by Jeramy Goble
Through a curtain of blood and sweat, Porzivis poured all of himself into the slowly-growing sphere. He held nothing back. This was a one-way spell he would not survive, with or without the multiple arrows piercing his body.
***
More returning archers began to line up along the wall just as the surviving Ridgerazers returned to the safety of Drelio. They could see the light from the queen’s spell still flickering out from her protective circle. One of Jularra’s Spire guards shouted at Dolnila.
“Is it down yet?”
Dolnila shouted back. “Not yet! Sixty seconds!”
But Dolnila realized the wall was filling up too quickly. They’re going to kill him before he can finish.
Dolnila fell to her knees, summoning her own strength to call upon the wind in the immediate area. Like pulling on a massive boulder, she strained each tendon and muscle fiber, arms outstretched, concentrating on controlling the airflow through the village and in front of the gate. Then she pulled her hands back in towards her, as if pulling all the wind to her chest. Once she felt the power of the wind too much to contain, she vaulted her hands up and forward, crashing a violent wall of air into the ranks of archers atop the wall. After releasing all that she could of herself and into her command of the wind, she fell onto her face, spent. Dead.
***
Out of the corner of Porzivis’ failing vision, he saw the fabric tops of nearby market stalls gyrate violently in the wind; watched blurrily as the archers were knocked back to topple from the wall, before focusing all he could on finishing the fourth fireball.
Get it done, and then you can die. Then you can rest.
His breathing shook, and he shivered as he flexed, momentarily distracted by the surreal realization he would soon know what death felt like.
He focused. Strained. Flexed. Pulled.
The sphere was ready.
With a final glance, he shifted his eyes to the gatehouse. The entryway was obscured by flames, but the size and shape of the fire told him the portcullis was still there. With a jolt to his mental focus, he shifted his concentration from containment to pushing, and shot the fourth ball at the gate.
It struck with an explosive punch as Porzivis slumped to the dirt. His vision turned black, but not before he saw the sky through the obliterated gate.
***
The gate and doors ruptured and roared to the ground in a fiery crumble of destruction. The Ridgerazers had done it. The gatehouse was open.
Cheers tore into the air from around Drelio as Korden shouted at Jularra.
“It’s down! It’s down!”
The orange glow left Jularra’s eyes as she vaulted to her feet. The energy of the miniature environment she had been controlling disappeared into a smoky cloud.
“Sound the attack!” she ordered immediately. “Go! Take the city!”
As her commanders and other subordinates rushed off to see to the taking of Brinnock, she grabbed Korden by the shoulder.
“As soon as it’s clear, take a detachment and see personally to the securing of the granaries and food stores. They must survive, unmolested, or everything we have done is for naught.”
Nine
Once the gatehouse fell and Acorilan’s armies poured in, Brinnock's forces were quick to surrender. Casualties on both sides were low, which was exactly what Jularra wanted. It was exactly what everyone wanted.
But despite the achievement, each loss nipped at Jularra’s conscience. As anticipated, the guilt began to brew immediately, and she knew it would follow her for some time. The loss of Porzivis and Dolnila were especially hard for Jularra to accept.
The battle was over by mid-morning, allowing the Acorilinians to get to work on administration matters which lasted well into the evening. Jularra, the Acorilinian lords, and their captains secured the city and detained the surrendered Torgurian armies as initial incorporation began.
The Acorilinians had achieved their decisive victory and secured substantial food stores. Jularra was beyond relieved—regardless of how quickly the Torgurians may or may not adapt to their new queen. To minimize unrest, Jularra gave orders for the transition to get underway as quickly as possible. In the following days, initial efforts focused on gathering information on the surrounding area, and perpetuating the message that their invasion was one of survival, necessity, and a gesture of protection on behalf of their Yubik allies. The Acorilinians were also extremely careful to communicate that they wished no harm to the citizens of Brinnock—or to their city.
