Legosia himself doesn’t think much of my experiments, discounting them as just another one of my fancies. Well, he’ll see when every hallowmancer from here to the Lunasha is armed with these blades.

-From The Last King of Elneshe’s 7th Note.

Rain crashed against the roof of His Sharpness’ stronghold as his Generals stood inside. Dolish stood at one end of the room, near a giant rounded table that the Armon was using for his strategies.

He could see the numerous pieces and maps spread across the table, placed in specific positions near and around Sanasira. The city itself made it difficult to get troops inside or out, which is why they had to secure the surroundings before entering. And if they block us inside the city, the only help we can get is from our Afterburners.

Planars would have trouble seeing over the edge of the ring of mountains that surrounded the ruined capital, but an Afterburner could much more easily.He looked over the pieces positioned near Latren, those representing their mundane and Bladeborn troops, then frowned.

“Your Sharpness, if I may?” Dolish asked the Armon. Mortici looked at him with his grey piercing eyes, silencing the crowd around him.

“Yes, General Venastian?”

“You’re not considering this many troops to Latren, are you?” Dolish asked, pointing towards the spot on the map.

“Yes, I am. We need to shore up the defences that led to the last attack, do we not?” Armon Mortici replied, questioning.

“With respect, you’re diverting important forces away from the camps,” Dolish said, raising a few eyebrows in the crowd gathered in the war room.

“Those forces are needed if we’re to ever make progress into breaking into the ruins of Sanasira, Dolish. We can’t be skimping out on troops for the cause,” Mortici countered.

“But if we shorten our supply here, that makes the civilians a target!” Dolish said, his voice rising. The Armon did not speak afterwards, putting a pit in Dolish’s stomach.

“I-I’m sorry, Your Sharpness. I just thought…” he trailed off.

“No, you’re right, Venastian,” Mortici admitted, something that elicited more than a few sounds of confusion from the other Generals.

“We’ll reserve a third of what we were going to send,” he added, gesturing towards the Generals to move the pieces over. They held those carved wooden tokens gently as they carried it from one part of the map to another. He continued his talk with the other Generals afterwards, speaking with Yennel and Renolt by his side, young and old giving him counsel.

Someone punched Dolish on the side of the arm and he looked over to see Amarna smirking at him.

“Least you’ve got half a mind to speak against His Sharpness,” she whispered.

“I was just telling him the right course of action. His Sharpness wasn’t wrong in his decisions,” Dolish whispered back.

“Yes, but how many here would do the same? Remont, that sycophant?” Amarna asked.

Dolish grunted. She has a point there. But before their silent conversation could continue, the Armon called upon him again.

“Dolish?” Mortici asked.

“Yes, Your Sharpness?”

“It’s raining. We can’t launch an attack. Do you have any stratagems that could prove helpful?”

An opportunity. Something he’d asked for, but was now freely given. But Dolish didn’t know what to say. What would Vartel do? If he remembered his cousin’s words right…

Find what goals you intend to achieve. Find the path towards those goals, no matter how long it takes and where they lead you. Then follow that path till the end. You’ve got the sense for it, Dolish, don’t think you don’t.

Those words comforted the old General, even after all these years. I miss you, cousin, wherever you are.

“A messenger,” Dolish said.

“Carrying… what?” Armon Mortici urged him.

“An invitation to an open talk.”

Renolt scoffed from behind the Armon and even Yennel looked confused.

“He wishes to parlay with the enemy,” Renolt exclaimed as if it was foolish. “What good will it do for us, anyway? They’ve not backed down for the past year. Why would they start now?”

Others nodded along as the wide old General spoke, but Dolish wouldn’t succumb to the pressure of their gaze.

“There is… opportunity in it, Renolt. Minister Fersh, arrange for a message to be drafted and pick out the fastest Afterburner we’ve got. If they try to launch a surprise attack, I don’t want to lose even a single Bladeborn,” Mortici ordered, Fersh scrambling off to fulfil his orders.

“It seems I’ve got preparations to make for a meeting, then, if all goes well,” Mortici said idly.

“Wait, Your Sharpness. We can’t very well send you along,” Renolt interjected. Dolish thought he saw a hint of annoyance on the Armon’s face before he faced his General once more.

“And why is that, General?”

“You’d be in danger, Armon. The risk is too great. They’d see it as an opportunity to take you out,” Renolt told him. It was a point that even Dolish hadn’t considered.

“Then I’ll bring along my personal honour guard.”

“Still, sir, the risks…”

“Renolt, it tires me to continue arguing. Tell me, what would you suggest we send in my place,” Mortici asked.

“Well… Since Venastian was the one who suggested it in the first place, why not him?” Renolt asked.

“And is that agreeable to you, General Venastian?” Mortici then asked Dolish. It wasn’t the turn that he’d expected, but he’d take it.

“Yes, sir, it is,” Dolish answered.

