12-06-2024, 05:07 PM
(This post was last modified: 12-06-2024, 05:08 PM by frenzied67.)
Ch3
Declarations
Declarations
725 Years Ago
First one horn, then another, followed by a third began to sound within the Gachtler camp, followed by a tumult of confused voices; further in the bivouac those voices became more strident as metal clashed. On the outer edges of the stone lover’s army, more and more Gachtler soldiers and camp followers stood up to peer in the direction of the city they were besieging, Ilegulan, where the sounds of combat seemed to grow. With a gesture of his hand, Prince Lorinlil ordered the cavalry forward. A thousand war elk and their riders began to walk from the trees of Ahurinidan Forest, directly behind the Gachtler forces and the camp they were constructing. Luck held, not one of the furry Gachtler heard a thing, none of them turned to witness that cavalry force lower their lances as they cleared the last trees. No one heard them break into a canter as the line spread out on a broad front.
As they neared fifty yards from the short but stout enemy, Prince Lorinlil lowered his own lance; the signal to break into a full charge. The Gachtler now began to notice the swelling thunder of many hooves behind them, heads began to turn and cries of alarm rose to the heavens. Prince Lorinlil smiled in his peaked helmet as the barely five foot tall Gachtler soldier turned to face him. His prey never had a chance to react before his lance tore through the mail clad chest, ripping through and throwing the body back like discarded garbage.
Since the long spear remained whole, the prince aimed it at the next Gachtler back he raced for, beneath him his great elk mount aimed its tines at the stout figure nearest the lance’s target. Each impact of lance or antler was cacophonous, even under the swell of Gachtler and Faelora voices raised in strife, both within and now without the camp. Hundreds of the burly war elk drove into the bivouac, trampling bodies and tents alike, more efficient than a scythe on harvest day. The third victim he reaped flexed the lance a bit too much, and the stout stave exploded in a spray of wooden splinters. Secured to the great shield on Lorinlil’s left side was his artifact sword, Escu’eliter, he took that weapon in hand and raised it high; power thrummed into his palms from the contact with that ebony wood hilt.
With a toss of his head, Boshier, the prince’s war elk, hurled a burly body into the air and into a formation of soldiers setting themselves to receive the cavalry charge. Seeing the enemy finally organizing against this rear attack, Prince Lorinlil made a circle with the tip of the sword. The cavalry veered left, swift even in heavy armor. Instead of plunging into the camp, they were now paralleling the soldiers and tents, scything down those too slow to reach the forming shield walls. Shields were slung into overlapping positions that created scores of lozenge shaped domes of steel. These Gachtler shield formations were notoriously fast, they could move en masse and do devastating damage with their axes and spears. The prince made another gesture and the elk cavalry shifted course, pelting away from the Gachtler until they came to the edge of the camp where ditches were still laid out waiting to be dug.
Still no sign of our archers and infantry, Prince Lorinlil thought, wondering how much time they had spent in their initial charge. I have to continue applying pressure to these stupid stone lovers, otherwise they can rally and use their superior numbers to drive us off. We have to break them now or they will work all night to put up their exterior stake wall. He loved winning, but at this stage he hated the uncertainty of this balance point with fate more than anything.
“Wheel, in double lines!” he shouted, letting a pulse from Escu’eliter magnify his voice. Where are their relic wielders? Always, one had to worry about the magic that could be brought to bear against them. There was no clear intelligence reporting who and what the Gachtler had brought to this siege when it came to relics. Do they have artifact level weaponry in this camp? When are their wielders going to respond?
The hope had been that the relic wielders would be confounded by the sortie followed by the rear attack. In a perfect scenario, the confusion would hold the Gachtler’s magic in an indecisive state for long enough to break this siege. At his order the cavalry continued to ride passed their prince so that he would be poised at the tip of their charge as they looped about to form two lines behind him. After so many riders rode passed Lorinlil, he began his own charge. The twin lines of war elk cavalry behind him streamed back on the flank of those still galloping to the rear, like a snake coming back upon itself to return from where it had come. He leveled his sword at the nearest Gachtler dome of shields, aiming more than pointing. At forty paces he unleashed the artifact level power of Escu’eliter with a spell he had devised long ago.
Though Escu’eliter was not as powerful of an artifact as Sansilar, it was still an elevated artifact with its own name. A power that could change the course of battles, or the state of a great city. An invisible power seemed to punch the formation of Gachtler’s, carrying a screaming knot of them all the way through the dome and partially into the next ax wall. Radical velocity from that strike made the rest of the formation burst outward, shattering all cohesion in that unit. Steel shod cleft hooves trampled the fallen, great spreads of antlers and swinging swords reaped those that maintained their footing. That formation of delver's was almost annihilated to a man.
After firing his lance like spell, Prince Lorinlil had peeled away from the front of the charge, placing himself nearer the forest awaiting possible retaliation from the stone lover’s warlocks. From his position he saw the three nearest shield domes twitch. “Away!” he called, sensing what was about to happen. Though the cavalry had been killing the foe with much gusto, they broke off instantly; riding back in the direction of the forest. He had to turn Boshier’s head so as not to become a victim of his own soldiers. Movement in the trees drew Prince Lorinlil’s attention as he directed his forces back around in a leisurely loop. Those three Gachtler formations had dashed forward to cover the few survivors of the rent shield wall.
They had broken into a sprint without breaking the integrity of their dome of shields. A feat that neither Human nor Faelora could ever pull off. How do these animal men pull off this Burning Spirit devised stunt? All the other races could move their shield walls only at a slow walk, a trot was too much for unit cohesion; except for the Gachtler. His orders had kept the Faelora cavalry from coming under the axes of those three hurtling turtles of armor. Decades of training together paying off. The Gachtler angled their line and halted when they realized the elk riders were coming back around. Prince Lorinlil was now in the middle ranks of the charge. Behind the cavalry a score of voices sounded seemingly in unison, the Faelora archers had arrived.
“CARRARASIN! ESHIEL! LASUER! (SET! DRAW! LOOSE!) Those voices probably could not have been heard by the Gachtler, under the thunder of hooves the prince found the calls dim. Well away from all five shield walls directed their way, the prince caused the cavalry to shift so that they ran before the host of their enemy.
