The tack of two hundred horses jingled in time with the clatter of their iron-shod hooves on the broken cobbles of Trylla’s dirt-covered streets as Emrael and two companies of his mounted soldiers trotted through the streets of Trylla. Ten days had passed since Raemus had taken them to the temple in Trylla, ten days that Emrael, Toravin, and Timan had been scouting the villages and towns surrounding the giant abandoned city. They had covered a lot of ground quickly, looking for locations for outposts twenty leagues and farther to the north. Most were along the River Lys, which flowed first north to south and then east to west, effectively splitting the Iraean Kingdom diagonally.
He wanted plenty of warning should the Watchers move on Trylla, and eventually the forts he built would serve as supply stations for their campaign in the north. Just as soon as he dealt with Syrtsan.
Emrael arrived in the square and pulled his horse to a stop, surveying his people. The carpenters and masons had been busy—nearly every building facing the square that had retained structural integrity now had a fresh roof and oiled cloth across the windows and doors. He would have expected fewer tents in the main square as more of his people moved into the renovated buildings, but the opposite was true. There was hardly a clear lane left.
“Looks like we’ve had more arrivals,” he commented to Timan. “I’ll have to start holding court or some such to get to know them all. Isn’t that what kings are supposed to do?”
The Imperator only grunted in return. Emrael smiled despite his cousin’s apparent lack of enthusiasm. He had been fretting over his call for men to join them, afraid that nobody would support him despite the promise of significant lands and good pay. That fear had been unfounded. He had arrived in Trylla just over a month ago, and already another five thousand had arrived to take the Legion’s land and coin bounty, and nearly as many craftsmen and farmers had answered his promise that any empty land farmed or buildings rebuilt and occupied here in Trylla could be kept.
Of course, Emrael had retained a number of buildings for himself, as had the Legion to house their operations, but nearly the entire city was open for the Iraean people to claim and rebuild. The word had spread quickly. Men and women from towns and villages in Holdings across southern Iraea had flocked to Trylla, and many had brought families with them. The sounds of carpentry, masonwork, and smithies echoed throughout the square and the surrounding blocks, where folk were already busy rebuilding their new homes.
Even some minor lords and their household guards had arrived to pledge themselves to Emrael, likely in hopes of increasing their fortunes and holdings in the new kingdom Emrael was forging in the heart of Iraea.
He dismissed his men before crossing the square to his residence, where he gave his horse to one of the groomers. It was still odd to him, handing off a horse for someone else to care for. It still felt wrong to not be doing the work himself.
He walked past the house where he, Ban, and Jaina stayed in separate suites to the small open courtyard that lay nestled between it and the surrounding buildings. The building that the Imperators had taken for themselves sat just behind Emrael’s, and on the opposite corner of the block sat the huge stone building in which Ban and his Crafters had set up shop.
He desperately needed a bath, but decided to speak with Jaina first. At this time of day, he knew he’d find her in the courtyard, training her Imperators and their new understudies—the former Citadel students and various others who had asked to train with the mages and had passed the Ordenans’ tests.
To his surprise, he found her sparring with Ban. Emrael lurked in the shadows of the alleyway by which he and Timan had entered and put a hand to his cousin’s chest to stop him from entering the courtyard and giving them away.
As he watched, Jaina threw a punch that caught Ban in the ribs. His brother flinched, but still managed to duck out of range as she threw two more lightning-fast strikes that just missed his face. Ban still favored his sore ribs but feinted with a jab before whipping his rear leg at her body. His kick missed but forced her backward—more than most managed against her. Emrael felt a burst of pride for his brother, who had only been training seriously for a matter of a few months. The kid was talented.
Within moments, however, Jaina had Ban on the ground, tapping for mercy. Emrael stepped into the courtyard, a smile on his face. “Nicely done, Ban!”
His brother smiled, still on hands and knees, sweat dripping down his dust-covered face. “I’m learning the sword, too. Well … I’m learning the stick. Jaina won’t let me touch a blade yet.”
“Nor should she. You’ll get there. Just keep at it.”
Jaina cleared her throat. He turned to raise an eyebrow at her.
“You look like shit,” Jaina said, face passive except for her small smirk. She wrinkled her nose as she took a few steps toward him. “And smell worse.”
Sweat ran down her forehead and shone on her bare arms, but she wasn’t the slightest bit out of breath despite likely having sparred for hours.
Ban, on the other hand, stayed on his knees, chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. His hair and shirt were soaked in sweat. When he heaved himself to his feet a moment later, however, a competitive fire twinkled in his eye. “Absent Gods, Emrael, now I understand why you were so tired all the time at the Citadel. Jaina is unstoppable.”
“You didn’t hit her once, did you?”
Ban shook his head, smile turning sour in embarrassment.
Emrael slapped his back playfully. “Don’t get too down, it took me months before I could land a strike on her, and I had been training for years.”
