Valen stared at her, speechless.
Artus watched him for any sign of that reckless anger from earlier. “It’s true, Valen. Don’t say something stupid.”
Valen looked at Artus. Artus did his best impression of a princely posture. Whatever he did, it had an effect on Valen. He swallowed hard and looked back at Myreon. “What . . . what is to become of me? My people? My family?”
“If I were to listen to the advice of some advisors,” Myreon said, “I should execute you and all your bloodline as traitors to their own people. But I am not so bloodthirsty as all that.” Over her shoulder, Barth scowled at Valen. He had been calling for Valen’s head on a plate since his capture.
Myreon pressed on, “Instead, I want you to renounce the Hesswyns’ claim to the County of Davram in perpetuity. You are no longer rulers there—Eretheria is changing, and there is no more room for petty tyrants fighting private wars every spring. Instead, you and your vassals will swear yourself to Prince Artus’s service—you will become officers in his White Army, the army of Eretheria, of which I am general.”
Valen looked as though he had just been stabbed. An expression of complete shock bled into one of absolute horror. Artus tried to put himself in Valen’s shoes, but couldn’t. Yes, he was being asked to give up his birthright and the birthrights of all his House, but so what? For all the years Artus had spent among the rich, he could never get used to how entitled they felt. Especially toward stuff they never earned.
Myreon watched Valen closely. Perhaps she saw some of his horror, perhaps she understood, but whatever the reason, her tone softened and she placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “Sahand is still abroad in Eretheria, Valen. He controls Ayventry—all of us are in danger. There is a future for you and your family, just not the same one as before. Join me—we could use your help, your advice. I am painfully short on people with real military training. We need you.”
She reached into her robes and produced a piece of parchment—a declaration renouncing his claims that Artus knew she’d spent the better part of the night before drafting, stacks of Eretherian law books next to her desk. “We’re winning this war, Valen. You can get on the winning side now, or rest with the losing side in the dungeons. What will it be?”
Valen looked down at the parchment. Everyone was staring at him—Artus knew if he signed that paper, it would be a terrible blow struck to every count and viscount and earl and petty lordling in Eretheria and beyond. It would be a nobleman not renouncing just his claims, but the claims of all his relations. The end of a way of life that stretched back centuries.
The truth was, they needed him to sign—Valen had more military experience than any of them, even at his age. He also could command the loyalty of a few dozen knights currently in the dungeons. Armored cavalry like that would be crucial in the war ahead.
But they were his enemies—had been his enemies as recently as yesterday. Artus couldn’t see how this could go any way besides Valen ripping up that parchment and spitting on it.
To his complete surprise, Valen spoke to Artus next. “Do you vouch for this?”
“Wh . . . what?”
“Do you, Prince of Eretheria, vouch for everything she says? A future for me and my family? My personal safety and that of my vassals?”
“You have my word, Valen. And I’ve always been straight with you, haven’t I?”
Valen reached a decision. He looked Myreon in the eye. “Get me a quill.”
She smiled. “Get me a quill, ma’am.”
Chapter 6
Crimes of War
The outskirts of Eretheria City had become one enormous armed camp. The levied soldiers of every peer, lord, and knight in Eretheria seemed to be pouring in from the countryside, their lords’ pikes on their shoulders, and pitching tents or laying out blanket rolls on the nearest unoccupied patch of grass. Tabards of every color wandered the streets, all of them singing the praises of the Young Prince, the Gray Lady, or Good King Tyvian. Or all three at once.
Since the defeat of House Davram at Fanning Ford, Myreon’s recruiting problems had been solved. Funding was also secure—Hool’s vast wealth, left to Tyvian when she departed and then passed on to Artus—was more than sufficient to arm and fund the revolution, at least in the short term. What remained was a far more difficult problem—logistics.
The first step involved organizing the volunteer soldiers into companies. As they were already familiar with the House system, that was where Myreon had started—men who arrived to volunteer in the army were directed to camp down with volunteers who once served the same House as they had. These five companies soon had to be divided into ten companies—there were that many of them. Myreon still had a couple of accountants counting heads, but she estimated she was leading an army of nearly three thousand men.
This first step led very quickly to a new problem—infighting. As it turned out, the Hadda boys weren’t too fond of the Davrams, the Vora and the Camis groups fought like cats, and just about nobody liked the Ayventry bunch. That was to say nothing about the stragglers and wild hillmen and other ragtag bands that were scattered about, all of them lured to Artus’s banner on the promise of an end to the campaign system and an overthrow of the five Houses that had pushed them out of society for so long.
Myreon’s solution to this problem was similarly simple to the company organization: an enormous quantity of lye. All soldiers in her army were ordered to bleach their tabards white. Any house emblems were also to be thrown away. They were to be one army, she insisted. The White Army—the army that would save Eretheria. She didn’t want men walking down the street and thinking they were “Hadda” men or “Vora” men—they were Eretherians.
