“We would not have come to you if we did not need your help, Your Majesty.” Biton was uncharacteristically soft. His accent was stronger, the sounds bunched closely together. “But the situation is dire.”
“Indeed it is,” Eadric said as he slipped his left hand into his pocket. He found the smooth stone there and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. The stone had been in his family for centuries. It was a rare gem from across the Vast Sea that had been given to one of his predecessors as a good luck charm. “If what you say is true, and I have no reason to doubt it, then I'm astounded that King Mercer has been so short sighted that he has refused to join with you.”
“King Mercer is supremely confident in the strength of his army and the walls of his fortresses. We have offered him our help, before this storm descends upon him. He has been warned that once he is embroiled in conflict, we will not lend our aid to him. Maybe once the famed Citadel falls, he will consider his mistakes.”
“Why let him fall? If he is invaded and you add your armies to his, there is no way the Citadel will fall.”
“To teach him a lesson about pride.” Biton shrugged. “And once he falls, his lands are subject to whoever is strong enough to take them.”
“And the Citadel is a massive fortress. If Mercer can hold The Pinch with just his forces, all the better for us to not have to throw our armies into the fray. And if he falls, he will take enough of his enemy with him that we'll have much less trouble cleaning up the mess. If you join with us,” Thomas added.
“I'd like to bring my council in on this before I decide.” Eadric paused when his steward opened the door a crack and slid back into the parlor with a bottle of whiskey and a glass of ice on a tray. He took Eadric's empty glass and slid back out into the hall. Eadric quietly sprinkled a pinch of Dragonsalt into the bottle and poured some over the ice.
“Of course, Your Highness. It is a massive undertaking that we've asked of you.” Thomas stood and Biton followed his lead. “How long do you think that you would need to join us, should you decide that you wish to take that course?”
“It will take some time to get my nobles and their levies assembled, and I'll have to find the vessels to carry them across the Straits of Steimor.” Eadric took a long drink from his glass. “I would say a year is a safe estimate, though it will likely be longer than that.”
“Very good. We will await your word.”
The two ambassadors bowed and Eadric nodded a dismissal.
Eadric set his glass down on the star that marked Aetheston's location on Zaria's northern continent. More than thirteen thousand miles separated Ansgar from the Istivani capital of Kirton, if one sailed through the Strait of Steimor and marched overland. Another eight thousand overland laid between Kirton and the Ehtroyan fortress known as The Citadel. Even by rail it would take his armies nearly a month to reach the Istivani capital.
The option of sailing his armies to Ehtroy was an alternative, although that too would take almost a month of sailing, and finding the ships to carry almost two hundred thousand soldiers would be nearly impossible.
“Milord.” Eadric's steward had entered, as silent as a whisper. “Would you like me to summon your council?”
“Yes, please do, Charles.”
Studying the lands he ruled, Eadric took note of the various sigils that marked the holdings of his many lords; the shields that marked the holdings of his dukes were the largest. The sigil of House Jarmann at Agilard, the only duchy east of Aetheston; the black Pegasus against white of House Chalmer in the West Valley, the castle nestled into the Spine Mountains against the border with Beldane; the blue hydra against orange of House Seward at Sea Watch, on the southwestern coast of Ansgar; the red centaur on a blue field of House Ridley in White Ridge, nestled between the Vast Sea on its south side and the three peaks of the White Ridge on its north; and the sparsely populated Arndell Duchy, represented by the golden hammer on gray of House Croutcher in the far western corner of the nation.
Smaller shields marked the eleven earls of Ansgar, two east of Aetheston and nine to the west. Shields smaller still marked the forty-two baronies that further divided the rest of the nation. He was not as familiar with the baronies as he was with the earldoms and duchies, but then he rarely had the occasion to deal with many of them.
He had, of course, met every one of his sworn nobles at his coronation, or their ascension, but the lesser nobles had smaller estates to care for and could scarcely afford frequent journeys to the capital to pay homage to their king.
