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The town of Wedgewood on Mount Mars
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Ivan led the column to the checkpoint where he signaled a halt. They’d been riding most of the morning; he dismounted, glad to be off his eenu. Not having ridden in three months his butt was sore.
“State your purpose,” came the challenge from a Timberkeep warder wearing a conical steel helmet, a chain mail hauberk, and a double-headed battle axe strapped to his back. At his hip was a dirk long enough to be a short sword. Behind him, a half-ward – twenty warriors – stood arrayed on either side of a newly erected gate that was closed. The gate blocked the road but not much else. To either side of the lane massive Ungerngerist pine trees marched off in the distance like the pillars of a god’s cathedral. A treefort was built high up in the Ungerngerist nearest the gate. Six archers stood at the railing with strung bows at the ready.
Ivan languidly stretched his back and removed his gauntlets. The expedition’s thirty-four troopers and priests made a respectable show. Subsequently, the Timberkeep warders were alert.
He approached the axeman. “Been a while since I’ve been to Wedgewood. There wasn’t a gate here last time. Ula, we could ride right into town without so much as rousing a squirrel. What’s the reason?”
“That was a while ago,” agreed the warrior. “Since the Trogs and Paleowrights attacked, things have been different.” The man edged to the right and peered down the double column of what appeared to be mercenaries. “We can’t be letting you all into town.” He narrowed his gaze and squinted at Ivan. “Not since the Drakans came dressing as free mercs. Now, we question everyone. Especially mercs.”
“Oh.” This is going to be a problem, Ivan thought. Their mission goals depended on access, unfettered, to Wedgewood. “We’ve come a long way and counted on resting and provisioning here in the town. I’ve three Auro Na priests with me, one of them a high priestess. They’ve come to see the town and speak with your adepts and sensitives.”
“That’s no mind to me. Orders are orders. I’ll not be letting you mercs into town.”
“Riders coming!” Called the lookout from the treefort. “I see pennants. Could be the Oridians.”
“You’ll be needing to move your column off the road, merc. We’ve word the Oligarch of Oridia is on his way, and we’ll be needing to let his troop pass.”
The matriarch, accompanied by her two Special Forces guards and the two counselors, rode to the head of the column, listening to the interchange.
Seeing the priests arrive, the Timberkeep warrior chose to ignore them and instead focus on the approaching double-column of lancers.
“Gonna get crowded around here,” said one of the warders.
A female archer in the treefort climbed up on the fort railing, grabbed the spring line, and jumped off. The spring-loaded drum coiled out the rope as the archer dropped the thirty feet. As the line paid out, the spring tightened, slowing the drop, and the woman landed like a cat just as the pawl on the drum caught, locking the spring. She let the rope go and walked around the gate to where the three Auro Na priests sat astride their eenus. “I’m Lettern, branch warden for Second Ward. Which one of you is the pathic?”
The matriarch arched an eyebrow, and Counselor Breia responded, “We all are, of sorts.”
Lettern scowled. “Then stop it.”
“Stop what?” asked the matriarch.
Lettern had turned to walk away when she halted and turned back. Gazing levelly at the high priestess, she said, “We’re not fools. It’s best to not treat us that way.”
The lead pennants of the approaching column came on the lance points of three full squadrons of Oridian Lancers. The riders were resplendent in burnished helms with white and blue plumes, the colors of the Oridian nation. Their breastplates were likewise burnished, the exposed sleeves of their tunics were dyed in the same pattern of white and blue. Their shields, secured to the saddle straps, bore a painted sigil, the white and green lily of Mother Dianis. Pointing at the sky, the long lance tips made a forest of steel.
“Ho there,” called the lancer standard-bearer, “All hail the Oligarch of Oridia!”
The Timberkeep warder clumsily doffed his helmet and bowed, as did Lettern, who demonstrated a fluid grace. Ivan, savvy to the ways of Dianis and particularly Isuelt, called out, “All hail the Oligarch of Oridia!” He signaled to the matriarch and Special Forces captain to follow his lead. He removed his helm and bowed low.
A tall rider who bore no lance but whose sliver helm was filigreed with fine scrollwork and whose tunic sleeves were adorned with broad gold bands followed his herald to the gate. From shoulder to hip, a broad red sash dressed his breastplate. On the center of the red sash was a large white lily pendant. He took in the crowded gathering with a mischievous smile and a glint in his eye. “What? All this for me? Heard I was coming? I was afraid of that.”
“Yes, your Excellency,” Lettern answered. “We were told of your coming, and we welcome Oridia’s support in these trying times. Tell us, what is the word from the Drakan frontier? Have the Drakans marched?”
“And you would be?” he asked.
“Lettern,” she again bowed low, “branch warden, Second Ward.”