The White Army had been laundering their clothing for two days now. The bleaching process was imperfect—even enchanted lye couldn’t get all the color out of a green tabard, for instance. The visual effect was that the White Army was less actually white and more just plain drab. Observing her men from horseback as they floundered around a public fountain, the water frothing with soap, Myreon was starting to wonder at the wisdom of it all—just that morning her accountants had informed her of just how much she was spending on washing clothes and it was a breathtaking figure—but orders were orders, and if this whole army thing was going to work, she couldn’t second-guess herself. She had to be strong, resolute. Artus might be the crowd-pleaser, but Myreon was the backbone. And the brains.
And pretty much everything else, to be honest.
“I’ve seen rebellions before, but never like this one.” Myreon’s breath caught at the voice—Argus Androlli. He was also on horseback, his staff in one hand. Somehow he’d managed to ride up next to her without any of her White Guard noticing. But of course, he was a mage. He could manage that.
Myreon resolved not to be flustered. “At least they’ll be clean. In body, in spirit, in cause.”
“Men are never clean. You were a Defender long enough to know that, Myreon.”
Myreon smiled at him. “That’s the past. I’m the future.”
“We need to talk.” Androlli looked at the volunteer soldiers surrounding them. A couple of men had picked up axes and spears and were giving the Mage Defender ugly looks. “Is there somewhere private we can go?”
Myreon held up a hand and the men with weapons paused. “You’re not thinking of arresting me, are you, Argus?”
Androlli gave her a tight smile. “As you can see—I am alone. I’m not suicidal, Myreon. And I’m not about to burn a hundred peasants with wood-axes to ash to bring you in. I came to talk. I’m actually doing you a favor.”
“Oh, yes—you’re famous for your favors, Argus,” Myreon said. “This way. We’ll talk in my field tent.”
Myreon motioned for some of the men to move aside, and move they did, though they didn’t look happy about it. She and Argus rode side by side past rows of burned out houses and looted shops until they were out of the city entirely. Myreon’s tent—a tall, gleaming white pavilion—was eas
y to spot among a sea of patched and yellowing canvas that comprised the ten companies of the White Army. As they rode there, volunteer soldiers hailed her as she passed, but no one challenged them. Other than a few chickens and careless children running around, they proceeded unhindered.
“You’re mad, you know,” Androlli said when they had at last dismounted. “This army—it’s a joke, Myreon. You’re going to get chewed apart.”
“Argus, you know even less about armies than I do.” Myreon snapped her fingers and the White Guards on either side of her tent’s entrance pulled back the flaps. “Come in, before somebody out there tries to lynch you.”
Androlli followed her inside, but not before giving the White Guard a long, disgusted look. The tent’s interior was comfortable, if rustic, with a thick Rhondian carpet covering the muddy ground and a few portable folding chairs of hardwood and canvas. A large round table—also collapsible—occupied the center of the room. It was piled high with various correspondence and ledgers full of figures. Myreon waved her hand over them and laid a brief gibberish curse on it all—she didn’t need Androlli reading her letters or reporting her supply figures back to Saldor.
This done, she sat down and summoned a White Guard to bring her a glass of water. “Well, what was it you wanted to discuss?”
Androlli nodded toward the white-clad, masked creature standing serenely behind her. “Do you really need to ask?”
Myreon was prepared for this, of course. That didn’t mean it was going to be pleasant. “I didn’t create it, Argus. I’m merely controlling it.”
“Hardly a nuance a Saldorian judge will appreciate,” Androlli said, still standing.
“As I implied back at the fountain—you can’t exactly arrest me, Argus. I’m in the middle of an armed camp—an armed camp full of men who think the Defenders killed their king and threw him off the top of a cathedral. You so much as poke one firepike out of Eretheria Tower, and the White Army will burn it to the ground.”
“I already said I wasn’t here to arrest you, Myreon. Necromancy is a crime, but it turns out it’s not a severe enough crime to necessitate an international incident. Besides, it is the opinion of Lord Defender Trevard that it is better you lead the White Army than anyone else at the moment. Sahand is still a threat and still must be defeated. Until such time, it is the official decision of the Arcanostrum to remain neutral toward your little revolution.”
“Then why are you here? Why are you wasting my time?”
“I came to warn you, Myreon,” Androlli said. “There are limits to Saldor’s patience.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you cannot employ battlefield-scale sorcery and still expect Saldor to remain neutral. You can’t deploy those,” he pointed to the White Guard, “in a battlefield role and expect us not to intervene. Battlefield necromancy has been forbidden for over a thousand years, Myreon. There’s a reason for that.”
Myreon chuckled. “The reason is that Saldor doesn’t like anybody else using sorcery to win wars. That’s it.”
Androlli shook his head. “You sound like a radical, Myreon.”
Myreon stood up. “I’m a mage leading an army of peasants in a revolution—you’re damned right I’m a radical! And I won’t have my victory dictated to by the likes of you!”
Androlli’s face was red. “No more Fanning Fords, understand? No more undead legions engaging in battlefield roles! The Lord Defender nearly broke a rib, he yelled so much—he wanted you petrified for a full century over that. Some of the masters calmed him down a bit and many of the archmagi took your side, but the threat still stands. If you deploy sorcery like that again, Trevard will muster the Grand Army of Saldor and burn your foolish revolution to ash. Do I make myself clear?”
