by Kyle Belote
Her second appointment could, theoretically, combine into one, but she decided to split the duties so there would never be an internal struggle of one assigned the post. One appointment became two, one to spend, the other to save. For the role of the taxes and income, she chose an obtrusive and extremely frugal man: Grand Wizard Wes of House Bevyl. He, of a higher rank, nobility status, and a man, aided in his easy ascension. With the majority mollified besides her and Daylynn, Wes became her Lord of Coffers.
For the third position, the Steward of Disbursement, whose sole purpose was finding ways to spend the Lord of Coffers saved money, Grand Master Wizard Maryssa of the Joel House seemed the logical choice. Again, the collective groan escaped her male-dominated associates, but Daylynn Reese reveled in their anguish. Even Meristal had to smile at the addition of another female. At first, the council–voiced by Poplu and Capraro–was vehemently against appointing Maryssa because of her minor nobility. However, a minor noble achieving the rank of Grand Master Wizard was near-unprecedented. After doing some digging, Meristal found that only one other appointment occurred ten Ages past. Additionally, rumors circulated that Maryssa was next in line for the rank of Maghai, joining the Circle of Five, but Meristal never found anything to substantiate the tale.
Wherever work beckoned Meristal, the Master of Commerce, the Lord of Coffers, and the Steward of Disbursement followed in her wake, even when she attended Council meetings. The exception was a closed session. Today, as she met with the officers, she entered the room with the three on her heels. The beautiful happenstance of the group came by way of their dislike for each other. While they didn’t hate each other, they didn’t get along, making it easier for them to focus on their jobs and keep each other in check. Meristal didn’t need a clique forming within her newly appointed billets.
Master Jynerul Reginald Tyku fidgeted, his walrus mustache rippling across his upper lip. All the men in the room were jyneruls, the highest position within the army rested solely on Tyku’s shoulders. At the War Council, all opinions were considered equal. Meristal’s entourage removed parchment, ink, and quills to take notes, Meristal quickly made introductions and then started the meeting in earnest.
“Where do we stand, gentlemen?”
Tyku took charge of the discussion. “Consul, our current count puts the standing Army at fifty thousand strong.”
“So little?” Meristal blurted, concern crossing her face.
“No, Madam Consul, that is standard. Those are the men employed as a career. We have an additional one hundred and fifty thousand scabs in our service.”
“Scabs?” inquired Maryssa.
Master Jynerul Tyku cleared his throat. “Forgive me; scabs is a slang term. Conscripts are what I meant. Our standing count is two hundred thousand strong, with over eighty-five percent housed within Ralloc or the surrounding area. Very few are currently deployed afar, except the ten percent taking barracks in the Golden City.”
“Why is there ten percent in Golden City?” the Consul queried.
Jynerul Vikal leaned forward to answer. “As per orders of Kayis Dathyr, a standing portion is sent to the Golden City as a workforce for the canal.”
“You mean to tell me that we are using our army as common labor?” Wes gasped. “That’s a waste of manpower.”
“We don’t disagree, but when we receive orders…” Vikal began, rolling his eyes.
“I see.” Meristal lingered in silence for a moment, collecting her thoughts. “Recall them, effective immediately. Tell them to pack up and be ready to mobilize within seventy-two hours.”
“At once, Madam Consul,” Reginald Tyku spoke, a tight smile coming to the corners of his mouth. He looked down at a herald and snapped his fingers and pointed to the door. The messenger leaped from his seat and left with a haste Meristal could only describe as fleeing in terror. “Where would you like them to march?”
“March? They aren’t marching anywhere. Portal Masters are going to port them straight to Cape Gythmel.”
“That would be expensive,” Wes offered.
“How so?”
“Portals cost money to use, a tenth of the army is twenty thousand men, the costs … ” he paused, sliding through leafs of parchment, “ … is two thousand scepters per use for up to ten people. With twenty thousand soldiers ….” He went silent to do the math in his head.
“Son,” Reginald Tyku spoke, “you need to calm down before you pass out. That was ten percent of our standing numbers, not including the sca– uh, conscripts. So, it’s only five thousand personnel.”
