When Duronaht returned from Methrangia, the first task before the court and the army was to prepare a swift coronation of Duronaht not as merely King of Zarmand, but rather Emperor of Methrangia. The new emperor was the least celebratory of anyone around him, carrying a deeply disturbed demeanor.
Marshal Vildrious had watched these events transpire with, as best as he could manage, a dispassionate exterior. With the angels Omonrel, Jagreth, Gorondos, Myrvaness, and Parlon a constant presence in Duronaht’s court, registering shock or disapproval at anything would be a mistake.
His mind recoiled in horror at Emperor Covifaht’s violent demise. Vildrious had never carried any sort of antipathy for the Emperor. In fact, his only interactions with Covifaht had been decidedly friendly. As was the Emperor’s practice, Covifaht had told some disparaging jokes at the expense of Vildrious’s parents, but that was only to be expected.
Vildrious had enjoyed marching his armies in the open southern ground, but he had never suspected that his forces were truly marching toward war. He assumed that it would all be simple posturing that would ultimately yield a peaceful settlement. Never did the thought flicker in his mind that the Methrangian Empire would truly head toward civil war.
That unthinkable notion was now inexorable. Conferences with his colleagues, the other marshals of Zarmand’s armies, had become more frequent and far graver. In a certain sense, the prospect of a climactic clash over control of Methrangia itself was a thrilling chance to prove himself. Heroic dreams of being the entire Zarmandian army’s savior danced in his mind in both his sleeping and waking hours. Accompanying those, however, were the crushing anxieties about his army’s readiness for battle and disgrace that would follow should his forces collapse in combat. For his family’s sake, especially his two young sons, that ignominy had to be avoided.
Two peculiar days passed at Duronaht’s temporary headquarters at Yedalt, a fortress roughly a week’s march to Methrangia’s southeast. Even as an army of hundreds of thousands buzzed about the fortress and its surrounding grounds, Emperor Duronaht was nowhere to be seen. Vildrious found this worrying. Based on rumblings from the army, including his own lieutenants, he was not alone.
“We look forward to enthroning the Emperor in the capital,” one of his captains told him during a review of his troops. “But it would help morale as we prepare if the Emperor would actually appear.”
While that sentiment was technically insolence, Vildrious did not discipline it. He felt it himself. By the end of the second full day of Duronaht’s absence, Vildrious paced furiously alongside a nearby creek that reflected moonlight brilliantly. Even amid his angst, he appreciated that there were few things more beauteous in the world than moonlight upon water.
His brooding would not be solitary for long. The angel Myrvaness suddenly appeared before him, floating above the ground and herself glowing modestly in a dim white light.
“You are far too passive,” she declared, moving forward at him and reaching for his arm. He recoiled, keeping a distance between himself and her. “You sit and sit and do nothing.”
Bewildered by her suddenly presence to begin with, Vildrious had little he could say.
“That’s… That’s all quite true. Yes, yes. I agree,” Vildrious stammered out. “Until the King… I mean, the Emperor, gives us instructions we can’t do anything.”
Myrvaness lurched forward and grabbed him by both arms. He couldn’t even react. She was far too fast when she wanted to be. As she had in the Segrison Marche, Myrvaness sent an icy pain through his body.
“I did not endure imprisonment at Forynda’s orders so that you and your Emperor could dither and cower,” Myrvaness hissed at him. “Prove yourself worthy of my assistance or I will not extend it again. Prove yourself worthy of your own respect, if nothing else”
“Alright alright alright!” Vildrious screamed. She pushed him away, almost toppling him to the ground. His pains instantly dissipated. “I’ll speak with the Emperor and try to…”
“You will succeed,” Myrvaness interrupted. “You will succeed because you must. Action is needed soon or many of those who support the Emperor will turn to Nethron or Emperor Rohmhelt.”
“Quite. Quite,” Vildrious said, nodding until he realized that he didn’t understand part of what she uttered. “Nethron? I thought he was with us?”
Myrvaness stared back blankly at Vildrious, her green eyes flickering.
“Nethron truly means well for you mortals, but he has been too consumed with his discoveries to realize he created his own following,” she said, looking off to the northwest. “He never tried to create an allegiance for these desperate people to Omonrel or even your emperor. They have turned to him as a consequence. Surely you have noticed this.”
In truth, Marshal Vildrious had not. Maintaining his army’s focus on the tasks at hand had been the primary concern. Soldiers and officers gossiped about Nethron’s following, but Vildrious had assumed that any followers of Nethron’s would be, by default, loyal to Duronaht and his angelic allies.
“Right,” Vildrious said with an utter lack of conviction. Myrvaness’s eyes narrowed is what he assumed was contempt. “We must find those who are flocking to Nethron and make an example of them to make sure that…”
“That is folly,” Myrvaness interjected angrily. “Focus only on the enemy that stands before you now. As of now, Nethron is presenting a far more appealing future than anyone else. One can hardly blame those who are declaring for him.”