Eadric was still focused on the map when the door groaned open and his council entered.
“Your Majesty.” Lord Alden Hanley, Earl of Hamilton, was a tall, slender man who leaned heavily on an ebony cane as he walked. Gray colored his brown hair and full beard, but his brown eyes were still sharp and careful.
Before Eadric's ascension to the throne of Ansgar, Alden had betrothed his oldest daughter to the Crown Prince. The move had established the earl as a close advisor to the new king when Eadric had come to power and the King gave extra weight to his opinion.
“Lord Hanley.” Eadric clasped the man's hands and inclined his head to his father by law.
“Your Highness, you are looking well today,” Lord William Richards said as he bowed.
Baron Saxon had long been one of Eadric's closest advisors. He had been brought to court at the age of five by his father to learn the ways of the capital. William and Eadric had been tutored by the same teachers, taught of swords by the same master at arms, and had ascended to their titles at nearly the same time. Eadric had raised him to Lord Councilor as one of his first acts.
He stood nearly the same height as Eadric, with a similarly athletic build. He was shaved bald, his thin mustache and well-kept red beard the only hint of his hair color.
“Thank you, William.” Eadric presented his signet ring for his friend to kiss.
“My King, I see that the sums you have been spending on Dragonsalt have not been in vain,” Lord Peter Wellstone said with a smile. As the Chancellor of Ansgar it was his responsibility to keep the kingdom's books and accounts.
He was the youngest man in the room, only just into his twenty-fifth year. He had been apprenticed to the last Chancellor, his childless uncle the previous Earl Colby, and had taken to his studies with fervor. He carried a stack of ledgers with him, books filled with figures on the kingdom's incomes, expenses, and coffers. He was a small man and his blue eyes glanced back and forth every so often as if of their own volition.
“A pinch before bed helps me sleep,” Eadric lied.
“Your Majesty,” said a lilting, sweet voice.
Altavius Dohr's accent was less pronounced than it had once been, or so Eadric was told, but it still marked him as one not native to Ansgar’s common tongue.
The elf was the oldest member of Eadric's council. He was, in fact, the oldest person on this side of the world, at least as far as anyone knew. He had traveled across the Vast Sea twelve hundred years earlier with the first colonists to leave Welos and had served as advisor to every king since Liam the First.
Altavius' eyes had once been a deep sapphire; they were now a pale blue. His once brilliant red hair was now silver and white and was tucked behind his long, tapered ears. He was hunched with age and leaned heavily on his staff. The apple sized emerald held in the heavy iron setting pulsed gently. Half a dozen heavy amulets hung on golden chains and jeweled rings sat on each finger.
Eadric's four advisors sat in the leather chairs. Each took a moment to adjust to the thick cushions in their own fashion. Lord Wellstone rested his stack of ledgers on the small table beside him. Altavius leaned his staff against the chair's arm. Lord Hanley hooked his cane on the back of the chair. Lord Richards pushed back into his chair and stretched his legs out before him.
“Would you care for refreshments, my lords?” Eadric's steward asked with a low bow.
“A flagon of chilled wine,” Eadric said before any of his council members could m
ake a request.
“Yes, Your Highness.” The steward bowed again and disappeared through the door.
The nobles made small talk with their king while they waited for the steward to return. He was only a few minutes in retrieving the chilled flagon, four silver cups, and one griffin talon horn. He poured each a cup and retreated against the wall.
Eadric set his cup untouched on one of the side tables.
“My Lords, I suppose you are all wondering why the ambassadors from Welos and Istivan requested a meeting with me,” Eadric began. Altavius nodded. William grunted. “They bring grave tidings from across the Vast Sea,” he continued, “and a request of our people.”
Altavius' eyes glittered and William sat up in his chair.
“Emperor Frederick Maximilian of Chesia has invaded the nations of Jarin and Malkala, and he has been amassing forces to push into Andivar or Garton.” Eadric shook his head. “The other nations are becoming worried. Andivar has mustered its armies, which should dissuade the Emperor, at least for a time.”
