One of the nearby zealots bristled. “How dare you-”
Monk Thegu’s hand whipped up and the zealot fell silent.
“This man is right. We are a people’s movement that will not be stopped by our leader’s death. Let us all reflect on what Abbot Zendo would want for us.” He fell silent, breathing in and out, but his silence did not last long.
“Night has fallen and the Righteous Army is scattered all throughout this forest. We must make camp for the night and continue our struggle with the dawn. Do you all remember the stream we passed an hour back?”
The rest of the gathering nodded.
“We will make camp there. Spread out and tell all you meet. This man will organize the camp,” he said, and pointed at Jashi. The old musketeer seemed unsurprised though the rest of the zealots were clearly unsure with this newcomer.
“You are up to it, aren’t you, Lord Jashi?”
The musketeer’s face looked like it was etched from stone. “I am no longer a lord.”
“Even so. You helped lead one rebellion. You can help with another.”
The old man looked at the fallen abbot for a long moment. “If that is your will.”
“It is,” Monk Thegu said, now fixing his earnest gaze on Trang Kattaren. “Brother, it was kind of you to let the abbot exit this realm on his own terms. Tell me, could you do one more favor for our brothers and sisters?”
Kattaren worked his mouth. It was dry, and his limbs hung heavy, and with the excitement of the day fading to night the exhaustion of his body had caught up to him. All day he had run without rest and had a battle to fight at the end of it. His nose was a bloody mess that kept leaking into his cracked lips and he suspected it had been broken.
But the example of Abbot Zendo was fresh in his mind.
“Anything.”
“We are alone here but an army of at least one clan leader has massed nearby. I need you to make contact with them so we can act together in the morning.” He paused. “They are not true believers and I am sure they fight for their own petty gain but in this struggle we are allies. Please, make that clear to them, and let me know of their intentions before dawn.”
Kattaren wiped away the gooey red mess below his nose. He would have to sneak through unfamiliar territory infested by these foreign beastriders and talk his way through the sentry lines of a clan army.
But Abbot Zendo would not have shirked his duty.
“Yes, Monk Thegu. Of course.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
By the Hand of the Emperor
“Shinzen territory of course being off limits to armed forces on both sides,” the emissary said, continuing a previous line of debate. Lin Karatsu had rejoined them some time ago and leaned precariously off his camp stool, looking extremely bored. The luxury of being rich and young. Banisu repressed the urge to kick the stool out from under him, and instead leaned forward to frown at the emissary.
“Shinzen has been part of the Three Clans since time immemorial.”
“Since eighty-four years ago, Emperor. I’ve read your histories. Borders shift, Emperor. Since time immemorial.”
Your histories?
Banisu stared at the emissary. Where was he from? The stranger had rebuffed the question before, even insisting his name wasn’t important. The distant rumble of musketry broke through in the distance. That was volley fire, I’m sure of it. It had been going on for some time.
The emissary squirmed, though his expression stayed carefree and aloof.
“I have to tell you, these terms will be rejected if you don’t call off your men.”
“As I said, I don’t know who they are. And I’ve sent runners over.”
“Well. As for the Shinzen question. We don’t dispute your legal ownership but no armed forces will be sent there. Can you agree to this?”
“Fine.”
The translator nodded. “I will have to take back these initial terms to General Eben. I may be some time. We will need your signature, of course.” He smiled, a shallow pulling back of the mouth with no joy behind it. “Signed by the hand of the Emperor himself.”
“Fine.”
The emissary raised himself, stretching his back, and folded up the scroll.
“If Marshal Feruke Hangyul is able, I would like him to be present. To confer more… legitimacy to the treaty.”
Banisu scowled. “I am the Emperor. I represent the Three Clans.”
“Of course, of course. Even so.” The emissary peered out the pavilion flap. “It seems the musketry has stopped, at least. I will return soon, Emperor. Just stay put.”
Banisu sat still as the emissary left. Considering. He blinked as Lin tapped his shoulder.
