by J. S. Morin
The most bookish of the students in Jinzan’s class, Jurl was a very serious young lad. His ancestry was unknown, or at least partly. He had been born to a whore in Dellanter, and there was plenty of speculation of his father likely being a member of the Imperial Circle. He had always studied hard and was once the top student in the class, but that ended once they were old enough for the Ranking.
Jinzan was the top-ranked student now. They had teased him for winters, for his darker skin—though their own grew nearly as dark in the summer months—for his accent, for the fact that he was from a lesser bloodline. The latter bothered him the most, since among the Megrenn, he would have been considered exceptionally well-bred. His parents were both sorcerers, though secretly, as it was only recently that Kadrin had granted Megrenn citizens the privilege of taking sorcerous training.
Jinzan had taken Ranking Day as a small sampling of the vendetta he was harboring. He had thrashed his classmates and easily claimed the top ranking, not even bothering to toy with them. He had even beaten the top student of the class ahead of him, before finally succumbing to one of the older and more polished duelists in the Academy.
“Rashan the Deceiver,” Jinzan added, unable to keep the contempt from his voice. His accent had been a bit stronger in those days, and he heard a few snickers at the slightly misspoken word.
“True enough. There is no need for bitterness, though. Megrenn is part of the Empire now, and those old grudges have been set aside. Your being here is proof enough of that,” Dolvaen said. “But that leads to an interesting topic. Does anyone—besides Jinzan—know how he got that name?”
“Was that when Warlock Rashan negotiated a peace deal and used the signing of the treaty as a cover for a surprise attack?” Jurl said. “That was Rashan’s Bargain, right? He offered them a good deal just to get them to agree to the terms, and at the signing ceremony, he killed all their top generals and their king, not to mention a dozen sorcerers.”
“I see someone has been reading The Diplomacy of Fire and Steel. All the knights read it as a matter of course, but I highly recommend it to anyone who wishes a deeper understanding of Warlock Rashan, or even just warfare in general.
“Does anyone else have other names he was known by?” Dolvaen asked, pausing to give the students an opportunity to respond but hearing nothing.
Jinzan could have gone on at some length of all the things he had heard Rashan called. His people were quite creative when it came to the subject, having been made a laughingstock by the long-dead tyrant. The warlock was eighty winters dead, and still the Megrenn were known for being naïve and trusting, all from that one incident. It had destroyed their identity as a free-thinking land of philosophers and warrior-poets in the minds of the world, and replaced it with the image of a farmer who invited a wolf to make peace with his chickens.
“Very well, then we move on to the war with Megrenn itself. At the time, Megrenn was believed to have been strong enough to withstand an extensive campaign, with allies from across the sea and with the goblins to the west and southwest, as well as favorable relations with the ogre tribes. As we now know, much of Megrenn’s strength was exaggerated, both by bards’ tales and careful use of spies to spread false rumors of treaties …”
Jinzan could feel the eyes of his classmates drifting to him as the talk centered around his homeland, its deficiencies, and their weaknesses as a people. Jinzan knew that Dolvaen was oblivious to the embarrassment he was causing, but the young sorcerer just hoped his skin—for the half shade darker it was than his pure-blooded Kadrin classmates—was dark enough to hide his blush.
* * * * * * * *
The serving girl who brought the wine was not one of the lord’s household staff—those had likely managed to flee with the rest of the lord’s household. She struggled with the wine cork, seemingly never having used a corkscrew before. The goblins had rather haphazardly organized their captives according to what they felt needed to be done, with no real attempt to find out who was qualified to what tasks. Presumably, Jinzan thought, they figured that the mundane tasks that would be required of them could be done by anyone.
The three goblins at the table with him shared a laugh at the girl’s ineptitude. Jinzan was tempted to just use a little magic to pull the cork out and be done with it, but he found himself distracted by the girl herself. She had jaw-length dark hair, and blue eyes, rimmed red from crying. She looked haggard—understandable given that her town had just been sacked by the very people she was trying to serve wine—but not very old. Jinzan suspected that she probably had a very young child somewhere nearby, being watched over by goblin guards and some barely pubescent girl. Still, despite not looking her best, she was comely enough, and Jinzan had not been among other humans for many long weeks.