“The Emperor would be a fool to invade the Andivari,” Altavius agreed. He was the only one of them that had ever seen the other side of the world, even if it had been twelve hundred years prior. “The Andivari armies are the best trained and best armed on the other side of the Vast Sea. The lack of prospects to his south will more likely push the Emperor east.”
“That is what many others have decided as well,” Eadric confirmed. “But if Chesia invades northeast, into Garton, there is only one goal which they would have in mind.”
“Ehtroy and the Pinch,” William said. “But the Pinch is flanked along its coast by massive mountain ranges, and the pass through them is protected by two massive fortresses at the west end and the Citadel to the east.”
“No armies have breached the Citadel, nor made their way past it, ever. But it has been hundreds of years since the last attempted attack. Gunpowder weapons have come a long way since then.” Eadric picked up his wine and took a sip. “The rulers of Istivan and Welos do not seem to hold to that opinion of the Citadel's defenses.”
“Istivan and Welos have never been terribly friendly,” Altavius pointed out. “More than a few wars have been fought between the two. If those two have come together, the threat is indeed perilous.”
“Eighty days ago, Grand Duke Acantha, his ambassador to Ehtroy, and the ambassador from Welos had a meeting with King Mercer. In it, they detailed their plans for the defense of the Pinch, using the combined armies of Ehtroy, Welos, and Istivan. King Mercer has decided that Emperor Maximilian is not a threat to his people, and that he does not require the aid of his eastern neighbors. And he will not let them pass the Citadel, lest the Emperor hold him and his people responsible for it.”
“He has refused to allow them passage?” William shook his head.
“And they have told him that when the Emperor does invade, they will lend him no aid,” Eadric added.
“Damnable fools,” Alden swore. Then his eyes narrowed in realization. “Sharing that information was not the point of their meeting. We could have read it in the papers, or heard from our own ambassadors across the Vast Sea.”
“You are correct.” Eadric nodded and took a drink. “The Grand Duke of Istivan and the King of Welos have asked that we call our levies to arms, sail them across the Straits of Steimor, and march them overland to join with their armies in preparation for the invasion by Chesia. Their message comes with the endorsement of the Triumvirate of Lot'Mai-ron and the Sea King of Laine.” Altavius took in a great gasp of air. His eyes widened and his knuckles whitened, so firm was his grip on the arms of the chair.
“Those endorsements do not come lightly,” Altavius said after a moment. “No one has ever received the endorsements of both the elven realms.”
The two nations of elves held wildly different opinions of the men that they shared this world with. The Sea Nation of Laine was a great naval power with swift warships and deep hulled merchant ships. They took part in the wars of men more often than their southern kin would have approved.
Lot’Mai-Ron’s three-headed council held its nation out of the struggles of men. They provided wisdom and knowledge to those who asked it of them, but nothing more. And they rarely agreed with their estranged relations.
“It is a great undertaking to call up all your nobles and their armies,” Alden noted as he rubbed his chin. “I don't believe that we will need the whole of our levies. One hundred and sixty thousand soldiers will be difficult to camp, difficult to feed, and very difficult to move to the front.”
“If we're going to throw our lot in with Istivan and Welos, we need to make sure that we are not wasting whatever we send across the sea. Those men are going to have to return and till our fields. We need to send an overwhelming force,” Lord Richards pointed out, as if everyone in the room didn't already know that.
“I think we should reconsider this course of action,” Alden said, the hesitation in his voice evident. Even his closest advisors rarely dared to oppose the king when his mind was set on something. “There is no benefit to sending our armies across the sea for a war that may never happen.”
“Even if the war does not develop, the goodwill that we will gain with Welos and Istivan will more than account for sending our troops to their aid.”
“Your Highness, we already have strong trade and diplomatic ties with King Caerwyn and Grand Duke Acantha,” Alden said. “What more can they provide us that they do not already?”
