Ascendant: Chronicles of the Red Lion

by F. C. Reed

  They walked towards the exit, Zerosa leading the way. Amalia took another quick glance at Thanial, who stared back at her. He hoisted his mug in a salute and smiled.

  She rolled her eyes in return and huffed, being sure to give her curly black braid a toss as she turned away. She joined Zerosa in the corridor.

  “Wonder what that was all about,” Zerosa commented.

  “I don’t know. He just happens to be around all the time.” Amalia tried to feign disinterest, but was failing.

  “Huh. Well at least you noticed that much,” said Zerosa with a wry grin.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  General Strann brooded over a stack of papers, studying each one in great detail before lending her signature to the documents. Warrants, recruitment efforts, security detachments, deployment assignments, and all manner of military business lay before her. She often worked alone and did not want influence from the greed and corruption or hunger for power from others. Her judgment on matters concerning the realm was influenced by ethics, morals and her knowledge of the aethersphere—all of which she was very well versed. Advisors were rarely used for advice. But something bothered her.

  General Strann agonized over the fact that Amalia was not always with her. She promised herself at the very beginning that she would allow Amalia to break herself in. That didn’t keep her from wondering where the girl was, what she was doing, and how much of this place she was learning and absorbing.

  Consumed in her own anxiety and guilt, she finally took a seat before a dying fire, hoping to consecrate her thoughts on the matter. The large plush chair hugged her shoulders, its red velvet soft against her arms, inviting her to release all her pain into its comfort. A soft knock echoed its wooden clunk throughout the center of the large, drab room.

  “Come,” she said as she wearily stood and approached the door to meet her guest.

  The primus cracked the door and stepped in. “I hope I’m not—

  General Strann snapped to attention.

  The primus approached General Strann and tugged at her shoulder. “Don’t be silly, Ryna. Relax. You act as though I am the primus of an aethersphere plane in the great celestial vortex instead of your friend.”

  General Strann motioned to the velvet chairs positioned near the fire, which had, since just recently, burned away. “And you are the primus of an aethersphere plane,” she responded as the two eased into their red comfort, unconsciously thankful for the caretaking tendencies of the chairs themselves. “How else am I supposed to greet you?”

  “That may be true, but I acknowledge you as my friend first,” the primus smiled. “Greet me with something other than a salute.”

  General Strann jabbed at the ebbing fire from her seat with a poker. “It’s late. What brings you by at this hour?” She motioned to the chair across from her.

  “I sought your company, is all,” the primus said, easing into the chair nearest to the fire.

  “I see. I can’t say that I believe you, but I see,” General Strann said.

  The primus chuckled softly to himself. “There was never fooling you. Always the observant general. Sensing fear, smelling anxiety. You are, without a doubt, adept at your post.”

  They sat quietly, the both of them knowing that there was much more to this meeting than idle chit-chat.

  “And Artemisia,” the primus questioned. “How is she adjusting?”

  “She is confused,” General Strann nodded. “Stronger than the previous, and she is certainly set to best me at some point. Although she has doubts and disbeliefs about several things, she will come around eventually.”

  “Does she suspect anything is amiss?” he asked.

  “Not that I’m aware of,” said General Strann. “But I wouldn’t doubt it.”

  The primus looked out of the frosted window at the shapes of fireflies that lazily floated past its pane. “That is not my reason for this meeting, but you already know that.” He gently stroked his long, graying beard as he spoke.

  The warmth of the room faded and withered, easily penetrated by the crisp night air. The cold soon accosted the tiny, insignificant fire that struggled to maintain itself.

  “My real reason for meeting with you,” the primus said, “is to tell you I have appointed you to become my chief advisor once Artemisia ascends to commander general.”

  General Strann’s eyes grew wide. She felt neither excitement nor relief, but an awkward temptation to run about the room, screaming and pulling out her hair. The dreaded day had come. The day had finally come for her to cease being a general. She loathed the thought of not being one; it was all she knew. This turn of events—this change in power and privilege was not what she wanted, but who was she to argue with destiny?

  The primus looked at the grief-stricken General Strann’s twisted features, trying to calculate the registry of emotion on the general’s face. It was not as he had hoped, but no different from what he had expected.

  General Strann felt she should say something, perhaps. But giving thanks was not exactly what she had in mind.

  “Why?” The query escaped General Strann’s clenched teeth in barely an audible murmur, not intended for others to hear her. “I would have mentored her. At least that was the plan. Why now?”

  “Because, my dear friend, I am dying. There is little aether left in me, and had I not been as reckless as I was in my youth, I would still have the strength to continue for a hundred more cycles. With my lineage harboring this damnable, accursed blood, I fear if I tap into the aether, even one more time, it will deplete me.”

  “It has advanced that much?” General Strann asked. She searched the sunken cheeks and dull gray eyes. Her comments were more meant to comfort him. He was dying by his withered look, the end stages of an age of transformation from then until now. “I don’t recall you using aether very much at all. From what I understand of the red terror, you’d have to be using aether regularly.”

