by Mark B Frost
To the north of that border sat the Tower of Halariu, the massive and reclusive home of Arcanum. Moving west from the Dictus was the Emle property. The oldest noble family of the Knighthood, the Emle line could be traced back even beyond Vesovius Emle I, and they held nearly a full quarter of the city’s land. As the Dictus had expanded over the years they had attempted to lay ownership over the eastern edges of Emle lands, but the Grand Council had ruled against this. Now the Dictus rented many of their offices from the Emles.
It was because of the wealth and affluence of the Emle family that Atheme had been able to keep the office. The new Lord of Saelen was Cyprus Galahe, second Son of Emle. Although as a secondborn he had not been allowed to keep the family name, his older brother allowed him full run of the family property and fortune. Cyprus had many buildings and quarters of his own, and had no need for another office.
There was a knock at the door, and without waiting for a response Atheme’s assistant quickly stepped into the room and gave a bow. “Sir, Lord Councilor Leprue Messe is here to see you.”
“Send him in,” Atheme answered.
Swathed in deep blue robes and weighed down by the joint heft of years and medallion-draped sashes adorning his body, Leprue Messe was a visual definition of nobility. His youthful and perfectly lined face made it impossible to guess his age, but he was already into his seventies. Long blond hair without a trace of white was bound tightly into a ponytail, and at his side sat an ancient katana, sheathed in an intricate rune-covered case of silver and gold. After a customary exchange of pleasantries and greetings, Leprue took a seat and motioned for Atheme to do the same.
“Old legs are not made for standing during these conversations.”
Atheme shook his head. “Don’t play feeble with me. You and I both know that the Sword of Serral keeps you at your fighting peak. I’m showing my age worse than you are.”
Leprue was a former colleague of Calvin Darmani, and one of Atheme’s oldest friends. At the mention of the Sword of Serral, he patted the hilt at his side. “I have led a charmed life. But that isn’t why I’m here.”
“No, I wouldn’t have supposed so. Visits from the Lord Councilor are too rare for small talk. Is this about the Daemon?”
Leprue waved a hand in front of his face. “That’s your affair now. This is about Vantrisk.”
Atheme carefully closed the ancient tomes he had been leafing through and set them aside. “You have my full attention.”
“How well are you apprised on the situation?”
“If I’m being honest,” he answered with a touch of irritation creeping into his voice, “not as well as I’d like to be. The General’s keeping his mouth shut, and as you know, no one can intimidate Kulara Karfa. I can’t find any official records on the subject, and everyone I talk to goes quiet as soon as I bring it up. I noticed the Dragoons came home about a month ago. I assumed that was a good sign, and that the war was winding down.”
“The sign was not as good as you might believe. To the contrary, we have made no progress in the war on Vantrisk. Their defenses hold and we’ve gained no noteworthy advantages. Rather, the Dragoons were pulled back on order from the Council of Paladins. There have been increasing hostilities from Revian, with more of their troops flooding into our lands, and we’ve lost a few territories. There’s a lot of back and forth going on there, but you would have to say that the tide is turning their way. This has made the Templars fearful of an upcoming siege, and they’re trying to boost our home defenses.”
Atheme scratched his chin. “So we can’t send out the Dragoons anymore.”
“The Council of Paladins says that if we try to, they’ll forbid Templars from cross-training with the Military.”
“Can’t the Grand Council prevent that kind of power play?”
“On paper, yes. Laws could certainly be passed. In reality the Templars will act as the paladins wish. If they start treating cross-training as a taboo subject, it will only be a matter of months before we scarcely have any serving in the Military at all.”
Atheme took a moment to think this over, then moved on. “So what about Vantrisk?”
“General Karfa wishes to withdraw. According to the reports brought back, Vantrisk’s defenses are solid but they pose no significant threat to us. As you know, the war began when Vantrisk declared independence. For now Kulara thinks we should let them have it, focus on the real enemy at hand, and come back for them later.”
