Ainslen knew his decision to abolish the Day of Accolades would infuriate the Order, but the choice was also a logical one. Jarod’s demand for an audience came as no surprise. “The Order could not possibly expect to go unscathed in all of this,” the king said. “We all had to make a sacrifice. This was yours.”
“The Day of Accolades has been a priceless commodity, not only to the Order but to the nobility as well,” Jarod argued.
“Perhaps in the past. Of late it’s been more of a benefit to the wisemen than to the nobility.”
“Rubbish,” Jarod said. “I suppose Winslow no longer counts, or did you forget how much of a help he was to you?”
“Winslow was not a product of the Day of Accolades. Regardless, that is all in the past,” the king replied calmly. “Tell me, what was Cortens’ original purpose for the Smear?”
Jarod scowled. “You know it as well as I do.”
“Well then, seeing that the Consortium helped to make certain anyone with a modicum of strength in soul has abandoned the Smear, how does it serve as the crop of power it once was?” Ainslen paused for a moment before he added, “It doesn’t. So why keep it as it is? We all reaped the benefits as much as we could, the Order more so than anyone else. At least the wisemen were only hated because of the examiners and not due to the other role some of you played. It’s time to accept that the old methods are useless now. Fear, misery, and suffering cease to be motivational tools that encourage the dregs to give up their gifted. On the other hand, my proposal will work. We will start fresh, build anew, lure back some of those who left. Coin, my friend, is still what they covet beyond all else.”
Thin lips folded, Jarod nodded. “Your argument makes sense. Sometimes it is difficult to give up the things one has come to rely on. I will do my best to woo support from Mother and Father.”
“Thank you, that is all I ask,” Ainslen said. “And I assure you that once they’re again receiving an influx of strong soul, any complaints will diminish. Also, let them know that with this act I can bring the Empire together that much faster.”
“Let us hope so, for your sake.” With those words, the High Priest gave the slightest of bows and departed.
The king allowed ample time after Jarod left before he pulled on a rope hanging near his chair. Minutes later, a knock sounded at the door. He gave permission for entry.
Borosen Prestiss strode in, a book in one hand. He was a slender man, shifty-eyed and non-descript, even down to his dark hair and style of dress. He could fit in anywhere he chose. Such things came in handy for a merchant renowned for his successful trading runs to the Farlands. As such, he was well versed in their tongue. He also happened to be a most reliable spy and had gathered the brunt of the king’s information in regards to the Farlanders. To any who did not know the man, he would seem inconspicuous, harmless even. One might pass right next to Borosen and not notice him or even sense his melds. His was a rare skill.
“You summoned me, sire?” Borosen’s voice was soft, easily overlooked.
“Yes. I have two Farlanders waiting to report. They have a bad habit of speaking their language at times. I wish for you to listen, and should you hear anything of interest or out of sorts, let me know.”
“Done.” Borosen took a seat in a chair not far from the king. “Whenever you’re ready.” He opened his book and perused the pages.
The two Farlander scouts and a Blade presented themselves not long after. The more Ainslen learned of the Farlands, the more intrigued by it he became. He still could not bring himself to refer to the place as Jiantona, as its inhabitants called it. The Farlands was more fitting. Still, he had chosen to study their races in order to tell each apart and to become familiar with their customs. One that made him grimace was the use of their emperor. Why have such a ruler if the final decisions to most issues had to pass through the council of their warrior caste? Ainslen shook his head, attention drawn to the men before him.
On one knee, the Farlanders waited, eyes averted. They would stay that way until he chose to speak. He had handpicked these two for their fluency in Kasinian, a byproduct of the Order’s missionaries and the Empire’s mercantile endeavors.
One was an Allonian, a Caster named Marosim, skin like polished sandalwood, features hard. The hairless, smooth-faced man beside him was Tethuma, a Jophite and an Alchemist, but he did not wear his race’s customary robes. He was dressed in thick woolens, like his partner, and his sunburnt complexion reminded Ainslen of the days during the summer when he’d spend time on his estates on the shores of the Raging Sea. Their clothes were splattered with muck and water stains, signs that they’d come to him immediately as ordered.
