by K. J. Coble
“Sire,” Veridas spoke up and then clenched his teeth, seemed to regret his voice.
Urius hid a smile. His combative rival could never govern his mouth, was always on the attack, always pressing. It allowed Urius to appear as the reasonable wing of Bazul’s council.
Bazul turned to Veridas, as did all eyes in the room. “My Lord?”
“Our glorious victory today came not without cost, sire,” he said carefully. “It required full commitment, even from the reserves.”
That much was true. Urius’ backside and sword arm ached enough. It had been glorious, the moment when the Xyxian fodder crumbled like age-worn pottery and he’d led his household guards right into them. A thrill passed from gut to brain at the memory of his spear plunging through a Xyxian’s back as the peasant tried to flee before his horse. It had also been necessary, though, the vastness of the horde enough to swallow the counterattack. By Scintallos, they could’ve been cutting throats for a week and not finished the work! Allowing many to escape hadn’t been a choice. And the havoc the chase had wrought amongst the Scintallan victors had been thorough.
“We’re not in a condition to properly pursue yet,” Veridas was saying. “We need to reorganize and we need to replenish.”
“How long do we think that will take?” Bazul’s voice took on a note of irritation.
“Days, Highness,” Veridas hurried to add. “Perhaps no more than three.”
“Three days...” Bazul hissed. “We’ve no other means to harry them?” His stare snapped towards Urius. “Your outriders, the pezenek dogs; are they in a condition to cross the wastes?”
“They will be,” Urius assured him, though he felt no such confidence. The mercenaries, recruited from the nomadic raiders east of his holdings, were often as much a menace to their employers as the enemy. But they were cheap and willing. “I will have their hetman hung if it is not so.”
“Perhaps you should do so, anyway,” the Emperor snarled, a flash of his temper shared around now. “Those vultures were useless this morning!”
Urius bowed to hide the clenching of his teeth. “I will see to it personally, Sire.”
“Do so,” Bazul rumbled. The flare of his anger faded, the Emperor seeming to remember himself. “I want no more surprises. And I don’t want to remain here any longer than is necessary” he visibly shivered “in the shadows of those devil-haunted ruins.”
“Perhaps we should press on, then, Highness.”
Every noble, servant, and guard in the tent froze at the new voice. Breeze off the wastes could be heard in the ensuing silence. Urius glanced at Bazul, studied his cousin’s reaction. Remarkably, there was none.
From the darkened corner behind the Emperor, the Adept of the White Guard stepped into view. Everyone knew her, the dark beauty in the white wizard’s robes. And most knew what she was. Despite the Emperor’s utter indifference—and the work of the Eyes to cover it up—her parentage was an open secret. That she was here, that he permitted the constant, public reminder of his younger indiscretions so close was a testament to the Guard’s depleted state.
She was all the wizards dared send.
Urius knew more, of course, knew the part Bazul’s illegitimate daughter had played in foiling traitorous schemes from within that Order. The girl was said to have slain Bishop Durothan, himself, in a sorcerous duel that had wrecked the White Guard’s compound and the city block around it. Urius didn’t look directly at her, felt his skin crawl. He was fairly certain she had no idea of his part in that treasonous plot—but with a wizard, you never knew.
“Why,” Bazul replied quietly, and without turning to look at her, “is that, Adeptus?”
Whispers went reflexively through the gathering, cut out when Bazul’s eyes flared at his nobles. The Adept heard them, clearly restrained a wince of self-consciousness. But she held up her chin defiantly and spoke in a bold voice.
“Zadam is cursed, Sire. I realize everyone’s heard the stories, but there is truth to them. Grave robbers picked over the upper ruins long ago, left with all of the easily-gotten riches. The rest lie deep below, behind traps of both physical and magical sorts. Some are known. Others, no one has come out alive to speak of.”
“As you say,” Bazul said, still without turning, “everyone’s heard this.”
“It will attract the foolish,” she replied. “You will lose men the longer we linger here.”
The Emperor nodded once, seemed to consider. He glanced at Harald Hegruum. “You will set guards around the perimeter.”
