Chapter 151: Sovereign meeting

“So, he is warning us.”

 

Viv stood in the council chamber of her palace with Enoria’s official letter in front of her. The room overlooked the deadlands and offered a perpetual background of roiling clouds above the distant, shambling shapes of revenants. It was not a pleasant view. She kept it that way on purpose.

 

People leaned over the nice parchment. It did look nice. It was polite, too.

 

“To Lady Viviane,

 

It shall be my honor to visit you in your territory on the fifteenth day of the month of seeding, along with my retinue.”

 

The rest was the typical signature and honorifics the Paramese nobles were fond of using in their correspondence. Viv immediately nodded a few important points. Meanwhile, Farren had an opinion.

 

“If he’s announcing a visit, he will not attack. The Temple of Neriad would consider this a grave violation of the sacred laws of negotiation. The presence of so many soldiers is a display of strength.”

 

“No,” Viv interrupted. “You cannot think that.”

 

“Pardon me?”

 

She pointed at the letter.

 

“Sangor never mentions Harrak or even Kazar. That means he doesn’t recognize us as a people. That’s one. Two, you cannot rely on rulers following treaties because everything is a question of cost and opportunity. If Sangor decides it is better to reabsorb us and face the consequences for years rather than let us exist, he will attack. And three, regardless of the likelihood of an actual attack, we cannot afford not to react in kind. If there is even a sliver of chance his army will strike us, we must be ready for it.”

 

Sidjin nodded in approval. Farren looked disappointed but not exactly combative.

 

“I concede your main point, which is that we must prepare for war regardless of Sangor’s intentions.”

 

“He might fabricate a casus belli,” Lady Azar added. “It has been done before, at least in Baran. Duke Sotti recently slew a recalcitrant baron at a party using the excuse of insubordination. He made penance, paying weregild to the man’s widows. He still regained control of the barony in the end because his actions were legally justified. We are not recognized by the Paramese alliance for now. Sangor can do with us as he pleases with only a slap on the wrist.”

 

“Right,” Viv said. “Then we are in agreement. I will meet him as he requests… with the army.”

 

“And the levies?”

 

“That won’t be needed.”

 

Lady Azar considered the question.

 

“The space before Sinur’s Gate would be a decent place for a meeting. It has room for all of their soldiers. It would also let them see our prosperity so that they speak of it when they return home. Kazar was always considered a frontier. Now, the deadlands have been pushed back.”

 

“We will do no such a thing. I’m not letting them take a single step on our land where they’ll get a chance to get rowdy. Never will we be at the mercy of a superior opponent if we can stop them before they can reach us. We will meet…”

 

She pointed at the halfway lake, the only safe stopping place on the path through the Deadshield Woods. Viv had split the teleport path in two there specifically to act as a sort of airlock, with one gate leading to Aneston in Enoria, and the other to Kazar.

 

“…there.”

 

“There is barely enough space for a couple hundred men!”

 

“Not to worry. I will make the room.”

 

***

 

Viv emerged from the witch gate into the depths of the woods, where one may lose themselves forever. Going from the expanse of tamed land to the pulsating, vivid heart of the forest disorientated her. Dense mana covered every tree, seeped through every crevice in their urge to make things grow. There was a life there that even dragons could not quench. There was death as well, death in the soil and in the claws of the many predators haunting the boughs. Towering copses surrounded the lake on all sides. The only signs of civilization were the black smears on the grass, remains of recent fires. Of the catastrophic damage the blaze drones had inflicted on this patch of land during Lancer’s attack, nothing was left. The Deadshield Woods stood eternal and the nations of men ought to be grateful it was content with what it had.

 

Sidjin emerged from the gate at her side, grumbling about witch magic and the lack of respect for traditional spellcasting. Arthur arrived a second later through her own portal because she wanted to show off.

 

“Right, darling. Only two days before they show up. How would you like to proceed?”

 

“First, we get some intimacy.”

 

Viv gestured and the far witch gate deactivated, the path closed until she decided otherwise.

 

She could simply stay like that. It was likely Sangor didn’t have the material or supplies to cross the woods which had always been a perilous affair until Viv’s generous contribution. But she wouldn’t. Because it was not about being difficult. It was about sending a message.

 

“There, we won’t be bothered until I say so. Second, we make space.”

 

“And how would we do that?” the Red Mist of Glastia asked with a knowing smile.