Less than a week after the siege, Jularra reviewed Brinnock’s large, underground prison to check the status of its current population and consider it for new prisoners. She then ordered her commanders to finish securing the city, and end their official business for the night. It was well past time for dinner, and a grand feast had been arranged to take advantage of their newly acquired food. Her conscience fussed incessantly with reminders of the beggar father and daughter back in Morganon, but she kept it at bay with the knowledge that their relief would come soon. She wanted those who fought for her to eat and drink well tonight.
But as she and a contingent of guards and nobles turned into a passage leading back up to the surface, an oval of energy pulsed into their path.
Jularra had to whip out an arm to stop an overzealous subordinate from attacking.
“No,” she said calmly. “We’re not in danger. You all continue on. I’ll be there shortly.”
The bright oval subsided. The bright white figure, hazily resembling that of a human, stood ahead of her. A Gift God. There were few discernible details to the figure’s appearance, except those of small, darker marks akin to stitching, etching, or possibly even organic structures, like veins or arteries. Where the head of the entity might be, a flowing hood seemed to hang down, giving no glimpse of a face of any kind.
Jularra jumped as the Gift God began to speak to her. Their unpredictable communication always startled her, and their odd interactions usually left her amused; they didn’t converse with her so much as they spoke at her.
“Your visual invention was a remarkable feat,” the Gift God began. Its voice echoed, though it spoke softly. “We commend you for your skill in this particular facet of the arts.”
“Thank you—”
“It was most admirable,” the entity continued, “that you used your skills to minimize the loss of life. Though it was in the context of a war, we understand that you felt it necessary in order to feed your people.”
Jularra tried to determine if she should bother replying or not.
“Yes… I was afraid of how that might be received, but I’m glad you—”
“For your impressive display of illusion this day, we award you a Credellion.”
Similar to the Credellion she had been awarded after dispatching Vilfarin, another golden object grew into existence in front of her. Initially emitting a bright, golden light, it rapidly faded to what looked like a sizable piece of tree bark. Carved into it was the symbol for "illusion", with six hash marks cut around the edges. As Jularra took it, the Gift God blended into the corridor’s shadows and disappeared.
She stood in silence, as she usually did after a visit from the Gift Gods, simultaneously puzzled and relieved, as if she had escaped a great danger. As usual, Jularra found the one-way dialogue curious; she wished to learn more about the nature of her world’s magic, and the Gift Gods’ role in it. But once again, they visited, spoke, and left.
Maybe next time.
Jularra stowed her new Credellion in a pouch and continued on her way to the surface.
The volume of noise coming from the courtyard above increased as Jularra drew near. Flagons clinked, laughter rippled across the tops of the clumped crowds, and various melodies were slaughtered by tone-deaf or inebriated revelers. It was exactly what Jularra needed. Her smile grew steadily until she crested the threshold up to Brinnock’s massive peristyle in the center of the city.
Her steps slowed as her head rose above the f
loor of the courtyard and an impressive sight flooded her vision: hundreds of yards of round courtyard, encircled by towering columns a hundred feet in height. Jularra felt her chest swell with pride knowing she and her people had conquered such a place.
As her people erupted in assorted exclamations of triumph and pride, Jularra slapped the nearest bystander on the back and shot her other fist into the air in a sign of shared and unified triumph. Most of her fellow Spire, as well as the Bedrock nearby, came to the appropriate attention formation for their unit, but allowed a reciprocal fist to shoot into the air as well.
Someone pulled Jularra’s raised arm down and slapped a mug into her hand. After recognizing Untannio, a familiar member of the Bedrock, Jularra raised the mug to her mouth and gulped until it was empty. She slammed her mug down and pointed at it. The initial cheers and whistles that greeted her arrival to the courtyard hadn’t yet died down, and only swelled again as she demanded her refill. Untannio, who appeared to be the barkeep for the time being, swiped the mug off the counter and flicked the tap on the keg behind him to fill it up. Within seconds, Jularra had her mug back, and once again emptied it.
