Later that afternoon, Emrael walked into the Blackswell’s private dining room to find that Toravin had arrived early for the scheduled war council. Instead of the armor he had been wearing that morning, he was wearing a formal dress jacket in Ire green with the four-stripes-and-single-star insignia of a Commander Second on either shoulder. He lounged in a chair, clean boots on the table, a tankard of something in one hand.
“Thank you for meeting me early, Tor.” Emrael closed the doors behind him and unbuckled his sword harness from his shoulders to throw it on a nearby chair. He washed his hands and face in a washbasin, toweled off, and poured himself a glass of water from a pitcher waiting on the table. “I don’t think you should be my Commander Second anymore.”
Toravin’s head lifted sharply, his expression shocked.
“Voran is occupied in the Sagmyn Valley, more Elle’s Commander than mine,” he continued. “Halrec has been given a Lord Holdership to control. You are leading the core of my Legion for me, in the largest—and most dangerous—campaign of this war. I am hereby promoting you to Commander First of the Ire Legion. I want you to oversee all of it.”
Toravin blinked, surprised. “Can you even do that?”
“It’s my Legion,” he said with a shrug.
Toravin twisted his lips in a wry smile as he snagged a small bread roll from a basket on the table and threw it at Emrael. “You dumb bastard. You should be demoting me. I’d be a much better Captain First. I’m sure someone else could do a better job of babysitting your Legion.”
Emrael held up a hand and began counting each point as he raised successive fingers. “A Legion almost entirely comprised of new recruits marched five days’ distance in three, with sufficient supplies for an assault and occupation afterward. We took a walled and well-defended city with a quarter of the casualties of the defenders. Other than those ten bastards dangling out in the square, order has been maintained, more or less. As far as I’m concerned, you’re doing exactly what needs to be done, and better than any other I could name.”
Toravin raised his eyebrows and waggled his head. “I suppose that’s true, isn’t it?” He frowned again. “And what about you? You like to … involve yourself often.”
Emrael grinned. “Oh, it’s still my Legion. You’ll be doing mostly the boring work.”
“Fine. I’ll be your damned Commander. I’m already doing the work. But it had better be worth it.”
“How about I give you the Paellar Holding when this is all over?”
Toravin laughed until he saw that Emrael was serious. He stared at Emrael hard for a moment before his lips quirked in a smile. “Aye, I suppose that’d be worth it,” he said with a nonchalant wave of his hand.
They shared a laugh as Emrael stood to throw the doors open. He asked the guards outside to send for someone from the hotel to fetch fresh wash water, food, and drink for the war council that was due to convene shortly.
A quarter of an hour later, the rest of Emrael’s confidants arrived. Jaina walked in, deep in conversation with Darrain. From the few fragments of their conversation he heard as they settled in the chairs to Emrael’s right, Jaina was interrogating Darrain regarding the explosive devices and how they might be further utilized in battle. He almost pitied his enemies, should Jaina and Darrain combine to further improve the impressive weapons they had used to conquer Gnalius in a single day.
Timan and Captain First Worren were only a few steps behind them, and entered to sit on either side of Toravin at the far end of the table. They greeted each other with smiles and claps on shoulders, and soon had their heads together discussing troop status and the like.
Saravellin entered the room flanked by the Captain of her Guard, who never seemed to leave her side. She spared a hard glance for Toravin before gliding her way to the head of the table to take the chair to Emrael’s left, and her Captain, a short but heavily muscled man with a wide, brutishly handsome face, sat next to her. They ignored everyone in the room and sat quietly amid the low chatter, though Saravellin stared unabashed at Emrael as if he were a picture puzzle missing several pieces. Her Guard Captain, named Gorel or some such, listened idly to the Iraean military men sharing reports at the far end of the table.
Hotel cooks and staff entered with steaming dishes of food, allowing Emrael to quietly observe the room.
When the staff had gone and shut the doors behind them, Emrael stood.
“Friends,” Emrael said loudly, “Thanks to you and your efforts, the first objective of the campaign is ours.” He briefly locked eyes with each person around the table. “Many died or were wounded, and many will yet give their lives for our cause. I expect each of you to keep detailed records of the dead, so we can compensate their families in their stead.”
