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Wedgewood
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At dusk, a lone Church soldier, a sergeant bearing a white flag at the end of a spear, shuffled nervously into Wedgewood. He’d been ordered to it after no volunteers came forward. Carrying a flag of truce on the end of a weapon, under these conditions, was an intended slight. The sergeant feared the archers in the treeforts would shoot him out of hand; a flag of truce on spear meant only one thing: a demand for surrender. After the fighting of the past two days, the sergeant saw no reason why the Timmies would surrender. He’d fought them, twice, and had been beaten both times. He’d heard the stories of the foundry. The clergy and his fellow churchmen, with the trogs, the vaunted Scarlet Saviors, and even the Drakans had failed to capture the town. Yet he did as he was ordered.
The buildings in the southwest corner of the town were smoking ruins. Surely this added to their anger. He flinched when a burning frame crumbled, sparks swirling into the dusk like so many fireflies. Flames licked at a charred timber skeleton, the destroyed granary. A tavern, judging by the wrecked barrels, silo tanks, and twisted tubing, was the building nearest the business center to have caught fire. It sat as a gutted shell amongst the buildings saved by the fire brigade. He’d watched as the Dorman bucket brigade, under cover of their archers, managed to stop the tide of the blaze there. Ash covered the pine needles like dirty snow except where sparks started one of many secondary fires that smoldered in a hodge-podge pattern to the west and northwest. Had the wind shifted from out of the south the damage would have been much, much worse. As it was the thick smoke had backfired on the Paleowright plans for advancing behind the wall of flames. The smoke had choked and scattered the ranks of the battalion destined to carry ladders to the line of treeforts.
Checked at the Timber Hall gate and driven back before being reinforced by the last remaining Church battalion, the attacking force south of the town fared no better. It was that current state of affairs that forced the clergy to order him to carry a message. Taking stock of their limited accomplishments, the Paleowrights had decided on an approach to which they were unaccustomed, diplomacy.
Sedge dispatched the captain of operations to speak with the emissary. When he returned, the captain smirked and said, “The bastards didn’t even send an officer.” He unrolled a parchment and began to read. “Viscount Helprig accepts our penance as misguided heathen and will absolve us of our sins once we confess. In the interim, we have until dawn to surrender, or they will unleash the full fury of the Ancients and destroy us utterly, man, woman, and child, with no quarter. We are idolatrous vermin and deserve no consideration of mercy. However, though his duty demands our total destruction, his conscience desires to show us sympathy.” The captain waved his hand dismissively. “And so it goes. I’m impressed that poor sergeant remembered it all. He said he wasn’t allowed to write it down. They didn’t want us to have a written text of it. But I did write it down.” He handed the parchment to Sedge.
Sedge read the rest of the message and snorted, following it up with a sardonic grin. “When your opponent resorts to browbeating, he’s done. The tongue starts flapping when the sword quits swinging.” The warlord moved to the railing and looked east in the fading twilight. “They’re running out of troops, and...” he added emphasis, “they’re running out of stomach to fight. The whining churchman is desperate.”
Woodwern rose from his chair at the warlord’s table. “Wayland’s Farm is overflowing with refugees from the trog attacks. We need to send wards to defend them and drive the troglodytes away. We’ve lost most of our grain stocks and will have to send our livestock to the lower elevations and wild pastures, and that will put them further at risk.” He went to stand by the railing, “By Mother’s Peace, Sedge, they’ve burnt half our town!”
He didn’t need to be reminded of the damage, though the clan chairman exaggerated the devastation. Most of the homes were still extant; it was the business quarter that had taken the brunt of the fires. Food, however, would become a problem. Depending on the havoc wreaked by the trogs against the farms, they could be faced with a substantial dislocation of their population just when the spring planting should be progressing. “I hear you Woodwern. If the Paleowrights stay here, we’ll be able to hold them off, but we can offer only scant aid to the lowland farms. We have a great many people to feed, and we’ll need to retake the captured farms and salvage what we can.”
“What do you suggest?” Woodwern eyed the warlord, exhaustion washing over him. The past two days had taken their toll on the heavyset Timber. He’d not slept, and the torment of watching his clan suffer was almost too much to bear.
“As we spoke this morning, we take away the reason for them being here.”
“But what of the trogs? They’re not here for the aquamarine.”