“Perhaps you’d like to land a strike now?” Jaina asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Not just now, Jaina. I came here to ask you about our deal with the Ordenans. Have they responded to our request for negotiation?”
She shook her head, sweat-darkened hair swinging about her neck. “Nothing yet. They may not know where to find us, and will be hesitant to send anyone important this far inland. We may need to meet them near the Stem, or on the coast. I can get word to them, if you give me a location for a meeting.”
Emrael nodded. “I think I can manage that. Let’s talk later.”
He had just turned to leave when something hit him in the ass, nearly knocking him off his feet. He whipped around in alarm only to find Jaina, Ban, and Timan laughing. She had kicked him. Many of the Imperators and their Iraean apprentices turned to watch.
Emrael looked up at the sky and sighed. “Jaina, I’m tired. I’ve been riding nonstop for days. Another time.”
Her smile disappeared and she closed the distance between them in a few quick strides to punch him in the gut. Even through his leather and metal plate armor, it hurt.
“Do you think your enemies will wait until you are clean and well rested to kill you? We fight now, Emrael Ire.”
She proceeded to punch him again in the midsection and followed it with a jab to the face that made his nose start to trickle blood. Emrael instinctively blocked a few strikes, and after a moment gained his bearings enough to fight back. He knew that she meant business when she sparred with him, especially now that they had access to Mage-Healers. If he didn’t fight to win, she’d beat him half to death.
He surged forward with a growl, planted his shoulder in her gut, got his arms around her midsection, and drove her to the ground. He scrambled to keep his weight on top of her, then lashed out with his elbows. He landed clean blows to the head once, twice. She quickly jabbed a thumb at his eye and forced him to roll off her or be blinded.
Blood trickled down his face, but Jaina bled too—a rarity. His elbow had cut her over one eye, and blood streamed down to obscure her vision. She grinned, a fierce look given the blood covering her face. “Finally, you fight me in truth. Do not hold back.”
He matched her smile with one of his own, and they stepped forward to trade blows at nearly the same moment. Emrael connected with two quick jabs, but Jaina’s faster and more accurate punches drove him backward. This close, he could feel the infusori flowing through her, likely bolstering her strength as she burned whatever spare infusori energy she held within her.
Curiously, Jaina’s hand darted out not to strike him, but to lightly touch his hand, which he now held out in front of him to feel and maintain his range. As soon as their hands connected, a jolt of infusori coursed through him, freezing his body and numbing his mind. She followed with a hard kick to his side, where his armor was only fine chain mail between leather and plate that covered the front and back. He heard the pop and felt the searing pain of ribs breaking under the force of her infusori-strengthened strike. He managed to roll his shoulder in front of his face just in time to avoid taking the following punch that would have knocked him unconscious.
The pain and anger welling within him gave him easy access to infusori, which he burned to give him strength to fight through the pain. Even still, he kept his left arm low now to protect his broken ribs. Another blow to that spot could cause the broken ribs to puncture his lungs, and he knew Jaina wasn’t going to give up until he surrendered. She’d rather kill him.
Not today.
A straight kick to Jaina’s stomach doubled her over briefly, sending her backward and making her pause her incessant attacks. He moved forward, punched with his right hand despite the pain screaming in his left side.
His punch landed, but his subsequent leg sweep went wide. Jaina recovered before he did and kicked his leg out from under him. He landed flat on his back with a crash of armor and a grunt as his breath left him. His side was agony. He was almost certainly bleeding internally.
He tried to roll to his feet, but Jaina stomped a foot on his throat. “Yield,” she said thickly. Her jaw was swollen already, possibly dislocated or broken. A minor satisfaction, but paltry compared to the shame of defeat.
He tapped her leg three times with his hand, and rasped, “Yield.”
When she took her foot from his neck, he coughed and spat blood. “Absent Gods, Jaina, were you trying to kill me?”
She leaned down to help him stand. The fire of battle rage still shone in her eyes, as he was sure it did in his, but her voice held unmistakable affection. “No, boy. Quite the opposite. Train as if your life depends on it. If we hold back now, we limit what we are capable of in battle. You will get my best, and I had better get yours.”
Emrael grunted his acknowledgement but winced at the pain. “That’s great, but I think you’ve broken my ribs. If you don’t have a Mage-Healer close by, I’m going to be in real trouble.”
He leaned heavily on his mentor as she called urgently, “Cailla! Now! Bring your coils and your pack. The boy needs Healing. Dairus, you can see to my wounds when we have the boy situated.”
Jaina leaned closer to him as the willowy black-haired Healer approached. “Watch yourself with her, Emrael. Cailla is as good a Healer as I’ve known, and a good Imperator. But she is not loyal to your mother.”
“I can handle myself.”
She studied him briefly through her eye that wasn’t blood-crusted. “Can you?” She touched his wrist again, and Emrael felt her project her emotions, warm, deep sincerity. Loyalty. It brought tears to his eyes. Or perhaps that was the broken ribs. Maybe both.