The military folk in the room nodded their approval. Not only was it the right thing to do, but their men still living would fight harder knowing that their families would be taken care of. He hoped to build the military force that he had dreamed of joining just a short year ago, when he was a fledgling Master of War at the Citadel.
“I believe that this is the first step to inspiring more recruits to join us, in numbers that will make the Watchers quake in their boots. It’s only the first step, however, and we must continue pressing forward. Even as we speak, Lord Holder Bayr is moving toward Duurn with ten thousand men. Our objective is to pull Syrtsan and his forces as far east of his capital as possible.
“Now,” he said, stepping to the large map of the region that he had pinned to the wall behind him. “The Watchers have a garrison in Sutwin, their largest outside of Duurn. Three thousand Watchers, likely as many Syrtsan guardsmen. Too many to attack now, I think, and not worth the men we’d have to station there to keep the city even if we took it. But they can’t spare enough men from Sutwin to stop us from taking Merroun,” he said, placing his finger on the map where the largest highway connecting Sutwin to the rest of Iraea crossed the east fork of the Teneralle River. “Nor to stop us from bombarding Sutwin’s walls if we must, to draw Syrtsan out of Duurn. Toravin, I need a full count of our forces, and how many we need to leave here to hold Gnalius.”
Toravin consulted a notebook on the table in front of him. “Four hundred and fifty-three of our Legion are dead,” he said, pointedly looking at Emrael. “That number will climb as the grievously wounded succumb to injuries that even the Mage-Healers cannot heal. One thousand, two hundred and seventy-one of the Ire Legion are under the care of Legion healers. More than two thousand wounded captives and citizens of the city harmed in the attack are also in our care.”
Emrael grimaced. “How many of ours will recover within a week or two? Enough to man a crossbow on the wall, at the least?”
He shook his head with pursed lips, then raised his hands in an uncertain gesture. “Perhaps half of them?”
Emrael nodded his thanks. “What about the Iraean mage apprentices, can any with Healing ability be trusted to help the Imperators?”
Jaina pursed her lips. “Perhaps, Emrael, but not without considerable risk to the wounded being Healed. Asking an inexperienced Mage-Healer to heal a complex wound is like asking a farmer to join a shield wall. Technically, they are capable of swinging a sword, but their inexperience will kill more than a few.”
Emrael grimaced, knowing many of his men being buried outside the city walls right this moment were dead precisely because he was forced to lead inexperienced farmers to their slaughter in a shield wall. “Use any apprentice mages with Healing ability while they are close to infusori Wells, but make sure those being Healed know the risks. Some will accept even poor prospects with our apprentice Mage-Healers, especially if permanent injury is likely without Mage-Healing.”
Toravin chuckled darkly. “Most won’t. Sentinels and Watchers have put the fear of magic in them, especially Ordenan magic.”
He hit Timan in the shoulder playfully. “No offense. But you saw what happened with Daglund.”
Timan smiled, a wry slant to the expression. “Yes, we are aware of your prejudices. But I want Daglund and at least one Imperator Mage-Healer to accompany Lord Ire. He has a habit of needing the attentions of a Healer more often than most.”
Emrael looked from Timan to Jaina, who nodded her agreement. “How many of our Legionmen do you need to hold Gnalius, Tor?”
“I would need at least three thousand to hold it, and to guard the captured enemy. Five thousand to defend it well, especially if they have anything like those explosives,” Toravin said, leaning forward to press his palms to the table. “If the Malithii have their own, we won’t hold any city for long.”
Emrael looked to Jaina, who shook her head and answered Toravin herself. “Even if Malithii arrive with an attacking force, I have never seen this technology deployed so effectively. Such explosives have historically been … delicate. Not suitable for use as a projectile, to be sure.” She smiled encouragingly at Darrain, who blushed but managed a shy smile in return.
“They could presumably place such a device at your gates or wall by hand or in a wagon, however,” Jaina continued, pointing at Toravin. “You must guard your walls diligently.”
Emrael’s mind replayed the memory of a wagon exploding in a flash of blue light on the bridge on the Kingroad highway between Lidran and Naeran. The blast had put him on his ass and set his ears ringing like a clock bell. A rush of panic, thinking Elle had been hurt. A mad fight with soulbound. Slaughtered Legionmen. Jaina setting the entire bridge alight.