Impatiently, Sedge stepped back from the railing, his unbound grey hair caught in a breeze. “Once we drive the Paleowrights away we can deal with the troglodytes by themselves. The Plains and Rock clans are sure to send more wards, and Red Elm is coming. My concern is they won’t bring their own food.”
Woodwern pondered for a moment, his ruddy complexion darker than usual. He seemed to resolve himself, gripping the rail, staring down at worker rolling a partially blackened barrel out of the wreckage that had once been Murali’s. The barrel hadn’t burst, and by the struggle of the worker the barrel was still full. He idly wondered if it was ale or whiskey. “You really think the plan will work?”
Sedge laughed, a hard, brittle sound. “If the enemy had double the men, probably not. But with what they have now, yes. I think it will work.”
Woodwern took a deep breath and watched the worker, with the help of his mates, set the barrel on its end and use an auger to bore a hole into the barrel. A spout of amber liquid issued from the hole. The worker quickly captured the stream in a tankard while another worker pounded a bung into the hole. It was too far to hear, but he saw the worker sample the cup, nod vigorously, and pass it around. “Very well. Proceed. It is my decision, and I will inform both councils.”
“Ops, tell the envoy that we will parley at the mining camp at high noon tomorrow. I shall look forward to meeting with the viscount in person.” Sedge placed a hand on Woodwern’s shoulder. “Do you want to be there, or shall I deliver our message?”
Woodwern watched the workers pass the cup and guffaw. “Oi, you can deliver the message. But I will be there to see how he takes it. I hope it sticks in his throat like a pinecone.”
“You going to set up a holofield?” Baryy watched Outish fumble with his multi-func on the table in Baryy’s cabin. They figured the cabin, with the coming parlay, was safely away from the Paleowrights and were given permission to return there for rest.
Outish held the multi-func in place with the bandaged hand that looked more like a cloth club than an appendage. “Yes,” he grumped. Baryy felt for the kid. His head was draped in a bandage turban, his hand was useless, and he’d just spilled a cup of kdel tea in his lap. Outish managed to get his multi-func open and connect to one of the orbiting recon bots. Manipulating the display grid with his healthy hand, he transferred the visuals from the multi-func to a holofield. He sat the multi-func down on the kitchen table across from Baryy’s so that they now had two opposing holofields in action, each one connected to a different recon bot.
“Send yours to track the viscount’s coach.”
Outish manipulated the holofield with a finger; the recon bot spun about in an arc and went skimming through the trees on an intercept course for Viscount Helprig’s caravan. “There, that good?” he grumped again.
Satisfied they were ready, Baryy stood up from the table, “I’ll make you another cup of tea,” he said as a peace offering. It was dark in the cabin with the windows shuttered and boarded, their own mini hardpoint. Ogden had at first balked at letting them return to the cabin, but it sat under the watchful eaves of the Bentwood tree fort, and that area of town with its hermit bivvies and small family lodges had seen little troglodyte depredation. A few of the bivvies had been pushed over and ransacked, more out of curiosity, but the findings were meager for hungry reptiles. Baryy was exhausted. The only place to rest in Perrty were the benches that ringed the tree.
Moving by the dim light of the holo displays, he put the teakettle back on the stove. “How’s the hand?” He’d treated Outish with the FIPWS, which included inserting a neural dampener astride the median nerve in the wrist.
“Doesn’t hurt,” he replied with evident relief. “Do you,” he hesitated, “do you think we can regen it?”
Baryy came back to the kitchen table and watched on Outish’s holofield the viscount’s procession approach to the Tolkroft mining camp. “You tell me. You’re the astrobiologist.”
“We need the autodoc to do reconstruction.”
Baryy nodded. “It’s at Isumfast, in the repair bay.”
Outish peered at the bandage. He didn’t want to think about what remained of his hand. He also didn’t want to think about how and when they would be able to shift to Isumfast.
Viscount Helprig and his coach arrived at the mining camp a half hour late, escorted by two columns of Scarlet Saviors. At first, Woodwern fretted that the viscount’s tardiness would spoil their surprise, but the mine superintendent consoled him. “Tis an inexact thing you ask of us, Woodwern. We’ve no good idea how long it will take.” In the end, Helprig’s feigned tardiness worked in the Timberkeep's favor.
Arrayed behind Sedge were the mine superintendent, Woodwern, Margern, the captain of operations, Christina, and Alex. The operations captain noted the obvious, “We told them this be a truce parley, yet they bring their Scarlet Britches.”
