“That rat fucking bastard,” Emrael growled, punching a fist into the palm of his other hand. “I knew I should have killed him.”
He was speaking, of course, of Lord Holder Garan Tarelle, who hadn’t been seen since the night before the assault on Gnalius, two days ago. The Watchers that had holed up in their garrison to the south of the city had been burned out yesterday with more of Darrain’s explosives, the survivors taken captive. The city was securely his and his plans were proceeding perfectly. Tarelle’s disappearance shouldn’t have bothered him much, but it did.
“Put a bounty on his head and be done with the man,” Jaina mumbled around a mouthful of roasted pine grouse.
Emrael grimaced. “I have, but I’d like to strangle the swine myself.”
Jaina shook her head and brandished her eating knife at him. “You have bigger problems to see to, Emrael. Focus on what matters. For example, you need to keep yourself out of danger. I will select your personal guard myself, and they will not leave your side. I tire of saving you myself.”
“So you’ve said,” Emrael sighed. “Many times. Go ahead and find them. But I won’t be kept from doing what I need to, Jaina. I will still fight when necessary. The guard will answer to me.”
Jaina just smiled at him as she took a sip of wine, a dark red as was her preference.
After a long day of touring the city and planning its defenses with Saravellin, Toravin, and his other military officers, he and Jaina ate a late evening meal together in a top-floor private dining room as the sun set over the rolling hills to the west. Timan had been with them but was now eating with the other Imperators while Emrael and Jaina dined at their hotel.
“Is Timan upset about what I did to that Malithii yesterday?”
Jaina shrugged. “Many Imperators are quite invested in the Order and their religion. The true believers … they adhere to the rules given by the Order without deviation. Besides the stiff and immediate penalties, they believe that their future rebirths, and the favorable rebirths of their families, depend on them. If he says he is with you, I believe him. But he may need time to adjust.”
Emrael grunted. “And you?”
“Me? I am not so sure. Not anymore. I can see the influence of the Fallen God here in this world, feel his power, evil though it may be. The Silent Sisters have ever been just that … silent. Perhaps they do not even exist? Or they do and simply cannot be bothered with us?”
He sighed and turned back to his meal. Roasted fowl, ale-soaked barley, and a dark bean and bacon stew that he quite liked. The city was still in chaos after the battle yesterday, but the proprietors of the Blackswell and most of their staff had come out of hiding and had plenty of fine goods stored away, as had many inns and merchants around the city. He and his men were paying for whatever they consumed, of course. This was Emrael’s city now, not enemy territory to be looted. He had Toravin rotating several companies through peacekeeping patrol duty to ensure his men behaved. Some felt it their right to take what they pleased after seeing their friends, brothers, cousins killed or wounded in the assault. While he felt for them, they would need to learn that their loot would come not from pillaging those who would soon be their countrymen, but from Emrael by way of taxes and confiscated lands when their service was concluded. Funny, how simply calling looting taxation made it acceptable.
They ate in silence for a time, until Emrael thought of something he had been wondering about for a long time but never seemed to have the opportunity to ask his mentor. “Jaina, tell me what you know about the Fallen, and about the Malithii.”
She chuckled. “Oh is that all? Where would you like me to begin, Your Majesty?”
Emrael flipped a hand, rolling his eyes at her sarcasm. “Jaina, I mean it. Why are these bastards here? Why are they so invested in this war? Why is the Fallen God himself appearing to me in visions? It doesn’t make any sense.”
Jaina looked around the room quickly at that, nearly in a panic. “Please, Emrael, do not say that so loudly. You will turn all of my Imperators against us.”
She sighed, then bit her lip as she pondered how to respond. “I do not fully know how to answer your questions, Emrael, but I will tell you what I know. The Ordenan Faith teaches that the Fallen is here to pay for his sins, and that we—the Order, mages who have been taught the Art—are his keepers. His jailers, I suppose. Some time deep in the past, well before even the Ravan Empire existed, the Malithii were once Ordenans, or rather we were once one people. The Fallen corrupted the Malithii and established himself in the Dark Nations, the Hidden Kingdoms. I would imagine, if what the Ordenans believe is true, the Fallen takes great issue with my people and our holy war there.”
