Devil's Dominion

by Stephen Trolly

  “Dothrin archers were hidden on the northern bank. Spearmen were scattered through the trees on the southern shore. We were caught between the two forces, and the War Chiefs broke.” She shot a hate-filled glance at the two Deshika in the tent.

  “And the other Ringlord who marched with you … What happened to her?”

  “I saw two Rangers grab her and drag her into the forest.”

  Makret hung his head, as though disturbed by what had happened. ‘Daliana at least had upheld her end of this bargain.’ He nodded, dismissing them. Night would fall soon, and in the morning, Daken would be gone. No one, not even the Deshika, would be anxious to track him down with Lurnax on the prowl.

  * * * * *

  Edya and one thousand Drogs made their way down the Cardor River to the site of the brief battle. That was all that it amounted to anymore. There was no war to be had, no great deeds of song and legend to be done in one last desperate charge. The Morschen were too weak, their armies scattered, and their will all but broken. There was nothing left to do but guard the borders of their ever-decreasing land and wait for Guinira to launch her final assault. Searching through the mess along the southern shore, she found Daliana, questioning the captive Armandan. Dothrin Rangers were using magic to fill the surrounding forest with traps so that the Deshika would have to march along the river. She was just about to start over and question the captive herself when Daliana stood up, stretched, and walked over to her.

  Daliana gestured behind her with a thumb. “She’s a hard one. Too angry to be useful.”

  “Show me an Armandan who isn’t.”

  “This one’s stronger than most. From what I understand, she used to be very close to Guinira.”

  Another voice broke into their conversation. “And Guinira suspects her of being a spy.” Edya looked up to see Daken and Makret walking side by side. Many of the Drogs gripped their weapons tighter as their one-time General walked past them. Many of the Dothrin archers nocked an arrow, and pulled slightly on the string, ready to raise their bows and release should Daliana give the word. Makret could hear their muttered insults, and he could see the weapons they pointed at him. Admiration, more than anything, made Edya restrain herself as she spoke to the man she once answered to.

  “You’re a brave one, coming here, Druoth.”

  “Either you trust me or you don’t, Edya.” He paused to look around him. “You don’t have to answer; I know which it is. But end this spectacle. You know why I’m here, and we all want the same thing.”

  Edya let a cold edge creep into her voice. “I’ve learned not to trust many people. You’ve given me more reason to not trust you than most have.”

  A corner of Makret’s mouth lifted in an attempt to smile. “You may not be a Garrenin, but you’ve inherited their principles.”

  “There are eleven people bound by the Garrenin Oath. You aren’t one of them. I don’t see that as a matter of principle.”

  Makret sat down on a rock and looked up at the two women. Daken looked on, bored, but not having anywhere else to go. “Taren once named a pirate captain the Grand Admiral of the Imperial Drogodan Navy. It wasn’t because he trusted Tarick. It was because Tarick could do the job. Taren needed him, and you need me. You need me more than you need the other Morschcoda.” He leaned back. “And you know I’m right.”

  The Armandan looked up when she heard this. “So, you’re the traitor?”

  “Yes.” Makret stood and stretched. “Convenient, isn’t it, being in charge of hunting for myself?” He turned and looked at her. “I’m only a traitor to those whom I do not serve.”

  “We trusted you! You have led us to how many victories, and now you say that you do not serve with us?”

  He walked over to her, and looked her in the eye as she stood up. “I was the right hand of Taren Garrenin himself. I will serve no lesser ruler.” She looked him in the eyes, pouring hatred and anger into her stare. He met it and laughed. “I have held the eye of The Kindler himself. I have looked into the eyes of the Last Garrenin. And you think that you can challenge me?”

  “So, why did you not just have the seven of us killed as we marched here?”

  Makret looked the small woman up and down, and then he relaxed slightly. He was among allies, if not friends. He could say what he wished here. “You were already marked for death by Guinira. So is your friend. If not for me, you both would have died in that battle.”

  To that, the young Armandan had no answer. Makret turned away, walking back to the three Morschcoda.

