Tales of Mantica:Steps to Deliverance v042219

by Mark Barber

  “Their Lordships will hear you now,” he announced.

  His heart pounding in his chest, Valletto jogged over to catch up with Saffus before walking in with the taller man. The chamber was breathtaking. A huge, circular room with tall pillars of pure white marble supporting an extravagant ceiling where a huge mural, said to have taken two generations to paint, weaved in and out of beautifully crafted skylights above. The huge painting depicted the epic victory of Bolisean and his legions during the Battle of Antovar, with a blood red sky dominated by the winged, angelic Elohi sent by the Shining Ones to assist the faithful mortals below. Valletto had only heard about the painting before; its beauty stirred his soul with faith and patriotism as he gazed up at its majesty.

  “Keep up,” Saffus grumbled under his breath.

  Valletto quickened his pace and kept his eyes down at ground level. The cavernous, white room was not dissimilar to an auditorium; a central, circular speaking platform dominated the middle of the room surrounded on all sides of rows of long, curved benches, escalating in steps up to the grand doors at each of the cardinal compass points. A low buzz of conversation echoed around the room from its two hundred or so occupants; the senators – born into nobility, they nonetheless each had to be democratically elected into the Duma for a period of three years. If a senator was, however, successful enough to be re-elected to serve three consecutive terms, he was rewarded with lifetime status and would not stand for election again.

  “Sit here,” Saffus ordered curtly, pointing to a seat at the end of a row of curved marble benches, about halfway down from the double doors to the speaking platform below. Valletto obeyed wordlessly and watched as his former teacher continued fearlessly down to address the most powerful body of men – and, very recently, women – in the world. Each senator had their own bench, complete with a small entourage of clerks, guards, and slaves. Valletto knew from the people he worked with that he should know the names of many of these politicians, but politics had never interested him. Still, he was fascinated by the myriad of different approaches in displaying power. The senator sat closest to him was a tall, muscular man in his late forties with a legion sword at his belt; his two guards and two clerks likewise all wore some evidence of previous military service. Conversely, the next man along was obese, bald, and lounged back on his bench while two beautiful, blonde slave girls in short togas that bordered on obscene fed him grapes and wine.

  Conversation began to die down as Saffus was escorted onto the platform in the middle of the room. The official who had escorted them in turned to face the assembled senators.

  “My lords and ladies,” he bellowed out, his voice traveling to the back of the chamber, “may I present to you Grand Mage Saffus of Aigina, Advisor Primus of the Arcane to the Duma.”

  Valletto leaned forward on his bench, resting his chin pensively in his hands as he watched Saffus prepare to address the Duma. Valletto felt the bristles of his short beard prickle at his hands; flecks of white had recently began to show on his chin and at the temples of his short hair, reminding him that his fortieth birthday was only a few seasons away.

  “My lords and ladies,” Saffus announced boldly, his words now taking on far greater articulation than in normal conversation, “I come to you today with grave news. It has been brought to my attention that the dark forces of the Abyss have succeeded in polluting the noble soil of Basilea with their presence.”

  The low buzz of conversation wound up again. Valletto looked around him and saw a variety of responses; younger senators were engaged in animated, even panicked discussion at the news, while more veteran politicians smirked in amusement or even yawned. Saffus held up his hands to appeal for silence.

  “Our lands are no stranger to the threat of the Abyss, we all know,” the ageing mage continued, “for it is our Hegemony that keeps the dark threat of these demons at bay for the rest of the world. It is both our honor and our curse. But the news that has been brought before me is not of skirmishes along our borders to the north. It is not of isolated warbands amidst the peaks of the mountains north of Kolosu. It is of Abyssals on our very soil, our own sacred earth, well inside our borders!”

  “How far inside our borders?” an unseen senator demanded from the north stand.

  “On the eastern coast, perhaps a day north of the Anerian wash,” Saffus replied.

  Conversation again erupted along the stands but was silenced as another question was shouted out.

  “How many of them, Saffus?”

  “I do not know,” the mage replied, “but even the smallest force that far south is enough to concern me.”