“Still!” Wes shrieked.
“Still nothing,” Meristal spoke up. “The cost is what we say it is. The cost of two thousand scepters is for families and businesses. The portal masters are employed by the government; we supply the materials needed, and we pay ridiculous amounts of money to create them. Last I heard, our stock of portal stones flows in overabundance. I think it is time to break open the storeroom and use a few.”
“But the materials for the stones isn’t free,” Wes interjected.
“Then I will gladly pay it from the vault,” Maryssa supplied. Wes said nothing to this but sat, sweating, mentally trickling away the money in his mind.
“That could work,” Meristal nodded in agreement. “We’ll reimburse the cost of the materials so they can create more. Otherwise, they will use their services for the Grand Royal Army. How long until we are mobile in Ralloc?”
Tyku answered, “To mobilize all personnel will take time, but the smaller units can mobilize quicker than the larger ones. Also, I do not recommend mobilizing everyone; that would leave Ralloc defenseless.”
“Agreed.”
“Also, if I may be bold without being impudent,” Jynerul Mecas spoke up for the first time. “I recommend we also send a large force to Dlad City to begin bolstering its defenses for the inevitable attack.”
“That is not certain,” Vikal disagreed.
“We must be prepared for the event, even if it is unlikely,” Mecas countered.
“That would waste time and supplies–”
“Silence,” Tyku commanded. He turned to Meristal. “What is your wish?”
She sent him a warm smile. “I like you already, Master Jynerul. Half of our forces will stay here. We will send battlemages from the Aegis Caste to help the soldiers rush to complete the wall. I would like to send a quarter of our forces to Dlad City and the last quarter on to Cape Gythmel to help fortify the defenses there.”
“It will be done as you say,” Tyku vowed.
“Unless, of course, you have objections or suggestions?” she scanned the jyneruls. Most shifted uncomfortably in their seats but remained quiet. She continued. “As I am sure that you are no doubt aware, I am not Kayis Dathyr. I am quite comfortable in my abilities, and not easily threatened nor will you hurt my feelings if you possess ideas of your own.” Finding them still tightlipped, she sighed. “If I have thoughtless officers, then I think I will need a new War Council by tomorrow.”
Her words loosened tongues.
They talked strategy and the strategic value of Cape Gythmel, and most of them thought they were wasting time, energy, and men on a useless outpost that had no real value. When Meristal explained to them Judas’ reasoning for wanting it fortified, they agreed to the proper assessment. Of course, Meristal carefully avoided pointing out that the idea originated from Judas. Losing faith with the men leading their army didn’t seem like a prudent course of action; she didn’t need them doubting her intentions or clarity of mind. The opposite could prove true. Most of them had fought in the Wizard’s War along with Judas, so they fostered a quiet respect for him, but it was a coin toss she wasn’t willing to take at the moment.
A few hours later, the jyneruls left their meeting jovial, and Meristal smiled, her stress reduced.
Wes Bevyl, the Lord of Coffers, looked like he was about to have a stroke.
***
Chapter 66 : Cape Gythmel
From early morni
ng to late at night, axes cleaved wood, hammers drove nails, pickaxes smote stone, and felled trees echoed through Cape Gythmel. Through sun, rain, and the occasional bizarre snow flurries lasting mere heartbeats, the Krey and A’uri languished with defenses. Logs were dragged from the woods and stripped, cut to build structures, carved to erect traps, and cleaved to construct defenses. Xenomene’s favorite was honing sharp ends in spears, burying the blunt ends in the ground for a charging horde to impale themselves. Drumstick asked her why and she replied that blood was pretty. He gave a nervous titter and shuffled off, steering clear of her for more than a week.
Lord Yeates visited them every day, sometimes to bring supplies or just to chat, giving advice when asked. From overhearing him talk with Raven and the Mind, Xenomene deduced he was a retired Kernoyl of Grand Royal Army, a veteran of the Wizard’s War, and a feared combat tactician proficient in hand combat. During his last campaign, he had been hit so many times with arrows and blades that his clothing fell off in tattered chunks, but not one blade lacerated his flesh, nor an arrow pierced his armor. With an idle chuckle, he confirmed he still had his cloak from the engagement, framed in his house with rips and all. Some whispered his story, claiming he was touched by the gods. Xeno’s typical response would be to smirk, but the fact he wasn’t injured gave her pause, considering the possibility.
