Map of Kraffnia
image [https://static.wixstatic.com/media/51f621_ff4951fb9d3742e2b2450809cb833733~mv2.jpg/v1/fill/w_900,h_651,al_c,q_85,usm_0.66_1.00_0.01,enc_auto/MapOfKraffnia1.jpg]
Here is the long awaited map of Kraffnia! It is 95% complete, I just have some minor things to add, like a title, compass rose, and some decorations. I suggest zooming in to see it in more detail.
I also plan on doing some post editing on the computer to show different regions. For example, a countries, cultures, dieties, and a provincial map of the Rontak Empire.
Chapter 23: Reconstruction
August 20th, 2053
Washington D.C., White House Cabinet Room
“Alright, let's get down to business,” President Bennett said as she sat down at the head of the table. She was in a meeting with the full cabinet to discuss future policy regarding the Rontak Empire and the newly acquired Duremar territory. “Princess Maribelle is on her way back to Ronta for her coronation ceremony. Ambassador, where do we stand on that?”
“I will of course attend the ceremony and get a feel for their internal politics, First Point Air Base should be complete by then,” Ambassador Smith replied. “The Rontak Empire is far from unified, but the Emperor has absolute authority, even if that authority is often delegated to subordinates. Naming Maribelle as his heir was sudden and unexpected, but a legitimate act within his power, as I understand it. There shouldn’t be any concerns about whether or not her ascent to the throne is legitimate, but anyone who backed Prince Cevlion might not be too enthusiastic about the regime change.”
“And they might try to launch a coup,” Director Delano added. “We can’t let that happen. We need a compliant ally leading the Rontak Empire. I suggest we put together a team of advisors to analyze their internal political situation and help the new Empress stabilize it if necessary.”
“Very well,” President Bennett said. “But keep the team onsite small. We can't risk making Maribelle look like our puppet this early on in her reign.”
“Understood, Madam President,” Director Delano replied as he jotted down a few notes and shuffled some papers.
“The issue of slavery,” President Bennett said, moving on. “How much do we know about the scope of it?”
“Most slaves in the Rontak Empire are used for raw labor, especially minotaurs,” Director Delano explained, looking up from his papers. “Elves are used for their magical expertise in assembling mana comms which gives the Rontak Empire wireless communications. As such, elves are absolutely essential to maintaining their vast empire. There are human slaves as well, most of whom were either born into slavery or have been sentenced to servitude for a specified duration. Only human slaves have a means of regaining their freedom, either through their term expiring or by buying their freedom. The rest are enslaved for life.”
Mutters of barbarism floated around the room.
“What sort of timeline are we looking at for entirely replacing slave labor throughout the Rontak Empire?” The President asked.
“There’s no clear picture for the long term yet,” Secretary of State Denning answered. “At a glance, I’d say decades, at a minimum. Roads and railways all need to be built essentially from scratch, and that's just to distribute equipment, to say nothing of actually industrializing the Rontak Empire. We still don’t even have a complete map of the whole continent.”
“Get more reconnaissance planes in the air. I want an accurate map ASAP,” the President said. “Ambassador, until we can fulfill our commitment to replace slave labor I want you to work with Empress Maribelle to roll out quality of life improvements for the slaves. More rations, safer working conditions, etcetera.”
“She’s proven amenable to working with us so far, so hopefully that won’t be too difficult,” Ambassador Smith said. “But I doubt local towns will be very willing to provide better provisions to their workers until they see us holding up our end. What can I promise in the short term to ensure their cooperation?”
“We could start with simple, less extensive aid,” Secretary of Agriculture Judy Shen replied. “We can airdrop high yield GMO seeds to improve crop output. After each harvest, farmers will be able to spread the seeds on their own without our intervention.”
“But that ultimately won’t eliminate the need for slaves,” President Bennett commented, jotting down a note to look into genetically engineering native Tempestian food crops.
“Not entirely,” Secretary Shen conceded. “But it will reduce the amount of labor needed to work a farm, which means more down time for the slaves. We can also manufacture quick and cheap farming equipment, long outdated by our standards, but cutting edge to the Rontaks. The John Deere plow, for instance, revolutionized farming in the mid 1800’s. We can mass produce a modern version that makes farming quicker and easier. If the labor isn't as intensive, they won’t be as incentivized to rely on slaves.”
“That’s doable,” Secretary Denning said. “Old equipment like that doesn’t have any electronics or complex moving parts. Hell, they could build it themselves if we show them the design.”
President Bennet thought exporting modern versions of old equipment was a good plan. It could be extended beyond just agriculture too. Even just the steam engine could completely transform Rontak society. It would also keep them from becoming reliant on US companies for replacement parts if something broke down, drastically simplifying the logistics of this endeavor.
She also liked the idea of limiting how much advanced technology they invested in the Rontak Empire. Not only would it keep them from becoming an actual threat, it would also make for a smoother culture exchange. A new type of plow that's faster and easier than what they’re currently using would be far easier for farmers to grasp than industrial farming equipment.