[Your turn, sorcerer, make a play,] said N’ft’k, seated to Jinzan’s right. [Have the serving girl later.]
The goblins laughed at the comment. Despite not understanding a word of goblin-speech, the girl was savvy enough to get the gist of the comment, and she blushed as she continued to stab at the top of the wine bottle with the corkscrew.
Jinzan turned and looked sidelong down at his tiles, absently playing one. He had given up on trying to win and was just playing for the sake of playing now. His gaze fell on the lesser-ranked General N’ft’k, and his eyes narrowed. The goblin’s laughter petered out awkwardly under Jinzan’s glare. He turned his attention back to the serving girl, looking her in the eye as he took the bottle and corkscrew from her hand.
“Here, allow me,” he told her in Kadrin.
With a few expert twists, he had the corkscrew in and easily pulled the cork out without needing any magic. She set out four goblets and took the bottle back from Jinzan to begin to pour their drinks. After she had poured the first two, he held out a hand for her to stop.
“Just a moment,” he told her, still using her own language.
“Haru bedaessi leoki kwatuan gelora,” and N’ft’k rose suddenly from his chair. The ceilings of Lord Feldrake’s manor home were thrice the height of a man, nearly six times the height of a goblin. Jinzan left the unfortunate goblin pinned heavily to the ceiling, as if leaving a sack of grain atop him. He then took up the two empty goblets and stood.
“I believe I will take my leave of you gentlemen for tonight. Please thank General N’ft’k for his suggestion when he returns,” Jinzan reverted to Megrenn, which he assumed the serving girl did not understand, but he knew that G’thk did not speak Kadrin. He cared not a whit whether the tinker could, but he would not have put it past the wily old goblin.
As the sorcerer stalked off toward the room he had borrowed in Feldrake Manor, he gestured imperiously behind him.
“Come along,” he ordered in Kadrin.
A swish of skirts and the scuffling of soft shoes on the lord’s rugs told him that he had been heeded.
* * * * * * * *
Jinzan let out a long sigh. He felt more relaxed than he had in a long time. He had been so caught up in his plans for the assault on Raynesdark that he had not taken the time to properly celebrate Denrik’s return to the seas. Certainly, though, the wine and the exertions of the unclad serving girl curled asleep on his chest had helped some as well.
He did not feel that he had mistreated the girl. He had offered her no violence, and she had not protested, which for Jinzan’s conscience was enough, given the circumstances. He could not entirely fool himself into thinking she had gone to his bed willingly, since the implied threat of violence was present, whether he would have carried through with it or not. He told himself that he was better than the Kadrins who had sacked Megrenn in his grandfather’s time. The girl, whose name he had not even asked, had been frightened and trembling when he took her away from the goblins. Now she lay sleeping peacefully.
He had come near to killing N’ft’k just a short while ago. It might have been the final hole that would sink his ship, had he gone through with it. G’thk was growing weary of him, he could tell. Perhaps it
would be best to keep out of the way of the goblin general for a few days. He had to keep in mind that without the goblins, he lacked the means to take Raynesdark and get into the mines.
The Staff of Gehlen would give him the power to make the Kadrins truly pay. The aether-void around its tomb had been impenetrable for thousands of summers, the draw against all aether within a few paces of it was ferocious. The wards that protected it rebuilt themselves and repaired chips that were knocked loose from spears, sling-stones, and arrows. Even catapults seemed unable to harm it enough to break through before it undid the damage the siege engine could inflict. Cannons would be different.
He just needed patience.
He wrapped an arm around the sleeping serving girl, who stirred slightly at his touch. He felt the warmth and smoothness of her skin. He had not been with a woman in far too long. Jinzan laid his head back and closed his eyes, snuffing out the magical light that had kept away the darkness as midnight approached.