Escu’eliter flashed an electric red in color, and the ground north west of the war elk’s jumped as if from the worlds briefest but sharpest earthquake. Tossed by the sword’s power, none of those groups of Gachtler could keep their shield formations; not many of them even kept their feet and they were easy prey for the falling arrows.
“TOSH BEIS SHALENTIEL NIIT APONWE! (YOUR DEATH FEEDS THE GARDENS!)” That war cry came from over a thousand Faelora voices as the infantry entered the field; marching in square formation directly at the camp of the stone lovers. Beyond the outer rank of Gachtler, another cheer issued from Faelora throats, faint but distinctive through all the other tumult on this field of battle. A trebuchet before the city burst into flames, then two more flared into tall pyres within heartbeats.
Evidently the sortie from the besieged city of Ilegulan was having it’s own success. Slowing briefly so that they could wheel to face the stricken Gachtler, the cavalry began another direct charge into the camp. Before they struck the westernmost edge of the tents, a lemon yellow ball of writhing energy shot out from a clump of stone lovers directly at the prince. The magic had flown from a new turtle of Gachtler moving to join the units being harassed along the camps outer edge. A comet of pale green intercepted the Gachtler’s magic, negating the power in a shower of sparks that Faelora riders plowed through. Lord Isinthiel, a Faelora who had ridden with the prince’s father centuries ago, had used his relic to defend Lorinlil. Savagely, Prince Lorinlil shaped the power from Escu’eliter into another invisible lance. Over a score Gachtler soldiers were punched into the mud, forming a large divot of shattered steel, blood and mud; right where the enemy magic had come from.
Hundreds of Gachtler soldiers and support staff were trampled and gored to death before they reformed the first of three shield domes. At that point the elk cavalry broke away, riding to either flank to make room for the infantry. Sheets of arrows advanced before the swordsmen, reaping those Gachtler too slow to form up into the shield domes. The turtle formations shed the missiles, but frayed when the claymore swords began to hack away at them. One stone lover formation tried to open up to counter attack the Faelora infantry, and though their axes wreaked havoc for a moment, another fall of arrows made short armored bodies fall en masse.
Without being able to bring their relics to bear, caught between the city’s defenders and Prince Lorinlil’s forces, the Gachtler general had the animal men’s brass horns sound retreat. General Gurack Tohn knew that his only chance to survive was to keep his army from obliteration. Scores of shield domes began to move to the north west, marching in unison and at speed; they even trampled their own tents and earthworks as they traveled. At first, Prince Lorinlil was able to prey upon some of the rear most formations, breaking them up for either the infantry or the cavalry to consume.
However, the enemy general redeployed their relic wielders, and the Faelora magical assaults began to be blunted. Not stopped, just shunted aside so minimum damage was delivered. The job of keeping pressure on General Tohn’s forces was made easier when the prince’s army merged with Ilegulan’s soldiery. Together they prevented the crafty Gachtler from being able to rally and counter attack. The ancient enemy was forced to march to the old Faelora road that had once connected the western portions of their empire to the east. All roads from the west now delivered Gachtler armies into the heart of the empire; all the old Faelora cities in the west had been abandoned after centuries of near constant strife.
“Prince imperious! Prince imperious!” That call coming from the abandoned camp at the rear of the combined Faelora forces, caught Prince Lorinlil by surprise; it had to have been amplified by magic.
Reining Boshier out of the cavalry line, the prince stopped with an escort of ten riders surrounding him. Slipping through the mud and gore of the broken Gachtler camp, a single slight Faelora man in a black and silver silk toga half ran half stumbled towards the after battle slaughter. After his proud animal tossed its antlers, as though having a tantrum from being withdrawn from the battle, the prince urged his sure footed animal to the figure. “Prince Imperious!” the man called again as though to confirm who he was seeking.
“Yes?” he responded, not recognizing the youngish fellow panting from exertion. The Faelora man stopped almost two lance lengths away from the soldiers, his eyes held many conflicting emotions; most of those feelings seemed negative.
Hesitating, the well dressed stranger, swallowed hard before speaking.
“My prince..., I am Athelian Comadient..., I work for Lady... Tylinliel,” he paused to gasp from his trot across the field, and a reluctance to get to the point of his purpose.
“I know the lady,” the prince affirmed, his mind whirling from wondering what was going on. “Is all well in the camp? Is your lady safe?” Lady Tylinliel had come with his army supporting the troops she herself had fielded to become part of this expedition. Athelian waved Prince Lorinlil’s concerns away, proving there was no danger to the prince’s supplies and support personnel. Still gasping, Athelian grimaced before continuing.
“My lady… was contacted through… her relic. Huranuer has been… sacked.”
Grimacing, the dandy stepped back as if fearing retribution for the ill news he had delivered. Unable to quell his surprise, the prince blinked.
“We just turned back the Gachtler armies of the midlands, how were those animals able to take to the field again so quickly?” he demanded. Usually word came from the empires threatened cities weeks before any sieges were laid. For the better part of three centuries, Prince Lorinlil had been blunting the Gachtler’s drive to increase their own territories at the expense of the Faelora empire. Athelian’s features fell a bit more, a quaver entered his voice.
“It… wasn’t the Gachtler. Huranuer fell to… Humans. They scaled the… walls at night…, took the city by… surprise.”
Such unprecedented news was shocking to the ears, even his ten body guards turned to the prince with questions coming from the eye slits of their helmets. Instinctively, Prince Lorinlil had froze, just to keep an out burst out of his mouth, and prevent his eyes and eyebrows from betraying any of his emotions from showing. It was a close call, but Athelian stepped back in his black and silver silks, his own eyes glued to the prince as if he were reading an impending death sentence about to be called forth.
“Humans?” That question had to be forced through a constricted throat. Everyone knew that Humans had killed the prince’s mother, in front of him, half a millennia ago.
Swallowing hard, Athelian nodded before adding more to his bad news.
