by T B Phillips
“Light level six.” At his voice, the lights in the room brightened, revealing an old-fashioned study with surrounding bookcases and antique leather furniture. “Music stop.” On his command, the music halted. “Ok. You have my attention. I hope that your plan to solve this mess is better than the speech you prepared this afternoon.” He sat down in a large, brown overstuffed chair and waited patiently for her to speak.
“The experiment has not failed.”
“Doesn’t sound like it. Try again.”
“We are not talking about a widespread awakening. So far, it has only been two Latents, and their powers are still weak.”
The older man shook his grey head with disagreement. “That’s not what I’m hearing. The summer oracle is talking about a very strong awakening. Full channeling of fire and his emotancy is off the charts hot. Their coven has been in a nearly constant state of Da’ash’mael since his powers awakened.”
“Yes. I’ve read their reports.” Fatwana walked around the room as they talked, pacing with anxiety, but playing it off as if she were calmly admiring the decorations in the room. She paused in front of an Andalonian vase, Eskeran artwork, by the looks of it. “Have there been any Ka’ episodes?”
Jakata sat silent, watching her survey his office.
“Then our Latent is the one.” She turned from the vase and looked intently at the politician. “And as soon as we find him, we can deal with him.”
“I wish that it were that easy, my dear. The spring oracle also reported a Ka’ prophecy.” Jakata smiled at the reaction on Fatwana’s face when he revealed his news. He enjoyed knowing key information before the oracles.
“That isn’t possible.” She shook her head in disbelief, stunned and waiting for the joke to be revealed.
“I am afraid that it is. Apparently, a female reached full emotancy in a single instance, albeit brief. The revelation of the Ka’ was incomplete, and we are unaware of the significance. That’s the only reason that I’ve not ended this experiment entirely and signaled the kill order.”
“You cannot end the experiment, Jakata.”
“And why is that, Fatwana?”
“I believe there has been interference.”
“Interference, how?”
“I am not positive, but I think that The Society is involved.”
The chancellor shook his head in denial. “No, The Society ended with his death, Fatwana. Your brother and his followers were killed in the explosion before they could go public.”
“Perhaps so.” The leader of the winter oracle left the vase and walked to the bar cart in the corner. On it was a bottle of Estonian wine, label embossed with the numbers 7, 5 and 4. She picked it up, pulled the cork and smelled it before replacing it in the bottle. It smelled like a nice vintage. “I think that members of the Humanitarian Freedom Society survived the assassination. I have reason to suspect they are operating on Andalon and are meddling with the political framework we instituted.”
“I haven’t heard of any evidence, but I have an agent placed high in the ministry of information. I will have him fan out with the Falconers to sweep and verify what you say. If any Astian is living among them, then he’ll find out. I’ll bring in technology if I need to.”
“That is dangerous, Jakata. You remember how much things changed when we gave them cannon to fight the Pescari?”
“More dangerous than allowing emotionally charged Latents to discover and hone their elemental powers? I’ll do everything that it takes to protect the Astian way of life, Miss Nakala.”
“Even genocide?”
“Yes.”
“Careful, Chancellor. Talk like that could cost your re-election, and next year is an election year. The humanitarian faction has a very strong impact on your constituency.”
“Get out, Fatwana. I need to think.”
She bowed respectfully and left the room. The sound of an orchestra returned, and the closing door muffled the tones of a mournful cello.
Chapter Seventeen
The Black Forest of Diaph served as a border between Loganshire and Fjorik. Tall spruce and fir trees reached into the heavens, dropping their needles onto a carpet thickened by moss and ferns. Rainfall was abundant, and the growth tremendous and thick. Had the forest not been such a dangerous place, men from both sides would exploit it for the large game and ship-perfect lumber.
Like most borderlands, this forest was home to outlaws. They hid their camps well under the pine canopy, keeping most of their activities from even the sharpest of eyes. Travelers who dared to pass through this territory paid with either their lives or their gold, occasionally parting with both. It was for this reason that most of the shipments into and out of Diaph came strictly by sea. This prime location made the city a burgeoning trade spot, as barges and transports stopped along their way to Logan and eventually Norton.
Recently, Imperial caravans transported high-risk goods through the forest into Fjorik. These shipments were prohibited by the council, but kept certain promises made by the Esterling family in their arrangement with Skander Braston. The northern king had ample supplies of resources but no means to mass produce useful products, so the family exchanged food, plows and goods for rich iron and lumber. In return he kept his armies to the north and allowed the Falconers to freely move in and out of his kingdom.
Shon Wembley crouched low along the roadside as one very special caravan approached. He, like his men, was camouflaged and blended into the forest. He identified the wagons using a hooded eyeglass. He quickly confirmed that they had recently left Diaph and would contain special cargo. Smiling inwardly, he thanked the reliability of his spies.
He counted twenty mounted escorts with two Falconers. He strained his eyes skyward spotting two large hawks circling the forest. Staying low to the ground, he hoped it was not too late, and that his cover was not already blown. They possessed remarkable vision and very little escaped their gaze. As a constable, he had worked closely with these monsters, strongly suspecting that they shared one mind.