It was time to see what Captain Zayne was up to.
Chapter 24 - How to Start a War
Brannis closed the door to the library behind him as he exited, thankful that no other guards had been posted in the meantime. Rashan had allowed him to sleep in the unguarded library for the rest of the night. Brannis’s head hurt where the warlock had slugged him, but apparently Rashan knew what he was doing, and there had been no blood, and any bruise would likely be covered by the fall of his hair. The latter was just a guess, as the library had no mirror, and Brannis had yet to find anywhere to freshen up. His face was scratchy with stubble, and his clothes had been slept in; he expected that he looked much less the Grand Marshal than perhaps he should.
That demon can explain to everyone why I look like I have just stumbled home from the taverns, if anyone asks.
Brannis eschewed his quest for a wash basin and mirror, or even a morning meal, and headed for the offices of the various Inner Circle members, whose entrances were the floor below the Sanctum. The Tower of Contemplation was ornately appointed and well lit with aetherial lights, but sorely lacked for windows. Brannis was unsure how late the hour had grown, but the activity level in the Tower suggested that it was at least a respectable hour of the morning. There was a general bustle of sorcerers and servants about the main central stairways that Brannis took to be business as usual; he had little basis for comparison, however, since he had only been there previously under extenuating circumstances.
As he reached the door to the high sorcerer’s office (now occupied by a warlock), he overheard voices within. It struck Brannis as odd that the Inner Circle would be so careless—or arrogant—as to leave their doors unwarded against eavesdroppers.
Maybe they are so paranoid that the wards produce false conversations to be overheard? Brannis mused. That seemed more in keeping with the sorcerers he knew.
Trying to avoid the impression that he was loitering in the hopes of overhearing them, he knocked smartly on the door. The conversation abruptly halted, and a breath later, the door opened. Brannis stepped quickly aside as a middle-aged sorcerer brushed past him.
“Congratulations, Marshal,” Shador Archon greeted him in passing.
Brannis was familiar enough with Shador, a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman nearly his own size. Shador’s hair was grey at the temples, but it was his only concession to aging. He was Second Circle and likely one of the sorcerers who had been overlooked for the vacancies Rashan had created among the Inner Circle, though Brannis had never kept such close accounting of the Circle’s hierarchy. Shador was also Juliana Archon’s father.
“Thank you, Sorcerer Shador,” Brannis replied, caught somewhat off guard.
He was not quick enough of wit so soon after waking to formulate a follow-up question. Pleasantries dispensed with, the older sorcerer took his leave, and Brannis could only watch after him as the Questions Ministry within his mind slowly began catching up on its workload.
Brannis, still looking over his shoulder, entered Rashan’s office. He turned his attention back to the warlock as Shador passed out of sight down the stairs. He was seated in an overly large armchair, clearly better suited to the late Gravis Archon’s stature than his own. The office was bereft of most of its contents, the personal effects of the previous high sorcerer having already been reclaimed by his kin. Heavens Cry rested in its sheath on an otherwise empty bookshelf, and a few notes and books were scattered about the desk, clearly what Rashan had been working on in his brief time back at the head of the Imperial Circle.
“Good morning, Brannis. Close the door behind you, if you would,” Rashan said. Once Brannis had complied, he continued: “All is well in your dreams?”
“After a fashion, yes.”
“The spell I showed you proved adequate?” Rashan asked.
“It was not entirely how I expected it to go, but generally, yes,” Brannis answered, still puzzled by the warlock’s interest—and the fact that he had taken Brannis’s bizarre quest the previous night so seriously. There was a long pause, and Brannis felt the need to elaborate to fill the uncomfortable silence: “Is there a way to have it bring your clothes along?”
Rashan smiled. “Practice, mostly.”
That seemed to be enough to satisfy the demon that he had actually put his advice into practice. Brannis wondered if Rashan was trying to verify whether he really had been able to perform the magic in his dream.