 

“We burn it all down to the fucking ground.”

 

‘SQUEE!”

 

And so the terrible work began.

 

Tactical spells designed to turn companies into paste tore through majestic trunks and heavy branches with undeserving fury. Trees buckled. Rocks flew. Sometimes, unlucky harriens and colorful birds were caught, too stupid to understand the destruction coming for them. A rolling wave of force, fire, and death shredded through square kilometers of land without respite in a great din that sent the wildlife stampeding away to safety. At some point, Rakan came with his pupils and decided it was a great exercise. Abe also came with the ladies and decided that a cathartic exercise in deforestation was ‘a refreshing task that unlimbered the legs and promoted the free expression of one’s magical might in a safe environment’.

 

That turned out to be a little untrue when a mighty roar shook the very earth. A titanic being crashed through the undergrowth, a hunched creature covered in growths and rocks like a moving ridge. It glared at Viv from small beady eyes deeply embedded in a craggy face barely discernible from its surroundings. Lianas and stones floated around it, seeking a foe. Viv inspected it.

 

[Antalis Queen, dangerous, natural brown caster]

 

She looked angry.

 

“Did you expect we would attract such attention?” Sidjin asked without much concern.

 

“Expect? I was counting on it. I’ll make you queen of my dinner, you legged knoll.”

 

The Antalis queen was strong, yet against the combined power of Viv, Sidjin, Arthur, Abe, and Rakan, that strength did very little.

 

After they killed it, Viv stared at the hole she had dug in the creature’s face. She had used the hyperbeam spell, the one that offered the best penetration at range. It had not quite killed the creature in a single hit.

 

The beast’s fallen mass served as a reminder that it was just one of the many predators inhabiting the forest, and although they were deep, it was still nothing compared to the true heart far north of here. There would always be a bigger fish, but for now, they remained in control of the field.

 

The next part was much less fun so only Sidjin and Viv worked on it, and they did so for hours. Cutting and burning was all well and good. It would not create a flat space suitable to stand on. The eldritch wall spell proved to be a good alternative to brown mana in getting a flat, serviceable surface.

 

The two worked for the entire day, then through much of the night. Irao arrived the next morning confirming Sangor would arrive the day after, shortly before noon, along with his two thousand men.

 

“They have three hundred and twenty-six knights and six hundred and fifty-eight archers. I counted them myself.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You are welcome. I am leaving now. Goodbye.”

 

“Take care!”

 

The timing would be fine. At dawn, Viv called for the army which was camping in the plains of Kazar. They showed up eager and excited. The deployment was made with a festive mood, even with a non-negligible risk of war. In fact, they seemed to be looking forward to it. Witchpact companies outdid each other with war paints while the heavies made sure their spear pennants were fluffy and clean for maximum floating-in-the-breeze effect. The best part was when Sidjin approached Viv with a nice chest.

 

“What is it? Oooooh my old armor. Very — OH MY GODS THERE ARE TINY HOLES FOR MY WINGS!”

 

Not true wings.

 

“Hush you. Sidjin, thank you so much. I was just thinking that I have returned to my normal height. Excellent. I’m never pulling the wings back in again. It’s just so comfortable to have them hanging around.”

 

“You do enjoy things that hang around.”

 

“Silence,” Viv hissed. “Not in front of the child.”

 

I know what mating is.

 

“They grow up so fast. Anyway. Let me put this on.”

 

Viv’s old armor was half enchanted robe and half fashion statement. The enchantments were made of silverite, the second half of what she’d gotten from Solfis’ hangar. It was very precious and the work of Helock’s best tailors. Between this and her skinsuit, she felt properly dressed.

 

“Maybe I should buy enchanted boots.”

 

Boots are stupid. Feet are stupid.

 

“Maybe I’ll make them out of insolent white dragon scales.”

 

Noooooooo!

 

***

 

Sangor hated the ‘witch gates’. He hated them because they’d popped on his land without his knowledge or approval. He hated them because they made such things as borders, forts, and logistics less relevant. Mostly, he hated them because they were a powerful tool in a rival as unpredictable as she was frustrating.

 

And now he would have to use one.

 

The strange circle lit up when Yrlin of the Thorns touched it. His paramour gave him a smile that showed her canines, her usual, before stepping in along with a detachment of knights. She returned a moment later.

 

“It’s working. Oh, and she’s expecting us. Try not to let it get to you, hmm? We do not want to gawp in front of the social climber.”