The Blade with them was Hatharan, a seasoned veteran of many a campaign who had the scarred hands, missing ear, and grizzled look to prove it. He was standing, a leather satchel tossed over one shoulder.
“So, what word from the Swords of Humel?” Ainslen asked.
The Farlanders raised their heads. An old scar ran the length of Marosim’s face from right forehead down to his chin. Tethuma stared at Ainslen for a moment, eyes a brilliant shade of green and blue, like the sea along the coasts of the Farish Isles.
“Seems we’ve been away from the Swords for too long, sire,” Hatharan said.
Ainslen focused on the old Blade, eyebrow arched. “What drew you to such a conclusion?”
“Apparently, until months before Succession Day, the Caradorii had been doing brisk business with the towns and cities that the Swords have become. Bloodleaf and Calum root have made numerous merchants rich. Black ash too. Word had it that they were mainly interested in books about us, and sometimes in gold, silver, and steel.”
Ainslen tapped a finger to his chin as he contemplated the news. Calum root was popular in many forms, dried and smoked in rolled paper, or mixed by an apothecary with certain herbs to form powder that was either sniffed or used in Calum pipes. When heated, the mixture gave off the most potent fumes, inducing a dream state that many claimed brought them closer to the Gods. The powder had become coveted by the nobility, particularly along Walker’s Row. Bloodleaf was the poor man’s version of Calum powder, and produced a more numbing effect rather than euphoria and visions. Most people smoked it in regular wooden or metal pipes or preferred to chew it. Chirurgeons and medicos swore by Bloodleaf.
More important than the manufacture of the products, was who stood to benefit from this abundant trade with the Caradorii. Humel Hill owned the towns and cities that the Swords had become, taking its tithe from them to present to the Empire. As the Hill’s leader, it was an ideal way for Count Fiorenta to pay for the Blades he was required to provide to the forts.
Ainslen had often wondered how the count had been able to cover his expenses and yet still maintain enough forces to defend his Hill on Succession Day. Fiorenta’s coin had been key in securing a treaty with the Darshanese, even if he tried to claim the support came from old allegiances. The count was a secretive man, and perhaps he hid much more from the crown. A thorough check of his books might be required, but that concern was for another day.
“Is there a point in telling me about trade?” Ainslen asked. “I sent you to the Swords to bring me news of forces rallying in the west.”
“Sorry, sire, but this was part of that same issue.”
“If so, then continue.”
“The Caradorii broke off all trade soon after Succession Day. Not only that, but they abandoned their settlements in the Wetlands or any other place close to the Swords.”
Ainslen frowned. “Any raids since?”
“None.”
“How is it that I’m now hearing of this?”
“Well, the commanders of each Sword said they mistakenly addressed the news of it to King Jemare.”
The king gave an exasperated shake of his head. He wondered why Fiorenta had not informed him. The man had to know. “Did the commanders send scouts across the border?”
Hatharan passed the leather satchel to the king. “Repo
rts, sire. When any scouts attempted to venture farther into Carador, they were cut down.”
“So we have no knowledge of what lies out there?” Ainslen mused. The more he heard, the more he disliked. The Voices’ warning was proving to be true.
“That’s where they come in.” Hatharan nodded to the two Farlanders. “A squad of theirs went in after ours. A few of them returned, but they would say nothing of what they saw, and instead demanded that we head here.”
As per my instructions. Ainslen turned his attention to the two melders. “What did you find?”
Tethuma uttered something in his language, the tongue musical in its lilt, many words ending with a pronounced ‘e’ sound.
“In Kasinian,” Ainslen prompted.
The Jophite blew out an annoyed breath. “Signs of an army, one that could drown your lands in blood.” His tone rose and fell at odd points that still gave it a sing-song quality.
“Signs? What kind of signs?” Such a force was a frightening prospect. The Caradorii melders rivaled the Blades of old.