“Alright, that sounds promising. Draw up some plans and keep me informed,” President Bennett said. “Moving on, what about the Duremar territory?”
“From raw natural resources to magic research potential, Duremar is an untapped treasure trove, Madam President,” Secretary of Commerce Rachel Phillips said. “The Rontak Empire is a pre industrial society, so even without full surveys we can confidently say that they’ve barely scratched the surface of what's there. Infrastructure development will be the biggest hurdle. Just like in the Rontak Empire, we essentially have to build everything ourselves. We should prioritize paving roads to major cities and strategic resources. From there, we can upgrade existing local roads as needed. Duremar is large, but only a fraction of the size of the Rontak Empire. It should be feasible to develop the region to a higher degree in a reasonable time frame.”
And if the nobles in the Rontak Empire get a glimpse of what we’re doing in Duremar, President Bennett thought, they might be more willing to let go of slave labor in exchange for a piece of the pie. She saw Ambassador Smith tapping away at her tablet as if she had the same idea.
“Excellent. And what about these…” The President checked her notes, “‘mana crystals’ in Jurago and Crystal Coast? Where are they again?”
Someone pulled up an aerial view of the Duremar territory on the large screen mounted on the wall opposite the President.
“Jurago is a town similar in size to Miretan, northeast of Fort Roanoke. Their primary export is mana crystals mined from natural cave systems under the Vushfall mountains,” Ambassador Smith explained, circling the location on the map. “Crystal Coast is a stretch of coastline almost directly west of the portal which is rich in easy to access mana crystals, primarily water mana crystals.”
President Bennett looked at the map and wondered if there was any significance to water mana crystals being found near the ocean. If they were ordinarily mined from the ground like any other mineral, that wouldn’t make a whole lot of sense. But this was actual, bona fide magic; ‘making sense’ already went out the window.
“Mana crystals are even more important to understanding magic than mithril, Madam President,” Secretary of Science and Technology Peter Myers said. “I suggest we prioritize their extraction and research.”
Ah, at last: magic. This was orders of magnitude more interesting than the boring logistics they’ve discussed so far.
“Where are we on the magic front?” President Bennett asked eagerly.
“There's a meeting scheduled next week with the leading scientists at Fort Roanoke specifically regarding magic, following a meeting with the joint chiefs,” White House Chief of Staff Aaron Foster explained. “They have quite a few groundbreaking discoveries to report and we could spend hours just on that topic alone.”
“Alright, let's not get sidetracked,” the President reluctantly agreed, setting her curiosity aside for the moment. “In the meantime, anything related to magic takes priority over sustainable economic development. Get proper mining equipment to Miretan as soon as possible. Ambassador, I assume we can still count on Miretan’s cooperation, even though the transfer of Duremar makes our agreement with them obsolete?”
“I don’t foresee any problems, Madam President. It wouldn’t be a stretch to regard the Miretan Mining Guild as a private company with ownership over the mithril mines, which then keeps our original agreement with them mostly valid.”
“Good. I also want survey teams sent to Jurago and Crystal Coast to assess the opportunities and resources there,” the President ordered. “Magic is the one area that the Rontak Empire surpasses us in. I want to close that gap as quickly as possible.”
“We need to be careful, though,” said Julia Newman, Secretary of the Interior. “We are now in the same position as the Europeans when they discovered the Americas, or when they colonized Africa. It’s essential that we don’t make the same mistakes they did. We need to develop the region, not exploit it.”
“That is 100 percent correct, Ms. Newman,” President Bennett immediately affirmed. With the African Wars still fresh in the world’s memory, she knew all too well the long term consequences or relentless exploitation. “We need to learn from history and develop Duremar to self-sufficiency and eventual statehood. Magical resources are an outlier for now, but we are not going to strip mine the entire territory,”
“I’ve given that some, Madam President,” said Secretary of Labor Carmen Black. “The people of Duremar are no strangers to hard work, but the problem is that they don’t have any useful skills desirable for modern employment. If the refugees at Fort Roanoke are anything to go by, almost the entire population is illiterate. Companies will be reluctant to hire local workers if their training extends to something as basic as reading and writing. Before we can stimulate the local economy, we’ll need to launch a massive education campaign to bring the populace up to a reasonable standard.”
“What about the translation magic?” President Bennett asked. Shouldn’t it allow everyone to read English text?
“The Tempestian communication magic extends to written language, but it doesn’t do you any good if you can’t read at all,” Director Delano explained. “We’ve already conducted multiple tests with this in mind and the results are the same. Anyone who can read in their native language will be able to read English, Spanish, what have you; but anyone who is illiterate won’t.”
That was unfortunate and added a layer of complexity to the issue. How would they teach basic literacy on a mass scale? Would they teach it in English or the native languages in Duremar? How would the communication magic adapt to reading/writing instruction in one language for people who verbally spoke a different language? Such scenarios would have to be tested before being implemented.