Sedge rolled his shoulders and straightened his back, his body stiff from too little sleep and too much pacing on the command deck. “Take care of it when the time comes, captain. You know what to do.” Again, he was thankful to Mother the Paleowrights were so predictable. Their dogma of righteous superiority would never allow them to respond outside of the ecclesiastical box they built for themselves. Church doctrine demanded they invoke the eminence of the Ancients, and anything less was a sign of faithlessness. They simply could not leave their paladins, the icons of their power, behind.
The column of Scarlet Saviors on matching chestnut brown eenus split to the left and right, followed by the coach, which skewed to a stop twenty paces in front of the Wedgewood leaders. The Saviors turned their mounts to face the party, remaining saddled. The calculated display intended to intimidate and instill awe in the power and glory of Diunesis Antiquaria.
A churchman sergeant climbed down from his seat next to the teamster, lowered the retractable coach steps, and opened the door. The first person to exit the coach was the predicant, followed by a civilian whom the Scout’s boss murmured, “Washentrufel.” Then a soldier in a mercenary’s nondescript but functional armor stepped down, and behind him came the viscount.
“The merc is the Drakan decurion,” Alex said clearly. The decurion sought the voice in the assemblage and caught sight of Christina. Their eyes locked. He nodded to her.
Christina inclined her head. In recognition of the moment and in comradeship with the Zursh mercenaries, her long flaxen hair was, in a distinctive fashion, coiled in a twisting Lamaran braid.
Alex leaned close to Christina, not caring who heard, “I think he likes you.”
Her eyes twinkled, and she answered, “Weakness.”
Stepping forward and adjusting his vestments, not deigning to look Sedge in the eye as if he were a loathsome rodent unworthy of his attention, the viscount delivered his terms directly, not through his aide. He began without preamble, “Our terms are thus, you will abandon your tree houses and march your remaining rabble to the Main Gate whence we will disarm them. This is to begin in one hour. You will then evacuate each of your earthen huts and march those dwellers to the Main Gate likewise—”
Sedge interrupted him. “You can save your words for your Ancients, Helprig. We’re not surrendering.”
During the exchange, the mine superintendent noticed a growing discomfiture on the Washentrufel agent’s face; the superintendent could barely suppress his grin. The agent drew the predicant close and whispered something in his ear while the viscount fumed and spewed at Sedge. The aide’s eyes grew wide as he looked directly past the mine super up the hill at the Tolkroft Mine entrance. He stepped to the viscount and attempted to gain his attention, but the prelate would have none of it.
“You wood-chopping, slug-kissing mice will be trampled beneath our steel-shod feet, you fool—What?!” he slapped the predicant away. “Do not interrupt me while I dress down these heathen idiots. Not surrender! You are daft!” The viscount fairly shook. “I can bring the full might of Diunesis Antiquarian down on your heads!”
Sedge let the viscount rail. Woodwern was shocked. The viscount’s calm, calculating demeanor, so carefully practiced at the council meeting, shattered like dropped crockery.
Margern pulled Woodwern close, “I do think our dear viscount has himself in a spot of trouble.”
“Oh, how so?”
“Instead of the easy victory we assume he’s promised the archbishop, he is instead finding himself in the position of having to negotiate. He’s used to bullying, and it’s not working. Whatever he committed to Hebert, it needs reconsideration, which belies a misjudgment, and when do the Antiquarians ever misjudge?” she asked rhetorically, an arch to her eye. “Imagine what it will mean to his reputation if he goes back to Hebert beaten for the second time.” She paused, “By us, simple wood-chopping, heathen squirrel lovers.” Her wicked smile lightened Woodwern’s spirits after the two days of brutal fighting.
“Indeed,” Woodwern agreed, “and you can add slug-kissing mice to that list. Have you ever kissed a slug? I have not. Who would have thought such a primitive bunch could bring the Church so low?”
A flicker of Margern’s eye caught him, and he sensed the sudden silence, a break in the viscount’s tirade.
“Burning? What do you mean burning?” Helprig snapped. “The whole town has burnt.” The aide drew Helprig aside and whispered in a highly animated manner, ending his monologue with one arm pointing at the Tolkroft Mine entrance.
