The War of Embers

by James Duvall

  King Rufus stood on the balcony by General Tamlin's side. Everything was fine, though the battle was not going well. Then the king lurched forward, sinking against the rail. Tamlin caught the wounded man before he reached the ground. Black feathers jutted from Rufus's chest, speckled red with blood. The white dragon appeared silently and from nowhere, simply stepping out of the shadow and sitting behind Tamlin. He looked down at Rufus with sorrowful eyes, blue like the rain and bright as flame.

  “Please, no, not now, not when we need him the most,” Tamlin pleaded. The white dragon placed a paw on the general's shoulder and the man was quieted.

  King Rufus had grown faint by then, his blood pooling on the rain-slicked stones. The light in his eyes faded with every slowing beat of his heart.

  Dakrym leaned in close and spoke to him in a soft and gentle voice, too quiet for the dying man's son to hear. Then he reached out and rested his paw over the king's eyes. In a moment they were gone. King Rufus Kemp was dead. He had gone away and left a young man behind, now the ruler of the kingdom of man.

  A knock at the door interrupted Isaac's solitude.

  “Enter.”

  The great oaken doors swung open and permitted Khaebus Mulgim amongst a small company of guards. With him was another ralian man. His skin was ashen and pale and his face looked as though he had one day met the fires and somehow lived to speak of it Isaac shuddered; Draggus had the look of death about him. Charles Tamlin entered behind them, drawing the door shut before taking his place at the young king's side.

  “Highness,” Khaebus said, bowing. His companion nodded stiffly. Isaac thought to reprimand him for failing to show his respects but it occurred to him that the burned man might not be capable of more than the little nod.

  “The hour is late,” Isaac said, tiredly. It was not the most subtle indication that he wanted them to leave, but being king afforded many luxuries.

  “Of course it is, sire. Though the hour is later than you know. I would not have come if it were not of great importance. I wanted to introduce you to Draggus. He has come to us today from the great temple of Kalthiress in Segorra. He is a skilled mage, of which I am certain your general can tell you.”

  “I am aware of the name,” Isaac said, glaring cold daggers through him. “I am told that it was this man that released Venarthiss from the Cold. His return to dragon lands resulted in a bloody coup. Since then the dragons have shut all doors of diplomacy and secluded themselves in isolation. They are lost to us as allies. The folly of this... quest... cost me greatly.”

  There was a moment of silence as the ralians exchanged glances. Khaebus nodded and Draggus stepped forward and motioned for everyone to stand back.

  “Draggus is more than a common mage,” Khaebus explained. “He is a powerful seer. His actions were not without reason, sire.”

  Draggus strode to the wall and reached for a candle. "With permissions, your highness?" he said, looking to Isaac for direction. When Isaac waved him along, he plucked a candle from the wall and returned to the center of the room. When he blew across the flame it blossomed forth from the wick and came to rest on the floor in a swirling golden pool of what looked to be magma, flowing in a lazy circle in the little cauldron in the floor. The warlock swept his hands across the churn of molten stone, stilling the fiery waters. The surface shimmered like molten glass. The surface rippled as a figure formed, rising unnaturally from the molten pool. Slowly it took shape. Charwood formed the body of a dragon, with a black mane of thick smoke. The warlock's creation roared and stretched its bony stick wings. Venom lava dripped from its pronounced fangs.

  “When this image came to me I knew the dragons had begun to plot against you. His name is Grimlohr the Night Slayer. With one hand he begged your aid in searching for his lost princess and with the other he shields your enemies. Our spies have confirmed he has sent a Silverwind mage to Fendiss to escape your justice. Even now his mage seeks an audience in the Frost Moors with a sadean prince.”

  Draggus struck the dragon with his staff and it crumbled, sinking back into the crimson mire. He made a quick motion with his hands and smoke began to billow from its center, forming into a sadean warrior. “When I prayed for guidance against this new threat, Kalthiress showed this to me. It is an ill omen, sire. The sadean prince will join forces with these renegade dragons and mages. Together they will be a formidable opponent. So you see, Venarthiss had to be released. Lest we be overrun with dragons loyal to the beasts of Fendiss.”