“This goes far beyond setting up schools for local communities in third world countries,” Vice President Samuel Collins said. “We’ll need to develop a suitable curriculum from scratch, tailored to the unique needs of Duremar’s populace, including basic exposure to modern tech. Our best bet right now is to outsource to nonprofits and charities and then select the most promising proposals to implement throughout the region.”
“That sounds like a good plan,” President Bennett agreed. “Get on it.”
The Vice President and secretary of Education nodded in acknowledgement.
“We’ll need to do much more than just provide education,” Secretary of Health and Human Services Terry Hunt said. “Most of the population already lives below the poverty line. Far below it in fact. Duremar is effectively a fourth world country by Earth standards.”
Secretary Hunt was right. Nearly every village the army made contact with required some form of aid, usually humanitarian supplies.
“Before we can think about economic development, we need to make sure the people, who are now our responsibility, are living in safe and reasonable conditions,” Secretary Hunt continued. “And we need to do it fast. Aside from the moral responsibility, this is a media shitstorm waiting to happen. We need a comprehensive human development plan from bare necessities to education and employment opportunities.”
Murmurs of assent floated around the room
This was quickly becoming a monumental task. But what did she expect? That it would be easy to acclimate an iron age society to the modern world? That it would happen overnight? Whoever takes office after her term expires will probably have plenty of meetings exactly like this one. This was going to be a years-long endeavor, assuming the populace was completely cooperative. Slavery was illegal in the US, and that of course extended to its territories as well. What sort of pushback would they get from outlawing slavery all of a sudden?
“What about slavery in Duremar? The President asked. “How much resistance can we expect if we immediately abolish it?”
“I doubt everyone will be content with it,” said Secretary Denning. “Some towns, like Girshan, might accept it, provided that we launch a successful humanitarian campaign. But there's no guarantee that Girshan is representative of the territory as a whole. We might have to deploy troops to enforce the ban and liberate former slaves.”
“I don’t want to deploy offensive action on what is now American soil if we can avoid it,” President Bennett said. “What about propaganda? Can we drop leaflets and turn the people over to our side?”
“Regardless of unrest due to abolishing slavery, we’ll likely have to deploy US soldiers throughout Duremar anyway, to act as military police for the immediate future.” Secretary of Defense Dennis Manford said. “Air dropping leaflets assuring people of a reliable food supply might help, but it’ll be limited to those who can actually read. And there are still the issues of petty crime and organized bandits to deal with.”
“If the deployment of more troops is inevitable, I want local guides embedded in as many units as possible,” President Bennett said. “We need to limit cultural misunderstandings as best we can. The primary objective is to prevent violence and panic brought on by our sudden acquisition of Duremar.”
“Understood, Madam President. I’ll draw up rules of engagement and mission parameters for our peacekeeping forces,” Secretary Manford replied.
After a while, much to President Bennett’s displeasure, the discussion eventually shifted back towards economic development.
“Federal agencies will need to step in and regulate exchange rates between American dollars and local currencies,” Secretary of the Treasury Audrey Watson said. “If we don’t take quick action, Duremar is an economic disaster waiting to happen.”
“What do you mean?” President Bennett asked. Secretary Watkins was right of course, regulations would absolutly be necessary, but how could Duremar cause an ‘economic disaster’?
“The Rontak Empire still uses commodity money; their coins are made from various precious metals. A huge influx of metal coins from Tempestia could destabilize the value of gold, for instance. Conversely, cheap mass produced domestic goods could flood Duremar markets, outcompeting the local craftsmen.”
A flurry of additional concerns flew around the table.
“Are there any existing financial institutions in Duremar we can adapt to a modern economy?”
“Are the locals willing to shift to fiat currency?”
“Do they use magic metals in their coins? We can’t let unregulated magic materials start flowing into the US.”
The President was starting to get a headache. She hadn’t even thought about the mundane economic ramifications of the portal. They needed considerable oversight to ensure a reasonably stable economic bridge, not just with Duremar but with the Rontak Empire, the minotaurs, and maybe even those elves someone briefed her on a while ago. Not to mention any other nations scattered across the continent they have yet to establish contact with.
Her headache only got worse. She needed to change the subject before her head exploded. “Secretary Watson, look into what sort of regulations are necessary and how best to enforce them. We probably won’t get it right initially, so be flexible and be prepared to implement or repeal regulations as needed.”
“Understood, Madam President,” She replied, furiously typing away on her laptop.
As the meeting droned on, they discussed roads, energy infrastructure, integrating US and local laws, environmental considerations, naval and coast guard requirements, satellite deployment, opportunities for scientific study, etc, etc. President Bennett eventually called for a recess because the meeting had dragged on for upwards of eight hours. Unfortunately, she foresaw many such meetings in the coming weeks. She downed a tylenol pill and prepared to go back in.
August 21st, 2053
US Duremar Territory, Fort Roanoke Refugee Center
Daniel was on patrol with Benny through the refugee camp. It had more than doubled in size since he had last been here with the Princess. There was a recent influx of American goods after the ratification of the treaty with the Rontak Empire.
