“Sir, Polk has a point.” Captain Ressig stepped forward, his eyepatch setting him apart from all other members of the group, as he had fought, hand-to-hand, in an actual engagement. Word was that he’d lost his eye to a Wasmer spear during a border incursion. Nonetheless, he was one of the few who bothered acknowledging Hafgan, with his manner even bordering on polite. Odd.
“We still know very little about the war we are about to fight. Where is the battle to be fought? Who is our opponent? Who are our allies? Speculation is everywhere and morale is dropping. We cannot train our men appropriately, or lead them adequately, with no information.” A competent man. Which was why several of the other officers, golden officers who’d bought their positions, were giving Ressig familiar, contemptuous looks.
“Ressig, with all due respect…” There was no respect in Captain Jeret’s tone. “…our men are trained for any eventuality. Rostane is the major military power in Ardia. Morale will not be a concern once we point our men in the direction of the enemy. They are just anxious for the fighting to begin.”
“Jeret, I don’t think—” Ressig began.
“Enough of this bickering!” shouted Lucius, pounding his fists on the table. “As I have said, the direction of this possible engagement is yet a highly-guarded secret, relegated to only the highest circles of the military.”
“Sir, we are officers, and need—” Ressig was again cut off.
“Sounds like a spirited, constructive discussion, my lords.” Two Knights of the Wolf, the personal guard of Duke Penton, had pushed open the flaps to the spacious command tent and entered, followed by three figures.
The speaker was Savant Iolen. Hafgan had never met the Scholar before, having been invited to the Plateau none too frequently. But, he had heard of the man and his tendency to earn the ire of the nobles. His cynical, mocking tone and his simple clothing matched the description, not to mention his deep, arresting eyes. Accompanying Iolen was Lord Evron Faris, advisor to Duke Penton, his long, silvery black hair flapping in his face as he pushed his way out of the wind and into the shelter of the tent.
The third figure was unknown to Hafgan. A woman, and a beautiful woman at that, with lovely, pale features and raven-black hair tied in a tight bun. She was clothed in all black, with a dark veil pulled back to reveal her reddened, puffy eyes. She was apparently in mourning.
“Lord Faris,” said Lucius, standing and giving a quick bow to his superior. The hierarchy of Rostane nobility and military was confusing, with power changing hands as often as a letter being sent to Jecusta. However, Hafgan understood that Faris, given his success in strategizing during the border incursions with the Wasmer, had been made field marshal for this particular engagement.
Faris nodded respectfully to the general, taking a moment to straighten his hair and clothing. Iolen, on the other hand, strode forward and rested his hands on the general’s desk, leaning over him like a bird of prey.
“How go preparations, my dear General Lucius?” he asked, hinting heavily that he knew exactly how preparations were going.
“I need not answer to you, Iolen, regarding anything. In fact, remove this man from my tent!” the general snapped with venom. He rose to his feet rather ponderously, his paunchy belly pushing his desk forward so that his chair fell backward. Two golden officers gladly sprung forward, no doubt having been insulted by Iolen in the past.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so quick to make such commands, General Lucius,” said Iolen, stepping back with no apparent fear.
“Indeed, Lucius,” Faris interjected. “The duke has promoted Savant Iolen to a military position as High Strategist. His knowledge of all things military is immense, and strategy will be the key to triumphing in the coming battles.”
“This… this…pissant…” the general launched visible flecks of spittle, “…is to be part of my retinue? Absolutely not!”
“No, my dear general. I shall not be part of your retinue. I shall be your superior in all things military.” The Savant had turned his back to the general, spreading his arms as if to encompass the entire tent into his embrace.
“What? Absolutely not! I will resign my commission, I will—”
“General, our grace, Duke Penton, was prepared for this response. He has instructed that your contract does not allow for your resignation without imprisonment. You must work with High Strategist Iolen, lest you be punished.” Lord Faris was deferential in his tone, but was nonetheless as hard as steel. “Any attempt to countermand his orders will be met with the same chastisement.”
