Michael Stackpole - Chartomancy

Pyrust’s stomach began to knot. A quarter of the nation is gone. The invaders are driving straight for Kelewan. A momentary flash of jealousy ran through him. His dreams of marching triumphantly into Kelewan died, for he knew the city he might take now would never match the city he had lusted after for so long.

“How long since they invaded?”

“A month.”

“And they’ve come that far? I am impressed.”

“You should be afraid.”

“Fear avails me nothing. Respect for my enemy is vital.”

The death god squatted and peered down at him. “Do not be disdainful of me, Pyrust.”

He met Grija’s gaze without fear. “If I am to be your scythe, do not complain that I am sharp.”

The god sat back and chuckled. “You are not the only scythe.”

Pyrust nodded. “I shall consider well what you have told me.”

“And act on it?”

“You will know one way or the other.”

Grija stared at him for a moment, then nodded curtly. “Make your decision wisely, Pyrust. If there is a tenth god, there will be a Tenth Hell, and I shall reserve it especially for you.”

Before the Prince could reply, the fiery avatar imploded and flowed back into the hearth. Aside from Delasonsa’s body and the little flames licking at his chair, no sign existed of the god’s visit. Pyrust waited, thinking he might awaken, but he did not.

The Desei Prince frowned. When Grija had first spoken to him months ago, it seemed that his dreams of becoming Emperor would come true. Certainly, any campaign would have resulted in many deaths. Succeed or fail, his effort would swell the population of the death god’s realm.

This manifestation, however, betokened something entirely different. If the god of Death was powerful enough to intervene in the affairs of men, he could have simply slain the tenth god’s troops. But the fact that people had escaped death meant his power was waning. War was being waged on the earth as it was in heaven, and Grija clearly needed a terrestrial ally. Or allies. After all, I am not the only scythe.

Divine politics aside, the information he’d been given was useful. He’d known Cyron was moving troops, and now he knew why. The troops on Nalenyr’s northern border were unreliable, and perhaps even rebellious. Punching through Helosunde and into Nalenyr would hardly be bloodless, but it now seemed possible.

It is also necessary.

Grija had said it, but Pyrust knew it even before the death god had provided the details. Cyron might well be a genius in organizing his nation and accumulating wealth, but he was not the military leader any of the other Komyr princes had been. If he were, he would not be sending troops south to his border with Erumvirine; he would be sending them straight into Erumvirine. It would be far better to fight any wars on someone else’s territory-whether you intended to keep it or cede it back later.

Pyrust had choices. He had Helosunde between his nation and Nalenyr. Even if the invaders chose to turn north and come up the coast, their supply lines would be stretched beyond all imagining by the time they reached Deseirion, and Pyrust could guarantee they’d find not a single morsel to eat in his realm. His troops, though not as numerous as other nations’, were well trained and would fight hard. He could hold the enemy in Helosunde and keep his realm safe.

Or I can fight them further south. While part of him still dreamed of taking Moriande and Kelewan, a greater part of him now contemplated their defense. If we are divided, we shall fall.

But no one would agree to be united beneath the Hawk banner. Even if Cyron realized this was the only chance for his realm to survive, he’d not agree. Surrendering command of his troops to his Desei counterpart would spell the end of his dynasty.

“But I shall need his troops and his nation to defend us all.” Pyrust frowned. If the tenth god’s invasion had inspired fear in the death god, there was no way to see that as anything but a disaster for mankind.

Pyrust sank to a knee beside the Mother of Shadows and shook her shoulder. She jerked, then rolled away. He felt certain she’d come up with a dagger in hand, but she kept it hidden beneath her cloak.

“Highness, I have failed you.”

“No, Delasonsa, you have not. We have much work to do.”

“What, my Prince?”

Pyrust stood. “You will send word to your agents in Nalenyr. They will encourage an open break between the inland lords and Moriande. I want the former armed and ready to join me. I will also need you to slay the leaders of Helosunde’s dissident factions though you will spare my wife’s brother. In her name, a message will be sent to the Council of Ministers offering an alliance and peace between Deseirion and Helosunde.”

“They will not believe it.”

“You will tell them I will grant Helosunde full autonomy when my heir is born.”

She looked at him closely. “Are you well, Highness?”

“My next order will answer your concern, Mother of Shadows. I want every unit possible to head south. This includes the training cadres and the garrisons on the Turasynd borders. Any man or woman fifteen to thirty will report to a unit unless their occupation is vital to the war effort. Find me some cowards of whom I can make examples and crucify them at crossroads.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“Within a month, Mother of Shadows, we march south.” Pyrust pointed in that direction. “It’s not empire we seek, but if we repel the invaders, it is empire we shall have.”

10th day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Vnielkokun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Pelut Vniel waited until his servants had poured tea and withdrawn before he bowed his head to his visitor. “You honor my house with your visit, Count Turcol. I apologize for not having been able to see you earlier, but my household has been in an uproar as we prepare to celebrate the anniversary of the Prince’s ascension to the Dragon Throne. If you are here on that blessed day, please accept my invitation to be your host.”

The westron lord returned the bow, but without grace or sincerity. “I believed, Minister, that I had communicated the urgency of my business with you to your subordinates. Perhaps they do not serve you well.”

Pelut did not immediately reply. Instead, he sipped his tea. “In Miromil they train monkeys to climb to the highest reaches of the tea trees and to pick only the most delicate leaves. This variety is called Jade Cloud, and my servants have been given specific instruction in its preparation. I believe you will like it.”

Turcol did not so much as glance at the tea on the little table beside which he knelt. “I appreciate your hospitality, but I have little time for it.”

“There is always time for being hospitable, my lord.”

Turcol might have caught a hint of warning in his voice, or had remembered he had come to ask a favor of Pelut. So, he did not reply and instead sipped the tea-far too quickly-then offered thanks.

Pelut returned his cup to the table beside him. “You were fortunate to be in Moriande when the request for troops was issued. You will, no doubt, be joining them at the Helosunde border very soon.”

“I will be joining them, yes.” Turcol’s eyes slitted. “I thought to seek your advice on a matter of protocol.”

“And what would that be?”

The inland lord squared his shoulders. “Given that our Prince will be celebrating his anniversary, I thought a parade of troops to honor him and the occasion would be appropriate.”

Pelut hesitated but let no surprise show on his face. “The Prince eschews such displays, save during the Harvest Festival. His celebrations are usually private. Often he takes a group of courtiers into the countryside for hawking and other pursuits.”