He gave her arm a squeeze before he followed a smiling Cailla toward his residence, holding his side carefully.
Before the sun rose the next morning, Emrael left his bed while most still slept. He twisted back and forth, testing his ribs. He was a bit sore, like he had gone through a particularly hard day of training, nothing more. Not like he had been coughing up blood.
Such Healing was a luxury, however, and not one they could afford indefinitely. They only had a few weeks’ supply of charged infusori coils left. If Emrael didn’t find a supply source closer than Whitehall soon, nobody would be Healed or be able to use any of Ban’s Craftings.
The sky was just turning grey when he walked down the two flights of stairs and into the large main entry hall. He didn’t have to wait long before Ban emerged from his rooms and skipped down the stairs to join him.
“You’re late,” Emrael said.
Ban gave him an unamused frown, face still swollen with sleep. “Why are we up so early, anyway? My Crafters won’t be happy, most of them keep odd hours.”
Emrael clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Our allies should be arriving today. If we’re going to see your Craftings, it’s going to have to be now.”
They headed out to the mess tents in the main square. The camp cooks were already serving breakfast. The brothers stacked rashers of bacon and fried eggs on a thick slice of bread, filled their cups with fresh milk, and walked over to the Crafters’ building.
“This is good,” Ban mumbled around a mouthful of hot food as they walked. Emrael nodded and smiled, though inwardly he worried about whether he’d be able to keep his men this well supplied for long, especially on military campaigns. Maintaining a supply line in hostile territory was going to be an issue, and he couldn’t very well commandeer the common people’s produce and hope that they’d be loyal to him after the war. No, he’d have to be smart about supplies, and pay good copper for food where he was required to take it from the Iraean locals. Which meant he needed more copper.
“Okay, Ban, let’s see what you’ve got.”
“You were supposed to visit last night,” his brother replied slyly. “We had everything all set up to demonstrate.”
Emrael blushed, ducking his head as he fought an embarrassed smile. “Yeah well, I was a bit busy coughing up blood.”
“Mmm. Still getting your ass kicked by Jaina. Sad, really.”
Emrael punched his brother in the arm, hard.
“Owwww, you Fallen bastard. Fine, fine, I’ll leave it alone.”
They walked and ate in silence and soon arrived at the Crafting laboratory, where several Crafters waited for them. The halls of the large building were still dim in the early-morning light, but the rooms occupied by Crafters were well-lit with infusori coils. They reached a large room with equipment arranged on roughly built tables, infusori coils attached here and there, smoke and the acrid scent of molten metal already permeating the air despite the early hour. A middle-aged man with wild hair and disheveled clothing moved erratically from machine to machine, mumbling to himself.
“Geryl hasn’t slept in a few days,” Ban whispered as they stopped in the doorway. “He’s mad as they come, but a genius with Craftings. Ran the Masters’ laboratory at the Citadel, now keeps our manufacturing room running for us. He can cast and machine like nobody I’ve ever seen.”
They continued, stopping briefly at several doorways to peer in at tired-looking men and women working on various devices.
“You’ll want to see this one,” Ban said, pulling him into a small workroom where a muscular young woman wearing spectacles sat at a workbench working with an infusori-powered welding tool that spat acrid smoke as she connected various spun wires and components to a cylindrical object about the size of two fists held together. Emrael was passingly familiar with common Crafting schemas, but hardly recognized a single component or design in the object.
The young woman didn’t look up as they entered. Ban walked straight to the three large windows, tying back the oiled cloth to let air into the room, clearing the smoke somewhat. He moved to a large box near the back and after rummaging for a moment came back with a coil and lighting apparatus, which he set up on the young woman’s workbench near where she worked, improving the lighting significantly. The girl grunted in satisfaction, but still didn’t acknowledge their existence.
After some time, the girl grunted in satisfaction again as she made a connection, apparently the final one. She reached for a plate that covered the internal components and fastened it in place with a few quick spot welds. She stood and walked to a side shelf to open the lid of a steel case, where she placed the Crafting on a padded rack next to a dozen or so just like it. That done, she turned to look silently at Ban and Emrael, acknowledging their existence for the first time.
Glory. Emrael knew Crafters could be an eccentric bunch, but Ban had found some real treasures.
Ban gestured toward the woman with one hand. “Emrael, this is Darrain. Darrain, meet my brother Emrael … the one paying for our supplies.”
“I know who he is, Ban,” Darrain said curtly. “Do you want me to show him?”
Ban smiled rather than take offense. “Yes, please.”
“Good. Come with me.” Darrain took one of the Craftings from the case and walked quickly to a door that led outside. They walked for nearly ten minutes into a part of the city that hadn’t been repopulated or touched in any way, until they came to a two-story building next to a pile of scorched, scattered rubble.
Emrael turned to Ban. “I’m going to like this one, aren’t I?” he asked quietly.