  “You know how ravaging the red terror is. Look at me. Look at my face. This is no longer a face you know. Every time I have tapped into the aethersphere, my body paid dearly. Time triples. Accelerated aging. Rapid cellular death.” He lowered his head. “We have an opportunity to foster a new lineage that breaks the cycle, just like we planned all those years ago. Until that happens, I can come up with no one more deserving of the title of Prime Chancellor than you.” The primus stood slowly, wanting to comfort his friend over the news, but he figured his decision was for the very best, even if neither of them realized it.

  “And it’s about time you retired from dull, boring war tactics and take up the dangerous, yet exciting and vigorous struggles of politics.”

  “If that was a joke,” General Strann grumbled, “then it wasn’t very funny.”

  “You saw this coming, didn’t you?” the primus asked after a pause.

  “I did,” replied General Strann. “I knew I would need to step down once the lioness of the red was revealed. And now we all must shift chairs. Still, knowing doesn’t make the sting any less painful.”

  She stood to admit the primus to his leave, forcing a half-hearted smile as they walked to the heavy oak door. “I don’t have the words to thank you, primus.” Somehow within the last several minutes, General Strann felt older—as if the military position she held was the pillar of her youth, suddenly and violently kicked from under her very feet. She would have sufficed with mentoring Artemisia throughout her command, but that too came under threat.

  The primus grinned over his shoulder. “Don’t bother, because once you start into politics, and bureaucracy, and all the colorful personalities which accompany it, you will eventually regret ever having thanked me in the first place.”

  “How very reassuring,” General Strann said.

  The primus left the sulking general and the cold and inadequate flames of hopeful wishing in the stone-templed room behind him. How he would imagine over and over the reactions displayed behind that heavy oak door. And those reactions would soon begin with the
creaking of old hinges and an audible clunk of heavy wood behind him.

  The weary primus traversed the wide corridors to his own study, shrouded in discomfort, as the wind sneaked its way down the passage to land upon the back of his neck. After a few shuffling steps, he shooed away his personal guards, annoyed with their presence more than anything. He wanted to be alone.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “What is peace if not a cause worthy of war?” she said, more so to herself. “Commander General Tyran Cidael said that to me on the eve of battle at Ans Marta.”

  Captain Ursin’s green eyes flicked a hint of caution and concern in the pensive company of his commander general. Her sour mood etched itself carefully on her bronze face and furrowed brow, visible beneath the general’s intricate helmet and face guard.

  Captain Jameson Ursin, first officer to General Strann, was not as grand a soldier as his commanding officer in stature or reputation. Even with an arm lost in a long ago battle, he proved on many occasions to be ten times the better swordsman than most would like to admit. His skills were due to the aethermechanical reconstruct grafted in place of the missing limb.

  “Sir, the Crimson Bloodguard has been successful at holding off the hordes of the Legion for many years now.”

  “Bastille commands the Legion and fights alongside them.” General Strann removed her helmet slowly as she looked out over the walls of the Lybane sentry stronghold. Thick coils of graying ebony spilled onto her shoulders as she had not pinned her hair in place for lack of sleep the night before.

  “And now he is coming here to Lybane or to Koroval in the southwest. Given his direction of approach, it will be here, no doubt.”

  “We have prevailed many times before, whether or not Bastille fought with his Legion.” An edge of uncertainty laced Ursin’s voice, despite his efforts to seem unbothered by General Strann’s cautions and precautions.

  “True,” General Strann sighed as a disturbing thought stirred in her mind. “But this time is different. More and more each day, the calm grows. It is as if they lie in wait.”

  Captain Ursin scratched at the itchy stubble on his chin, more annoyed now that he skipped the morning’s shave than when he’d skipped it. “Ah,” he nodded. “Careful is the commander who tends to the safety of a people’s existence. And the fact that the girl is not ready, I would assume, also brings you worry.”

  The shadows of their figures stretched out over the dense cover of forest that was the jungled pass of Bongorra, far to the north. Two fiery spheres rose slowly on the horizon behind them as they prepared their celestial dance around one another over the course of the day. Beyond the Bongorran jungle pass there was void. Hell. Horrors of the world that threatened the entire plane and the very existence of its inhabitants.

  The two of them stood in silence for a few brief moments observing the emerging landscape, the same as they did most mornings, before General Strann turned herself to leave.

  “For the time that I have been charged with the duties of this plane’s guardian, it has taught me one great thing: to fear the quiet. To fear peace. As that peace grows, so too does its opposite. Laws of the aethersphere prevail. And we fight. We survive to protect, or die in the attempt. Or we age and we die. Or we fall ill, and we die. Or we die by the sword. But that?” She pointed a gauntleted hand out over the sands, rocks, and forested hills before her at the blackened earth at the end of the world, just barely visible. “That may never die. It existed before us, and will continue long after us. This is a tumultuous time. One that can destroy everything.”

  Captain Ursin nodded in agreement. “We must carry out our original plan, or we will never again know peace.”

  General Strann sighed again as she made her way back to her command chamber. “Be well, Ursin.” She wanted to say more, but decided against it.

