Chapter 82: To Quell a Rebellion

Viv sat at her desk back at the tower, at a loss. The wind brought in the fragrant perfume of the Kazaran tree’s lilac blooms. The apothecary had dropped off a large vat of powerful poison, then left with a huff. Not only did he have a prickly personality, but he also saw himself as a healer and disapproved of Viv’s tactical choices, or so it seemed.

And now she was having doubts.

Viv took out a piece of paper and made a list of the changes she had brought to the expanding town.

• Every layer of society has been mobilized for war
• Nationalist ideology fed by a hatred of Enorians
• Partially planned economy
• A powerful, indoctrinated military
• Backed by massive industrialization (driven by owl-people but still)
• Three different kinds of chemical weapons.

Arguably, the third chemical weapon was made by the Yries so it didn’t really count. It was also the most gratuitous act of dickery she had ever witnessed on a land that enslaved people to fund wars. She was going to use it.

Where was she? Ah, yes.

• Three different chemical weapons
• A ruthless approach to conflict that would make Vietnam look like a prank.
• Small cult of personality, although to be fair it was made by kids and aimed at Arthur.

That was more than enough to draw a conclusion. Viv sighed and bent forward, massaging her tired eyes. Then, she looked up at Solfis’ quiescent form.

“Solfis.”

//Your Grace?

“… are we the baddies?”

The golem’s yellow orbs dimmed in what felt like a smug, satisfied half-lidded smile, like a relaxing cat.

//Scruples.

//I have always found the human’s fascination for honorable underdogs curious.

//You fleshy beings often root for the one at a disadvantage.

//It is a phenomenon I can observe but not understand.

//Like altruism.

//I believe that it is born from your species’ fascination with constructed beliefs.

//Which you call stories.

//Let me ask you a question in return.

//Can you accept what Prince Lancer will do to the people living here, should you fail?

“No.”

//And how far are you willing to go to stop this possibility from happening?

“That’s the thing. If I stop questioning myself, if I’m ready to go to any length, then am I better than him?”

//I would argue that being better should not matter.

//This is not a contest of virtue.

//But I know that your fleshy mind does not work like that.

//So instead, I advise you to go out and talk to one of the survivor’s of Lancer’s occupation.

//The main west street baker’s widow will do.

“The one…”

//With that scar on her cheek, yes.

//Talk to her, hear her story.

//Then you can decide how far you are willing to go.

Viv felt like she had been trapped, somehow. Solfis was using emotions.

“Not like you to make me decide based on my heart.”

//Your emotions influence your mind.

//It is unavoidable.

//That same imperfect mind allowed you to come up with all new and exciting ways to hurt people.

The golem deployed with skeletal grace. His horns reached the ceiling without ever touching it. The glow of his orbs shone ominously in the wall’s shadows.

//No matter what, I wanted you to know that, regarding your preparations…

They narrowed in vicious pleasure.

//I am extremely proud of you.

Author’s note: change of focus.

Fifth day of the third month, Reixa, west Enoria.

“To quell a rebellion is not an act of punishment,” the prince said.

His baritone voice rolled smoothly over the assembled troops in Reixa’s main square. Enorian commoners watched from the windows and balconies, enraptured by the royal presence. The collective attention drifted from the prisoner on the gallows to him, their sovereign, their prince. The rightful heir to the throne.

“No, it is an act of healing, a corrective act. To quell a rebellion is to reconcile a people with their rightful ruler. To stop a rebellion is to cure a sickness by suppressing the disease before it sours the body.”

The prince spread his arms and Talan felt the caress of his goddess. Truly, the young questor could not have prayed for a better leader. Prince Lancer was just, frugal, and avaricious of the lives of his men. He understood the nature of power as well as its pitfalls. He had led them to victory at Third Regnos, cutting down the rebel cavalry’s retreat and slaughtering the better part of their nobility. Enoria would be safe under him. Enoria would be powerful and whole once more.

“Order, gentlemen, is the key to peace and prosperity. It does not suffer compromise, nor exceptions. It must be imposed equally and justly across the land. Our task here is nearly done and we will move out soon to pursue this most noble of goals. We will go to Kazar and bring this lost city back into the fold. We will cleanse it of the witch, her followers, and her influence. Order will return to that respected pillar against undeath. First Kazar, then, the kingdom. I know that some of you would prefer to concentrate on the rebels and I hear you. Their time will come, but for now, we must finish this task laid in front of us. It is not a chore, it is an obligation.”

Cheers rose from the ranks. The Bridgers roared first, they who had been the first at his side, then came the line battalion. Talan’s chest filled with the fervor of his cause and the great duty they had to perform. Ah, such a sight they were, the prince and his lieutenants. There was Goodmother Eteia, severe and reserved, she who had sacrificed the joy of motherhood for the cause. Bishop Ereon the brave surveyed his flock with a fatherly smile. Talan’s superior had always championed Maranor’s cause with unwavering faith, eager to see his beloved homeland resurrect from the ashes. The Royal Champion was the last, a tall and silent man handling a greatsword as easily as Talan wielded a toothpick. He stood by the prisoner with the grim expression of an experienced executioner.