“Rise, child. I heard tell of the Second Ward in the Battle for Wedgewood.” He looked at the doughty axemen arrayed to either side of the gate. “I assume these are the Second?”
“They are your excellency,” answered Lettern.
“Then we’ll not be charging that gate anytime soon,” he smiled. “Is Ogden here, your master weaponsmith? I’ve a mind to carry one of his swords.”
“He is at the forge, sir,” she replied, “I will relay your desire.”
Appearing satisfied, the oligarch said, “Good. And no, the Drakans have not marched, yet. But they will. They’ve too many soldiers to feed and keep busy. No one builds an army that big and doesn’t use it.” Then he noticed the three black-robed figures in their distinctive Auro Na garb, sitting astride their eenus. He lengthened his inspection, glancing along the line of mercs, now dwarfed by the Oridians. “And what do we have here? The Auro Na have come to Wedgewood?”
“And we refuse them to enter, my lord,” said the Timberkeep gate commander.
The oligarch considered that.
“They are telepaths, my lord,” Lettern pointed to the priests. “They are concealing their identities from our sensitives. You will understand because of the treachery heaped upon us by the Paleowrights and the deception of the Drakans, we are ever more vigilant.”
He smirked, turning to the black-robed figures. “Met your match, eh? I’ve one or two Timberkeeps telepaths with me as well. Remove your hoods; I will see to whom I speak.”
Ivan sensed rather than felt the front squad of Special Forces troopers tense. He could well imagine what the captain was thinking. He stepped forward to intervene, but the matriarch said, “It’s okay, Ivan, we will comply.”
The oligarch’s expression narrowed at the Ready Reaction chief.
The matriarch, followed by Margret and Breia, pulled back her cowl. “As you can see, my lord,” to which the matriarch bowed in the saddle, “that we are neither Paleowrights nor Nakish Drakans.”
Shuffling his feet, the Timberkeep gate guard looked uncertain.
“And we know they are certainly Auro Na,” glared Lettern, “as Brookern and Cordelei have alerted Sedge that the priests are interfering with our aural surveillance.”
The oligarch snorted. “Yes, that certainly proves they are not Paleowrights. The churchmen and their suspicions have chased every sensitive from every church and cathedral they have.” He spurred his mount closer to the matriarch until he was blocked by Ivan, who, standing his ground, refused to be intimidated by the mount and rider. The ruler of one of the most powerful nations on Isuelt again narrowed his gaze at the supposed merc. “Priestess, your merc captain here should learn some manners.”
“High priestess,” retorted Breia.
The oligarch’s eyebrow went up and, for the first time, decided to look closely at the woman whose red lips and black eyes were in stark contrast to her pale, flawless skin and blonde, nearly-white hair. “High priestess?”
“Sire,” she inclined her head. “And my apologies for my guard captain, but he is sworn to protect my life with his own, and he is very good at what he does.” The last she said as a subtle challenge. A gambit, if you will, between two powerful leaders, a game they would both understand if those around them didn’t.
“The last I was told, there are three high priests on Isuelt, and they are all in the north at Terrabac fi Sur with their deacons electing the new Coroscone.” He paused, eyeing her appreciatively. “And aren’t Auro Na high priestess usually old crones, wizened from the long years? You are certainly no old crone.” He responded to her gambit with a subtle challenge of his own.
“We are from the Seahorse Isles, not Isuelt,” the matriarch answered. “We seldom stray into the affairs of the continent, but the stories of the adepts in Wedgewood have compelled us to cross the straights and investigate the rumors. As for the election of the Coroscone, Isuelt is indeed gathering, but those of us from the Isles have never submitted to the rule of the Coroscone and, therefore, are not inclined to the test.” The cover story, like all IDB cover stories, was carefully researched and, in this case, entirely true, up to a point. The Seahorse Isles were famous for their isolation, and while they did at one time have a high priestess, the Auro Na adherents on the islands had mostly migrated to the more active Auro Na society on the continent, making it convenient that there was no one left on the islands to dispute the matriarch’s claim.
“Mayhap just as well. One so young as you could scarce compete against the likes of the high priest from Neuland.” He looked to Lettern. “Which is a problem for the Western Alliance. Neuland may be in the alliance, but their high priest is definitely not. He favors the Ompeans, the poppies, and the women they supply him. If he is elected Coroscone, he will certainly ally the Auro Na with the Drakans, though it may not, at first, be obvious.”
Without a visual clue to Boomsha, the matriarch’s dapple-grey bull moved forward until the massive steed was shoulder to shoulder with the oligarch’s own large mount. “Do not underrate us of the Isles.” Little could the oligarch know that the matriarch was decades older than he.
