Why couldn’t Vorath have survived the war? He was a mangy bear, a slob, a drunk, and a dirty fighter, but he was fun. I would also have been happy with Eres or Tek—
Nyphron caught himself. Tekchin had survived; he just wasn’t the same. Never had there been a more insane Galantian. He had once bet three fingers on his left hand on a single roll of dice. Nyphron couldn’t remember what the prize had been; he doubted Tekchin could, either. The jackpot wasn’t the point. And the Fhrey was ridiculously lucky, at least until he met Moya.
The big doors to the throne room opened, and Sikar marched up the tiled floor toward the big empty chair. He took four full strides before stopping and looking around. He spotted Nyphron near the balcony window, pouring a glass of wine.
“Hail, Nyphron, Lord of the World,” Sikar said with the emotion and sincerity of an obligatory greeting.
“Want a drink?”
“Bit early for me, Your Illustriousness.”
Illustriousness? He looked at Sikar and noticed he kept a straight face. No, not a Galantian. “The sun is shining, Sikar. How could it be too early for a drink?”
“I just arrived, Your Eminence, and I have a great deal to do before the meeting.”
As governor of Merredydd, Sikar and the other province governors were required to attend the Founder’s Day Festival and the State of the Empyre Congress that followed. Nyphron had given Sikar the province of Merredydd both to get away from him and to appease the growing protest among the more ardent Fhrey that living with humans made them sick. Nyphron wasn’t certain if their assertion was supposed to be a physical illness or a mental state. It likely varied depending on whom you talked to, with some believing that humans carried diseases that weren’t native to the Fhrey. Still, Sikar, as could only be expected, took his role as governor seriously. Anyone else—a Galantian, certainly—would use the opportunity to indulge themselves in every possible vice. Tekchin—the old pre-Moya version—would have been dead from excess by now. In contrast, Sikar actually prepared for the meetings. He would have numbers and tallies, export and import lists, and a detailed chart of taxes collected. When facing such an encounter, Nyphron suspected Sikar had been switched at birth with a child from a different tribe. He didn’t seem like a warrior.
“How are things at the old fort?”
Sikar allowed a rare smile to reach his lips. “It’s a bit more than a fortress now, Your Grandness. Merredydd is a thriving city surrounded by bountiful farms and growing industries. We are a fine example of what can be accomplished without the hindrance of humans.” He moved to the window and looked out at Percepliquis. “I see your trees are not experiencing the same level of prosperity.”
The throne room looked directly out on the Grand Marchway, where the fruit trees grew down the center of the broad avenue. That year, they struggled to keep pace with the imperial calendar because a cold spring had caused the buds to sleep late. There was still time for them to flower for the holiday, but Sikar appeared to consider their tardiness an indictment of Percepliquis’s human population.
“And what of Tekchin? Seen him lately?”
Sikar nodded. “I believe he’s coming this year.”
“Really?”
“He should be here before long. I invited him to travel with me, but he refused.” Sikar shrugged. “I don’t know why.”
Nyphron did. The two hated each other. Nyphron hadn’t been there, but he had heard that Sikar—now famous for his intolerance of humans—had insulted Moya. Sikar was nearly killed in the battle that followed, and he suffered the added indignity of being rescued by Moya. Not that she feared for Sikar’s life, but she was concerned for Tekchin’s immortal soul if he were to kill another Fhrey.
A faint tap rattled the door. “Pardon me, Your Greatness, but the ambassador of the Belgriclungreians is here to see you.”
“I don’t recall having an appointment with him today.” In truth, Nyphron had nearly forgotten they had a Belgriclungreian ambassador in the city. He hadn’t spoken to the dwarf in decades.
“You don’t, Great One. He showed up unexpectedly. He says he has a Founder’s Day gift.”
“Really?”
Hoping it was a bottle of something stronger than the traditional Founder’s Day drink of tremble wine, Nyphron nodded. “Fine, let him in.”