How things had changed in less than a year’s time. He felt a sharp ache at the thought of Elle, and wondered how she was doing in Myntar with his mother. He had ignored them too long already. He should write a letter at the very least.
Toravin’s response to Jaina pulled Emrael out of his personal contemplation and back to the task at hand. “So five thousand, if you mean to keep it. Three will do if you’re willing to take a risk,” Toravin said.
“Let’s split the difference at four thousand. We’re dead if we lose Gnalius, but we’ll need every sword available to threaten Sutwin and watch other crossings along the Teneralle. I intend to take the smaller shipping town of Merroun a day’s ride east of Sutwin, on the closer branch of the Lys. That should be enough to force Lord Syrtsan’s hand. If he doesn’t bite, we will reduce Sutwin to rubble with Darrain’s explosives.”
“Aye, it’s a good plan,” Toravin said. “Though someone will be left here with four thousand men to keep order, defend the city, and care for the wounded? Poor bastard,” he said with a smirk and a wink, obviously intuiting that the task would fall to him.
Emrael smiled. “Correct. I need you to do it, and I want you to find as many recruits in the city as you can. Assign them to existing squads and start training them immediately. We need every soldier we can get, and quickly. We must defeat Lord Syrtsan before the month is out, one way or another. I can’t leave Garrus and Ban to hold Trylla alone any longer than that. If the Watchers round up enough boats, they could sail straight down the tributaries of the Lys and be in Trylla with almost no warning. I don’t think they have anything close to the vessels they’d need, but better to not take the risk. We can’t leave Halrec and Dorae to fight off Corrande on their own forever either.”
He left unsaid that he didn’t yet trust Saravellin enough to hold a city that was crucial to his plans. It was imperative that he conquer the Syrtsan Holding quickly before turning his attention northward to his own ancestral Holding, and Gnalius provided him a much-needed infusori supply close to Trylla as well. If he lost this city, his war was already over.
Captain First Worren had struggled in his mission to capture the walls of Gnalius during their assault, and Emrael wasn’t sure he could fully trust the former Watcher yet, either. Not the way he trusted Toravin. Timan would have been capable, but he feared the reaction from his Legion should he place an Ordenan in command. It had to be Toravin.
“We have another problem, sir,” Worren offered gruffly. “Supplies. The men lack proper gear, particularly heading into the cold seasons. This city has stores enough for a time, but not for an extended campaign. We’ll starve ourselves out of a victory before Syrtsan can even think to attack us.”
“What do you suggest, Captain?” Emrael challenged.
Worren frowned in thought, but had his answer soon enough. “Capture the richest cities on the major shipping lanes, bigger the better. If we take Sutwin, we’ll feed our men for months.”
“Fair point,” Emrael responded. Worren was an outstanding field commander, a man soldiers willingly followed on the battlefield, a man of considerable prowess who led from the front. From what Emrael had discerned, however, he was not a man who appreciated subtle approaches to complex situations.
“But,” Emrael continued firmly, “Sutwin is a large city, more heavily defended than Gnalius, and they’ll know we’re coming. We can’t afford to capture Sutwin and take casualties on the same scale as we did here. We’ll be stretched thin, with no army left with which to threaten Syrtsan or anybody else. Would you still take the risk?”
Worren hesitated now, which Emrael appreciated. Jaina smiled as she met Emrael’s eye.
“I suppose not,” Worren conceded.
Emrael offered him a smile and a nod. “I agree. The risk is too high, and I think Syrtsan would hole up in his capital if we took Sutwin outright, which is the opposite of what we want. Bayr taking Duurn while Syrtsan focuses on us is the key to the entire plan. So what do we do about supplies? Buy from the Ordenans? Can they get through the Sound and up the Teneralle?”
“My father should have wagon trains on the way, Lord Ire, but they’ll be en route to Trylla,” Saravellin interjected. “I can send a detachment to route them here, but they will likely take two weeks or more to arrive.”
“No,” Emrael said immediately. “The supplies you have agreed to send are needed in Trylla as badly as they are here. We’ll not steal from them. Unless you have more to offer?”