The viscount stared up the hill and blinked. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Finally, he said in a low, strangled voice, “Why is,” his voice trailed off, and he shook his head, “What has happened to the mine?” A thick column of smoke disgorged from the entrance, drifting into the trees and dispersing through the forest. Accustomed to the sight of burning buildings and smoking ruins, Helprig had paid it no mind.
“Uh, um,” the mine superintended spoke up. “Uh, that be our fault, your Excellency. You see, we were cleaning up the mine and all, sort of sprucing it up, when one of the lads knocked over a lamp in the storage room. I mean, accidents in mines will happen, of course, but this is a wee catastrophe. There isn't a worse place in a mine to knock over a lamp than in a storage room with lamp oil, candles, quicksilver, spare timber frames, and whatnot. Once the fire got started, the most we could do to was scramble our arses out of there before the smoke overcame us.” The superintended nodded his head with the most apologetic, buffoon-like expression he could manage and even doffed his cap and wrung it between his hands. Sedge looked up at the sky, feigning interest in a passing bird, while Margern turned Woodwern around, and they stepped a few paces away in huddled conversation. Christina gave the decurion a wry twist at the corner of her mouth, and the decurion arched an eyebrow in return. The look on Larech’s face turned sour as he traded a glare with the Scout’s boss.
“Fire! Why you moron, you have to put it out!” Helprig wailed.
“Is that so?” Sedge rejoined, a steel edge to his voice. He took two steps towards the viscount, and the twenty mounted Scarlet Saviors drew their rachiers. The operations captain blew a whistle. “Put it out?” hissed Sedge, deadly menace punctuating his words.
“Oh, oh,” Baryy said, watching the holofield. “Here it comes.” He reached for his handbolt. If he ran, he could be at the mine in five minutes.
Suddenly the doors of the nearby mine buildings and bivouacs were thrown open, and three wards of Timberkeeps rushed out. The Scarlet Saviors whirled their mounts about. The Timberkeeps arrayed themselves into three separate double-line ranks surrounding the enclave. Confused at which threat to face first, the eenumen finally directed their mounts to form a protective circle around the party of churchmen and Drakans.
“Wait,” called Outish before Baryy could fling open the door. “Alon isn’t moving. She has this handled.”
Uloch watched Christina closely. Her disinterest in the mounted warriors confirmed his fears. The Timmies would not be bluffed. Properly led, the Timmie warriors would spear the horses and pull the riders from the saddles. It would be short work.
Sedge pointed towards the town, “You will put out every fire you have started, and you will rebuild every building that you have incinerated before we pour one bucket of water down that mine.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the smoke billowing from the mine mouth.
Helprig stuttered, then caught himself. His face dawned in realization, and then squinted, grinding his teeth. “You did this on purpose. You deliberately set fire to the mine.”
Sedge snorted derisively, “Did you seriously think we were going to let you have the mine? Here in Wedgewood? After what you’ve done? We don’t need the aquamarine, so rather than have it be a bane to this forest, to these people, and to this town, we’ve destroyed the mine to, as you say, to protect it for when the Ancients return—” Suddenly there came a deep rumbling from underground. They all turned to look at the mine. The vibration set the eenus to piping and stomping; the low resonance of the sound seemed as if the mountain were turning in its sleep, fretted by a nightmare. A whoosh of hot, black smoke issued from the opening in a sudden massive belch. More noises, this time of falling, grinding rock, and splintering timbers nearer the entrance, echoed from the shaft. The shaking of the ground stopped, and the last dirty, dusty gasp of air came from the hole.
Sedge looked to the mine superintendent. For a man who’d just lost one of his lifelong accomplishments, he appeared unconcerned, “Oi, those ironwood timbers finally went. I always wondered how long they’d last. Though truly I expected them to go long before now.” He stared at the viscount. “I’m heartily thankful the viscount was here to witness it. Otherwise, he’d be wanting to go in to see for himself, and then he might be hurt, and we can’t have that.”
“Argh!” The viscount raised his hands in claws and made to assault, but the predicant, assisted by the Washentrufel agent, seized him by both arms.
A thin smile creased Sedge’s lips. “Let the viscount go. He and I can settle this here and now.” But three Scarlet Saviors dismounted. One, Sedge, recognized as Captain Irons from Murali’s, worked to usher the viscount back to the coach. The other two stood before Sedge while the others boarded the coach. “This is not over!” the viscount yelled from a coach window. “You shall pay dearly for this, you Ancient-cursed scum!”
