‘Imagine the First Aelven War or the one-hundred-and-fifty-year war between Koze and the kingdom of Hracja nearly two millennia ago. People were born and could live a hundred years all
under the spectre of war, never seeing its beginning or its end. Just imagine that the next time you are called into battle.’
She tried sitting up again and managed to prop herself up on her elbow.
‘Am I moaning again? Sorry. I would like to say you were right about one thing. I am glad I have left the island. I could never spend my entire life there without going mad, watching the
supply ships coming in and then leaving, wondering where they were going, what these countries looked like. I was worried sick about fighting, but, now it is over, I would like to thank you. If
this is the only way I could leave, then it is as Artorus wills, and I am glad I have come here.’
Marcus smiled ruefully. ‘It is unfortunate that we come here to kill, I know, but a mind such as yours could never be constrained by our home. I will let you rest now; I will see you in
the morning. See if you can remember how to walk.’
He left her then and, despite all his news, she felt an inexplicable wave of sadness wash over her. She couldn’t escape the feeling that last night’s conflict was merely the
precursor of something greater and more terrible to come.
The droplets from the silver fountain caught the bright noonday sunlight and cascaded into the pool in a spray of rainbow-coloured mist. There were several of these fountains
in the oval pool, constantly refreshing the water for the large golden carp that shunted along in its depths or occasionally peeked out from underneath the olive-green lily pads and water iris that
decorated its surface. The pool had a marble surround carved with recesses and these housed a variety of dark-green waxy-leaved plants that needed constant watering. Overhanging the pool, supported
on four exotically engraved ebony-wood poles, was a sheer-silk pavilion that let in the light while keeping everything under it unseasonably warm. There were benches for those who didn’t wish
to stroll around this courtyard and one giant fountain behind the pool whose rose quartz base was cunningly fashioned in the shape of intertwining leaves, branches, vines and ivies. This fountain,
however, was not in use at the moment and sat gloomily overlooking the courtyard as though in a deep sulk. The courtyard itself was tiled, walled in brilliant-white stone with heavy black doors at
its front and rear. On the high and broad walkways surrounding the inner walls were planted several trees, with thin silver grey trunks covered in broad leaves that smelled of sharp but sweet
lemon. Despite the time of year, not a leaf had fallen from them and an army of small garrulous songbirds greeted the new day from their branches. It was a haven of tranquil serenity.
Not that King Aganosticlan VII, ruler of Arshuma, was feeling the serenity at the moment. He loved the pool and would spend many hours strolling past it, throwing titbits to his fish. No, there
was nothing wrong with the pool at all. Rather, it was the company he was keeping at the present time. The King himself wore a long purple silk robe, embroidered in gold and black, with wide
sleeves and a broad collar, both encrusted with tiny gems. His hair was long, black and lustrous – combed to a fine sheen it spilled behind him like one of the legendary black rivers of the
south. His pencil-thin moustache, hiding under his high-bridged nose and his small pointed beard were trimmed and waxed so that not a single hair was out of place. His fingers were encrusted with
gold rings and kohl framed his large brown eyes giving him something of the appearance of an owl. He positively dripped opulence.
The figure walking alongside him, however, could not have been more of a contrast. Everything about him was severe, from his close-cropped grey hair and hard-chiselled face to his keen grey eyes
that burned hard and merciless. His tunic, though well made, was a simple red colour, his black breeches and weathered boots were of good quality but severely utilitarian. At his belt was a simple
ceremonial dagger, more a badge of office than a useful weapon, and although he wore soft black leather gloves, it could be seen that two fingers were missing from his left hand. What was apparent
was that being in the company of a king overawed him not one whit; in fact, it was the other man who seemed unnerved by him. As Aganosticlan absently threw black bread for the fish, his companion
spoke to him, his voice stern and uncompromising.
‘The news of your latest defeat has reached the ears of the Emperor. Needless to say, he is displeased. For ten years he has allowed you to pursue this war as you have seen fit. Now,
however, his patience wears thin. He desires to know if indeed you have a plan to bring victory to your people or whether or not you will be approaching Grand Duke Leontius to negotiate a peace;
this, at least from his position in the Imperial Palace in Chira, seems to be the most sensible of solutions.’