“With respect, Highness,” Veridas spoke up, “but you’d have Vothans guard the approaches from robbers?”
That brought laughter from the Scintallans but the Vothan’s face darkened in rage. His blonde whiskers bristling, Hegruum took a step closer to the Duke of Kadiz and put a hand on his sword. “Vothans kept the Xyxian filth away from you, this morning, until your pretty-boy riders could drive them off!”
“Fighting, we can always count on the Vothan Guard to do,” Veridas retorted, unimpressed by Hegruum’s size or his sword. “Discipline, not so much!”
“If you were man enough—”
“Enough,” Bazul cut off the exchange with one mild word. He held up a hand and Harald backed away, grumbling, while Veridas pinched his lips shut, though the insolent smile persisted. “The Vothan Guard will maintain the perimeter. My orders are that none enter the ruins. They have latitude to punish interlopers.”
Grumbling answered the Emperor, but no more questions. Veridas shot Urius a look. On this one thing, they agreed. The other Duke resented the influence the foreigners had over their sovereign, and the deference they got over his own, native troops. That was by design, of course. Bazul’s predecessors had learned the hard way that fractious Scintallan guards could be bribed—but Vothans respected their oaths.
Urius knew that last part was rather less true than reputed—knew it just by glancing at Harald. For that reason, alone, when he sat the Throne, disbanding them would be the first thing he’d do.
“It’s more than any of that, though,” the White Guard Adept was speaking up again. “The ruins emanate the energies of the Outer Dark. Not all the old stories are exaggerations. Terrible things happened here. Terrible powers were unleashed.” She paused. “The modern-day Xyxians avoid this place and punish those who don’t for a reason. Zadam will begin to affect us.”
The grumbling resumed for a moment, rife with incredulousness. But Bazul held up his hand again, bid silence. He met Veridas’ gaze, then Urius’. “You have the advice of our White Guard, my lords. You said three days. Make it two.”
All bowed.
“I want your outriders crossing the wastes by dawn,” Bazul told Urius. He turned to Harald. “I want the approaches to Zadam blocked by then, as well.” He added, softly, “Adeptus, I’d like you to remain after the others go.”
Everyone knew not to react to that, though the silent air quivered with surprise.
Bazul swirled his wine in the goblet, smiled, and took a little drink. He held it up again. “We’ve a lot of work left to do, my lords. But today was a good start!”
The nobles chorused back their agreement with lifted cups and hearty acclamation. Most broke up at that, left through parts in the tent canvas. A few attempted to approach the Emperor, last minute favors or just a chance at recognition, but we waved them off and Harald’s growls chased them on their way. Urius paused at an exit, noted the Adept still rooted to the spot she’d occupied since speaking.
She looked petrified. He almost felt sorry for her. And she was a lovely, little thing.
Enough, indeed. He swept out into the night.
Dark seemed almost a physical thing after the bright illumination of the Emperor’s pavilion. Campfires glittered through it. Brighter blazes lit the horizon to the west, out on the wastes beyond the mouth of the valley. Those would be hastily-built pyres for the dead and Urius thanked Scintallos that night had brought only weak breezes, prevented that oily, hellish smoke-
stink from lilting over the camp. Faintly, the noise of the dying still echoed out on that scorched dust. He shivered, was still human enough, he supposed, to still feel revulsion at the carnage.
“My lord Duke?”
Urius turned to find Xass Kham at his side and offered him a polite bow—for show, for any passerby; certainly, he’d attempt no such respect in private. “Highness.” The honorific didn’t quite sound sarcastic.
Kham didn’t notice, anyway. “Might we speak alone?”
“You can accompany me to my campsite,” Urius replied. “We can speak as we walk.” They began down a lane between tents.
The Scintallans laid their army camps out in a playing card style reminiscent of the Republic Era, with carefully staked-out squares for units, streets between these, and a palisade beyond those. The resemblance ended there. Where Republican Legionnaires would have patrolled quiet, regulated lanes, the Scintallan camp spilled this way and that, tents in a mishmash, armorers and blacksmiths throwing together where they could, camp followers thronging the street with drunkenness and laughter. Nobles threw parties—everyone wanted to let loose after the day’s terror—and debauchery echoed from every corner.
