Tears of Liscor, page 95
part #9 of The Wandering Inn Series
The [Captain] exclaimed. The [Sergeant] half-nodded, but he was scanning the sky rather than paying attention. The Winged Riders were a group of old, famous for their incredible mobility. But in the past, they had been known for something else. And while the breeding stock was incredibly limited, it was still tradition for at least one rider in each company to be riding…
There. His eyes picked it out. Flying overhead, a flash. The [Sergeant] pointed, and Drakes looked up. They saw a brown shape. Wings beating hard. No—two pairs of wings. A Drake’s and the creature the rider rode. A horse with wings.
A Pegasus.
“Ancestors. I thought they had all died out.”
“Not so. They live in Oteslia. The last of their breed.”
The [Captain] and [Sergeant] stood together in awe, watching the Pegasus fly northwards, following the Winged Riders. Perhaps only an Oldblood Drake could fly on such a creature’s back; certainly the [Sergeant] wouldn’t risk trying it, not without a Featherfall Potion at least.
“We’d better keep moving. Liscor’s days away.”
The [Captain] reminded the [Sergeant]. The Drake nodded and shouted at the soldiers to keep moving. One Drake reported an attack—falling crap from above. It was the subject of much humor from the weary Drakes. They too had been marching late into the night each day. They kept one eye on the sky, watching the distant horses and Pegasus. And the Winged Riders rode on.
They might arrive in time. But as the weary Drakes of Pallass picked up their pace, they knew, soldiers and officers both, that their force wouldn’t make it. The Human and Goblin Lord’s armies would get to Liscor first. If they hurried, they could be there after the siege had started. The real question was how long Liscor could hold. How long. They kept moving until at last they were allowed to camp. And sleep. But come dawn they marched again, with stamina potions in addition to their rations.
And so dawned the twelfth day.
——
Day 12
I wake up. My bed is simple, but warm. I shift in the sheets, feeling the high-quality cotton move around me. The bed is raised to keep off the floor of the tent I am sleeping in. And it’s made of wood—the mattress is stuffed. Exorbitant? Surely. Impractical? Only if you don’t have a bag of holding. I can feel light on my face, but not see it. I sigh, but quietly. I am not alone.
My name is Laken Godart. [Emperor] for my sins. And I think…yes, I think they are rather great sins. I sit in my tent on the dawn of the twelfth day since leaving my domain. Since Riverfarm. Since meeting the Goblin Chieftain named Rags. Since being betrayed by someone and being rescued by Tyrion Veltras.
Funny. It feels longer. By now, I’m accustomed to riding on horseback, although I’m not comfortable at all with it. I’ve grown used to the company of the [Lords] and [Ladies] and [Knights] and so on that ride with Tyrion Veltras, and hearing the thunderous sound of thousands of animals moving at once. And I’ve gotten used to being blind again.
It was terrifying at first. I had to leave Riverfarm, ostensibly to oversee the engineering team that would man and build the trebuchets. Moreover, I think it was a political move from Tyrion, perhaps to hobble me. Or to put pressure on someone else. Magnolia Reinhart? His allies?
It seems to have worked in any case. I witnessed—in my limited way—the way he drove the Goblins south. How he slew Tremborag. And his plans to take Liscor. All of it without seeing a thing.
My [Emperor]’s senses are gone. I own none of the land I ride over, nor can I claim it. Thus, I can only hear and feel the horse beneath me. Smell blood, feces, the changing air.
Blood. I heard the Great Chieftain of the Mountain die. I heard something shrieking—Eater Goats. That was barely yesterday. I shudder as I sit up. It’s just past dawn. I turn my head towards the other figure in my tent.
“Gamel.”
My bodyguard, manservant, [Knight], and, perhaps, friend springs to his feet. I sense him turn towards me. I can sense the stubble on his chin, the way he grasps at a tray, even sense the sword in its sheath at his side. The calluses on his palms—he’s been practicing with the other [Knights] when not accompanying me.
As I said, my [Emperor] senses are cut off while I ride. But in this tent that Tyrion Veltras gave me, with a few of the hand-carved totems from Jelov, I can ‘see’ in this small space. It’s one of my few comforts.