“Stay back,” Darrain barked.
Emrael took a few steps back, but Ban dragged him back farther, now with a worried look on his face. Darrain twisted her Crafting, pressed something with her thumb, then tossed it into the worn-out old building next to the pile of rubble. She immediately sprinted back to where Emrael and Ban stood, but didn’t stop when she reached them. She kept running, not slowing down a whit. They took the cue and ran after her.
Emrael hadn’t taken three steps when a wave of pure infusori energy washed over him from behind, knocking him from his feet to pitch forward on his stomach. An instant later, a deafening roar and a shower of detritus hit him. His mind flashed to nearly a year before, when a wagon had exploded similarly on the bridge between Lidran and Naeran.
He lay flat on the ground and put his hands over his head, only looking up when flying stones stopped hitting him. He raised his head to find Darrain and Ban several paces ahead of him, having taken cover behind a nearby stone wall. They both grinned at Emrael, who shook his head and spat a stream of curses as he stood and brushed the dirt off of himself. His ears rang as he stalked toward his brother, who skipped away laughing.
Emrael soon desisted and turned to Darrain. “Glory’s burnt balls, Darrain, what the fuck was that?”
Darrain’s grin turned to a cackle of laughter so strong she couldn’t speak. Ban had to shout to be heard over her squeals of glee. “An exothermic hyper-release device. It holds a large amount of infusori energy and explodes on a timer. Darrain’s done a great deal of dangerous work to make them potent and reliable.”
Emrael stared hard at Darrain. “When did you first make these?”
Darrain’s laughter cut short. “Why?” she asked, eyes narrowing.
Emrael kept his eyes locked on her. “Do our enemies have access to these?”
Darrain’s face drooped. “They … I made some for them, before. I had to. But they already had a design, I just improved it. I had no choice.”
Ban cut in quickly. “Em. Stop. You should understand that better than most.”
Emrael nodded, breathing deep to calm himself. “We encountered something like this a week or so after the Watchers took the Citadel. I just want to know whether that would have been your device or of Malithii make.”
Darrain quirked her mouth. “I had made similar devices for years at the Citadel, and my Master there had several of my early prototypes. He cooperated with the Watchers, so it could have been one of my early designs.”
Emrael forced himself to stay calm. “Thank you, Darrain. We’ll just have to hope it was one of yours, then. How many did you make for the Malithii while you were held captive?”
Ban answered. “They have maybe a dozen or two of these, isn’t that right, Darrain?”
Darrain nodded, then dared a small smile. “And the schema they stole from me is incorrect. I made it incorrect on purpose. The only real design is here.” She tapped her head with one finger, then said in a flat, emotionless voice, “If they build what is on the schema they took, it will explode as soon as it’s primed.”
Emrael blinked, surprised at the matter-of-fact tone from the seemingly harmless Crafter. “Right. Okay. So they have a dozen of them. How many do we have?”
Darrain shrugged. “Fifty? Get me more materials and infusori charges, and I can set underlings to making hundreds per week.”
Emrael paced through the rubble-strewn street until he stood next to the building Darrain had just incinerated. What had been a two-story stone structure was now a pile of smoldering rubble. “I’ll get you what you need. Could we attach them to crossbow bolts, or maybe ballistae, catapults, that kind of thing? I can’t risk my Stonebreakers every time I need to breach a wall, and we’re going to be breaching a lot of walls.”
Ban was the one to answer. “Yes, easily. The projectile will need to be large and heavy to fly true with these attached, and will need to be actuated with pressure plates or accelerometers rather than timers. But we can do it.”
“How soon?”
Ban scratched his head as he looked to Darrain, then brushed dust from his hair. “A few days?”
Emrael started walking. “Good. Let’s get back and you can get started. I need them, and any other explosives you have, ready to move in two days. And I want you to train some engineers from my Legion on how to use them.”
Back at the Crafter’s workshop, Ban took Emrael to his personal workspace, a room on the second floor not unlike Darrain’s on the ground floor. A Legion-style vest of armor lay on his table, but this one was a bit bulkier.
“I’ve been working on the vest for a while, Em. I think you’re going to like the changes I’ve made.”
Ban hefted the vest and handed it to Emrael. “Darrain’s work with supercoil geometry for her explosive devices got me thinking: not only could we make coils with higher density, but they could have far lower loss—that is, it won’t glow or hum. Even to a mage’s infusori senses, it won’t feel like much until you touch it, so it shouldn’t give you away to any Malithii or even Imperators, I suppose. That vest should now hold as much as ten high-grade gold coils.”
Emrael caught the vest and looked inside to find that where there had been inflexible copper strips, there were now several copper plates that on closer inspection were scaled to make them flexible. “Ten coils of infusori is amazing. I can’t wear it without a padded shirt underneath, though, it’ll rub my nipples clear off.”
