Michael Sullivan - Nyphron rising

"But at what cost, Sauly?" another voice floated in. Normally too far it was now loud and clear.

"We have no other choice," Ethelred put in. "Gaunt is marching north toward Ratibor. He must be stopped."

"This is insane. I can't believe you are even contemplating it!"

"We've done much more than contemplate. Nearly everything is in place. Isn't that so?" Saldur asked.

Modina strained to hear, but the voice that replied was too faint.

"We'll send it by ship after we receive word that all is set," Saldur explained. There was another pause, and then he spoke again, "I think we all understand that."

"I see no reason to hesitate any longer," Ethelred said. "We are all in agreement then?"

A number of voices spoke their acknowledgement.

"Excellent. Marius, you should leave immediately…"

"There's just one more thing…" She had not heard this voice before and he faded, no doubt walking away from the window.

Saldur's voice returned. "You have? Where? Tell us at once!"

More muffled conversation.

"Blast, man! I can assure you you'll get paid," Ethelred said.

"If he's led you to the heir, he is no longer of any use. That's right, isn't it Sauly? You and Guy have a greater interest in this, but unless you have an objection I say be done with him at your earliest convince."

Another long pause.

"I think the Nyphron Empire is good for it, don't you?" Saldur said.

"You're quite the magician, aren't you Marius?" said Ethelred again. "We should have hired your services earlier. I'm not a fan of Luis Guy or any of the Patriarch's sentinels, but it seems his decision to employ you was certainly a good one."

The voices drifted off, growing fainter until it was quiet.

Most of what she heard held no interest for Modina, too many unknown names and places. She had only the vaguest notions of the terms Nationalist, Monarchist, and Imperialist. Tur Del Fur was a famous city, she heard of before-some place south, but Degan Gaunt was only a name. She was glad the talking was over. She preferred the quiet sounds of the wind, the trees, and the birds. They took her back to an earlier time, a different place. As she sat looking out at her sliver of the world, she found herself wishing she could still cry.

The Eve

Gill had a hard time seeing anything clearly in the pouring rain, but he was certain that a man was walking right at him. He felt for the horn hanging at his side and regretted trapping it underneath his rain smock that morning. On thirty watches, he never needed it. He peered through the gray curtain-no army, just the one guy. He was dressed in a cloak that hung like a soaked rag, his hood cast back, his hair slicked flat. No armor or shield, but two swords hung from his belt, and Gill spotted an additional sword-the two-handed pommel of a great sword-on his back. The man walked steadily through the muddy field. He looked alone and could hardly pose a threat to the nearly one thousand men bivouacked on the hill. If he sounded the alarm, he would never hear the end of it. Gill was confident he could handle one guy.

"Halt!" Gill shouted over the drumming rain as he pulled his sword from its sheath and brandished it at the stranger. "Who are you and what do you want?"

"I am here to see Commander Parker," the man said, not showing any signs of slowing. "Take me to him at once."

Gill laughed. "Oh, aren't you the bold one," he said, extending the sword. The stranger walked right up to the tip as if he meant to impale himself. "Stop or I'll run-"

Before Gill could finish, the man hit the flat face of the sword. The vibration ran down the blade, breaking Gill's grip. A second later the man had the weapon and was pointing it at him.

"I gave you an order, picket," the stranger snapped. "I am not accustomed to repeating myself to my troops. Look sharp or I'll have you flogged."

Then the man returned his sword, which only made matters worse.

"What's your name, picket?"

"Gill, ah, sir," he said, adding the sir unsure if this man was an officer or not.

"Gill, in future, when standing watch, arm yourself with a crossbow and never let even one man approach to within one hundred-feet without putting a hole through him, do you understand?" The man did not wait for an answer. He walked past him and continued striding up the hill through the tall wet grass.

"Umm, yes, sir, but I don't have a crossbow, sir," Gill said as he jogged behind him.

"Then you had best get one, isn't that right?" the man called over his shoulder.

"Yes, sir." Gill nodded even though the man was ahead of him. The man walked past scores of tents, heading toward the middle of the camp. Everyone was inside away from the rain, and no one saw him pass. The tents were a haphazard array of rope and stick-propped canvas. No two were alike, as they scrounged supplies as they moved. Most were cut from ship sails grabbed at the port in Vernes and again in Kilnar. Others made-do with nothing but old bed linens and, in a few rare cases, actual tents were used.

The stranger paused at the top of the hill. When Gill caught up he asked, "Which of these tents belongs to Parker?"

"Parker? He's not in a tent, sir. He's in the farmhouse down that way," he said, pointing.

"Gill, why are you off your post?" Sergeant Milford growled at him as he came out of his tent, blinking as the rain stung his eyes. He was wrapped in a cloak, his bare feet showing pale beneath it.

"Well, I-" Gill began, but the stranger interrupted.

"Who is this now?" the stranger walked right up to Milford and stood with his hands on his hips, scowling.

"This here is Sergeant Milford, sir," Gill answered, and the sergeant looked confused.

The stranger inspected him and shook his head. "Sergeant, where in Maribor's name is your sword?"

"In my tent, but-"

"You don't think it necessary to wear your sword when an enemy army stands less than a mile away and could attack at any minute?"

"I was sleeping, sir!"

"Look up, sergeant!" the man said. The sergeant tilted his head up, wincing once more as rain hit his face. "As you can see, it is nearly morning."

"Ah-yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Now get dressed and get a new picket on Gill's post at once, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir!"

"Gill!"

"Yes, sir!" Gill jumped.

"Let's get moving. I'm late as it is."

"Yes, sir!" Gill set off following once more, offering the sergeant a flummoxed shrug as he passed.

The main body camped on what everyone called Bingham Hill, apparently after farmer Bingham, who grew barley and rye in the fields below. Gill heard there was quite the hullabaloo when Commander Gaunt informed Bingham the army would be using his farm and Gaunt was taking his house for a headquarters. The pastoral home with thatched roof and wooden beams found itself surrounded by a sea of congested camps. Flowers that once lined the walkway were crushed beneath a hundred boots. The barn housed the officers, and the stable provided storage and was used as a dispensary and tavern for those with rank. Everywhere there were tents and a hundred campfires burnt rings into the ground.

"Inform Commander Parker I am here," the stranger told the guard on the porch.

"And who are you?"

"Marshall Lord Blackwater."

The sentry hesitated only a moment then disappeared inside. He remerged quickly and held the door open.

"Thank you, Gill. That will be all," the stranger said, as he stepped inside.

"You're Commander Parker?" Hadrian asked the portly man before him who was sloppily dressed in a short black vest and dirty white britches. An up-turned nose sat in the middle of his soft face, which rested on a large wobbly neck.

He was seated before a rough wooden table littered with candles, maps, dispatches, and a steaming plate of eggs and ham. He stood up, pulling a napkin from his neck, and wiped his mouth. "I am, and you are Marshall Blackwater? I wasn't informed of-"