Nyphron remembered the ambassador the moment he entered. Augustine Brinkle was about as impractical as a person could get and still have all their limbs. He stood little more than three feet tall and had a pudgy face and tiny hands. If not for the beard, most would guess him to be a child.
Is that why all male dwarfs, and even some females, have facial hair?
Augustine entered the throne room and made a show of bowing, which was like watching a dog do a trick. “Great Emperor, Your Imperial Majesty, allow me to extend to you a joyous Founder’s Day. And to commemorate our many years of friendship, the people of the Belgriclungreian Empire would like to bestow upon you a token of our appreciation and admiration.” He held out a velvet bag tied with a golden cord.
Nyphron took the pouch. Opening it, he withdrew a bejeweled emerald. “An egg?”
“A symbol of the future prosperity yet to be born and shared by our two realms.”
“It’s an egg,” Nyphron said to Sikar, holding it up so he could see.
“Indeed,” Sikar said. “The generosity of the Belgriclungreians is legendary.”
That was about what he could have expected Sikar to say. He turned back to the ambassador. “What good is an egg? I mean, it’s not a real egg, is it?” He tapped the gem on the nearby table hard enough to rattle the surface. At the same time, the ambassador’s eyes got so big he thought they might fall out.
“No, Your Imperial Majesty.”
“So, again, I ask, what good is an egg?”
“It’s ah . . . it’s ahh . . . it’s incredibly valuable.”
“Really?” Nyphron held it up and eyed it skeptically. “Why? A sword I could understand. Even a dagger. But this? It’s like that horrible crown your people made for me, but I can’t even wear this. I suppose in a sling it would make a fine projectile, but any rock would do just as well—and you say it’s expensive?”
“Extremely.”
He turned it over and back, then tossed it up in the air and caught it, causing the ambassador to emit a muffled gasp. Nyphron noted the reaction, and while he saw no value in the trinket, he understood that the dwarf did. That alone granted it some worth. “Okay, well, thank you.”
The ambassador bowed and backed away until he was out of the room.
First the trees, now an egg as a gift. Nyphron sighed. He guessed it wasn’t going to be his best Founder’s Day.
That night, after Sephryn and Seymour returned from the market with the makings for a pitiful meal, they found Errol sitting by the fireplace. Sephryn frowned, and Seymour admonished, “If you’re going to break in, you could at least have the decency to start a fire.”
“Didn’t break anything. No locks. Remember? And it wouldn’t do to have me lurking about outside, now would it?”
Sephryn hung up her cape while Seymour unpacked the bags. “I take it you know something?”
“My sources tell me the ambassador delivered the gift this afternoon without incident.”
“What does that mean? Is the egg in the safe?”
“I don’t know.”
“I guess we’ll just have to hope,” she said. “I’ve waited far too long already. We’ll go tomorrow. We should enter the palace grounds about midday, then hide in the records hall until it’s late. Midnight, I suppose.”
Errol nodded. “He’s not going with us, is he?” The thief glanced at Seymour, who had moved on to working on the fire. “No reason for him to—”
“I’m going,” Seymour said. “You might need me.”
“For what?” Errol asked.
Sephryn ignored the thief. “If you come, you’ll need to stay in the records room. Agreed?”
“I’ll be
sure to bring a snack, so I’ll have something to eat while I wait.” Seymour began searching through the woodpile.
“You don’t have to go in, either,” Sephryn told the thief. “I only need you to unlock the door to the palace.”
Errol smiled. “And while I would be ecstatic if that were the case, you know better. What if there are other locked rooms inside? That is why you hired me.”
“I didn’t hire you. No money. Remember?”
“My life, which you’ve put in mortal danger I might add, is worth a great deal to me, so I’m in this until you get what the Voice asked for.”
Seymour struggled to get the fire started. He stood up and huffed.
“What’s wrong?” Sephryn asked.
“I can’t find the fireplace poker. Anyone know where it is?”
“In the Urum River,” Errol said.
Chapter Fifteen
Teshlor Nights
Weldon Smirch swung his sword at Everett Thatcher, who countered by raising his own weapon to guard. The blades clanged.