“Then ready your honour guard for the departure. You’ll be my representative in this affair, not your own. Is that understandable?”

“Yes, Your Sharpness.”

“Then the matter’s settled.”

The Armon moved on from the topic as if it was the last thing on his mind, turning his head towards the board and the formation of the troops. By the time Fersh came back with a draft and an Afterburner, he barely gave them a thought. He sent them off after taking a cursory look at the letter. Dolish would’ve read it top to bottom a hundred times before sending it off, but it wasn’t his place to order around the Armon.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Hours passed with everyone still sat in the war room. Someone burst through the doors, dripping with water and wearing the green of Ravenishtan. It was the Afterburner, soaking wet and taking deep breaths.

“They’ve agreed to it!”

****

Dolish stood a step behind the Armon at the front of the stronghold. Mortici had his arms wrapped behind himself, his eyes looking forward at nothing. Dolish mimicked him from behind and the both of them waited as statues for the arriving transport.

A few paces behind him were his honour guard, and of those only two. Borne and Bark were brought along for this mission, as any more could strain the weight of the palanquin and the powers of the Afterburners.

Rain still pelted down on the lot of them, but the Armon was left untouched. Servants held up a cloth for him, the water trickling off of the sides.

“Your job there, Dolish, is to check whether they can be reasoned with.”

“I’m sure they can be, Your Sharpness,” Dolish acknowledged. The Armon turned halfway to look at him with one eye. Lightning flashed in the skies.

“Most people can, Venastian. But reasoning and compromise are different. Perhaps a compromise could cause us more harm than good,” Armon Mortici told him.

Borne and Bark talked by themselves behind the two leaders, even the Armon opting to ignore them. It distracted Dolish enough though that he paused.

“So don’t go making deals I don’t approve of,” Mortici finished. Thunder crackled in the air, loud and close by. He turned back to look at the skies, a slight smirk appearing on his face as he saw the far away palanquin. Hopefully none of those bolts catch us, Dolish thought.

The chiselled brown carriage approached them quickly but laid itself gently on the floor. The four Afterburners on each of its corners set it down and saluted the Armon and General both. Mortici didn’t return the salute, but Dolish did.

Instead, he eyed up the General one last time, then patted him on the shoulder as he walked by.

“Get out of there at the first sign of danger, General. I wouldn’t want to lose such a good soldier,” he told him, before the guards at the entrance opened it up for him to enter.

Borne and Bark gave him another salute, before moving over to Dolish’s side and taking in the sight of the vehicle.

“So, that’s the thing what’s going to carry us?” Borne asked.

“Seems so, Borne.”

“Couldn’t me and Bark just give you a ride instead?”

“You could. But we can’t give such an underwhelming first impression, can we?” Dolish asked, moving into the carriage as his two honour guards stood outside.

The door closed without him moving, and Dolish let himself settle into the comfortable seats of the carriage once more. Vartel’s words hung in the air, reminding him of the reason Dolish was doing this in the first place. I’ll find a way, Your Sharpness. And we’ll all be able to return home.

****

The Journey passed by quicker than Dolish would’ve expected, or even hoped. He barely had the time to get his bearings once he realized that the carriage was descending. And how fast it was doing so too. He glanced outside the window and saw the rolling clouds recede into the sky, the lush green ground fast approaching. In the middle of those fields and hills, he saw a small tent.

Curious. Just out in the open? What was the king of Phasgoria planning? The rain had lightened up, but drops still entered through Dolish’s window, wetting the floor.

Once he hit the ground, Dolish waited for the door to the carriage to open and stepped out into the drizzling background. He could finally see under the tent, and what he found was a king’s retinue. Men and women, no doubt Bladeborn, stood beside a singular figure adorned in bright and garish red robes, who sat by himself before a wonderfully carved wooden table. A single chair was in front of him, unfilled.

Those robes of his were so carefully embroidered, Dolish thought each stitch must’ve taken a day itself to perfect. Compared to him, Dolish’s own attire seemed paltry. A golden crown adorned the head of the brown skinned man who he presumed king, hard eyes staring straight at him, seeing through his soul.

“I’ll be honest. I didn’t expect your king to look so… militaristic,” the man said in Antir, the language of the Phasgorians. Dolish knew it only because of his studies. King Selerin would play on his field only, it seemed.

“The compliment is kind of you, Your Highness, but I am no king. Nor do we of Ravenishtan have one,” Dolish replied in his tongue, a smile expanding across the face of the king.

“But I give you something of respect in return. My name is Dolish Venastian, General of our military and representative of His Sharpness, Armon Mortici Feranz,” Dolish added, before pressing his fists in front of the king and bobbing them, adding a deep bow for respect. From the king’s side, he heard an audible chuckle resonate outwards.

“I must say, I’m impressed! From what I know, bowing is a sign of deep respect in your culture, and to do it in front of your worst enemy?” the king of Phasgoria asked.