  “So, you really are with us.”

  “I am, Daliana.”

  “Then stay. We need you here.”

  “If I stay, then yes, you will need me here. If I go, then you won’t. Not yet.” Daliana looked confused. Makret did not explain.

  Daken broke in. “There are other Morschledu still in An-Aniath, and Ringlords that could be turned. Market should go back.”

  Edya nodded. “You have our thanks for getting Daken to the forest.”

  “And Gelinia Eshtarin.” He pulled a flask out of his boot, reminding many of those still watching him of Taren. “And Aleishi Mandrath.” As he took a drink from it, the physical reminder of one whom many of them had risked their lives to protect prompted the Drogs to lower their weapons. Several of them saluted Makret, and some bowed.

  Daliana did not notice the various displays by the Drogodan soldiers. “And this High-Blood, yet nameless, Torridestan of yours … Is he staying too?” Makret nodded. “Who’s left in the capital for you to get out?”

  He looked over at the young Armandan woman, still guarded by two Tai-Aren Coda. She looked up. “Any Armandan who realizes what has really happened since Emin-Tal, and those who still call themselves Morschledu. The Kindler doesn’t rule Armanda in name, but everyone knows that he’s responsible for the Deshika’s loyalty to its Queen.”

  “So, you will not declare yourself to be Morschledu?”

  He looked at Edya, and she met his gaze. To her surprise, he answered. “When a Garrenin walks this earth again, I will declare my true allegiance to the world.” With that he turned and left the forest, returning to his camp and waiting for the morning.

  No one heard Daliana mutter “But I’m a Garrenin.”

  * * * * *

  “General!” The yell from outside the tent sounded desperate, but Makret was not particularly inclined to answer it. But it repeated enough times that he finally had to make an appearance at the flap of his tent so that whoever was yelling would finally be quiet. What he saw instead was two Armandan Ringlords chasing a third. The Deshika seemed to think that it was some game, especially when the two chasing drew their swords. But Makret knew what was going to happen. He just could not stop it before it did. The one in the lead stopped and whipped her sword forward at the fleeing woman in front of her. The second Ringlord continued the chase so that in the unlikely event that the first sword missed, she could finish the job. Or rather, that was what would have happened if Makret had not stepped out of his tent. He moved out into the path, and with incredible coordination and skill, and a more than a hint of magic, in one fluid motion, he caught the cartwheeling sword by the hilt as it completed its revolution. Allowing its momentum to carry it, he drove it into the ground. The second attacker had not registered what had happened, until Makret turned full front to her, and she slammed into him at a full run, bouncing off his solid form and staggering back several feet to collapse into a heap. The woman who had thrown the blade was still staring in shock at Makret, not believing that he had caught her sword. She was terrified. He pulled the sword out of the ground, pointed at her, and then into his tent. She dared not argue. The woman who had collapsed, he ordered two nearby Deshika to ‘help’ her to her feet and deposit her in his tent. Their would-be victim almost dived inside the cloth shelter as he held the flap open for her.

  * * * * *

  He looked over the small table he sat behind at all three women in turn. The short one with burning red eyes,
not normal brown eyes, who had thrown the sword, the even shorter woman with long, blood-red hair who had run into him, and the tallish woman who looked too pale to be a pureblood Armandan whom he had saved. He picked up the thrown sword from where it sat on the table, and pointed it at the two shorter women, who were sitting close together, apart from the one they had tried to kill.

  “The two of you are lucky that you didn’t kill this woman.” He would have said more, but the shortest woman squirmed and seemed to want to say something. “Yes?”

  “Well, sir, it’s just … We aren’t actually very lucky, because well …”

  “By whatever gods exist woman, just spit it out.” An angry Makret tended to have that effect.

  The taller of the two women spoke for her. “What she is trying to say, sir, is that her majesty gave us orders that the two other women, this one” she pointed across the tent at her target “and the other who marched with her in the first attack, were not to come back alive from Dothoro. So if she does not die, the two of us will.” She hung her head, ashamed of what she had tried to do.