Regardless of the risks involved, he and his men were searching for a special item worth the risk of death. He signaled Marque, who hid deeper in the forest away from the road. The camouflaged man crouched over several boxes with holes drilled in each. He squatted, ready to release the weapons. Waiting till the large birds were nearly directly overhead, Shon gave the second signal and Marque opened the lids. He muttered a prayer for luck as dozens of black ravens flew up into the sky, directly for the hawks. Instantly, the sky filled with a cacophony of cawing and screeching as the crows harassed the larger raptors.
Wembley stroked his black beard and signaled again. Ranged archers took advantage of the distracted birds and dropped both Falconers instantly. After they had released and nocked again, they disappeared deep into the forest to cover a possible retreat. Camouflaged crossbowmen rose from their concealment and fired bolt after bolt into the armored cavalry, catching them unaware and clearing the mounts within seconds. Overhead, the black birds continued to harangue the larger raptors, distracting and forcing them from the area.
The battle ended swiftly, and Shon and his men emerged from the woods. Men leapt atop the wagons, throwing back the blankets and revealing several caches of crates and boxes. These were quickly unloaded, and his small army moved like ants clearing a carcass. They removed every bit of useful material. Shon slapped Marque on the back victoriously. It had been his idea to use the ravens. “Great job, my friend. Today is yours.”
Marque beamed with pride for the recognition from his leader. “Thanks, boss.”
A shout came from one of the men searching the fourth wagon. Hurrying to see what the excitement was about, Shon climbed atop the buckboard. The man held a blanket, pointing down at his find. Like the other carts, inauspicious pine boxes contained food and weapons of fine steel. But this wagon also held the treasure that he and his men sought. An i
ntricately carved chest lay among the rest, secured by an iron lock and embossed with a falcon.
“Good find!” He waved another man over, and each of them grabbed an end of the chest. He directed the others to quickly unhitch the horses and to strap the cargo atop the animals. He wanted to make a clean getaway without blazing a road directly to the boats. Hopping down from the cart, he moved to search the Falconers.
Both specters lay on the ground, felled like common men. Marque joined Shon and stared down, sharing hesitation at touching their bodies. “This feels like the first time I gutted a deer. I knew that I had no choice, but I still felt weird about cutting open the animal.”
Shon nodded his agreement. “And just like in the deer, there’s shit inside and we have to grab it with our hands.” He knelt next to the first corpse and ran his fingers through the pockets of the robe, turning up only a few items of necessity like flint and steel. Placing his hand under the feathered neckline, he felt and came away with nothing.
Enough of the cloth moved away to reveal skin. Why not? We may as well see how ugly they are. With a tug Shon removed the hood. A man’s face stared up at him with open eyes as dark as coal. His black skin appeared darker than any shade he had seen, even from the Southern Continent. He was bald, without wisp of hair on head or face.
“He’s definitely not from around here, Shon.” Marque knelt down beside the other and ripped the hood with more force than the bandit leader had. His Falconer stared back with large eyes of light brown, accented with thick dark eyebrows. His face was tanned olive with sharp features. He, like the other, was completely bald.
“No, Marque. They most certainly are not.” Wembley spotted what he was looking for dangling from a string around the man’s neck. A key as intricate as the lock it opened shone in the light of the afternoon. He pulled it over the head of the dead administrator and shoved it down deep into the pocket of his buckskins. A thorough search revealed a small pouch hanging from the belt of the second Falconer. He cut it free. A peek inside revealed several black beads. Smiling, he turned to his partner. “Let’s go.” Both men hurried off to rejoin the others.
Chapter Eighteen
General Maximus Reeves held the reins of Robert’s horse. They were galloping south toward the forest and away from the cacophony of fire that pummeled the city wall of Weston. The Prince looked over his shoulder at the spectacle, dazed and possibly even in shock from what he had witnessed. “Wait!” The youth shouted over the sound of the hooves on dirt. “Wait! Stop!”
Maximus pulled back on both mounts, slowing them. The seasoned soldier looked past the boy toward the refugee camp. “What is it?”
“Why are we fleeing? We have to go back!” Robert wasn’t sure if he was thinking about Sarai’s safety or the people of Weston, but he felt obligated to act.
“Absolutely not, I have to get you to safety.” Max started to spur the horse forward.
Robert snatched his reins from his mentor. “No,” he shouted, pulling his mount to a defiant stop.
“What is this? After all my tutelage, all the training that I have given you, how dare you defy me!”
Max is right, Robert thought. He had been his mentor and teacher for his entire life and deserved more respect than he was currently receiving.
“And one more thing!” The imposing general spun his horse around and stared Robert down with a mixed look of disappointment and anger. “How dare you make those promises!”
In a commanding voice, Robert defiantly stood up to the ranking officer. “I am the heir to the throne, General Reeves! I have the full authority of the Imperial family and a sworn duty to act as ambassador as I see fit, and I command you to take me back into the city.”
“Listen here, you little whelp of a boy! I have a sworn duty to your ‘Mommy’ to keep you out of harm’s way. That’s why she sent us to this backwoods hellhole in the first place! I’ll take you and hide you in the forest, then go back and get my army out of the city.”