“I can’t say I agree,” Atheme responded, shaking his head. “Vantrisk is currently a Felthespari province that’s giving us grief. To our allies, the war there looks like a domestic affair. If we allow them to become independent and intervene at a later date, it will look more like an invasion. That could make relations with our allies tense.”
“I am of the same mind. However, the Dictus, Church, and Arcanum are all siding with Kulara. I can’t predict how Jora might vote on the Eldram’s behalf, but even if I can sway her I don’t think I can convince Gaspar. He’s led a significant number of strikes against Revian forces, and he is consumed with hatred for them. With no chance of a tie, there’s nothing I can do. If the issue comes to a vote, we will pull out of Vantrisk. I fear we will never stop feeling the repercussions of that action.”
“I have to say, Leprue, I do not appreciate that every high-ranking member of Felthespar seems to be read in on this situation except for myself.”
“You must understand, your association with Calvin has afforded you a meteoric rise through our ranks, but you are still young. Many members of the Council do not yet know if they can trust your discretion with regard to some of the more sensitive affairs.”
“And yet, you know as well as I that I am next in line for your position. The public outcry, if it doesn’t happen, will be more than our timid government is willing to deal with. So tell me, does it really seem like such a good idea for me to come into power without knowing what’s happening in our country?”
“Of course it doesn’t, to anyone who can see more than an inch in front of his own nose. Which is why I’m here, in your office, while my secretary has recorded me down for a nap.”
“I’m glad we agree. If I’m going to be treated as a child by my own government, I need to know where my allies are. So then, what’s the plan?”
Leprue smiled. “The plan, if it can even be called that, is to stall. I’m pulling some strings to send Gaspar out on fresh expeditions. I’ve got the Eldram redoing our entire Rank Review process, for all divisions, from the ground up. Jora won’t see the light of day for a good month. I’ve quietly triggered a long-building political battle between the Senate and the Justices, which Terledor will be required to mediate on. I’ve given Kinguin a special research assignment, which will almost certainly mean he’ll disappear from civilized society. Between these events, it should be a long while before we hold a Grand Council meeting where everyone actually attends.”
“And when the Grand Council’s attendance is broken,” Atheme continued the thought, “the Lord Councilor has the right to defer any matter to the next meeting.”
“Precisely.”
“I’ll do my part, and miss any meetings where you feel it’s needed. Pecoros knows I can use the time. But you can only hold this out for so long, and from what you’ve told me we’re at a stalemate with Vantrisk. So how does this help?”
“That’s for you to decide. You want to be Lord Councilor, right? Consider this a warm up. I’m having all of the documents that I have on the matter sent to you. You’ll want to work closely with Kinguin, as well. He has a good deal more.”
Atheme rubbed his hands together for a moment in thought. “Leprue, it’d be remiss if I didn’t at least ask. Is this a trap? So that if the war goes badly, I’ll be left shouldering full responsibility? Like with the Daemon?”
“This is not an official order, Atheme. This is a personal request, from one friend to another. If Vantrisk goes badly, if we lose the war and are forced to withdraw, then this ne
ver happened. Neither of our political careers could survive it.”
“Nice to hear. Of course,” he said with a smile, “I was going to do it anyway.” He rose to his feet and clapped his hands. “Alright then. As a first order of business, I think I’ll go find the Dragoon captain and see what he knows.”
“Cildar is not in the city.”
“What do you mean? I thought the Dragoons had been recalled from Vantrisk.”
“They have. Cildar and his lieutenant elected to stay behind to restructure the chain of command in their absence, intending to catch up with the rest of the Corps in three days. But he never arrived. We’ve kept this matter quiet on the chance that Cildar has died. Losing our Lord of the Phoenix is the last thing we need right now.”
“I find that hard to believe. Cildar is one of our finest warriors, perhaps as strong as myself. Some have suggested even stronger. I know the Vantriskans are dangerous on their home turf, but there’s no way they could kill him.”