Ban laughed and pulled a shirt from a bundle on a nearby table. “I had a hell of a time doing it, but managed to extrude copper wire fine enough to be woven into a linen tunic. You should be able to wear one of these and maintain contact with the infusori storage in the vest just fine. Besides, once you start sweating enough, any old tunic should conduct just fine.”
Shrugging out of his usual armor, Emrael put Ban’s on. He was pleased to find that the vest was nearly a perfect fit, and not noticeably heavier than typical armor. “How did you do this, Ban? It should weigh as much as a side of beef with that much gold in it.”
Ban shook his head. “I told you, this is the new design—Darrain and I worked on it together. Rather revolutionary, really. Darrain is quite a genius. Our new microcoil design holds the equivalent energy with less than a tenth the amount of gold. This invention alone will change the world of Crafting.”
Emrael reached into the coils—microcoils, whatever—and found an ocean of pulsating energy waiting there. Ban was right, it must have been the equivalent of ten very good coils. But it didn’t feel full, not even close. He pulled out the coils he always carried and sucked the infusori from them both as quickly and easily as he drew breath. He pushed them into the vest, which accepted the additional energy easily.
“What happens if I try to put too much in? Will it just stop holding additional infusori like a normal coil?”
Ban shrugged. “I don’t know, haven’t tried. Theoretically, it should work the same. It will simply bleed excess energy—it will get hot. So don’t do that.”
“And if I’m stabbed? It won’t explode, will it?” he asked, still a bit traumatized by Darrain’s demonstration. His ears still rang slightly.
Ban laughed. “No, Em, it’s perfectly safe. The array is connected in parallel. If any of the microcoils are severed, it will simply render a small portion of the infusori energy inaccessible.”
Emrael shook his head in wonder. “Absent Gods, Ban. You and your Crafters have already produced some amazing Craftings. These are going to do real good, you know. Think about a world with lossless infusori transportation, and without having to lug millions of pounds of gold all around the world!”
Ban smiled, obviously pleased but embarrassed at the compliment. “Thanks, Em.”
“Can I get a vest like this for all of my mages? And don’t forget, I need more of your Observers. I can’t wait weeks for correspondence if we’re going to move as quickly as we need to.”
Ban shook his head, frowning at his brother now. “Emrael,” he said in a flat tone. “I’m doing what I can, but these things take time. It will take weeks to make another vest, or any microcoils at all. The process is very intensive. And I have two Observers ready to test, but I don’t know how long that will take, or how quickly I can make as many as you need. I’ll have to pull Crafters off their projects to build the ones you want first. They won’t like that.”
Emrael plopped into a nearby wooden armchair. “I know, Ban. You’re doing well. Train more Crafters if you need to. I’m sure you can ask around, pull a few interested folk into your building here.”
“This isn’t a school, Emrael. Folk off the street can’t do what we do.”
Sitting forward, Emrael looked his brother in the eye. “Make it a Fallen-damned school, Ban. If you don’t give us a technological advantage, and a big one at that, we die. People are looking at me to save them, but you and your Crafters will decide this war. And the next one, and the one after that. Remember, Corrande still has plenty of Crafters he abducted from the Citadel. And who knows what the Malithii are capable of.”
He closed his eyes and rested his face in one hand. How much should he tell his brother? Was it fair to keep the Fallen’s visit from him, any of it, when so much rested on his shoulders as well? Ban risked everything Emrael did, with less control. When he looked back up, his mood had turned somber.
“The Fallen is real, Ban. He’s alive. I’ve seen him, talked to him.” He rubbed his face with one hand, suddenly tired. “This is bigger than just a fight for the Ire lands, Iraea, or even the Provinces. It’s going to be bad.”
Ban looked at him sideways, between squinted eyelids. “You’ve … seen him? The vision books? I’ve seen them too, remember? You let me have your book after the one in the temple worked for me.”
Emrael shook his head. “No, not just that. A Malithii priest, their Prophet, got to me in the Citadel … he touched me, and it was like I was transported to wherever the Fallen was. I could feel him, Ban. See him. He’s unlike anything I ever imagined. We’re fighting a real living god. You’ve seen the visions I have. I think he had something to do with creating humans in the first place. How do we fight that and win?”
Ban bit his lip, thinking. “I don’t know, Emrael. One thing to consider, however, is that he wouldn’t be fighting at all if he were all-powerful. He must have weaknesses, despite his power. He must need something from us. Where did you see him?”
“Inside some sort of giant stone structure. A pyramid, lit with glowing runic script in the walls similar to what’s in the Ravan temples.”
Ban nodded, again biting his lip as he thought. “I’ll look through your book of visions some more and let you know what I find, but something is tickling my memory.”
Just then, a soldier in Ire Legion forest-green clothing rushed down the hallway to stop at the door. “Lord Ire sir, Commander Toravin requests your presence. Lord Bayr and Lady Raebren have entered the city. They’ll be here soon.”
