The King's Blood (38 page)

"My cabinet talks of war," the Emperor said, and for a brief moment, Marciano wondered if he meant the legions of priests or his actual oak cabinet.
 

"The Ostero Queen is proving to be a greater problem than anticipated," Marciano admitted, "We took some loses in freeing Magton from her venom, but nothing the Empire cannot overcome."
 

"Good, good. I trusted I put my best man on the job," Vasska beamed upon the boy he liked to claim he picked from obscurity to become his greatest General, as if Marciano's own hard work were whiffs of smoke in the air.

"Once we secure Magton, I shall take a hundred of the men who survived the battle and the extra hundred we picked up along the way to finish off the Queen's army before she gains any more footing."

A hundred men to guard the Emperor seemed a bit excessive especially since no one seemed to know he was here, but Marciano knew the man preferred big round numbers. Seventy-five would be worse than fifty. And then fifty would turn into ten and soon the man would be standing alone naked on a hill, just like when they cast their Aravi shadow over the western folds.

"No," Vasska said calmly, clinking a pair of beads he always kept wrapped around his wrists.

"My Lord?"

"The Queen is of no concern to us," The Emperor said, displaying his complete lack of tactical thought. The man would surrender his sword to a paper army if he felt the winds weren't right. "Surely you must wonder why I have come, Marciano."

Because you're a bleedin' loon
, slipped into the General's thoughts but he knew better than to voice them, "Your thoughts are your own, my Lord. I am no one to question them."

Vasska smiled at that. He may spend over 45% of his day humbly subjecting himself to Argur's will but he still loved a good ass kissing. "The prophecy has revealed more of itself to me."

Oh gods and their bastard sons, not the prophecy again.
The Empire had been on a relatively stable track less than ten years ago, making small inroads into the Northern lands with promises of trade for the occasional Empire ambassador to sit in the King's court (and alter the local economy in their favor). Then, on a bitterly rainy morning, Vasska ordered that the Snow King surrender the Tower of Ashar, his most prized keep.

Of course the Osteros refused, sending their ambassador back in a few bags, and overnight all friendly bridges were shat on and then burned. The Empire retreated back to its warmer homeland and prepared for war. It was supposed to go quickly enough, the Osteros were little more than backwoods yokels who still stripped naked to run into battle.

But that Queen of theirs stuck her nose into things, alliances were formed, daughters married off to princes with more vassals than sense, and Marciano found himself leading the charge against small countries that the Empire had little to no use for. The worst was Hicanth, a scrap of land so microscopic one could easily walk end to end in a day and a half. Its main exports were highly pungent cheeses until Earl got a job in Dawning.

Marciano felt sheepish as hell, standing outside the castle/stable's gates with over five hundred armed men asking nicely if they'd please vacate to new premises, the Emperor would like to own here now. A few guards made a show of attacking, but it ended in the king and his entire court moving into his cousin's castle's dungeon for a few months until they could get back on their feet.

Talk of the prophecy grew scant as the war raged on, and Marciano hoped that the Emperor had found a new toy to play with. But there was something about this year's first day of Spring; he'd always clung to it like a lover's promise to meet in the night. With the longest night past, and another Soulday spent ending more souls than guarding them, the spring loomed ever greater upon his head.

"What would you have of me, Sir?" Marciano asked the Emperor.

"You and your men are to accompany me upon my ships."

Marciano paled at that; he hated ships. The land refused to stay in place on deck, or there was being trapped in a hold with a hundred other heavy breathing men all trying to not throw up. "Sir, some of the men will have to remain in Magton," Marciano said, as if he could somehow magically be among them.

"Whatever for?" Vasska asked, his eyes wide with curiosity.

"To maintain the peace. The rebellion still bubbles beneath the surface."

"Really?" the Emperor said, as if this was the first he'd heard of the war that ravaged the coastal streets of Magton. Surely he saw the fires, heard the cries, smelled the blood and brimstone from his ship. But then, maybe he'd always been able to block all that out. Out of mind, out of sight.

Vasska shrugged his shoulders, "If you think it is wise, let ten men remain."

Marciano opened his mouth to object but knew he'd get nowhere. Hopefully the Emperor's shoddy accounting wouldn't miss an extra sixty or so men left standing on the docks.

"And where are we to set port, my Lord? Back to Avarai?" and to hell with this pointless quest.

"Sweet Argur, no. You are quite silly at times, Marciano. Playing that you do not enjoy this," Vasska laughed and the General chuckled, afraid of what would happen if he didn't play it off as a joke. "We aim for the northern coast of Isen."

"That will put us deep into the Ostero territory," Marciano exclaimed sternly as if to a child insistent upon running naked into a fire.

"Excellent, that was what my maps told me it would do," Vasska said, oblivious to how incredibly dangerous it was to sail right up to your enemy's front yard and shout "Hello!"

Marciano rubbed his forehead, "And how do you intend to land our forces safely?"

"Is that not what you are paid for?" Vasska asked seriously. "We will have many weeks for you to devise a cunning plan to take the beach and bring us all safely to Ashar before Springday."

"You still aim for the tower?" Marciano's voice dropped down out of fear for what fresh hell his boss would unleash next.
 

Vasska's tiny fingers lightly tapped the grizzled General's cheek, brushing down the greying stubble taking roost, "Dear Marciano, I have always aimed for Ashar. It is what this is all about."

The general shuddered at Vasska's "all", it sounded like he meant much more than a single campaign. More even, perhaps, than the entire war itself. Just what did this prophecy of the mad Emperor entail anyway?