Saravellin grimaced. “Ah … perhaps. There is an old trade route through the Burned Hills just twenty miles north of here, but copper will be needed to buy the supplies and hire the wagons. And guards to accompany them—the old roads can be treacherous.”
Emrael raised an eyebrow at her, not sure whether to be frustrated or amused. “Copper again, is it?”
Saravellin’s eyes flashed. “What would you have me do? Commandeer wagon trains and storehouses by force? How long would my father remain the Lord in Raebren, acting so? You pay your fighting men, and your civilians. I must do the same, and our coffers are not deep after all the Watchers have taken. I will not profit from our aid, but I will not bankrupt my House and Holding, either.”
“I understand,” Emrael conceded with a smile. “Merchants aren’t likely to take a land bounty or promise of future pay for goods, are they? I’m sure the Mayor of Gnalius will be happy to lend us what we need. I’ll have your copper. Please arrange for supplies to be routed here as quickly as possible.”
He looked to Toravin. “In the meantime, there must be villages, towns, farms in the area that support the city and its previous garrison. Send out large patrols to ensure that goods still flow to the city. Purchase goods forcibly at the farms and bring it back yourselves if you must, but do not leave anyone without what they need to survive. We will be holding Gnalius permanently, so long-term stores will be essential, as will the goodwill of the people here.”
“I’ll stay here to manage the supplies and finances, Lord Ire,” Saravellin offered. “Under Commander Toravin’s direction, of course. I’ll keep half of my battalion with me for security and logistics, the other five companies will ride with you to Merroun.”
Emrael, surprised, looked to Toravin, who nodded. “Very well. Thank you, Saravellin. We ride for Merroun tomorrow at dawn.”
The conquest of Merroun was much easier than that of Gnalius. Word of Emrael’s approach had spread ahead of their arrival, and well it should have, as Emrael had sent word ahead to allow for the town’s residents to evacuate if they wished.
Most of Merroun’s population had fled to the safety of Sutwin’s large stone walls across the river in the three days since the Legion had left Gnalius. They were never going to put up a fight, not here. Those citizens of Merroun that remained left the gates to their sprawling, low-walled town wide open, obviously not wanting to invite death and destruction when they had no chance of resisting.
Worren led the forward battalion through the open gates to then fan out by squad to ensure that the myriad side streets, alleyways, and warehouses were clear. They then lined the stone-paved avenue that led to the large bridge that spanned the east fork of the Teneralle, a river wide and deep enough for half a dozen Ordenan warships to sail side by side, just before it opened to the upper Stem Sound.
His soldiers beat their shields with swords and spear butts as Emrael and his retinue rode into the town ahead of the main body of the army. The main portion of his Legion, marching behind those mounted, took up a raucous cheer. This town meant little tactically, but the cheers of his soldiers meant a great deal to him, and to his chances of winning this war. Good morale might not be enough by itself, but lack thereof would surely lose them the war.
The iron-shod hooves of their horses rang on the cobbles of the avenue, the only street that was well-paved. Every side street Emrael could see was of hard-packed and deep-rutted earth that was likely a muddy mess during the region’s frequent rainstorms. Other than the typical inns, residences, and other well-off businesses and establishments that lined the main avenue and the stone-paved road that fronted the river, Merroun seemed to be an entire square league or more of shipping yards and warehouses that straddled the river on either side of the enormous bridge. Docks on both sides served trade vessels and a host of fishermen—very few of whom risked working today. Quite a few larger ships had moored in the river, their crews watching Emrael’s occupation of the city at a distance. Likely they had pulled away from the docks to stay clear of any fighting, but were unwilling to abandon their cargo and business here in Merroun unless the situation grew severely hostile.
Emrael wrinkled his nose. The place reeked of rotting fish, animal shit, and refuse. No doubt it was far worse when fully occupied by sailors, fishermen, and merchant teams loading up wagons to haul inland to Gnalius and beyond. He and his entourage of senior officers and Royal Guard made for the large clump of boardinghouses and more respectable establishments that lined the avenue nearer the docks while the bulk of his forces set up a camp just outside the city walls.
