by Sarah Hawke
“That’s the understatement of the century, sir,” Cassel muttered.
“After your triumphant return, all eyes are upon us—those that aren’t searching the sky for the dragon, anyway.” Crowe’s smile slowly faded. “This was the only spot I could think of that might offer us a little privacy.”
Cassel nodded, though his confused frown remained. The commander was right about the lack of privacy, of course—they had both been surrounded by aspirants and squires and newly recovered knights from the moment the siege had been lifted four days ago. Cassel had spent nearly every hour since then preparing for the worst. Tahira’s power had been steadily growing—she was able to sustain her connection to the other knights for several days at a time now—but having their magic back didn’t mean they were ready for battle. The Order was still massively short-handed on all fronts, and unfortunately, the knights were the only ones capable of magically shielding the city and its defenders from the enemy wyverns and channelers.
Then again, maybe their friendly neighborhood Wyrm Lord would save Highwind all by himself. Cassel still wasn’t sure what to think about any of that…
“The Order is changing, Julian,” Crowe said into the long silence. “The whole bloody world is changing, and I can’t help but feel like flotsam being dragged along by the tide.”
“Sir?” Cassel asked, arching an eyebrow.
“A few months ago, the Silver Conclave was leaderless but intact—we all knew what had to be done, more or less. But now…” Crowe sighed. “Deswick is still refusing Tahira’s help. I doubt he’ll last much longer.”
Cassel nodded solemnly. “Stubborn to the bitter end.”
“Mercifully, his defiance hasn’t spread—almost everyone else has come around, even the men most loyal to him. But Theon is the last Knight-Commander left, aside from me, and there’s no such thing as a Conclave of one.”
“We can rebuild after the war,” Cassel assured him. “To be honest, sir, I don’t think the Order needs a ruling committee right now, anyway. It needs a new Highlord—it needs you.”
Crowe scoffed and paced over to Highlord Kastrius’s memorial stone. A long, wooden case was laid out across the offering table along with an array of flowers and gemstones. Everything was pristine and unblemished; it was all so new that there wasn’t even a layer of dust yet.
“A year ago, I would have accepted that promotion with the biggest grin you’d ever seen,” Crowe whispered. “But like I said, the world is changing. We still don’t fully understand Tahira’s powers, and I can’t predict what’s going to happen in an hour, let alone in the weeks and months after the battle. But right now, what the Order needs is a leader on the battlefield. Someone who can organize our defenses and give us a real shot at driving back the Inquisitrix—someone the men will follow regardless of their title, not because of it.”
Cassel eyed the older man up and down. “Sir?”
“Without the Conclave, there isn’t much point in standing on formality anyway,” Crowe went on with a grin. “I just wanted to make sure that the men had a few hours to get used to calling you ‘Commander’ instead of ‘Captain.’”
Cassel blinked and tried to speak, but his voice had deserted him.
“Congratulations, Knight-Commander,” Crowe said, extending his hand. “I hope you’ll forgive the lack of fanfare.”
“Sir, I…” Cassel reached out as if in a daze and slowly shook the other man’s hand. “I don’t know what to say.”
“First, you have to stop calling me ‘sir.’ Nathaniel is fine, though I suppose Crowe will suffice. Second…” Crowe smiled. “You need a new badge of office.”
After producing a small key from his belt, the older man turned back to Kastrius’s shrine and slid it into the lock protecting the wooden case. Cassel had wondered what weapon was kept inside, given that the Highlord had been buried along with his sword.
“It’s called Retribution,” Crowe said, smiling down at the blade within. “One of the many relics Kastrius sent his squires to find over the years.”
Cassel’s mouth fell open when the commander gently lifted the weapon into the dim, solemn light. It was easily the most beautiful and elegant sword Cassel had ever seen. The blade was easily five feet long from pommel to tip—half again the size of his current sword—and the grip was clearly designed for two hands. The flat of the blade was inscribed with dozens of small runes, and a blue gemstone was embedded within the handle. He could feel dormant power thrumming inside the weapon, just waiting to be called.