Lem supplied canvas for tents, oats and flour, beans, and salted meats and fresh vegetables. He also provided tools: hammers, nails, rope, shovels, saws, chisel, and more. Each day, the Black Tide slaved away, repairing old establishments and creating new defenses and buildings. They Krey were still at work when a portal opened at the north end of town. Hammers stopped driving nails, saws ceased in mid-stroke, the eyes of the Krey turned to the invading blue mass, a sea of soldiers spilling out of the opening. Tools dropped to the ground with muted thuds, forgotten, hands itched to draw steel.
The soldiers poured out in droves, more bodies than the Krey were accustomed to seeing at once. More portals opened in the distance, further away from the small town. Xenomene felt decisively naked without her armor. After spending so long in her armor, force marching to the Cape, it became a part of her.
Collectively, a feeling of claustrophobia crawled up the Black Tide’s spine. Xenomene sensed the slight tingling sensation as the Mind cast his hold over the group. She could hear their collective breathing through the meld, and though some stood more than one hundred meters apart, their breathing synchronized, slowed. Calm washed through the meld. Xeno narrowed her eyes against the suns’ glare as horses with officers riding atop emerged. Wagons rolled through, the clanging of plate and mail ringing into the once peaceful settlement.
To the left of the portal, another three opened as more bodies, horses, and wagons crawled through the blue, circular opening. Soon, the sounds became thunderous as the number of soldiers multiplied, doubling every few moments. When the last had come through, the portals closed, the bright blue luminance died away, leaving the Krey’s eyes scrambling to adjust.
The officer whom Xeno could only assume was in charge trotted towards the Krey with one officer trailing behind him, clearly the subordinate. Raven, Xeno, and the Mind, stepped forward to greet him. Xeno glanced up to his black slits for eyes, his pointy mustache turning gray with an accompanying and equally pointy beard, the sides of his face shaved clean.
If any man is to be the poster child for the aristocrat class, he fits the bill, the sour thought manifested.
He lifted his right hand to show he held no weapons. “Greetings, I am Kernoyl Runsel of House Korlin, this is my second, Kaptyn Dillon of House Tyku.” The kernoyl gave a weak smile, unsure of how to proceed with the Krey. Chances were, he never fought in the Wizard’s War, so dealing with Krey in the mix was a novelty. After a moment of hesitation, he snapped his fingers and held his hand towards his subordinate who produced a scroll with the Royal seal. “These are my orders as well as yours. I am taking charge of the fortifications of Cape Gythmel,” he asserted, his voice clear and strident. His eyes surveyed the less-than-a-week progress the Krey made. “You haven’t done much have you?” he chuckled.
“There are only twelve of us,” the Do-don pointed out.
The kernoyl sighed, “Very well, I am also here to take charge of your squad.”
“Like hell, you will!” Xenomene snapped.
The kernoyl leaned forward in his saddle looking at Xeno before lifting his hand up. Behind him, archers drew back on their long bows, arrows knocked. He looked at Xeno, “I have but to drop my hand and a volley of arrows would make you into a sewing cushion,” he smiled gayly.
“You would lose your hand before it fell,” Xenomene warned.
“As well as your head,” Raven added.
“The arrows would never reach us,” the Mind interjected.
A bead of sweat trickled from his brow either due to the heat or his predicament. “You wouldn’t survive,” he growled.
“How many men did you bring with you Kernoyl Korlin?” the Do-don queried.
“What you see are my soldiers, five thousand strong from the Ralloc,” he boasted.
“You know what I see?” Xeno spoke up. “I see five thousand dead bodies.” A gust of wind blew Xenomene dark red hair in her eyes and she brushed it away. The kernoyl sighed and eyed his archers before waving them off.
