Art of War

by Triantafyllou, Petros

  Somewhere in the depths of the temple, he knew, one of the librarians was writing down their conversation. “I must speak with you,” he said. “In private.” He imagined the priest put the parchment they were writing on aside, to be picked up and written upon once more when their conversation was over. Now, that same librarian retrieved a fresh sheet of parchment, dipped his quill into the inkpot, and began to record some other event the God of Knowledge deemed important.

  “He’s coerced more houses to his side,” Isobal Grendargh, his trusted contact from Danastaer, said.

  They were near one of the quays, a brisk walk from the library. Nearby, a pair of seagulls fought over half a fish some fisherman must have dropped, drawing people's attentions to the birds.

  “And yours?” Drammoch asked. They sat with their backs to each other as was usual for their meetings. He wore different garb now, clothes Marghread had provided, clothes that turned the king of Chanastardh into an everyman.

  “House Grendargh retains its honor,” Isobal replied.

  Before he could ask, the Danastaerian continued, “The southerner's envoy was captured, their tongues cut out, and before they died, they watched the dogs eat their tongues.”

  He shuddered at the image. “And you are certain they were his creatures?” Experience had taught him early not to mention Zamar's name. Common wisdom was wrong, magic and its users still existed. How else could the High Advisor have known about meetings held and words exchanged?

  “Aye,” Isobal said.

  “So, Grendargh stands alone,” he stated.

  Isobal’s affirmative sounded resigned. “As do you.”

  “Go and tell Lady Bethia war is unavoidable,” Drammoch said. He remembered the mistress of House Grendargh, her bubbling humor and her blunt honesty.

  “And you?”

  Drammoch scoffed, rising. “I won’t avoid it.” The fewer people who knew his mind and his plans, the better the chances for success. Warning at least one Danastaerian noble house lifted at least part of the guilt from his conscience. “What must be done will be done. Safe travels, my friend.”

  “And to you,” Isobal replied. He thought he could feel her sketching a bow.

  A slight turn of the head showed the woman had gone. Drammoch returned to the Library for his clothes, his guards, and, if all went as planned, for the wellbeing of his people.

  All his people.

  “Fact is, we lack the grain to feed all your subjects,” Zamar stated.

  Of course, they did, Drammoch thought, denying the glum certainty access to his face. In the past decades, he had learned to keep his feelings hidden from his council of advisors. Sure, they had all sworn an oath of loyalty, but as Justiciar Padraig was fond of saying, “No matter the words, most people look out primarily for themselves, fucking loyalty in the ass.” And since none of her priests could foretell the future, oaths made in Lady Justice Lliania’s name lost their relevance and strength after a while. Sure, they all would be judged after they died, but how many people thought that far ahead?

  “We can send out caravans to our neighbors, milord,” said Alsdar Millerson of the Merchants Guild.

  Drammoch bobbed his head, regarding Millerson in his gaudy clothes. The merchants, of course, would demand an arm and a leg for the service. Greedy cunts. For a moment, Drammoch considered shutting them all into the dungeons until the investigations of the coincidental fires had finished. He knew Zamar and his allies here at court were responsible for the crisis, but as Padraig had so prudently said, it was no more than a suspicion, really, and suspicions without evidence were little more than Fiery Tales. Not that finding those responsible would replant fields or rebuild and restock granaries in time for the coming winter.

  Iomhar cleared his throat and pushed his chair back to rise and make a statement. Drammoch regarded the High Priest of Eanaigh, Lady of Health and Fertility, hope rising. Of all the people assembled here, he felt almost certain Iomhar would remain on his side. Something, someone, though, caught the Eanaighist’s eye and, resignation plain on his face, the priest sat down again.

  A quick look around the table showed all seemed as it was supposed to. Not that the king needed visual confirmation of Zamar motioning for Iomhar to stop. Coerced, bought, or volunteered, in the end, it mattered little.

  “We cannot afford your prices,” said the master of coin. Fergus Carpenter was the oddity at the table. The man was more concerned with numbers than politics. In fact, he was happiest when shut away with tax and fief spending records, shielded from the world.

  “You could pay in intervals,” suggested Millerson.

