Andalon Awakens

by T B Phillips

  Nevra held his breath. The ship was moving so fast that the salvo sailed over the mast and harmlessly into the water. Turning to port, the starboard guns fired and lobbed those funny canisters up and onto the parapet. The result was identical to the previous attack. The fog quickly enveloped the entire area, forcing the men to retreat from the smoke.

  Ice Prince sped off between the batteries and cleared the entrance of the harbor. Forty men could be seen bending over on the fantail of the ship, exposing their buttocks to the harbor and sticking their middle fingers into the air. Although he could not distinguish between asses, Lord Stefan Nevra knew that Samani Kernigan was among them.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Robert Esterling observed the arrival of the refugees from atop the westernmost city gate. The young prince pulled anxiously at his white military jacket, straightening it and tucking the shirt underneath.

  “Stop fidgeting, your excellency. The men are watching.”

  Looking up at his mentor, Robert apologized, “I can’t help it. It’s itchy and keeps sliding around. It’s also too stiff and I can barely breathe.”

  The general let out a chuckle. “That symbolizes how uncomfortable leadership is at the top.”

  Eyes growing wide, the prince remarked, “Seriously? Why would they do that…” He cut off when his mentor began laughing. Some of the gathered politicians shot the general admonishing glares in response to his inappropriate humor at such a serious event. He just waved and smiled back at them. When one of the officials continued to stare, Max blew him a kiss. The man turned around in a huff, face red.

  “Sarai says that it doesn’t look right on me. That I am a statesman, not a warrior. She said that I look like a child wearing his father’s clothing when I put it on.”

  “Wise girl. She has you pegged, princeling.” Looking back over his shoulder he frowned at the sad state of the city defenses. He scanned the full squad of city guard, a force of one thousand, spread thin along the wall and also in reserve inside the city square. “This lot is pathetic. I wish that I could commit our own troops to help. Unfortunately, we’re merely observers until the walls are actually breeched.”

  “Rules of engagement…”

  Maximus nodded. “Rules of engagement,” he agreed. The general commanded the Imperial army in Weston, but his detachment sat in reserves further within the city for the reason that Robert had stated. It pained him to stay out of the potential conflict, but he had no choice. Without orders from the Queen Regent and the Chancellor, his troops, a contingent of two thousand, could only engage if the Pescari actually invaded the city and broke through the walls. Politics, the prince thought.

  Changing the subject, Robert pointed over the side of the wall. “That’s a lot of Pescari, Max.”

  Reeves estimated that the strength was fifteen thousand men, women, and children as they assembled before the gates. So far, they had not displayed hostility, perhaps realizing that they lacked the siege equipment necessary to fell or get over the wall. “It’s the biggest assemblage that I’ve ever seen. Usually they stay in groups of no more than one hundred, with mounted squads of fifty warriors at most.” He looked through the spy glass. “I estimate nearly eight thousand warriors. This is insane.”

  “Why are they lining up with the warriors away from the walls? They’re putting women and children between us.”

  “Religion, boy. Their god rises in the East and sets in the West. The ever-watchful eye of Felicima, they call it. They hide their strength from her so that when she rises tomorrow she will see the women and children instead of the warriors.”

  Robert nodded, “So we are only threatened if they move the warriors to the walls, and the women to the rear?”

  “Exactly. But an attack like that will only happen after sunset, when their god isn’t looking.”

  “Does Horslei know that?” Robert and Max looked toward the city official, nervously talking with the officers of his guard.

  “I sure as hell hope so.”

  “I keep hoping for a peaceful solution, Max.” Robert thought again about Sarai, considering their earlier conversation about the humanitarian faction within the city. “Would it be so bad if they helped teach the Pescari how to farm and live as neighbors?”

  “Why would you think that’s even possible? You’re a smart kid, princeling. You can train a dog but not these savages.”

  Robert cringed at the harsh words. “Please don’t call them savages, Max. They’re refugees.” Movement in the camp caught his eye and he pointed, “Look! Two of them are approaching the gate on horseback.”

  Max raised his eyeglass, aiming it at the duo. “That’s just a man and a boy. A teen, by the looks of him.” He continued to watch carefully. “That can’t be right. Even if the man is one of the shappans, he would not be speaking without the authority of the elder council. This must be a messenger.”

  As they neared, the man began to address the gate, shouting his words loudly in broken Andalonian. “Your shappan is invited to feast with us. Bring your council and meet with our elders in peace, and you will not be destroyed. You have the promise of Taros.” After speaking, the man and the boy turned their horses and made their way back to the westernmost extent of the camp.

  Robert looked to Horslei, watching to see his reaction. As he feared, the city official had taken offense to the invitation to parlay. Max grabbed his shoulder, “Come along boy. We need to fix this before it gets out of hand.” The general collapsed his spyglass and returned it to a pouch on his belt before hurrying Robert into the palace.

  Abraham Horslei, after hearing the challenge from the savage, called an emergency meeting in his war room. The room was filling up fast, as most of his advisors had been on the gate and heard the challenge. Abe was seated at the head of the table, with the captain of the city guard, Sam Troly, on his immediate right. General Reeves and the Esterling child were seated together on his left, and the rest of the city leaders were scattered around the table. One of the Falconers stood in the corner, looking menacing in his hood and feathered collar.