Toravin had sent nearly a full company’s worth of clerks and aides dedicated to the logistics of setting up and running their command post. They handled the work marvelously for a newly formed Legion, and Emrael hardly had to pay attention to the various aspects of appeasing the locals or provisioning supplies. Emrael, his council, and most of the senior officers were given quarters in the largest boardinghouses in the center of the residential portion of town, where they spent an anxious two days waiting for word from their scouts that Syrtstan had taken the bait.
On the third day in Merroun, Emrael and Jaina sat in the common room of the boardinghouse, Jaina sipping a glass of red wine, Emrael nursing a pipe glass of wine brandy.
Worren and the head Ire Legion clerk, Ruval, hosted several consecutive appointments where various aides and clerks read the latest supply and personnel reports. They had carted enough supplies with them from Gnalius to last them weeks, and Ruval was doing his best to make sure it was properly managed.
Few merchants and traders braved the occupation in search of a quick profit selling to the new occupying force, and no new ships had docked in the three days they had been here. Likely Syrtsan had set up a loose blockade near Duurn at the mouth of the river’s sound, and probably another near Sutwin as well. They hadn’t dared before, as Ordenans would eventually protest violently against such measures—they bought considerable amounts of infusori stores out of Whitehall and Gnalius, after all. The Ordenans had the most technologically advanced navy in the world by far, and their appetite for infusori was nearly insatiable. Starving Ordenans of contracted infusori stores was a very good way to convince them to sink your ships on sight.
Only an Ordenan battleship would risk such a blockade, and Emrael had to hope that Jaina was right to be as confident as she was that her messengers had made it down the Lys to a waiting Ordenan ship. If he couldn’t talk the Ordenans into at least keeping the Stem open for them, Emrael’s war might end right here in this shithole fishing town.
When the current supply clerk, having assiduously given a report on the quantity of smoked fish bought from local storehouses, finally gathered his papers and strode from the room, Emrael called to the head clerk. “Enough, Ruval, enough for a moment. You’ll have to take the remaining appointments without me. I need to see Darrain about her damned machines, it’s starting to look like we might need them to make some noise in Sutwin. Just make sure we’re ready to move to encampments to the east and north of Sutwin where Darrain can bombard their walls. Only come to me if you find problems that you can’t solve yourselves.”
He clapped them both on the shoulder as he left and chuckled at Worren’s disgruntled expression. The man enjoyed clerical duties even less than Emrael.
Jaina accompanied him silently, and a pair of Royal Guards—Daglund, his bruised eye now an ugly yellow instead of dark purple, and a female apprentice mage he didn’t recognize—followed closely behind them as they left.
He had only just reached the building where Darrain had set up her Crafters and engineers when a messenger caught up to him. “Lord! Lord Ire, sir! Captain Third Dirrat with Fifth Cavalry sends a request to meet with him immediately. He is headed to where Captain First Worren is stationed, sir, and says you’ll need to hear the report yourself.”
Emrael grumbled a few curses under his breath but reversed course to march back to the boardinghouse they had just left. “Thank you, Legionman.”
“Syrtsan is on the move,” Worren growled as Emrael and Jaina stepped back into the common room. Captain Third Dirrat had apparently already given his report, and now stood at attention next to his Captain First. “He’s got ten thousand men—mostly his own guardsmen, but a few battalions of Watchers—headed out of Duurn. He’ll cross the west leg of the Teneralle River at High Hill and garrison at Sutwin, most like.”
Emrael paced the room, thinking. “Right. We need to keep pressure on him, bring him here to Merroun, but we can’t let him catch us on the west side of the river. We’d be annihilated in this little shit town. I want our men on the east side of the river, and I want explosives set under the bridge and ready to fire should Syrtsan get bold and try to cross. Send men to find and destroy any other bridges north of here, have Darrain send Crafters or engineers with them. We’ll need our scouts patrolling the river, watching for any of Syrtsan’s forces trying to flank us.”
Worren nodded. “Captain Dirrat here already saw to arranging patrols. I can send Eighth Company with your explosives, should the scouts find any bridges they can’t take down themselves.”