After another refill, she turned to the crowd with her mug in the air and beckoned for their attention. After some conflicting yelling and shushing, the crowd fell silent.
“What a beautiful night in the Acorilinian city of Brinnock!” she shouted. Her fellow Spire officers, the Bedrock officers, the members of her court and staff that were in attendance, as well as the servants, detonated in a proud and triumphant roar of approval. Jularra sipped from her mug as the crowd’s noise rippled around and up into the night sky.
“Before this night progresses,” she started, striking a more subdued tone, “let me say that I am extremely grateful to those of you who have traveled from Morganon to celebrate with us tonight. I am also extremely appreciative of our country’s relationships, as well as for the wisdom exhibited by our nobles—my advisors—in helping me continue our long history of keeping the peace.”
Most heads in the crowd nodded in agreement. Others let approving sounds hum from their lips.
“Now, obviously, that peace has been disrupted.”
Jularra began circling slowly in place as she continued to exclaim to all those in the vicinity.
“Safety has been risked. Lives have been put in danger. But you all know that this was necessary. It was necessary for our people. Our citizens needed food. We needed capital. We needed resources. Our people needed this. This invasion was justified. And, as with all other things the Acorilinian people do, we did it decisively and with superior execution. Because of your excellence and skill, you minimized the amount of time our people were at risk. You minimized casualties. You have secured their safety once more. You will feed bellies and extend the vibrant future of Acorilan. Together, we will ensure our fields and crops are rejuvenated so that we are not forced to deal with a situation like this again.”
The crowd began to applaud as Jularra finished.
“I thank you. Our people thank you. And now, I need another drink!”
The noise from the crowd tore into the air, going from a simple shout to a muffled explosion of sound, causing Jularra to grimace in exaggerated discomfort. It wasn’t enough to deter her from finishing her mug, however. She finished it off and whipped around for another refill. While her cup was being tended to, the cheering started to revert back to dozens of individual conversations.
Jularra picked up her refill, but held it closely. She had already had enough to get the evening started and wanted to take a moment to soak in the scene around her. She hadn’t seen such smiles or heard such laughter in recent times. The pride of her people was always present, and the strength in their blood and history was always honed and ready, but an uncertainty had been weighing on them all. Their future had been unclear, and the hope of securing that future had begun to slip from their grasp. But on this night, the dying embers of that hope had been stoked.
Her Bedrock and Spire officers radiated confidence as they strode around the courtyard. Their continued rigorous training throughout the years of peace and stagnation had served them well. Jularra was relieved to know that their readiness and expertise had been refreshed, and though she had no immediate idea of when they might be tested again, they had carried out this invasion on their terms, and with their plans. It was a success.
There is no better way to keep a culture’s warriors in shape, physically as well as tactically, than to fight. And fight we did.
The Acorilinian lords still in the city, obviously following up on the performance of whatever military elements they provided, were more active with their journey through the crowd. Jularra easily distinguished them from the rest of the gathering, with Latham and Maccail doing most of the waving and beckoning. Jularra swayed backwards with a chuckle as she watched them maneuver and negotiate their next political arrangement.
The remainder—and largest portion—of the throng was made up of aristocrats of varying location, nobility, and station. Some were prominent, native members of Torgurian society, who had personally and financially escaped the more violent aspect of the invasion relatively unscathed, for a variety of reasons. They would, of course, secure their own continued prosperity by providing Jularra with valuable intelligence, along with the promise of future co-operation.
The rest of the aristocracy in attendance were from Acorilan, and had traveled to align with those involved with the invasion and secure for themselves an early foothold of influence in Brinnock. Jularra loved the politicking, intrigue, and every sight, smell, and sound around her. It was a scene of victory with the predator relishing the spoils of war—spoils that she knew would benefit her people, and not just those there on that night.