  The governor watched as Cassus Eachann slid into the room and stood near the wall, shadowed by some of his political patsies. They would no doubt push for a humanitarian solution, rather than the military option that he was about to propose.

  Abe ordered a guardsman standing nearby. “We have everyone that we need seated here.” He gestured to the host of people, mostly noblemen and heads of the most influential houses. “Get the rest of these onlookers out into the hall.”

  Eachann protested, “Abraham! We are invested in this city and have a right to hear what is decided!”

  “Only in a democratic meeting of the council, and this most certainly is not. This is different. We are defending the city, Cassus.”

  “But the charter states that defense of the city is decided by council!”

  “The charter also states, that in times of imminent danger, the governor has the right to order martial law!” Abe’s face was red with anger and did not have time for politics.

  “By a vote of the council!” The noble had pushed past the guard and was challenging Abe, standing directly over him in his chair.

  “Except when a foreign army stands on the doorstep to the city!” Abe stood up and screamed into the challenger’s face.

  “That is not an army! Those are refugees demanding food and shelter!” A host of cheers erupted from the multitude of politicians standing around the room as Eachann made his push.

  Abe went quiet. Perhaps he had underestimated the sympathy that the city leaders would have for the host of hungry animals at the gates. When he finally spoke, it was with determination. “Captain, remove the civilians from this chamber.” As an afterthought, he added, “Also, take Mr. Eachann into custody and confine him to a cell.”

  Cries of protest erupted as Captain Troly and his men ushered them out.

&
nbsp; Cassus Eachann shouted, “This is against the charter, Horslei! The people of Weston will not stand for this!” Two guards grabbed him and dragged him from the room.

  After the room had cleared, Abe looked toward the men still seated at the table. “What is our food situation?”

  The minister of agriculture cleared his throat, “We have an abundance in the silos. We could easily feed the refugees and our city patrons for the entire year, at least long enough for aid to arrive from the Imperial stores.”

  Abe looked at the old man with a scathing frown, “Not the rabble. I do not give two shits about the savages. Do we have enough food to survive a siege?”

  “Yes, your excellency, we can easily survive two years.” The man squirmed and looked at General Reeves, who stared straight ahead.

  “General, what are your thoughts on mustering an attack on their camp?”

  The general turned and looked at the governor, a look of shock and disbelief on his face. “Say that again, Abe. But slower and in your own head, before you make a total fool out of yourself.”

  Feeling his face again turn scarlet, Horslei asked again, “I’m attacking their camp. Do you stand with me or not, General Reeves?”

  “I’m not authorized by the Queen Regent or the Chancellor to dispatch my troops in an offensive campaign. If you were to do so with your company of guard, devoid of cavalry, you would lose your city in a matter of minutes.” The general spoke slowly and deliberately, but the undertones were there.

  Abe did not like Maximus Reeves, and barely tolerated his presence in his city. But he’s right. Without him committing his troops, an attack would be impossible. “Perhaps, but I certainly cannot meet with their elders.”

  The general looked back at him. “That is actually very true, Abraham. You are prevented from doing so by decree of the Empire. Only an ambassador named by the Esterling family has that authority to negotiate with foreign nations outside of your walls. That includes the “rabble” as you called them, that grossly outnumber your pathetic little force and stand outside of your gate.”

  All eyes in the room looked at Robert Esterling, whose official title was Imperial Ambassador to the City of Weston. He sat up straighter, trying not to fidget, as they focused on him.

  Abe Horslei slammed his fist down on the table in anger as Maximus and Robert rose together and left the room.

  Sarai rushed up to Robert as he and General Reeves left the war room, letting the door slam behind them. Robert turned to his mentor and said, “I’ll meet you in the stable, Max. I need to talk to Sarai for a moment.” The general nodded and strode off down the hallway.

  “What happened in there? Why did they arrest Eachann?”

  Robert smiled, “There is a definite split in city leadership, Sarai. Eachann and his faction dissented and want to feed the refugees.”

  “Then my urgings to him worked. I didn’t think that he was actually listening to me when I met with him.” She beamed with pride knowing she had planted the seed in the politician’s head.

  Robert frowned, “Sarai, your father wants to attack the Pescari, but Max will not commit my mother’s troops.”

  Her smile dropped abruptly, and a tear flowed down her face. “What are you two going to do?”

  Robert smiled, “We’re going to meet with them and figure out a compromise. As the official ambassador, I’m the only person in Weston who is authorized to meet with the shappan.”

  Sarai reached up and kissed him. After she pulled away, she smiled said, “Do the right thing, Robert. Be the humanitarian.”

  A few moments later, Robert and Maximus sat atop their horses at the city gate. The guard refused to let them leave the city and quoted some directive from the governor. The general raised up his hand, and six of his elite force moved out of the shadows to stand next to the city soldiers. They quickly acquiesced and opened the gates, allowing the two men to ride out into the night. Robert turned, and saw that the gate closed behind them.