“What?”
“I was just asking what you were thinking about,” Lin said. “Will it be peace or war?”
“Oh,” Banisu said, drumming his fingers on the desk. Yes, it must be done. Now or never. “Stay here.”
Banisu stood and popped his head out of the pavilion, waving the thane over.
“Sir?” the thane asked.
“Bring a few of your men. I’m going to pay the Lord Marshal a little visit.”
He nodded, and turned to pick out a few of the nearby guards. Together they marched through the rough dirt street. Carpenters and laborers cleared out of the way, lowering their gazes, making room for their Emperor and his bodyguard.
They know their place.
The Lord Marshal’s pavilion was massive, much larger than Banisu’s own, a fact that had irked him for some time. The Lord Marshal’s personal regiment had been decimated in the fighting and as Banisu approached he could see only two guardsmen at the entrance.
“Emperor Banisu,” one guards said, bowing at the approaching Emperor, ringed by his Northern mercenaries.
“Return to your regiment.”
The guards exchanged glances, their faces dark in the fading light. It was night now, the pavilion lit from within by a single flickering lantern.
“We were ordered to guard the Lord Marshal.”
“My personal bodyguard will take care of him.”
The men stood there in silence. What will I do if they refuse? Kill them? I can’t. Not loyal men of the Empire. They shuffled and Banisu glanced at the thane. The Northerner casually cracked his knuckles, his axe hanging loose on a belt loop. Or could I…
“Yes, Emperor,” one said finally, and the two of them left. The silent Northerners spread out to encircle the pavilion. Banisu stooped to enter, the thane at his heels.
The pavilion stank of sweat and fear, washed over with the sickly sweet smells of rice wine and herbs. From a cot in the back a pallid and sweaty face gazed back at them, illuminated by a rice paper lantern, giving Feruke Hangyul a ghostly aura. He didn’t seem the same as the dowdy figure who had strutted through his own retainers at the blessing of the sea dragon. No, he seemed much weaker now.
But nowhere close to death. That much is apparent.
“Ah, Banisu! It is good to see you. Have you word of General Kintari? I’m informed that Abbot Cibu fell in battle. It is imperative that we have a council of war to discuss the situation. I have another abbot in mind. Oh, you’ll need to be on hand for the ceremony.”
“It’s Emperor Banisu.”
“Yes, I spoke with the Eastern mercenary. Treacherous bunch they are. I’ll have to appoint new commanders as well.”
Banisu gritted his teeth. A tap on the shoulder broke through his thoughts. The thane leaned in.
“Shall I end it?”
Banisu said nothing. The thane circled over and picked up an embroidered pillow from the Lord Marshal’s palatial bed, holding it up and turning it over as if admiring the design.
“Oh,” the Lord Marshal said, finally noticing the Northerner. “No, I’m comfortable enough. Anyway Banisu, you should head back to the monastery tonight. It isn’t safe for you here. Death is all around us.”
Behind the Lord Marshal the thane fluffed the pillow and cast a meaningful glance a
t Banisu.
Banisu gulped. Then he nodded.
“Yes, you’ll be safer-” the Lord Marshal’s eyes widened as the thane rammed the pillow over his mouth. The Northerner kept him down as he struggled, knocking a cup of tea off the nearby table, pressing down harder and harder. The Lord Marshal’s left arm flailed, the thane keeping it pinned, while his right was swaddled in bandages and set in a crude brace.
The old man gasped and muffled curses as he flailed in his bed, rocking it back and forth, but the thane kept him in place as the seconds dragged on.
Banisu’s fist clenched and unclenched.
No. No, this isn’t right.
“No, stop!”
At Banisu’s sudden exclamation the pressure relieved a measure. The thane frowned at this interruption even as he obeyed. “Stop?”
“I have to rule this realm. I am Emperor, whether I like it or not,” Banisu said, his voice slow and level. “And I have to unite the clans,” he said, and approached the Lord Marshal with steady steps.