“Yes, your Highness, we believe… it was the same Humans who escaped, uh, Shureck Hall… the, uh, Gachtler city we have heard was, uh, razed a couple of months ago. These Humans wore Gachtler armor and weapons, uh, so the reports from Huranuer claimed.” All eyes were still on the prince, but Lorinlil had no answers. His head whirled and there was a ringing noise in his ears, as if he had fallen off a charging elk and landed on his helmeted head. We are barely winning this defensive war against the Gachtler. By the Lords of Light and Life, how are we going to fare against two enemies harassing us...?
The Present
Onanonwe clearing his throat pulled King Lorinlil out his centuries old memory. Before him, the delegates from Anatheri began their slow walk to the throne, the last calls of the Welcoming song faded into echoes flying about the far above branches of stone and the sun like light beyond them. The emissary and diplomat were still minutes away, still hard to make out. I suppose this will be better than falling back into my past. Those memories of how the War of Hill and Tree came to a close and the War of Ten Thousand Skirmishes began are not happy memories.
After the Gachtler and Human slave uprising, the Gachtler had turned on their allies enslaving them. Sweeping to their old homelands to the west, the Gachtler had reestablished their delved cities, using their human slaves to repair the cities defenses and blunt the Faelora attacks. That had been the start of the War of Hill and Tree. For nine hundred eighty seven years, the animal like Gachtler had slowly reduced the western most Faelora cities. They had enslaved or driven the populations of those cities east. Generations of Human uprisings saw those escapees congregating in the sparsely populated south, where the Humans ultimately began to drive out both races. The War of Ten Thousand Skirmishes had been ushered in, where guerrilla warfare and raids had replaced siege craft and giant armies taking to the field.
Those Cloddish Humans did not have cities to strike out at. They flowed like water around our armies striking when and where they chose. By the Burning Spirits, they did not ever face our armies, they just appeared here or there terrorizing both the Gachtler and ourselves. Small raiding bands did more damage, ultimately, than massed armies could have in double the time. A nibble here, a bite there, and never a chance to retaliate. Spreading our military out to cover more area did not help, the Humans struck too quick for us to consolidate our forces. We even increased the size of our cavalry. That didn’t even work, King Lorinlil lamented. He was still trying to devise a plan, or effective tactic to counter that form of warfare; nearly half a millennia after the fact.
When the Anetheri diplomat and envoy reached the rearmost rows of the court, King Lorinlil could begin to make out details of both men. In prior dealings with Lord Cunniel, the diplomat, that insolent prig had taunted King Lorinlil by wearing silk togas with the new colors Anetheri had chosen after rebelling against the empire, blue, black, and royal purple. Today, both Cunniel and Lord Bersisen, the envoy, were sporting silver, black, and white attire; the traditional colors Anetheri had once flown. What game are they trying to embroil me in? Do they think I’m so nostalgic for the old days that I will agree to send my armies because of their clothing choice? If this is a taunt, my sons advice or not, there will be war!
Lord Bersisen had wide cheek bones, making it so his face seemed almost as wide as it was tall. His eyes were a dark pink, looking like shaped red spinel gems, while he had the brown/red skin tone of a scotch pine. Lord Cunniel had a cleft chin that accentuated his long face, and his eyes were like yellow sapphire. The diplomat wore skin the color of clumped yew wood. Both men stepped in unison, small red pillows held forth in their hands. Together they shared the burden of a single long object under a silk covering having a purple field, gold long tailed swallows, and black ravens flying together. Those were the colors of Estanabril; the old colors of the emperium. The kings suspicions grew on seeing that cloth.
They looked neither right or left, keeping their eyes glued to King Lorinlil’s knees. Again this was a departure from normal. Lord Cunniel had never shied away from looking Estanabril’s ruler in the eye like an equal. Today they were truly acting like supplicants, men prepared to beg rather than demand or entice. Instead of bowing when they reached the ten pace distance marked on the carpet, both men knelt still holding the covered object before them. Gasps filtered up to echo in the sequoia’s limbs when the emissaries further prostrated themselves before King Lorinlil, their heads face down between their arms, still proffering their unknown object while on their bellies.
With the onlookers mutters beginning to build, Prince Lilantier barked at the two Faelora on their bellies.
“If this is mockery you present, know this. Your heads will accompany our declaration of war to the gates of your city!” This quelled the courtiers in the crowd, but it did not change the posture of the delegation.
“Now brother, you should be calm,” Onanonwe began, seeming to purr his words forth. “These men from Anatheri surely know we would never tolerate our father being made fun of. I hope that your intentions would not bring shame to Anetheri, as it would not fall upon our father the king. Please state the meaning of this display we are seeing.”
As their act called for, Lilantier shot his younger brother a brief glare, as if he were promising reprisals. Both boys were in the habit of apologizing to each other in private after days like this one. Their ruse was necessary, and they both played their parts too perfection. Raising his head slightly, but not raising his eyes, Lord Bersisen implored the king as culprits and criminals had in the days of the empire.
“Our purpose is not meant to bring disrespect. Rather we bear a gift that will show the seriousness of our proposal. All we ask in return is a private audience with his majesty, King Lorinlil Escacie Aponwe. Please accept our gift, and see it as a declaration of our intentions.”
Intrigued despite his suspicions, King Lorinlil sat forward in the throne. Prince Onanonwe hesitated for a second before he moved to pluck the shrouded object off the pillows. Whatever it was, it was a few inches taller than the prince. He had to undo two ties before he could pull the silk covering off the pole like object. It proved to be a spear with mother of pearl inlays up and down the shaft. Those sea shell fragments glowed with magic potential, and the first sight of it caused the whole ensemble of onlookers to gasp and break out in a confused babble. Caracermille, the Anatheri spear! This was the elevated artifact that symbolized the whole city of Anatheri, as Sansilar used to be the symbol of the Faelora Empire. Here, it was being presented to Lorinlil almost like an offering of fealty.
Sitting back in his seat was a declaration that his emotions were disturbed, but Lorinlil’s move did quell the speculation in the background. Anticipation was almost a palpable force coming from the three hundred onlookers.
“What is the meaning of this gift you bring?” he asked the delegation. While King Lorinlil was enjoying seeing the diplomat in beggar posture, he still suspected Lord Cunniel of laying a trap. That man made the whole room reel with what he said.
