by Garon Whited
Rethven, Friday, March 30th, Year 9
The morning found me hiding in Seldar’s tent again, wrapped in blankets. I should mention my need for a box to someone, rather than merely make a mental note.
Malena brought me breakfast—fresh food from one of the Karvalen cities.
“Those magic tents are a miracle,” she stated, putting down a shield-sized tray. I poked at the food, examining it.
“You’re welcome,” I replied, absently. “Who’s doing the cooking?”
“A dozen of your knights. I don’t know their names.”
“Make a note to find some volunteers who know how to cook,” I told her, examining what was probably a sausage. I used the sensory-damping spell from my amulet and ate anyway.
“I’ll tell Lord Seldar,” Malena agreed. “Are you sure you want to eat those sausages?”
“My digestion can handle it.”
“I don’t doubt it. I was more concerned about the flavor.”
“That’s more of an issue, but I have a spell for it.”
“Very good, Your Majesty. When you’re ready, your commanders would like a word.”
“It’s Seldar’s tent. Send them in when he’s ready.”
Torvil, Kammen, Seldar, and Beltar came in, sat on the rugs with me, and helped themselves to breakfast. I thought it was all for me, but maybe Malena doesn’t know my mortal appetites. There’s a lot I don’t know about her relationship with the Demon King. Maybe she only saw him eat people. Maybe he never ate human food. Regular food, I mean.
We sat around the platter like a table and talked about the upcoming negotiations.
“All I want,” I reminded them, “is the priests. If the faith is crushed, we’re done. The usual authorities can have whatever is left.”
“And if the local baron is a member of the faithful?” Seldar asked.
“I don’t know a good way to tell,” I admitted. “We could wait a day or two and see who goes into a frenzied panic at not getting their religious hit of bliss, I suppose.”
“More to my point, Sire, is the question of what do we do with the… ‘frenzied faithful,’ I suppose.”
“As far as I know, there’s no way to cure them of their addiction. They’re slaves to their supplier. We work our way down the nobility tree until we find one who hasn’t had his wig flipped by the priests, then make him the governor or something until they hear different from someone higher up the feudal chain.”
“May we take captives upon whom to test the possibilities of a cure?”
“Sure, as long as it doesn’t interfere with our conquest and purging of the region.”
“Understood.”
“So, has the local baron sent out anyone to ask for terms?”
“Not yet.”
“I think I’ll go encourage him.”
“My lord?” Torvil asked.
“Yes?”
“That is not how it is done.”
“It isn’t? Didn’t we do something like it at Heverin?”
“You ordered a meeting place. You did not send for terms.”
“The difference being?”
“The defenders are the ones who ask for terms, not the assailants.”
“It’s a case of, ‘What will it take for you to go away’?”
“In essence, yes. The attackers are after the town or castle. They want to take the place for some purpose. The defenders ask for terms if they think—or hope!—the attackers will accept a smaller price in exchange for avoiding battle.”
“Or if they’re desperately hoping to avoid battle.”
“That, too. Regardless, they are the ones who ask for terms.”
“I see. That’s how it’s done? That’s the traditional way?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Fine. I think I’m going to break with custom, but I’m doing it deliberately, not out of ignorance.”
“Understood, my lord.”
“Send a message with our demands.”
“My lord?”
“You know what we want. Every priest of light, every worshipper of light, all their temples, chapels, figurines, the works. If the baron is clean, he can have his town back—and under his control, not the priests’—while we ride on. Write it down and send someone to present our list of demands. Do not mention anything about what will happen if our demands are not met. They saw the wall of fire last night. It illuminated everything within half a mile. Let them wonder what happens if they don’t agree.”
“We cannot project that spell beyond a few feet,” he cautioned. “We would have to have the casters almost touching the wall to begin burning the town.”
“I didn’t know that. Odds are, they don’t know it, either. Send them a message.”
Torvil bowed, smiling.
“It shall be as you say.”
