Death and the Emperor

Book 3 Chapter XVII: Queen of Malish

'I thought,' said Hugh, struggling into a sitting posture and gazing at him intently, still, 'that you were a part of my dream. It was a curious one. I hope it may never come true, master.' -- Charles Dickens, Barnaby Rudge

"You. Did. What?" Kilan had never doubted Varan's common sense before. Well, he thought she was an idiot, something brothers everywhere thought about their sisters, but he had never thought she would do... this. "Are you trying to start a war?"

Varan shook her head emphatically. "I'm trying to prevent one!"

"You're going the wrong way about it," Death grumbled.

Gialma added nothing to this discussion. He had collapsed into a chair and now watched the argument with wide eyes. Kilan couldn't blame him. When people started shouting at each other, or merely sniping sarcastically at each other from opposite sides of the room, it was never safe for bystanders to interrupt.

~~~~

It was tempting to blame Fate for every unforeseen disaster Death encountered on an almost daily basis. But grudgingly, if only to herself, she had to admit that sometimes the blame lay with less exalted beings. Well-meaning souls, mortal and Reaper alike, could cause more chaos than even Fate could. Now open war with Malish might very well be around the corner, and Death could do nothing about it.

More ominously, she could see nothing about it either. When she looked into the future of Carann and Malish, she saw only a vague and fog-shrouded scene that could be a battlefield, or a dining room, or something else entirely. No figures or faces were distinguishable among that endless grey prospect. Looking too long into it left her feeling woozy and disorientated.

There was one person who might know what the immediate future held. So Death went to visit her at once.

She found War in her own realm, still wearing her armour and busily fletching a freshly-made arrow. A stack of already-prepared arrows stood propped against the wall beside her, while a pile of not-yet-finished arrows lay at her feet. Death looked at them grimly. Her daughter would not be preparing so many weapons for no reason.

"Hello, Mother!" War said cheerfully. Her hair was tied back in a sloppy ponytail, but strands escaped from it to hang over her face. "What brings you here?"

Death picked up one of the already-finished arrows and studied it. It was close to a metre long and more like a miniature javelin than an arrow. The feathers of the fletching were bright red streaked with black. The arrowhead was filed to a point like a knife's tip.

"What are these for?" she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

War looked at her in surprise. "Don't you know?"

Death shook her head. "I suspect. I don't know."

"They're for the war between Carann and Malish, of course!" War's tone suggested she thought her mother was very stupid not to know this.

Death set the arrow against the wall again. It struck the stone with a dull, metallic clink. "When will this war begin?"

War shrugged. "I don't know. Fate just told me to make preparations for it."

~~~~

Every personification had their own servants to help them. Death had her Reapers, Pestilence had his Plagues, War had her Valkyries. They were all the souls of dead mortals, and they all acted as their King's or Queen's assistants in going about their duties. The Valkyries fled across Malish and Carann, blood-stained spectres riding ghostly wolves, spreading distrust and anger through the lands.