“Kastrius insisted that it was forged in the Dawn Citadel over a thousand years ago,” Crowe went on, allowing the weapon to lie flat in his palms. “Allegedly, it was wielded by one of the first Highlords of the Last Dawn.”
Cassel shook his head. “Escar’s mercy.”
Crowe chuckled, gazing down at the blade like a father adoring a beloved child. “You don’t know the half of it. When Kastrius showed it to Archmage Beloran a few years ago, the old man claimed it might have been one of the legendary Bâl Frohim blades lost in the wake of the Godswar.”
“But that’s—”
“Bullshit? Probably.” Crowe shrugged. “We aren’t even sure if they were real to begin with. All I know for certain is that the original Highlord liberated this blade from Griffonwing and brought it over here during the schism. Kastrius refused to use it for that reason—it was too precious as a relic to risk getting blood on it.”
Cassel tried to close his jaw, but it had apparently joined his stomach on the floor. The Bâl Frohim had allegedly housed splinters of Escar’s divine soul to prevent the Guardian God from being trapped within the Pale by the Avetharri Wyrm Lords. No one knew what had happened to those swords—or if they had ever been real in the first place—but the thought of even touching such a weapon made Cassel’s knees weak.
“Sir, I—”
“It’s Nathaniel, remember?” Crowe said. “Look, I’m all in favor of preserving relics of the past, but they aren’t going to do anyone a damn bit of good if the Inquisitrix takes the city. She’ll probably burn this whole bloody temple to the ground and destroy everything inside it. Someone insane enough to believe they’re a new god probably isn’t going to tolerate any reminders of the old ones.”
The commander pivoted and offered the weapon to Cassel. “You’re a better swordsman than I ever was, even in my youth. Take it—if we feel like locking the damn thing back up after the war, so be it. But in the meantime, I suggest you show those Senosi butchers what a righteous blade in the hands of a real paladin can do.”
Cassel could hear his heart pounding in his ears as he took the sword. The blade was just as heavy as he had expected; he would need to bolster his strength with the Aether if he wanted to wield it properly. Perhaps that was the point.
“I’ll leave you two alone so you can get acquainted,” Crowe said with a knowing smirk. “I’m late for a Council meeting anyway.” He took a few steps away before tossing a final glance over his shoulder. “Incidentally, you really should have asked about your new responsibilities before you took that sword. Guess who just volunteered to attend these horrible meetings from now on?”
Cassel blinked. “Wait, what? I—”
But Crowe was already gone.
***
“My men still need more support at the northern gate,” Constable Gerrard Mannick snarled as he jabbed his forefinger at the city map sprawled across the war table. “Our scouts have sighted dozens of enemy wyverns escorting the Vorsalosian fleet. We can’t afford to consolidate our defenses in any one place. They will attack our weakest point!”
Serrane Starwind narrowly resisted the urge to slam her bow down on the table. What she really wanted to do was nock an arrow and shoot him—or perhaps draw the twin elven blades from her hips and stab him—but that wasn’t an option. At least, not yet.
“How many times do I need to tell you that there aren’t any more men?” she snapped back. “We don’t have enough Knights of the Silver Fi
st to protect all the gates equally. We will need as many of them as we can muster in the harbor and along the southern wall to repel the bombardment from the enemy fleet. If their wyverns want to waste their time attacking gates where they can’t deploy any troops or exploit a breach in the walls, we should consider that a blessing.”
“A blessing that will get many loyal members of the Guard killed,” Mannick bit out. “They’ll be sitting ducks up there by themselves. At this point, we might as well leave the north gate totally undefended!”
“Which is exactly what I’ve been saying for the past hour,” Serrane reminded him. “Maybe you should crawl back into Darkwind and lick the Black Mistress’s boot while I defend the city.”