“We of Anatheri are ready to acknowledge that we are but a plant in your garden, if you take on the obligation of the gardener toward us. Please grant us an audience, your highness.”
Fealty! They are offering fealty!
Prince Lilantier turned the spear shaft slowly seeming to gaze at each shell in Caracermille’s shaft.
“I do not like this, Father, I was assuming this was about Anatheri’s infestation of Trumage followers.” Setting a glass of white wine down at his father’s right elbow, Prince Onanonwe turned back to the bar to pick up two more glasses, one for himself and one for his brother.
“All the information I gleaned said the same thing. How could we have been so wrong,” the younger prince queried. Taking his glass of wine, Lilantier handed the artifact back to Onanonwe, though he did not stop admiring the weapon.
The library was on the fifty first floor of the Seat of Power, one of many casual rooms on this level. Books lined the left side of the room in oak wood shelves, from the door to directly behind the king’s desk. Full scroll racks, also of oak, followed the walls all the way around from the right, the small bar the only interruption in the encased knowledge. Eight plush chairs in black leather were distributed about the room, each with a wheeled tray that could serve as a reading table.
“What do you boys think will be the repercussions of Anatheri tying itself to Estanabril?” King Lorinlil asked. Lilantier split off from his brother, seeking the closest seat to the bar on Lorinlil’s right, he lowered the tray next to him so that he could set his wine glass down.
“Ilegulan will seek help from the Gachtler against us, Peridiol and Unkidi will drop their feud to ally against us, and the Lords of Light know who else will muster forces to drag us into the oblivion of history.” Grimacing from his words, Onanonwe held Caracermille away from himself as though he feared it held contagion.
Now seated, his oldest son swirled the wine in the bell of his glass before inhaling the earthen scents given off.
“I’m sure the other city states will start aligning themselves against us, as Onanonwe says, but we are also dealing with something unprecedented since the second Osserjuka devastation. No other city state among any of the races has ever voluntarily grafted their fate to another city’s. This is not an alliance, not in the true sense, this is offering themselves to be ruled by our father. I am sure this will slow our enemies endeavors for a time.” Moving to his own seat to the left of the desk, Onanonwe paused to toss a nod of agreement over his shoulder.
Leaning back with a furled brow, King Lorinlil thought for a moment before lifting his own wine.
“Without knowing what is motivating Anatheri to make this insane move, I have to admit this feels like a trap; a malicious ploy to destroy us. Every nation knows that my sole purpose in life has been to unify the empire. Could King Athelian hate me so much that he would invite the destruction of his city just to see us toppled? Could this be his game?” The three Faeloran men grew silent contemplating the questions, each one swirling, inhaling, then sipping his wine at odd moments.
“I can not personally see a hatred run that deep, not among we Faelora,” Onanonwe mused.
Leaning forward in his seat, Prince Lilantier’s finger tapped the air as if he were indicating a hard clue.
“None of the races would tolerate that form of insanity in their leader. The fact that King Athelian entrusted this mission to his envoy and his diplomat means that many minds are knowing what is transpiring. Could there be a beguilement by magic that could ensnare that many minds at once.” Everyone who wielded the power of a relic knew that enchantments of the mind were the hardest to maintain, controlling many people at one time could only transpire for a limited time. The victims of such a spell would not feel kindly towards the one who had enslaved their minds after the magic was shed. Even the older prince knew such a spell could not hold over distance either.
No one had to dismiss that idea, even Lilantier had cast that thought aside after voicing it. Several more minutes passed in silence as they applied their minds to the problems they saw on the horizon.
“Even if our destruction is not the motivation of Anatheri, it will likely bring about such a response from the other city states.. I do not wish it to be so, but even I see that outcome in our future. If we decline this opportunity, who else would the Anatheri offer themselves too?” he asked his boys. Lilantier frowned as he reclined deeper into the padding of his chair. Sitting upright with the suddenness of the thought coming to him, Onanonwe’s voice was husky with the conspiracy he uttered.
“Maybe that is the intention. They may be wanting a war, caused by any means. But that too is just another form of insanity.” He looked first at his father, then at his older brother, seemingly hoping his idea would be repudiated.
“They would have to have a weapon or strategy that would see them survive and thrive in the chaos wrought by such an eventuality,” Lilantier mused aloud, working with Onanonwe’s proposition. “I know of no relic powerful enough to shield an entire city.”
King Lorinlil swallowed a sip, savoring the earthen flavor hidden in the alcohol rich apple tones.
“We are pondering the sun when night hangs over us,” he quoted. “Until we find out what the Anatheri want from us we will not be able to guess at their game. No matter what, if we do or do not take them to our bosom they will not get Caracermille back. That is their offering to us, it is not a payment. Onanonwe, the spear is now yours. All the other nations may view their fealty to Estanabril as a cause for war, but they will not react to us gaining another elevated artifact.” Pausing to give his sons a firm look he found Lilantier grinning back at him.
Turning to Onanonwe he saw his youngest dividing his attention between his father and the artifact laying at his feet. After the young Faelora’s stunned moment passed he gave King Lorinlil a sharp nod to show his support. After that he picked up the spear and began to explore it like a man discovering the soft flesh of a lover, eyes and hands roaming gently.
“Congratulations Onanonwe, I am sure you will hold this conquest over me in court.” the older prince called out. Smiling happily, Onanonwe tore his gaze off the magic spear.
“Oh, you know I will.” His boys shared a short laugh together before Lilantier posed another question that needed to be considered.
“We must have answers, but we also have to make the Anatheri delegation wonder a bit. How many days should we make them wait before we grant their audience?”
Sweet pipe smoke, stale beer, and sweat from all the tightly packed bodies vied for the prominent smell in the old tavern. The whole place had been made of left over wood taken from the nearby mining operations, gleaned and hammered together over a century ago. The tables, chairs, and counter were also haphazardly pieced together from lumber deemed not good enough to shore up a mine shaft. Three soot stained lanterns, also taken from the mines, provided the dubious illumination inside Delver’s Pub. This tavern would not have been Gevri’s first choice for unwinding after a full day, but his friend Hauknern had chosen for them. What was a Gachtler to do when a life long friend wanted to celebrate Declaration Day on the seedy side of town?