The general, cheeks red and shaking with rage, clenched his fists and glared at Iolen’s back. And he did not live up to his reputation—great anger and no action. He flung the table over, causing Iolen to stumble forward. He moved around the toppled table then, exhaling like an over-exerted plow horse. Hafgan tensed, ready for Lucius to lunge at Iolen, who had stepped back behind Faris. Faris, however, stood firm, crossing his arms—almost as if he was daring Lucius to try something. But, that was the end of the action.
“I would rather be confined than take orders from this… this… insolent little… fuck!” he puffed. Hafgan imagined that there must be bad blood between the two, but supposed he would never find out. Iolen sat poorly with many of those in authority, but he possessed the favor of the duke.
“Indeed. Well, then, let it be so. Please escort General Lucius to the holding cell,” said Faris, gesturing to one of the Knights of the Wolf.
A stunned silence persisted while the general was removed, with the officers, particularly the golden officers, appearing amazed that one of their own could fall so far so quickly, and right in front of their eyes at that. The resulting fear was visible to Hafgan from his corner, though he was no more than mildly anxious. Quartermaster Polk was wiping his damp, balding brow. Captain Fitra was fidgeting with the stump of his finger, hidden beneath an obviously-custom glove. Captain Jeret’s eyes were darting back and forth, as if he were looking for the most likely route for escape. But, no one moved until Iolen broke the tension.
“So! What do I have here? The brave warriors of Rostane. The men who have risen to the top through only persistence and true ability.” The golden officers especially shifted at this comment. “The backbone of our great duchy, the reason that our enemies will quake before us. And… what’s this? Which one doesn’t belong? There is a Wasmer among us!” The Savant approached Hafgan, who stood to attention. “Mighty Wasmer, how do you find yourself among your former foes?”
“My lord, I never was fighting the humans,” offered Hafgan. “Too young.”
“Oh, and a rather excellent speaker! This one may give us the edge we need in the coming trials.” Was that sarcasm or sincerity? This man was too subtle for Hafgan to tell. He would need to be vigilant around him, though. He’d been noticed.
“Enough, Iolen,” said Lord Faris in his calm, commanding tone. “We now have an army without a general, and we will have to assess our options. But, the purpose of our visit was to inform you of our purpose and destination. I value your patience while making these preparations. And I know you appreciate the reasons for such secrecy.” The officers nodded, their number including Polk and Ressig, who had just been complaining about this very topic. Jaret’s little mouth was pursed, a smug smile threatening to escape.
“Our destination is Florens.” A small gasp spread through the room, the sound like water being spilled on hot coals. Faris waited a moment, letting the import of his words sink in.
“They are the aggressors in this case. We learned, recently, that men garbed in the livery of Florens sacked and burned Pafferton on the southern border. Since then, Duke Erik Malless has declared war upon our duchy, apparently over the suicide of his father. We have little choice but to bring the battle to Florens before they are able to bring their full military might to bear, as well as that of their allies.” Hafgan knew, firsthand, that these were all lies. He wondered whether Iolen or Faris were also privy to the treachery, or if it was localized
to Penton and his conspirators.
“Thank you, Lord Faris. Now, please, my noble officers. Listen to the words of this lady to give face to the enemy,” said Iolen with a small, mocking bow.
The lady, until now all but forgotten in the midst of the startling news, moved to Iolen’s side. Whereas he was all insult and sarcasm, this lady was all somber and shattered innocence.
“Gentlemen, my name is Baroness Farah Erlins, wife to Baron Theran Erlins. For those of you who are unaware, Pafferton falls within our barony, along the border with Florens. My husband… ” Her voice broke. It was a heart-wrenching sound, like the last plaintive call of a dove. She seemed to visibly steel herself, though, and moved on. “My husband was taken by the Florensians. They sent a note to our estate, but not for ransom. Rather, they sent a note declaring war, along with…” she shuddered. “…his fingers. I have to presume that he is gone, lost to those bastards in Florens.” The officers in the spacious command seemed to be enthralled by the baroness—certainly moved by her beauty, if not her story. Even Hafgan, who had only occasionally found human women appealing, was watching her almost raptly.
