by Scott Rhine
The dwarf answered while re-dressing. “The kings of the north have taken many things from me and forced me to suffer many indignities. But they couldn’t take away my gift.”
The smith gazed down at the mirror-like surface. “Sir, I am truly honored to work in your presence.”
The dwarf smiled. “I’m pleased how it turned out as well. I added something special to this one, a drop of my own blood. When any Honor forged by my people strikes it, your attacker’s blade will break. Indeed, there may even be a slight aversion between the two, like lodestones. It should provide you with a small measure of added protection as you complete your quest.”
The sword in the smith’s hands seemed to grow heavier. He dared not look up. He suspected the truth, but couldn’t raise his head. He swallowed hard. Every part of his body felt weighed down as if by a thick, winter blanket. “Yes, Lord?”
The voice sounded deeper, more profound. “Take this weapon north to the ascension war, as planned. Both sides will throw everything into the center of the conflict. Already Semenos orders troops away from my lands. This is the opportunity I’ve been awaiting for generations. When you arrive, seek out the oldest son of Lugwort. Your penance is to escort him to the Obsidian Throne of his ancestors, where he will restore his people.”
When the smith could at last raise his head, the fallen god Kiateros was gone. After a long, stunned period staring at the blade in his hand, the smith gathered what he needed and rushed to reach the waterfront before dawn. Though tired and hunted, a new energy and enthusiasm animated him.
Chapter 33 – The Pretender Moves his Pieces
Sandarac glanced down at the sheaf of reports in his hand and at the polis
hed-onyx map of the world that made up his floor. On each region of the map were small, intricately painted, wooden figurines, some connected by strings or bearing small notes. He double-checked each position and re-read each dispatch to make certain. Then he pushed his sled to the window that had the best view in the palace. Looking down on the green valley below, he saw perfect squares of Imperial soldiers on both sides of the river that matched the pieces on his map. Deciding it was time at last, he called for a meeting of the full Imperial Council. The Pretender delighted that he now had the power to summon these men.
Sandarac had used Reneau as a rallying point to rebuild a civilization grounded in the ancient gods. He preached that Myron’s dynasty had strayed from these founding principles and had thus been punished. Men of idealism and men of greed flocked to his banner. The first major discovery gleaned from the ruins of the City of the Gods was a simple one: bricks. The tall, delicate-looking spires of the ancients couldn’t be duplicated with plain, river clay or even granite. But the Keepers discovered that the strong, light-weight building materials of the ancients contained alternating layers of a certain, stringy mineral common on the mountain. Though the imitations didn’t match the consistent quality or the virtual indestructibility of the originals, the new, black bricks were still revolutionary. The defensive fortifications they built around Reneau were considered impenetrable. Once Sandarac started selling these building blocks of the ancients to the population at large, whole new fields of construction and architecture spontaneously developed. Because of this income, initial taxes for the new empire were kept low, encouraging economic growth.
Reneau meant ‘rebirth’ in the old tongue. In a few years, new industry, technology, and culture sprang from this center. By the time the kings noticed this transformation, Sandarac had cut his puppet strings and stood on his own right as a man of power. Between the fiercely loyal Keepers, their secrets from the City of the Gods, his dreams, and his alliance with the Temple of Sleep, the self-proclaimed emperor of the North now had more magic at his disposal than any mortal man. He still needed the kings’ armies, but they needed his vision and new ways of thinking even more.
A lowly scribe in the famed College of Wizards from the Inner Sea heard tales of the rebirth and believed. As a sign of his faith in the new seat of government, Vinspar had defected from the islands and brought Sandarac half of a copy of the sacred Book of the Dominion. This Book contained all things necessary for the proper education of the next emperor of all men under the Heavens. When Sandarac subdued the final half of the kings, Vinspar was certain that the College would hold a coronation and give him the remaining pages with their blessing. Among other things, the tome gave detailed instructions on the construction and deployment of warships. Though Vinspar’s magical talent was minor, his faith and gift earned the scholar the first seat on the Imperial Council, at Sandarac’s right hand. The surviving members of the Imperial race who now gathered under Sandarac’s banner considered Vinspar to be their spokesman. These refugees came with a sizable collection of Imperial swords salvaged from the Scattering.
Originally composed of one ambassador from each king of the realm, the modern Council of Six was an odd mix of powers and personalities. In addition to Vinspar and the Seeress Zariah, there were two representatives from each of the two dominant northern kingdoms. From Semenos, they had General Garad and Beryl the Wise, a member of the High Gardener’s inner circle of priests. The priest had a penchant for expensive gemstones, and outfits in at least thirty shades of green. His fiscal skills and ability to find necessary funding for key projects were far more valuable than his platitudes. The general was covered in bristly, black facial hair like a boar, and had the disposition of one as well. The discipline and effectiveness of the archer units he trained were legendary, yet his personal discipline was often lacking. The fact that the general could operate teams of men with the skill of a surgeon didn’t keep him from turning up in public fountains drunk or from killing men in duels over imagined slights. Furthermore, Garad and the clergy were always at odds over which matters were military and which were civil. Each expended as much effort spying on the other as on their enemies in the south.