The King looked uneasy. ‘Ambassador Hylas, before entering into your current honourable profession, you served with distinction in the Imperial Army for many years. You should be as aware
as anyone then that this was not a decisive defeat. A setback, yes, but little more than that.’
The Ambassador stopped walking; the other man followed suit.
‘How many men did you lose in this battle?’
‘About two thousand, along with the mage you so kindly supplied for us.’
‘So I heard.’
Hylas sat down at a bench. The king clapped his hands and a young serving girl, clad in a white tunic that skirted the bounds of decency, stepped forth bearing a beautifully fashioned silver
plate which held a variety of fruits. The Ambassador took an apple; the King waved the girl away. Taking a bite out of the apple with a satisfying crunch, Hylas spoke again.
‘His Imperial Majesty has asked me to remind you of both your status and your responsibility to the Empire. When he ascended to the grand office of Emperor fifteen years ago Ucarioth
decided to fix the boundaries of the Empire and to halt the policy of constant expansion, drain as it was on the Imperial coffers and detrimental to the wellbeing of its citizens. To that end, he
offered all nations bordering the Empire the status of client kingdom, with the promise that there would be no war or invasion of these nations as long as they were prepared never to act contrary
to the interests of the Empire and to supply an annual tribute amounting to seven per cent of each nation’s calculated wealth. This meant that, for a small price, kings such as yourself could
continue to rule your lands free from our interference – unless of course that interference was requested.’
‘I am aware of my responsibilities to the Empire,’ said the King haughtily.
‘Are you? As I recall, you baited a fool Tanarese baron to attack one of your cities, using his attack as an excuse to launch a full-scale invasion of that nation, an attack that stalled
and petered out within a year. Tanaren is not an enemy of the Empire’s; it has a powerful navy and is a key trading partner. Your invasion of its territory therefore technically constituted a
breach of your contract with the Empire, acting as you did in a manner contrary to its interests. The amount of work I had to do to convince the Emperor, the generals and the first citizens that
you had not lost your mind and had not abused your client status will live with me to this day.’
‘And for that, Hylas, my gratitude is still strong.’
Without warning, Hylas grabbed the King’s shoulders, pulling him close so that the two men’s faces were barely a foot apart. He shouted at him, his spittle spraying the King’s
face.
‘Is it? Is it? Ten years later and we are having the same poxy arguments about it. Well, I am here to give you a final warning. You have one year. One year! If there is no peace or victory
in that time, our boys will be marching through the passes and pissing in your pool before you can say annexation!’
King Aganosticlan retained his composure. ‘Believe you me, Hylas, within a year the war will be over and I will be drinking the finest Tarindian wines in Baron Felmere’s
mansion.’
The other man seemed placated, to a degree. Though his eyes still burned with anger, he released his grip on the King and joined him strolling about the pond.
‘One other thing, Your Majesty,’ (the honorific was practically spat out) ‘you are still hiring mercenaries and presumably you will be replacing your recent losses. How exactly
are you financing yourself? The pecuniary assistance I negotiated for you ended some three years ago. Surely that money has run out by now?’
‘I have other means, Hylas. I am no pauper and my nation has its own wealth. I am working the gem mines to capacity, though these days I have to use forced labour – prisoners and the
like. So you see, it is in my interests, too, to end this war swiftly, my coffers may not be yet exhausted but they are not bottomless after all.’
Hylas looked grim. ‘On my way here I passed through villages where everyone was saying how the food stocks would not last through the winter. You may be confronted with an unpalatable
choice. Feed your people or fight this war.’
Aganosticlan stroked his beard. ‘Pah, peasants! They live to serve the nation, as, indeed, do I.’
Hylas looked at him with little love. ‘Odd is it not, that your service to the nation seems so much more lucrative than theirs. Anyway, I have delivered my message, I will leave now; a
day’s hard riding will see me over the border and back with the army. If you are not aware of it, we are camped just the other side of the eastern Derannen Mountains, within a few miles of
your nation.’