Companies began setting up shop in the refugee center because it was the most accessible commercial hub on this side of the portal. Local merchants were already flocking to Fort Roanoke in droves to get a taste of ‘exotic’ American products. What was once just a military base was quickly becoming a city in its own right.
Beer was, apparently, as common as water in Duremar; even children drank it. As it turned out, a society without antibiotics turned to brewing to purify their water. The locals were unaccustomed to the concept of ‘underage drinking’. The higher up’s official policy was intentionally vague, but it boiled down to turning a blind eye towards teenagers but stopping anyone younger from drinking.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
He and Benny had already confiscated some beer from a few children without much issue. But others were too drunk to think clearly and had to be arrested. Drunkenness was the most common source of disruptions.
Centaurs were rare in the camp and they drew quite a lot of attention; the locals weren’t used to seeing their slaves walk around freely and the Americans weren’t used to seeing centaurs at all. They were certainly a sight to behold. Unfortunately, most that partook in the first battle hadn’t survived. Most of the centaurs in the camp were liberated from Rontak’s Reach.
There were blatantly racist signs here and there that said things like, ‘centaurs feed here’ while pointing to garbage, rotten food, or worse. Patrols took down the signs when they found them; he and Benny had already taken down a few today, but people kept putting them up. Still, things were mostly peaceful. Crime was pretty low and people were generally happy. Daniel smiled as he waved to a family walking down the road.
“Yo, I heard Microsoft is planning on setting up a VR sim over here soon,” Benny said, pulling him out of his thoughts.
“Dude, you are so full of shit,” Daniel replied, as he casually ripped down an anti-centaur sign hanging outside of a tavern.
“No, I swear. I’m one hundred percent serious! I heard from a friend back home that works for the company. They are dying to expand over here.”
“You think the people here were ready for that level of modern entertainment?”
“Who cares? We’ll finally be able to play Halo 10 on something besides a lame ass 2D screen!”
Benny had a strong point. Playing on the screen they had in the barracks really killed the immersion. Maybe it was just because he was a marine, but Daniel always wondered how people played FPS games before VR sims became popular.
As they neared the next intersection, they heard a commotion from around the corner, cutting off their small talk. It sounded like some barrels falling over, accompanied by a half-human, half-horse whine.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Benny said, turning to look at him.
“No it doesn’t,” Daniel agreed. “We’d better go check it out.”
The two of them jogged down the street and turned left at the corner. They came up behind one of the refugees holding a pitchfork pointed at a centaur sprawled on the ground.
Reading the situation in an instant, Daniel knew it wouldn’t turn out well. He immediately turned on his radio and said, “This is patrol Delta 2-4, we have an incident in grid 27, requesting backup.”
“Copy that, Delta 2-4. QRF inbound. ETA: one minute.”
With reinforcements on the way, he stepped forward and addressed the scene in front of him. “What’s going on here?” He demanded.
The man with a pitchfork turned around with an expression of annoyance and anger on his face and answered, “This half-horse bastard used the front of my shop as his own personal shithole, that's what's going on!”
As he spoke, he waved the pitchfork around with poor control. He gestured it towards a pile of centaur droppings, which the unfortunate centaur had fallen into. Or, more likely, was pushed into, judging by the fallen crates around him.
Ultimately there was no way to tell if the feces were actually from the centaur or from one of the regular horses. To be fair, standard latrine facilities didn’t really work for centaurs. Most tried to be respectful and self designated a centaur latrine at the edge of the camp. Others, however, harbored resentment for their previous servitude and decided to ‘go where they pleased’ as a crude form of revenge; that didn’t exactly make racial tensions any easier.
“Why don’t you set that thing down, buddy, before ya hurt someone,” Benny said, trying to defuse the situation.
While they drew the man’s attention away from the centaur, he took the opportunity to stand back up. “I was just minding my own business. Please, I don’t want any trouble, mister. Just let me leave in peace,” he pleaded.
“Yeah, sure, I’ll let you go,” the man said with a mischievous undertone as he hefted his pitchfork. Daniel did not like where this was going. “I’ll let you go after I stick this up yer ass! See how you like shitting on people’s doorsteps then!”
Pitchfork-man made a move towards the centaur, who made a nervous whine and fearfully backed up. He ended up knocking over more crates and drawing more attention. By now, there was a small crowd forming around them. The mob created a wall behind the centaur, preventing his escape. They began hurling lewd insults and cheering on pitchfork-man.
Just as things looked like they were about to turn violent, he heard the welcome sound of drones. They arrived just in time. Two light combat drones came into view overhead from behind a building.
“This is an unlawful assembly, disperse immediately,” said a commanding voice on the loudspeaker.
The refugees had become accustomed to seeing vehicles and drones, but that didn’t make them any less intimidating. As if they had completely forgotten why they were there in the first place, the crowd obeyed and scattered down the road, running away from the incident.
