When The Gods War_Book 2_Chronicles of Meldinar

by Samuel Stokes

  Malack was dumbfounded at the audacity of the plan. “Yes, Your Excellency, I will see it done.”

  “Excellent Malack. Mavolo will see you have all you need. Travel swiftly—our people depend on your success.”

  Malack bowed deeply before turning and departing the chamber.

  As he left Yaneera addressed Mavolo: “Are there any other matters to attend to?”

  Mavolo produced a parchment from a pouch at his belt. “The High Priest sent word. He wishes to speak with you.”

  “What could the Allfather want now?” Yaneera replied impatiently.

  “The high priest sends word that a zealot has appeared in the Southern Mountains—he has visited several of our villages preaching of a false god. In one village he slew a priest of the Order.”

  “Our people are starving and the High Priest wants us to chase some madman through the mountains. I think not. The High Priest can deal with the fanatic himself. We have more pressing matters at hand.”

  “Empress, it is not prudent to ignore the Allfather and his servants.”

  “Ha, Mavolo! It is we who have been ignored. When the Allfather sees fit to aid us in our plight we will chase madmen in the mountains—in the meantime we have other concerns.”

  “Yes, Empress. I will assist Malack in his preparations.” Mavolo folded the parchment and returned it to his pouch, then proceeded to reseal the barrel of Blackpowder. Once the lid was firmly fastened, Mavolo hefted it onto his shoulder and departed the room, leaving Yaneera alone with her thoughts.

  Chapter 5

  Tres Cidea, home of the Maginot Concern

  Alistair Maginot anxiously paced back and forth, awaiting the arrival of his comrades. The Chamber of Commerce was deserted, and rightly so—the Concern was only in session as the need arose, and recently there had been little need.

  The Concern was flourishing as never before. The long winter and insufferable drought had brought increased prosperity to the mercantile nation. The Fields of Cidea stretched from the Western banks of the Elkhan to the West Coast of Sevalorn. The golden fields of wheat stretched as far as the eye could see.

  For years Andara had been a thorn in the side of the Maginot Concern, constantly undercutting Concern merchants in the marketplace in an effort to cripple the operations of the Maginot. But now everything had changed. While Andara had flooded the markets year after year at perilously low prices, the Maginot had increased their stores. Unwilling to part with the fruits of their labor, Maginot farmers had laid up their crops in storehouses. With the drying of the Elkhan and the insufferable drought the Maginot were in an excellent position to take advantage of their stockpiled crops.

  While Andara scrambled to feed its starving citizens, the Maginot were able to dip into their stores to feed their people. As Andara waned the Maginot flourished, and trade deals had been brokered with Vitaem to ensure that what little water made it down the Elkhan would water the Fields of Cidea.

  Tres Cidea, “Three Cities” in its native tongue, had once been home to a number of ruling families, each governing its lands and serfs from its own walled citadels. Their proximity had been a constant source of violence and bloodshed as each family strove to gain advantage over the others.

  This hostility continued for generations until the coming of Arthur Maginot. Blessed with beautiful twin daughters, he had proposed an alliance with his neighbors. In return for peace each lord would be granted a daughter to be his wife. The ruling lords considered Arthur’s proposal at length before accepting. Whether it was fatigue born of a lifetime of conflict, or a lust for the companionship of a beautiful young woman, the neighboring lords accepted the proposal.

  For ten years there was peace as the three families grew together in unity. The daughters took their place by their husbands and gave birth to heirs, and it was a prosperous time for Cidea, free of strife and tumult. In time a celebration was held in the Halls of the Maginot to celebrate ten years of peace, and the three families gathered for the occasion. The feast itself lasted three days, and wine ran like a river as the families celebrated together.

  On the morning of the fourth day the Halls were filled with exhausted revelers. Arthur entered the Great Hall and surveyed the excess displayed before him. Smiling at the people’s overindulgence, he waited patiently. Soon his daughters appeared, their once-beautiful and innocent faces twisted into angry visages. Each daughter bore in her bloodied hands the severed head of her husband.