Decurion Uloch approached Sedge and gave a short bow at the hip. “I believe our parlay is over. Given the situation with the mine, I am sure the clergy will not be mollified. Hostilities will resume?”
“Yes,” Sedge stated formally.
The decurion glanced towards the Defenders, then back to the warlord.“Very well.” He saluted Drakan-fashion, flat of his right hand over his heart. “In the morning, we will settle this.”
With the Paleowrights gone, Alex said to Sedge, “Seems collapsing the mine has only sparked the prelate’s incoherent ire from which all logic has fled. And to what benefit? Yonder mine is now in ruins and so is your source of gold.” What he didn’t say, but was thinking, was Sedge and his mercenaries required gold for their payment.
Sedge gave him a sly grin, “Superintendent, what say you to that?”
“Oi, we’ve been digging in that mountain now for forty years. I’m itching to be down there and see what’s happened, but I can tell you Tolkroft Mine has five shafts. They are connected at multiple levels. This is the original shaft, and so it be known as Tolkroft Mine entrance. Tis true this is the shaft where the aquamarine deposits are, but our gold lode is off the Quarry shaft, up and around that shoulder there.”
Alex lifted both brows and started to chuckle. “And the look on that pompous priest’s face? Oh, Mother’s Fair Breath, that was priceless.”
Margern gushed, “Wasn’t it now, though! I was fit to be tied. Shame on me.”
“And good riddance, too,” added Woodwern soberly. “We aimed to take the heart out of the Paleowright attack, and I think we have done that. They may still want to fight for spite and hate, but there’s no margin in it for them now. They’ll come to their senses soon enough; continuing the attack will gain them naught but blood and misery.”
“Baryy, maybe with the aquamarine buried, the Nordarks won’t bother with this mine; maybe the corsairs won’t come.” Outish peered around the holofield looking for Baryy’s agreement.
“Huh?” Baryy grunted watching the recon bot track the viscount’s coach. “What does collapsing the mine have to do with the Nordarks not coming here? The coordinates they have are for a mine in Mestrich.”
“But eventually, won’t they figure out there is no aquamarine in Mestrich? And when they do, won’t they come looking for the real mine?”
Baryy collapsed the holofield and set his multi-func aside. Baryy realized his friend had been worrying over a potential hole in Atch’s plan. “Wait, rewind. How is burying the mine supposed to make it harder to find?” he asked, dropping his usual sarcasm.
Out of his depth, unsure of the geological consequences, the astrobiologist thought about it. “Well, there won’t be a mine. How can they get in? It’s buried under tons of rock.”
Baryy shook his head slowly. “It’s not like corsairs would use the Tolkroft mine entrance even if they did find it. They deploy A-wave transponders, and if they get a hit, they’ll send in a robo-miner. It digs its own hole. It won’t use Doroman mine shaft, even if it did exist.”
“Oh,” Outish said despondent.
“Yea, you can scan for the aural reflections of aquamarine-5 from low orbit.” He thought about the pegmatite the fire brigade rescued from Murali’s, soot-covered, but otherwise undamaged. It sat stashed in a bivvy, hidden under a heap of blankets. Safe, perhaps, from marauding trogs, but not Nordarken Mining.
On their way to Timber Hall, Sedge asked, “Have they finished their catapults yet?”
“Two of them are ready now. Three others will be ready over the next two days,” answered the Scout’s boss.
Sedge sniffed. “They’ll not want to leave until they’ve tried their new toys.” He turned to the operations captain. Musing over an idea, “I say we borrow them.”
The Scout’s boss gazed at the warlord with an open expression. “What do you have in mind?”
Instead of answering the question he pointed, “We have guests.”
Sedge stopped at Timber Hall. The entourage of Doromen waiting for him wore chainmail typical of Timberkeeps and bore the symbolic battle axe on their shoulders, but their shields were painted with a red elm, not the green Ungern of Clan Mearsbirch.
Sedge held a hand out, palm up, Timberkeep fashion, “I’m Sedge, commander of the Wedgewood militia. Glad to have you.”
A barrel-chested fighter with a red beard that reached his chain mail, came forward and placed his palm firmly on the proffered hand and pulled Sedge up the last step. “Oi, so glad Wedgewood is still here. From all the smoke we were sure we were too late.” His other hand gripped Sedge by the elbow.