“Wheel marks from thousands of wagons, fields stripped bare, farms empty of livestock,” Marosim said, accent thick, words slow.
“And the actual warriors in this army?” Ainslen asked.
Once more Tethuma spoke in the Farlander tongue, but this time the inflection of his words carried a familiar hint of warning. Marosim nodded once.
“Sorry,” Tethuma said. “I am too accustomed to my own language. Only one of our men managed to return after coming close enough to see the main army. The rest of us were engaged by their outriders.”
“This man, where is he?”
“He does not speak your tongue, so he was sent to report to Warmaster Seligula.”
“My orders were for the scouts to return here, first,” Ainslen said coldly. Warmaster? Seligula had presented himself as a general. The Farlanders made to speak but he held up his hand. “What did this man of yours see?”
“Borina reported well over a million soldiers, split between infantry and cavalry,” Tethuma said. “There were catapults, trebuchets, and several other siege engines that flung large spears that might split a man in two.” He said that last with a mocking smile on his lips.
“Ballistae,” Ainslen said with a nod.
“If you say that is what they are, sire.”
Ainslen stood and began to pace, mind working as he calculated the possible attack destinations. He couldn’t picture the westerners venturing directly across the Banded Sea. Kheridisia spanned the length of the Blooming Coast, and its people would fight to the death against any who dared venture into their forests. Hells, the forests themselves were a threat. Although the Empire had defeated the Kheridisians once, those were the days when Cortens, Hemene, and other monarchs still had actual Dracodar fighting for them. Even Jemare’s victory during the Red Swamps had been more a combination of luck and an overzealous and naive commander rather than the ability to break the Kheridisians.
As for sailing around the Banded Sea and up to the River Ost, his control of the Islanders and the Darshanese gave him the most formidable armada. Completely overland would be the western armies’ best choice. If he were their commander he would go through the first of the Swords, Danalyn. Take it, and they would have a highly defensible foothold. Such an assault made him realize the rashness of his decision in throwing out the Heleganese Voices.
“This … Borin …” Ainslen said. “I must speak with him myself. Hearing his words directly is vital to our preparations.”
A quick look passed between the two Farlanders. A brief discussion in their tongue followed.
“So the Kargoshi are here,” Borosen said quietly, closing his book. Wide-eyed, the two men stared at the merchant.
“Who?” the king asked.
The spy turned to Ainslen. “When I heard of the attack on you, I wondered, but by the time I visited Jarod, the body was already gone, so I couldn’t confirm my suspicions. The Kargoshi, or Soulbreakers, in our tongue, are elite assassins employed by the Farlander warrior castes.” He nodded to the Farlanders. “In their histories, it’s said that the Dracodar races originated in the Farlands, far to the east, out in the ocean. They spread their seed and ruled the Farlands until one day they began to grow ill. A plague decimated their ranks, threatened their very existence, similar to our own Blight.
“A Farlander, Vasys Balbas, claimed responsibility for the disease. No one knew from where he came, and the reports of his early life are as varied and ridiculous as any myth. To prove the plague was his doing, he had several Dracodar imbibe a healing tincture he created from a rare metal found deep in the mountains. It cleansed the disease, made them stronger, but at the same time it deformed them, covered their scales in grey metal. Even worse, in order to live, they had to drink this concoction every few months.
“Yet, as to be expected, most preferred a chance to live. Balbas continued his experiments and produced more of this elixir. Terrified by the prospect of extinction, many Dracodar gave up their freedom in exchange for life. Balbas had his first Soulbreaker army.
“One of the noted effects of becoming a Soulbreaker was their ability to disrupt another person’s soul, often ignoring melds used in defense or directed at them. With his army of Soulbreaker slaves, Balbas defeated the remaining Dracodar.
