by Scott Rhine
The smith clasped his hand. “Brothers.”
An only child, the astronomer repeated the word softly.
Legato shouted, “Move!”
Pinetto found the group of about a dozen archers hurriedly grabbing their personal gear. One was breaking down a tent. “Leave it! We cross now,” he ordered.
The sentry he’d met before handed him two wooden racks with handles on the top almost like a croquet set, but much heavier. Inside were rows of foot-long metal darts. “I’m Strongbow. Those are for you.” Strongbow was a Semenosian with a bow made from magically hardened holy wood. Most men in the company couldn’t even string the beast let alone fire it. This gave the archer a certain informal command status among the troops.
“I’ve never used anything like this before,” the wizard protested as they hustled to the banks of the river. “What do I do?”
“Pretend the people coming toward you are trying to kill you. Kill them first.” Then no one could be heard over the splashing and shivering in the river. Fortunately the water level never rose as far as his testicles.
Pinetto guided them to the easiest landfall. When Strongbow arrived, he began to bark orders. “I need a forty-five degree arc of coverage. The wings aim long and fire at will. Center gets the hostiles that reach the water.”
“What about me?” asked the fledgling wizard, chilled to the bone.
“You’re cleanup. Anyone gets to this side, or even the shallows, you take care of them before they reach us. We’re going to be too busy to defend ourselves,” explained the head sentry, removing his bow from its waterproof wrap. “No pressure,” said Pinetto unpacking his toy darts and planting them in a circle around him. There were thirty darts in all. His bolo was still in the tent.
The spike pits were torched, lighting the beach, as his fellows finished their meager preparations. The wizard felt helpless as the action started. His darts didn’t have the range to even cross the river. But he could see what was happening in startling detail, better than anyone else. When a bright, white column flared into the sky, Pinetto explained with a grin, “We just killed their first spirit. One for our side, boys.”
The tent was cut to ribbons by the spirit assault, but the smith and the prince held the wolves at bay, the Defender slashing the nose or flank of any wolf that got too close. After losing two or three of their best spirits, the summoners recalled the beasts. A cheer went up from the men of the South.
The first few ox herders got lost in the dark and began to drift with the river current. Pinetto called out to them. “To me, anyone who wants to live! Over here.” Once a line of men and goods stretched across the river, maintaining it was easy. Unfortunately, men from both sides of the conflict began pouring into the water. Before long, the wizard had to launch his first dart to protect a herdsman from a charging Imperial. The dart only hit the man’s leg, but was sufficient to discourage pursuit. The next target took two throws before he collapsed into the dark waters.
The more darts Pinetto threw, the more he prayed. Soon, he got good at both. Eventually Sajika showed up to guard his back, and a growing number of scouts covered his flanks. He had injured at least twelve men and had only five darts left when the smith clapped his friend on the shoulder.
“Leap frog up the hill behind us,” the smith said, covered in gore.
Pinetto nodded. This leg of the trip was easier. He needed only three darts before the leaders declared it safe enough to huddle.
“Over thirty of ours made it,” announced Legato.
“Gods,” whispered a few people.
“Your wizard did well,” said Strongbow. “Killed as many as I did, and that’s saying something. How many you figure we cost them?”
Legato shrugged. “No telling. I say we cut them down two for every one we lost. Not bad for an ambush against us.”
“What’s wrong with your foot?” asked Sajika.
The prince winced. “I cut the bottom on an Imperial helmet lying in the river; the nose-guard was steel. I’ll be moving a little slow for a while.”
“Allow me,” said Sajika, taking out some wine and dressing the wound while they rested.
“Now what?” asked the smith.
Legato screamed in pain briefly as the alcohol hit his foot to clean out the river mud. “Run north like we planned.”
“What about the catapults?” asked Pinetto.
The prince shook his head. “Not today. We can drop caltrops and a few trees across the road on this side to slow them down, but as a war unit, we’re finished. There are just over sixty of us who can still fight, and I’d guess only about a dozen honors. In these conditions, standing orders are that such a unit goes guerrilla and harasses the enemy.”