“Come, let us get to work this morning,” Rashan said. “There are goblins at work on our western border, and we need to determine their plan. I received a message via the speaking stone in Naran Port that Illard’s Glen was sacked three days ago. Refugees have escaped to Raynesdark and Korgen, with messengers reaching Naran Port late last night,” Rashan said.
He pushed aside the documents and books that covered the desk and drew a map from one of the desk drawers. It showed the Kadrin Empire as it stood presently. By Brannis’s estimation, the map could be no more than twenty summers old, given that it showed an independent Megrenn and what was once Tuermon still a part of the Empire. In Rashan’s wars, Megrenn had fallen before Tuermon.
“How many survivors? What of Lord Feldrake?” Brannis was going to have to get used to Rashan’s blunt style of delivering even shocking news. Most of the generals that Brannis knew were prone to much more preamble prior to getting to the heart of a matter.
“Wrong question. Think to win first, then worry about the cost,” Rashan said.
“How large a force? Was there any indication whether they were settling in to occupy, or just using the city as a way to resupply and cross the Neverthaw?” Brannis tried again.
“Much better. The survivors estimated that there were at least sixty thousand troops,” Rashan said, and Brannis’s blood chilled. That was no tactical force to strike and flee with. That was a full-scale invasion. “They also had at least a few sorcerers among them, which is not unusual for a goblin army, especially one that size. There were reports of some new siege engine, similar to a catapult, which the goblins have invented. It tore huge holes in the town wall, allowing Illard’s Glen to be overrun by goblin infantry. There was an unconfirmed report that there was a human traveling among the goblins, as well.”
Rashan stared at Brannis for a moment, then asked, “What do you make of it?”
“Illard’s Glen is too small a town for goblins to have sent such a large force. Goblins prefer to attack with a clear advantage, but they could have sacked Illard’s Glen with a third that force.”
“I agree.” Rashan nodded.
“If the report is true that there was a human consorting with the goblins, I would wager heavily that he is Megrenn. Megrenn raiders had taken control of High Pass with none of us the wiser, so it stands to reason that this activity by the goblins is in support of that effort. I think it is safe to assume that there is some degree of coordination between the goblins and the Megrenn to take at least some portion of the western part of the Empire. I would assume if that is the case, then the human is a liai
son.”
“That seems reasonable. As to your other question, the survivors could make no clear determination of the goblins’ intent. They had made no concerted attempts to hunt down the refugees, and were flooding the city with troops, but they could just be consolidating their forces and resupplying. They had not burned the town, so I think it safe to conclude that they are staying long enough to want roofs above their heads at night.”
“Illard’s Glen is no great prize—no offense meant to those farmers and other loyal Kadrins who live there—so we must assume they will have further plans. East of Illard’s Glen is Raynesdark.” Brannis pointed at the map, mostly for reference and to help him think aloud. He had no reason to suspect that Rashan knew any less about Kadrin geography than he did. “South along the Neverthaw is Korgen.” Brannis pointed again. “And at the mouth of the Neverthaw is Naran Port. Now Naran Port would be quite a prize. They would take over all our western shipping and seriously curtail any ability of ours to land reinforcements west of the Cloud Wall Mountains.
“But that would not explain why they would strike Illard’s Glen. Korgen is more directly on the path from Kelvie Forest, and even Korgen could be bypassed by overland routes if they were willing to march openly without tree cover.
“No, Raynesdark is their next target. The mines are still prosperous enough to make it an attractive target. There has not been gold in the Raynesdark mines for ages, but the deeper mines still yield diamonds, and the whole area is rich in iron ore.”
“The goblins worship their dragon gods,” Rashan said. “If some dragon remembers Raynesdark as rich in gold from ages long past, I could consider that they might have designs to take it for their own. So you think this is a mining expedition?”
“No, not really. It seems too straightforward. The goblins use enough strange minerals in their metallurgy that I doubt iron is a priority for them, and they could likely buy the diamonds from us for less than what this campaign is going to cost them. If I had to make a guess, there is something they want those mines for that they either cannot get by trade, or that they do not wish us to know about.”