  Isaac rose from his throne and descended to the floor. The heat of the conjuring pool was as great as a blast furnace, and it took only seconds for little beads of sweat to pop out on his arms and forehead. Through the wavering, hot air he looked across at the warlock. Draggus knelt at the pool's edge as though it were simple cool water, not sweating, not panting, not even squinting against its brightness.

  Isaac was not one to put much stock in omens, ill or otherwise. But in the warlock's eyes he could see the same zeal his father had the day he declared the Keepers were all the guards he needed in Ilsador's church.

  He turned to each of his guests, looking them in the eye one by one. “We must act quickly to avert this threat,” he announced. “I have been far too generous with these mages and my kindness is repaid with sedition and treason. Sir Charles!”

  “Yes, your highness?” Tamlin answered dutifully. He and his men stood in the columns between the throne room and the balcony that looked over St. Penathor's. Even Khaebus had joined them, letting the cool night air wick away the sweltering heat. From outside, the throne room glowed an eerie orange. Only Draggus and the king stood at the pool's side.

  “Gather these rebels and bring them to me to face justice,” Isaac said, looking into the hollow eyes of the smokey Fendian warrior. “Kill any who resist.”

  Soon Isaac was alone again, looking down at St. Penathor's from his father's throne. Faith had been his father's strength. His father believed it would protect him but in the end he was undone by the strength of Ralian steel. Isaac would not make his father's mistake; steel, not spirits, would watch over Camden.

  Chapter 29

  Perdition's Forge

  Tavyn, Arcamyn

  A report on golem sightings within four days ride from the city of Tavyn, from the time of the autumnal vegetable harvest to the Arden's Festival.

  Gray Shamblers: 16

  Shalebark: 8

  Sandstone Stomper: 5

  Onyxian: 3

  Limestone: 1? Merchant described it as white and chalky

  Inert: 5, hearts removed. One later disappeared.

  ~as noted by Lieutenant Garrent, Lockworth Garrison

  Sir Anthony Graham's new office reeked of ink and glue. The dilapidated old post office had been converted into a makeshift command post, largely because it was the only suitable space near enough to the barracks and no one had complained when Lockworth garrison absconded with the place in the night.

  The first, but perhaps not biggest, indication that something was very wrong with the Lockworth garrison came when Anthony Graham's first visitor arrived. He was a tall man, and very thin, with a good-natured, albeit goofy, grin permanently drawn onto his face.

  "Captain Wicker?" Graham asked, hoping very much it was not him. It wasn't.

  "Arthur Podslee," the young man corrected and extended his hand. Graham shook it. "You must be Sir Graham," he said, his mouth breaking into an even more delighted grin. "I've heard a lot about you sir, a lot."

  Arthur Podslee heaved a bulging sack of mail off his back and placed it reverently on Graham's desk. "Got the morning's deliveries," he said, and then added a very hasty "sir."

  "Thank you," Graham said. The young man lingered for a minute, and when Graham looked back up at him, confused as to his continued presence, he made a quick retreat.

  "See you tomorrow morning!" young Arthur Podslee called back.

  None of the mail was Graham's, or even addressed to his predecessor. Sifting through it he found all manne
r of names belonging to men and even women, surely they were not his soldiers. The explanation wouldn't come until nearly half an hour later when Captain Wicker arrived, prompt and on time. He was tall, well-built, and had a neatly trimmed beard. His uniform was clean, all in place, and even neatly pressed. Graham heaved a mental sigh of relief.

  After a quick bout of introductions, Anthony decided that, though he feared the answer, there was no better time to address the question of the mail.

  "Captain Wicker," he said, frowning at the bag spilling over in the corner of his office. "Why was the post delivered to my office this morning?"

  "Well sir, you see, this used to be the post office before we ehm, procured it for military purposes."

  "And...?" Graham asked, hoping there was more. "Captain, where is the postmaster?"