Jelov. Durene. Wiskeria. Prost. They all seem so far away right now. I clench my hands as Gamel approaches me. I rub at my face and sense him stop.
“Your Majesty? Will you have breakfast?”
“Yes. Thank you, Gamel.”
I swing myself out of bed. I’m dressed; I didn’t bother to undress last night. I sit as Gamel offers the tray to me on a little table. By now, I’m so used to him being here that I don’t even mind eating while he watches. Much.
“You’ve had breakfast?”
“Yes, sire. I woke up and trained, then had breakfast and came here. I apologize for my smell.”
I shake my head as I pick at my food. What’s today’s meal? Some kind of lamb, potatoes…Yellats? Spicy, crunchy—oh, and a gelatin of some sort. A treat, and again, not what you’d expect from people on the move. Bags of holding and [Chefs] employed by the nobility see to the higher-quality meals, which I’m lucky enough to receive. Still, I’ve heard some of the nobility complaining about the rough fare. I chew, swallow, and speak quietly.
“Don’t worry about the smell, Gamel. It’s hardly worse than the horses. But don’t push yourself. Did you get that cut on your leg in sparring?”
He jumps. It still surprises the other villagers of Riverfarm that I can tell what’s happened to them. Again, only in this tent. He pauses.
“It’s just a scratch, sire. One of the [Knights] struck, and I missed the timing to block.”
I frown.
“Was it intentional? The other [Knight], I mean.”
Gamel’s hesitation this time makes me worry. He is a [Knight]. I made him one myself. But—he isn’t of noble birth. In fact, he was a [Farmer] until a few weeks ago. He was no [Warrior], and up until now, he barely had any training with a sword. By contrast, the [Knights] who rode to Lord Tyrion’s call are the best of the best. Some of them resent Gamel’s class.
“I am well treated by most, Your Majesty. Some of the Clairei Fields Order have been teaching me personally.”
It’s not an answer, but I don’t push. I sigh and cut up the lamb.
“I see. Well then, inform me if there are any problems.”
“Yes, sire.”
I eat in silence, leaving the jello or whatever it is on the side. I’m in no mood for it, and my stomach hurts if it’s too full when I ride. Besides…I push my tray back.
“Have the jello if you want, Gamel. Or share it with Tessia. How is she? And the others?”
“Good, sire.”
Gamel takes the tray and steps back. He places it to the side and comes back with a fresh set of clothes before I can ask. He’s really become adept at managing my needs. I listen as he speaks with his back to me. Neither he nor I are at the level where he’ll be dressing me, thanks.
“Tessia and the others are—well, Lord Veltras has them hard at work each night. Working with them—I mean, the [Mages], sire. Constructing additional trebuchets, calibrating the old ones—teaching the [Soldiers] how to man them.”
“Do you think they’re trying to figure out how they’re made?”
Gamel shrugs uneasily. That was a worry of mine.
“I think not, Your Majesty. Some of the nobles have looked and a number of other folk, but they don’t quite understand the way the trebuchets work. They see the arms, but when Tessia speaks of physics and balance and ratios, even the [Mages] go cross-eyed.”
He says that a bit smugly. I just nod. Lazy. Even the best of the people Tyrion brings over lack more than a rudimentary understanding of math. Some of them might be able to build a trebuchet, but why apply yourself if it’s not your class? It’s that kind of thinking that…
I trail off. It doesn’t matter.
“So the trebuchets will be ready? We’re closing in on Liscor by all accounts.”
“Yes, Emperor. We’re very close. I don’t have a map, but one of the local [Soldiers] told me that we’re close to Esthelm. And it’s only a stone’s throw away from Liscor. We may reach the city tomorrow.”
“As soon as that?”
“We’ve been moving faster to catch the Goblins that left the Goblin Lord’s army.”
“Ah yes. Them.”
I sit quietly. Yesterday—or was it the day before? The Goblin Lord turned on his own. From my position, I could only hear the [Scouts] giving Tyrion reports. And hear the fighting at a distance, of course. Tyrion let the Goblins tear each other apart until one side began to flee. I think…the Goblin Lord killed the Chieftain opposing him. And I think, based on what was said, that it was the little Goblin he killed.
