Elizabeth Haydon - The Assassin King

“Did you get a chance to examine the Bolg king’s weapon?” Anborn’s voice called over the sounds of the horse chaos as he fired off another round of bolts, felling three more soldiers. “I’ve seen it before,” Ashe replied, crossing blades briefly with one of the cohort before dragging him from his saddle and slashing his throat in a blaze of blue and white rippling light. “Why?”

“Nice recoil,” Anborn commented, firing again. “Do you need any further assistance? I think I may have left my hot toddy in the library, and it’s probably getting cold.”

“No, by all means,” Ashe said as he dodged out of the way of two of the horsemen’s picks. “I’ll join you for one in a moment, once I’ve taken care of this. I saved one to talk to—you can help interrogate later, over brandy, if you’d like.” His last word was punctuated by the thrust of his sword through a Sorbold chest.

Gwydion Navarne, watching in the recesses, just shook his head as his namesake dispatched the rest of the soldiers, then took hold of the unconscious man he had incapacitated early on and dragged him back to the keep in the dark. He turned himself and followed Ashe’s shadow in the flickering light of Haguefort’s lanterns.

Good day, Fhremus,” the regent said as the doors closed behind a tall man in the military regalia of the Dark Earth, the dynastic line of the empress who ruled before Talquist. The regent emperor winced involuntarily at the sight of the dead empress’s crest, as he always did, needing to remind himself that he had chosen to keep the military uniforms of Leitha and the dynasty of the Dark Earth until spring, when he would be finally invested as emperor. Nonetheless, like other choices he had made in the name of appearing humble, the image of a golden sun bisected by a sword always caused him to flinch in anger. Especially given the symbol he had chosen for his own.

That same sun, rising rampant between the shorelines of two seas. The soldier, whose bearing was still youthful in spite of his many years in command, bowed respectfully. “M’lord.” Talquist gestured at the heavily carved table of dark wood near the doors of the balcony. “Sit.” The soldier bowed again and complied, but once at the table he stole a glance at the regent as if assessing his health. Talquist noticed, but said nothing, instead making his way casually to a similarly carved sideboard where an impressive array of glassware and decanters of the finest potent libations from around the world was displayed. “Would you care for something to drink, Fhremus?” Talquist asked, pouring himself a splash of Canderian brandy in a low crystal glass. “Thank you, no, m’lord,” the commander answered rotely. “My attention to your safety forbids me to compromise my senses in your presence.” Talquist chuckled darkly. “Nonsense,” he said humorously. “My safety is assured, not only by a retinue of palace guards, but by measures you cannot even imagine. So, go ahead, Fhremus, fortify yourself. I expect you may need it.” The suggestion had become a command. Fhremus rose from the table and came to the sideboard, where he selected a single malt from Argaut, a nation in the southern hemisphere far across the Central Sea, and poured himself a few fingers of it. Then he followed Talquist back to the table again. “Excellent choice,” said the regent, watching Fhremus over the rim of his own glass. “Argaut has many excellent distilleries. I hope you enjoy it.”

“Thank you, m’lord.” Talquist leaned closer. “Yes, Fhremus, I am alive and whole, in spite of any rumors to the contrary.” The commander smiled nervously. “I am glad to see that, m’lord.” The regent settled down more comfortably in his chair. “I have always admired your devotion to the nation and the crown, Fhremus,” he said, inhaling the bouquet of the brandy. “I was greatly impressed at your wisdom during the Colloquium following the empress’s death in insisting that the empire remain united, especially in the face of the lobbying by the counts of the larger provinces to disband both the empire and the army. I will never forget what you said at that meeting, that ‘the might of the Sorbold army comes from two factors— commonality of purpose and love of our native land.’” The soldier nodded and sipped his drink. “That wisdom is about to be proven more than anyone could have envisioned,” said Talquist seriously. “I want you to speak freely to me, Fhremus, without fear of reprisal, not soldier to emperor, but Sorbold to Sorbold. What is most common between you and I is a deep love of our nation. That nation is under dire threat, a threat that must be met with force, swiftly and overwhelmingly. If we delay or do nothing, we will lose any advantage that our terrain and military might would have given us in what will be a battle for our very survival.”

The supreme commander blinked. “Threat? What threat?” He stared at the regent. “I just reviewed all the reports of the field commanders from every one of the twenty-seven city-states, and there has been no hostile activity reported in three months—none since the empress’s death, in fact. It would seem that the Alliance is concentrating on farming and securing the trade routes, with a minimum of military buildup. Roland appears peaceful, and there have been no sightings of Bolg outside the mountains of Ylorc. And, of course, the Lirin of Tyrian are keeping to themselves, as always. We are at peace.”

“So it might seem,” agreed Talquist, taking another sip and straining it through his back teeth. “But you forget, Fhremus, that prior to being chosen as emperor by the Scales, I was hierarch of the Western Mercantile, and so my information comes not only from within the continent, but from outside it.”

“And there are indications that we are under threat of invasion?” The soldier’s demeanor changed subtly; his muscles tensed and his spine straightened, while his eyes took on a gleam in the light of the afternoon sun spilling into the room from the balcony. “If left unchecked, it will lead to that,” said Talquist. “But consider the geography of the continent. You have to look at this land as the Creator fashioned it, rather than as it was divided by man, the result of the Cymrian War four hundred years ago, and then perhaps you can see what the Creator intended for it.

“Sorbold is the foundation of the entire continent in the south, granted divine protection by the Creator in the form of forbidding mountains and implacable deserts, a vast expanse of territory and a large population that is tempered in the sun, strong and relentless and proud. Our willingness for centuries to maintain our military and our defensive infrastructure has given us the upper hand from a tactical standpoint. Even our inland seacoast is protected, for the most part, by the land mass that surrounds it. We have outposts at the water’s edge from the Nonaligned States to the Skeleton Coast, outposts that incoming ships must pass in order to land in port. So we are a formidable, almost unassailable opponent under normal circumstances.”

The commander nodded; the regent had just provided the same assessment he would have himself, and it was a case for limited worry.

“The Middle Continent in the west, comprised of Tyrian, Roland, and Gwynwood, is the breadbasket of this part of the world,” Talquist continued. “Its geography of wide plains, forests, and fields gives it some natural defense, but few places from which to launch an offensive strike. Only the forested realm of Tyrian is close enough to one of our city-states to mass an invasion without detection. And the Firbolg king on our border to the east shares the same defensive mountains that guard our north—he could mass an army of invasion, but without support from Roland we would likely be able to repel it easily.”