“Believe me, we all wish dearly to believe that. But he is a White Robe, and a man of supreme discipline. He would not willingly defy orders. So then, what could have happened to force him to remain behind without sending word?”
Chapter 3.
Lord of the Phoenix
Cildar Emle, Holy Paladin of Felthespar, Major, Platinum Knight, Lord of the Phoenix, Military High Councilor and Lord of the House Lurin, sat on a hilltop overlooking the small nation of Vantrisk. Cildar was a tall, noble man, wearing white plate mail and garb befitting the House of Lurin. His face was covered by a blue mask, designed to prevent the dust of the battlefield from choking him. Most of the Dragoons wore such masks, and many soldiers considered it a sign of their pretension. But Cildar had lived his life in battle, and he knew that sometimes the smallest advantages mattered most.
A small enemy army was arranged outside of the city wall, with makeshift barracks serving as living quarters. On each side of these quarters were more hills, carved to provide no footing for possible attackers, now resembling small cliffs. The tops of the hills had been converted to archer towers, and it was from here that Vantrisk harassed its invaders.
Beyond these defenses was the city itself. It was not unlike Felthespar, with a stalwart city wall sewn into natural defenses. The city was backed against the Cerulian Sea to the south, and had just enough naval power to defend themselves from ambush. To the east and west stood the stone walls, sewn carefully into the surrounding hills. The only gate to the city faced north, and it was here that the Vantriskan soldiers most staunchly defended their home.
Past the city gates lay a sprawl of bustle and activity. Vantrisk was in a wartime economy, and everyone was working at their hardest to produce the resources to fuel the army. The Felthespari forces had breached the front gate more than once, and the structure was suffering considerable damage. It was when the city stood unmolested that the tradesmen and craftsmen were forced to do their work.
Vantrisk’s citizens were hearty. Each time the Knighthood had managed to penetrate into the city, the civilians had taken up arms and joined their soldiers. Each time they had driven the invaders out, but their casualties mounted. They were not equipped to take many more of these battles, and both sides knew it.
None of these were Cildar’s biggest problem. That sat on the neighboring hillside, to the west. There, a small dark force of over two thousand people had settled. They had arrived less than two days after Cildar had sent his Dragoon forces home. Even a month later, as he looked over at them he could scarcely believe his eyes.
“Cainites,” he muttered under his breath for what must have been the hundredth time. Shasta D’argail, his lieutenant, nodded politely to the statement. Shasta’s garb was of a near-identical design to his commander’s, but with red mail and dark green cloths. This attire was once standard issue for Phoenix Dragoons, but these days had widely fallen out of favor. Now it was only worn by the three ranking officers of the Dragoon Corps.
Cildar shook his head in irritation, both with the situation and himself, then raised a hand and snapped to a nearby soldier. “Wine! Bring me wine.”
The two Dragoons sat in silence waiting for their drinks to arrive. Cildar’s mood had been dark since the appearance of the unexpected guests. The Cainites were supposed to be extinct, wiped out in the War of Arocaen three centuries ago. They claimed to no longer hold enmity with Felthespar, and merely wished to come out of the exile into which they had been driven. To prove this, they had even offered their services in return for a share of the army’s rations.
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of his drinks, but they were not carried by one of his normal aides. Instead a man in his mid-twenties arrived and offered them with a smile. Shocks of light brown hair shot every direction, and his uniform—which Cildar quickly recognized as the light clothes of a medic—was ragged and dirty.
“Excuse me, sir, but I was asked to come and see you. I intercepted these on my way. I hope you don’t mind.”
“We’re low on supplies,” Cildar grumbled, anticipating a request. “I know the medics have it rough right now, but there’s not much I can do.”
“No sir, it’s not about that. I’m the Lord of the White Hand.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Tandra’s the high medic.”