The constable’s face twisted in impotent rage. Serrane still couldn’t believe she was standing within arm’s reach of this bloody traitor without attacking him. If she’d gotten her way, Mannick and his toadies would have already been rotting in the Gray Citadel for treason. He had sold out the city to the Black Mistress, all for a taste of power that had evaporated the instant Jorem—a real Wyrm Lord—had taken to the skies.
The last few days had been an intolerable mess of ugly politics and last-second planning, but Serrane couldn’t deny that the city was in far better shape now than it had been during the siege. Thanks to Jorem, the Black Mistress had officially handed the reins of her forces over to the Council. Highwind suddenly had an actual army (albeit a ragtag one), and with the Knights of the Silver Fist reinvigorated, the city might have a chance to survive this war intact.
She just wished that the rest of the Highwind Guard weren’t so loyal to their constable. That was the real reason she was standing here in the Council war room arguing with Mannick as if the past few weeks had never happened. She couldn’t afford to lock him away, not without alienating the Guard and sabotaging their already precarious defenses.
In other words, she was playing politics. Just thinking about it made her stomach turn in disgust.
“I will not be talked down to by anyone, least of all you,” Mannick growled. “Everything I have done has been for the safety and survival of Highwind. If I hadn’t reached out to the—”
“I’m sick of arguing about this,” Serrane said, raising her hands and backing away from the map. “I’m sure you are, too. I’m willing to pretend I don’t hate you for a few minutes if you’re willing to do the same.”
The constable snorted and crossed his arms, but he didn’t protest. Serrane nodded and sighed, and she took a moment to pace around the war room and collect her thoughts. City hall had effectively been abandoned—they were the only two people in the building right now aside from the guards outside. The petitioners who usually filled the corridors were all huddled in their houses, as were the servants and plenty of the nobles. It was harrowing to consider that the Inquisitrix and her minions might be standing in this exact spot as early as tomorrow…
The war isn’t over yet, not by a long shot. Before I know it, city hall will be crawling with nobles desperate to buy or beg for their own seat on the Council. Maybe I should ask Jorem to burn the building down just to spare me the trouble.
Serrane snorted softly to herself and brushed several tousled strands of golden hair out of her eyes as she turned back around. Mannick’s scowl had mostly faded from his weathered face, though he still looked as irritated as ever. At times today, he had even seemed a little uncomfortable in Guardsman’s armor. Perhaps he had finally started to recognize his own mistakes…or, more likely, he was realizing he would actually have to be out there on the front lines of the coming battle to maintain his image. Demagoguery was all well and good until the fireballs started exploding.
“Look, what we’re really going to need are fireteams spread throughout the city,” Serrane said, stepping back to the table and tapping the map. “I want at least a dozen mobile squads who can respond to whatever chaos the enemy tries to sow. Back at Icewatch, the wyverns dropped crates filled with soldiers over the walls. If that happens here, we need to be ready to contain the enemy wherever they drop. I’d also bet half the moonsilver in Nelu’Thalas that there are still Senosi Huntresses lying in wait inside the walls.”
“My guardsmen are no match for Huntresses,” Mannick conceded. “And frankly, neither are Crowe’s knights or your Duskwatch rangers. We don’t have anything capable of—”
“My men can handle the Senosi,” a calm, collected voice said from the open door to their left. “Drow warriors are trained to fight in small teams behind enemy lines. They’re fast and powerful, and if the enemy attacks at night as we expect, they can see far better than humans.”
Serrane turned her head as a slender, fey-like figure emerged from the darkness of the adjacent chamber behind Mannick. Solemi the Black Mistress glided toward them, a semi-translucent white dress cradling her curvaceous half-elven figure. Her silvery-blond hair fell loosely upon her bare shoulders, and her green eyes sparkled with the same calculated mischief as always. For a woman whose grandiose plans to take over the city had been thoroughly thwarted, she didn’t appear the least bit shaken or upset.
“And here I thought you had crawled back into the sewer for good,” Serrane said, leaning up straight and crossing her arms. “Who in the bloody void let you back in here?”
“I invited her to join us,” Mannick said.