  “And have the crown be at your mercy?” Zamar snapped before Carpenter could reply.

  “Besides,” added Esaag Thorn, the master of grain, “we need more grain than we first thought!”

  Of course, they did, thought Drammoch grimly. Rats, locusts, mildew. If it wasn’t fire, it was something else. In a way he felt like a spectator in a superbly scripted but shoddily acted play. All of these lines, the outrage, the terrible news, would lead to one thing: War.

  The setup was perfect, with winter looming near, the threat of famine would convince most lords and ladies to gather their warbands. And villein and freeborn would gladly go in order to lessen the burden on the taxed granaries, allowing their families a greater chance at survival.

  He glanced at Zamar.

  Did the Dragonlander suspect he knew what was afoot? Had he made an error the southerner was even now preparing to exploit? The board was set, the tiles assembled. Chiath was no game for the meek, and there was little he could do to change the course of history. Marghraed had made that clear.

  “Danastaer,” said Caitlyn, High Priestess of Lesganagh, the God of Sun and War. "Their harvest was great."

  Of course, she was involved. One didn’t plan a war without Lesganagh’s blessing. And unlike most others, it didn’t take money to convince the Sunpriestess of this war’s necessity.

  The Dawnslaughter some thirty years ago had driven the surviving Lesganaghists from Danastaer. The Lord of Sun and War’s clergy had fallen prey to Eanaighist schemes. Most priests and their families were killed and the temples plundered, all because of the accusation of demonology.

  That Caitlyn loved the idea of returning the Lord of the Gods to Danastaer was no secret. Most likely the conspirators hadn’t even bothered to include her in their plans. Her ambition guaranteed cooperation. “We could return Lesganagh’s faith to Danastaer whilst plundering their granaries.”

  “And every warrior falling on our side would save us coin and grain,” stuttered the master of coin.

  It took all Drammoch's will to not blurt out his surprise. Fergus sounded as if he truly was reading from a script, as if he had waited for a signal that was phrased in the vaguest of terms. How had Zamar coerced Fergus’s cooperation? What kind of threats had been made to the reclusive mathematician?

  To his left, Zamar scoffed. “A little crude, don’t you think, my friend? To equate people’s lives to mere numbers?”

  Fergus now seemed on firmer ground, for he spoke with more confidence, “In the end, what counts is that we have enough grain to feed the people. If there are less people to feed, we obviously need less grain.”

  “Just make sure House Argram sends their worst,” Padraig muttered. Of course, the Justiciar was a practically minded man. Drammoch had little doubt Padraig was still on his side–Lliania would have struck him down had he betrayed his oath–but Padraig was also a father and husband. Maybe Zamar had got to the man’s family.

  The High Advisor laughed. “My thoughts exactly. Let’s rid ourselves of some Argram troublemakers.”

  “Troublemakers?” Padraig replied. “A drunk in a tavern leering at married ladies is a troublemaker. Let’s call House Argram freeborn what they are: rapist bastards. I have sufficient complaints to have them volunteer one thousand warriors.”

  Had they got to Padraig or was the Justiciar just doing something they had consi
dered while deep in their cups months ago? Was there anyone left at court he could trust?

  “I’ll have High General Mireynh begin preparations,” Zamar said.

  “High General?” Padraig asked. “Milord, what is this? First a High Advisor, now a High General?” He sounded sincere.

  “Zamar?” Drammoch turned to look at the Dragonlander.

  For a moment, the man’s olive skin looked ashen, then he seemed to gather his composure. “Our army needs to act on one warleader’s orders, not many. What other rank would convince a man like Duncan Argram to obey your orders? Milord?” Despite the outlander’s composure, Drammoch thought he detected a hint of uncertainty in his stance.

  Was the High Advisor’s hold over the court weaker than he suspected? From the corner of his eye, he saw two of Zamar’s black guards taking a step forward. It was time for the lion to pounce, to show the pretender why he was king. “Your guards leave now.” Drammoch growled.

  For a moment, he saw the two black-clad warriors hesitate, and to reinforce his command, he inclined his head and four of his guards moved towards the High Advisor’s. He hoped Zamar was no fool, prayed to all the gods for the Dragonlander to comply. The play was hardly begun and he still had pieces to move, and if the conflict came now, with Zamar having more agents in place than he, all would be lost in a civil war.