Emrael stopped his pacing to fix Worren with a savage smile. “Bayr will have his own scouts to tell him that Syrtsan has left his capital, and he damn well better move soon. We need to keep Syrtsan looking this way until he does, draw him right here if we can. How would you like to lead a battalion or two across the river to attack the garrisons in towns around Sutwin, perhaps even harry Syrtsan’s main forces? Hit them without harming civilians, if you can, but get them to chase you here.”
Worren grinned back at him. “I’d love to, sir.”
Five days later, Emrael waited at the middle of the Merroun bridge beneath a canvas canopy with Jaina, Worren, and a single squad of his Royal Guard—most of whom were Imperators or their mage apprentices, today. A steady rain pattered on the canvas canopy overhead and turned the surface of the Teneralle to dark bubbled glass.
Worren had just returned that morning with the two thousand men he had led in raids across the river, bearing news that Syrtsan was close behind him with ten thousand men and had requested a parley. Ash, red dirt, and dark spots of dried blood still marred his forest-green uniform.
They watched together as Syrtsan and his own small retinue separated from the main body of his army, which had occupied the western half of Merroun and stood in battle formations, as Emrael’s did on the eastern side. Syrtsan’s forces numbered at least as many as Emrael’s Legion and were all well-trained soldiers. The two battalions of Watchers with him undoubtedly carried infusori-Crafted crossbows. It would be unwise to engage them in a fair fight.
Syrtsan’s lightly lined face was grim as he swept into the shelter of the canvas, shaking the rain from his cloak with a sharp snap. He threw the cloak to a waiting aide and strode to where Emrael stood waiting, a Syrtsan officer and a Watcher officer flanking him closely.
“You bastard,” he spat, stepping close to loom over Emrael. “You pathetic, petty little man. I don’t know why these fools”—he swept his arm at Jaina, Worren, and in the direction of Emrael’s waiting Legion—“bother with you. But hear me now, boy. I was willing to sit idle while your attempted conquest played out. But now I will finish you, here and now. You have murdered my men, pillaged my lands, and it will not stand.” He flashed a murderous glare at Worren before continuing. “I’ve sent word to Marol and the others, and they’ve mobilized thirty thousand Watchers to crush you like the worms you are. You’ll be dead within two weeks.”
Emrael withstood the tirade with a calm face, even nodding along solemnly toward the end, though Syrtsan’s professed timeline of two weeks was concerning. Could the man have gotten word to the Watchers so quickly? No matter. Syrtsan was the challenge before him, here and now.
“I understand, Lord Syrtsan,” he said calmly. “You did not believe me before, when I told you and the other Lords Holder that there is no middle ground in this war.”
Lord Callan Syrtsan took a step forward, shaking with rage, so close that Emrael could smell his fetid breath.
Emrael held up one hand in a stalling gesture. “Now, however, you see the truth. Fighting men and women flock to me because they see that I am strong and you are weak. You have bowed to the Watchers too long, have become used to their chains. I am here to offer you one last chance, Callan. Join me now, today, or share their fate.”
Syrtsan’s eyes flashed and he tensed, looking as if he was about to draw his weapon, flag of parley be damned. The men who had accompanied him put their hands to hilts.
“Ah ah ah,” Emrael cautioned, wagging one finger. He drew infusori from the stores in his Crafted armor until his eyes and his scars glowed. The Imperators and Iraean mages behind him shuffled as they readied themselves, undoubtedly drawing on their own infusori stores. “Do that, and you won’t live to see your Watcher masters kill me, will you?”
Syrtsan stood still a moment, a rictus snarl on his face. Whatever else he was, he wasn’t stupid enough to fight Emrael and a squad of mages here on the bridge. The Lord Holder spat, then turned on his heel to snatch his cloak and stalk silently toward his side of the river.
“Is that a no, then, Callan?” Emrael called.
Syrtsan didn’t look back.
Emrael turned to Darrain, who had been standing with his Royal Guard, though she had stood behind them and hadn’t shown her face from beneath the cowl of her oversized rain cloak.
“You can actuate them from here?” Emrael asked.
Darrain nodded, though Emrael sensed her hesitation. She knew what her explosives could do, and was human enough to regret it. “My engineers wired the entire bridge with sheathed copper cabling. Unless they have Crafters looking very carefully, we will be able to actuate from our side of the river. My actuator is waiting for us at the foot of the bridge.”