“Why is he here in the Provinces, then? Why is he bothering with me? Why not fight the Ordenan army in the Hidden Kingdoms, or attack Ordena itself?”
“A small sect of … fundamentalists within the Order believe that there’s more to our role than just keeping the Fallen God prisoner. The Speakers for the Sisters, as they call themselves, claim that the Fallen can be killed, his power consumed by one chosen by the Sisters to become the new God of this world.”
“Oh,” Emrael said after an awkward silence. What else was he to say? Jaina stared hard at him, however, obviously expecting something from him. “Wouldn’t consuming his power be against the rules of your Order?”
Jaina smiled sadly. “Precisely.” She looked at the floor and murmured, almost too quiet for Emrael to hear, “Nothing makes sense, not enough for the pain we are asked to endure. I do not know what to believe, not anymore, Emrael. In many ways, I am as lost as you are.”
She gathered herself with a deep breath. “None of that matters to us, not right now. What matters is that the Malithii are here with growing numbers of alai’ahn. The Fallen is real, is alive, and has set his forces against us. We must fight them, and we must win, or we will share the fate of their subjected peoples in the Hidden Kingdoms.”
Emrael barked a mirthless laugh. “And just how are we supposed to defeat a god, Jaina? You felt how much power he had, and that was just whatever was left in me after seeing a vision of him! Imagine trying to fight him.”
Jaina shook her head, again subdued. “I do not know, Emrael. We will likely need the full might of the Order of Imperators if we’re to stand a chance, but even then … I just do not know. But we must try. We cannot allow the Fallen to turn the rest of the world into the Dark Nations.”
Emrael blew out a long sigh. “Well shit.” He gulped down the half-pint of ale left in his mug. “I guess we’d better find a way to get the Ordenans involved after all, then. Can you get us a meeting sooner?”
Jaina nodded. “I will send a pair of my Imperators to the Stem immediately to find a ship headed downriver. There should be a Naval Captain, maybe even an Adjunct Admiral on a ship near the mouth of the Sound. They should be able to meet us in here in Gnalius or in Merroun relatively quickly, whether Syrtsan tries to blockade the Sound or not. Say, ten days?”
He nodded. “Ten days should work, but we may still be at Merroun or camped outside Sutwin waiting for Syrtsan’s answer. I’m not going to attack the city if I can help it, but I intend to take the town with the shipping yards on the eastern branch of the river. Tell them to put in at the docks in Merroun first, then send a delegate here to Gnalius if needed.”
She nodded, but paused with her lips pursed. “Emrael … you should know that it will not be easy to get the Ordenans involved. Likely they will want a hefty prize, more than you will want to give. Land, infusori, perhaps more.”
Emrael smiled sadly. “I may have to give them what they require, Jaina, or I won’t have anything left at all when this war is over.”
A knock on the door preceded the head of one of two Legionmen guarding the door to the dining room. “The Mayor of Gnalius requests an audience, Lord Ire.”
Emrael beckoned at the guard. “Thank you, Legionman. Send him in. Alone, please.”
A tall, thin man of perhaps fifty years strode into the room a moment later, a leather-bound notebook in one hand. His hair and pointed beard were finely cut and oiled, his perfectly tailored suit and shined boots immaculate despite the blood and mess that littered the city in the aftermath of the battle. He stopped a few steps into the room and stood stiffly. His eyes flicked to Jaina once, then stayed locked on Emrael. “Lord Ire, I presume?”
Emrael picked up his tankard of ale. “Yes. And who are you?”
The tall man squared his shoulders. “I am Lord Vorot Sunnan, the Lord Mayor of Gnalius. I have come to negotiate terms.”
“What terms?” Emrael asked blithely.
“Why, the terms of surrender, of course.”
Emrael stared at the man for a moment before responding. “You may as well have a seat then. Will you have any food, or drink?”
The Mayor shook his head stiffly as he pulled up a chair for himself and sat. “Thank you, Lord, no.”