  Captain Wicker removed his hat and held it against his chest. "I'm afraid he rather ehm, died, sir," he said.

  "I see, when was this?"

  Captain Wicker thought about it for a moment, counting out days on his fingers. “Three months ago last Tuesday,” he announced.

  Graham looked quickly across the office floor, expecting to find a considerable heap of mail bags gathering dust in some corner, but there were none to be found. “Three months? Who's been delivering the post?”

  “I have, sir.”

  Graham looked up at him and found Wicker had that same 'eager-to-please' look on his face he'd been wearing since he walked through the door. Graham's brow shot up on one side into a mountainous peak.

  “I do hope that someone at least though to bury the poor fellow?”

  Wicker carried on, completely unfazed. “Of course sir,” he said brightly. “I saw to that myself.”

  “I am sure you did," Graham said dourly. The problem of Lockworth Garrison's readiness was quickly coming into focus. "Why has there not been a new postmaster appointed?”

  Wicker shrugged. “Couldn't say."

  "Everything's been off around here since the golem attacks picked up. What's worse is-” The captain stopped abruptly and looked around and then leaned back to peak out the doorway, as though he half-expected to find someone lurking just around the corner, listening in. He looked genuinely disappointed when he found no one was. "What's worse is they've started talking."

  "The men?" Graham asked.

  Wicker shook his head. "No, no, the golems."

  "Preposterous," he said and dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand.

  "Well that's what I said too, until I saw it with my own eyes. One of my first lieutenants told me about it after we got routed from the fort. I mean, a bunch of wandering rocks aren't going to send an entire garrison of the king's men running away from a fortress."

  Graham wondered if that might be true for other garrisons. From the window he could see Captain Dool putting his men through the morning drills. The exercise was going about as well as he could have hoped. Many of them were not in uniform and several were straggling in late, joining the gaps in the ranks without so much as a how do you do from Captain Dool.

  "Yes..." Graham conceded.

  Seeing a small glimmer of buy-in, Wicker pressed on. "So my lieutenant says the night of the attack he saw a big one shouting orders. I thought he was a little off. Brought a kid from another world back with him, and he's got this big lunk that follows him around, calls himself Hoggs."

  "Hoggs? What kind of a name is Hoggs?” ask Graham.

  “Couldn't say sir, might be Banidan; Ilsador knows he's big enough. Anyhow, follows my LT around everywhere. I thought Thacker got cracked in the head, might've thought the big fellow was a rock or something right? So I tell him to get some rest and not to worry about it. Well then a week ago we spot it again. Little smaller than the rest of 'em, coming up the hill with a bunch of 'em in tow. Goes into the construction site and starts barking orders out to all the bigger ones. It was like watching one of the LT's put their squad to work making camp.”

  The story was so impossible that Graham felt compelled to get up and go outside, as though the ink-heavy air in the office had become toxic and was clouding his mind. He was actually starting to believe the captain's strange tale. It seemed like something that ought to be coming out of the mouth of a young child come home after curfew and desperate to avoid a punishment, but he could tell the captain believed it.

  "With me," he said, motioning for Wicker to follow. He wanted to hear the rest of this outside the miasma of ink and postage stamp glue.

  Graham and his new captain made their way to the barracks, which was in fact not a barracks but a large inn that the crown was presently using to house several hundred soldiers and simultaneously making the innkeeper particularly rich.

  "What were the golem's orders?" Graham asked.

  “Couldn't make them out. We didn't want to get too close,” Wicker explained. “There were seven of 'em. But it seemed like they were looking for something.”

  “And did they find anything, Captain Wicker?”

  “Couldn't say. I'm not sure what a rock would want with anything anyway sir. Oh, but there was someone looking for them. A sadean girl was after the talking one. She was a very pretty thing,” the captain said, wistfully.

  Graham shot him a sidelong glance. “A sadean ranger? Here?”

  “Yes sir?” Wicker said with uncertainty, sensing he had misstepped somehow but lacking the understanding of what it might have been. He tried a few options and settled on his hat, currently wadded into a ball in his hands. He unwadded it, straightened it out, and jammed it unceremoniously back atop his head.