Emrael stood immediately. “You said Lady Raebren?”
The Legionman nodded. “Yes, sir. Lady Saravellin.”
Emrael turned to Ban. “How do I look?”
“Like you took a bath in a stonemason’s scrap heap.”
Emrael tried to dust himself off as he turned back to the Legionman. “Thank you, Legionman. Lead the way, please.”
Emrael waited for Lord Davis Bayr and Lady Saravellin Raebren on the stone stairs that descended from his residence to the square below. He had recently ordered those living in the square to find living arrangements elsewhere—either in buildings on which they did makeshift renovations themselves, or in tents located in one of the many smaller squares that dotted the city around the enormous central square.
The huge space in the center of the city was now a dedicated training ground and mess area on one side, with a small but growing market area on the other, where the blacksmiths, merchants, and other craftspeople now ran their trades out of fixed-up stone buildings and temporary canvas tents.
More people still arrived daily, some looking to join Emrael’s Legion, merchants looking for trade opportunities, tradesmen and commoners looking to build a new life. Trylla was still far short of the hundreds of thousands of residents it had once held but was starting to feel like a living city once more.
Emrael had ordered the Legion to form up so Lord Bayr and Lady Raebren would have to approach through a wide lane left open between his battalions formed up in squares. He waited on the broad sweeping steps of his residence—some were calling it a palace, which he supposed it was—with Jaina, Toravin, Ban, Timan, Garrus, and Worren, who had just returned from his campaign in the Paellar Holding.
His Legion was nearly twenty thousand strong after only a few short months here in Trylla. More than half of them had joined him in that time, and though they were garbed in every style of armor and weaponry possible—some had none at all—they had come ready to fight. Just as they had done when assimilating the Sagmyn Legion into their own, Toravin had divided them into companies and squads led by veterans who had proven themselves in battle. While there were still a few discipline issues as happened in any army, and even some desertions, all in all it had worked rather well.
A ripple through the ranks near the south entrance to the square preceded Saravellin, who rode in with what looked to be a single battalion of soldiers in the distinctive teal Raebren uniforms. He tried to hide his dismay at Saravellin’s small force, but Toravin made no such effort as he looked to Emrael with a frown and raised eyebrows. Emrael waved a hand at him. They would have words with the heir of Raebren.
Lord Bayr entered the square on Saravellin’s heels, and he had also brought only one thousand soldiers. Emrael hadn’t expected him to bring more, as he was only in Trylla to coordinate their next moves with Emrael.
Saravellin formed her battalion into a long column just in front of Emrael’s residence where a space had been left clear—a much larger space than needed, as it turned out—and waited for Bayr to do the same before ascending the steps to join Emrael and his council. While Toravin and his Captains First dismissed the Legion, Emrael ushered the newcomers inside to a room that had been prepared with a long table, chairs, and food.
He stood at the door while everyone took their places. Jaina stepped close to him as she entered the room to whisper in his ear, “She’s testing you. Press her.”
He didn’t need her to clarify who she meant.
Saravellin hadn’t missed the interaction. She looked from Emrael to Jaina with a carefully neutral expression, but Emrael could see the tension at the corners of her eyes, could practically feel her processing the information, filing it away for future use. She seemed the type that didn’t miss much.
When Toravin, Captain First Garrus, and Captain First Worren arrived and took their seats, Emrael closed the double doors to the large room and had just taken his place at the head of the table when there was a commotion at the door.
“… Let me through!” a voice said just outside the door. It was Lord Tarelle. There were sounds of a quick scuffle, then a squeal of indignation. “Unhand me! I am a Lord Holder and should be in that room.” The voice grew louder, obviously pitched for those in the room. “Ire! Lord Ire! I am one of the seven Lords of Iraea and demand to be treated as such!”
Emrael looked at Lord Bayr, whose face betrayed no emotion. Saravellin looked amused as she watched to see what he would do.
“I don’t have time for this shit,” Emrael grumbled, slapping one hand on the table as he got to his feet. He kicked the door open and strode past the mages and soldiers guarding the door. He stopped just inches from the shocked Lord Tarelle and the five armed men with him—all that he had been allowed to bring with him to Trylla.
“What do you want, Tarelle?”
“I … I should be a part of your plans. I deserve a seat at your table!”
Emrael looked from him to the five soldiers, who looked prepared for a fight. “And you thought these five would bolster your case? Scare me into letting you hear my plans?”
“No!” Tarelle’s face sank. “No,” he said again, more quietly this time. “I just want to help. Lord Ire, I’ve handed over my Holding to your men. I have been bullied into this coalition of yours. And I have not objected, until now. I can help, I can be an ally. I can raise more men from my Holding. I want to earn a place in your new kingdom.”
Emrael stared at him for a moment, and the men backing him. They obviously felt some loyalty toward their Lord Holder despite his current severe disadvantage. That meant something.