“What did you have in mind?” Emrael asked, turning back to his food.
Mayor Vorot opened his leather notebook, withdrawing an expensive mechanical ink pen and gold-rimmed spectacles from a pouch inside the cover. The infusori trade paid well indeed. “I, the Lord Mayor of this city and Holder of the surrounding estates and Wells, am prepared to offer you, Lord Emrael Ire, five thousand copper rounds, Provincial, in return for an oath of good conduct until you and your forces depart. You and your forces will leave the city within the week.”
Emrael laughed, nearly choking on a bit of rye bread. He couldn’t help it. “We what?” When he’d caught his breath and swallowed his food, he continued. “Lord Mayor. You think I’m a Watcher, to be bought off and shipped away? You think I’m a fellow politician, to be bargained with?”
The Mayor looked shocked for a moment, then angry. He puffed up his chest and gathered himself to stand up.
Emrael pointed a finger at him from where he lounged in his wooden dining chair. “Sit,” he commanded in a hard voice. “Let me explain the situation to you and make your choices clear.”
He waited until the tall man took a chair before he resumed speaking. “I have taken your city by force. Many of my men, and many of the city’s defenders, have died for it. There is no negotiation to be had. Either you swear fealty to me as your king, or I confiscate your lands and titles and all that comes with them and give them to someone that will. All that is yours is now mine.”
Vorot’s eyes blazed with anger. He stood quickly, knocking his chair backward with a crash. “My family has ruled this land since the fall of the Ravan Empire, centuries before the Iraean Kingdom even existed! We were our own kingdom once, you know! You will do nothing more than get me hanged with you when the Watchers put an end to your foolish rebellion!”
Emrael shook his head as he leaned back in his chair to show Vorot that he was anything but intimidated by his outrage. “My men hold the walls of Gnalius, and as we speak are taking possession of the infusori Wells in the mountains to the east. We hold all of Sagmyn Province. Gadford, Larreburgh, Whitehall, Trylla, Raebren, and soon all of Iraea will owe fealty to me.”
He paused to let his words sink in, then slammed his fist on the table to draw the man’s attention again. “I will say this one more time. You have two choices. Kneel to me and restore our families’ ancient ties. Pledge me your resources. Your taxes and duty to levy soldiers simply transfer to me, all else taken will be paid for.
“Or,” Emrael said before the Lord Mayor could respond, standing slowly and picking up his sword, “I’ll give you the opportunity to prove your loyalty to Syrtsan, Corrande, and his Watchers.” He bared a foot of the blade and idly inspected the runes carved into the steel.
Vorot’s face blanched as he eyed the sword. He righted the chair he had knocked down with shaking hands and sat heavily. “I … I see.”
Emrael looked up to meet his sullen stare. “Shall I call for a clerk to write up your declaration of fealty?”
Vorot now looked at least twenty years older than he had when he entered the room, his face haggard as he nodded his silent assent. When the clerk arrived and had written a short proclamation, both Vorot and Emrael signed it.
Emrael called for more clerks to copy the proclamation and asked them to add to it. “Let it be known that any man joining the Ire Legion will be afforded full rights of citizenship for themselves and their families in the new Iraean Kingdom, and will earn land bounties and standard pay besides. Trained soldiers receive an extra bonus, of course. That includes Watchers and Syrtsan men.”
He strode to the dejected Lord Vorot and clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the Kingdom, Mayor. I expect you in the square at dawn tomorrow for the public oath.”
Just after dawn the next day, Emrael tried not to look as tired as he felt as Lord Mayor Vorot Sunnan knelt to swear fealty in the war-scarred square outside the hotel. The tall nobleman looked dazed and none too happy to be in front of a large crowd of the people of Gnalius, kneeling to their conqueror, but he did it. Half the square was filled with Emrael’s Legionmen, who cheered as Lord Vorot knelt. The other half of the crowd, civilians from the city, remained quiet.
Afterward, clerks by the dozen rode into the city to read the proclamation aloud and post notices of recruitment in every square. Sergeants and Captains Third would be stationed throughout the city to accept recruits and organize their distribution throughout the ranks.