Everyone around the circle nodded assent, or at least understanding. The prince continued, “We’ll take a few bits to get our clothes and boots on, but then we don’t stop moving till morning.” Throughout the empire, the coin system was the same as the time system: seventy heartbeats per bit, seventy copper bits per silver hour, and so forth.
Pinetto desperately wanted sleep, but went along with the experts. He took the opportunity to catch up with his friend the smith. “Well, we’re heading to the mines like you wanted.”
“I hope that this sort of thing doesn’t happen every time we delay,” said the smith darkly.
“You really don’t think the gods work like that, do you?” said Pinetto.
The smith said nothing, but cleaned pieces of skin and hair out of his hilt. The wizard sat beside him in silence, hoping that his nerves would calm down.
Once she sewed Legato’s foot wound closed, Sajika joined them. Along with the rest of his clothing, she gave Pinetto his bolo and a kiss. “You were a hero tonight,” she told him. “Will it ever be safe to sleep?”
The smith laughed. “Welcome to the scouts, Ambassador.”
Chapter 6 – Southern Politics
The chief steward winced, even as he delivered the news to a pregnant and temperamental Lady Kragen. “Milady, your new flagship waits for you at the docks.” He handed her the papers for the vessel as well as the bill of lading.
“I’m the head of this family, and I need to be at the center of the action to plan properly,” she replied. Humi was smaller than most Imperials, just beginning to blossom into womanhood, with a hint of her mother’s dusky, exotic skin. Lord Kragen’s last written instruction had been to acknowledge Humi as his wife and the boy she carried as his heir. Wizards, underworld figures, and a large shipping industry now bowed to her formidable will.
They’d intercepted a message meant for the generals laying siege to Innisport. Because of recent turmoil caused by widespread assassinations, Bablios had abandoned its hold on Tamarind Pass. Without guards on the mouth of the Tamarind River, the Kragen navy could strike along the waterway faster than any land-based force. With the help of the Brotherhood, she intended to storm Silverton, the capital city of Zanzibos. Troops were already being ferried out of this city in secret.
“Your p-pardon, milady, Innisport will be p-poorly defended. You and your unborn child might be captured. No conquest is worth that,” the steward recited rapidly. As a storm gathered on her face, he invoked the name of calming. “General Morlan was explicit in his instructions, and the Sept has agreed with him. The safest location for you is in the center of the vast territory you control, protected on all sides.”
Morlan, the Imperial bodyguard, had been stabbed through the throat while defending Lord Kragen, losing his voice in the process. Humi had personally nursed the young, broad-shouldered, strong-jawed fighter back to health. Largely due to Morlan, every bold plan she proposed for House Kragen had succeeded. Because of his undying devotion to her and the regard that the Brotherhood of Executioners held him in, she’d promoted the bodyguard to general in charge of the invasion.
Glancing at the papers, she complained, “This is a merchant vessel.”
“The fastest available, madam. Our only other choice was the protecti
on of your warship, and your orders were clear for that in the campaign. Prolonged land travel might endanger the Kragen heir.”
Mollified, she looked for some other flaw in Morlan’s usual, iron-clad reasoning. “It’s an awfully large ship for me and my honor guard.”
“The ship had to be large enough to bear the highest-order spirit wards.” The steward handed her the orders for the increased contingent of guards. “He has made provision to protect you against every danger.”
Reading the cargo manifest, she snorted, “A luxurious provision it is. We couldn’t eat half this.”
Being a mute, Morlan was impossible to argue with. This left the steward to face her wrath. “Before marching north against King Zandar, he left you a letter explaining everything,” the steward said, holding up the parchment like a ward.
The document was full of Morlan’s well-reasoned words, but the Lady perceived a motive much deeper than logistics of war. As proof, he’d renamed her new vessel The Beauty. Imperial men could never say what they meant when it came to emotions. She tucked the letter into her kimono to reread later. She sighed, “He makes a convincing argument. Take me to the ship.”