  Casting her husband’s head at her father’s feet, the oldest, Alvira, spoke first. “It is done.”

  The younger, Cerenai, was quick to follow. She said to her father, “See that you get them all—we don’t want any who can resist our claim.”

  Arthur nodded to his guards and the slaughter commenced. The Halls of the Maginot ran with blood as the rival families were cut down. By nightfall there was no surviving member of consequence in either family save the heirs his daughters had borne. With their demise Alvira and Cerenai took their thrones—in a single day the Maginot had usurped the three Kingdoms and stood supreme.

  Arthur and his daughters ruled their city-kingdoms for decades—in time Alvira and Cerenai took consorts and continued to bear children. Their issue became so numerous it was apparent that succession among the Maginot would thrust them back into civil war. As his last act Arthur dissolved the Kingdoms and formed a Council. All who bore the blood of the Maginot were granted voice and a place on the council, and so the Maginot Concern was founded.

  With the singular purpose of profiting the house of Maginot, the Concern exerted its trade and influence to broker peace and prosper its people, and soon it had grown to become the largest mercantile endeavor in Sevalorn. Alistair Maginot was a direct descendant of Alvira and a respected voice among the Concern.

  Hurried footfalls drew Alistair from his thoughts. Across the Chamber strode a man and woman. Alistair’s cousins Penelope and Treval Maginot made their way quickly across the chamber. Penelope was in her early forties, Treval scarcely more than a youth—but his silvered tongue and charisma made him a powerful figure in the Concern. Penelope possessed a mind like a steel trap; her keen intellect had helped leverage the Concern into its position of power. When others had insisted on competing with Andara in a price war, she had wisely counseled against it, instead storing up Cidea’s excess against a future day of need. Her wisdom had brought great prosperity to her people and influence to her cause in the affairs of the Concern.

  As the three cousins exchanged embraces it was clear their lineage could not be denied. Each bore the jet-black hair common to the Maginot household. Alistair’s friendly features and easy smile had brought him favor in the Concern. Penelope had sharper features—her narrow almond-colored eyes moved quickly, examining all before her. Many had fallen prey to her cunning while being distracted by her beauty. Treval seemed to have been chiseled from stone, his strong and youthful physique a pleasing distraction in the Concern’s aging membership. Not just a pretty face, Treval had earned his place in the Concern, consistently using his charisma to leverage the Maginot’s endeavors towards greater heights.

  Alistair was first to speak. “Greetings, cousins. I appreciate your meeting me on such short notice. Our plans continue to unfold and I did not wish to proceed without your blessing.”

  “What is it you wish us to give our blessing to, Alistair?” asked Treval. He continued combatively: “I thought we had already made our support very clear.”

  “Indeed you did, Treval, and we are making great progress in our undertaking, but we have reached a crossroads. Once we start down the path we cannot return. There will be no forgiveness from Andara.”

  “If we are successful we will not need it, Alistair,” Treval continued. “Have faith Alistair—our plan is sound.”

  Penelope broke her silence. “It is not the plan he doubts, Treval. It is the price of success. Should we accomplish all we desire, Andara will be destroyed. We will be responsible for the genocide of an entire people.
An uneasy conscience is a difficult companion.”

  “I see,” answered Treval, turning to Alistair to continue. “They are not our people, Alistair. Remember who we are. The Maginot, first, last, always! The ill fate of others need not concern us. Provided the Concern continues to prosper, we will be taken care of.”

  “You are right of course, Treval,” Alistair answered. “I suppose I simply wanted to be sure we understood the results of taking the path that lies before us.”

  “You would do well to remember, Alistair,” added Penelope, “that they did not give us a second thought when they flooded the market with their cheap grain. We needn’t concern ourselves with what will be lost by our current undertaking, but rather with what is to be gained. Have we heard back from Beltain?”

  “Indeed we have—” Alistair replied. “He leaped at the opportunity and insisted Vitaem would play its part. To his credit he turned down the offer of a Maginot bride.” After a grin and a short pause he continued: “Perhaps he is a student of history.”