Rags. Her tribe fled. Tyrion would have forced them back or slaughtered them, but our army was attacked by Eater Goats by the tens of thousands. They came down from the mountains. Naturally, I witnessed none of this as well. It’s terrifying, hearing the shrieks those goats made, being ordered to move and hearing the sounds of fighting and not knowing what is going on.
Being helpless, in short. I’m out of my depth here. And the Goblins…
“The Goblin Lord will be attacking Liscor, then. And brave Tyrion Veltras will swoop in to save the day. Oh, hurray.”
Gamel catches the sarcasm in my tone. He hesitates.
“Isn’t that good, sire? I mean, it will be war with the Drakes, but the Goblin Lord will be dead at least.”
How casually he says that! War with another species. Intercontinental strife! I’ve talked to enough people to know how big this is. If Liscor, this gateway between north and south, falls, it will be war, regardless of the Goblin excuse. Not to mention…I shake my head.
“War isn’t a good idea, Gamel. It seldom is, if ever. As for the Goblins, I very much fear that we are doing a terrible thing.”
The worst. I feel my shoulders ache. I have had time now. Time and perspective to think on what happened. And now that I have, I can sense the weight of my sin. Gamel doesn’t understand.
“They are monsters, Emperor.”
“Yes. And we treated them as such. We—I—ordered Wiskeria to attack them. To use poison gas. Tyrion marched them hundreds of miles. And soon, they will be killed to the last to start a war. There are historical precedents for this, Gamel. And it makes me think that we’re on the wrong side of history.”
I have done a terrible thing, I think. And I am about to be part of something just as bad. Or worse. But how can I get out of it? No way has presented itself. Tyrion is in charge here, and I lack authority and power. Oh, I feel foolish.
Durene.
Gamel clears his throat. He hates it when I talk like this. The one argument we’ve ever had was when I said this was a mistake for the first time. Now, he dances around the subject.
“On the wrong side of history…isn’t that something for people with quills to decide later, Your Majesty? [Scribes] and [Historians] and such? Why would their opinion matter?”
I shake my head. There’s so much I have to teach Gamel. Gamel and all the others. Things I have to remember. Morality and more.
“Gamel, it’s said that history is written by the victors. You understand? Whoever wins writes history. The Goblins’ side of things never gets brought up. And tragedy, the crimes committed by others…they tend to be overlooked when glorifying the past. But a record will remain, especially if I have anything to say about it.”
“Yes, sire.”
That’s code for ‘I don’t understand’ or perhaps ‘I don’t agree, but I’m not going to say so’. Or maybe ‘you’re an idiot’. I don’t care. I stretch. There’s already sounds coming from outside the tent. People getting ready. I still have an hour before I need to get up, though. The [Mages] will be getting the Goblins moving, but since I’m not in the advance group—being a poorer rider—I’ll be moving with the main body more slowly.
“Well, let’s get ready for the road. I want to ride with Lady Ieka today, Gamel. Please send a message to her and ask if she’s willing—”
I break off talking sharply. Gamel notices and turns towards the tent flaps. My senses extend just around the tent, but it’s enough to give me a warning. I hear a knock on the canvas flaps and catch a whiff of a distinct smell. What’s this? I frown.
“Enter, Gralton.”
Outside, I sense the man hesitate. Then Lord Gralton enters the tent. The infamous, hot-tempered dog lord steps into the tent, and I smell the odor of dog on him. I sense him as well; a huge, imposing man. Gamel steps forwards, bowing, and I sense him only slightly shifting to get his sword’s hilt closer to his hand. He’s wary. And he should be.
Gralton. Of the [Lords] and [Ladies] in the camp, he’s one of the most powerful. The most unpredictable as well. He was one of the first people I was introduced to when I first arrived. And now he’s come here. That’s…unexpected. I haven’t said two words to him since the first night I arrived. To the other nobility, yes. But not to Gralton. While they tested and prodded at me, asking where I was from and trying to curry favor and weigh my influence, he just watched. And now…
“Can I help you, Gralton? Or are you going to keep sniffing me?”