By contrast, the representatives from Intaglios presented a more unified front. Urgot, who rarely spoke, was a senior member of the order of the Sacred Flame. Like many members of the order, he had shaved his head bald for the sake of safety. Because of this, his true age was hard to guess. His expression was harder to read than most men because a quarter of the mage’s face had been melted like wax by some undisclosed catastrophe early in his life. Over the years, however, Sandarac had learned one tell-tale indicator. When Urgot grew angry, the scar tissue under his jaw turned a deep red that matched his outfit. The mage favored dark-burgundy robes and never went anywhere without his staff of office. The end of the staff burned with a low, blue flame that never went out, the sign of both his god’s favor and wrath.
Sandarac never reached the capital city of Intaglios before he had the use of his legs taken from him, but he heard that the Lord of Fire had blessed the city of men wilamps that burned all night using vapors from the swamp. Thus, the city was always awake, the dim light perfect for all manner of conspiracy to breed. The final, formal member epitomized these characteristics of their kingdom.
Known as the Viper, Hisbet was the youngest man ever to achieve the post of head of the Intaglios Intelligence Service. Yet, at the peak of his powers, he abdicated in favor of this seemingly minor political post. Now a very well-preserved forty, the operative with an innocent smile had a hidden source of wealth, a mansion in the upper echelons of the mountain, and an incredible string of mistresses. Other men wondered at the source of his luck with the fairer sex. Though rich, the spymaster didn’t bother himself with most of the trappings of wealth or finery, preferring to blend in with the common people. Indeed, his face was unremarkable and even close associates were hard pressed to describe him or pick him out of a crowd. In this state of semi-retirement, he kept his finger on the pulse of the intelligence community solely to keep the emperor better informed. Meanwhile, two of his successors in the IIS had met unpleasant fates: the first poisoned by an ambitious underling and the next assassinated by terrorists from Kiateros.
In almost a
decade of observation, there were two certainties Sandarac had gleaned about Hisbet. First, during any disaster, stay close to him because Hisbet was sure to not only survive but emerge smelling like the proverbial rose. Second, if he smiled at you, look for the dagger pointing at your back or the hand in your pocket.
Officially, the head of the palace guard was present at the meetings of the Imperial Council as the Sergeant at Arms. In practice, Ginza the Keeper often whispered sage advice to Sandarac, provided needed interruptions on cue, and could be used to say things in open session that the emperor didn’t dare.
While waiting for the council to convene, Sandarac paced the floor on his sled, an irreproducible magical artifact salvaged from the ancients that glided without friction two fingers’-width above the stone floor. The palace style was open and cyclopean, stealing both design and materials from the ancient city above. His rooms were lit more naturally, cooler in the summer and warmer in the winter than any house he had ever known.
However, every strength that Sandarac flaunted hid a weakness or a lie. He went everywhere on his sled because he couldn’t walk. He chose this grand design due to his fear of dark, enclosed, spaces. Even the framed copy of the prophecy of the next dynasty in his foyer conspired to mock the Pretender. The document, contained under protective wizard glass and displayed for all to see, was the primary argument and sole legitimacy for his reign. Frail and damaged, this copy of the scroll was missing its last two lines, the final couplet. Furthermore, as often happened with prophecies, not all of it fit him exactly. One dubious stanza had to be artfully covered by the frame. Sandarac was sick of the lies, the tricks. After today he wouldn’t have to fool people into giving their respect, he would behave like any true ruler and take it!
He was still staring at the scroll in the foyer when his guard Ginza arrived to push him back to the map room. As he entered the room, everyone there chorused the same words: “It is a new thing we build here.” The greeting used to open the meeting came from the emperor’s first public speech. This had become the slogan for his administration, catching on in all areas of the new society. From this, Sandarac realized how important speeches were, no matter how difficult it was for him to give them. Most of the population didn’t read; rather, they heard about the vision , Sandarae balcony or in the pubs. Though he had set Vinspar to try to remedy the literacy problem, he could only enforce such dictates for government employees.
The Keepers were the only faction to resist the new motto. They would never repeat this phrase, but would remain silent or respond with the final words of that same speech: “But we must never forget that which came before.” After uttering this admonishment, a Keeper would typically touch his forehead in his own ritual greeting sign.
Sandarac launched into the meat of the session, unwilling to waste another moment on bureaucratic by-play. “We have been attacked in a most dastardly manner by the Coward of the Vineyards. About a week ago, agents of the south torched the Semenos town of Cardinado in the dead of night, burning both the garrison and fisher families alike. Enemy armies are even now rolling up our borders with Mandibos. Gentlemen, the battle we have been preparing for our entire career is finally upon us.” Most members of the Council at least feigned surprise, except General Garad. Beryl the Wise had been so busy hiding the evidence of the escalating conflict with heretics that he never suspected the general had been hiding bad news of his own.