“You do not have to be enemies with us, Your Highness.”

“Peace talks, then. I’m guessing your own king sent you in his place in case our dealings didn’t work out in his favour?”

“He was worried for his health, yes.”

“Your knowledge of Antir must’ve played a part in his choice, I assume. Tell me, where is it that you learned our tongue?” king Selerin asked.

“To better understand Phasgorians, Your Highness,” Dolish answered.

“Prisoners of war, then,” Selerin assumed, yet Dolish did not correct him. “Now, you won’t get any dryer out in the rain. Come, sit, so we can talk like people.”

The King waved him forward, and one of his Bladeborn pulled away the seat for Dolish. She gave him a glare as she did, but Dolish ignored it in favour of speaking directly with the king.

Behind him, Borne and Bark walked forward as well. The king gave a confused expression, but shrugged to let them continue ahead. His side of Bladeborn still outnumbered Dolish’s, after all.

“You have the floor, Venastian. So, tell me, why call me out here?” Selerin asked, his hard stare trying to put the General off-balance. But that kind of unnerving tactic rarely worked against Dolish.

“Why do you want the weapon hidden in Sanasira?” Dolish asked the man straight.

“The same reason your king does, Venastian,” Selerin replied. He didn’t waver for a second delivering his answer.

“We don’t have a king, Your Highness. The Armon is selected through a rigorou-”

“Rigorous process, yes, I know. But a king by any other name is still a king. He controls your army, your country. That makes him a king, the sole autarch of your country.”

Dolish’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t engage. This wasn’t the reason he was here, even if he wanted to argue against the point.

“Isn’t it interesting how the King of Thieves only delivered the notes to each of us? I don’t know how he did it, but somehow those notes of the last ruler of Elneshe ended up in my other documents. It was much the same for your Armon, from what I’ve heard.”

“I don’t know where you would’ve heard such things, Your Highness,” Dolish told the king.

“Many places. No defence is unbreakable, after all,” Selerin grinned at him, but he dropped it immediately afterwards.

“And now look, because of a single fool brave enough to venture into those ruins, we’ve been stuck in such a stupid cycle of battle. It’d be a funny joke if we weren’t experiencing it,” Selerin said with a hint of wistfulness.

“But we could escape that cycle, Your Highness,” Dolish offered.

“How?”

“Ravenishtan needs that weapon, whatever it may be. Our borders are under attack. Barbarians come from the sea to attack us. If they go through us, they might come for your kingdom next, Your Highness.”

“And yet we need it as well,” Selerin replied, his tone still unserious. It grated at Dolish to hear him talk like that.

“This isn’t a game!” Dolish slammed a fist down onto the table, hands going to swords and spears around him. Yet the king did not flinch. He merely raised a hand to stop his Bladeborn from proceeding.

“Oh, I understand completely, Venastian. This isn’t a game. I have to make numerous decisions every day that impact the lives of thousands of people. And I cannot make those decisions based on whimsy. On what is right for me. I have to steer this kingdom, and the Weapon is going to help me do it,” Selerin said, his voice changing to something deeper and less fanciful. Dolish felt the air around him change with the king’s disposition, but he didn’t desist.

“We have an immediate threat to deal with, Your Highness. The longer we both skirmish amongst ourselves, the harder that threat becomes to overcome!”

Selerin chuckled, a joyless laugh, when Dolish spoke.

“And you think we don’t, Ravenishtani? How prideful of you to think you’re the only ones facing turmoil!” he told him.

“Please, Your Hi-”

“Enough.” It wasn’t a shout, but demanding enough that Dolish stopped. His first mistake, he’d given the King space to continue.

“We won’t come to any agreements here, clearly. And I don’t want to waste either of our time.” Selerin said. The King glanced around himself and Dolish opened his ears. All around him… the rain was lightening up. What had been a heavy stream was now reduced to a light drizzle, if it could even be called that.

“You should get back to your camp, General. You have a lot to report, after all,” Selerin said, standing up from his seat and turning away. Dolish was the only one left sitting at the table, Borne and Bark beside him.

“Why, Your Highness, do you need the Weapon?” Dolish asked, his voice barely above a whisper. The King somehow heard it, turning his face around.

“If you’re so interested in better understanding us, General, then ask some of your prisoners.”

He paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing.

“And don’t ever send your hallowmancers against the peasantry again.”

Dolish raised a brow. Against the peasantry? What was he on about? Before Dolish could get elaboration, the King had stepped away into a carriage of his own, something bulkier than Dolish’s and fitted with many more Bladeborn. The King’s carriage took off into the sky, his retinue of guardsmen taking off with him. Dolish clenched his fists on the table, wondering why Vartel couldn’t have been here. Couldn’t have steered the King towards something more amicable.

Only ones facing turmoil? What’s going on in Phasgoria?