by Greg Curtis
Edouard had the feeling that she was only giving them the good news and sparing them the bad. After all, Simon's dreams could not have suffered nothing but setbacks in the previous two or three weeks, or he would already have been deposed and his head would be adorning a pole somewhere. There was only so much failure a king could suffer before the court, even frightened and bullied as he was certain they were, rose up as one against him.
Still, he needed some cheer, and he was enjoying Mara's tale of how the would be king's forces had foolishly decided to take on Linstrum in Silverdale a week before. Apparently he was still hell bent on destroying anyone with magic for whatever reason. But clearly he didn't know how to pick his targets.
“That would have been fun,” Gwen told them.
And it would have been, but not for Simon's soldiers. So it wasn't surprising when he heard the others chuckling at Gwen's sarcastic comment. Taking on a flame, especially a summoner, would have been as close to suicide as anything he could imagine. The soldiers would have been eaten by an army of beasts, some of this world, some from the other realms. He doubted many of them had returned from the attack.
“But what could have possessed him to do something so stupid?” Gwen was right to ask the question. It was stupid. It was madness. And Simon was neither of those things. But unfortunately he knew the answer.
“That black robed adviser of his, Vesar.”
Edouard didn't want to speak his name, it somehow seemed to bring the darkness closer, but it was the truth. Whoever or whatever that miserable creature was, it was slowly becoming obvious that he was running the kingdom even if Simon claimed the throne. He had an agenda, and top of the list was getting rid of anyone with either magic or faith.
“A truly miserable worm. I should very much like to see him drown.”
Gwen's spark was in the domain of water, and it was always her first thought when it came to matters of attack and defence. Her talent was her life. And she had an extra reason to be angry with him. When the soldiers had come for her in her home, they'd burnt it to the ground.
“If he can drown.” Fergis was dubious, possibly from the after effects of the drugs. He certainly wasn't the angry young man he’d once been Edouard thought. But then his fire was still calm and he couldn't yet raise a spark. That had to knock his confidence.
“Everyone drowns. If they breathe then they can drown.”
“You're assuming that he breathes.”
Janus surprised Edouard with that. He surprised them all and a sea of faces turned to him.
“What are you saying healer? That Vesar doesn't breathe?” Gwen sounded dubious and with good reason. He was a man after all. And yet a part of Edouard still wondered if the healer could be right. Maybe he wasn't. Whatever Vesar was he knew that there was something very wrong with him. Something not human.
“You still don't know what Vesar is?” Janus seemed surprised by the idea, as if everyone should know. It was strange since up until then he'd refused to speak his mind about the advisor, claiming he only had an idea. Actually he'd refused to say anything of him at all. Edouard shook his head and the others did likewise.
“A black robed priest covered from head to toe in dark fabric, veiled and hooded so that almost no light can touch him? A man who stands in shadow, always behind the kings, urging them to war?” Janus it seemed was in no hurry to tell them, just to leave them guessing. But then he thought he knew something that they didn't and it was never beneath him to hold that over their heads.
“Seven bells for seven hells, did none of you pay attention in your history lessons?” Edouard shrugged helplessly. He had done reasonably well in learning his history. Or at least his tutors had seemed to think so. But that was a long time ago. And looking around at the other blank faces he didn't seem to be alone in his ignorance.
“The reign of the Dragon King? The time of the Cabal?” Now that Edouard did remember from his lessons, and the understanding shocked him. Not least because it was impossible.
Three thousand years before the Cabal wizards had struck. Worming their way into positions of power in scores of realms. They were never the king or the lord, always the advisers and majordomos. The ones who pulled the marionettes' strings. And one by one they had led the thrones into conflict. Feuds, uprisings, invasions, holy wars and purges. In a mere seven years they had destroyed half the world. Millions had been killed. Many more had been made homeless, without a land to call their own. Even the Dragon King's vast empire had been threatened.
Those seven years had later become known as their arrival. They had only ended when the true war had begun. When the advisers had pulled together the remains of the kingdoms they had destroyed, gathered together as one, and started assembling their armies. Tens of thousands of mercenaries and machines of terrible power had been sent against the Dragon King and his empire, seeking to destroy it and all of mankind with it.
That war – the last great war – had raged for another seven years and in the end despite all their vaunted power, the Cabal had lost. Those seven years were later to become known as their departure.
The arrival and the departure. Fourteen years which had destroyed more lives than any other period in history. And the centuries that had followed had been nearly as bad.
In the aftermath of that terrible conflict the world had fallen into chaos. Anarchy. Kingdoms and empires had risen and fallen, sometimes within mere months. Disease and starvation had ruled the world as conflict dominated. And the older races had left the world. The dwarves, the gnomes, the elves; all gone. Now all that remained of them were relics and ruins. Just as all that remained of the humans of that time were the same.