“See? That right there is exactly what every soldier is trained to do,” Amicus shouted over both the sound of the sparring and the howl of wind coming down the river valley.
They were once more aboard the imperial warship Stryker and riding a river again, but it was the Urum they were rowing up. And they weren’t the only warship. Farnell had commandeered five others and loaded them with Second Legionnaires. The rest of the legion, under Jareb Tanator’s control, would follow, marching up the riverbank. The ships’ task would be to claim the river, securing it as their personal highway and denying the emperor its use.
Everyone was on deck for the training session. Rows of soldiers lined the rails and intently watched as Amicus Killian led a class in combat.
“And it’s a terrible response,” Amicus explained. “Not only is it a bad counter—all defense and no positioning for attack—but as I said, everyone is trained to respond that way. Last night, I could have told you Everett would do that. In a way, it’s like seeing the future, and because you know what your opponent will do, that puts you a move ahead. You can use such knowledge to kill him. Everett could have dropped his sword and punched Smirch in the face and obtained better results. At least it would have been unexpected.” He waved Jerel DeMardefeld up for a demonstration.
The normally steel-clad soldier had been busy cleaning his armor and was dressed in just his tunic, skirt, and sword belt.
“The Tesh teaches balance: the idea that you need to keep yours while forcing your opponent to lose theirs.” Amicus faced Everett. “Attack Jerel.”
Jerel hadn’t drawn his blade and Everett hesitated.
“Go on,” Amicus insisted.
Everett shook his head. “First, tell him to draw his sword.”
Jerel smiled. He drew his weapon and promptly tossed it aside. It rang on the wood decking.
“Happy?” Amicus asked.
Everett stared, his mouth open.
“Look, he’s unarmed. Just hit him.”
“I . . .” Everett stared at Jerel, then looked back at Amicus with a grimace as if he’d been asked to slap his mother.
Amicus smiled. “See?” he told the crowd, “Balance isn’t restricted to just the body. Jerel has defeated Everett by his unexpected behavior.”
“That’s ’cause the lad doesn’t want ta hurt his friend,” a Second Legionnaire observed. He showed the rank of Third Spear of the first cohort. “If’n a man did that in a real fight, this fella”—he pointed at Jerel—“would be dead.”
“Really?” Amicus asked. “Show me.”
“How’s that?” the man asked.
“Jerel’s not your friend, right?”
The man shook his head. “Never seen ’im before.”
Amicus nodded. “So go on. Show me.”
“You want me to kill him?”
“By all means, yes.”
The Third Spear looked at those around him, laughing. “Okay.” Still chuckling, he stepped forward and drew his blade. “Am I gonna get in trouble for this?”
“Not if you kill him,” Amicus said.
The man looked confused for a moment, then shrugged and looked at Jerel. “You really should pick up the sword.”
Jerel looked at his blade. “Just do me a favor, and don’t trip on it.”
That made the man laugh again. “Your funeral.”
The Third Spear shuffled forward and swung. He was an experienced soldier and knew what he was doing. He suspected a trap and didn’t fully commit to the attack.
Jerel stepped aside. The stroke went wide.
“So you’re quick, I see,” the Third Spear said, nodding. His eyes peered at Jerel, recalculating his situation.
“Not really,” Jerel replied. “I merely knew what you were going to do.”
“Did ya?” The man lunged.
Jerel dodged.
The Second Legionnaire anticipated the move and pivoted, swinging his sword at waist-level. There was no dodging the attack. The blade was too low to duck, too high to jump, and too close to sidestep. Everyone expected an ugly outcome. The stroke wasn’t going to cut Jerel in half, but it would slice through his tunic, and there was a real chance it might cut through more than skin. But that didn’t happen.