Feruke Hangyul’s eyes gleamed, elated at the sudden reprieve. “Thank you,” he muttered around the pillow, gasping for air.
“I... I was wrong. You are a good boy.” he stammered. “And, and, some day you will make a fine-”
Banisu grasped the pillow from the thane’s hands. “And so I must do it myself.”
The old man struggled to the end, rocking back and forth, but Banisu didn’t let up the pressure even as the bedside table toppled over. The lantern fell to the ground and they were left in darkness as the Lord Marshal ceased his struggle. Even then Banisu kept the pillow clamped down for minutes longer, breathing in and out in the silent pavilion, feeling nausea boiling up in him but clamping that down just as well.
Finally, the Emperor staggered out, his loyal bodyguard right behind him. One of the Northerners grinned at the thane but they said nothing. Banisu stared at his hand in the darkness.
That will have to do for a coronation.
“Good evening, Emperor.”
Banisu’s head snapped up, a guilty look on his face. Prince Sharnipur was approaching, one of the Northerners moving over to halt him.
The prince glared at the man but stopped. He looked Banisu over for a long moment.
"You’re visiting the Lord Marshal? He asked me to move my men to-”
“The Lord Marshal is dead.”
He chuckled mirthlessly. “Dead, is he? I was just here not ten minutes ago. He didn’t seem too bad then. Broken leg but nothing that a few days of rest wouldn’t… mend…”
The prince trailed off as he took in the scene. The thane, his face as stoic as ever, the Emperor's tunic in some disarray. The light in the pavilion extinguished. No one else around besides a pair of silent Northerner guards.
“He’s dead,” the thane repeated.
“So…” Prince Sharnipur rubbed his head through his turban. “Another tragedy. Life is so fleeting.”
“Who do you take orders from, mercenary?” Banisu asked.
It was clear the tone annoyed Prince Sharnipur but Banisu found that he didn’t care.
You’re my mercenary, not my fucking friend.
"From you," the prince said in a low voice. “If you’re paying."
"I am. And I say the Lord Marshal died of his wounds."
The prince scratched at his beard. “Diagnosing injuries is such a tricky business. I never had the knack for it myself. Might have been I just saw a corpse ordering me to move the Elephant Corps. Corpses can do the strangest things. Puff up and bloat, necrotize, turn to maggots. You’ll see plenty of that if you want us staying here a few days.”
“Corpses don’t bother me,” Banisu lied. “We will be staying here. I’ll have need of you, Prince Sharnipur. That is, if you’re clear about your… what did you say before? Your client.”
Prince Sharnipur bowed. “I have the greatest respect for my clients. More so than any mere emperor. If the gold keeps flowing the Corps keeps fighting.”
Banisu nodded. “I trust your abilities. Position your Corps how you see fit,” he said, and left the prince looking mystified.
It was just a short walk back to his own pavilion but Banisu marched past it, into a forested area, away from the bustle of the tent city.
“Thane, guard… this area. I must… meditate.”
At the thane’s commands the Northerner guards spread out in a wide circle. But Banisu paid them no heed as he stumbled to the ground.
Oh Gods. I just murdered…
Banisu coughed and spat. His stomach heaved and heaved but nothing came out. His knees were on the dirt and he felt dimly aware that Abbot Cibu would lecture him when they returned to the monastery. Oh but that’s right, he was bludgeoned to death this morning. He heaved again. That did it. The Emperor of the Three Clans retched out his stomach on the grass outside his pavilion.
After a minute he staggered to his feet, wiping his mouth with the hem of his robe. Well at least no one saw. Or almost no one. The thane stood on the far side of the pavilion, eyes shifting as he kept his field of vision always moving, his hands resting casually in his belt.
“Better out than in, that’s what my mother always used to say.”
Banisu was too worn out and stressed to even feel annoyance at his guard’s over-familiarity.
“Was she a troll?”
“What?”
“Your name’s Eigar Trollborn, isn’t it? So was your mother a troll?”
The thane watched him for a long moment. “Just a name,” he grunted.