Urius smirked. Two days...we’ll be lucky to get out of here in two weeks.
“My lord?” Kham pressed.
“Speak quietly and close, with your mouth pointed down,” Urius instructed. “There are many ears about.”
“Of course.”
“Now, what is so important that you’d risk us being seen in conversation so publicly?”
“The Emperor’s timeframe, of course,” he whined. “My Duke, that leaves us so little! We need to enter the ruins, the Dome of Patah, before any—”
“Lower your voice,” Urius growled. It was well his longer-term schemes didn’t require this excitable idiot’s cooperation! “Did you not notice that Harald has been given oversight over security? Do you understand now why I drew him into our plans?”
“You trust the Vothan, but I do not—”
“I trust no one,” Urius snapped, turning sharply on the Xyxian noble. “I trust that I understand people! I know what Harald Hegruum is. Like a slobbering lap dog, he will carry out his instructions. He’ll find us a way in, if he hasn’t already.” Urius stepped closer to the other man, glaring. “And trust that I know what sort of man you are, my Prince.”
The Xyxian met the glare with a shiver to his eyes. “And that is?”
“Desperate,” Urius replied with a dangerous smile that grew as Kham flinched with the truth of it. “You are desperate, my Prince, and will, therefore, do whatever I ask.”
“And...” Kham swallowed once to regain his voice. “And what is it you ask of me?”
“That you keep your damned teeth together. That you keep your damned composure!” He shook his head. “I can’t carry out these rites your spoke of to that devil-ghost queen. That has to be you.” He softened his tone, even set a hand on the quivering Xyxian’s shoulder, feigned some sense of comradery. “So, you see, what I know is that we need each other, Prince Kham.”
The other man ground his teeth a moment longer, but seemed to settle. “We need to breach those ruins tonight.”
“Impossible. There is too much disarray. Fragments of your brothers’ army still stumble in the dark, trying to break clear. And there are our own skulkers about, may even already be looters up there that Harald’s men need to clear out.”
“Then we need—”
“Tomorrow,” Urius assured him, “at dusk. I think we can do that.”
Grudgingly, Xass Kham nodded.
Urius patted him once and released him, was glad to break contact with the grubby, little man. “I will send word when plans are certain.”
“There’s one more thing.”
Urius suppressed a snarl. “Yes?”
“That...Kurshan sorceress...”
Momentarily confused, Urius realized his meaning and chortled. “She’s half-Scintallan—but, yes, all sorceress. What of her?”
Kham stepped close again, eyes once more shivering. “You don’t feel her?”
“Feel...?” Urius frowned.
“In your mind,” Kham replied, as if it should be obvious. “She was everywhere in that tent. It was like a fire stoked too high, almost unbearable.”
“I noticed nothing.”
“We must be wary of her, my Duke. She will not miss it when the Wards of Zadam are broken. She will make trouble for us.”
Urius thought of the willowy figure in white, left behind in the Emperor’s tent, alone, perhaps to face his wrath—or his rejection. He shrugged. “I have a feeling she’ll be distracted with other things.”
LYSSA’S HEART HAMMERED the inside of her ribcage as she waited on Bazul II, the Emperor, her father. Still, he stood with his back to her, while servants removed his purple cloak of office, his ceremonial armor, his weapons, his rings and jewels. The crown he removed himself, regarded it contemplatively for a moment before handing it off. These things done, he waved them all from the room and stood in silence.
His back remained to her.
She dared not speak.
She’d imagined this moment a thousand times. Since childhood, when she came to understand his abandonment—and her weirdness—she’d made up stories of how this confrontation would happen. Versions of it had her rushing into his arms and he waiting. Others had her screaming out all her rage.
None of them had played out in this strange, quiet way.