Emrael could already see dozens lined up to sign for the land bounty at the recruitment station in this main square. They would be needed. Though the assault of Gnalius had been a resounding success, five hundred of his Legion had been killed, with at least five times that number wounded. Worren’s battalion had taken particularly heavy losses attempting to scale the wall.
Toravin was due to give him an exact report later this morning, but three thousand out of sixteen thousand fighting men under his command had been lost. Lost to the current war effort, at least. He would never win a long-term campaign this way, not when Marol and the Watchers could likely field three times or more men than he could, not counting any soulbound the Malithii were likely to add to the equation. He needed more soldiers, and he needed to win future engagements with fewer losses.
A ripple in the crowd opened to reveal a half-company of Ire Legionmen escorting—and in some cases carrying—a shabby bunch of their former fellow Legionmen, now stripped of their weapons and armor. Eleven men, accused of serious crimes against innocents by the civilians in the city or by their fellow soldiers, and subsequently convicted by the Captain Second who led each battalion. Many more had likely gotten away with crimes, large and small, Emrael knew, but he couldn’t do anything about that today. He could only make an example of these eleven and bring justice to those who were caught, and hope that it discouraged the rest of his men from disobeying his orders that their conquered territories and their citizens be treated with respect. It served as a warning to the citizens of Gnalius, as well. The nobles and powerful merchants, in particular. Emrael would show them that his laws carried equal weight with everyone, regardless of station or allegiance.
A light rain pattered on the large stones that paved the square as he, Jaina, and Toravin walked to meet the group at a scaffold that had been erected earlier that morning. Timan, freshly healed of his relatively minor wounds after the battle, followed at a few paces with a mixed group of ten of the most dependable Imperators, mage apprentices, and Legionmen he and Jaina had handpicked to be Emrael’s new dedicated Royal Guard. Each had sworn an oath to Emrael, a pledge of loyalty to supersede all other ties. Emrael had been astonished to have his cousin Timan and several other Ordenan Imperators swear such an oath to him. Imperators owed their loyalty to their Empire and their Order, and Jaina had told him it was a crime punishable by death for them to swear any oaths of loyalty to anyone else. Jaina hadn’t joined them, though he trusted her more even than those who had given him oaths.
He had seen more than one of the other Imperators sneer at those who had joined his Guard, but he wasn’t foolish enough to think that some of the Imperators sworn to him might not have ulterior motives. For now, Emrael was grateful to have even a few trained mages willingly join him, whatever their reasons.
When the prisoners had been gathered, Emrael paced the line of doomed men arranged in front of the gallows, staring each in the eye. Some of the men sobbed and begged quietly for mercy, others sneered with derision. His stomach roiled with phantom pity and anxiety at the prospect of ordering the execution of these men, but he felt no guilt. He had ordered that only killing innocents be punished with death. He had broken plenty of laws and done morally questionable things in this last year, but even he felt he had moral standing when it came to harming innocents. And besides, he couldn’t afford to let his armies rampage through every conquered territory. He had to maintain order, even if it made him a hypocrite.
He stopped his inspection of the doomed men when he saw that one of them was a mage apprentice that had been training with the Imperators. Emrael couldn’t remember his name but recognized him from training sessions. He was one of the Iraeans that had first joined the mages in Whitehall. The young man’s shaggy brown hair fell in front of his downcast eyes.
“What did you do?” Emrael asked softly.
The boy glanced up at him, surprised at being addressed and obviously ashamed. One of his eyes was black, swollen shut, and crusted with blood. More blood had dried in his hair and in streaks down his forehead and face. He looked back down without answering Emrael. His hands shook in their shackles, his jaw clenched.
“What did you do?” Emrael asked again, more forcefully this time. Toravin started to speak, but Emrael silenced him by putting the back of his hand to his Commander’s chest.
The two Legionmen holding the young mage shook him by either arm. The young man stiffened, anger flashing in his eyes and expression. He controlled himself with visible effort and finally looked up, his eyes flicking from Emrael to Jaina and back. He licked his lips. “I killed six men, Lord Ire. Legionmen. Your Legionmen. They attacked me and I defended myself.”