“Have it your way,” the officer said. He stared at their tents. “You will need to move your camp further out. I don’t want you mixing with my soldiers, they are wary enough of you. To have you in their midst would make them jittery, fights would ensue, and your bloodlust would kill my men before the war even starts.”
“A wise choice, Kernoyl, we’ll move at once,” the Mind’s cultured voice soothed before the two Krey could protest. The pair were wise enough to keep silent, letting the Mind’s more educated tongue speak for them. He didn’t fight the bloodlust, he controlled it, and them. The kernoyl turned his horse and retreated quickly, the Kaptyn waited a moment, smiling an apology at them, and he too, turned and left. Once out of range, Raven rounded on the Mind.
“What in the Underworld do you think you are doing, allowing him to dictate to us? You forget your place, Mind!”
“I am doing our mandate,” the battlemage reminded him. “Whether we like it or not, we do fall under the command of the Grand Royal Army, even if they are pompous. It is you who forgets. He was by far in the right when he told us to fall under his command. We are too far removed from Ralloc for too long to remember our oaths, whom we serve, and those who command us. Since Xenomene lacks the ability to think before speaking, I seized the opportunity to smooth tensions between our factions.”
Raven scowled, but said nothing; Xeno knew the Mind was right. “You heard the man,” the Do-don quipped to Xenomene. “Move our camp back.”
“Me?” she scoffed.
“Yes, for your lack of thinking before speaking.”
In her ire, Xenomene had the camp torn down and moved back an additional two hundred meters within a half hour. By then, the army had fanned out and began setting up their tents. When it became obvious they would need to move again, she gave the order to pull up tent stakes. By then, Lord Yeates had arrived and offered them the use of his land to the east of town.
“Are you sure, my lord?” the Mind prodded.
“Oh yes, its a field for planting crops but I didn’t this year. I was too tired and getting up there in years, not as young as I once was.”
“As you say,” the Mind responded.
Xenomene gave the order to move again, this time, they skirted to the north, and set up camp in the Lord Yeates’ field. As Praema began to set, the kaptyn return on his horse.
“Forgive the intrusion,” he said by way of greeting. “I was ordered to inform you that your help with fortifications is no longer required.”
“It was expected,” Raven muttered.
“Also, unofficially, I would like to apologize for our less than courteous arrival. The Kernoyl has neve
r been one with manners.”
“Don’t make excuses for him,” Bitcher called out, “it’s not your fault that cunt has a broadsword so far up his ass he shits steel.”
The Do-don gave Bitcher a withering glance before turning back to the Kaptyn, cocking his head to his side. He pointed to the saddle. “Are you using your riding crop, Kaptyn?”
The officer frowned and then glanced down, checking if he had one. He smiled, abashed. “It is decoration, I’ve never used it.”
“But it works?”
“Yes.”
“May I use it?” Raven dared. Kaptyn Tyku gave him a doubtful expression but shrugged, tossing it to him. The Do-don turned it over in his hands before lobbing it to Xeno, who maliciously smiled.
“Bitcher?”
Raven nodded. “Bitcher. Haze him.”
Xenomene’s smile spread as she tested the durability in her hands. She left in a storm and descended upon Bitcher like a tidal wave before rushing him off to an obscured location. Screaming threats and rude comments ripped through the air. “I will make you cry like a little bitch,” and “we’ll get dirt up your foul gash,” and “the pain won’t stop until I orgasm, you cock-less fuck!”
“Bitch! That fucking hurts! You wouldn’t be such a bitch if you would listen to me and don’t cinch your tit-strap so tight!”
Raven choked on a cough as the screaming faded. “And I must apologize for the rudeness of my man.”
The kaptyn chuckled. “Gods and Homugons, I miss the old days.” He turned his horse and left.
Bitcher’s screams didn’t end until well into the night.
Much to Xeno’s dismay, no matter how much she punished him, she never reached her orgasm.
***
Chapter 67 : Judas
The morning Judas arrived at Cape Gythmel, he was immediately surrounded by swords as soldiers shouted in shock by his sudden appearance. Even as the last of the cacophony died away, one voice rang out loud and clear, “Get on the fucking ground, bitch!”