We saddled up and spread out, forming a line a thousand horses wide and three deep. The rest of our forces stayed behind the earthworks, guarding the camp, the supplies, and themselves. A lone messenger rode forward at a walking pace, holding a rolled-up scroll over his head. Heads popped up all along the wall, along with a collection of bows and crossbows. Nobody shot at him, though.
He stood up in the saddle and handed up the scroll. One of the town guards leaned down a little and took it from his hand. It wasn’t too impressive a wall, and the message delivery made a point of it.
We waited until nearly lunchtime before anyone responded. I can’t imagine what sort of arguments, debates, and fights went on in there. As it turned out, once the majority of their bliss-heads were disposed of, the priests did not have an overwhelming amount of influence.
The nobility of Karvalen tend to be somewhat religious, but never to a degree that might interfere with ruling. It’s an unofficial separation of Church and State, but it’s something their culture naturally evolved. It seems similar down here in H’zhad’Eyn, or at least in Verlen.
To be fair, the people at the wall were looking out at a mile-wide mass of armored horse and rider. Behind us were maybe five or six thousand dismembered corpses, some of which were still smoldering. It had to have an effect on their thinking. I’m glad I had the foresight to as the priest of Father Sky for a bit of a breeze. The smell from the pile of bodies might have influenced their decision.
I sat on Bronze, in front of the whole lineup, but at that distance I doubt I made any impression. Most of my terrorizing happens at close range.
The gates nearest us opened and a whole line of people, most of them bloodied in one way or another, were dragged out in chains. They were mostly in robes, but I saw a leavening of more practical, mundane clothes. Priests, acolytes, and the faithful who didn’t go out for the evening, I guessed.
The guards around them were nervous. Because they were escorting priests? Or because they were approaching us? Probably a little of both.
A guy on horseback led the whole parade. His horse immediately caught my attention, since it had six functional legs. He seemed pretty normal, though. He wore half-plate and had a fancy, feathery thing sticking up from his helmet. I pegged him as the man in charge. When the whole parade stopped, he continued until he was ten feet from me. He saluted, which was proper. You bow or kneel in the presence of a king, yes, but out on the field, on horseback? Some sort of courtesy is expected.
“Greetings,” I offered, looking him over. He did have one unusual feature. His eyes were a deep purple color.
“Greetings,” he replied. “I am Urwin, commander of the Baron’s guard. May I have the honor of knowing whom I address?”
“You stand before His Majesty,” Seldar replied, from behind me and to my left, “Halar the First, the Undying, the Wall of Blades, Avatar of the Lord of Shadow, and the Demon King of Karvalen.”
He didn’t know what to say. It’s not often someone is actually struck dumb.
“I see my reputation precedes me.” I gestured at the parade. “Is this in answer to my request?”
“It is. I-I am bid to say the town
of Verlen is cleansed of all things of the Church of Light. Its priests, its faithful, its icons—all have been put to the sword and torch or brought before you. All we can find, I mean.”
“I accept these terms.”
“If it please Your Majesty?”
“Go on.”
“I am also bid to ask… ask if this is sufficient?”
“Basically, you want to know if I will now go away and leave you alone.”
“In so many words, yes, Your Majesty.”
“We’ll wait until tomorrow. I want to look at your town tonight and see if I find any trace whatsoever of the Lord of Light. But,” I added, holding up a hand, “I will simply point out anything you may have missed. You may dispose of them yourselves or deliver to me. They may have hidden from you, for which you are not to be blamed. I will not hold their actions against you. Then we will go.”
“I thank you, Your Majesty. I will relay your words to my Baron.”
“Very good. If there is nothing else, you may go.”
He bowed in the saddle and turned his horse-and-a-half around. I gestured forward a contingent of knights. They took up the task of guarding the prisoners. Seldar nudged his horse forward and came up beside me.