Bets were still being laid as two burly looking Gachtler men started chugging from quart sized beer steins, racing to be the first to finish. Both he and Hauknern leaned in from their nearby table, each having bet on opposite contestants, small silver and copper coins in two equal piles between them. Excitation made the hair on both men’s backs stand up, as their ears strained towards the two Gachtler men. Insults and taunts were barked out, as supporters tried to break the concentration of one drinker or the other. Not only is the color of these insults interesting, they are more inventive than anything I’ve ever heard from the merchants or the caravaners I hang out with. I thought caravan guards were supposed to have the foulest mouths and dirtiest minds.
Gevri had bet on the man with the tawny fur and reddish brown leopard spots, while Hauknern the police officer, had laid his money on the one with long grizzly bear brown hair. Both steins came down after the last convulsive gulp of brew, thick glass bottoms slammed the gray untreated planks of the table so hard the furnishing jumped. Gevri’s ears stood upright as he pointed at leopard spots, the Gachtler whose stein had hit just a fraction of a second faster. Hauknern stood with his ears laid back, complaining at the bad eyesight everyone else had; he was not the only one who was complaining about losing their bet, the cacophony was riotous and filled with good nurtured revelry.
Ears still laid back and standing before their table, Hauknern watched Gevri scoop his winnings off the table. Those ears drooped losing the aggressive tautness of before.
“Not only am I taking your coins, but I insist that this next round is on you.” His friend watched those coins vanish into Gevri’s rust red pouch, the black hammer and gem crest branded into the leather was already bulging.
“What, I couldn’t hear you?” Though Hauknern’s voice was steady as he took to his chair, his ears twitched uncertainly. Oh, you’re going to play that game, Gevri realized watching his friend. Though he wanted to smile, he kept his face skeptical.
Hauknern was two inches over five feet, a giant of a Gachtler. His short tawny hair, lion like in color, could not hide the well defined muscles the police officer had developed over the decades. Though he was not at work, Hauknern was still wearing his uniform, black and blue bandoleers crossed his thick chest, and black and blue pants were tucked into the tall black military style boots all police wore. Gevri himself was wearing a casual kilt with spiked wave patterns, greens on top fading to the orange spectrum at his knees. Though he was not as tall as Hauknern, Gevri was also tall for a Gachtler, just not blessed with the robust figure most of his people had. Tall and thin, Gevri had solid gray medium length hair on his body with a plate sized black patch on his left flank.
Tipping back his own stein, a thick walled stone carved to look like a crenelated tower, similar to a chess piece, he swallowed the last bit of hop heavy beer Delver’s Pub brewed.
“What, are you a stingy Faelora, unwilling to buy a friend another round?”
“Hey now…!” Hauknern had assumed a comically exaggerated affronted look, but his hand paused at reaching for his purse when a woman called out from a table along the north wall of the bar.
“I shall declare! Hear my words!” the woman started, standing up and digging an ouncer coin out of her purse. The big gold coin brought a hush to the premises, as all eyes turned to her. At once, all the tavern’s staff produced huge pitchers and began to move from table to table pouring beer into every stein and cup. Even the proprietor filled cups, he took the woman’s coin with a slight bow; no one had to wait long.
Holding her stein aloft, a cheap glass mug owned by the pub, the young woman took a moment to gather her thoughts atop her chair.
“I Kuernana of the metallurgists guild do hereby swear that I will do the impossible. I swear that I will find a new alloy that will make stronger lighter armor than we now have! I will do this in the next five years! This I declare!” As one, every stein in the tavern was raised to the palomino coated woman, then solemnly, everyone took a huge drink of their beverages to commemorate her vow. For a few moments the only sound was that of satisfied sighs, then container bottoms smacking down on the worn and gouged tables. After Kuernana hopped off her chair and sat in it, the conversations began to resume; in seconds the only way to be heard was to shout.
Hauknern studied the young metallurgist from across the bar for a few moments, he then dragged his chair around so he could sit closer to Gevri. There was no hints of playfulness in his friend now, and his eyes were evasive. What is Hauknern thinking about now? He’s been a little off all night, like he’s not really into this festival at all. The stein Hauknern owned was carved into the round shape of a Gobesh skull, complete with a handle where an ear hole should have been. Unlike the little forest creatures, this skull had exaggerated features lending the stein a comedic styling.
“Are you going to Declare today?” Gevri’s friend asked, possibly as an excuse to avoid what was really on his mind.
He was already shaking his head no when he answered.
“I don’t think so. I can’t think of anything impossible that I could pull off, which is what this day is all about.” Gevri’s answer pulled Hauknern out of his head. The officer waved away Gevri’s well known opinion, they had debated the significance of Declaration Day many times before. Every five years when Declaration Day came around, Gevri was prone to observe his opinion more vociferously.
“I was going to make a Declaration today,” Hauknern started, his face and eyes going vague.
By ignoring Gevri’s beef with how the holiday was supposed to be celebrated, showed that Hauknern was going to state what had been plaguing him through the night. He felt his ears come to attention on the peace officer. “I finally had a case against the Thrick syndicate. I was just about to shut down their prostitution ring near the ware house district. But the damn council ordered it so that there has to be paperwork for each piece of evidence that can be used in court. Damn it, I was that close to being able to make and complete a Declaration Day vow, and now my job has become truly impossible!” There was heat in the tawny Gachtler’s voice when he concluded, but that anger sizzled out as Hauknern seemed to wilt with defeat.
Funny, Declaration Day is supposed to be about the impossible. Everyone treats this once every five year holiday as if they get points for pulling off the possible. Hauknern was just about to make his case against one of this city’s crime families, but he had his hands tied by a new rule. I bet that girl Kuernana made her vow today because she and her co-workers are already on the verge of a break through with blending metals. Our ancestors created this day so we could push the boundaries of what was possible. Our city, Ghorkul, was reestablished because our ancestors Declared that they would make the Faelora pay for the reconstruction. They forced those tree puppets to pay tribute rather than lose one of their cities to our mighty ancestors. Those brave Gachtler pulled off the impossible and gave us a home because they strove against convention.
Tilting back his tower stein, Gevri gulped down some more beer before addressing Hauknern and his hurt feelings.