The warlord could see emotion and relief in the man’s eyes.
“I’m Ordern Smoothgrain, Chieftain of Red Elm.” A ward of Clan Red Elm trooped past, followed by more in the gloom as they came in through the Hall Gate. “Stinking loglards are everywhere. We’ve thumped them, though. Gads, there are enough of them. Where did they all come from? The bloody Great Swamp is way that way.” The chieftain jabbed a hand to the east. Sedge noted the man’s conical helm sported several dents. An old, deep scar on his left cheek disappeared in the beard.
“Yes, well, sorry about that,” answered Sedge. “They came as dogs of with the Parrots. Near a thousand of them. Flooded over the wall like an avalanche. It was a bit touch and go there for a while.”
The chieftain rocked back. “Parrots?”
“Yea,” Sedge answered, “Paleowrights.”
Ordern hooked his thumbs into his sword belt. The soldier carried both a sword and an axe. The news settled on him like a sawed tree hitting the ground. “The Paleowrights brought them?” His voice hoarse. “I thought they were,” he stopped, “I, we knew the loglards attacked you, but no one said the loglards were working with the Paleowrights. How can that be?”
“Chief, the Church has hatched an evil scheme with the trogs that I thought was folklore. I knew about Whispering Bough, but never did I think it possible they could coordinate an attack with the reptiles, but they did. Ill is the day those two married.”
Ordern nodded. “Mother forbid the spawn from that coupling.”
“Come into the Hall.” Sedge started for the Hall doors. “When your runner came in this afternoon Woodwern bade us meet as soon as you arrived. We had a parley with the parrot clergy at noon.” Sedge led Ordern through the high doors.
“Ula, and how did that go?” his growl coloring every word.
Sedge stopped to give a hard smile. He liked the chieftain. “Arrogant bastards. They wanted us to surrender.” Before Ordern could interrupt, Sedge held up his hand. “By noon tomorrow, we’ll see who is surrendering. Come upstairs, chief; Alon and our operations captain will bring you into our planning.”
“Alon?” he asked as they headed for the grand staircase.
“Hmm, yes, Christina is here. She’s been leading the fight.” When Sedge sensed Ordern had stopped he turned to look. “What?”
“The Ascalon is here?”
He smiled. “In the flesh. In the armor. And in Mother’s spirit. She’s as good as heralds proclaim. No poet has truly captured her spirit. Have you met her?”
“No.” He looked down. “I never expected I would.”
Sedge laughed. “She’s human, just like you and me. Come, let’s go up.”
They gathered in Woodwern’s chambers and made hurried introductions; a battle was on, but time was taken to greet the Alon. When Christina arm-locked, warrior fashion, with Ordern he saw her life believer talisman up close. “Mother’s Life to us all,” he said.
“To all, great and small,” she completed the greeting.
Around an impromptu diorama arranged on a table they crowded. Using pinecones, inkwells, feathers, and whatnots to represent Timber and Paleowright positions, the Scout’s boss adjusted the pieces with the latest reports, and the ops officer outlined the operation. “Chief, we know you’ve marched hard and had to fight trogs on the way, but you can be a big help in our coming counterattack.”
Ordern surveyed the map, “Oi.’
Ops continued, “With your wards here,” he pointed, “we can assign more of our wards to the attack. If you can position your five wards behind the wall, held in reserve, we won’t have to worry about the Drakans trying something sneaky.”
Ordern nodded. He’d left four other wards at Wayland’s Farm to help the Plains wards sweep the foothills and upper pastures clear of the troglodyte vermin. “When will you need them in place?”
“Three hours past midnight.”
The Red Elm chief raised an eyebrow. “We came just in time. But so be it. I will send word for the troops to get what sleep they can...” Tired from the road and the day’s fighting, Ordern pulled up a chair and sat, heaving a sigh and stretching his legs. “Even if we beat them here,” he said to Woodwern, “the bastards will not let this lie. They’re pernicious peckers. They’ll be back.”
Woodwern swallowed. A look passed between him and Margern.
“How big an army can they muster?” Ordern asked. “With what they have here, in Hebert, and everywhere else?”