Jularra’s peaceful reflection did not last long. Every member of the crowd wanted a few moments with her individually, to share congratulations and offerings of respect. Most were people she interacted with on a routine basis and knew not to waste her time, much less with politics or a request for an audience with ulterior motives. She wouldn’t abide that. They could trade favors and bicker with each other, but not with Jularra.
The queen stepped away from the kegs and strolled into the crowd in an effort to break up the small talk. She enjoyed and appreciated the well-wishes and congratulations, but she had to give her mind a break. As with all other things, Jularra had invested as much of her mental capacity as she could into the siege of Brinnock. She had a hand in the strategy, the organization, the deployment, the battle’s actual tactics, as well as selling the plan to any doubtful lords, advisors, and her people. There was no longer any immediate need for her input, and she sought to clear her mind of everything—including idle conversations. She continued to meander through the crowd, giving cordial but dismissive acknowledgment to those who sought her attention. She quickened her pace, appearing as if she was making for a particular destination in the courtyard, or for a particular person. No one dared delay the queen.
She reached her intended target: a platform with a musical ensemble. The musicians were full of life, bouncing their heads and knees as they played a fast folk tune native to Torguria.
They had just reached the loudest part of the piece. Jularra stepped closer to the group and lost the volume of the crowd in the volume of the musicians. She lowered herself to one knee and focused peacefully within the group’s blanket of sound. One of the lute players caught sight of the queen and immediately struck a sour note. Jularra laughed and held out her hand to reassure the musician. Ever the professional, the musician didn't stop playing and returned the queen’s smile before continuing the melody with renewed enthusiasm.
The two drummers, along with the stomping feet of the rest of the ensemble, pounded the beat into the queen’s heart. It wasn’t enough. She wanted to be closer to the music. She wanted to be inside the rhythm. She lowered her head until her chin touched her chest. She felt a soft pop at the top of her neck as it stretched. Her eyes closed.
After a few moments, she began to relax and settle into her kneeling posture. Her head began to pulse as the music synchronized with her soul, and she felt completely immersed in the folk harmonies and beats. Her chest, heaving erratically at first with passion, began to swell and deflate, in and out in sync with the rhythm. The music had found her, and she had found peace. That victorious moment was hers, and hers alone.
She wasn’t accountable to anyone. No one needed her instruction or direction. Everyone around her drank, ate, danced, and sang to their maximum pleasure. No one needed the queen, and she was in need of no one. It was pure joy and relaxation. Each soul surrounded by the towering columns was temporarily free of duty or obligation. They owed nothing but what their minds and bodies desired.
This was not a night of morality and light. It was a night for indulgence.
Jularra’s eyes were still closed. Her head continued to bob with the music and her mind became looser. She smiled to herself as the ale caught up with her. Feeling the alcohol start to take effect, and knowing that a deeper euphoria would follow with additional drinks, was one of her closest-held comforts. Eyes still closed, she took in a large mouthful of ale, swallowed a bit, relished the taste, and slowly finished the rest of the gulp, twirling her tongue through the liquid as it slid down her throat.
She rolled her head in slow, small circles. A shiver rippled through her as a lutist struck another wrong note; she registered the irritating sound and then dismissed it. She began to lift her mug once again, but was jarred by another wrong note, this one nastily plucked by one of the musicians. Then, almost immediately, another. Her eyes shot open.
Her stomach bottomed out in disgust. Fear and confusion twisted her soul and stung her nerves with a wave of cold shock. The music she had previously been enjoying slid down melodically into a dark and atonal dirge of depravity. Some of the musicians previously playing bowed instruments were now sliding their bows in and out of the vaginas of some of the other players. Other bows now appeared as long and narrow penises. Each musician eyed the queen with a demented stare as they continued playing their sickening tunes. They showed their teeth in exaggerated smiles, lips stretched tight to the point of cracking, spilling little hints of blood from the raw skin.