The steward bowed, “It shall be done as you require.”
“I know,” she whispered. King Zandar had insulted her, refusing her family lands and title due to her mixed blood. Morlan would behead the king single-handedly, if only to make her smile. He’d push his troops to move at impossible rates if only to return to her one day sooner.
This is precisely why Humi had told no one in Innisport about the Emperor Sandarac’s marriage proposal. On the face, the deal held promise; however, she needed two pieces of crucial information. Could she trust the Pretender, and could this man deliver on his goal of world conquest?
Once onboard the merchant vessel and heading toward the Kragen Palace under cover of darkness, Humi dispatched her pet Shadow to question the one person whose plans had always been bolder and more ruthless than her own: General Navara. During his final battle, Lord Kragen had bound his lecherous apprentice, Tumberlin, to a molten chunk of Emperor’s Glass. With techniques from her dead husband’s secret journals, Humi could command the man’s spirit to go anywhere she desired. Tumberlin’s spirit form could be used to scout, carry messages, or terrify her enemies. That night, Tumberlin returned much later than usual. She had to inflict pain on him via his life-stone to draw him back again.
Wheezing from exertion, poor health, and the punishment, the apprentice returned to his body, which was chained just outside the dark Lady’s sorcerous circle of protection.
“Why were you late?” Humi demanded, fingering her magic pearls like worry beads.
“Navara had a lot to say,” hissed Tumberlin’s crumpled form. “He had to wake some people up to ask a few important questions of his own.”
“Tell me everything he said!”
The emaciated face sneered, dark eyes mocking her. He no longer looked at her in lust; his appetites had changed during these many weeks of disembodied travel. “I don’t know if I should tell you. Ask me nicely.”
The Lady answered by holding the life-stone over an open flame. Both she and the Shadow were burned in the process. However, she willed herself not to cry out. Although Tumberlin’s screams were briefer than normal, he was panting when he replied, “Shatter my mind and you lose your message. Destroy me and you destroy your greatest weapon. You rely on me. You need me.” The last words came out as a shriek as the flame licked again.
Humi was sweating from her efforts. “Do I have to break your bones again, traitor?”
“No! I merely point out that you underestimate my worth,” Tumberlin hissed.
Humi spit over her shoulder. “Dog shit has more value to me.” She considered for a moment and added, “But this wastes my time. What is it you wish?”
Tumberlin bit his own crusty lip to avoid smiling. “I desire one free hour a night.”
Her nostrils flared. “I do not make bargains with devils.”
“I think you do.” This time the apprentice couldn’t suppress a grin. His facial stubble and the stubs of his broken teeth repulsed her. Humi grabbed one end of a nearby rope and pulled hard. The other end of the rope tightened around the apprentice’s throat, choking him and dragging him upwards. When she relaxed her grip and his breathing returned, Tumberlin said, “I hear that technique is pleasurable for a man during sex. Perhaps next time if you . . .”
This time, Humi tied the rope off to a metal tether on the floor and beat his dangling body with a metal-capped pole. The restraint system on board The Beauty was awkward due to its hasty rigging. Because she couldn’t risk stepping outside the protective circle at night, her questioning wasn’t effective. “It will be daylight soon,” she warned, as he slumped to the deck.
“We are at an impasse,” he eventually whispered. Only the added strength from draining the lives of fallen soldiers allowed him to resist. The flesh always thought of things in too short a time frame. For this reason, he would triumph over her.
“Ten bits,” she countered. “For this favor, you’ll answer every question I direct at you from now on.”
“Thirty-five, or I drop every other word from every message I deliver.”
She stared at his battered form and said, “For every heartbeat you are late, I will boil you in oil for seven. I reserve the right to revoke the boon if you evade or disobey me in any way. The rest will begin at midnight so that all critical work may be accomplished first.”
A look of relief crossed Tumberlin’s face. “Done.”