  General Strann appreciated her first officer more than he knew. He was a full, rugged sort of fellow, and still a half head shorter than his general. His loyalty and fortitude sustained even her in troublesome times of war and politics. His sword also staved off her demise on more than one occasion, as is expected of a personal guard. On that front, she owed her life to Jameson Ursin’s courage on more than one occasion as well.

  General Strann had originally gone out to the watch post to let Captain Ursin know that she had been summoned by the Primus Rexx himself - Valister Argos IX, to join his cabinet as prime chancellor, and later, take his place as primus, once the time came for her to do so. She was also to let him know that he would command the Crimson Bloodguard until Artemisia could rise to the occasion.

  The words stuck fast in her throat, and in her mind, and in her heart. She thought to tell him later. In truth, she rather hoped he found out in some other way.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Hit me,” Marchand said. His bones popped into place as he pushed himself into a standing position after leaning his cane against a nearby bench. The training hall was empty aside from the faint smell of leather and sweat that permeated the wood. Amalia did not expect to be training alone. She frowned at the old man’s statement.

  “I think—

  “Then go away. Go away!” he repeated. The rumble in his voice made Amalia’s spine shiver. He turned away from her and snatched up his cane.

  “You’re supposed to teach me,” she insisted.

  “Oh, really?” Marchand peered over his shoulder. “I’m supposed to teach you? I’m also supposed to piss in a pot when a bush will do just fine. And I’m supposed to eat with utensils and not my hands. I’m also supposed to attend those gods awful meetings when I prefer lounging about and watching the pretty girls walk by.”

  He rolled his shoulders to ease their stiffness. “And you’re trying to think, while I instruct you. What do these have in common?” He continued without waiting for an answer. “The second is easier, more satisfying, safer, or more efficient than the first.” His fierce eyes shone against the rays of sunlight peeking through windows. “So if you want to think,” he spat, “then you’re wasting my time.”

  “Wait,” Amalia said. “I’ll listen. I want to learn.”

  Marchand turned back with a gentle smile on his face, all evidence of the fury swiftly removed. “Good. You will do as I say without question or hesitation. Commit to every single action. I will not tolerate halfheartedness.” He positioned himself in front of her once again. Another loud pop echoed throughout the hall as he straightened himself to his full height.

  “Now,” he said, lowering his eyes, “hit me.”

  Amalia hesitated, then shrugged off her concerns for him. She pulled her fists to her chest. She wasn’t a talented fighter, although she had her fair share of scraps, thanks to Christina Cross. That made her, at least, a passible fighter. But the old man could not possibly be a challenge.

  She was wrong.

  Amalia swung at him, and he snapped his head out of the way at the last second. He returned to his original position.

  Surprised, but undeterred, she swung again. The same set of events unfolded to the same results.

  “What the…” she muttered when she saw that his eyes were closed. She moved a little to his left. This time she swung and followed through with a kick. He arched his back, dodging the punch. Then he leaned on his cane while extending his leg. The old man’s foot smacked against Amalia’s shin halfway through her kick, rendering the kick useless. Then he returned to his original position.

  Amalia took a step back and charged him. How could she possibly miss when his eyes were still closed?

  Marchand slapped down hard at Amalia’s hand as she ran at him. She twisted and teetered, having lost her balance in the exchange. As she fell, she felt the back of his hand connect with the back of her neck. The other hand came around in front of her shoulder. With a quick roll of his hands, she felt powerless in his control. By alternating his hand positions on her neck and shoulders, he twisted and roll her over several times, and send her spinning through the air.

&
nbsp; The throw disoriented her, as did the impact with the ground. It knocked the wind out of her. Out of breath and more frustrated than she had ever been in her life, she lay there for a moment, just to gather what was left of her pride.

  “I believe I have made a mistake.” She heard Marchand’s voice somewhere above her head. Opening her eyes, she was met with a wide grin formed by the mouthful of false teeth. An outstretched hand invited her to take it.

  “Oh yeah?” Amalia groaned as Marchand helped to pull her to her feet. “And what mistake is that?”

  “I should have started with the instructions for you to try to hit me, seeing as how you have failed to actually hit me.” He shook his head.

  “Wouldn’t I love to,” Amalia grumbled as she brushed herself off. She knew that smug, self-satisfied, and unnaturally toothy grin was waiting for her when she looked at him.

  “Now what did you learn?”

  The question caught Amalia off guard. “Well, nothing yet.”

  “What did you see, then?” His smile faded a little at her hesitation.

  Amalia raised her eyebrows and shrugged.

  “By the green hells,” he cursed. Looking skyward, he shook his head. “Why would you see fit to send me a girl with all the brains of a fistful of dirt?”

  Amalia grimaced. She knew this roiling mixture of insult and humiliation and anger only too well. She began to make a protest, but was cut short.

  “What you should have learned, Serradon, is that following every single one of your clumsy attacks I fended off—

  “You returned to your original position,” she finished in her own display of frustration. “I noticed.”

  Marchand’s hand shot up to quiet her. He squinted his beady, hooded eyes. “Say that again,” he asked her with some suspicion.

  “I said you went back to your original position after—