Emrael raised his eyebrows and looked at Toravin, who nodded his confirmation but said no more. Emrael looked to Jaina. “You knew of this?”
She shook her head. “I did not. But mages are subject to your laws, same as everyone else. Correct?”
Emrael nodded, but chewed pensively on his lip. “Is he any good?” he asked quietly.
She shrugged. “Ask Timan.”
Timan, who had obviously been eavesdropping the entire time, stepped forward without shame. “He has talent in the Art, fights well. Battle-Mage, some Healing. Good combination. Struggles to control his temper at times.”
Jaina chuckled. “Like another I know.”
Emrael rolled his eyes at her and turned back to the young mage. “What’s your name, mage?”
“Daglund, Lord.”
“Well, Daglund, I’m going to offer you a chance to get your head out of that noose up there. Give me your hand and tell me what happened. I’ll feel whether you’re lying. If you lie to me, I’ll make sure you beg for that noose before you die.”
He extended his hand to the young mage, who stared at the intricate scars that adorned his skin before taking his hand. Emrael extended his infusori senses, enveloping the young mage’s will with his own without regard for the other man’s meager resistance.
“You killed six Legionmen?”
Daglund nodded. “I did.”
“Why?”
Daglund hesitated, then spoke slowly, shaking his head. “I told you, they attacked me. I had just eaten a meal at an inn near the center of the city. They were outside, their full squad I would say, walking down the street, drinking. They saw me in my mage uniform—the blacks we’ve taken to wearing, those of us training with the Ordenans. They ran to surround me, started pushing me, asking how I’ve got the coin to eat at an inn when they ate from the Legion mess.” He glanced at Timan and Jaina furtively. “Said I ought to taste a real fight instead of hiding behind Ordenan pirates and their filthy magic. One of the lads hit me in the back of the head. I don’t think they knew I had a sword under my cloak. I drew first, but they attacked me when I did. I only hurt them as I had to, to keep them from killing me. I didn’t hurt any but those that came after me.”
“How did you come to be in shackles, then?”
Daglund smiled sadly. “They called a nearby patrol. They had crossbows. The Captain believed my attackers’ story over mine, and I was alone.”
Emrael felt the anger emanating from Daglund as he spoke, his wounded pride … and satisfaction at having successfully defended himself against overwhelming odds. He would have done the same in Daglund’s place and felt that the boy was telling the truth.
“Does his story match what you know?” he asked Toravin over his shoulder.
His Commander nodded. “More or less. He killed six, wounded three more. Surrendered easily enough when the patrol arrived to stop the fight.”
“Was he drunk?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Unshackle him,” Emrael told the men holding him as he released his grip. Their eyes widened in surprise, and Daglund gasped with stunned relief.
Jaina put a hand on Emrael’s arm and spoke quietly, urgently. “Emrael, you must know that this method of mind melding is not entirely reliable. You cannot discern truth this way, only emotion.”
Emrael nodded. “I know,” he said, and beckoned to Timan. “Do you think Daglund here would fit in with your Royal Guard, Timan? It’s a rare man that can defeat an entire squad by himself, mage or no. I feel he is telling the truth. He, at least, believes he was defending himself.”
Timan flashed a dark smile. “Yes, Ire. I think he will do just fine.”
Emrael turned to the rest of the men awaiting execution, raised his arms in a questioning shrug, and shouted, “Anyone else here innocent?”
One of the men being held broke down in tears, sagging in the grip of the men holding him. The rest were silent, apparently unwilling to endure Emrael’s personal scrutiny, even if it meant a chance at escaping the noose.
“Hang them,” he called to the Captain Second in charge of the executions. The wood boards of the hastily erected gallows creaked as the prisoners were lined up and fitted with nooses. A pull of a lever, and ten men fell to their death at the end of a rope.
Emrael’s gut roiled as they swung, most rag-doll limp but two black-faced and rasping grotesquely. Funny that he should feel such guilt over these ten when he had caused thousands of deaths just a few days prior.