“Why don’t you Declare? Why don’t you rebuild your case, jumping through all the crappy hoops the city council tries to put in your way? Do every thing by the book and make it stick. You’re smart, you’re tough, and you can do this, Hauknern.” Though Hauknern showed his fangs to acknowledge the compliment, the man’s ears were still wilted like those of a cub failing to lift his father’s ax.
“You don’t understand, I would have to start from scratch. A case like this can take decades to build, why would I wanna risk a years banishment for not pulling off a miracle?” Hauknern complained.
Gevri slammed his now empty stein on the table, making the funny Gobesh skull bounce on the stained planks.
“You’re buying the next round, that woman’s Declaration didn’t get you off the hook!” Gevri declared after licking brew off his lip hair. “That is why Declaration Day has a limit of five years. It is a goal and an incentive. You’re supposed to work all that much harder to get the job done. We have five centuries of life that the Lords of Light and Life gave us, being banished for a year ain’t nothing. You act like a Human who only has a century to live.” Hauknern rolled his eyes during the speech, his ears pricking forward before the argument came out.
Sweeping up his mug to swallow the last bit of his own beer, the police officer growled with his frustration.
“You forget about the loss of prestige, the step down in seniority and all the other penalties that happen after you come back from banishment. I know this is your personal peeve about Declaration Day, but trying to pull off the impossible is just how they dress up the old stories. Stupid lying stories to make stupid cubs think about the old glories that were, who needs them to actually see those heroes as folks as screwed up as we all are? I mean if you really think that you’re supposed to pull off the impossible why don’t you risk being banished? When was the last time you made a Declaration?”
Seeing the fire in Hauknern’s eyes buoyed Gevri at first, but when his friend challenged him he hesitated. Being called out on the carpet was a new sensation, one that made something simmer inside Gevri. He knew his ears had drawn back, as though ready to fight, yet… yet there was a truth to Hauknern’s words. I get frustrated that people don’t strive to do what others believe is insurmountable, yet I have not Declared in decades. I’m a merchant, there is only so much a merchant can do, and all of it has been done before. After silencing Gevri, Hauknern dug out a few quarter ounce silver coins to buy the next round of beer.
Those brandished coins was bringing a piebald server to the table when an idea hit Gevri. He stood up so fast that his chair almost fell down behind him, his hands digging for an ouncer gold coin.
“I shall Declare! Hear my words!” he shouted, animated by what he was about to do; what he was putting on the line. The room was already hushed when he pulled out the large gold coin. Hauknern’s eyes were already big, as if he knew how insane Gevri’s vow would sound. Big pitchers and servers swarmed out from behind the bar, steins, glasses, and mugs were rapidly filled with the establishments home brew. “I Gevri of the merchant’s guild do hereby swear to do the impossible. I swear that I will make the Human City of Bolloren sell us those fancy stoves they make. On top of that, I will make them marry off one of their daughters to be my second wife! This I do declare!”
Grinning wide at the dumbfounded faces filling the tavern, Gevri tilted back his rook stein and gulped half the beer inside. That grin still adorned his mien when he faced all the witnesses who still gaped at him. The room required Hauknern lifting his mug and quaffing a large amount of his beverage to break the stillness. People were still hesitantly commemorating his vow when Gevri sat back down smiling like a drunk with a keg. “That, friend Hauknern, is a real Declaration.”
Though the room was called a study, it looked more like a museum. After fifteen hundred years of war, King Lorinlil had gathered quite a bit of memorabilia. Banners from conquered cities lined the walls, axes, daggers, and spears made up a majority of the displayed weaponry. This represents all the enemies I beat, the champions I cut low, the king mused as he looked at the scores of display cases, pedestals, and table stands placed throughout the study. There was still room for his youngest son to cavort with his new spear.
Onanonwe started with a leisurely figure eight spin that turned into slow finger spins on his strong side. He sped up a bit after a back fist spin that turned into more figure eights. Full speed hit when the prince began to work with both hands, complete with passing the broad headed Caracermille behind his back. His son was in full stride, moving like a dancer with a partner across the floor, when the study doors were opened in the north. From fifty paces away, King Lorinlil could hear the whoosh of the spinning spear, and he could see the narrowed eyed stares the two diplomats wore as Prince Lilantier ushered them across the threshold.
If two men were having second thoughts about their game, those two are, Lorinlil observed. Onanonwe’s martial display held Lord Cunniel and Lord Bersisen's attention while they hovered just inside the door. When his oldest son began to move into the room, the delegates faltered for a few moments before following. As they had discussed before hand, Onanonwe kept his weapon going until Lilantier was seven paces away; the younger man shouted while taking to the air. When the prince landed he held his new artifact crosswise, a barrier to further progress.
"The envoy and ambassador of Anatheri as requested, Your Majesty," Prince Lilantier called out, acting as a herald. Neither delegate had eyes for the king at that moment, their interest was held by Caracermille and the young Faelora holding her.
In their experience it was the older prince who was the martial artist, not the well manicured Prince Onanonwe. I would dearly love to know what they are thinking, seeing my son with the artifact that used to represent their land. From his seat behind the big marble desk, King Lorinlil gestured for everyone to join him. A hidden wink from older brother to younger triggered Onanonwe to spin out of the way, the prince drawing up with his spear at attention, clearing the way forward while facing to the east.
“Please, Good Lords of Anatheri, come have a seat with our father the king,” Lilantier invited with a pleasant smile; his hand on the hilt of Escu'eliter riding in it's Faewood and fawn hide sheath. As they made to cross the spacious study, Prince Onanonwe glided into their wake to trail them as they passed his position. Anatheri’s representatives nervously glanced back at the talisman, then the man holding it.
Still playing the host, Prince Lilantier indicated the two ox red leather chairs set before the stone desk. Hesitating at first because their greeting had not conformed to their expectations, the two Anatheri nobles moved to their seats. Moving to the right, the king's oldest son pulled out another red chair from the wall and set it on the desks flank, he had to unclip his artifact sword to sit, laying the encased blade across his lap. Onanonwe moved to the left and replicated his brother's move by pulling a seat out. Both men noticed the bared blade of Sansilar laying on the desk before King Lorinlil at the same time; Cunniel licked his lips and threw his gaze back at the only entrance to the room. For his part, Lord Bersisen divided his attention among Estanabrill's three leading men, calculations not squaring up in his head.