It was time. Prince Lancer turned to the kneeling man and called to him. They offered such a poignant contrast, the true blood and the usurper, the silent silver and the gilded gold. The fallen robber baron looked up and sneered. The gash on his handsome face yawned and blood seeped, dying his teeth red.

“I met her, you know?” the fallen man said, and the prince stopped. Talan’s warmth faded a little bit from his chest, because something had gone… off-script. The prince frowned and signaled the executioner, who pushed the prisoner down.

“You, the criminal who stole the name Elix, you have been found guilty of treason, robbery, kidnapping, rape, and murder. I condemn you to death.”

“She’s nothing like you think,” Elix retorted, uncaring.

Talan saw the glint of a vengeful eye in the shadow of the Champion, one last ember of defiance. The voice was muffled, and yet it carried over the silent assembly like a dirge.

“I will be seeing you soon.”

The blade fell.

For all his flaws, the robber known as Elix had turned Reixa into a well-supplied hub of activity. It had come at the cost of villages, as well as the town of Anelton. Those would take two generations to recover from the devastation he had wrought, at least! But Prince Lancer’s group had all they needed to launch the expedition.

It was said that the rebels had defeated a garrison of two hundred men. To defeat them, the prince would be bringing four times that number, plus a war mage and the champion. Talan thought that it was too much, but he also knew that the expedition would keep the men on their toes in preparation for summer, when they would finish off the rebels once and for all. For now, ranks upon ranks of soldiers with their gear walked along the dirty road west, many complaining that the men at the center ‘had it too good’. Sergeant walked up and down the line, chastising those who complained and reminding them that their turn would come. Kazar was such a lost place, away from everything. The prince was right, however, it was a matter of principle.

The light wind of Enorian spring brought the scent of sap and wet earth to Talan. It covered the more pungent aroma of his traveling companions, the squad he led as questor. Talan shivered as he recalled the hell that Regnos had become after the third day, when it seemed like the entire world stank of shit, rot, and smoke. Summer would come again, but for now he enjoyed the simple pleasure of a morning stroll. He was so absorbed in his step that he almost missed the late addition of another wagon to their already large caravan. It bore, to his surprise, the sword and shield of Neriad.

It was no secret that the two churches were sometimes at odds on philosophy and the conduct of war, yet the alliance between light gods was too precious to be sacrificed on details and so the newcomer was received with courtesy. Talan heard the whispers spread through the ranks and finally learned the truth in the late afternoon, as they were already well on their way. They had been joined by a Bishop of Neriad. Their expedition had two bishops. The men were too wise and jaded to rejoice, however. There had to be something going on. The mystery only grew deeper when they were informed that night that the Neriad party would join them ‘in healer capacity’ and under certain conditions. The prince had to accept a ‘peace talk’ with the witch before continuing. He had accepted.

Talan didn’t think the negotiation would lead to anything. Kazar had been forced to submit to the laws they had avoided for so long and some of the population had not shunned their tasks, like true Kazarans. The others had risen against the kingdom, led by the accursed witch and her inhuman followers. Talan didn’t expect that someone who would start a rebellion against order because their privileged treatment had ended would willingly submit to execution. The witch had to be selfish and manipulative. She would let the large town die before sacrificing herself.

On the third day, the army reached Anelton.

“This is what a world without order looks like,” Talan told Regor, the corporal in his squad. The old man did not reply but he nodded wisely. Elix had put the town to the sword. That night, they camped under the stars within walking distance of a massacre. It put Talan’s teeth on edge but they were mercifully left alone.

At dawn the next day, the formation narrowed to enter the Deadshield Woods.

Talan had heard much about the place, the way it seemed to play tricks with the mind. All of it was true. Only ten minutes into their trip and he was not quite sure where the edge of the forest was. The road twisted and turned, but by how much he didn’t know. The squad huddled together and kept their eyes on the dense foliage while they listened to every bird call, every monster screech breaking the muffled silence. Groups of archers were ready at all times to pepper any incoming beast with serrated arrows, but their greatest deterrent was Eteia. Vigilant and somber, the war mage surveyed the land from atop her armored wagon like a queen. But no, it was wrong to be thinking that. Her attachment to the prince was well known, yet so far they had refrained from founding a family. It was not for him to consider that she would rule.

She did look majestic, and her presence comforted him.

Talan shook his head and returned his attention to the road. The column made their slow way on the ancient path even as it resisted the all-consuming green expansion. Sometimes, boughs covered the sky and they walked under a green, luminous arc of intertwined canopies. The union of the breath-taking and deadly muddied his mind. When they stopped at a clearing in the late afternoon, he addressed a quick prayer to Maranor.

“Let me see my purpose through the haze of mortal concerns.”