Lady Erlins’ demeanor changed. Her back went straight and her fine jaw set firmly, her eyes going cold as the frosty caps on the Tulanques. “Gentlemen, I beseech you. Bring the fight to these torturers and murderers. Raze their homes, and kill their wives and children, as they did ours. Make examples of their men with torture, as they did my husband. Rip their hearts out, as mine has been ripped out. Make them pay, if not for the citizens of Pafferton or my husband, then for me. If we do not respond in kind, all of Rostane is open to these unspeakable atrocities.”
Hard words from a woman who had likely lived in luxury her entire life, making few decisions aside from which dress to wear. Stirring words, though. Looking around the command tent during her brief speech, Hafgan could see men’s faces hardening, resolve burning in their eyes. One man, Captain Jeret, let out a tentative cheer, and several other voices joined the ragged, uncertain din. Hafgan found that he was, in fact, one of those raising their voices.
He was surprisingly engaged in this woman’s plight, despite knowing that Pafferton had been burned by Rostanians, by whomever that beautiful-voiced woman was. And that Theran Erlins had been tortured by Duke Penton, apparently lost in the ruins beneath the Plateau—at least according to a brief pigeon-borne note from Lady Escamilla.
“Gentlemen, please take this lady’s words to heart. Do not think of these men as fellow Ardians, as neighbors. They are murderers and rapists and would gladly do the same to your families. The only path to protecting our country is to destroy those who would see us destroyed,” said Iolen in a uncharacteristically serious tone, meeting the eyes of each officer briefly, including Hafgan.
“Now, gentlemen, spread word among your men of our purpose, our destination. We march in three days.” Lord Faris, with a final look, pushed back the tent flaps and left, with the Wolf Knight, Iolen, and Lady Erlins sweeping away behind him.
---
When he returned to his own camp, Hafgan gathered his small army of about four hundred Wasmer—a relatively ragtag bunch. While perhaps a hundred or so were from the warrior caste, like Siarl, the remainder were porters and laborers, skilled traders and merchants, pressed into service by the draft. He managed to line them into some semblance of even ranks and shared Lady Erlins’ message of murder and battle, doing so in Ardian. He had practiced this speech during the hour or so’s stroll back to camp, and he thought that he carried off the final version rather well, though he was unable to communicate the emotion of the grieving woman. Not that the Wasmer much cared about the plight of the country. The Wasmer warriors were simply anxious to fight, while the civilians would rather not have been there, regardless. A tale of tears did little to move the men of his small army.
Later, Hafgan found himself in his own small canvas command tent, attempting to wrap his head around balancing his roles as an informant for The House and also a lieutenant of this army. Now that he was in a position to learn intimate details about the movement of the army, he would likely experience a conflict of interest before long. Ultimately, Tennyson desired that the little duke was to be toppled from power. Would that involve orders for Hafgan to lead his army against the Rostanian army? It was unlikely that they would follow. Would he have to provide misinformation to his military superiors? They likely wouldn’t listen to him anyhow. Or, was he to simply sacrifice himself in an assassination attempt? He likely wouldn’t obey that order. His loyalty didn’t run that deep.
There was a scratch at his tent flap, followed by a throat clearing. Hafgan hadn’t expected any visitors, though had anyone meant him harm, they would have been unlikely enough to announce themselves.
“Enter,” he said gruffly.
Two men pushed their way through the tent flaps, both of them Wasmer, instantly making the structure feel cramped. Both had their hair cut short, and one had recently shaved his face, appearing almost human. The men held their arms out, greeting Hafgan with single-fanged smiles. Like him, these men were budredda.
“Warleader.” They both nodded respectfully, speaking Ardian.
“We are in the Rostanian army. Call me ‘Lieutenant.’” The men grinned, likely appreciating the reference to human culture. Hafgan gave a smile, as well; it was rare that he could interact with those like him. Those who sought to blend in better with the humans. “What do you call yourselves?”
“I be called Paston, and he be called Derek,” said the shaved-faced Wasmer. Very Ardian names. Something Hafgan had never been able to adopt—his name was too much of his identity.
“Welcome, Paston. Derek. What do you need from me?”