Having three named artifacts on display was too much for Cunniel.
“Your Highness, Caracermille was….”
A slap on the shoulder halted the diplomats undiplomatic performance, Lord Bersisen glared at his fellow trying to will the other man to conform. Grimacing mightily, the offending lord slid to his knees off his seat, eyes cast down submissively. When petitioning a Faelora king, the king’s was the first voice to be heard. When the empire had held, such indelicacy could have carried a call for execution. Would I be considered petty for entertaining that idea? In this day of weak governments, the answer would most likely be yes... alas.
“Gentlemen, Caracermille was the price you paid to receive this audience. You will have to admit it was a high price to pay if your petition proves frivolous,” Prince Lilantier stated, his hard green gem stare fixed upon Cunniel.
As much as he liked seeing the Anatheri lord humbled before him yet again, state craft would not be furthered by his vindictive emotions. With a wave King Lorinlil bid the man rise to resume his seat. Lord Cunniel had to get to his feet before he could take the chair again, his face working overtime to hide his bruised feelings. This one is having second thoughts about having his small little nation swear fealty to me, the king observed.
“You stated that you were willing to plant yourself under the care of The Master Gardener, the emperor. Why would you even consider such a thing?” Both the diplomat and the envoy blinked at Onanonwe’s bluntness, that made it evident they had been assuming they would have to dance around the subject, after all, they had been made to wait ten days for this audience.
Shifting in their seats, Cunniel refused to meet anyone’s eyes while Bersisen squirmed while seeking where to start.
“Your majesty… I, uh….” The fact that Lord Bersisen stammered was very telling in and of itself. We are dealing with a very touchy subject. Could there be Anatheri state secrets involved? A delicate touch may unstop the wellspring. Just by inclining his head momentarily, King Lorinlil captured the attention of the other four Faelora in the room.
“I knew your King Athelian when he was just an adjunct for the Lady Tylinliel. He learned much at her knee, just not the lessons of loyalty. Why now does he want to tie himself to our fate? Why now does he want to mark both our nations as targets for all other city states?”
Neither Anatheri men had been prepared for such a direct confrontation, they had been assuming that King Lorinlil was mired in the ancient traditions. With a grimace it was Lord Cunniel who started the answer.
“King Athelian has been judged unfit to rule in Anatheri.” His face winced again after making that announcement. Bersisen sighed then continued for the diplomat.
“We, uh, had to overthrow Athelian because of a, uh, sticky situation….” Smiling slightly, Prince Onanonwe interjected, his smooth tone goading; playing his part as rehearsed.
“It seems that the whole of Anatheri lost the concept of loyalty, this is the second time she has turned upon those set above her.”
Lord Bersisen bristled at the prince’s provocation, but surprisingly, Lord Cunniel gripped his compatriot’s forearm to halt an outburst. His face was that of a man who had quaffed sour pickle brine.
“Athelian committed a crime against all Faelora for what he failed to do, Your Majesty. He was justly dethroned for what he allowed to transpire, it was not due to our having unruly proclivities.” When the king cocked an eyebrow to elicit more information the diplomat hesitated, allowing Lord Bersisen to take up the telling and the avoidance of giving a reason. He did not continue down the same path his companion had established, which did not help the narrative one bit.
“We are willing to swear fealty for your discretion, Your Majesty, and we are willing to explore gray areas in the tangled skein of modern politics to tie ourselves to you while preventing wars of reprisal from our rivals.”
Turning his head as though listening for distant sounds, Prince Lilantier addressed the one problem Estanabrill knew it had.
“However could our cities unite without instilling fear and jealousy in the other city states, Faelora, Gachtler, and Human alike? Do you have a path of survival through the wars that would follow?” Both diplomats looked at each other, uncertain because they were unable to present their proposal as they had imagined.
"Your Majesty, please allow us to state our case. All Faelora will benefit from...."
Lord Cunniel tried, but the obvious displeasure of the two prince’s dried the words off his tongue. Bersisen had to fill the sudden silence, coming to his comrade's aid
That Anatheri lord noisily adjusted himself in the plush red leather chair, his eyes darting about as if seeking inspiration.
“We believe that if one of your sons came to assume Anatheri’s throne, we could keep the other nations from feeling jealousy. We believe that if we present a false front, a ruse to make it seem we remain rivals, then the other nations will not deem it worthwhile to act...." Holding his hand up, Prince Onanonwe asked the same question that had popped into the king's head.
"No one would believe that story with my brother or I at Anatheri's helm. That only guarantees all the city states forming alliances against both our cities. What can you offer us to make certain war worth our time?"
Both Anatheri men actually relaxed when that question was broached, despite the tone of delivery. They were prepared for this, Lorinlil realized while wondering if they had lost the initiative in these discussions. trying to be disarming, Lord Cunniel leaned forward.
"The fabrication we believe will work will mean either Prince Lilantier or Prince Onanonwe will have to pretend to rebel against you, Your Majesty. Whichever son you choose will be fleeing a failed coup attempt into Anatheri." Bersisen sat forward beaming as if his was the genius behind this concept.
"Though the chosen prince failed to overthrow you, he will succeed in taking Anatheri's crown. We believe a few staged border skirmishes will sell the lie to all the other city states. A few score fake funerals to add verisimilitude. We would start paying tribute after trade is reestablished at the end of our false war, hidden within normal commerce."
Easing back in their seats did not relieve the tension remaining in the duo, they were only waiting to see if they had sold their scheme. Without having to move his own head, Lorinlil witnessed his son's turn his way. Their faces were inscrutable, but he could see both men calculating. It will be a subtle gambit, but their idea just might work. All the details will have to be perfect in order to sell such a big lie. My son's have been playing at disunity for centuries which seems to have prepared them for this. Hold on, I am actually considering this idea? That will not serve my people. Immediately he rebelled, thinking he had stepped into Anatheri's trap.
"We will have drinks," he declared, his face studiously impassive. "Have either of your lordships sampled any of my youngest son's Shacindi? His vineyards to the south have been yielding some extraordinary vintages the last few centuries."