The oligarch smirked. “And what rank would the vaunted high priestess of the Seahorse Isles be? The priest of Neuland is reported to be an octogan, highest in the realm.”
Using the reins, Breia urged his eenu closer. He and Margret had studied the potentially competing Auro Na clerics and compared them to the matrons of the Matrincy. “The high priestess is a decimar.” In truth, the grading scale of the Auro Na did not go high enough to adequately test the matriarch, so he settled for what standards Dianis had.
Before the oligarch could utter his laugh, Margret added, “Tis true. A ten.”
The oligarch’s near laugh turned to a glower.
Taking a deep breath while looking the oligarch in the eye, the matriarch’s face set, she raised a hand and, with her other, removed the glove. She held up the index finger on her bare hand. “Shall we find out, lord?” The crowd of two hundred was dead silent. “Hold out your hand, dear sir. I shall tell you what you are, who you are, where you are from, where you will go.”
He shook his head. “Nay. I shall have none of your Auro Na whimsy.”
She rolled her head, common for Avaria but very uncommon on Dianis.
Ivan grimaced.
“Fine,” she said, “I shall settle for your mount.” She stuck her finger on the muzzle of the oligarch’s eenu and froze the animal in place. The matriarch’s nostrils flared, and her cheeks flushed. Holding her finger there, she plumbed the depths of the memories the unguarded eenu willingly offered. She smiled maliciously. “You’ve known this beast since birth. You arranged it to be sired. You raised it. You call it Moonsmoke, though your children call it Smoky. You love it like your children, and it adores you. You train on it relentlessly, and it gives you all you want. You have fought innumerable battles from that saddle, and Moonsmoke has seen much blood, some of it yours and some its own. It prefers a saber fight instead of a lance charge. It will bite left as you strike right.” The matriarch’s smile crashed. “You let your wife ride it because you had complete trust in Moonsmoke to protect her. The day she died was not the animal’s fault; they were surrounded, the eenu was pinned by a Drakan lance—”
The oligarch viciously sawed the reins away, breaking contact. His anger glowed hot in his chest. The emotions, feelings, and hatred of that day seared through him like a branding iron.
Dropping her head, the matriarch said, “I am sorry, my lord. I ask your forgiveness. I had not sought to cause pain. But...but...the passion of your life flows through your eenu. I only said what...what it wanted, what the mare wants you to know. The beast loves you and is forever tormented by the day Celeste died.”
Studying her closely, the oligarch gradually let his anger ebb. He sat there cognizant that his squadrons, all of whom knew the story of the ambush of Celeste and her guard, watched him intently. Revenge for that day was in their hearts. Glancing about, he finally moved Moonsmoke back to the matriarch. He reached out with his gauntlet and raised her chin. There were tears on her cheeks. “You truly are a decimar. You have given me a gift this day.” He reached down and stroked the neck of his eenu. Combing the mane aside, he kissed the animal on the ear. “Was not your fault. We shall ride, and the day will come when the Drakans will pay.”
The eenu raised its head and piped a rallying call to all the other eenus who stirred at the sound.
He said to the matriarch, “If only you were to test for the Coroscone. I would pay a mountain of gold to see the high priest of Neuland, Ghost-I, thwarted.”
“There are mysteries in this world undiscovered by modern man,” she said. “Perhaps we may oblige you.”
Margret harkened back to last night. After dinner, around the campfire with the stars aglow, the firelight flickering off the matriarch’s black eyes when she had voiced a new plan. A bold plan, a scheme that skirted or perhaps flirted with violating several ULUP –Universal Law of Unclaimed Planets – laws. It was another clue of the goals the matriarch had for Dianis, which, in the end, would possibly solve three strategic problems for the Avarian Federation and Humanity. A key part of the plan rested in Wedgewood, but now the town was barred to them by both its psychic and physical defenders. Another facet, one of greater urgency, demanded their participation at Terrabac fi Sur. The matriarch had proposed to Ivan to turn their IDB cover story of Auro Na priests from fiction into reality by having Margret stand for the position of Isuelt Coroscone. There were many challenges to the idea: the legality, influencing indigenous peoples, Class E intervention, and timing. If they were to attempt the scheme, they would need to shift or fly immediately to the Auro Na conclave, gain entrance, submit Margret’s credentials as a priestess, present her case as a suitable candidate, and then take the test.
Margret watched the matriarch, who was conversing with the oligarch. Margret’s thoughts strayed: Her plan is to uplift Dianis, which may appease ULUP. But am I the mother she seeks? The mother to lead Dianis’ unification so the planet can be declared Class D and take an active role in the defense of Humanity in the Turboii War?
“Then you will have to hurry; Terrabac is many leagues from here,” the oligarch said.