Myreon felt her heart thumping in her chest. “Yes, Argus. Perfectly clear.”
Androlli took a deep breath. “Good.”
“Get out.”
Androlli snorted. “What, no escort out of the camp?”
Myreon tilted her head slightly and a pair of White Guards came to flank him. “There—happy now?”
Androlli’s nostrils flared at the two animated corpses. “You can dress them up in white all you like, Myreon. You’re still keeping company with the stolen corpses of the dead.”
Myreon glared at him—a gesture that was sufficient to have the two White Guards practically frog-march Androlli out of her presence. She waited until she heard him mount up and ride off, the White Guards still escorting him. Then she let out a long, slow breath.
He was right. Fanning Ford had been a step too far, perhaps. It was one she had been forced to take—she never would have won the battle without them—but she had no excuse anymore. The living soldiers of her army now vastly outnumbered the dead ones, and it was for the best that way. Even with their white garb and masks, the constructs made the volunteers uneasy. The story about them being the bodies of former conscripted soldiers come back to help Eretheria win its freedom had helped a lot, but the sight of the White Guard in battle was too unnerving for the living to be fully comfortable. If she wasn’t careful, they would sap morale, and if Fanning Ford had taught her anything, it was that morale was key. An army that was frightened was an inefficient army, and an army that ran away was no army at all.
She didn’t have much time to think about it, though, before her role as general took over the rest of her day. She had Valen Hesswyn and his cavalry to attend to, she had company commanders to interview and appoint, she had supplies to requisition from . . . well, from somewhere, and a thousand other duties that kept her on her feet until the sun was well below the horizon.
Over dinner, the guild accountants delivered their report. “At this rate of expense, assuming the army grows no larger, you will run through the Royal Treasury in two months.”
Myreon nearly choked on her wine. “That can’t be true. How can that be true?”
The accountant was a young man in a starched ruff that extended past his shoulders, making it look as though his pointy head was being served on a white platter. His hands fiddled at his sides—he was evidently uncomfortable talking to a sorceress. “Please, Magus—the calculations are good. Food is . . . very scarce. And so it’s become unnaturally expensive. In fact, everything is becoming more expensive for you . . . errr . . . us. Everyone knows you are—and pardon me for saying so—desperate for supplies, and quick. There’s no competition.”
Myreon tightened her fist. “I’m being cheated, you mean.”
The accountant looked at his apprentices—two girls who seemed to have frozen in a permanent state of midcurtsey. They didn’t meet his eye. He tugged at his collar. “The numbers are good, Magus. I’d swear by them.”
“Then what do you recommend we do?”
The accountant stiffened. “I am not a military advisor, Magus. I couldn’t possibly—”
“It wasn’t a military question. It’s a financial planning question.” Myreon gave him a hard look. “Answer it.”
“Well . . . if I were you, General Alafarr, I’d see about winning this war very quickly.”
Myreon dismissed them with a growl. But the words stuck.
After dinner, she went down into the sewers. One last time.
The necromancer, whoever he had been, was long gone from his bloodstained haunts. Myreon assumed he had been killed in the battle for the palace. In any event, he had never reappeared. His grisly workshop and subterranean ritual space was hers now. Hers if it were anybody’s.
The ritual had been running smoothly since it had been invoked. The great veta inscribed by the old blind necromancer still glowed with power, lighting the subterranean cavern as bright as midday—there was enough Lumenal energy to keep it running for months, perhaps years. Its power sustained the life force of all five hundred of the White Guard, and additions and small edits made by Myreon since then had expanded it so that, if need be, she could raise five hundred more. If she wanted, she could build even more on her already considerable power.
<
br /> Yet Androlli was right; the White Guard were an abomination. They could and probably would serve to prevent her from achieving her goals. Necromancy, by its very nature, was wrong. This ritual had served its purpose. It was time for it to end.
It would be a relatively simple matter to disrupt the ritual. The bigger the ritual, the more delicate it was—a concentrated arc of Etheric energy and the whole thing would implode, just like Sahand’s master Fey ritual in Daer Trondor had been undone by a snowball. Myreon was confident she could protect herself from the ensuing blast of Lumenal energy—she had dark thoughts aplenty to power an Etheric shield around herself.
Such dark thoughts, however, were what gave her pause. The accountants were also right—she needed to win this war. The challenges ahead of her were harrowing, indeed. Sahand’s army had withdrawn from the city, yes, but it was still abroad in the countryside. Tales trickled into the camp daily—Delloran soldiers slaughtering villages, putting inns to the torch, stealing crops and livestock. Those people needed protection. It was why the White Army had come into existence in the first place.
To protect the people, Myreon needed to defeat Sahand. Sahand was a soldier with a lifetime of military experience. He had been conquering nations since before Myreon was born. His soldiers were well trained, blooded, and experienced. By all reasonable measures, Myreon and her White Army were doomed to failure.
Why, then, should she pass up any advantage? Why disrupt this ritual? So that she wouldn’t anger Trevard? She was no Mage Defender anymore—who cared what that stiff old man thought?
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