Sedge inclined his head to the Scout's boss, who shared their collective wisdom. “The four battalions they've sent at us here are from the two standing Hebert regiments. The Church can be cheap. They hoard silver like a squirrel hoards nuts. Now that we've bloodied their nose and trashed their Ancient honor, I dare say they'll pry open their purses and recruit more regiments. They can draw from Dorthunia, Darined, and a slew of other parishes. Our best guess is, if they push, they could muster five thousand pikemen in five months.”
“Five thousand?” Ordern grimaced.
“More if they take their time,” added Sedge.
“But five thousand?” Ordern shook his head. “Even with Floral, Tough Nut, Burr, and all the other Timber clans, we'd barely notch four thousand warriors.”
“We’d have to ask the Plains and Rocks for help,” said Woodwern.
“You’re not in this alone.” Christina stepped back from the table.
Ordern had been respectful of Alon’s silence and focused on Sedge’s briefing, but now he openly appraised her. She looked to him with an erudite expression. Ordern noticed her hair was done in the braid of the Northwren. He’d not know she was Lamaran. The rumor he’d heard walking through Wedgewood was she was regal if not beautiful; he’d be propagating that rumor himself now. Mother was Life.
“Were the archbishop to raise an army of five thousand, Oridia, The Stronghold, Sea Haven, and even the Federate,” and she looked to Barrigal and Perrin, “would pay attention.” She leaned forward and drew a line from Hebert to Wedgewood. “It was an easy march for the Church to attack Wedgewood. There is no Western Alliance territory, no Life Believer nations, between you and Hebert. However, to muster five thousand troops from across all the Church territories, the archbishop would have to move those troops across alliance lands. There are Life Believers in their way.” She turned her gaze to the northeast, “For me, it is how the Drakans will react.”
“Yes,” said Sedge. “A Church army of five thousand would embolden the archbishop. He’d want to use it, have to use it. Armies are expensive. Strife would certainly follow. It would benefit the Drakans. We’re already fighting them here. If there was war in Middle Isuelt with the Church, Oridia and the Alliance would be dragged in. If the Paleowrights were to make war on the Doroman nation, and make no mistake, that’s what it will come to if they want Wedgewood, the Drakans would time their own, long awaited, assault on the Stronghold of Darnkilden and Sea Haven to coincide the Paleowright move. It would be their chance to crack the Western Alliance frontier and move west, into the Central Plans.”
The operations captain chimed in, “Between the Drakans and the Ompeans, they easily have ten thousand troops, some say twenty thousand. If they coordinated with the Church, whose forces lie to the west of the Alliance-Drakan border, the whole defense of the West could be undone.”
“Mother’s Spirit,” Woodwern said, speaking up for the first time. “It would be war, across all of Isuelt.”
“All for aquamarine?” Margern spoke. “The Drakans have been biding their time. They are growing restive. Helprig is a fool, but he is a pawn as well. We can blame this on the Paleowrights, but the Drakans are their sponsors.”
“They are,” agreed Sedge. “I’ve talked this through with Perrin and Barrigal. We think the Duchy of Neuland will side with Nak Drakas.”
Woodwern jerked. “But they were part of the Lamaran Empire?”
"They were, but the new duke is weak,” said Perrin. “The duchess is Lamaran, but the duke’s mistress is Ompean, as is the sage rose she supplies to the court. The dukedom is as rotten as a termite den. One good blow and the whole duchy could fall to Nak Drakas.”
Ordern breathed a heavy sigh. “What of Mestrich? Are they committed to the defense?”
It was Sedge’s turn to respond. They knew he had close ties to the Kingdom of Mestrich, a neighbor to Oridia. “Oridia, the Sea Haven League, and Darnkilden are all Eldred. Oridia sends squadrons to the League against the Drakans. So they will fight as one. But,” he shook his head slowly, “King Isip of Mestrich is an isolationist. He thinks he can sit behind the Darnkilden-Sea Haven wall and not worry. Isip does not believe the Lamaran-Drakan feud is his fight. And why should it be? Mestrich was never officially a part of the Lamaran Empire. And if you want to know the truth...” he looked around the room. “The king has gotten very fat and lazy. Some say it takes four men to carry him. I’ve not seen Isip since I left his service, but I have heard from his steward. The king’s army is not what it once was.” Sedge did not say what many in Mestrich believed: the king’s decline coincided with Sedge’s departure. “Regardless. The Sea Haven and Darnkilden need to be warned of what has transpired here. The Alliance now needs to look south as well as east.”