“And we have business here in Wedgewood.” Breia was on guard for the matriarch’s prerogative to pursue what he thought were arcane tangents, but what she called strategic redirections.
“The docent is right; we have immediate business to conduct with the adepts here in Wedgewood.” Then the matriarch looked to Ivan, “but I would ask my captain to consider the logistics of traveling to the Auro Na conclave.”
“Good, then you shall dine with me tonight.” The oligarch bent at the hip but did not remove his helmet. “I would apprise you of the intrigue in the North, in Neuland, before you meet your fellow Auro Na.” He glanced at the warder blocking the gate and then to Lettern. “I will vouch for the high priestess, and,” he said frowning at Ivan, “her guard. If it would keep the peace,” he added.
Seeing the branch warden was unmoved, the matriarch sought to mollify her. “We have much to learn from Clan Mearsbirch, and we have much to offer you. To this point, the Seahorse Auro Na have stood aloof in the affairs of Isuelt. But the winds are changing. Forces greater than all of us are swirling. They have yet to coalesce into a storm, so we have time. If we partner together, we may yet prepare to withstand that turmoil.”
Lettern, a woman who trusted to arrows more than the words of clergy, remained suspicious.
Ivan sensed that though Lettern may be irritated with the Auro Na, her, and hence the clan’s chief resistance was allowing so many well-armed mercenaries of unknown loyalties into their town. “I propose, should the oligarch be willing, that a portion of our company be bivouacked with the Oridian lancers, and the remainder find suitable encampment here, outside of Wedgewood. I might suggest we hire the mill on the Twistynook.” His Ready Reaction agents had stayed at the mill in other visits to Wedgewood. “One of our priests can encamp at the mill, and the other attend her excellency in Wedgewood.” He had a reason for the arrangement. What the Wedgewood sensitives thought to be purposeful interference, a Black Viel cast by the matriarch, Margret, and Breia, was probably the aural dampener signets carried by the Special Forces soldiers. Ivan and his two squads of Ready Reaction troopers wore the more sophisticated IDB aural impersonator signets on chains about their necks. Those signets carried a costly aquamarine-5 gemstone imbued with the aural signature of a fictitious Isuelt mercenary. The talisman transmuted their aural energy into the signature of another persona. The Special Forces soldiers wore no such amulet and instead relied on blanket disruptors to conceal their identity from prying sensitives. The matriarch and two counselors, on the other hand, were psychically skilled to portray whatever aural impression they desired and needed no talisman.
Ivan knew the Special Forces captain, if not the admiral of the fleet, would not accept the arrangement, but if the matriarch was to gain access to the town, the Special Forces soldiers would have to stay behind, along with a priest who would pose as the person maintaining what was known as the Black Veil, the veil of aural darkness that Wedgewood sensitives assumed was being cast to obfuscate their personas. He refrained from glancing at the Special Forces captain to see his reaction.
“And who do you suggest we allow into town?” challenged Lettern.
“Myself and my squad, and Sergeant Horalznick’s squad. Most of us have been here to Wedgewood,” and said with feeling, “in better times. Some are former soldiers of the Western Alliance.” At least those were their cover stories. It was the irony of being an in-country IDB agent. After years of serving on Dianis, portions of cover stories became a reality. He’d long since crossed the point where the real experiences as a Dianis mercenary life blended with those of an IDB Ready Reaction trooper. In a way, he was a real Isuelt merc.
Ivan decided to play his trump card. “I should remind the warden that several of us are friends of Achelous, the trader; he hired us in the past. We have fought with Sedge, your warlord, against the Trogs at Battle Park. Perhaps Sedge will vouch for me?”
Lettern squinted. She strode forward to stand in front of him, looking closely. “I was at Battle Park. I was the scout for Achelous with Ogden’s escort. We were ambushed.” She examined him, making sure. “Your beard is gone, and your armor is new.” Then she remembered fully. “You saved Outy. At the creek, when we rallied.”
He smiled. “The intern—” he caught himself. “The apprentice and that eenu of his saved themselves. We just rounded them up.”
“Hmm, Tulip,” she mused.
“Yes, that was its name. Smart old mare.”
She turned to the gate commander. “I’ll vouch for this merc captain and his two squads. You can let them pass. But,” she glanced up at the matriarch, “no funny business from you. If Cordelia or Brookern complain of interference from you, out you go.”
“Excellent!” said the oligarch before the high priestess could refuse. “You will ride beside me,” he said to her. “You can tell me of your journey from the Isles, and I will share news of Isuelt.” Then he pointed with his gaze, “I will have you put your glove back on.”
Ivan looked to the matriarch, and she gave a slight nod. I wonder how much trouble I’m in for this, he thought. Swinging up into the saddle of his mount, he caught the glare of the Special Forces captain.