Then the dam broke and information began flooding forth. “Your first question was the easiest. Emperor Sandarac rarely gives his word and has consistently kept his promises. Examining his motives behind his offer will help to assure you of this. It’s well known that the Pretender has no heir and seems to have no interest in harems. He may be incapable of siring his own successor. It’s Navara’s considered opinion that Sandarac needs the male child you bear, and this will ensure your safety at least until the birth.” Tumberlin neglected to mention anything about Navara’s warnings about the treacherous nature of the Imperial court and the jealousy her sudden status might cause.
Humi briefly allowed herself to imagine the possible freedoms that such a life would entail. She would be an empress, yet bound to no man. “What about his ability to make war?”
Tumberlin shrugged. “War is first a political tool, and Sandarac has certainly shown himself adept at politics. The proposal itself is proof of this—turning a rival into a potential supporter overnight. Beyond political skill, he should be well supported by his subjects. His economy is strong, his harvests have been good, and his rule moderately popular. From all reports, he’s been studying from the Book of Dominion to learn more about how emperors wage war. His forces are well-known for skill in secrecy, alliances, and planning; nevertheless, Sandarac has never faced a large-scale armed confrontation. As our own Sept can attest, even the best plans rarely survive the first battle. No one can predict his true merit until this happens.”
“That was a very long ‘I don’t know’ delivered by another politician. I didn’t ask you for vague, noncommittal platitudes, I asked for advice.” To punctuate her displeasure, Humi cracked the end of the rope to one side like a lash.
The apprentice, weary of her moody outbursts, closed his eyes and rephrased what he had already shared. “Navara thinks that the marriage is a profitable one for all concerned. It consolidates power without the loss of valuable soldiers or gold. Sandarac’s methodical nature will also serve to compliment yours. You rely almost entirely on boldness and strength, even when you aren’t prepared for the consequences of your success.”
Her eyes flashed at the rebuke, but she held silent as he stated what he felt should’ve been obvious. For the sake of time and comfort, he also held back an insulting comment about the nature of women before continuing. “Delay all decisions possible until you are certain. Appear to agree while committing noth
ing irrevocable. This is the essence of statecraft. Use the betrothal periods and ceremony to your advantage. Semenea has been invaded by the Prefect of Bablios. If Sandarac can counter this threat within a reasonable period, wed him. If not, hand him over to the South on a platter and claim the throne as your reward.”
“It appears that I shall at least give my suitor the honor of meeting him face to face.” She summoned a porter and gave orders to set sail directly for the northern capital Reneau without stopping at her island palace.
“Now that we’ve taken care of the necessities, explain your insubordinate comment about my not being prepared,” she said, wanting to flay him.
“Only if I may speak freely,” Tumberlin insisted. She nodded slowly after consideration. Words could not harm her. “As one example, you have made this sheriff an obsession. What’re you planning on doing when you catch him? Torture him to death? That may make you feel better, but not the Heir. This man wasn’t even Lord Kragen’s murderer, only the catalyst. He has many potential uses. The emperor himself was interested enough to capture him independently. Why? Perhaps you would allow Sandarac some tie before you satisfy your own blind desires.”
“You wander perilously close to contempt,” she said, uncoiling a whip.
“You don’t deny it. Your obsession is so unthinking that you haven’t considered how to identify this sheriff. The emperor’s spymaster could have pulled any criminal out of a cell and tattooed him to match the description on our reward posters. Think! We have no witnesses from the palace who can clearly identify this culprit.”
Humi remained quiet for a long time, wanting to contradict her servant but unable to find a single fault.
Tumberlin envisioned her as a little girl getting scolded. “It’d be helpful to know why he instigated the assault or who he works for. Who told him where and when to strike? In the worst possible scenario, the Pretender may have arranged Lord Kragen’s assassination to strengthen his own claim to the throne! Only careful questioning of a verified live participant in the conspiracy would tell us what we need, impatient wench.”