Plight of an Empire

Chapter Twenty Eight- part 2: Audriel

Darkness seemed to swallow the light coming from the braziers and the fire in the hearth of the solar. A sense of dread hung over the room when Audriel entered. She was sweating from the run, but she hardly noticed. What held her attention was the lot of men that stood before her. Every man had greeted her with a silent stand from their seats. It felt like a winter storm had blown through the room. The only sound she heard was the crackle of the fire and the patter of her own footsteps.

The first to speak was her lord uncle. "Heddwyn has received troubling letters from all across the north, Your Grace." His voice was shaky. He was afraid. And that is what scared her. "Bring the letters."

The old man swung the sacks of letter onto the table. Letters with both broken and unbroken seals spilled out of the sacks. She saw the seal of Lord Daron Mancor on many of the letters, open and unopened.  She didn’t know whether that was to be taken as a good or bad sign.  There were the seals of many of the lesser lords and nobles who lived in the north, or had manors inhabited by their blood.  There were even little splatters of blood on the parchment, she noticed.  “What has happened to the north?”

Lord Veloth shook his head, disbelievingly.  “The letters claim Behemoths, Your Grace.”

“They have descended from the Black Rocks,” Lord Ronan spoke up.  “Every letter says the same.  They are ravaging the north, all across the north.  And the hordes are making south.”  He snatched up a letter with the seal of a great tower, the sigil of House Cadmond at Westwatch Tower.  “This was the last to come in before you were summoned, Your Grace.  If the Behemoths have already reached Westwatch, then they will be upon the capital within the fortnight.”

Her stomach churned.  She had heard the noises coming out of his mouth, but she didn’t understand the words.  It made no sense.  “Behemoths?”  The word tasted funny.  “That’s impossible.  They’re all dead.  They’ve been dead for thousands of years.  The Ice Kin drove them all to extinction.”

“I understand you don’t want to believe this, Your Grace, but you must accept it for true.  We have reports coming in from every town across the north of Alterros.  They all say the same thing: Behemoths.”

“We…”  Her tongue felt numb.  A radiating pain spread throughout her chest.  She clutched at her stomach, but refused to double over.  “Mobilize the army.  Every militia and guardsman must be drafted and sent to defend the north.  Notify every blacksmith.  We will need a lot of steel if we—”

“Your Grace,” Lord Veloth interrupted, “steel has no effect on the beasts.  Nor does iron or bronze.  I have seen more than one letter iterate this.”

“Then what can kill them?” she screamed.  The pain in her chest multiplied, almost sending her to the floor.

“In the old tomes, they speak of the Ice Kin slaying them with magic,” Lord Mortyn Noyce spoke softly.  Audriel nearly winced at his voice, which was so much like his eldest son’s.

Of course it’s magic.  “Then gather up every magic-born and practicer who can fight and send them to the front.”

“Not only would that be killing them, but there are too few practicers in the entire world and far too many of these monsters,” Lord Veloth said.  “It would be a slaughter against our people.”

“There is already a slaughter happening, my lord.  There has been one for months no thanks to your people, Oreshield,” Lord Cargis Tarly barked.  “With all your damned hunts, there aren’t any practicers left in Didaan and those that are alive will not be willing to go fight for the people who mean to have them dead.”

Lord Veloth turned red.  “Are you suggesting that the hunts are my fault?  I did everything I could to put a stop to them.”

“SILENCE,” Audriel shouted.  “You two fight like children every chance you get.  I need you to cease your humiliating behavior and help me figure out how to save our people from this massacre.  If half of what these letters are saying is true, we may have lost the north already.”  The two dropped their heads, their necks flushed.  “Now then, how else can these Behemoths be slain?”

Heddwyn plunged a letter in the air.  “Iceglass!” he shouted.  “Lord Daron Mancor says that he used his Iceglass sword to defend himself and he successfully slayed the beast with one stroke.”  He placed the letter in her outreached hand.

White spots danced around the edges of her peripherals, but she read the letter with an appearance of strength.  “Iceglass,” he repeated, her voice a whisper.  She nodded, her eyes never leaving the letter.  “Wake every smith in the city.  Every smith in the empire.  Give them my orders, they are to cease whatever they are doing and to begin to make Iceglass weapons.  We will buy every single blade that they have to supply to our army.  Send birds to all my kings and queens telling them of the need for weapons and men.  Send letters to every tribal settlement in the White Wastes telling them of the Behemoths.  I know they are fierce warriors with a reverence of magic imbedded in their culture.  Tell them that they must honor their oath and raise their arms for the empire.”

“Is that wise, Your Grace?” Lord Tybult Haerich asked.  “They are savages.  They might turn on us as they are wont to do.”

“I do not believe of their savagery, my lord.  They will understand the need to put their blood feuds aside for the good of all.  I have faith in them.”  She thought back to her coming-of-age.  The desert tribals she met seemed no more savage than her own court.  “But to fight the Behemoths, we will need savagery, if the old stories are to be believed.  Owyn, Heddwyn, prepare the letters.  Uncle, send your Brothers into the city.  Rally any able bodied man, promise them gold and a knighthood.  If they survive, they will have earned it.  The rest of my lords will summon their knights and footmen to march for the north.”

She spied Lord Lucien sitting in the back, shadows obscuring his already dark ensemble.  The shadows cut his face into hard lines.  With just a glance, she already knew what he was thinking.  He looked in her eyes, waiting.  She gave him the tiniest of nods.  And he smiled.

“My lords,” she said, standing from her seat, “a war has begun.  The first war since the Final War to end all wars, yet this is not a war to be fought against man.  No, we are fighting monsters.  We will not win if we fight as men.  We must be savage and brutal and smarter than those beasts.  We know their weaknesses now.  The slaughter ends now.  Go, now.”

The message got through, she was happy to notice.  The tension that had mounted the room had begun to ease away.  Even Lords Veloth and Cargis were rallied, not against each other but with.  If only wars could be fought with words and pens, the only blood spilt would be black.  They flooded out of the room, leaving only Lucien seated in his chair at the back and the high queen at her seat in the front.

“Your Grace,” he said with a sweeping stand.  “Might I approach?”  She gave a nod.  The light of the fire illuminated his shadowed features.  His eyes were heavy lidded and his skin pallor.  He had been roused from sleep, she realized.  She hadn’t noticed how late it had gotten when she was practicing her archery.  It may have been hours before Morvarth had approached her.

“I have another favor to ask of you,” she said.  A flick of a smile flitted across his face.  “I am in need of a royal treasurer.  I want that position to be filled by you.”

He studied her, and she him.  Neither broke the mask that they were wearing.

Then he smiled.  “I will happily do it, Your Grace.”  A bubble of elation welled inside of her.  “But,” and he popped it, “you must accept whatever proposal I ask in return.  Do we have a deal?”

He knew she needed him.  He could ask whatever of her and she would have to accept.  There was no other option.  Be wary of him.  Don’t trust him.  She nodded.  “Yes, my lord.  We have a deal.”  And above all, don’t underestimate him.