“You’ll abandon the city?” Robert’s eyes looked on the general with a steady gaze, silently accusing him of cowardice. “I thought you never fled from the enemy.”
“Gods be damned.” Max shook his head. He spat on the ground and then smiled proudly. “Looks like you finally found your father’s blood. Fine. Let’s go see how bad this really is.” He wheeled the horse around and led Robert to the north, this time toward the fire.
As they topped a hill overlooking both the gate and refugee camp, Max again pulled back on the reins. “Whoa…”
“What is it?” Robert strained his eyes to see. “Why are we stopping?”
“They’ve formed up. The women and children are at the rear and moving toward us.”
“So, the warriors are lined up at the walls? They’re attacking the city?”
“Yes. This isn’t good, Robert. After that fire attack, my troops will have to engage. But with that fire flinging, tantrum throwing child leading the attack, they’ll be destroyed. Gods! They’ll be cooked in their armor like lobsters.”
“What about the archer corps? Won’t they be effective?”
“Given what we saw earlier? He’ll most likely burn their arrows in the air. If we’re to get in, then we need to push through, past the archers and rush the gate in the confusion.” Max shook his head. “That is assuming that we don’t get our backs filled full of arrows. Looking back at his protégé, he said, “Robert, we can’t win this without some serious firepower.”
“Max. We must try. Earlier tonight I thought of them as refugees. I wanted to be the superior but benevolent leader. You know, as my duty as a prince of the free and master world. I felt that I owed it to them as lessers and as those in need.”
Reeves chuckled, “Someone’s been reading too many books.”
“Yes.” Robert blushed a little at how naïve he and Sarai had been, thinking that they could reason with the Pescari. “Max, I thought that I owed it to them. By overruling Horslei I thought I could secure the support of Weston’s progressive nobles and legitimize myself as the future ruler of the Empire.”
“And now?”
The prince let out a brief uncontrolled chuckle and answered honestly. “He’s a fire-flinging, tantrum-throwing child who must be put down before he burns down the free world.”
Max nodded. “And how will your lovey-dovey, pro-humanitarian nobles feel if you ride up and stab the little shit in the back? For that matter, how will your precious Sarai feel about you?”
Robert sat up taller and his eyes narrowed, “Leave her out of this.”
Max’s eyes gleamed as he drew out his sword. “Just ensuring that you’ve covered all contingencies before we die, your excellency.” With that said, General Maximus Reeves spurred his horse into a gallop and raced down the hill, breaking through the ranks of the Pescari horse archers.
Robert let out a war whoop and followed. Together they rushed the rear of the Pescari line, wind blowing past as they rode. Women and children parted like a sea before their horses and Robert made the mistake of looking into several of their faces. Once again, as before, his heart began to hurt for the struggle of these people, but he pushed this feeling down deep with the thought of Sarai still inside the besieged city.
Soon they reached the flanking horse archers. None of them were firing, rather were milling about and staring at their boy leader. That’s good, Robert thought. If they’re not attacking, then there’s a chance to get through. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears as they sped past the bewildered Pescari.
By the time they reached the front line, arrows whizzed by him and Max. Crouching close to their horses, he marveled that none found their mark. Aren’t Pescari expert marksmen? They had passed the line and the gate lay one hundred feet ahead. That distance displayed a horrifying sight. The boy Taros was fully engulfed in flames. The flames were emanating from his body as blue, orange, and yellow danced around
him like an aura of searing light. The boy himself was untouched and unharmed.
As they rushed by, Robert met the red-hot embers that had replaced the eyes of Taros. They burned fiery like a demon’s as he flung death toward the city, hell bent on destruction of the gate. When those eyes locked onto his, the prince felt a surge of fear rise and he continued to stare as they raced toward the now burned-out gate. He watched in terror as a firebolt flew directly at him and Max, screaming as the ball of flame struck them.
Only it missed. Somehow, the fire curved around the two riders and their horses without singeing a hair on man or beast. Turning his head, Robert spurred his animal forward and arrows flew past on both sides. Ahead, the general leaned against the mane of his own horse, clinging and giving him his head with the loose reigns. At his side his right boot kicked spurs against ribs. Like the flames, the arrows glanced around the two men as if they had bounced off some unseen force. Despite the heat in the air, the prince felt icy cold and the breath of both horse and man turned to mist in the night.
Sarai Horslei stood in her chambers, looking out from her western facing window and thinking about Robert. Will he be successful? Will his negotiations force father to grant entrance to the Pescari, allowing the humanitarians to aid and feed the homeless? This thought troubled her the most as she agonized over the long walk that the Pescari people had made and how they had been forced from their homes by the erupting caldera. Why can’t he understand that they didn’t choose to come to Weston? She wished that he would listen to the nobles, men like Cassus Eachann.
Cassus was a good man. He cared about the poor in the city as well as the less fortunate throughout Andalon. When she had discussed the Pescari with him, he had lit up immediately and beamed with excitement at the idea. He proposed building a new ward in the city, temporary of course, until the Pescari could be taught farming and granted plots of land on the steppes across the river. That land was ideal and largely unfarmed. Why can’t father be as open minded as Cassus?