Some scholars now claimed that the ancient races had never truly existed. That they were just stories. Others said that they had been gone long before the war. Many claimed that the races of man had sprung from them. That they were their children. No one knew though. Not at least in Therion.
The best part of an aeon had passed before peace had returned to the world in any form. It seemed that the conflict the Cabal wizards had begun had been a fire that refused to die out. That it had destroyed not just the Dragon King but his entire empire.
But that had been thousands of years ago. The Cabal was gone. Long gone. Long since dead. And all the damage they had wrought to the world as they had manipulated the kings and lords of scores of realms into endless wars had been healed and largely forgotten. All that remained of them were the legends, plenty of ancient ruins – the remnants of the endless cities they'd destroyed – and a few relics. More than a few actually. Some of those relics though were still capable of causing trouble if they fell into the wrong hands. The magic contained within them was powerful.
What Janus was saying was madness. Then again, no one knew who the Cabal wizards really were or where they'd come from. Why they'd set about doing what they'd done. Why they'd started all those terrible wars that had left scores of realms in flames. Or where they'd gone after their defeat. But it didn't matter. Not when thousands of years had passed since that time.
“Cabal? You think Vesar's of the Cabal?”
Kyriel clearly wasn't so convinced of their passing, and she surprised him with her question. But more with the sound of wonder in her voice. It was almost as though she believed the crazy story. But it wasn't possible Edouard knew. Not when it was three thousand years since their day.
“I know he's of the Cabal. Robed from head to foot so completely because he can't face the light. Carrying magic that appears impossibly powerful but always careful never to use it openly. Manipulating those of weak will and powerful greed to his ends. And frightened of those with magic or faith of their own. He is Vesar the Corrupt. I thought you must surely know that.”
“But that's –.”
“– Amazing!”
Edouard had been about to say it was madness, a word he'd been using far too much of late, but Kyriel had leapt in before he could finish his sentence. Apparently she had accepted the h
ealer's story.
“After three thousand years? For a Cabal wizard to return? It's impossible and yet it matches perfectly with what we know. The Mother must be told immediately.”
Edouard looked at her and realised that she believed the healer completely. And it was then that he knew there was no point in arguing about it. She and Janus would not be swayed. And there were more important things that they needed to be doing instead of worrying about whether Simon's adviser could really be a three thousand year old wizard bent on destroying the realm. For a start they needed to plan their escape. And there was a place he needed to be.
“Perhaps we can do that on our way to Bitter Crest.”
“Pardon? Do you mean to run Lord Edouard?” She turned to face him, surprised and obviously disappointed though he couldn't think why. “You want to flee your own home?”
“Well, of course. It seems better than sitting here and waiting for an army to march through Breakwater and up the hill. After all, even Simon will know where to find my home.”
And that he knew could not be too many hours away. He had no idea when Simon would have learned of their escape, but he was sure he knew by now. He was equally certain that he would not take that escape well. Simon would hunt him down and he would use every soldier he had to do it. They had to leave before his soldiers arrived.
“You live in a fort, designed to withstand attacks by armies, and you want to flee.”
“No. Not armies. Small bands of outlaws and brigands. The occasional orc raiding party. But mostly it was built to be a lookout and home to a patrol of outriders who used Breakwater as their base.”
He had to be honest. The fort had been designed as a lookout post and base for riders, not a serious military installation. Why else would it have a single central tower instead of four defensive corner towers? Why else would its walls only be twelve feet tall? Why else would it be based on a remote hill overlooking the surrounding lands and a minor town instead of somewhere more strategic?
“And there is no patrol here, only us. We have few weapons and not much magic. We aren't soldiers. Most of us can't fight, and of those who can most are injured.”
“Nevertheless there are things we can do to make this fort more defensible.”
Kyriel wasn't giving up, and he wasn't sure why. The handmaidens had a far more secure location to retreat to. No one, not even a wizard of the Cabal if that's what he was would dare attack their mother's temple. To go against a power was suicide.
“And things we won't be doing.” Edouard thought it was time to be more forthright. There could be no more of this silliness. “Not against an army.”
“We will not stay here to wait for death. We ride. The other escaped prisoners and I will eat, bathe, dress and ride for Bitter Crest within the hour. Ladies you will return to your temple where you will be safe under Tyrel's protection. That is my decision as master of this house.”
“You may ride Lord Edouard, but my sisters and I will stay. We will not abandon our shrine.”
“Shrine? What shrine?”