  “Hmm,” mused Penelope. “Perhaps he is smarter than we gave him credit for. It was worth a try.”

  “It seems Vitaem won’t be so easily brought into the fold.” Treval continued.

  “A problem for another time, Treval,” Alistair said. “We must not be too hasty—overconfidence may be our undoing. The brilliance in our current course is that we need not be the aggressor. As long as we can persuade Vitaem to play their part with the Elkhan’s course, than the Kairon will overrun Andara.”

  “And when our forces arrive,” added Penelope, her disdain clearly audible in every word, “they will be hailed as saviors, protecting the few remaining Andarans from the Kairon’s cruelty. When the beasts are destroyed we will remain and the once great Kingdom of Andara will be no more, its lands and people assimilated into the Maginot.”

  “Can we count on Vitaem?” Treval asked.

  “I believe so,” Alistair responded thoughtfully. “They have everything to gain and nothing to lose by the arrangement. If they do not comply, we cease our grain shipments and their people begin to starve. Andara is not in any position to aid them and Vitaem’s populace has long since swollen beyond their ability to sustain themselves. If it weren’t for the bargaining power granted by their position on the Elkhan, they might have perished long ago. I am fairly confident Beltain plans to strike in unison against the Kairon in an attempt to reclaim Vitaem’s ancestral lands.”

  “A bold move to be sure,” Penelope said with an appreciative nod. “If he succeeds the people will love him. He is already popular—with the right aspirations he might go far.”

  “Indeed,” Treval responded. “We shall have to watch him closely.”

  “Naturally,” Alistair concluded. “In the meantime, ready our forces. The Elkhan runs low and our scouts report the Kairon are mustering their strength. We must be ready to strike swiftly to take advantage of Andara’s fall.”

  “I will see to it, Alistair. Penelope, you ensure that Beltain does not deviate from our plans. If he does, report back to us so that we may take appropriate action. The Concern must not be frustrated.”

  “Of course,” Penelope said, bowing ever so slightly. “For the glory of the Maginot. First, last, always.”

  Silence fell across the hall as the cousins dispersed, all going their separate ways, and in moments the Chamber of Commerce lay deserted once more.

  Chapter 6

  Eastern branch of the Elkhan, between Vitaem and Amendar

  As the first rays of light pierced the predawn sky, Malack began turning the tiller and making for the shore. The small craft moved nimbly through the water, propelled by the steady paddling of his companions. Spotting a small inlet, Malack motioned for the craft behind to follow. The two vessels had made swift progress up the river, the party moving under cover of darkness to make its way steadily towards Vitaem.

  The once-mighty current had eased considerably and the party was making much quicker progress than expected. Malack calculated that they were only two or three hours from their objective—the causeway and floodgates at Vitaem.

  Malack glanced at his party. It was a small group unlikely to attract unnecessary attention. Each craft was packed with several barrels of the volatile blasting powder manufactured by the Dwarves. The party was ten strong, including Malack, which allowed for four oarsmen in each boat, with one manning the tiller in each.

  If all went according to plan they would arrive at the causeway during the early hours of the morning. They would moor one of the vessels alongside the causeway, set their charges and blow an irreparable hole in the causeway, permitting the Elkhan to resume its normal course. The much-needed water would then flow on, nourishing the struggling Andaran crops and allowing the Empress time to stave off disaster a little while longer.

  As the small craft struck the riverbank the guards leaped out of it and began dragging the boats up the embankment. Leaving the tiller, Malack leaped to shore, too. “Easy on the boats, men,” he said. “We don’t want it to take too long to get them back in the water. As it is we’re well hidden from view here—our greater concern should be discovery from the road above. It’s not the highway, but it’s traveled well enough that we risk discovery from a patrol or other passerby. As the Empress stated, Vitaem has no love for us—if we’re caught here we’ll be executed.”