I turn my head towards Gralton. The man narrows his eyes. But then he grunts.
“I’ve been looking for you. Emperor.”
The title is sardonic when he says it. I raise one eyebrow, refusing to be riled. Gralton will have to try harder than that. Besides, I had my first measure of the man, and I know how to deal with him.
“Really? You’ll have to elaborate. And please stop looming over my manservant. Gamel, let Lord Gralton pass. I believe we have an understanding.”
“We do?”
Gralton steps forwards. I don’t bother to look at him. I can sense him, and it bothers people when I don’t pretend like I have eyes. I stare somewhere to the left of his navel and shrug.
“Let’s see if you recall. Heel.”
I hear Gamel suck in his breath. Gralton freezes. For a second, I sense his arms tense, and then he laughs. He takes a seat on the ground of the tent since there are no chairs.
“You’re brave, I’ll grant you. And if you weren’t an [Emperor] or half as brave, you’d pay for that. But since you and I understand each other—I didn’t come here to socialize. I came here to ask what you’re doing.”
“I see. Are you referring to the attack on Liscor, my presence in the camp, or something else?”
“All three. I want to know if you’re for this thing. War with the Drakes.”
Now that’s interesting. I cover a frown.
“Getting cold feet, Gralton? We’re all committed to this attack. Lord Tyrion has made it clear he’s expecting no dissidence.”
I hear a snort and pray Gralton won’t spit.
“He says that. But I’m my own man. I followed him because I thought we’d be killing Goblins. Now we’re starting a war and you appear. I want to know if this is all one big plan you and Veltras came up with. And if it’s not—I want to know what comes next.”
“You think I know? I am far from home myself, Gralton. And I’m not partial to war. It tends to leave all sides poorer. And as I’m sure you know, war never goes the way anyone expects. Just look at history.”
The man pauses.
“We’ve fought a lot of wars. Which one are you talking about, exactly? The Antinium Wars? Ones from wherever the hell you come from?”
I raise my eyebrows. By this point, little verbal snares barely trip me up.
“Does it matter? Any war. Any great war, rather. It will be catastrophic. Tyrion may win or he may not, but wars always spell death and destruction.”
“So why are you supporting him?”
“Because I enjoy the scenery? Why are you?”
He laughs at my response. But—I can sense his eyes on me. And the way he sits, alert, and from his posture, I get a sense. Gralton’s not as simple as he lets on. He’s bestial in some ways, but if it’s dog-like, it’s savage instinct that he has, not mindless aggression. He came here for a reason and not to state the obvious.
“War’s war. We’ve never been fully at peace with the Drakes. They attack us, we attack them. I don’t care. If it’s a fight, I’ll take part in it. But it’s the politics I hate. If you sleep with the wrong people, you end up with knives in your back. Better to be in battle than face that.”
“Hmm.”
What is he saying? I frown, buying time. And then I sense someone else approaching the tent. I pause.
“We have another visitor. Gamel?”
He’s already at the tent flaps. I hear him halt whoever’s outside. I frown. I know that figure. And I know that voice.
“Your Majesty? Lord Yitton Byres wishes to speak privately with you.”
Yitton? I sense Gralton shift to look past Gamel. Then he looks at me. I can sense him grin. He knew Yitton was coming.
Instinct. I nod at Gamel, and he moves back.
“Very well, let him through. He can join our impromptu meeting.”
A man steps into my tent. He pauses when he sees Gralton sitting on the floor. For my part, I study Yitton in my mind.
An older man. Fit for his age, but not rich. He has a sword at his waist and chainmail. Mustache, beard…but it’s his reputation and my understanding of him that stands out in my head. The other nobles regard Yitton as inferior to them in many ways, a small [Lord], albeit with ancient holdings. But he’s someone that’s allowed into Tyrion Veltras’ most personal meetings. An honorable man, by all accounts.
And currently, haunted by something. Yitton takes a step into the tent, and I incline my head.
“Emperor Laken.”
“Lord Yitton. What brings you here?”
The man hesitates. He glances sideways at Gralton, who just nods a greeting.
“I had hoped to speak with you privately, Your…Your Majesty. Would you grant me an audience?”