The two exchanged glances, with Paston looking somewhat abashed. “Honest, we wanted to speak with you. You be like us, and there be so few of us around.”
“Yes, there are so few of us. I am glad to see friendly faces in the military.” Hafgan was proud of himself for making it through multiple verb conjugations so smoothly. It wasn’t a competition, but he was focused very closely, and was far superior in speaking Ardian. It helped that he was relaxed. His speech was always much better when he wasn’t under pressure.
“Indeed, Lieutenant. I need ask—where do you learn to fight like that?” This from Derek, who had a slight lisp as he spoke, sounding like his mouth was full of rice. “I never heard of someone defeating Siarl before. I thought it be impossible, but I be happy to see it.” He had a hard look in his eyes, reflecting perhaps the abuse that he had experienced at the hands of the powerful, traditionalist Wasmer. Hafgan hadn’t been aware of Siarl’s reputation before their battle, but he had generally avoided his kind in Rostane. Warrior-caste Wasmer in human cities tended to lead to trouble.
“I learned to fight from the Wasmer, from the Dyn Doethas.” Hafgan was brief on purpose. He had no desire to discuss his time with the Wasmer wise men, particularly not with these folk he knew nothing about.
Derek and Paston looked at each other askance, Paston scraping one foot against the opposite calf. The pair obviously wanted to know more or say more. Hafgan sighed. The men were likely timid after seeing his skill with the spear. It was a familiar occurrence, particularly among the Wasmer, where skill with weapons often equated to social status in the lower castes. Most often, weapons masters were surrounded by sycophants and cronies. It made for a lonely existence, lacking true friends or confidants and never knowing if those who attempted to learn from you would later challenge you.
Finally, Derek spoke. “Lieutenant, we wish to learn how to fight. Not those drills that the humans be running us through. The step, thrust, repeat. Step, thrust, repeat. We be wanting to learn to fight like you. Maybe not become masters, but be able to protect ourselves. From all enemies.”
Hafgan raised his eyebrows. Now, this was a surprise. The only results of his skill with weapons had been the broken bones, inevitable ire, and occasional deaths of people for whom he bore no ill way. Among the Wasmer
, there was never this earnest respect that he saw in the eyes of these two men. Paston and Derek must have felt a kinship with him, for no reason aside from the fact that they all had shaved-down fangs and tried to assimilate with human culture. People, regardless of race, always sought to fit in it seemed.
Hafgan idly wondered if insects or animals had such struggles. He supposed that they did. Rarely did the goat mingle with the bear.
“How many be…” Damn! A slip-up. He couldn’t get too comfortable. “…are like us in the military—assimilated?” Hafgan asked.
“Maybe a couple of dozen? I be familiar with at least a few,” offered Paston, glancing at Derek.
“I shall train all of you, all assimilated Wasmer. Gather them for special assignment, and be ready a half hour before sun-up, the field to the north, by the solitary oak. I shall teach you to fight.” Hafgan was astonished at his own offer. It was unlike him to make a spur of the moment decision like this. Usually, his choices were based on information and knowledge, benefits carefully considered against the costs. Since he no longer had a people, he typically focused on how his decisions could help Hafgan Iwan, perhaps giving him some influence in the world, like he would have been destined to have among the Wasmer if his life had gone differently.
Helping these men was out of character for him.
But maybe his decision wasn’t so altruistic. He reasoned that, based on the look Siarl had given him, and the reluctance with which his army followed his orders, it might be beneficial to surround himself with a trained fighting force loyal first to him. Yes, these Wasmer could be his personal bodyguard, devoted to him and trustworthy—perhaps even following him in the event that his orders from The House would put his life in true peril.
“Yes, Lieutenant!” The men were both beaming, excited children who’d gotten exactly the toy they wanted. Hafgan gave a grim smile in return. If he were to teach these men to fight in a short period of time, those mouths would soon be formed into grimaces of pain. Derek and Paston saluted smartly, in perfect Rostanian military form, and rushed out of the tent. Hafgan shook his head, both at himself and the two Wasmer, and then resumed his seat.
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