Edouard was confused, first by the thought that they would even want to stay when soldiers were coming, and then by the idea that there was a shrine to Tyrel nearby. He didn't know of any shrine.
“The shrine we have been building in the yard in accord with our alliance.”
“Alliance? What alliance?”
Things were suddenly becoming stranger still and for a bit Edouard wondered if the weeks of hunger and sickness had robbed him of his wits. He had made no alliance with the temple. Nor could he. Alliances were between houses and realms. There could be no alliance between him and the handmaidens. Least of all one he couldn't remember.
“The House of Barris and the Temple of Tyrel have forged an alliance this past week. As part of it every property in every realm that is a part of the House of Barris has a shrine being built upon its land.”
The blood unexpectedly drained from Edouard's face and he felt weak at the knees. What she was telling him was madness, and yet he had no doubt it was true. Kyriel didn't seem to be the sort of person to lie, especially about such an important matter. And it made sense in a strange way.
Other houses had forged alliances with other faiths over the years. There were often advantages to the arrangements for both sides. And with Simon now openly having claimed the throne of Theria by coup the House of Barris was in a weakened position. Every crime he committed would be laid at their feet. His father would have seen the chance of an alliance as a lifeline. But he could have jumped too quickly. The House of Barris could weather storms. They could distance themselves from Simon. They would take a blow but it didn't necessarily have to be a fatal one. And any relationship with a temple was usually a relationship fraught with difficulties. The House was eternally associated with the faith which meant that in people's minds the two became one and the same. If the faith had enemies they became the enemies of the House. If the faith had edicts the House had to follow them.
The House of Fenwick had made an alliance with the Temple of Terrisan, a faith that claimed an ancient lineage to the first god-king of Farring Cross. They had believed it would allow them access to the markets of the realm. And it had. But even now, a hundred and fifty years after the alliance had been signed, every member of the House of Fenwick had to make an annual pilgrimage to the ruins of the ancient city and pledge their sword to his cause. And if the realm had gone to war they would have been forced to stand with them. They were just fortunate that the realm survived on trade and couldn't afford a war.
Edouard had to wonder what the price of their alliance would be, and somehow he doubted it would end with a simple shrine in his yard. But of course it would begin before that. It would begin right now. And end, at least for him, in a day at the most. But there was nothing he could do about that as he realised his choices had been taken from him.
“So it seems I must stand. If you will not abandon the shrine then I cannot leave you to stand here and die alone. So we will somehow have to defend it until we die.” He hated saying that. He hated the thought that he was likely about to die shortly for a cause he didn't believe in. And that others were going to die with him. But if the handmaidens would not abandon the shrine then he could not abandon them. His choice had been made for him.
“My friends,” he turned to the other escapees, bitterly upset that he would not be going with them. “I would suggest that you make haste to eat, bathe and leave this place.” Though he doubted that any of them were up to a long ride, at least they weren't bound to his fate. Destined to die here shortly.
“Ladies since we're staying we will have to start making this fort as secure as we can.” He didn't want to. It was madness. And it was bitterly unfair that having escaped one hell he should have to die in battle so soon. But his hand had been forced. “Who here can fire a musket?”
Kyriel raised her hand, but among the four handmaidens she was the only one. It wasn't enough. Even if the others could shoot, and most raised their hands, he had only six of the muskets and as many pistols. But if they had any sense the others would be leaving shortly and it would just be him and the handmaidens.
“Then you're going to have to learn fast.”
His hope was that the first assault would be a small one and that if they could fend it off they could gain themselves enough time to prepare for a second one. But even that was going to be a gamble. And if they beat off the second assault there would be a third and a fourth and so on. Simon had no end of soldiers he could send after them.
They needed a weapon. An army or magic beyond the commonplace. They needed something at least, and they didn't have it.
He wasn't a flame. None of the others were flames either. They were all just sparks, and the chances that they could withstand an assault from Simon's army even if they all stood together were slim. Less than slim, when one of those sparks was an apothecary and two more were barely able to summon even a fraction of their magic at the moment. The only thing th
ey had in their favour was a fort with solid walls, and a few hand weapons. Which reminded him of one other matter.
“Before that though our first task will be to set out some cannon.”
That was going to be a lot of work and he wasn't sure that they'd provide much protection. They were old and dusty, and not the more modern wheeled variety either. They sat on heavy wooden mounts, were difficult to load and had little lateral movement. Worse they hadn't been fired in centuries and he had no idea if they would even work any longer. If rust and time hadn't robbed them of their power. They might just blow up the first time they were fired. They were also heavy and he wasn't sure that they'd have time to hoist many into position before Simon's soldiers arrived. But any cannon were better than none he figured. The others stared at him, waiting.