  “Don’t worry, they’ll also ensure that they let us back in when we return.”

  Nodding, Robert swallowed, and followed Max through the Pescari camp. The people had erected tents constructed from poles they had dragged behind them when they arrived. By lashing them at the top, they stretched furs and skins around them, forming a cone-like structure in which they could sleep away from the elements. Although he had read about and studied the Pescari, seeing them up close gave him an entirely different respect.

  They were a wretched people. Even in the dark of night, he could see that. They looked half-starved as well as leathery and sad. He noticed that even the children wore the same hard expression on their faces as the adults. Sarai had warned him of this. She had taught him that they had originally controlled the plains east of the Misting River, where Weston currently stood. But when the Westonese people had arrived with their superior weapons, they had driven the Pescari deeper into the steppes and across the Forbidden Waste. The treaty was the beginning of their misery, he surmised. Hopefully, he and Sarai would be able to reverse their fate by securing some semblance of humanitarian aid.

  They finally approached the large tent at the westernmost edge of the camp. They dismounted and made their way to the opening. Two warriors met them at the entrance and held back the flap to grant them entrance. Robert turned to the general and whispered, “They didn’t even take our weapons!”

  “Shh, boy! Quiet!”

  Inside sat a circle of elders, just as Max had told him that they would find. What he did not expect was to see the same young teen that had ridden with the man to the city gates. The boy sat in the circle of the elders as if he were equal among them. The man who had spoken, presumably the shappan, sat on the right hand of the teen. A man with a brand in the shape of a handprint sat on the teen’s left. Robert and his mentor took their place in the circle and watched as one of the men sprinkled a bowl of herbs on the fire in the middle. The flame turned blue and roared to life.

  After a few moments, the boy spoke in Pescari, and the man on his right translated. “Taros, Shappan of the Pescari welcomes you to his council. I am Teot, uncle to the shappan, and I will mediate.”

  Max sat up at the words and asked, “Which tribe?”

  The man spoke to the boy, apparently called Taros, who answered in his language. With a smile, he addressed the general. “All of them.”

  Robert had known Maximus Reeves his entire life but had never seen him stiffen in shock as he did at that moment. The general swallowed and tried to appear as calm as possible when he answered. “That isn’t the Pescari way. On what authority does he claim the right of shappan?”

  The man answered, “By right of Shapalote, Taros speaks for all clans.”

  “No. Felicima would not allow this. Felicima demands homage and acquiescence, not strength. Not a unified Pescari.”

  This time, the teen spoke without using his translator. “Felicima has given her power to me and I rule the Pescari while she spends all of her time riding the sky. I am the god here.”

  Max looked at the boy’s translator, who simply nodded. Turning back to look at the boy, he asked, “What do you demand from my people, Taros of the Pescari?”

  “I think that you mean his people.” Taros pointed at Robert, who blanched at being singled out.

  Breaking his silence, Robert asked, “Yes. What do you want from my people, Taros of the Pescari?”

  “I want food. And I want you to share your city with my people. It is large and we are desperate for protection from the caldera. The eruptions have been more frequent, and we are no longer safe on the Steppes of Cinder.”

  General Reeves spoke up, cutting off Robert before he could answer. “We can’t agree to that. That’s a decision for the council and must be put to a vote.”

  “I will bring it to the council.” The words had left Robert’s mouth before he knew that he was go
ing to answer.

  Maximus shot Robert a glance that chilled his blood. “What my esteemed comrade means is that we will discuss the matter and let those with the power decide.

  At that moment, a Pescari woman entered the tent, earning protests from the elders within. She pushed past the warriors and spoke in rapid Pescari to Taros. He abruptly jumped to his feet and ran into the night. Many of the elders gave chase, and Robert looked to Max with shock.

  “Stay close,” Max warned, “we’re winging this, and something is wrong. Be ready to flee.”

  The two men left the tent, and saw a group gathered at a smaller tent just a few mounds over. They pushed their way through the crowd and gained a front row perspective. Taros screamed and wailed inside the tent, and the Pescari became extremely agitated at his outburst. Robert leaned and peaked through the flap, gaining a glimpse of Taros. He appeared to be kneeling beside a woman, lying in blankets.

  The man who had been translating, approached the two men. Robert recognized that his name was Teot, as he said, “My sister lies dying in that tent, and my nephew will not take this well. Please leave and we will meet again soon.”

  Max nodded and tried to steer Robert toward the horses.

  “No.” The prince pulled back his arm. “I have a duty to protect these people, Maximus.” Robert pointed at Taros in the tent and began walking backward toward him, his eyes on the general’s. “The nobles of Weston agree, Max! We must help these people!”

  The camp abruptly went dark. Max and Robert looked around. Thousands of fires had suddenly and simultaneously winked out. Everything was suddenly thrust into blackness. Robert, who was looking toward the city wall, watched as every torch on the wall followed suit, one by one until they entire city was extinguished. Then the boy roared.

  Robert turned as Taros screamed from within the tent and a sudden ball of light emanated from within, exploding in a brilliant fireball.

  The Pescari man who had been urging them to flee began to cry. “Run. Please go. This is our burden. GO!”