“To be clear,” he began, “if I do not find a way to cure them of their devotion—”
“Addiction,” I corrected. “Their addiction is caused by factors outside their control. If they are truly devoted—they truly believe and they worship because they choose to do so—it’s not something to be cured. That’s a choice, not an affliction.”
“Duly noted, Master of Technicalities. If I do not find a way to cure them of their addiction, what will be their fate?”
“Execution.”
Seldar came as close as I’ve ever seen him to a double-take.
“Sire?”
“Kill them quickly. Don’t let them linger.”
“Perhaps I was mistaken,” he told me, quietly.
“About what?”
“We once discussed what it takes to make a great king.”
“This isn’t kingship,” I countered. “This is mercy. If they wind up wailing and clawing at their eyes because they can’t get what they’ve been forced to need—and we can’t cure it—then they can live in agony or die quickly.”
“As Your Majesty says. I shall do what I can to save them.”
“I hope you succeed,” I told him, and I meant it.
Seldar regarded the terrified prisoners.
“So do I.”
Just because you put three thousand researchers on a project, you do not get results three thousand times as fast. On the other hand, we were certainly learning a lot about brains. While most of the army was still going about the business of a military encampment—sorting, loading, packing, scrying, scouting, guarding, cleaning, sharpening, repairing, and so on—the ones with a more magical and medical bent were watching the prisoners while the withdrawal symptoms set in.
I left them to it. Even as I hoped they could find a quick and easy cure, I didn’t think they would. I also didn’t care to watch. Someone going cold turkey on a drug addiction is going through torture, and I’ve never been a fan of that.
On the plus side, Malena, Torvil, and Kammen came with me into Verlen that night. We went through the place at a trot while I spread a cloud of tendrils and felt for the Boojum’s presence. I didn’t find anything indicative of the Church, although I did see a dozen or more piles of rubble still smoking. Better safe than sorry, probably. The remaining townsfolk were determined not to see what happened if I found evidence of the Church.
Two men on horseback came clattering after us. Not our guys; two of the local Baron’s men. They drew up short when they spotted us, waved a scroll overhead, and approached at a walk. We stopped and let them.
Torvil took the scroll and read it. Since it didn’t go off when he unrolled it, he passed it to me. Shorn of flowery language, the baron had a message from the capitol, Zhadivos, and he would be honored to have me as his guest.
“What do you think?” I asked Torvil.
“I think if anything happens, we’ll kill them all, rip down the town, and salt the earth for a league in every direction. And I think they know it.”
“Seems fair,” I agreed. I turned to the messengers. “You may tell the Baron to expect us.”
They didn’t say a word. They bowed in the saddle, turned their horses around, and galloped away. We followed more slowly. It gave Torvil and Kammen time to get out their mirrors and give instructions. Just in case.
It was unnecessary, though. We rode up to the Baron’s residence, were shown in with all the deference due a head of state, and greeted by Baron Tolect himself. He was a middle-aged man, brown-haired, grey-eyed, and about as warm as a dead penguin. He had the unusual feature of polydactyly—each hand had five fingers instead of four, which brought to mind quotes about “the six-fingered man.” The thought of how he inherited the barony also crossed my mind. He didn’t strike me as someone I would want to trust. Trust his self-interest? Maybe.
“Your Majesty, King Halar,” he offered, bowing. “I apologize for the lack of ceremony. We seldom see royalty.”
“I understand. You have a message for me?”
“Indeed.” He snapped his fingers and his wizard approached, robes swishing. He carried a small box in his hands. The Baron took the box and presented it to me. Malena intercepted it, accepting it on my behalf, matching steely-eyed glares with the Baron. He relinquished the box rather than insist. Malena opened it before turning it around and presenting it to me.
Inside was a rolled parchment with “Halar, the Demon King” written on it. It didn’t seem hostile, so I took it out and unrolled it. Words formed on the page, each letter writing itself at the same time. The spell seemed fairly simple, but also expendable. It would work once, then be useless. Somewhere, there was a parchment like this with a matching spell. Whatever was written on one would be duplicated on the other. A nice bit of sympathetic magic. No doubt there was a whole office, somewhere, full of such papers just waiting to be used.