Emrael pointed a finger in Tarelle’s face. “I don’t trust you. You had a chance to use your men to help us expel the Watchers, and you didn’t. You stood aside, but you didn’t help.”
Emrael turned to reenter the room, but Tarelle surprised him by answering his rhetorical question.
“I will give you copper. And men,” Tarelle said resolutely. “Your man, the Syrtsan outcast. He’ll have little cooperation from the minor lords loyal to me, and there are many. I can give you copper from my personal estates, and I can give you five thousand good men that will not join you if not for me. Maybe more.”
Emrael turned back to him. He had already promised part of Tarelle’s lands to Dorae, and planned to give the rest to Halrec. That didn’t mean Tarelle couldn’t be useful, though, in the meantime. There would be other Holdings to grant, should he prove his worth. “How much money?”
“Twenty thousand copper rounds?” Tarelle was obviously in pain at offering so much, and with good reason. Twenty thousand copper rounds was a huge sum—likely more than half of the coin in his coffers.
Emrael tried not to show his surprise. “Twenty-five thousand.”
Tarelle shuddered—rich men held tight to their coin—but acceded with a nod that bounced his jowls.
“Your five thousand men will report to me here, with the coin, within thirty days.”
Tarelle’s eyes opened in shock. “Y-you don’t want them in my Holding? With Commander Syrtsan?”
“Nope,” Emrael said with a certain amount of pleasure. Whether Tarelle was sincere or not, he obviously didn’t like this idea. “I need them here; the coin too. Halrec will have to manage until I’ve taken the rest of the kingdom. Thirty days, Garan.”
He turned his back to the man and strode back into the room, gesturing to his men to close the door behind him.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Tarelle shouted.
Emrael called over his shoulder without looking back, “Thirty days, Garan. Pay up, then you’re in.”
Emrael took his seat and looked around the room. He settled his gaze on Saravellin, his expression serious. “One thousand men?”
Saravellin smiled, no mirth in the expression. “My father is a conservative man, Lord Ire. Besides expelling the Watchers garrisoned in our Holding, he must contend with the possibility that the Norta Holding falls, allowing Corrande to reach our Holding undeterred. Syrtsan to our west is a risk as long as he withholds his support. Due to activity in our Holding during the most recent rebellion,” she said with a glance at Toravin, “we have been sanctioned more heavily than others, and have limited military resources.”
Emrael held her gaze until her smile faltered. “And what else can you offer, Lady Raebren? One thousand men hardly earns a place of honor in the new kingdom.”
She didn’t show fear or unease, but her expression was serious, now. “Due to our unfortunate position on the Stem between Whitehall and Duurn, Raebren has been forced to build superior ground transport assets to attract trade to our capital. I am prepared to provide a supply chain to Trylla, and for the war campaign … at a discounted price, of course.”
Emrael laughed, both from relief and genuine humor. “I merit a discount, do I?”
Saravellin smiled again, and this time her eye gleamed as she shrugged. “A girl’s got to eat.”
Emrael couldn’t help but match her smile, amused at her audacity. When he spoke, though, his words were hard as stone. “Wagons and supplies will be welcome. But this is not a trade bargain. This is a war.”
She didn’t look happy about it, but she nodded.
“Good. Now. Can you truly spare no more soldiers than one single battalion?”
Saravellin made an irritated clicking sound with her tongue. “We only have five thousand trained, and cannot spare more while Syrtsan, Corrande, and Barros remain threats on our borders.”
Pressing the issue here and now would not help him retain his tenuous allies. “When can we expect your wagons and supplies to be available?”
“The first party is only a half-day behind us,” she replied smugly. “Five hundred wagons with food, building materials, gear, and weapons. Your men out there in the courtyard with nothing but a spear will have real armor and shields. We have tents and bandages and a dozen trained healers as well.”
Five hundred wagons of supplies was more than a token contribution. “Thank you,” he said simply. “My clerks will arrange appropriate compensation.”
Saravellin’s smirk softened into a sincere smile, and she nodded in acknowledgement. “And when you neutralize the threats on our borders, my father will be happy to put more of his troops under your command. He has already issued a call for more conscripts.”
“Right,” Emrael said, standing. “About that. We’ll be moving on the Syrtsan Holding.”
He paused, expecting Saravellin to react to the news—Bayr, Toravin, Ban, Jaina, and his Captains First already knew. She simply furrowed her eyebrows and frowned thoughtfully. She understood his intent nearly immediately, it seemed.
“The campaign begins in two days. Our first target is Gnalius, the Syrtsan Well town on the border with Ire and Raebren. While we mobilize most of our twenty thousand men—plus Raebren’s one thousand—to take Gnalius and draw Syrtsan and the Watchers in his Holding toward Gnalius, Lord Bayr will lead his ten thousand directly to Duurn. With any luck, the Bayr men will have taken Syrtsan’s capital while we occupy their attention to the east. The Syrtsan Holding will be ours within weeks.”