Talan’s vision cleared and his mind grew cold and focused. The Deadshield woods were an obstacle, nothing more. It would be surmounted like the others.

That night, Bishop Ereon summoned him to his tent.

“Tomorrow, we will meet with the witch for parlay. It will fail, of course, but you will be present and learn what you can.”

“Of course, Excellency. My inspection gift will not fail us.”

“Let your men know that they must not attack, even if the witch is a lawless destroyer. We cannot stoop down to her level. Let the servant of Neriad play his strange game, and do not interfere.”

“Yes, excellency.”

“Good. I will see you tomorrow, Talan. Rest well.”

The questor retired to his cot with some trepidation. The witch. The, and may his ancestors forgive him for mentioning it, Great Black Whore. Would she really come? He could not wait.

Sleep did not come easily that night.

Morning in the Deadshield Woods was a strange affair. It crept upon people like a stalking scalehound, sneaking between the thick trunks. By the time the sun rose above the treeline, the sky was blue and cloudy. Talan made his way to the front of the army and the armored wagon where Goodmother Eteia and Prince Lancer waited.

It was a strange sight, seeing all those important people standing early in the middle of an empty road. He himself came to wait near his own bishop and the older man clapped him on the shoulder with a light smile. The champion was his usual stern self. Neriad’s bishop was different. He was clean-shaven, revealing angular traits and a pointy chin. Black eyes glared at the trail with clear disapproval as if daring it into summoning the witch. For some reason, it seemed to work. They heard a horse coming.

The woman who had caused it all trotted along the path on a powerful mount. She stopped at twenty paces and calmly dismounted, never breaking eye contact.

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Elix had been right, she was nothing like he expected. He had been tricked by the many humorous drawings made of her. There was no abundant cleavage or free-falling lush hair. The woman approached and a nightmarish construct of bone unfolded behind her, as tall as two men. Before Talan could recover, a white, scaled form landed smoothly from above. No one reacted in his party and so he believed that they had been warned.

The peculiar trio stopped only a few feet away from his party. Talan had his first good look at the one who had caused it all and realized that his preconceptions had been as numerous as they had been false. She wore a war robe covered in runes that showed signs of wear in several places. A dagger hung from a sheath on her chest while a round shield covered her back. It was a warrior’s attire. Her hair had been tied and held back, and felt natural despite its strange color. The real deal, as were her eyes. They matched her cold expression.

Talan got a first taste of her power. Mana coiled gracefully around her, alive and quiescent yet the might was undeniable. By comparison, Eteia was both warmer and more composed, more structured. The war mage held a staff over a crimson robe of office, while the Prince had picked a brigandine under a doublet. Both the bishops wore robes and the guard was in full plate with their helmet closed. It made things… a little bit awkward.

“Surely you do not intend to take those things in?” the mage blurted, outraged.

The witch shrugged.

“We can talk here. I do not care either way.”

She had an accent he could not place. Her voice went up and down as if she were singing and her ‘r’ possessed a strange, raspy quality. It made her more exotic.

“We will all sit inside,” the Bishop of Neriad intoned with thin patience, “and we will all behave according to the rules of war, with Neriad as my witness.”

“Fine by me, I’ll sit,” the witch said.

Prince Lancer inhaled in a great effort to control his anger before so much arrogance. Talan had no idea how he managed to tolerate so much aloofness from that upstart. Despite the pressure, his answer was fast to come.

“Agreed. And if anything happens…”

“Then you die first,” the witch concluded without care.

A chill went down Talan’s spine before the finality of the statement. The delivery had been casual but the soul power behind it was absolutely overwhelming. If anything happened, the prince would die first. It was an inescapable fact that left no room for interpretation. And the prince just accepted it with a nod.

Unheeding of Talan’s confusion, the party walked into the armored wagon. It was quite nice inside. A central table going the length of the wagon offered basic food and refreshment, though Talan had no doubt that they would be left untouched. He and his side shuffled down with the champion standing guard. The witch gracefully sat on her side, while her marsh drake padded close to her and the skeletal creature kneeled. It looked excessively intimidating.

They were so strange like that, like characters from a tale, not political figures deciding the fate of a city.

The Bishop of Neriad sat at the end, taking the judge seat and starting the negotiations in a low drone. Talan tuned him out to complete his main task: inspecting the foe. It was his speciality, his pride and achievement. Years of inspecting everything until his head hurt had finally yielded a specialized skill which his path had then reinforced. The time had come to use it for the good of Enoria, starting with the witch.

Mana flooded his mind and eyes, a casting subtle enough to be lost between the powerful movements of the other people here. At first, he felt an opposition which meant that the status was occulted. Someone or something blocked his skill. Talan persevered but felt like pushing against a brick wall.

Then there was a susurrus of fabric, the whispers of lost things staring through dark portals. A distant chuckle froze his breath in his chest, and the veil lifted. He could see everything.

She had been protected by Maradoc, god of secrets. Talan felt sweat pearl on his brow but he continued anyway.