“If the Chesians are content with the conquest of Jarin and Malkala, the goodwill with Welos and Istivan will do nothing. If, however, the Emperor invades Ehtroy and is repelled by Caerwyn and Acantha, they will control the Pinch and many of the harbors that our merchants frequent.The benefits from that situation are immeasurable.”
“Even if the benefits of aligning ourselves with this coalition have great potential, it is not Welos or Istivan that will bear the burden of sending our armies across the sea,” Alden said. “When the time comes to pay our soldiers, the gold and silver will come from our coffers.”
Peter spoke for the first time since the council had entered the small chambers. “The coffers could handle all the expenses of the sailing the army across the Straits. And feeding them while they are on the boats and in Welos or wherever they end up. But it would be up to the Lords to pay the wages for their soldiers, and feed them and march them to the nearest ports.”
Peter’s ledgers were always impossibly accurate, so if he said that the royal coffers could withstand a cost, then it was true. Eadric had audited the accounts, more than once, and every time the numbers had come up correct. He wondered, as he watched the man flip through the pages of one thick leather tome, how it was that someone so honest had come to become a master of accounts. And what the man was hiding behind his obvious facade.
“I would want them to gather here before they make the journey across the Straits,” Eadric said after a moment. “And the year has been plentiful. Our granaries were overfull and many of my nobles sold their spare grain to merchants. Their coffers wouldn't suffer too greatly from the cost.”
“I think we should offer to pay a portion of the soldiers' salaries,” Altavius suggested. “It will take some burden off the nobles. We could raise some form of tax to cover it if we need to.”
“The coffers could sustain the cost of the basics of transport, but—”
“The coffers will recover,” Eadric interrupted. “We'll cover the first year of the soldiers' pay once they reach Istivan. After that, the nobles will be responsible for paying their troops.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Peter nodded and scribbled a note in one of his ledgers.
“Very well.” Eadric stood. His closest advisors followed suit. “Lord Hanley, send out the riders to the nearby nobles and dispatch a messenger train to the West. I want the letters to be sealed until they are delivered. Instruct the nobles to call their levies to arms. Tell them to meet with their dukes while they are waiting for thei
r soldiers to gather. I want all of the planning and organization set before they march. Charles, please get word to the High Priest. I would have his blessings.”
Altavius winced at the reference to the High Priest of Elsdon. The elven priests did not get along well with the priests of the various gods that were worshiped in the lands of men. The High Priest of Elsdon led the largest temple in Ansgar, dedicated to Tyro, the Ansgari God of Justice. The Elsdon sigil had been taken from the symbol of the faith of Tyro: a giant with a spear in hand.
“William, if you would stay a moment longer?”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“You are dismissed, gentlemen,” Eadric said.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Alden Hanley and his colleagues bowed, and the three advisors excused themselves from the chamber.
Eadric stepped back to the table he had been studying before his advisors had joined him.
He had heard reports from his spy masters that the nobles of Western Ansgar had grown increasingly bold in their expression of discontent with his rule. Most were wise enough to have kept their feelings to themselves, or to express them only in private council. A handful, however, had railed against his policies in public meetings. Their representatives in the castle had downplayed their lords’ indiscretions.
This would be an opportunity to send some of those malcontents away to see what it was like away from their warm castles and servants. It would do them well to get their hands dirty.
Sending his armies across that sea was a risky maneuver. If he were attacked by any of his neighbors while his armies were away, it could take months to get his armies back.
But it wasn't his neighbors that he was worried about, and he was afraid to admit that to his advisors.
“Your Grace?” William asked.
“William, I’d like you to meet with the Welosi and Istivani ambassadors and inform them of our decision,” Eadric said.
“Of course, Eadric,” William said with a nod.
“I want our levies to be recognized as a force to be reckoned with,” Eadric said. “I will not have the other nations laugh at us behind our backs—or worse, think us weak because some western contingent can't keep themselves straight.”
The Cerberus Rebellion (A Griffins & Gunpowder Novel) Page 2