 

Sangor could read between the lines.

 

“Captain, stay here and make sure the men understand they are carrying the dignity of Enoria as they go through the gate. We will be deploying in defensive formation against infantry. I expect the highest standards of professionalism.”

 

“Understood, sir.”

 

Sangor had brought some of his best along with capital troops from the south, in theory loyal but untested as they were on the other side during the war. Besides Yrlin, the only high-ranking member of his retinue was Edwin Milderry, from Green Edge, who had insisted on coming to see how ‘that ballsy young witch’ was doing. He offered a nice counterpart to Bishop Reno who had the the privilege of being the representative of the Church of Maranor and the highest-ranking asshole Sangor couldn’t afford to have publicly flogged. At least, the witch gates would make the trip shorter. Silver linings.

 

Sangor breathed in when nobody could see him, then he walked through.

 

The feeling was disorienting but brief and he soon found himself in the middle of the Deadshield Woods’ path to the Old Empire.

 

Despite warnings, it was all he could do not to appear affected. His leadership guided him into the appearance of a confident sovereign riding down the slope on a mighty warhorse, barded in armor. The very symbol of Enoria. Elite knights surrounded him as he took in the surroundings.

 

It was a vision of the apocalypse.

 

Where he expected a maze of trees and leaves, the land was flat for hundreds of paces in every direction, broken, ravaged. Black smoke rose through the late spring air in ominous columns where the fires had not yet died. The ground was dark and twisted, flat, tamed and clawed by powerful destructive magic. It was a display of destructive power that should have cost enough mana to raze a fortress and they’d done it as a warning. And in the middle of all that devastation stood the Harrakan army, and he knew, in this moment, that he would not take the deadlands by force.

 

Rows of heavy infantry in black armor stood in grim formations, white pennants floating in the wind the only signs they were not statues. Masses of crossbowmen and… yes, those were women, grinned at them from behind the lines or from the top of earth barricades built with magic, their features hidden behind morbid face paints like southern savages. War machines occupied the back ranks and the core of the formation. All and all, over a thousand five hundred combatants waited in well-prepared positions, slightly up the slope. They watched the Enorians line up on the plains and they seemed… eager. Eager and amused. He inspected them to confirm what his instincts told him.

 

An old woman with a goofy smile.

 

[Bitter Heart Markswoman]

 

A skull-faced girl with a massive crossbow decorated with silver patterns.

 

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

[Elder Sister of the Eye]

 

A bearded man with scars and a two-handed longsword on his back.

 

[Hightree Heavy Linebreaker]

 

They already had military traditions. Neriad’s bollocks, that wasn’t bad for such a short time. Out of curiosity, he concentrated on the war machines.

 

[Shrill catapult, fire wasps]

 

What the fuck?

 

Just as he focused on another, a shape in a black cloak appeared out of nowhere near his target. It was a bald man with strange yellow eyes and an axe on his back. The man glared at him, made a throat-slitting gesture, then disappeared again. A Hadal. The reports were true.

 

Right, no more inspections.

 

The witch was waiting for them.

 

In the middle of the clearing, someone had erected a large tent. A group of knights in black armor formed a half-circle around it, as was tradition in negotiations. The witch was waiting for him on a comfortable, slightly saggy couch along with a few people he didn’t recognize. There was a northerner in mage garb, a severe Baranese woman with prim gray hair, the horrendous bone golem, and the young dragon who had, and he had to double check, golden ribbons on her black horns. The witch waved when he looked. She was one of three people who actually moved out of the hundreds of glaring people. The second was a stout lad cutting meat out of the belly of a colossal dead beast sporting wounds that would have destroyed a fortress gate. The last one was one of the ugliest women he had ever seen. She was grilling meat skewers, fanning them and rubbing them with oil. He had to compose himself not to be taken aback by the outrageous display.

 

“The hills behind us are trapped with black mana constructs,” Yrlin chuckled. “Do try not to aggravate her too much?”

 

“Can you disarm them?”

 

“Yes but she will feel it and it will be an act of war. The man by her side is the fallen prince of Glastia, Sidjin the Red Mist.”

 

Right. Do not provoke the witch. Easy.