A handful of people remained. Judging by their non-provocative but still irritated demeanor, they were likely the surrounding shop owners or friends of pitchfork-man. But even they looked a bit shaken. The drones hovered low and four droids dropped to the ground. They mechanically moved towards the shop with their rifles pointed towards the ground. They looked to Daniel and Benny for orders.
“Sir, you are under arrest,” Daniel announced. “Drop your weapon and don’t make this any worse for yourself.”
“Me?” he yelled defiantly, swinging his pitchfork. The droids simultaneously raised their weapons. “That halfbreed bastard–”
“Is done being harassed by you, shithead,” Benny chipped in. “Drop it, now.”
The man called the centaur a ‘halfbreed’. Did that mean that if a human and a horse… No, that would be absurd. He’d have to ask Alejandro about it later. He probably already had a much cleaner answer anyway. Besides, that was a question for another time. Daniel had more immediate concerns to worry about right now.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” he said with a harsher tone. “Your choice.”
The man looked around, and seeing the odds stacked against him, he reluctantly threw down his pitchfork. The droids apprehended him and slipped zip ties around his wrists.
“Take him to holding,” Daniel ordered. The droids acknowledged and took him away.
The camp didn’t have much of a judicial system yet. ‘Holding’ was just where they sent disruptive individuals to reiterate the rules of conduct. If this was pitchfork-man’s first violent offense, he’d be given a freebee. If not, he’d be escorted to Rontak’s Reach, where he would officially be someone else’s problem.
Daniel turned his gaze towards the bullied centaur. The other people still hanging around were giving all three of them death stares. “You alright? Do you need medical attention?”
“I-I am well. Thank you.”
“Come on, buddy, let's get you cleaned up,” Benny said with a hint of friendship.
Daniel wasn’t sure where they would actually do that, but it didn’t matter; they’d figure something out. Just another day on another planet.
August 25th, 2053
Rontak Empire, Ronta, Imperial Palace Plaza
Maribelle watched from behind as her father concluded his speech to the people. They were gathered on the steps of the Imperial Palace Plaza. In front of them sprawled the people of Ronta, filling the streets. Two lines of Rontoradeki stood at the base of the stairs, separating the commoners from the ceremony. Other soldiers lined the streets, providing structure to the crowd and showing off Imperial stability.
The people were listening to the Emperor’s words with intrigue. He was giving them the cliffnotes version, a phrase she picked up in the United States, of recent events but painting his abdication in a more acceptable light. The ceremony was being transcribed by clerks off to the side and would soon be distributed by mana comm to cities across the Rontak Empire. After all, it wasn’t every day that a new Empress was crowned.
“And now, without further delay, I call forth Princess Maribelle!” Her father bellowed, aided by magic so that the whole crowd could hear him.
Maribelle nervously stepped out of the line of nobles and generals that stood behind the Emperor. She walked forward, coming to her father’s side, and knelt before him on one knee.
“You can do this,” he whispered to her as he removed the ceremonial imperial crown from his head. Gently setting it on her’s, he declared to the crowd, “By my authority as Emperor, I hereby crown Princess Maribelle Empress of the Rontak Empire. May her reign be long and bring us glory and prosperity!”
The crowd applauded as she stood up. It felt like the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. Or rather, on her head. The crown was heavier than she expected.
“The portal to the United States has presented a challenge unlike any we have ever faced,” she said to the crowd. “But it also opens up new possibilities we can hardly imagine. I promise to lead the Rontak Empire to even greater heights than ever before!”
The crowd cheered even louder.
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After her coronation ceremony, Maribelle called a meeting with several leading members of the House of lords. These particular Lords held sway over various political factions and commanded great respect. Where they led, others would follow. Although she was the Empress, she still needed their cooperation to secure the loyalty of the House of Lords and enact her decrees.
The pretense of the meeting was to lay out her direction and establish policy for diplomacy with the United States. She knew that wouldn’t go over smoothly, so the real purpose was to provide a demonstration of American weapons, courtesy of Ambassador Smith. Hopefully showing them the unfathomable power of American weapons would crush any thoughts of renewing hostilities with the United States.
Maribelle sat at the table, shuffling through her scrolls and reviewing last-minute details. She had observed one of her father’s political meetings once but had never led one of her own before. Let alone one where she expected to be met with brazen hostility. She hoped she was up to the task.
When it was time for the summons to begin, seven members of the House of Lords opened the door and walked into the room. They briskly took their seats around the traditional hexagonal table. Their faces were a mix of uncertainty and begrudging compliance. The last person to enter was Ambassador Smith from the United States.
As the Ambassador sat down and Maribelle was about to start her pleasantries, Lord Foklan abruptly stood up. He glared at her with fire in his eyes. “I will not sit at a table with an American dog!” He proclaimed, pointing at the ambassador. “You dishonor the Empire by asking this of us!”
Two other lords took to their feet in support of Lord Foklan, while the others simply nodded. They gave their support to Lord Foklan, but did not openly withdraw it from her either.
Perhaps Maribelle selected the attendees of this meeting too well. They were the most vocal, most passionate warhawks in the House. Several were firm allies of her brother. But that's what made their attendance so important. If she could convince them that war with the United States was unwinnable, she could convince the entire House of Lords.