“The bulk of the forces are Mandibosian,” said the general, attempting to minimize the threat. “They have a series of small fortresses spaced a day’s travel apart along their extensive borders. The cowherds spend most of their resources maintaining this defense. You have to understand how they think. They view their huge, open territories as an extreme tactical disadvantage. They’ll never cross the border unless we do, and my men aren’t stupid enough to give them that excuse. The Prefect of Bablios is just probing us for signs of weakness, hoping for an advantage. He’s done this several times before. His supply lines get too thin from the southlands and he always retreats within the month. We’ll harass him from the hills and pick up a few swords for our troubles.”
Sandarac waited patiently for the general to finish and maintain face. “Yes. Well, this time is different. There’ve already been skirmishes inside our lines. They’ve penetrated our territory and are establishing a supply base from some captured grain silos. Bablios seems serious about keeping what he’s taking or destroying it before he leaves,” Sandarac said in his typical, soft-spoken tones. All present waited for the stern rebuke to strike. Instead, the Pretender said, “But not to worry, I’ve been expecting this for some time. As you have pointed out, his aggressive behavior is predictable and my sources have prepared me for this eventuality.” At the word “sources”, some at the table substituted the word “dreams” while others inserted the word “spies.”
Sandarac looked each Councilman in the eye as he continued. “Bablios expects a shoving match and a bloody nose. I intend to deliver a deathblow. With the help of each man seated here, I intend to end the war once and for all by Emperor’s Day.” The room remained in taut silence, the news seemingly too good to be true. Was this emperor now mad like all the others, or was it the opportunity they had all been awaiting? “Are you with me?”
One cautious “aye” after another trickled in.
The Pretender didn’t even need to consult his extensive notes, as he had been rehearsing these plans for years. “Beryl, we start with your part. You’ll allow the Prefect’s troops to advance with minimal resistance, but be convincing. We want to draw him in so far that there’s no possible escape. Tell your commanders as little as possible in case of capture, but I have already projected his progress and determined the best anchor point for our eastern flank is here at the Valley of Somber Reflection. Your troops must feign distress, surprise, and confusion up until the final moments.”
The priest, aware of the raging brush fires of civil war, gladly agreed to allow the enemy forces passage. “Sire, our movements shall be indistinguishable from mass confusion and chaos.”
“Excellent,” said the emperor with enthusiasm. “Vinspar, spread the word about the atrocities committed by Bablios, and stir up all the patriotism you can. Use this as a lever to commandeer every forge you can. I’ll need you to step-up spear production to its maximum. Channel any profits necessary to arm our conscripts.”
The general winced at the mention of the emperor’s pet project—using massive numbers of conscripted spearmen instead of trained soldiers on the field of war. “It won’t work, sire.”
“The proof is in the battle, general. But supply lines, numbers, and mobility are my challenges, not yours. You’ll benefit from another project Vinspar has been shepherding for me in the Cedar Hills.” A veil of secrecy had draped that portion of the river for years. Today it would be lifted. “The combined might of our people and the Book of Dominion has put us in possession of five medium warships, a fleet we shall use to crush the unsuspecting south. You, Garad, shall lead two ships full of your troops and mine to the Vale of Somber Reflection and deploy them in secret, ensuring both surprise and numerical superiority.”
Garad seemed overjoyed at the prospect of entering military history for this command. Vinspar, however, turned even whiter than normal. “Sire, perhaps my reports were not clear. Forgive me. But we have only three ships completed. At full production speed we might accelerate the two closest to completion in a matter of weeks.”
Sandarac smiled at this apology. “Fear not. Zariah has agreed to help make our shipwrights more efficient. Under her spell, they shall work day and night without rest until the warships are usable as transports. This should get me the two ships I need for the final phase of my plan by next week.”
“But sire, won’t the workers need to sleep?” asked Vinspar, fidgeting in his shining, white tunic.
“Most of them will be asleep the entire time,” confided Zariah in chill, confident tones. “It’ll be exhausting in the short
term, but my emperor assures me that it’s necessary for his swift and final victory.” Recalling her eerie, Somnambulist guards, no one contradicted her. Although it might have been tempting to use her in combat, Sandarac wanted the seeress close at hand for two reasons. First, he wanted her guarding his shore to the south. Second, he needed her help in searching for the sheriff, the elusive turning point in his bid for a united empire.
Sandarac continued handing out assignments around the table. “Hisbet, take a ship full of your best saboteurs and spread them along the coast of Bablios, as we have discussed, to blind the Prefect and hamstring his domestic defenses.”
Beryl protested. “One ship of men spread along his entire coast will hardly be worthwhile. What if they get captured or sunk? Why not use it to transport more men and equipment to the battle?”
The Viper smiled. “Isn’t your objection supposed to be the moral one: we shouldn’t soil our hands the way our vile enemy has?”
The priest blushed. “I just meant that it would st of edless waste of valuable assets and lives.”
Hisbet bowed. “Your concern for the welfare of our operatives touches me. But his majesty has shown me a fascinating diagram on his map. The blue strings denote the flow of intelligence data through the Babliosian network. Note that many of the most important arteries have only one point of failure. No matter how vital the news, one slice of that string will stem its flow. If his majesty is correct, and he always is, the sacrifice of this single ship and its men will blind the Perfect to what is happening in his own backyard.”