With a quick clap, Jerel slapped the sword down. The tip bit into the deck at his feet. The metal dug in, and before the soldier could withdraw the sword—even before he knew what was happening—Jerel stepped on the blade, jarring the sword from the man’s hands. The hilt hammered onto the deck. Then, while the Third Spear was still trying to understand how he’d lost control of the fight, Jerel swung a leg, caught the Second Legionnaire behind the knees, and dropped him to the deck.
“Balance,” Jerel said, and, after receiving a nod from Amicus, he returned to working on his armor.
“As you can see,” Amicus explained to those watching, “surprise offsets balance.”
The Third Spear got back to his feet. Then he waved a hand in the direction of the other former Sik-Aux who stood or sat in a cluster. “Are all of you Teshers, then?”
“Teshers?” Amicus asked.
The man shrugged. “All of you trained in that weird fighting style?”
Amicus laughed. “Let’s just say, we’re working on it.”
“Doing pretty good, I’d say.” The man picked up his sword and put it away. “So this is something you picked up in Calynia, then? Some sorta eastern style of combat?”
A bitterness flavored the old soldier’s tone. He didn’t like being embarrassed in front of a crowd, and Nolyn guessed he sought an excuse that he could use later that night when his fellows chided him. Something along the lines of, “It wasn’t fair! They used this new style of fighting—like ghazel magic, it was! Not right, if you ask me.”
Amicus shook his head, offering nothing to the Third Spear. “It’s been around a long time—centuries. The first seven disciplines were developed by a man named Tesh during the Great War as a means of fighting the Fhrey—hence the name, the Tesh. Technically, two more disciplines were added later. Those, however, are not part of the Tesh and are generally referred to as the Lore.”
“Lor in Fhrey means fast,” Nolyn explained.
Amicus thought a moment, then shrugged. “Makes sense. My father and grandfather told me that practitioners of the Tesh—back in the time of the war—were known as Teshlors. I just thought it was a title, but maybe it does mean ‘fast Tesh,’ or something like that.”
“So you’re all Teshlors?” the Third Spear asked.
“Those six are.” Nolyn gestured at the ex-Seventh. “I’m old-school legion. Everett is new and still learning, and Demetrius is administrative staff.”
The man nodded. “But with six Teshlors protecting you, I suppose you don’t need a sword.”
“I’ll teach him, too,” Amicus said. “Just takes time.”
Nolyn smiled, but after seeing the familiar hills of Rhenydd appearing on the western side of the ship, he
doubted time was something he had in great supply anymore.
Having had so little time ashore, Nolyn hadn’t lost his sea legs, so he wasn’t as affected by the river travel as he’d been on the voyage to Vernes. He felt an inexplicable sense of unease but didn’t get sick. He appreciated the reprieve when he walked off the Stryker that evening.
Nolyn was greeted by the commanders of both legions and their staffs. Farnell was looking bright with a grand smile on his lips. Beside him, a large man with bushy brows stood. Dressed in spotless armor of silver and gold, he bore the eagle insignia of a legate.
“Legate Hillanus of the First Legion has agreed to join us,” Farnell said in greeting.
Both men stood on the pier, grinning. They were within sight of the entrance of Percepliquis, where a great stone bridge crossed the water. Back before the bridge was built, the spot they stood on had been the Havilyn dock, and the ferry was the only way to cross the Urum River. The warships dwarfed the tiny pier that, long ago, Nolyn had frequented with his mother when they traveled on summer visits to the Mystic Wood. He noted with some sadness the missing oak tree that used to grow there. He seemed to recall having a picnic within its shade, and how his mother said it reminded her of Magda, the old oracle tree.
“Indeed,” Hillanus confirmed while nodding. He had a broad face and big jowls that jiggled along with his second chin.
“As easy as that?” Nolyn asked Hillanus. Even in his most hopeful fantasies, he’d never imagined the First Legion throwing in with him. “I had no idea I was so loved.”
Hillanus chuckled. “With all due respect, Your Highness, this has little to do with you. You’re merely the puff of air that was needed to shove the boulder over the cliff. You have no idea how much your father is hated in the ranks. I’m sure it’s bad on the frontier, but it’s far worse here.”
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