 

As he approached, he noted the more alien elements of her appearance. The armor already set the tone but the monstrous eyes and shadow limbs confirmed she was now an elemental archmage of the black color. The first in recorded history. It didn’t take a mage to feel the power radiating from her, even at a distance. He watched those emerald circles in her black sclera and felt an alien amusement, an intellect both unhinged and soaked in the otherworldly knowledge she spread around like a peasant spreads seed, eager to see what would take root.

 

A cynical part of him harped on that he should have killed her when he’d met her, that outlanders were always a mess. He had not, because he had not risen to power by killing the unknown. He had harnessed it. She had been… less important at that time. He had been on the verge of triumph with Tarano trapped like a rat in Green Hedge. There was no reason for him to care about her anymore when he had finished a war that had started while he was just a child. Now… some things had changed. None for the best.

 

The witch didn’t stand up to receive him, though she smiled invitingly as she gestured to the seats. The ugly old woman brought another two from somewhere behind the ranks of black-clad knights. Sangor recognized Rollo, a famed Baranese champion renowned for his jousting prowess as well as his love for another man. Truly, Harrak had embraced different norms.

 

“Welcome, welcome. Take a seat, all of you. Thank you, Gogen. Nice to see you again Milderry! We started on the skewers before you arrived. They’re best when hot. Tea?”

 

“With pleasure,” Sangor replied.

 

It would be rude to refuse. It would also play in her favor. He sat on a straight-backed chair of decent enough make since it didn’t groan under the weight of his armor. Yrlin sat daintily by his side, hand caressing her pregnant belly. Milderry crashed in his seat with a roaring laughter while Bishop Reno refused the invitation altogether.

 

Sangor expected it. Maranor favored power and until she was recognized, she would remain a traitor and a revolutionary in Her eyes. Of course, all the witch had to do was welcome the clergy of the Goddess of Power in her domain but so far, she’d neglected to do so.

 

The witch glared at the bishop, a reptilian gaze that said nothing. She picked a skewer and bit it, teeth digging in the juicy flesh of an apex monster. Now, she was seated and comfortable and eating in front of a man who remained at parade rest, an insult and a show of control. The bishop bristled. Sangor felt like sighing. The clergyman was reaping the consequences of his decision.

 

Sometimes, dogma went in the way of situational intelligence, he observed.

 

“Antalis Queen! It is good for me, beloved,” Yrlin said.

 

A breach of protocol. The two women were thoroughly enjoying themselves needling the poor bishop and Sangor’s own patience.

 

“Have some more!”

 

The Gogen woman placed a large platter in front of the dragon, who picked a nice piece of meat on a stick between two delicate talons. Serrated rows of fangs that could bite through plate armor closed on it while the creature fixed her crimson, malevolent gaze on the bishop.

 

Alright, that was enough.

 

“Thank you for having me here. I believe this meeting was long overdue. This is my paramour and archwitch of the thorns, Yrlin.”

 

“We had the pleasure of meeting back in Green Hedge after you freed me. Congratulations are in order, I assume?”

 

“Thank you,” Yrlin replied. “And I see you still follow the Path of the Sun with… a lot of enthusiasm.”

 

“That was the war witch tradition, yes? I suppose I do then. On my side, please meet Baroness Azar, my chancellor.”

 

The prim lady nodded, her eyes calculating. Sangor knew who Azar was because she represented everything Enorians disliked about the old guard: smooth and cunning pursuit of power for its own sake. He had no idea what the witch had promised to get this career dire viper slithering in her bosom but he hoped it wasn’t worth it.

 

“And this is Edwin Milderry, Duke of Green Edge.”

 

“That’s some good meat! If you ever want to retire from the evil overlord gig, I have a position as a monster hunter available.”

 

“Oh, there is only enough room in Green Edge for one monster hunter. It’s good to see you again.”

 

“Hah! And no matter what the others say, nice going with Tarano. That overinflated ego had a good twatting coming, he did.”

 

Sangor listened to the song of Bishop Reno’s teeth grinding against each other.

 

“And here is Bishop Reno, of the Church of Maranor.”

 

“This is my daughter, She-Who-Feasts-on-Many-and-Creates-Much-Wealth. You know Solfis. And this is Sidjin, archmage and advisor. And my paramour.”

 

“Her name really is that long?” Yrlin asked with some curiosity, yet another breach of protocol.

 

My claws are very long as well.

 

And my fire is very hot.

 

“My apologies, I did not mean to criticize.”

 

“Could we have some intimacy?” Sangor interrupted.