‘I am aware of it. Fare you well.’
‘You too. Artorus deliver you victory.’
The great black doors swung open and Hylas was gone. Aganosticlan did not bother watching him leave; he had already turned and was heading indoors to his palace.
The throne room was a long rectangular affair clad in white stone and colonnaded with marble. The King of Arshuma sat on an ornate wooden throne covered in gold leaf and carved in the likeness
of a lion, its forearms acting as the armrests and its head, with the mouth open in a terrifying roar, looking over the top of the throne glaring at the King’s subjects as they approached
him. The room’s high windows, arched and graceful, illuminated the red-carpeted walkway to the throne, while keeping the throne itself in relative darkness, which was probably the reason for
the burning braziers located to its right and left. There was a certain sterility to the room, a cold remoteness which the King liked. It gave a certain frisson to his less popular judgements,
something to make the common populace quail when they heard his words.
Not that he cared about that now. Entering the room, he stormed towards his throne like a bull chasing a farmer. Hurling himself on to it, he rang a small gong placed at its feet. A black-clad
servant approached.
‘Get me Obadrian. Now!’
The servant scuttled off and Aganosticlan impatiently drummed his fingers against the throne’s armrest. Shortly afterwards, through the open door came a man in his early fifties with long
silver hair. He was clad in black and carried a large staff of a similar colour, symbol of the office of Lord Chamberlain. The King barely let him finish his low bow before venting his spleen.
‘I cannot believe the way that jumped-up politician talks to me! I am a king, and yet he, a man little more than the Emperor’s wiper, comes in here laying down the law and
threatening my person and my very office! I should have sent him back to his precious army in tiny pieces.’
‘His army being the Western Army of the Chiran Empire, Your Majesty, that would hardly be an advisable course of action.’
‘Advisable or not, it would be a strong warning to all those who think nothing of baiting a king! He has given me a year to finish the war, Obadrian; I must have Keth’s own luck. Can
you not find me a general that can at least point the army towards the enemy and not have them run back here at the first sign of trouble! Ach, my head hurts so.’ He paused for breath.
‘How many survivors of the battle were there anyway?’
‘Some three hundred men have returned, Your Majesty; it appears the enemy deployed devastating magic against us.’
‘Yes, we have to neutralize their wizardry if we are to make further progress, and quickly, too. As for the men, execute fifteen of them; keep them in gibbets to show what happens to
cowards who would rather soil themselves than fight. Then get another two thousand men enrolled; see what mercenaries we can hire, too. This war continues through the winter.’
‘As you wish, Your Majesty, though our coffers may not stretch to too many mercenaries.’
‘Nevertheless, see what you can find.’
‘Of course, Your Majesty.’ He shuffled uneasily. ‘Your Majesty, that delegate, the one you wanted kept away from Ambassador Hylas, shall I send for him now?’
‘Yes, bring him before me. Keeping him in chambers outside the palace was hardly ideal but there was no way Hylas could see him.’
‘Your Majesty, do you really think speaking to him is such a good idea? Playing both ends against the middle like this is a risky manoeuvre.’
Aganosticlan left his throne and walked the short distance to the room’s back wall. There, displayed on wooden panels were a variety of finely crafted weapons – swords, daggers,
maces – many encrusted with jewels, nearly all gifts from other countries.
‘We have no choice, Obadrian. If we are to deliver victory in a year we need their money, especially since Hylas stopped sending us the stuff. The concessions they want are painful, but
ultimately it will be a price worth paying.’
‘If the Chiran Empire finds out, Your Majesty...’
‘Do not question me! Now go and get him.’
‘As you wish, Your Majesty.’
It did not take long. Aganosticlan was still dreamily looking at the weapons on his wall when he heard footsteps on the carpet.
‘Your Majesty, I bring salutations and the warmest affection from the Eternal Empire. Koze and Emperor Gyiliakosh are delighted to include you among those nations friendly to its cause. I
hope our meeting will further strengthen the burgeoning ties between our peoples.’