were most treacherously ambushed and waylaid without warning. No concern given to the sanctity of Church and clergy. Only through the heroism of my personal guard were we able to fight our way clear and make,” he cast his eyes down theatrically, “our escape.”
The emperor steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on the arms of the throne. “And why bring this to me? If a slight, however egregious, has been committed against the Church, your archbishop in Hebert should seek satisfaction. This is an Antiquarian matter. Of what relevance is it to the Empire?”
“Your majesty, are you not angered, nay, insulted by this assault?” When the regent merely tilted his head, Helprig tried again. “Sire, the obdurate, heathen miscreants are hoarding a mine of aquamarine, the wealth of which is untold! The secrets that can be gleaned—”
Shifting on the throne, setting his hands on the arms, the emperor roused himself. “Don’t tire me with tales of aquamarine. I’ve heard nothing but promises of the glories it and your precious Ancient technology will bestow upon the Empire.” He gestured as if swatting a fly. “Are you aware of what your debacle has cost us, Helprig?”
The viscount blinked. In the dangerous silence, the predicant reminded him, “The adepts, the Timberkeep adepts.”
“Oh, yes,” Helprig stumbled.
The emperor's eyes glared like coiled vipers. “Commandant, enlighten the priest, just enough to explain our displeasure. You need not share the details.”
The Washentrufel commandant, against his best judgment, said, “As you wish sire.” He narrowed his gaze at the churchmen. “We had plans to establish a pathic outpost in Mestrich. We intended to staff it with Timberkeeps adepts. You know of course that the Timberkeeps have been supplying telepaths to trader princes and courier guilds?”
Helprig looked blank, but his predicant bobbed his head and squeaked, “Yes, sir. My lord has been briefed but has many issues to contend with.”
“I’m sure,” Fritach replied dryly. “Unfortunately, with your Scarlet Saviors butchering Timberkeeps at the tavern in Wedgewood, our chief agent was forced to abort the plans to peacefully contract with the Doromen adepts and was instead forced to abduct them. You see, we had bigger plans than just establishing a telepath message station, but a scrying and divination observatory.”
“But in Mestrich?” asked Helprig. “It’s, it’s not in Nak Drakas.”
“Exactly.” Snapped the emperor. “Exactly the point. Not in the empire but in the heart of its enemies.” What Violorich did not say was Mestrich sat firmly astride the historical invasion route from the northeast corner of Isuelt to the southwest shore.
“It would have served as a forward listening post, if you will,” said Fritach, relieving his emperor of the burden of explaining mundane issues to morons. “Now, the alarm has been issued against us. The Oridians, Darnkilden Rangers, and Defenders have been alerted and are reinforcing patrols all along the frontier.”
“That damned Ascalon,” growled the viscount, “it’s all her fault!”
The emperor smiled, a tight-lipped caricature of a snake stalking prey. “That part you have right. Your Scarlet Saviors met their match, eh?” Glaring at Fritach, “When do we expect the sensitives to arrive here in the capitol?”
“We do not know sire. We have a message by carrier pigeon saying they’ve had to divert numerous times to avoid the patrols. The adepts have attempted to aid their rescuers by communicating telepathically, but our agents have taken measures to thwart them.” What Larech had thought to be the most direct route to Nak Drakas—following the main road up the Central Plains—had turned out to be a tortuous carriage journey first through eastern Mestrich and then along the tangled trails of western Darnkilden. The pathic network of the Silver Cup and Life Believers conspired against them at every turn, providing annoyingly accurate guidance to patrols. Helprig, on the other hand, accompanied by five squads of Scarlet Saviors, had taken the longer but faster route of traveling through Hebert to the port of Bareen and booking passage aboard a merchant vessel bound on for Stith Drakas. In the four days it took to beat north against the unfavorable winds the ship had been stopped and inspected three times by Sea Haven and Darnkilden warships.
The emperor sat and stewed. He considered punishing the viscount for all the trouble he’d caused, but then another idea began to form. If they couldn’t recruit the Timberkeep adepts to their service, they could do something else entirely. Eliminate them, all of them. The fewer adepts in the west, the fewer the Western Alliance would have to deploy against him. An attack on Wedgewood would serve that purpose. Let the viscount think it was about the aquamarine mine. “And what of the Silver Cup, Fritach? Have we been able to use them?”
“Only through intermediaries, sire. Their senior guild leaders are Oridian and have close ties with the Sea Haven.” Dissatisfaction narrowed the emperor’s scowl, directing it at Fritach. “Yes, sire. They refuse to send official messages for the Drakan Empire. Our agents, of course, can send encoded messages through the Silver Cup, but it is laborious to encode the texts, and the pathics will balk if they become suspicious.”
“Then what good are they to us? We should shut them down. Close all the Silver Cup parlors in Drakan territory.”
The commandant nodded his head. “We could, sire, but those branches also serve as useful conduits for misinformation.”