“Lord Foklan,” she began cordially, before she stood up and dramatically shifted her tone. “If you do not take your seat, I will be forced to make an example of you. To show the other lords the price of open defiance. And make no mistake, there are many nobles who would be willing to take your place; you are very replaceable.”
Her heart was beating like an insect flapping its wings, but her outward gaze was one of confidence and cold indifference. She certainly didn’t want to follow up on her threat, but she by all means could if he forced her hand.
Luckily, Lord Foklan and the others returned to their seats, eyeing her and Ambassador Smith with disdain.
“Good,” she said, returning to her usual demeanor as she also sat back down. “Now let us begin. The American ambassador is here to discuss with us topics of critical importance to rebuilding in the aftermath of–”
“An enemy of the Rontak Empire cannot be allowed to sit in on such a sensitive meeting,” Lord Foklan said, in a much more dignified manner than his previous outburst. “Expel her from this chamber while we discuss amongst ourselves. Then, we can dictate the relevant terms to her.”
Maribelle noted Ambassador Smith’s patient silence, retaining her calm composure in the face of Foklan’s insults.
“Do you wish to hear the topics the American Ambassador is here to discuss with us today?” Maribelle asked provocatively. “Currency exchange rates, trade logistics, mutual embassies–all subjects of which collaboration with the United States is inherently necessary.”
“Why should we collaborate with enemies of the Rontak Empire!” This time it was Lord Habok.
“Aye!” Lord Moktor assented. “We should be planning a reconquest of Duremar, not feebly laying down and cozying up with the enemy!”
Just as planned, she now had an opportunity to bring about the meeting’s true purpose.
“How naive you are, Lord Moktor,” she taunted. “You know nothing of American weaponry, do you? Do you forget that I have seen it firsthand? I promise you, no amount of planning can match their arsenal.”
“Your meager forces were caught off guard at Rontak’s Reach,” Foklan retorted, glaring at her. “That is not the same as witnessing a true battle.”
Maribelle met Foklan’s gaze and it was as if they were locked in a silent battle of wills. Calmness and reason versus brashness and impulse.
“Your Majesty, esteemed Lords, if I may,” Ambassador Smith interjected, looking at Maribelle for approval. Maribelle turned away from Foklan and nodded her head.
“If you don’t mind me saying Empress, there seems to be some doubt among your subordinates as to the extreme discrepancy in military power between our two nations,” Ambassador Smith said. The Lords present remained in silent shock at the sudden and unexpected insult. They hid their emotions with far less expertise than the Ambassador did moments before, glaring at her with pure vitriol in their eyes.
“Do you have the means to provide such a spectacle for us, Ambassador,” Maribelle asked, though she knew the prearranged answer.
“It could be arranged immediately, if you wish,” she answered. “The defensive armaments permitted by our treaty at First Point Air Base should be more than sufficient to motivate a less… aggressive stance.”
“Very well then,” Maribelle said, addressing the room as she stood up. “It seems we’ll be taking a slight recess to visit the American air base.”
The Rontoradeki guards standing sentry at the door stepped forward, indicating that compliance was not optional.
The Imperial Guards led them out of the Palace and through the courtyard. When they came to the staircase where Maribelle was crowned Empress just hours before, they saw several American vehicles–the ones called humvees–waiting at the bottom.
They descended the staircase, and with a few nervous glances mixed with indignation, they all boarded them. A cadre of Imperial Guards on horseback cleared the road of pedestrians ahead of them. Thankfully, American vehicles could easily fit through the wide streets of Ronta.
They exited the city through one of the wall’s gatehouses and passed over the bridge spanning the fortified ditch protecting the city. After leaving the confines of the Ronta, their destination was immediately obvious; where there was once a green but infertile field, there was now a small American military base.
As they came closer, even Maribelle was struck by how quickly they constructed it. She had previously thought that wyverns were, at least in this one specific way, superior to American planes because they could take off or land nearly anywhere with no preparation. It seemed that they were acutely aware of this weakness, and had means of quickly preparing their runways to compensate.
There were two massive, gray planes sitting beside the runway, with Americans unloading cargo from within. Vehicles ferried people from place to place across the base. Tents and flimsy looking metal buildings were neatly laid out in rows around the runway. Onlookers from the city watched the strange contraptions from the double fenced perimeter of the base.
A spark of doubt ignited inside of her. Was she doing the right thing? Was letting them set up this base in the heart of her father’s–her–empire a wise decision? She cast those thoughts aside; it was too late for such thoughts, and this was neither the time nor place to be having them.
There were no armed military aircraft permitted here, only transport planes to provide quick passage from Ronta to Fort Roanoke. They were, however, allowed to keep a small garrison here for security reasons. That was one thing Maribelle insisted on when she discussed the construction of this base with Ambassador Smith. Not because she thought the Americans would turn their planes on the city, but because it would already be difficult to justify their presence to the House of Lords.