Emrael drew a deep breath, conflicted. The thought of killing so many Iraeans weighed on him. He needed more allies, more recruits, not to turn thousands of Syrtsan families against him. The opportunity to cripple a potentially problematic enemy was too good to pass up, however.
Emrael led his small group back to the foot of the bridge quickly, where Darrain and another of her Crafters readied a series of metal boxes that contained coils and wires and who knew what other components, all connected to strands of copper wiring that ran along the outside edge of the bridge.
“Do it,” Emrael commanded with more confidence than he felt.
Darrain and her Crafter pulled levers attached to the Craftings nearly simultaneously. A flash of blinding blue light and giant cloud of dust erupted at the other foot of the bridge, then dozens more in a successive circle, rolling out from the first explosion to encompass the entire western side of Merroun in a cloud of dust and debris. A fraction of a second later, an earsplitting crack and a wave of pure energy buffeted them. Then silence, save for the splashing of debris landing in the river.
Emrael and everyone around him, even Jaina, was stunned by the intensity of what they had just witnessed. The world had never seen destruction so violent and instantaneous, not on that scale. Perhaps not since the days of the ancient Ravans, and maybe not even then. Darrain stood to one side of the group, tears streaming down her face.
As the ringing in Emrael’s ears subsided, he heard another sound—the distant screams of wounded men, and a din of confused shouting from those left alive.
Emrael motioned silently for Worren to take the Legion across the bridge. The Captain First shouted, and the waiting battalion of cavalry charged. The foot battalions followed, shields and weapons at the ready. Though the explosions had been impressive, they could still be in for a fight if any of Syrtsan’s battalions had escaped the blasts. The explosions had been violent enough and the screams were now loud enough, however, that he was sure it was only going to take a few small skirmishes before the entirety of Syrtsan’s army surrendered. The healers and gravediggers would be busy for days.
“I didn’t know you had that many,” Emrael commented quietly to Darrain. “And those explosions were bigger. You improved them already.”
The Crafter flinched at the comment. “I … You said you wanted to do as much damage as possible,” she stammered between sobs.
“You did well,” Emrael clarified firmly, putting a protective hand on her shoulder. “You did exactly what we needed you to, and you saved tens of thousands of lives and likely the war, gruesome though this seems. Thank you, Darrain.”
The disheveled, normally cheery Crafter sobbed, burying her face in the shoulder of her fellow Crafter, who looked nearly as distraught as she was.
When he and his Guard—and Jaina, of course—reached the other side, Emrael’s suspicions were confirmed. Dead Syrtsan guardsmen and Watchers lay strewn everywhere, their bodies torn to shreds. The explosions had been so violent that the clothes had been torn clear off their bodies. The stench of burned flesh permeated the air, with an undertone of offal and shit.
Jaina stepped up next to him as he surveyed the carnage nearest the bridge. “Many will turn against you when they learn of this, Emrael. Syrtsan’s men in particular. They will fear you, now, but revile you as well.”
Emrael said nothing for a time, watching as his Legion rounded up the living as captives. Very few were in any shape to resist, and any skirmishes had ended before Emrael had arrived. Nearly two battalions of Syrtsan men and Watchers already huddled in the street, weaponless and unprotected from the rain, guarded by an equal number of Ire Legionmen. The injured limped or were carried to the buildings along the main avenue that still stood, where Emrael’s healers had set up their operations.
“I know,” he told her quietly, sadly. “I know. They are right to, Jaina.” He shook his head. “But I had to do this. We can’t win any other way, and we can’t afford to lose. The world can’t afford for us to lose.
“Besides,” he said, stepping from the bridge to walk the debris-strewn street. “Others will join us now that Syrtsan is out of the way. Every Lord Holder we secure or kill will mean thousands of men free to join us without fear of repercussions from their liege lords.”
Jaina grunted her agreement and followed without further comment. They found Worren just past the huddled captives, under the stoop of the largest inn. The building right next to it had nearly completely caved in, but this structure seemed solid still, save for missing roof shingles, debris protruding from the wooden siding here and there, and shards of shattered glass stuck in the edges of otherwise empty windowpanes.