The emperor spat, “Bah.” He turned back to the viscount. “And yet here we sit at a stalemate with the Western Alliance, Oridia, Darnkilden, the lot of them. Only through Drakan blood has progress been gained against them—Drakan progress, from the points of our spears and blades of our swords. How has Paleowright knowledge of the Ancients helped us? Not one wit. You and your priests lounge like harem eunuchs in your holy Archives hoarding knowledge, glorying in words while the script crumbles and the ink fades. Have you shared one useful insight, one simple mechanism to gain us advantage over the Alliance?” The emperor glared, a dangerous gleam in his eye while the viscount emitted a mewling sound. The count’s aide whispered something in his ear.
The emperor turned sharply to the guard captain who immediately drew his sword and advanced on the pair of Paleowrights.
Yellow lamplight glinted off the polished weapon. “There are no secrets before the emperor. Speak clearly so all may hear or lose your tongue to Drakan silence.”
The viscount squeaked, “I, he, he reminded me of recent studies where our monks replicated an Ancient weapon, a device within our means of creation that does not require cursed electricitum.”
“Electricity,” interjected the aide.
“And that is?” asked the Emperor leaning forward. The predicant answered, retreating from the guard captain. “A new bow, your majesty, one with wheels that is easier to pull and hold. It shoots more powerfully. Ordinary men, even weaklings, can draw it and shoot as far as the strongest archer.”
The regent sat back. “Hmm, how odd, I only hear of this when your wits are sharpened by the point of a sword?”
“It was our intention to present you, your majesty, with an actual working version as soon as the monks made a model fit for an emperor.”
“Bah,” he spat again. “Supply the plans to Lord Blannach today and we will build it ourselves. Today, Helprig, or by the Ancients I’ll have you bound in irons and shipped to the Ompo salt mines.” He turned, “Fritach, how many troops does the archbishop of Hebert command?”
“He has two regiments of Church troops, two hundred Scarlet Saviors—”
“But those are for—” the viscount attempted to interrupt, but the emperor deftly snatched up the baton sitting on the stand beside the throne and banged the brass gong that hung between him and Lord Blannach. The guard captain reacted instantly, drawing his sword, and advancing on the viscount, again the keen edge reflected yellow light. The sword slashed up into the air, and the emperor tapped the gong with the barest touch. The blade hung in the air. “Prelate, tell me why I should spare your arrogance one second further,” the emperor spoke as a school master to an errant child. “This is not Hebert. This is Stith Drakas, home of the Drakan Empire.” The last he said with a heavy weight, as the empire was the most powerful nation on Isuelt and perhaps all Dianis. “You will stay your flapping tongue till I require more drivel.”
Helprig cowed to a pale grey.
The emperor waved to Fritach to continue but did not release the captain from his threatening posture. “And they have a thousand militia in the Hebert barracks for guarding the walls and policing the city.”
Sitting back, the emperor steepled his fingers again. Seconds turned into minutes; silence stretched to the audience-chamber doors. The guard captain stood patiently, his arm raised, sword aiming straight at the viscount’s neck while the emperor entertained imperial thoughts. Helprig focused on the point of the blade, transfixed by the prismatic effect of the lamplight reflecting off the beveled edge of the blood groove.
Breaking the brooding silence, the emperor finally asked, “Would you have your troglodytes lead the attack?”
It was not a question but a command, and so the viscount answered: “Yes, your majesty.”
“Fritach, how many warriors do the Timberkeeps have?”
Without hesitation, the Washentrufel commandant answered, “Ten front line wards of forty men each and four reserve wards. They also have two companies of mercenaries contracted with Sedge, their warlord.”
“Hmm, how many troops in a Church regiment?”
Fritach looked to the predicant, “How many men do you have in each of the Hebert Regiments?” He knew the answer; the question was a test.
“Eight hundred, my lord.”
The emperor did the math in his head, simple as it was. A thousand or so troglodytes, plus sixteen hundred house troops, plus two hundred Scarlet Saviors against seven hundred Timberkeep militia and mercenaries. Almost a three to one advantage. Professional soldiers arrayed against wood-wrights in an unguarded forest town, and yet here were the Paleowrights asking for his assistance. “Blannach, what do you think you of their plan?”
“Is workable my liege. It is obvious the viscount did not form it himself.” The viscount reddened against the glare of the lamplight. “The crux of the attack and its potential undoing is controlling the troglodytes. To my knowledge, no joint human-troglodyte attack has ever been attempted. I’m interested as to how they conduct it.”
“Well, Helprig?” The emperor waited. “Now, when you should offer explanations, you stand there mute. How do you intend to control the troglodytes? I, too, am curious about this.”
The viscount continued to stare at the captain. Another brief touch of the gong and the guard captain lowered his arm. “Stay there Voss and do not shield your sword. The next time I bang the gong just slit his throat.”