They would never accept armed foreign aircraft that laughably outclassed wyverns so near to the capital. And indeed, the lords with her expressed their discontent with even what little military equipment was permitted here. The truck was filled with disagreeable murmurs.
“This is outrageous,” one of them confronted Maribelle. “You let them do all this right outside Ronta?”
“Aye!” Another Lord agreed. “Explain yerself, Empress!”
Maribelle was about to respond, but she didn’t need to. Ambassador Smith came to her defense. “Our facility here only exists to provide safe transport to and from Duremar. While your wyverns take over a week to fly that distance, we can make the trip in mere hours.”
“Impossible!” Lord Foklan accused. “Such speeds are impossible to maintain, even for an air dragon.”
“American planes are not living creatures, they are machines” Maribelle interjected, happy to keep the topic on something besides her. “They do not need to stop to eat or rest. They can carry all the fuel needed for the trip with them.”
They continued through the air base to an empty field. Empty, except for the group of American soldiers idling around one of their vehicles, the one called a tank. The Humvees came to a stop and they all dismounted. An American officer walked up to them.
With a customary American salute, he said, “Welcome back to First Point Air Base, Ambassador.” He turned to Maribelle and the lords. “I am Colonel Warren, commanding officer of this facility. Behind me is an Abrams X2 main battle tank.”
The lords gawked at the massive metal contraption as they approached it. Colonel Warren listed off some specifications of the tank, including speed, weapons, armor, etc. Some of the Lords openly mocked the tank, while others just absorbed the information in sheer awe.
“Now, let's get on to what you're really here for,” Colonel Warren said. “JONES! Please hand out binoculars and ear protection.”
An American soldier, presumably Jones, began handing out strange devices. Colonel Warren and Ambassador Smith demonstrated how to wear the ear protection over their heads.
Maribelle recalled how loud handheld American weapons were. She could only infer that a tank’s main cannon would be even louder, especially if they were handing out ear protection. She graciously accepted and put it on. Lord Foklan refused, while the others begrudgingly agreed to wear them.
“What is the point of this device,” Lord Horal asked, holding up his binoculars.
“That is so that you can see our targets,” Colonel Warren said, demonstrating how to hold the device. “Two kilometers away, there are ten sets of Imperial armor with 100 meters between each stand.”
Maribelle tested out the ‘binoculars’ and sure enough, there were stands of Imperial armor placed just as the Colonel had described. It reminded her of the first weapons test she observed back in the Kashir Forest.
“This is a load of wyvern dung!” Lord Foklan exclaimed. “If the targets are so far away, then what are we doing here? Shouldn’t we be out there!”
“If you would please put on your ear protection–” Colonel Warren advised, but was interrupted.
“I will do no such thing,” Lord Foklan proudly declared.
“Very well then,” Colonel Warren said. “Gunner, you are cleared for stationary fire!”
A thunderous boom shook the ground as the tank fired its main cannon. A split second later, a massive fireball formed in the distance, followed by a second boom. It was larger than a fireball from any wyvern, or even any dragon. The lords cowered in fear at the sudden explosion.
“What was–”
Before Lord Foklan could finish, the tank turned its gun and fired again, creating another fireball next to the first. The process repeated three more times, for a total of five shots.
Maribelle was glad she had ear protection. Even through the American device, the tank was still painfully loud. She could only imagine how loud it was for Foklan, who was now at least clutching his ears with his hands.
“If you take your binoculars, you will see that five of the targets have been completely destroyed,” Colonel Warren said. “We will now demonstrate that the Abrams can maintain that accuracy while in motion.”
Lord Foklan looked around aimlessly, clearly unable to hear anything. Maribelle noticed a few of the American soldiers discreetly laughing at him as he shouted for clarification as to what the Colonel just said. She suppressed a laugh herself at his self-inflicted misfortune.
Colonel Warren ignored Lord Foklan and ordered the tank to begin moving and fire when ready. The lords backed up as the tank turned in place and started gliding away from them as fast as a horse. Its main gun was still pointed at the remaining targets, and moments later it resumed firing.
The Lords held up their binoculars to see if the Colonel’s boasts were indeed true. Sure enough, the remaining armor stands were obliterated one by one. The tank slowed to a stop in the distance.
“Impossible…” one of the lords muttered.
“No horse archer could match that accuracy at such absurd distances,” another mumbled.
“Now, some of you may be thinking that your wyverns could destroy an Abrams, assuming they got off an accurate shot. Unfortunately, that is not the case,” Colonel Warren said with a sly smile. Into his radio he said, “Tell Dragon 1 she is cleared for test firing.”
A few moments later, they saw a wyvern flying low towards the Abrams tank. ‘Dragon 1’ was an American codename given to Ralva while she flew over the air base. The idea of each individual plane or wyvern having a unique nickname for record keeping purposes was strange, but the Americans insisted that it was necessary.