  “If you do not know how many there are, how are you even positive that this threat exists at all?” demanded the corpulent bald man from Valletto’s row. “How has this news come to your ears?”

  “One of my colleagues brought it to my attention. He was contacted by a previous student who has settled in the area. That mage was in turn contacted by a messenger sent by Dictator-Prefect Hugh of Athelle, leading the expedition to apprehend Captain Dionne. The expedition ordered by this very assembly.”

  The cacophony of responses drowned out Saffus’ attempt to continue in his explanation. Some seemed alarmed by the mention of Hugh’s expedition; others seemed overtly amused by the explanation. The fat senator stood to raise his voice over all others.

  “Saffus!” he demanded. “You come here to raise panic and you are honestly telling us that your sole evidence is that a mysterious, lone messenger told a man who told another man who told you that there is some demonic invasion? Really? That is what you come here to tell us?”

  Again, laughter and fear reigned in equilibrium as the senators argued, shouted, and laughed among themselves. Saffus looked over to Valletto and gestured for him to join him on the platform. Valletto hesitated. Saffus nodded slowly and deliberately, pointing at the platform next to him. Valletto stood, straightened his tunic, and made his way down the broad steps to join his former mentor on the stage. He turned to face the assembled crowd, now all the more intimidating as he looked up at the sea of faces in the stands surrounding him, the sunlight pouring in through the skylights to dazzle and half blind him as sweat began to form on his brow.

  Saffus spoke again to silence the crowds.

  “Senators, I present to you the ‘man who told me’.”

  The crowds silenced. All eyes were fixed on Valletto. He took a tentative step forward and cleared his throat.

  “My lords and ladies,” he repeated the formal introduction he had heard twice before, “my name is Valletto of Auron. I was contacted via the arcane plains by a former…”

  Valletto was yanked a step back by the powerful, vice like grip of Saffus. The taller mage stepped forward to speak again.

  “My friend here is too modest!” He shouted out, a tinge of anger clear in his tone. “Allow me to introduce him properly so that there can be no doubt – no doubt – as to his authority and integrity. Captain Valleto of Auron is the Deputy Senior Battle Mage of the 2nd Legion. He has served you, the Duma, in your legion for sixteen years. He is a veteran of the Plains Wars, where he served with distinction and was wounded. Unwilling to be pensioned out of the legion, this hero of your legion continued to serve as an instructor to legion battle mages for three years while he recovered. After this, he was appointed as the Senior Arcane Advisor to Legion Command, such is the respect for this man’s experience and authority. That is the caliber of man who now addresses you!”

  Valletto shuddered at the silence he faced. All conversation, be it in panic or mirth, had now stopped for him. He was deeply uncomfortable with being referred to as a captain – Saffus knew well that this was an honorary rank only, given to experienced battle mages as a mark of respect so that they would be taken more seriously by the soldiers they worked alongside. Valletto did not consider himself a legion captain; although he was fully trained as a soldier and could use a sword and spear, he was not trained or experienced in leading men in the field. He al
so resented the reference to his time at war, and certainly being referred to as a ‘hero’. Valletto had never even faced a man in combat. His role in the war was to cast protective spells to look after soldiers on the field of battle. He had been attacked and faced death several times, but he had never struck down an opponent. He was no hero.

  He was being used as a political pawn in this grand arena, and Saffus’ words offended him. Worst of all was the reference to his wounds and years of recovery. He had never suffered a single physical wound. Exhausted by his time on campaign, deeply saddened by the death and misery that surrounded him on a daily basis for months on end, it did not take much to snap his weakening mind when he was assaulted by an enemy sorcerer. After coming home, his friends and family were quick to notice the change in him. He argued, fought, drank heavily, and cast all his friends aside. Only Clera, his wife, stood by him. Day after day as the months, and then years, slowly passed, she supported him with love until together they overcame all he had faced. The legion did nothing for his recovery. It was all from his wife.

  A hand again clamped on Valletto’s shoulder. He turned around and looked up at Saffus. The elderly mage smiled encouragingly. Valletto realized he was shaking. He had tears in his eyes. Taking a few deep breaths to compose himself, Valletto turned to face the senators again.