I like the mirrors better, but Karvalen is a world leader in magical technology. The investment to make permanent mirrors might not be in H’zhad’Eyn’s budget.
To His Majesty, the Demon King of Karvalen, Invader of H’zhad’Eyn and Enemy of the Church of the Lord of Light:
Greetings. You will return forthwith with your dark forces to your own lands and end this blasphemous crusade. Heed well this command or unimaginable suffering shall befall you. The most holy wrath of the Lord of Light shall fall upon you like the fires of the sun and burn the blackness of your heart as a flame burns a dark flower to ash.
Master Direnias
Prophates of the Lord of Light.
I handed it to Torvil. He read it and passed it to Kammen.
“I think I’ve just been threatened.”
“I think you have,” Torvil agreed. “What is your will?”
“Baron, you’ve bent to accommodate circumstances, rather than break. You’ve preserved your town and at least some of the populace. We are now going to raid your food stores and be on our way. Since you have little choice in the matter, I doubt your king or the Church of Light will have much to criticize. What do you think?”
“I believe you are correct. At least, I hope you are correct. When you say ‘raid’…”
“I mean we’ll resupply here before we move on. I’d like to leave peaceably, if it can be arranged. We’ve done such a good job of not tearing the place to pieces and I hate to waste all our restraint.”
“I agree,” he answered, instantly. “I’ll give orders to accommodate you. Feel free to cut down anyone who disregards them.”
“Thank you. We’ll be going.”
“Thank you for your restraint.”
We left the Baron’s citadel and made arrangements to steal food.
Rethven, Wednesday, April 11th, Year 9
We’ve been roaring through H’zhad’E
yn like a panzer division through North Africa. I don’t know if this side of H’zhad’Eyn looks anything like North Africa, but I imagine it might. We’ve been bearing southeast, through the southern spur of the kingdom, away from the Edge of the World. The climate has grown steadily warmer and drier as we travel. We used to be in the tropics, bordering on tropical jungle, but now it’s thinned out to something more like… I don’t know. Some stretches of Arizona or New Mexico? It’s not a desert, exactly, but it’s a lot drier and less vegetated. The soil is thinner and everything is a dusty. It reminds me of movies about the Old West, but with a bit of Middle East thrown in.
In the last twelve days, we’ve hit four medium-sized towns and one large one. They went about the same as always, with varying amounts of humans in the human wave attacks. It does seem to be their only major asset, from a military standpoint. We’ve had variations on the theme and miscellaneous forms of auxiliary attacks—I remember a magical bombardment of hailstones rather vividly, along with some near-invisible assassins, some catapults launching balls of fire, and a cloud of poisonous gas—but we’ve fended off everything.
What I don’t like is the way the human wave attacks are getting steadily larger. Not only are the towns getting bigger, but a larger percentage of the population is under the control of the Church of Light. I’ve done some math to gauge the rate of increase and I do not like my numbers. Diogenes tells me I’m a bit off in my calculations, but his numbers are higher than mine. I am not comfortable with this.
We’ve also improved at slaughtering the enemy waves. It’s one reason I wanted to invade from this direction. The vast majority of the Knights of Shadow have never killed a man. They’ve trained for it, sure. They’ve practiced and drilled and played sicaricudo until their blisters bled, but, for the most part, they’ve never had to hack someone in two.
Now everyone has. They’ve grown quite good at it. I’m a little bit proud of that.
On the other hand, when they sing around a campfire, it’s generally not quite so jovial. This started out as a field trip, a cheery way to finally get into battle. Now they’ve seen the elephant. Now they’ve gazed into the eyes of a raving fanatic and put a sword between them. What was it about not gazing into the abyss or it will gaze into you? Something like that. Nietzsche, I think. These men saw the lights go out of the eyes of men, women, and children.