“Over the centuries, most Dracodar adapted to this plague, but the damage to their line was done. Still to this day, the warrior castes choose the strongest Dracodar susceptible to the metal’s effects and convert them to Soulbreakers. Those who volunteer are given places of honor, their families provided for and spared the fate that most of them suffer as fodder for the melders in the Farlander armies. It is this discovery, and his invention of the early firesticks, that earned Balbas the title of Warmonger.”
As Borosen relayed the story, bits of it seemed all too familiar to Ainslen, reminding him of Far’an Senjin, but his mind kept returning to the merchant’s first words. “You said these Dracodar assassins had grey scales rather than gold or silver, and they could disrupt melds?” Ainslen waited for Borosen’s nod, emotions rising to a slow boil. When the affirmation came, the king gazed at the Farlanders, expression full of murder. Sweat beaded Tethuma’s forehead. Marosim had the look of a man who’d accepted his possible fate. “The men that attacked me here, were they Soulbreakers?”
“Yes,” Marosim answered.
“Did Seligula send them?”
“That I cannot say.”
“Cannot or will not?” Ainslen asked.
“When he learned of the Soulbreaker attack, the Warmaster was most upset,” Tethuma said. “All were ordered to keep them secret.”
“So he knew?” Ainslen hissed. “And did not approach me with his knowledge” He was seething inside.
Marosim and Tethuma began a conversation in Farlander, at times voicing what sounded like differences of opinion. Ainslen made to yell at them when Borosen touched his arm. The king bit down on his rage. The argument continued for a bit before the two men realized everyone was watching them. They stopped, gazes flitting between the king and the spy.
“What did they say?” Ainslen asked quietly, eyes hard as he watched the two Farlanders.
“Neither believes Warmaster Seligula was responsible,” Borosen said. “They think the attempt was the actions of one of his rivals, one of the other Warmasters, or perhaps even Balbas himself, who has been in seclusion for over a century. Seligula is slated to be the next leader of the warrior castes, the next Warmonger. If this campaign is successful he will be raised upon his return.”
More power than their emperor, then. Ainslen tapped his chin with his forefinger. “So, I might have been the target of a plot to undermine Seligula.” It’s past time I paid the man a visit. Something nagged at the king. He thought back to all he’d heard so far. “Tethuma, you seemed to think little of these siege engines. Why?”
“That method of war is outdated. They do not stand a chance against our firebreathers.”
“The weapons we used against your precious cities to the east,” Tethuma bragged. “They are a larger form of our firesticks, made completely of metal. They have a range of five thousand feet and can shoot a metal ball this big.” He made a space between his hands almost a foot in length. “They can fire even farther when a group of melders link together to add soul to the shot. The effects must be seen to be believed. It tears through the strongest walls, and what it does to a body …” the Jophite shook his head, admiration clear in his eyes.
Speechless, Ainslen allowed his mind to work, considering how easily Ernassa had fallen. As his initial shock wore off, he sorted possibilities, drew up strategies. Despite his successes over the past months, the world had felt as if it were closing in on him. For all that had gone right with his ascension, so much more had gone terribly wrong. And yet, here he was, standing with his back to a wall as enemies approached from all sides, and the wall had become a door. Smiling inwardly, he thought of High Priest Jarod’s words. You might be right after all. The Dominion is shining on my rule.
Hours later, after he’d made preparations to meet Seligula near the Dreadwood, Ainslen headed down to the dungeons. On this trip he brought Curate Selentus, whose precisely trimmed beard and oiled hair seemed out of place with his red and blue robes, the black sash of his station running from right shoulder to left waist. He disliked his reliance on the wiseman, but in this he had no choice. Delisar’s soul had proven too strong to steal with the inner cycle, entope , either directly or by the use of his mosquitoes.
With his retinue of Blades a few steps behind, Ainslen strode along the walkway that spanned from one side of the dungeon to the next, inky blackness yawning at him from below. Cells stood over that gaping maw, atop grey metal spires that defied reality, too thin, too pointed to support them. But nonetheless they stood. A Blade guarded the door to each cell. Moans and cries echoed within the chamber, and the smell of blood, death, and sickness permeated the air.
The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series Page 45