  “A former student of mine contacted me through the arcane plains,” Valletto explained. “It is a way that mages can converse over long distances. He lives in Dennec, just north of the Anerian Wash. He was contacted by a woman who has been taken into the employ of Dictator-Prefect Hugh of Athelle. The Dictator-Prefect ordered this woman to bring news to the Duma of an Abyssal incursion into the area. She also claimed that it was led by Captain Dionne, who has now turned to the Abyss.”

  That was enough to generate the cacophony of debate again. Within seconds, senators were up on their feet, arguing passionately with others around them, shouting out questions and demands to Saffus and Valletto on the platform, wading out onto the stairways between stands to physically confront other senators. Long moments, perhaps a full minute, passed until a senior Duma official shot out onto the stage to bang a huge gong in the center. The room fell silent.

  “Gentlemen, ladies,” the official called out, “need I remind you all of Rule Twelve? I beg of you to conduct yourselves in accordance with your position.”

  There was a brief pause until the bald man who had challenged Saffus again stood up.

  “Captain Valletto,” he gave a respectful nod of the head, “I am confident that I speak for all here when I say that your credentials and your honor are beyond question. But what of this man who contacted you? And what of this mysterious woman claiming to be the agent of Dictator-Prefect Hugh?”

  “I trust my former pupil,” Valletto said honestly. “I taught him for a year and we have remained in contact periodically since. His service to the legion was without fault, and he left with full honors. I appreciate, sir, that you trust me; but put simply, that trust you describe is exactly how I feel about Perrio. As for the woman who contacted him, I have no idea who she is, but Perrio told me that he has worked with her before, and he believes her.”

  “I thank you, Captain,” the senator continued. “You were contacted with this news and you have acted appropriately, in good faith, by bringing this to the attention of your superiors. You have done the right thing. But I think this should go no further.”

  The lumbering man held up his hands to appeal for quiet as soon as shouts and jeers were issued from other stands around him.

  “The flow of this information is simply too long!” he urged as he continued. “Are we children playing Elvish Whispers? Let us assume for a moment that Dictator-Prefect Hugh is indeed the originator of this message; in itself a foolish assumption. But taking that as truth, the message has had ample opportunity to be distorted beyond its original meaning by the plethora of channels it has been through in reaching us!”

  “The message is clear!” a woman shouted from the south stand. “The essence of a message so important would never be distorted so easily!”

  “Our military is stretched to the point of breaking!” another senator yelled. “We do not have the resources to respond to every last rumor that reaches us!”

  “We would be fools to ignore this threat!” the military man who had sat near Valletto stood and declared. “At the very least, it should be investigated! I call for a formal debate and vote to decide on whether military action is appropriate!”

  “Seconded!” the female senator from the south stand stood and called. Valletto could now see the woman – a regal looking lady of advanced years with an impressive mane of gray hair. While he had no interest in politics, everybody in Basilea knew of Senator Agorea of Vecci, the leader of the successful campaign lobbying for women to be allowed to serve as soldiers in the legion.

  The room again descended into anarchy and arguments. Saffus leaned in to shout over the noise into Valletto’s ear.

  “We have done all we can, Val. Now is the time for us to leave.”

  ***

  It was nearly sunset by the time Valletto tied up his horse and walked through the small courtyard of his house just outside the city’s perimeter. His heart heavy, he dragged his feet wearily up to the door to his home, a two-story house sitting inside an acre of land. The door was opened by Hustas, his loyal servant of five years.

  “Good evening, sir,” the short man smiled politely.

  “Is it?” Valletto murmured. “I’m afraid I don’t think it is a good evening, on this occasion.”

  The middle-aged servant’s face fell.

  “Oh dear,” he said quietly, “let me take your cloak and I’ll fetch you a drink.”

  “Thank you,” Valletto managed a warm and sincere smile as he carefully folded his dusty cloak and handed it across to the older man.

  As soon as he walked in to the hallway of his house, his six-year-old son, Lyius, sprinted out to embrace his legs in a tight hug.