“Well, Helprig?” asked the general.
The viscount stammered, daring to clear his voice, “I, I am assured the chieftains will do our bidding. They have ruregurir with the woodsmen.” He said ruregurir as if that would be enough, but then added, “We trade with the trogs, and they covet tork eggs. They will be well paid. Our interests are aligned.” He omitted why troglodytes craved Paleowright tork eggs above all others: sage rose. The demand for tork eggs was a ruse. The Paleowrights no longer bothered infusing tork eggs with sage rose, and instead just supplied ground sage rose in snuff bags, a little secret if leaked to the Drakans that would be catastrophic. Helprig waited breathlessly for the emperor to challenge him on why the eggs were so important, more specifically how a small delicacy could guarantee the cooperation of the slavering, primitive reptiles. If the Drakans learned how the Paleowrights controlled the troglodytes they would demand the sage rose for themselves; it was grown in Ompo, a Drakan territory. Moreover, they would inquire how the Paleowrights learned of the reptilian dependency on the drug which would lead to Ancient lore, knowledge the Paleowrights withheld from the empire.
The emperor squinted, thinking. Then grunted, “We will provide two centuries, no more. Your troglodytes and house troops will lead the attack. The commander of our centuries will have strict orders to remain in reserve until all your forces are committed. Lord Blannach,” he glanced to his left, “Our centuries are not to wear Drakan uniforms. Attracting the attention of the Alliance in this little distraction would be premature. Let it remain a surprise that there is a Nakish force in the hinterland. How do you propose to infiltrate them across the border?”
Helprig quietly let his breath out.
“Sire,” Blannach replied, “we have a variety of contingencies in preparation. For this operation, I would suggest we dispatch them by sea. Use our merchant shipping. We will replace some of the ship’s crews with our soldiers and, over the course of a few weeks, assemble them in the port of Bareen and move them in small groups to Hebert.”
“The Sea Haven blockade will not be a problem?” asked the emperor.
“We’ve used the method before, successfully, sire, though not with two hundred men.”
The emperor turned to scowl at the viscount. “There you have it, Helprig. We will aid you in this endeavor under the terms I have imposed. You will feed and provision our men once they land in Bareen, but their commander will not answer to the Church. He will have a Washentrufel advisor and will be under strict orders from Lord Blannach. And one more thing, you will bring me the plans for this new weapon, regardless of prettiness. And you will bring me more Ancient technology, something to wage war with, or I will have you bound in irons and digging salt till your shackles rust from your body.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, Alon, at least four tribes.”
Christina wheeled her mount around. “Barrigal, Bags, your thoughts?” She’d stopped calling them captain, at their request, as they’d become friends on the long hard ride east.
Barrigal, one of Sedge’s two mercenary captains, glanced to the Sea Haven scout they met on the border between the Sea Haven and Hebert. “It is not good news.”
“That makes over eight hundred troglodytes headed west,” said Bagonen.
The scout appeared shocked at the news.
“Oi,” Bagonen nodded to the scout. “We’ve been dodging and fighting trog hunting parties since leaving Lycealia. All the bands are moving west.”
“We thought they were hunting parties,” said Christina, “but a Faithful in a village south of Hebert said all the troglodyte tidal pens are empty. No live fish stocks. The troglodytes have picked up their nets, huts, and youngins, and are migrating. West.”
Bagonen slouched low in the saddle. His face reflected how he felt. “Bad omens for Wedgewood. The loglards are massing.” He locked eyes with Christina.
She held her jaw tight. Her mount sensed her agitation and started to fuss. Christina slewed the eenu around to face north. So close, she thought. The Oridians had, at first, forced the abductors to stop and hide. Then, in an agonizing game of cat and mouse, the Darnkilden Rangers had driven the Washentrufel agents –whose identities they were now sure of—to flee south, with their captive Timberkeeps. But the Washentrufel agents were good at field craft and were being aided by Paleowright sympathizers.
She had to make a choice: continue the pursuit north and pinch the Drakan agents between her warriors and the Sea Haven League or turn back west and race the troglodytes home to Wedgewood. Her own force of eighty troopers was spread across fifty miles forming a wide net. It would take time to gather them, and Wedgewood had to be alerted, soon. Sedge needed to know how many and from where the trogs were coming. She had two pathics with her communicating with the clan, but the farther east her force rode, the longer it would take to return and aid the town. Worse, if the troglodytes were indeed massing near Wedgewood, Christina’s force would have to fight its way through, outnumbered ten to one.
The eenu piped, restless. Christina turned the mount around again in a full circle and stared north. “So close,” she breathed. “So close.” Standing in the stirrups, she settled back down and gave the mount right leg. “West,” she said without looking at Barrigal or Bagonen. “Sound recall. Send a message to Sedge. Warn him of the new count. Tell him we are coming home.”