  “Aye, sir,” the young officer responded. Turning to his men he began hastily whispering orders. “We’ll spread out, four men, sentries every hundred yards. Ensure no one is able to make it within sight of the boats. Four of us will keep watch while the others rest. One of us will stay with the boats just to be safe.”

  “Very good, son,” Malack responded. “See that you all get some rest. Hard as it is to rest during the daytime, we’ll need all the energy we can muster to row like hell when the time comes. When the causeway blows, it’ll be like kicking a hornet’s nest. There will be armed patrols combing the water looking for us and we’ll want to be far away by the time they start looking.”

  The men set about their tasks with an efficiency born of a life in the military, and soon the remaining soldiers were dozing peacefully. The sentries disappeared into the scrub to take up their positions. In his time spent on the streets Malack had slept in conditions far less comfortable, and soon he too was sound asleep.

  As the sun reached its zenith the sentries returned to camp for the midday meal. It was a simple affair as the small party could ill afford the fire required to cook anything more substantial. The smoke from a fire was simply too great a risk. The soldiers made do without complaint. After all, the cured meat and bread were more than many Andarans had to eat that day.

  The meal passed uneventfully and soon the morning’s sentries were resting peacefully while the remaining soldiers took their turns, diligently watching for any sign that the party had been discovered.

  Malack lay on his bedroll nearby listening to the breathing of his companions. As their snoring reached a steady rhythm Malack quietly arose. With a stealth born of a life on the streets Malack slipped quietly out of the makeshift camp and made his way down to the river. As he neared the boats a figure slipped out from behind a nearby tree, blade raised and at the ready.

  Malack leaped back suddenly, before he could recognize the face. Then he knew it was the soldier he had left minding the boats. Struggling to recall the young man’s name, Malack stuttered, “R-Randal!—What are you doing sneaking up on a man like that?”

  The young man relaxed. “It’s Rondel, sir. I didn’t meant nothing by it. You surprised me, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting anyone for another hour or so. What are you doing down here? I thought you’d be at the camp.”

  “I have been,” Malack answered. “But it’s damned hard to sleep with the sun out, so I went for a walk to relieve myself. I figured while I was on my feet, the least I could do was bring you a drink.” Malack lifted a water skin from over his shoulder and offered it to the soldier.

  “That’s mig
hty kind of you, Malack. I was starting to get a little parched.”

  “It’s the least I could do after you rowed through the night to get us here,” Malack said, smiling.

  “When you put it like that,” Rondel said, “I’m inclined to push my luck. You wouldn’t happen to have anything a little stronger than that there water, would you?” Rondel raised his eyebrows suggestively.

  Malack stifled a laugh. “For you, Rondel, I think I just might.” Slipping the water skin back over his shoulder, Malack slipped his hand into his pocket and drew out a flask. He handed it to the young man and cautioned him, pointing at the Dwarven Blackpowder. “This came from the same place as that powder—it’s ale but it has a kick like a mule. Too deep a draught and you’ll be feeling it in the morning.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Rondel took the offered flask, and with a practiced motion he threw back his head and began to drain the contents.

  As soon as the flask touched the young man’s lips Malack slid his knife from its sheath on his belt. In one smooth motion he brought the blade up and across Rondel’s exposed throat. Blood fountained from the wound as surprise registered on the soldier’s face. Dropping his knife, Malack clenched his hand over the wounded warrior’s mouth. With the boy’s mouth full of ale there was little need, but Malack could ill afford Rondel alerting the others.

  In moments the wounded soldier bled enough to collapse to the ground. When Malack was satisfied that the young man had indeed expired, he got up and swiftly cleaned his knife before slipping it back into its sheath. He leaned down and snatched up his flask. Unfortunately, the commotion and Rondel’s exuberant thirst meant there was little more than a few drops remaining. Lamenting the waste, Malack looked at the dead man at his feet. “No hard feelings, Rondel. If I hadn’t done it, that much dwarven ale might have.”

  Malack hastened his pace. There would be no turning back now. If Rondel’s comrades were to stumble across his body, there would be no forgiveness. Malack doubted he’d even make it back to Andara before his execution would be carried out.