  “I know.” The two Ringlords looked up at him in shock. So did the other.

  The taller of the two women stood up, outraged. “You knew? And you stopped us?”

  “The way you tried carry out your orders was,” he paused, snapping his fingers several times as he searched for the word he wanted … “inappropriate for a camp this size.” He was staring directly at the two of them, not even glancing towards the third woman, who was rapidly becoming scared. Her left knee was bouncing uncontrollably, like she wanted to run but was afraid that would instantly cause her death. But Makret continued to ignore her, and the two other women did not dare spare her any glances. “Suppose word of this gets back to An-Aniath? Everyone who answers to Queen Guinira will be wondering if their assignments from her majesty are only meant to get rid of them, or if their companions on those tasks have orders to murder them in their sleep. If that were to happen, it would create chaos. Guinira would lose almost every supporter she has. Something like this is easy enough to hide in a battle, but in the middle of the camp, outside of my tent?” He stopped speaking. The tall woman was terrified. She was leaning onto her leg, not daring to move, in case she was noticed and Makret told the two to finish what they started. But he did not. Instead, he ordered the two to get out of his sight and forget Guinira’s orders. Then he turned to her. “You can breathe now.”

  She was practically numb from trying so hard not to move, so she collapsed to her knees the first time she tried to stand. He got up and walked around the small table, and held out his hand. She grabbed it and pulled herself up.

  “Don’t worry. I didn’t order them to forget what Guinira told them just to let them try again.”

  “How can we stop them, though? You let them go free. If they value their lives, and they do, they’ll try again.”

  “No, they won’t. Not yet. Everyone in this camp saw them attack you, or will hear of it. The Deshika won’t understand what happened, but the Ringlords will know what it means. This will damage Guinira badly.” Makret shrugged. “That’s something that I am not at all opposed to.”

  “What?” She had meant to continue, but he clamped his hand over her mouth, silencing her. She tried to bite him, but he ignored that and whispered into her ear.

  “If you didn’t notice, I’m no lover of the Deshika. As a Drog, I find it that much harder to pretend that I can work with them. Dealing with Armandans is almost as bad, especially Guinira and those like her. But you, I will tolerate long enough to help. If you listen, and say nothing to the other Armandan Ringlords, then I can get you away from both the Deshika and Guinira.” He released her and stepped back.

  “I …”

  “Guinira just tried to have you killed, remember.” She nodded slowly. “Good. Now, the only place that I can send you is the forest.” She almost yelled again. “To the Morschledu Remnant.” She really would have yelled, but his hand went back over her mouth, and she came to her senses.

  She pulled his hand away, and answered in a whisper. “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t serve Guinira, or The Kindler. I want to see them both destroyed and the Morschcoda Council once more the rulers of Anaria. So, I can help you escape the trap that you have found yourself in.”

  “Your safety is worse than this trap. The Morschledu won’t accept me any more than Guinira will. I might as well try to cross the ruined bridges and knock on the gates of Alquendiro.”

  “If I believed you could get there, or thought you would go, that’s exactly where I would send you. A high profile traitor, and a ranked Armandan Ringlord, would be more than welcome in Alquendiro. But, those in the forest will accept you.” He dug through the papers on his table, pulling out a small, blue stone. “I’m sending you with a group of forty nine Deshika to scout along the river. The Remnant has orders, from me, to take any Ringlords they find alive, if possible. When you are brought before Daliana or Edya, show them this stone.”

  “I’ve lost my best friend to the forest already. I dare not go in.”

  Makret looked down at his maps, preparing the next Deshik attack. He did not look up to tell her that her comrade was still alive. “You are going in there, and that could save her much unnecessary suffering.”

  * * * * *

  That night, the War Chiefs congregated in Makret’s tent. The topic that they all wanted to discuss was the attempt on the Armandan Ringlord, but Makret was tired of those rumours and demanded that they turn to more pressing matters. The first battle on the Cardor’s banks had been disastrous, but he was a dead man if he returned to An-Aniath so soon.