“As if trolls exist, anyway,” the Emperor said, and began walking back into his pavilion.
How much time do we have until the emissary returns?
“They do.”
Night had fallen and it was hard to pick out the white flag hoisted on a spearpoint. Still, the sounds of boots splashing through water could be heard, and an echoing line of alerts reverberated all the way back. They’re here. Banisu rubbed at his queasy stomach, feeling the stress building again. He massaged his skull, kneading and rubbing the tension away as he tried to control himself.
Gods, why did I have to be Emperor?
After a few moments he lowered his head and watched as the arrivals made their way closer. The emissary with his flag, an older man in a Syriot uniform bedecked with medals and designs, and a tall hairless scarred man who kept close to the Syriot officer.
Well, there’s no one else. I am the Emperor and I need to secure a good deal for my people.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Through the Lines
Kattaren weaved his way through the silent forest, ears pricked as the wind rustled the branches, and paused as his foot snapped a branch. He waited a moment and then paced forward. Kattaren had left the Righteous Army some time before, skirting the edges of the Syriot camp, little pinpricks of light in the distance. Kattaren looked up at the stars above and for a moment he was back in his village on Tamani island, fishing at night, or walking along the beach with his wife.
But only for a moment.
He made good time as he sped through the forest, but Kattaren was alert enough that he paused right when he heard the sounds of jangling metal. He waited, motionless, as the rattling metal sounds continued and then he darted behind a solid tree. Kattaren peeked around and saw a dark shape looming out of the gloom. He kept his breath still and silent as he saw another shape forming.
Gods, they’re huge!
Kattaren’s thoughts flashed back to his childhood, to the stories the wise woman of the village would always tell, about mountain trolls searching for naughty children to eat. ‘And so you mustn’t make a peep!’ she would say at the end.
The beasts trundled along, chains jangling on their backs, and one stopped. It sniffed the air, the troll’s breath audible from the tree that Kattaren sheltered behind. He tensed, gripping his longsword tight.
Gods, is this what we’re up against? An army of beastriders and monsters?
At an abrupt run the troll lurched fo
rward several paces and then dragged a screaming form out from behind a bush. The troll threw the captured soldier high in the air, flailing limbs scraping branches above, and caught the man with an almost graceful ease.
“Mercy! Oh gods, mercy!”
The man wailed as the troll pinioned his arms. His armor was stained and hard to see in the gloom of the forest but Kattaren could make out the man’s Kintari accent as he stammered out pleas. The troll wrenched him up and wrapped him in one of the chains that encircled its massive body.
A burst of Syriot distracted Kattaren from the troll and he angled himself around the forest to get a glimpse of the new arrival. A woman? And where had she come from? She would have blended in anywhere aside from her Syriot bluecoat.
“Well, well, look what we found!” she exclaimed in the Standard Dialect, with the hint of a coastal accent. “Fresh meat for the troll stew,” he said, leaning in close to the Kintari soldier.
“Please,” he stammered, “my leg, it’s broken. Don’t let them eat me. Gods, who are you?”
“You don’t need to know who I am. But I need to know all about you. Your liege lord, your occupation, your favorite color, all your hopes and dreams and ambitions. If you aim to avoid being part of a troll stew, that is.”
“Green!”
“What?”
“Green is my favorite color.”
The chains shifted as the troll hefted the soldier onto its back. More chains clanged and rattled as trolls loomed out of the undergrowth and Kattaren’s blood ran cold.
Where did they all come from?
“That was rhetorical,” the strange woman said, “but I like your enthusiasm. You might even end this interrogation with all your parts and pieces still attached.” She snapped her fingers. “Let’s go, we’re all done here.”
One of the trolls turned to where Kattaren was sheltering and sniffed the air. The woman peered over as Kattaren ducked his face away. His hand lowered to grasp the leather hilt of his longsword. Kattaren closed his eyes and mouthed silent prayers to the gods. He didn’t delude himself about his chances in a fight.
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