“I understand little of your work,” Bazul said softly, and still without turning around. “In fact, I don’t trust magic or its practitioners, and little that has happened of late has changed that opinion.” He half-looked over his shoulder. “But I do know that I owe you gratitude for defending us this morning. Thank you, Adeptus.”
Lyssa felt her world wobble around her, had to bite down to bring back focus. “I...that is, you are welcome, Sire.”
He nodded and stepped over to the table with the maps, looked at them absently. “I’m told you lost your companion in the fighting.”
She swallowed, tried not to think too hard on the puddle of awfulness that had been Olvan, or the process of cleaning it—him—up. “I did, as well as one of our Church Militants.”
“You have my regrets for that.”
“Thank you, Sire.”
“So, you are the only remaining wizard the Guard could afford to send me?”
“I’m afraid that’s so, Highness. Our numbers are rather depleted since the...the events of several months ago.”
“You mean the attempt to overthrow me?” Bazul’s voice hardened and, again, he half-looked over his shoulder, not quiet meeting her stare. “You speak of Bishop Durothan’s treachery?”
It took Lyssa a moment to steady her voice. “I do.”
“And I know your part in that, as well, Adeptus,” Bazul said. “I know you foiled Durothan’s plot.”
It’d been more than that. It had been a hellish contest, a maelstrom of sorcery and blaspheme. She’d face demons and death and so much more than just Durothan. And she remembered a darkened olive face, black hair, as well as clumsy, brutal, laughing giants.
“I had help, Highness.”
The Emperor nodded, acknowledging, but not exactly caring. “So, it seems I owe you my thanks for that, as well.” Now he did look right at her and those blue eyes pierced like twin daggers. But they didn’t hurt.
“Thank you...Lyssa.”
Her frame buckled within her, as though the bones were liquifying. She had nothing to grab for, only her will. The effort of keeping her back straight and her eyes on the man who was her father—and here, now, as close to acknowledging it as she’d ever imagined—was likely obvious to him.
“It was my pleasure, Highness.”
He almost smiled. The moment passed and he turned away again, plucked up his goblet from the table and swirled the contents. “Your Master Cyrok thinks to ascend as the new Bishop of your Order, is that not so?”
>
Not my Master, Lyssa thought with a little stab of anger. The White Guard’s eldest surviving member was no friend of hers, another scheming bag of bones who thought of her as a games piece. He wasn’t as bad as Durothan. But honestly, what could be? “He’s made no secret of it, Sire,” she said.
“Election to that position requires the votes of a majority of your Adepts and Elders,” Bazul mused. “I suppose he has that.”
“I’m not certain. But, yes, if I had to guess, I’d say so.”
Bazul nodded. “It will also require my acquiescence.”
“That is so, Sire.” What she didn’t point out, but what Bazul assuredly knew and wasn’t saying, was that no Emperor ever denied an Elder the position, once confirmed by their peers. To do so would break precedent, would signal a ruction between Scintallan rulers and their sorcerous subjects. The White Guard didn’t just protect the Empire from the Outer Dark; it protected the magically-inclined.
“It’s an odd tactic, then,” Bazul said, “to curry my favor by sending me so few resources on this, my most important Crusade to date.”
“I...couldn’t speak to the thoughts of Elder Cyrok, Your Highness.”
“No?” Harshness filled his voice and he turned fully now, blue eyes flashing as he folded his arms and regarded her openly. “Do you then have thoughts on the obviousness of his selection of you to accompany me?”
A knot formed in her throat. His bluey stare sharpened again, was now a stab at her pummeling heart. “I’m not sure what you mean, Sire.”
“Sire...” Bazul said with an ironic note. “Seems an especially appropriate title for these circumstances, does it not?”
She fumbled for an answer.
“Lyssa,” he said her name again, as though trying it out, “you and I both know what we are. Perhaps we could try respecting each other’s intelligence?”
“Or course, Si—” She grimaced, struggled to find her way forward. “Your Highness.”
“So, I’ll ask it another way.” Bazul paused to sip the wine. “Did Elder Cyrok, being aware of the bond between us, ask you to leverage that bond for gain?”