Maribelle watched as Ralva flew closer to the tank, close enough to guarantee a hit. She watched the wyvern’s mouth glow orange as it shot out a bright orange ball of fire. The flames washed over the tank’s foliage colored armor. A few embers took root in the grass, but that was it; the flames didn’t take, nor did they seem to cause any damage from the blast. The metal armor did its job and protected the vehicle. Of course fire couldn’t burn it, it was made of metal.
The tank effortlessly rolled back towards them as Ralva flew back to the city, her job complete. It came to a stop and an American soldier flipped open a hatch on top and stuck his head out.
“What damage did the vehicle sustain, Sergeant?” Colonel Warren asked, looking up at the soldier.
“None whatsoever Colonel,” he replied. “Hull temperature briefly spiked and then rapidly fell off. We barely felt it inside, sir.”
Turning back to the Lords, the Colonel repeated, “None whatsoever. Make no mistake gentlemen, your military is nothing more than target practice to an angry Abrams.”
The Lords had looks of horror on their faces. Even Lord Foklan looked humbled.
“Now,” Maribelle said condescendingly, “are you ready to sit down and hear what the American ambassador has to say?”
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Later that evening, Maribelle was in her private study preparing to retire from her first day as Empress. After the weapons demonstration, the Lords reluctantly accepted her diplomatic strategy and promised their support in the House of Lords, even Lord Foklan. All things considered, it went rather well.
As she opened the door to return to her chambers, she found Legatus Vislex standing there, about to knock. “Legatus Vislex,” she said, taken slightly by surprise at the late hour of his visit. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Perhaps we should discuss that inside, Your Majesty,” he replied. “I have alarming news.”
She stepped aside to allow Vislex in and he closed the door behind him.
“Bandits have taken over a horse breeding town in the Marlonk Province, east of Duremar,” he said, without wasting time for pleasantries.
Maribelle listened as he described the situation. The self-appointed Bandit Lord was identified as a deserter from the battle of Vakria. His name was Gamlyn Pardkh, and he was an Imperial army wyvern knight originally hailing from the Fordrolan province. After Vakria was sacked, he flew northeast and made the most of the chaos caused by the Americans. He recruited a sizable band of followers and seized a horse breeding town that supplied the local count’s army with cavalry.
He already began extorting tribute from nearby villages in the form of food, coin, and manpower. Count Padlion predicted Pardkh’s next target would be the province’s iron mines. A well equipped, mobile band of warriors with an economic base behind them posed a serious threat, especially now.
“Pardkh’s bandits have all the makings of a rebel kingdom,” Vislex said. “I fear he will use our defeat at the hands of the Americans and Prince Cevlion’s sack of Vakria to legitimize his burgeoning rebellion.”
“He must be dealt with swiftly and severely,” Maribelle agreed. “Send a contingent from the nearest Imperial army to lay waste to his rebels.”
“Unfortunately, Your Majesty, the Imperial army that would normally deal with this situation was sent to Duremar,” Vislex explained. “They’re several weeks away at a forced march. If the Pardkh learns of their approach, he could use his newfound cavalry to launch lightning raids on the road.”
An organized force of bandits on horseback could whittle down their army long before it reached the Pardkh’s home base. Their mobility would allow them to attack one end of the column and retreat before the rest of the army could move to support them. The superiority of the Imperial army would be negated without ever meeting in direct battle.
“Then we’ll have to rely on the lower armies,” Maribelle said. “What's the status of the nearest garrison?”
“The Count Padlion’s Garrisons are well equipped, thanks to his iron mines, but they lack the discipline needed to hold their own against a significant force of cavalry,” Vislex explained. “The Count can’t rally and mobilize a large enough army before the Pardkh seizes more land, growing his numbers and resources.”
The Order of the Dragon didn’t usually take on bandits that were this organized. Besides, they were needed elsewhere to reestablish order and prevent other uprisings. The opportunities that led to this crisis were by no means isolated. They wouldn’t be able to come to Count Padlion’s aid. Plus, they had already suffered too many losses in the conflict with the United States. Maribelle didn’t want to lose any more friends.
Thinking of the Americans, she thought about how fast they could move their troops. If only she had their vehicles and airplanes. She could descend from the sky with an entire army in mere days. It was an alluring prospect, but unfortunately one that was pure fiction. Unless…
“What if we ask the Americans for help?” She blurted out. “Forget the power of their weapons, what we need is simply the speed of their mechanical contraptions.”
“I would advise against that, Your Majesty.” Vislex said. “Informing them of the situation would show weakness; an inability to properly rule our subjects.”
“Since you weren’t at the demonstration today, Legatus, I should probably inform you before you hear it from the House of Lords; our armies are nothing compared to theirs. The Americans already see us as weak because compared to them we are weak.”
It was a depressing thought, but it was the truth.
Despite Vislex’s objections, Maribelle made up her mind. She immediately sent for Ambassador Smith to inform her of the situation and see if she could offer any assistance. With any luck, she could turn a roving gang of bandits into an opportunity to build ties with the US. It was an elegant solution that killed two birds with one stone, another phrase she picked up from them. Maybe she could handle being Empress after all.