Darmon Corrande rode the last stretch of the road to Vahle, detachedly admiring the towering conifers, aspens, and various hardwoods that grew in the water-rich alpine clime of northern Iraea. A stream ran next to the road, trickling its way toward the river that would carry it northward to the sea.
While Porshim Holding was as dry as the Corrande Province, nearly the entirety of the Ire Holding he had traversed had been like this—trees and verdant fields occasionally interrupted by stark blue-grey stone protruding from the earth’s surface. The Holding even smelled fertile. The air was full of rich, earthy scents and the resinous perfume of the various conifers. It was so different from the dry rolling grasslands of his own province on the other side of the Duskan mountain range. No wonder his grandfather had coveted this land and its bounty.
Dense forest sporadically gave way to more farms and villages with expansive swaths of green fields heavy with midsummer crops, and as they came around a bend in the road, he spied a large stone wall that could only be the city of Vahle. They had arrived at last.
He rode at the head of a long column of Watchers, Malithii, and the Malithii’s various minions, but stopped at one side of the large square just inside the gate to watch as the army entered the city. There were several thousand of the disgusting soulbound, herded like sheep along the broad dirt highways. Perhaps more disconcerting even than those monsters were the men that willingly followed the dark priests.
Fighting men in dark garb and armor who spoke the same harshly musical tongue as the Malithii priests had begun arriving in the Corrande Province in recent months, and several thousand of them now followed Darmon and his Malithii keepers in impressively ordered ranks. Their curved-blade spears glittered in the sunlight as they marched through the large timber gate in perfect step.
A smattering of other soldiers followed: mercenaries from the Free Cities, Ithan clansmen, and horsemen from beyond the Ithan Empire who dressed in vests woven from a strange pale leather. The ferocious-looking warriors painted their faces red and white, and the red had deepened to crimson as their journey wore on. Darmon didn’t think he wanted to know what kind of animal produced the pale leather they wore.
All told, their force numbered more than ten thousand. Added to the Watcher and Corrande forces his father already commanded here in the Iraean Province, he estimated upward of fifty thousand soldiers had been deployed to Iraea to fight Emrael Ire. Odd, that he should now find himself hoping that Ire had sufficient numbers to withstand his father’s forces. As much as he might hope for a horrible death for the arrogant bastard who cut off his hand, he prayed it came after he freed the Provinces from Malithii oppression.
His gut roiled with dread, remembering the vision—or whatever it had been—of the Fallen God. He looked sideways at the two priests who were his constant shadow. How in the name of the Holy Departed had these bastards taken control so quickly?
They rode into the city, a large port where trade flowed between the Ire and Paellar provinces, and from Ordena in the west. Or had, when the Provinces had allowed Ordenan trade in Iraea.
Darmon and his escorts were quickly ushered to a small room in a large stone building that overlooked the harbor. He stared through the glass pane of the window, doing his best to ignore his escort. There were perhaps two dozen small fishing vessels sailing in and out of the harbor, but no larger ships. No merchants, no barges, no warships. Even here, the Ordenans ruled the sea.
He turned from the large window as the door to the small meeting room opened, and a short Malithii priest with a round, extensively tattooed face bustled into the room. The little priest had ink smudges on his pale hands. Several black-robed priests with far fewer tattoos followed, ledger books, pens, and ink at the ready. Even the dread Malithii empire was run by clerks, it appeared.
The small tattooed man’s eyes flitted to Darmon’s pinned sleeve where his right hand should have been, and pulled a pair of round-lensed spectacles from a pocket of his robes. “Lord Darmon Corrande, correct?” he asked in the best Provincial common tongue Darmon had heard from one of the Malithii, nearly without accent.
“Yes.” Darmon took a seat across the table from the clerk and his assistants. His Malithii escorts took up positions near the door.