Worren and a squad of Ire Legionmen stood in a rough circle around two Syrtsan and one Watcher officer, all of whom had clearly just been rousted from the inn. Emrael recognized Lord Holder Syrtsan almost immediately, though the man understandably looked far more disheveled than when they had met less than an hour before, his hair mussed and his uniform covered in red mud along one side. His eyes were wild, confused, and angry.
“You!” Syrtsan screamed as Emrael joined the group. Though he had been stripped of his weapons, the Lord Holder surged forward in an attempt to attack Emrael. Worren moved before Emrael could even brace himself for the attack. The Captain First’s hand whipped out like a striking viper to grip Syrtsan’s neck, arresting his momentum and putting the nobleman on his back with a loud thump on the solid wood decking of the inn’s stoop. Syrtsan rolled to one side, coughing weakly as he fought to get air back into his lungs.
Emrael surveyed the men calmly. “I regret today’s actions, Callan. Your men did not deserve to die for your cowardice, your inability to understand who and what I am.”
Syrtsan had regained his breath and lurched to his feet. “You should kill me as well, Ire. I’ll kill you, given the chance.”
The officers standing behind Syrtsan shifted uncomfortably. Apparently, they didn’t share their lord’s wish for death.
Emrael smiled at Syrtsan. “I’m afraid I won’t be killing you today, Callan. This isn’t a petty war of vengeance. I don’t hate you. I simply need your land, and your people.”
“You want me to swear allegiance to you after this?” Syrtsan said, voice pitched high with incredulity.
“Oh no,” Emrael chuckled. “I’m afraid that offer has passed. Now, the deal is this: You order your men holding Sutwin, Duurn, and other garrisons to stand down and surrender to me without a fight. In return, I will personally guarantee your safety and that of your family.”
Left unsaid, but well understood judging by the horror in Syrtsan’s expression, was the obvious implication that should Syrtsan not agree, his family would not be spared his fate.
“You bastard,” Syrtsan growled, his voice cracking with emotion. “You Fallen-damned bastard. I hope the Watchers gut and skin you like a weasel.”
“They may,” Emrael said gravely. “But not today. Really, Callan, I warned you twice. I would have been a good ally. Maybe even a friend.”
Just then, Jaina pushed through the crowd of men to speak in Emrael’s ear. “I just received word. The Watchers have attacked Trylla.”
Emrael stopped, stunned. His chest turned to ice. Ban. He had let it happen again. He never should have let Ban out of his sight.
“Are they safe? Is Ban safe?”
Jaina shook her head, her expression pained. “I do not know. The messengers left Trylla on Garrus’s orders five days ago. Only two of ten survived to reach us, so far.”
“Fallen take them,” he said, turning to her. “Five days? How did they know? They had to have known very early, to get there so fast.”
Lord Syrtsan cackled from behind him. “I told you, boy. Today does not change your fate.”
Emrael turned to face the sneering Syrtsan again. He struggled to keep the anger and the bone-chilling fear from his face and failed. He roared in rage and lashed out with a kick to Syrtsan’s knee, connecting with a loud pop, much like the sound of breaking a green tree branch. The Lord Holder screamed as he flopped to the ground, hands clutching his ruined knee.
Emrael turned to address Worren. “Offer the captives the same bounty and pay we offer everyone. Watchers and Syrtsan men alike, as long as they’re Iraean. And have a mage Heal the Lord Holder. Can’t have him dying on us now. We’re marching for Gnalius in four hours. Fast march.”
“Four hours!” Worren exclaimed. “That’s not possible, Lord Ire. We’ve only just begun to sort the captives…”
“The men are packed. We will take the weapons, armor, and supplies from the captives and turn loose those that don’t want to join us,” Emrael said firmly. “Let them care for their own wounded. Bayr can handle them when he arrives.”
Syrtsan, face red with pain, grunted behind him. “Davis? He’s a part of all this?”
Emrael sneered at him despite the anxiety tearing through him. “Loyalty ends where opportunity begins, eh, Callan?”
He turned to march back to the east side of the river, his Guard in tow. “I’m bringing down this bridge in four hours, Worren!”