“Tandra died from injuries she sustained a few battles ago. She held together as long as she could, but an infection got too deep and there was nothing we could do.”
The paladin slammed his fist into the ground at his side. “Idiot! She should have told me. There was no reason for her to stay here and die. She could have gone north into cleaner currents.”
“Actually, sir, that’s part of why I was sent. I was told as the new Lord of the White Hand, I needed to be briefed on the situation here.”
Cildar nodded and motioned for the young man to take a seat next to him, uncorking the wine and pouring three glasses. He pulled down his mask and took a drink before proceeding. “I assume you’ve been here long enough to figure out the basics.” He pointed down to the walls of the city below. “There’s a large rune structure carved on the walls of the city. It runs all the way around, and we theorize either underground or below the ocean. The rune structure is well designed, with several low-level defense mechanisms. We’ve been able to do some damage to it, but they always fix it up.”
“It’s the rune structure that’s weakening our magic?”
“More than weakening. That rune structure has changed the nature of the ether currents themselves. Most often, the effect is seen through weakened spells. As a healer, I’m sure that’s how it comes off to you. But we’ve had other problems as well. A few of our war mages have had spells backfire, or outright change in nature. Grey magic is almost impossible to tune correctly. Either you get something too weak, or way too strong and loaded with horrible side effects.”
“I see. And yet, I’ve treated soldiers with terrible wounds that appeared to have been inflicted by magic. Were those the results of backfires?”
“Doubtful. The Vantriskans aren’t affected by their own trick. Or rather, they’ve adapted. We’re not certain how. Some soldiers have claimed they’ve seen artifacts the Vantriskans carry. If it’s true, we’ve never been able to get our hands on one.”
Galbion crossed his arms and thought for a moment. “But if I’m understanding you correctly, wouldn’t that mean the Vantrisk soldiers are only dangerous here?”
Cildar raised his glass. “There’s the golden question, isn’t it? The fact is, you’re right. Vantrisk isn’t a threat to Felthespar’s safety. We’re not here to protect our country’s people, we’re here to protect her investments. Vantrisk is the southernmost port city that Felthespar holds ownership over outright. Naval power has never been a significant factor on Itrius, but Felthespar’s banking that one day it will be. Vantrisk is an investment on that future.”
Galbion nodded. “That’s reason enough for me. I agreed to serve my city, for her present and future needs.
I am willing to trust in those above me to make better decisions than I. But can you tell me about them?” He pointed to the neighboring hilltop, and Cildar groaned.
“Still trying to figure that one out myself.”
Shasta, detecting his leader’s stubbornness, helpfully stepped in. “They arrived about a month ago. They say they’re Cainites, and may be. Their artifacts, techniques, and attire are consistent with reports of Cainites from the Arocaen era. They offered to help, so Cildar cut a deal with them. He didn’t have much choice. Felthespar had just pulled the Dragoons back, so we don’t have the manpower to fend off both Cainites and Vantriskans. Even if the truce is a sham, we have to play along for now.”
“So that’s why they don’t fight alongside us?” Galbion asked.
“We set up an arrangement where we fight on alternating days. The Cainites have less than four hundred soldiers, so we didn’t expect them to hold their own. But four hundred fresh fighters appear to be a match for our exhausted two thousand.”
“It’s more than that,” Cildar interjected. “Their soldiers are good. The Cainites’ magic has been weakened in a manner similar to ours, but their skills are sharp. They’re fast, wiry, and they function well in units of any size. They adjust to the tides of battle with little need for direct leadership. If they had their magic, I’m confident they could give my Dragoons a fair fight.”
“Does that mean,” Galbion responded, “they’re an even bigger threat than Vantrisk?”
“Maybe,” Shasta answered. “Although their numbers are too small to be a danger to Felthespar itself.”
“Even so,” Cildar continued, “their loyalty could prove significant. If we turn them away and they ally with another city, such as Lenghe, it could be a significant blow to the balance of power.”