Serrane snorted. “Of course you did…”
“The Constable is hopeful that we can set aside our personal enmity long enough to defend Highwind from its enemies,” Solemi said as she stopped in front of the war table next to her minion. “And so am I.”
“That’s especially hilarious coming from the woman who tried to pull a coup and take over the city,” Serrane said. “It must have been truly humbling for a fake dragon to get shown up by a real one.”
Solemi didn’t even flinch. “The Wyrm Lord requested my aid in defending Highwind from a dangerous fanatic, and I happily agreed.”
Serrane rolled her eyes. “Spinning a humiliating defeat as some kind of victory…gods, maybe you do belong on this Council.”
“The Wyrm Lord rightly pointed out that we all share a common enemy,” Solemi went on, still unfazed. “We stand on the precipice of a new age, General. We cannot afford to allow personal ambition to cloud our judgment.”
“Right,” Serrane muttered. “I’m so glad we’re all suddenly best friends here.”
Solemi eyed the small figurines marking out troop deployments. “We don’t need to be friends in order to be allies,” she said. “But back to the matter at hand, you were saying you wanted several fireteams scattered across the city. I can provide you with two dozen experienced drow scouts who are more than capable of handling the job.”
Serrane took in a deep breath and once again reminded herself that this wasn’t the time to settle personal grudges. Whether Solemi was being disingenuous or not (and she obviously was), they did have bigger problems right now.
“I’m not worried about your men’s competence,” Serrane said. “I’m not in the business of trusting drow.”
Solemi smiled almost imperceptibly. “I wonder, is that the only Ilwetharri tradition you still cling to? Prejudice against your Vaetharri kin?”
Serrane scoffed. “My point is that the people of Highwind probably aren’t going to appreciate a bunch of dark elves roaming through the city during a battle. You of all people should realize that surface raids were a real and terrible thing for a long time.”
“The drow who joined me in rebellion have forsaken the Spider Queen,” Solemi said. “They are looking for a new home. They will not jeopardize their future with petty larceny.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Serrane said. “But I’m still not going to allow a bunch of your assassins to roam the streets in the middle of a battle.”
The half-elf’s eyes glimmered in thought, but they didn’t waver. If she decided to be stubborn about this…
“Perhaps a compromise is in order,” Solemi said, flashing another tight smile. �
��What if you assigned some of your rangers to accompany them?”
Serrane pushed her tongue hard into the back of her teeth. “That could work,” she said. “We’re stretched pretty thin, but the fireteams are too important to ignore.”
“I agree. My loyalists will do everything in their power to defend this city. Like I told you, they are fighting for a new home—a new future. I only hope that when the battle is over, the people of Highwind show their forsaken brethren the respect they deserve.”
Serrane stared at the other woman for a long, hard moment before she turned to Mannick. “Leave us.”
Mannick frowned. “What?”
“Leave us. I want to speak with your mistress alone for a few minutes.”
The constable’s confusion quickly transformed into anger. “I am still part of this Council whether you like it or not,” he said. “I will not be dismissed by—”
“Please, give us a moment, Gerrard, would you?” Solemi interrupted, her green eyes never leaving Serrane.
Mannick glanced between the two women, plainly incensed, but when Solemi calmly pointed to the door, he grumbled under his breath and shuffled outside.
“I see you still have him on a tight leash,” Serrane commented. “So tell me, how difficult was it to convince him to sell out the city and the people who trusted him? Did he come to you, or did you twist his mind with your magic?”
I doubt there is anything I can say that would allay your suspicious or soothe your anger,” Solemi said matter-of-factly. “Perhaps we should simply move on?”
“Not just yet,” Serrane said, uncrossing her arms and bracing her palms on the table. “Jorem said that the two of you came to an agreement, but a woman who backstabbed and schemed and manipulated her way to power isn’t just going to walk away without a fight. So what do you really want here now?”
“I told you before, General: I no longer seek a seat on this Council, and the armies of Darkwind are yours to command as you please. My only wish is that you will keep your word and give my people a chance to make a new life for themselves.”