  “Carry on,” Graham said with reluctance.

  “So she gets close, and it just sort of shuts off.”

  “Shuts off?”

  “Yes sir, all at once, like uh.... like..." Wicker went silent as he tried to gather the right words for his thoughts. They had reached the stairs up to the inn's front door and the innkeeper peeked out through the shutters at them. Wicker sneered at him and waved him away, the shutters snapped shut. Wicker brightened. "Like one of those little metal children's toys from Calderr, the kind you wind with a key? Like a music box! Yeah it was like that, like it wound down. Just starts lumbering around aimlessly with that dead, dull look they've usually got. Trudged straight through a retaining wall around the fort like it was nothin'. Knocked over a few trees too. Hadn't seen it do that til then. It was like its head wasn't there anymore.”

  Graham nodded his understanding. “Did you talk to the sadean panther?”

  Wicker shook his head. “She was a sneaky sort. I sent a few men out to find her, but she gave 'em the slip.”

  Graham looked across the square at the vague cluster which was supposed to be a neatly packed grid of soldiers standing at attention. A walking earthquake could have slipped past unnoticed. The direction of the new commander's gaze caught Wicker's attention, he knew what Graham was thinking. He joined him in frowning at the sloppy formation running drills.

  "Sir?" Wicker asked.

  “There's good men over there, Captain Wicker,” said Graham, nodding at them. “No one ever said you have to serve in Camden to be great.”

  “With all due respect sir, no one gets sent to Lockworth garrison for their greatness,” said Wicker, sullenly. He slouched against the rail. All at once it seemed to dawn on him the implication of what he'd just said to his new commander and he straightened up rather quickly. “Err, what I meant is –”

  “You meant what you said,” Graham cut him off. “And you're right. But we're not here for glory, Captain Wicker. We're here because the kingdom must keep a wary eye on its borders. There may not be kings and dukes and lords watching our every move, lauding us for our successes, but there are three cities and sixteen townships within a week's ride of here. They're farmers and craftsmen mostly. And they're expecting us to make sure they don't have a golem stomping through their home or a barbarian horde setting up camp in their fields. It is the job; our duty.”

  “Yes sir, of course.” Wicker nodded a
greeably.

  “So let's show a little pride, understand? It's good for morale.”

  “I understand," said Wicker.

  Anthony Graham nodded. He could see an able officer somewhere in the mess that was Captain Wicker. Priorities, that was his reason for being, as the men said, 'Worth Lockworth.' A man like Wicker would let an entire cadre of recruits lay about for an afternoon so he could ensure that the commander's post made it to the postmaster in time for the weekly rider, or perhaps even fill in for the postmaster should said postmaster meet an untimely demise.

  "Captain Wicker, I want you to get some men together, we're going to go out to the fort and see about reclaiming. Tell them to bring enough for a week in the field, we can't be sure that the whole place hasn't been looted in our absence. Do we have any scouts on it?"

  "Of course, sir," Wicker said. "We've been very vigilant. Captain Dool and I have been making plans to take the fort back, soon as the golem numbers drop."

  "Good man," Graham said. "Gather your team, let's have a look at the place."

  The sad state of Fort Lockworth did little to lift Graham's spirits. A hefty boulder sat proudly amongst the broken timbers and mildewing straw that served as the stable's corpse. The infirmary and quartermaster's office were no longer two distinct buildings, their walls had crumbled together into two similarly looking heaps. Most of the rest of the buildings had not fared much better, including the barracks, which was still being built up at the time of the attack.

  The main wall was largely intact, save two gaping holes where golems had broken through. It occurred to Graham as he picked through the rubble, that the walls would likely be repaired with the corpses of the golems that fell in the conflict. His face broke into a bemused grin; the men would like that.

  What the men would not like was the serious of cavernous holes opened up in the ground here and there, seemingly haphazard. Graham knelt beside one and peered into the depths. He could see all the way to the bottom. The hole was big enough for him to climb down in it and not be able to look out without hoisting himself up on the side.