  “No matter where we enter the forest, they can move through it much quicker, and they can attack us long before we even see them.”

  “We have the advantage in numbers.” The War Chief who spoke was not one of The Kindler’s, or Venda’s which he had trained so carefully. This was one of Nasheem’s War Chiefs, new to Anaria and its wars. Makret would have to teach them the same way that he had taught The Veterans. So he laughed. He laughed at the thought that this War Chief believed that in such a battle, numbers meant anything. Makret had learned long ago that the only time when numbers had meaning against Dothrin Rangers was on an honest battlefield. And the tangled thickets and swampy banks that was the edge of the forest on the Cardor River was the farthest thing from a wide grass plain where two armies could sweep towards each other and decimate each other with sword and spear and magic. This was a battlefield for single warriors, scouting parties, roving archers, and spearmen that could leap down fifty feet and bury their spearhead in their victim’s throat, crushing him to the earth as they landed lightly on their own feet. This was not a Deshik battle. That was something that the Deshika would only learn as they lay dying on the Cardor’s bloody banks.

  “Do you find something amusing, Druoth?” The voice, cold as ice, hard as steel, dark as a moonless night, caught Makret by surprise. He had not felt the ripple of Black Power that preceded the arrival of one of the Seven. But even as he turned, he dropped to his left knee in a bow, only to find himself not staring at The Kindler’s boots. Nasheem had come instead.

  “My lord, I…”

  Nasheem raised a hand and silenced Makret. “Save your breath, General.” He turned to his War Chiefs. “Leave us. Tomorrow is soon enough to renew our assault on Dothoro.” As one, the War Chiefs bowed in their fashion and left the tent. “Now Druoth, make your excuses.”

  Makret looked up into the face of Nasheem. The Devil reminded him of an Armandan-Torridestan half-blood that he had once met. He was very tall, thin and pale, but with blue eyes that burned with hidden fire. Something told him that this Devil was less easy to anger, but also much harder to lie to. “We tried sending a small force along the river, to test the defences of the Remnant. They’re stronger than we believed, but I have hope that with the right tactics, we can take a large portion of the forest and in time bring the whole country under ou
r control.”

  Nasheem looked at him. And then he sat down. “Stand up.” Makret slowly got to his feet, his hand straying close to the hilt of his sword. That did not escape the notice of Nasheem. “You don’t need that toy, Druoth.” The sword belt fell to the ground. “Now, what you just said is what you would tell my brother and his idiot of a mortal queen. I am The Dread Commander. I understand the subtleties of war, and what you just told me is that you do not intend to win this battle for Karvieck or Guinira.”

  “Karvieck?” Makret was reasonably confused.

  Nasheem smiled at the reminder that Makret would not let things pass unchallenged. “The name has not been spoken for over one hundred thousand years. It is the real name of the lord of the Seven, the one you and all others call The Kindler. In the Deshik tongue, it means ‘to ignite.’ In old Morsch, it means ‘defiler.’ Rather fitting.” Makret did not dare speak. Nasheem waved him off. “I don’t care on what ceremony you stand with Karvieck or your queen, but with me, you will speak your mind. You will be blunt, you will be honest, or you will die.” Makret started to protest, but Nasheem raised his hand to silence the Drog. “Now, you are not trying to win this war, are you?”

  Makret almost started to say what he would if he were being questioned by Guinira or The Kindler, but there was a knowing gleam in Nasheem’s eyes. He already knew Makret’s plans. “…No, I’m not.”

  Nasheem nodded to himself, looking around to see what Makret had to drink, but didn’t find anything. Makret pulled the flask out of his boot and offered it to the Devil, who accepted it warily and took a cautious taste. “Eschcotan Whiskey. Excellent. And good, I’m glad you’re not trying.” Makret was confused. “I don’t want my soldiers needlessly sacrificed. I’ll need them when Karvieck tries to claim this land as his alone. Venda and I have grown weary of his timeless plots. The others of my brethren … I neither know nor do I care where they stand.”