Duurn was Syrtsan’s capital, a large port city on the Iraean side of the Stem River Sound. It was as far from Emrael’s occupied land as anywhere in Iraea, and would be the last place they’d expect an assault even once they realized that Emrael had attacked Gnalius. If Emrael and those loyal to him could take his capital, they would fully neutralize Syrtsan quickly so they could focus on Lord Marol and the Watchers holding the Ire lands in the north. He was gambling a great deal on not only Lord Bayr’s loyalty, but his military abilities.
Saravellin watched him sharply now, nodding to herself as he finished.
Lord Bayr cleared his throat loudly. “I want to take Arras. That is the prize I wish to keep, and I can take it easily with my ten thousand. Duurn is too large, too well defended.”
Emrael had to clench his jaw to keep himself from saying something rash. “Lord Bayr, you’ll have your prize. But not until Syrtsan is completely neutralized. Taking Arras first would only serve to alert Syrtsan to your presence and to spread our forces thin. Surely you agree?”
Bayr frowned, but acceded with a nod after a moment. “Aye. But capturing Duurn is not so easy as you make it sound.”
Emrael smiled patiently. “By your own estimates, Lord Syrtsan has fifteen thousand of his own men and five thousand Watchers garrisoned at Duurn. He will be forced to field nearly every soldier to confront me when I move on Gnalius. Hopefully he knows nothing of your involvement?”
Bayr shook his head. “He knows nothing of our alliance.”
“Good,” Emrael replied. “You can have Arras and the entire western seaboard as we agreed, but take Duurn for me first. We cannot afford to let Syrtsan lure us into a prolonged siege. I figure we have a month, maybe two before Lord Marol and the Watchers in the north bring the fight to us. If we’re still engaged in the Syrtsan Holding by that time, we’ll have lost the war.”
Lord Bayr sat silent, stroking his chin. Dorae had assured Emrael that Bayr was an ambitious man, ready to join them if offered a sufficient prize.
After a long silence, Emrael spoke. “When you take Duurn, you can keep it as well. Everything west of the Teneralle. But you have to take Duurn first and do it quickly.”
He had just offered up the richest portion of the most valuable land in Iraea. Still, Bayr hesitated. Finally, the Lord Holder nodded. “I’ll see it done.”
Relieved, Emrael turned to the rest of the room. “Everyone who fights with us—and those who provide other skilled services,” he said with a pointed look at Saravellin, “will be entitled to land or edifices equal in value to five copper rounds. They’ll get five full rounds of credit for each year they fight. When we’ve secured the entire kingdom, they will be able to choose from lands my clerks deem eligible here in Trylla, in the Ire Holding, and in any Holdings we take by force. I encourage you to do the same for your people with any lands you acquire through me.”
Saravellin and Bayr had surprised looks on their faces, and not in a good way. Toravin and his two Captains, however, nodded their approval. They knew that a tangible reward would not only attract more soldiers to their cause, but would motivate their forces to stick with them and fight hard. Five copper rounds was more than most would earn in a decade of simple work. Silver, gold, and iron were the coin of the commons.
Saravellin cleared her throat. “What recompense can Raebren expect for our contributions?”
Emrael pressed his tongue to the front of his teeth as he considered. “What do you want?”
“Surprise me,” she said.
“Syrtsan lands along the Stem Sound?”
Saravellin’s smile deepened to wrinkle the skin around her eyes as she squared her shoulders. “Perhaps. We will negotiate later. When my wagons arrive.”
He nodded, grateful to avoid the question for now, and looked around the room. “Anything else?”
Lord Bayr grunted, gesturing at the two Ordenans in the room, who had sat quietly during the meeting. “Yes. What do these vultures want?”
Good question, Emrael thought to himself. He trusted Jaina and Timan more than he trusted most anyone. But he himself wondered what Ordena hoped to gain from their sudden involvement in the Provinces.
To Bayr, he said, “The Ordenans with me are our allies, and I trust them. I don’t expect you to deal with the Ordenans except through me.”
Bayr shrugged, apparently appeased.
He stared around the room, and all nodded their heads, though some with more vigor than others.
“One more thing,” he said firmly. “No pillage, no rape, no more destruction than necessary to take our targets. Any lands and coin we take will come from the nobility, not the common folk. Our current enemies will soon be our allies and countrymen; we cannot afford to turn the people against us. I will hang anyone not treating the populace as such.”
Most in the room nodded again, but the military leaders among them now had sour looks on their faces, Toravin included. Not because they wished to pillage their countrymen, but because enforcing such an edict was not a simple thing, nor popular among soldiers, and they knew it. Emrael didn’t care—conquering a kingdom was never an easy proposition, but he was determined to do it right, and to do right by the people he would one day govern.
Emrael stood. “You’ll have your orders by nightfall. Day after tomorrow at dawn, we march. Ban and Garrus will keep the remaining men to hold Trylla.”