"Very well, my Lord," Marciano said, standing slowly to break the Emperor's physical contact. "I will inform the men and organize the troops for the sea tomorrow."

"Oh no, tonight. It must be tonight, or we'll miss the whisper of Argur," he said, nodding to his priests who were currently fanning their burning grass and sage at a particularly demonic set of drapes. "I noticed you did not bathe your battlefield in rosemary, Marciano," Vasska said, his mind jumping tracks completely.

"No, my Lord."

"That is most dangerous, you do not wish to anger the arm of Argur," his distant eyes focused upon the General. A terrifying sight for the few who suffered his gaze, rarer for those to live to tell about it.

I'd rather not risk the idiocy of telling the enemy exactly where we're camped thanks to pungent burning herbs
, Marciano thought, but bowed to his Emperor deeply as if he were accepting the sage advice. He glanced over at the priests, one now flailing about after he managed to light his drooping sleeves on fire, and turned to go.

"Marciano," the voice was a false warmth, like one felt the moment before freezing to death. "Did you perchance find that missing Ostero boy?"

"No, my lord. There has been no reported sight of him since the King was killed." Marciano had yet to hear from Gian, either the man was on the child's trail or he'd given up and gone home. If he were wise it'd be the latter, but the General knew the man well enough to suspect he was probably spending his nights face up in the snow on the trail.

"A curious thing that, a child walking right under your nose," the Emperor mused to himself. Marciano shifted in his armor, the rivets touching upon his unguarded skin starting to freeze in the unheated home.
 

Just as quickly as it came, the mood passed, "Well, I am certain you will find him. I have my best man on the job after all."

"Yes, Sir," Marciano said, grateful to finally have an exit. He walked calmly over to the flailing priest who had his robe half off and was dragging it across the floor, begging the others to extinguish it. But they refused, pointing to their soft slippers. In one quick stomp of metal boots, Marciano extinguished the flames, charred bits of holy fabric clinging to his shoe.
 

He nodded curtly to the gaggle of priests then exited the room, pushing aside the banner and picking up his helmet. His men would whine and beg, trying to weasel out of having to face another long trip to almost certain death, but Marciano knew they'd eventually fall into line. He'd trained them to.

In the corner, unwatched by any, Vasska counted out the beads on his arms, his fingers coming to rest upon a small charm, carved to a point. The sword that Argur used to cut the tendrils of magic. If he shut up his eyes tight enough, he could almost see it.

CHAPTER TWENTY

T
hree exhausted sets of legs climbed up the iced hill, fingers digging into the rock to keep from sliding all the way back down to the bottom, until they stood above Putras; the city that never breathes.
 

It had been a major port back in the days of the full pantheon, before gods started to vanish after going out for a carton of golden milk and suffered demotions. Only a handful were mentioned on their respective feast days while everyone turned to either the light or the dark. Life was too complicated to have to pray to three different deities before you could get out the door. A quick wave to Scepticar was enough to keep your house from being struck by lightning now.

But the ruins of the old hospice remained, a building that rivaled some of the marvels of Aravi. It stood nearly four stories tall with what was once white stone that glistened in the sun. The Hospice covered nearly an acre of land, large enough to house both the college and the only major hospital for Arda that didn't involve a shave and a haircut to go with your appendectomy.
 

A statue of the goddess Hospar towered above the entrance arch, her arms outstretched in a welcoming embrace. Time had been unkind to the old girl, one of her arms caved centuries past and slipped through the crumbled roof. Parts of her side had been chiseled away by those who believed a piece of the goddess was enough to heal them. It looked as if a giant land shark took a bite from her torso and then a smaller nibble out of the thigh. Flocks of ravens nested upon her head, sharpening their beaks upon her eyes. On occasion, one would cry out to the dying city and swoop from its perch, scavenging for a new meal from the few who still made the pilgrimage to Putras in hope for salvation.
 

A mist clung over the blackened stones cracked from weeds fighting for dominance from the machinations of long dead men. The snows shifted in the dancing wind, burying most of the crumbled architecture like a shroud.

"Charming place," Isadora said, her cheeks as pink as her tiny lips from the cold.

Ciara looked over at Aldrin, who'd tried this leadership thing but proceeded to almost lead them off a cliff, though he did do it heroically with lots of rallying shouts and royal cursing. After that Isa took charge, gesturing to the obvious road with her staff. The old Empire road signs were long since rotted or stolen away by some kid who thought having "Beaver Crossing - 10 Miles" over his bed was hilarious.

But the locals and merchants preferred not wasting months walking around in circles causing the wolves nipping at their heels to get rather dizzy. So they made their own versions of signs, piling up rocks to symbolize the distance and carving the top stone with their personal interpretation of the towns and a direction. Putras was a skull with a snake climbing through its eye socket.

Aldrin breathed heavily, unused to so much walking. Isa led them from sun up until sun down on a straight path through a couple feet of snow, never pausing. If either the prince or Ciara begged for a moment to catch their breath the witch would turn on them as if she forgot they were even back there. But she'd have to acquiesce. After all, their only ticket in was through the letter securely locked away inside Aldrin's coat.

He pulled at the collar of his shirt, embroidered with what must have been golden hay the way it itched into his skin. Medwin insisted that the historian robes be left behind, and after some digging through everyone else's belongings, a green shirt, mercifully without the current popular doublet ruffles and oversized upper arms, was found. Ciara favored her original dress, leaving behind the one she earned for her Casamir stories. The original was already in such bad shape, another trip out and back again couldn't do much damage. Though he'd never say it, Aldrin preferred her in that one. The fading ivory offset her soft skin and oh, she was looking at him again. Curses.