  Now his guards drew steel, the blades halfway out of their scabbards. The black guards’ hands were on their weapons, waiting.

  “Leave us,” Zamar said, and while the royal guards’ tense posture relaxed immediately, Drammoch noticed that despite the order, the black guards remained alert. Yet they obeyed the High Advisor's order.

  As the door shut behind the black guards, a breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding escaped as a sigh. Even Zamar looked relieved.

  “Next…” Drammoch cleared his throat and began again. “You would do well to remember that these chambers are guarded by the king’s guard only.”

  “Forgive me, Lord King,” the High Advisor said, clearly rattled. “It shan’t happen again.”

  “If Mireynh leads the army, my cousin Noel of House Trileigh is second in command,” Drammoch said. Zamar had hired the mercenary general Urgraith Mireynh several months ago, and while the general's reputation was outstanding, the king knew too little to trust the man. “Noel has been at war and has more tolerance for, shall we say, people from the other side joining our cause.”

  The shift in Zamar’s expression was minimal, but Drammoch had spent too much time with the man not to notice. If appointing Noel to the invasion force upset the advisor’s plans, whatever they were, the Dragonlander’s influence was not as far-reaching as Drammoch had feared. “A wise choice, Majesty,” Zamar said. “Turncoats are a pesky subject with the High General.”

  Once again, Iomhar cleared his throat. Was there still fight in the old priest? Drammoch wondered.

  “It displeases the Lady of Health and Fertility to see so many partake in yet another war,” the Eanaighist said. “She needs be appeased if her priests are to join the army.”

  It took all Drammoch's restraint not to burst into laughter. Did Iomhar now take lessons from the Danastaerian branch of Eanaigh’s church? The king understood the Lesganaghists were keen on undoing the Dawnslaughter in order to return the church of Sun and War to Danastaer. He also understood Eanaigh’s healers did not lightly participate in any bloodshed, unless they were corrupt souls like Morgan Danaissan, the faith’s High Priest in Danastaer. But to ask for donations, nay, bribes so boldly left Drammoch speechless.

  “The crown cannot afford to grease your palms, Iomhar,” Fergus Carpenter stated. “We need to purchase grain once the army leaves, even if they forage their way to Harail.”

  On whose side was the master of coin? Had Zamar really corrupted the man, or was everything the master of coin saying based on his precious numbers? Right now, Drammoch couldn’t ask, couldn’t test the man’s—any man’s—loyalty, and while it surely would ease his worries to have a rational mind such as Carpenter’s on his side, he had to rely on his own judgment. For now.

  Iomhar rose, furious. “Prayers, Coin Counter, I was asking for prayers. Over the past few years, attendance has dropped. The people feel less need to pray for health and fertility. Eanaigh notices, and while we caretakers do our duty, people have grown complacent. We don’t need bribes. The healing business keeps our coffers from running empty. We don’t need to appease the Lady. Our fields never suffered bad harvests!”

  “We cannot force people to pray,” replied Zamar.

  At that, the High Priest laughed. “But you can force them to fight for you?”

  The king regarded Iomhar, wondering why people had stopped praying. A mystery for another day. Today, he needed to set things in motion. He looked around and saw his cupbearer in his usual out-of-the-way spot. “Liam, remind me to have a proclamation drafted: mandatory prayer to Eanaigh before each official event.” Turning to Iomhar, he added, “That’s all I can do for now.”

  From the corner of his eye, he noticed Zamar tensing.

  “The caretakers will join the army,” the High Priest said, sitting down once more. Maybe Drammoch had misjudged him.

  “It’s decided then,” Zamar said, sounding, if not looking, relaxed.

  “It is,” Drammoch confirmed. “Assemble the army!”

  Numbers, he never would have guessed. It all came down to numbers. Who gained the most from the invasion? Who gained the most from people’s deaths? What was a life worth when used to purchase grain?

  His eyes followed the council members, wondering what each of them was willing to pay to keep their power.