Pivot left when they think right is the only path available, he schemed. His choice of wines had actually been a code word informing his sons how they would proceed from this point. The two lords shared slight smiles with one another, tension left their shoulders, which indicated they were assuming the call for wine meant they had scored points. As his youngest son opened a cabinet holding three different wines chilling in ice filled buckets, Prince Lilantier growled from his seat.
"All it would take is one rival challenging the transition in Anatheri to expose the ruse. That again would result in alliances forming against both of our cities." Yes, My Boy, press them, make them reveal how deeply they have thought of this proposal. Why do they resist in informing us why they find this merger necessary?
Bersisen's face scrunched for a moment, but his hesitation was not long.
"Yes there is risks in our plan, but we already have a majority of our nobles already on board with what we are doing. That alone should prevent other cities from coming up with the idea to interfere with Anatheri transitioning her kings. The faux war we will have will also keep people from interfering, they will be hungry for our two cities to be weakening each other. They will think they are gaining ground by not interposing themselves in our business." Most of Anatheri's nobles are in on this? That idea was puzzling. Nobles in every city vied against each other for little or no provocation, be it feuds so old no one remembered the source of the hate, or from competitive natures and egos butting against each other.
As appropriate, Prince Onanonwe hand delivered the king and the heir their beverages first. He then moved back to the bar to pour the representative's wine.
"The population of Estanabrill is nearly one million Faelora. What right do you have, do we have, to threaten their existence? It is their lives and livelihoods that you want us to put at risk, even for the nebulous promise of increased power. It is a power our rivals will not allow us to keep. This secret you think we could foster will not last the test of time, our rivals will detect our alliance whether we will it or not," Lilantier continued, seeing how defensive he could make the two men. Licking his lips, Bersisen betrayed the state of his nerves, but it was Cunniel who blurted out.
"This is meant to stop a bigger betrayal! We have to prevent Athelian Comadient's abomination...!"
Leather protested making gastronomic like noises, as the envoy twisted in his seat to clap a hand over Cunniel's mouth. The older prince's baleful eyes seemed to shine with triumph as Lilantier pounced.
"You wish us to save Anatheri after you allowed her to pull away from my grandfather's rule? Now that you are discovering your big mistake, you think we will come and save you? Your audacity is astounding...." Both prince's were made to hesitate when King Lorinlil raised his hand to cut Lilantier off. Onanonwe delivered the wine to their guests but gave his father a questioning glance as he went to retrieve his glass then seat. This was not how the script was supposed to play out.
With the eyes of the other four Faelora on him, King Lorinlil posed his question.
"Abomination is a strange way to describe misrule. What policies did that upstart Athelian impose on you that caused you Anatheri nobles to rise up and depose him? Did he abandon too many Faelora traditions? Did he embrace the policies of the lesser races?" The king found it telling when both the Anatheri representatives eyes flinched off of his. There was a deep shame within both men. Yet they did not break and share their motivations. Gently swirling the Shacindi, then smelling the notes given off, Lorinlil kept his eyes on his unwanted guest's. They squirmed in their seats, they looked at each other, they avoided looking at their hosts. Finally Lord Cunniel attempted another ploy.
Eyes shying off his audience after brief contact, the ambassador opened his mouth.
"King Athelian had decent policies, he ruled us well in his brief centuries on the throne. His crimes were of the sort... well, only the might and cunning of Your Majesty can prevent the sullying of all Faelora. Only you can save us from a crime so bad that we dare not name it. Unless you take us into your embrace very bad th.., uh... please Your Majesty...."
"A plant that bears no fruit does not belong in the garden. Estanabrill will not nurture a weed, and that is all you are professing to be. You cast off the ruler you placed over you after casting off the rule of my family, and your problems sound as though it requires all Faelora to turn against you. We will not buy your arguments without being able to see the goods, as the merchants say," Onanonwe stated after taking his seat. His eyes were as cutting as his older brothers.
Subtle tethers of magic attached themselves to the two Anatheri men, energies that groped out from each artifact until their targets were ensnared. Mentally pressure was applied to their emotions with the power ramping up every few heart beats from the three royal Faelora. The directness, the reversal of the brother's public roles, the digging questions, and the dangled then pulled offerings of hope had prepared these nobles for the disorientation to take hold. If any of the royal trio faltered in laying this spell, that would alert the nobles that magic was being used upon them. Again, if either Anatheri man realized and resisted, the spell would be broken. Softly, gently, madness was laid in both Faelora's minds.
Keeping Anatheri's two lords pinned with his eyes, the king took a sip of the reddish purple wine. Drawing a breath over the liquid on his tongue, he unlocked the flavors in the fumes of the delicate Shacindi. Fael grapes and wild berries pressed in the same vats, loam, hillside winds, potent alcohol, and pollen from wildflowers all informed the wine. Astoundingly Lord Cunniel broke. At first his face was twisted with the promise of malice as he raised his fists, but he writhed in his seat, turning his face into the chairs arm to hug himself like a lost child. Tears leaked from sealed eyes as a long groan escaped like trapped steam. No better off, Lord Bersisen rocked in his chair like a Human with a mental disorder, eyes seeing through or beyond what was before him.
What crime could have been so bad that it has driven these two proud Faelora men to lie and prevaricate thus? We shall swat these side stepping evasions down! Still rocking, Anatheri's envoy gave voice to his city's biggest secret.
"Athelian's son, Irien... Irien.... He took a Human slave as his wife.... they ran away fifteen years ago. Athelian hid this. If they have a child...?"
"Abomination!" In all his long life, Lorinlil had never showed shock with such an outburst. His heart raced as the implication of what he had heard sank in. Blood drained from his face, yet he began to issue orders. "My sons, scramble your resources. The search for Irien begins at once. He and his animal lover must be found and stopped before any sullying of Faelora blood occurs... and if it has occurred, the product must be destroyed. Onanonwe, you are to take Anetheri's crown. Lilantier, you come up with a story of your brother's betrayal of me then get the military ready to move. Declaring war with Anatheri will be essential to the deceptions ahead. Athelian has brought a threat to all Faelora by hiding this."