  “Daddy!” he grinned. “You’re home!”

  Valletto glanced up and saw Clera, his wife, walking carefully down the stairs carrying their daughter, Jullia, herself only a year old.

  Valletto tried to force a smile for Clera. Three years his junior, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever met. It confused him sometimes, even frustrated him, when men talked about other women’s beauty but did not mention Clera. No other woman had ever so much as turned his head. If love truly was blindness, then he was truly happy in his blindness, for he needed nothing else. But she knew him well, and instantly, her welcoming smile faded as she sensed his unease.

  “Give your father a moment, Lyius,” she said to their son gently. “Be a good boy and go and help Hustas with the drinks.”

  The small, frail boy clung desperately to Valletto’s legs for another few moments before disappearing off toward the kitchen with decidedly less enthusiasm. Valletto watched him go and then brought his eyes back to Clera.

  “They’re sending you away, aren’t they,” she said, a declaration rather than a question.

  No words came to mind, so Valletto remained silent. Jullia looked around the hallway blankly while dangling in her mother’s arms.

  “How long are you going for?” Clera asked.

  “They say a month,” Valletto replied. “I think it will be perhaps double that. Still, not nearly as long as a proper campaign with the legion.”

  His wife nodded slowly, her face as rigid as stone.

  “Well, we knew it was coming,” she forced a weak smile, “we knew it was our turn again when they moved you on from teaching. We’ll get through. We always do. Is it dangerous?”

  “Oh no,” Valletto shook his head, “I really don’t think so.”

  That was a lie. But a worthwhile lie; a good one to stop his family from worrying. Valletto looked across to where his son stood in the kitchen doorway with Hustas, holding up a glass of water for him. The boy blinked in confusion.

&
nbsp; “Where are you going?” he asked timidly.

  “Up north, near the Mountains of Tarkis,” Valletto dropped to one knee to face his thin son. “Not for too long.”

  “How long?”

  “I’ll be back in time for your birthday.”

  “My birthday is three months away.”

  Again, Valletto had no answers. He watched helplessly as Lyius slowly lowered the glass of water to his side and burst into tears. Hustas diplomatically stepped back into the kitchen. Valletto dashed forward to tightly embrace his son, hoping it would make the tears stop. The wailing that would have infuriated any other man in the world was different to him; it was his child and his fault, and it brought tears to his own eyes. Clera gently put Jullia down and picked up Lyius, carrying him up the stairs.

  “He’ll be alright in a moment,” she urged Valletto, “I’ll get him happy again.”

  Valletto closed his eyes and fell back against the wall as the sound receded up the staircase. He sank down to his knees and then found himself lying on the floor in the entrance hall, his hands pressed against his face as he struggled to pick through the crippling range of emotions racing through his mind. He was vaguely aware of gentle movement next to his head. He opened his eyes, expecting to see one of the family cats brushing past him. Instead he saw Jullia stood over him, looking down at him silently. Unable to muster a smile even for her, he looked back up into her curious eyes in silence. She slowly leaned over, kissed him on the cheek, and then turned to totter off and clumsily climb the stairs after her mother and brother.

  After a sleepless night, he said his farewells to his family. At dawn, two paladins from the Order of the Blades of Onzyan arrived at his home to escort him on the long ride north.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tancred sat bolt upright on his bedroll. His head was dull, as if the air inside his tent was too close and humid. Exhaling, he crawled to the entrance of his tent and peeled back the flap of fabric to look up at the night sky. The full moon sat high, slightly obscured by a few strands of thin, wispy cloud. It was perhaps a little after midnight and around him the encampment was all but silent. A few fires still crackled and two sentries on the camp perimeter were engaged in a hushed conversation, but nothing more. For three days they had tracked the Abyssal forces as they meandered south, twisting and turning in their progress as if the demons were unsure whether to close with the big cities of Basilea. A gut churning path of death, dismemberment, and destruction was left in their wake as another two villages fell to the merciless onslaught of the Abyssals. Yet still there was no sign of them.