  For Drammoch, king of Chanastardh, the cost would mount higher than any of theirs. He was bent on changing his kingdom, do away with villeins and freeborn and nobility, and for that, nobility and freeborn and, to a lesser degree, villeins had to die.

  He knew, for him, the cost would only grow.

  But he was willing to pay.

  The Undying Lands

  A story by the combined efforts of Michael R. Fletcher’s Doppels

  Fayad sat on a wood bench beneath the great bowl of the Colosseum of Eternal Life, which was something of a misnomer because she was definitely going to die here. Above her head, great beams of wood formed a ceiling, separating her from the fifty thousand men, women, and children filling the arena’s seats. Even from down here, she heard their screams and jeers, the roar as blood was spilled to the red sands of the arena floor. The cheered their favourites and mocked those they hated. From the rumbling up there right now, there was someone they really liked killing a lot of people they didn’t.

  And I’m going to be one of them.

  Red sand from the arena floor rained down upon her as the crowd stomped their feet and chanted for blood.

  Breathing deep, she inhaled dust and ancient straw, sweat and fear, and the desiccated stench of thirty years of death. Stacked shelves lined every wall beneath the great colosseum. The walls above, those confining the fighters to the killing floor, also bore shelves. Even the shit and piss rooms where the fans went to relieve themselves had shelves. Severed heads lined those shelves. There were so many they were crammed together, ear to ear. The oldest were bone and gristle, gaping sockets and grinning bone. The newest heads still blinked and looked around, mouths sometimes moving as they tried to speak or scream.

  The one directly across from where Fayad sat was fresh indeed. The young man still had tears for crying. He sobbed and blinked, lips moving. His eyes stayed locked on her, and she could tell he was trying to scream. But screaming without lungs is a quiet affair.

  “Don’t bother,” she told him. “Can’t hear a fucking thing you’re saying.”

  Eyes boring holes in her heart, his lips made quiet smacking sounds.

  “Even if I could hear you, I wouldn’t care,” she added when his eyes became crazed and desperate.

  Finally, sighing, she rose and turned the head so it faced the wall.
The manacles binding her wrists and ankles left her just enough freedom to move in small shuffling steps.

  “Sorry. Don’t want to spend my last few minutes of life looking at you.”

  Collapsing back onto the bench, Fayad shook her head, stared down at the red sand and rotting straw beneath her feet.

  How the hell did I get here?

  She knew. She knew exactly how she got here. It was getting drunk and accidentally killing the duke’s favourite nephew when the little shit grabbed her ass. And those with the temerity to annoy the duke were carted across two hundred miles to the Colosseum of Eternal Life.

  She knew the history. Hell, everyone knew the history. Thirty years ago, a powerful necromancer named Leben cast the mother of all spells…and fucked it up big. Instead of just raising the ancient army she knew to be buried beneath the red sands, she turned the land for fifty miles around into a zone of unlife. Anyone killed here became undead.

  Leben succeeded at her goal. She raised a massive undead army replete with giants and dragons and giants mounted on even bigger dragons and all manner of nasty. Unfortunately, she also raised their general, some long dead demonologist who still harboured dreams of conquest. The general killed the necromancer and took his armies south, where he conquered the islands and gave birth to the Empire of Corpses. Rumour had it, Leben became his wife.

  The land, however, remained forever changed.

  Leave it to some enterprising asshole royal to see the possibilities. They built a gladiatorial arena on the site and let convicts fight to the death. Not being cruel—or so they claimed—they arranged for the chance of reprieve. Kill ten opponents in a row and you walked free. Once the live fights were done and only living dead remained, they let them fight it out on the arena floor. The more undead you defeated—defined as ‘rendered incapable of further action’—the better your final resting place. Defeat ten or more, and they stuck your head on a spike where you could watch future fights, see the passing days and nights. The fewer you managed to maim before becoming incapacitated, the shittier your final resting place. If you failed to down even a single opponent, they stuck your head on a shelf in the shitters and you spent the rest of eternity watching people vacate their bowels. That was if you were lucky. The crowd got pretty drunk, and people liked to toss the heads into the shit pits and throw things at them. Since shelf space was limited and there were always new heads, no one complained.