“So nice to see the local leadership joining the fight.” The clerk priest shuffled through a few papers, then looked at Darmon over his spectacles. “Ah yes, here they are. Your orders. You are to take a battalion and occupy the town of Doriscter, fifty leagues northwest of Trylla, where our enemies have taken root. Take the town, fortify it, and await further orders. These two Faithful will stay assigned to you. Your men will be waiting for you just outside the city walls when we conclude this meeting. Your guides will show you to them. Good day to you.”
Darmon knew he was in no position to argue, so he accepted his written orders with only a nod. He wasn’t looking forward to leaving again without so much as a night to rest, but he wouldn’t have slept well in this city anyhow. Not while these Malithii crawled about like flies on a fresh corpse.
His “guides” led him from the room and to a small gate to the south of the city. There, he was relieved to find a full battalion of Watchers waiting for him, all in pristine blue uniforms. He had been afraid he’d be stuck with those foreigners or a bunch of wild Ithans. Or worse, a horde of soulbound abominations and more Malithii priests. He would have been powerless.
Most of his thousand men were on foot with pikes or infusori-Crafted crossbows, but one company looked to be engineers, and another was mounted cavalry. A well-balanced force for taking and holding a small bit of territory. The Malithii clerk knew his business.
Their commanding officer, a Captain Second with a strong build and greying hair, saluted sharply from atop his horse when Darmon reined up in front of him. “Sir! We’ve been told that you’ll have orders for us, sir. Best battalion in the territory, the Fifty-Third.”
Darmon studied the man as he nodded his acknowledgement. The Captain Second was clearly Iraean, judging by the accent. That wasn’t an oddity, of course; the Watchers recruited heavily from the local population. Downtrodden as the former kingdom was due to the trading restrictions and reparation taxes enforced by the Provinces, the recruiting efforts were very successful. Nearly half of the Watcher Legion was Iraean.
“Most of them Iraean boys, then?” Darmon asked.
“Aye, Lord Corrande. A few from around the Provinces, but the larger part are Iraeans. Loyal to a man, they are, sir. To a man. We aren’t green, we’ve seen action against the Ordenans, outlaws, even on the Ithan frontier a time or two. We know our business.”
Darmon nodded again. “I’m sure you do, Captain…”
“Vaslat, sir. Teuri Vaslat.”
“Right, Captain Vaslat. Are your men ready to march?”
“Aye sir.”
“Good. We’re to hold the town of Doriscter to the south. Do you know it?”
“Aye, sir. Been there plenty. Shouldn’t be any trouble, we keep a full company garrisoned there, the folks are used to us. We treat them right, and they treat us right, for the most part. Hard to say how they’ll react to news of the Ire boy building his city in the ruins, but there won’t be a fight to get into the town.”
Captain Vaslat seemed a good man, a fighting man who had worked himself up through the ranks over decades of hard work. His weathered face showed his years of marching and riding in the saddle.
Darmon’s mind started spinning, weighing the risks and rewards of trusting him so quickly. He didn’t have much choice, though, he realized shortly. This was his best chance to talk to the man frankly without arousing the suspicion of the Malithii tailing him.
He nudged his horse forward and lowered his voice. “Captain … you know about the Malithii? The dark-robed bastards like the ones behind me?”
Captain Vaslat’s face froze in a careful mask. “Yes, sir. I know of them. They are the ones who gave me my orders. Seem like a … foul lot, but we’re loyal to the Provinces, sir. And … our allies.”
Darmon locked eyes with the officer and lowered his voice further. “They are no allies of mine, or my father’s, Captain. I’m afraid they have us in quite the stranglehold. I want you to send your scouts as far afield as you dare. Gather information from any contacts you have in the United Provincial Legion. I need to know everything I can about where these foreigners are and what they’re planning. I need to know who else in the Watchers remains loyal to the Provinces, not to these Malithii. Report to me only when these two following me can’t hear.”
He forced himself to not look back at the Malithii priests shadowing him as he raised his voice again. “And make sure we know where every one of that Ire bastard’s rebels are hiding.”
Captain Vaslat nodded slowly, relief clear in his bearing. He saluted sharply. “We’ll find them, Lord Corrande.”