Vildrious fought a temptation to know why Myrvaness would have such sympathy. He feared the answer. With so many other matters looming large, affections of the various angels toward one another was something he couldn’t waste time on.
His first instinct was to turn to Minister Bolgrelt, who had come to serve as a gatekeeper for Emperor Duronaht, controlling access to the Emperor at nearly all times, even late that evening. The old man possessed staggering vigor and proved more than a match even at that hour.
“His Imperial Majesty is indisposed at the moment, Marshal Vildrious,” Bolgrelt said in a lyrical voice in his small room on Yedalt’s first floor. “Urgent business only. Is this urgent?”
“Again, yes it is!” Vildrious insisted.
“If it’s how you described it, it’s not urgent. Get some sleep and well discuss it in the morning,” Bolgrelt smiled and flicked his hand limply toward the door as he returned to his papers. “Out you go.”
Outraged, Vildrious stomped out of the fortress and toward Grand Marshal Sygnaht Ventov command tent just outside the fortress walls. Ventov was an astonishingly young Grand Marshal at just thirty-five years, the youngest in over a century. Not blessed with a soldier’s build, he took advantage of his fine features and robust hair to instead be a glamorous figure rather than an intimidating one. All of his clothes and armor were meticulously maintained and of the highest quality. He preferred to wear red and black as they framed his slim build well. In his presence, Vildrious always felt frumpy and disheveled. Even worse, Ventov commanded an unusually gifted mind for military matters that only deepened Vildrious’s sense of inadequacy.
Standing over a map of the central Methrangian Empire, Ventov reviewed scroll after scroll that he had received from messengers detailing Emperor Rohmhelt’s positions. Vildrious silently approached, not wanting to address his superior until such time as he was ready. The Grand Marshal glanced up with a quick flick of his head.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
“Speak, Marshal Vildrious. I haven’t told you that you’re not allowed to talk,” Ventov said at a rapid clip.
“Sir, we have a problem. We…”
“We’ve got a number of problems,” the Grand Marshal interrupted, keeping his eyes on his map. “What’s this one?”
“The ki… Excuse me, the Emperor hasn’t been seen in two days and even when we have seen him he’s barely spoken,” Vildrious began, trying desperately not to fumble over his words in Ventov’s ever-judgmental presence. “This is causing our men to lose morale and…”
“I think that I might be relied upon to judge our men’s morale, don’t you agree?” the Grand Marshal once again cut Vildrious off. This time he looked up from the map, his blue eyes icy cold.
Grudgingly, Vildrious nodded.
“And what’s so urgent at this time of night? Surely there isn’t a mutiny or I would have heard about it by now,” Ventov chuckled amusedly to himself. “There isn’t, is there?”
“No, sir,” Vildrious was forced to agree. “But our… allies are uneasy with the Emperor’s absence, too.”
“You mean the angels?” Ventov asked, glancing up again from his maps.
“Yes.”
“And when did you hear this?”
“Just before I came to you. Myrvaness and Omonrel himself,” Vildrious said, trying to speak quickly so as to conceal the lie that Omonrel had displayed any such displeasure. “If they’re wobbling, who can we rely on?”
After weeks of losing every parrying he engaged in, at last he felt that he had gained an advantage over the Grand Marshal. Ventov stood tall and straight, a sign that he had at least taken Vildrious’s words seriously.
“And they just told you this?” Ventov asked, a skeptical eyebrow rising.
“Before I walked over here, yes.”
The Grand Marshal sighed and folded his hands while his face contorted. He made a variety of peculiar gurgling noises while he considered the matter.
“That’s a serious matter. Even more serious than King Rohmhelt’s advanced forces taking possession of ground around Methrangia proper while we wait,” the Grand Marshal concurred, furrowing his brow. “Momentarily ceding the capital is one thing. If the angels waver in supporting us, we have no credible claim to stand behind.”
Ventov clapped his hands and a muscular messenger waddled into the tent.
“Boy, find the other marshals and bring them here. Tell them I expect them here immediately!”
The runner ran off before providing the Grand Marshal with the appropriate honorifics, a fact that eluded neither Ventov nor Vildrious. Whatever disrespect was shown there was more than compensated by the strong show of support by the commanders who trickled in throughout the next several minutes to declare their loyalty to both the Empire and its Emperor.
Over the course of a few fleeting minutes, Ventov explained the logic of why they must confront Emperor Duronaht on his listless command of his own army. No argument he employed questioned Duronaht’s mind or the validity of his decisions, merely that he had been under a great deal of strain since his confrontation with his father and that he needed resolute guidance.
That guidance was to come that very evening as the army’s eight marshals, including Ventov, entered Fort Yedalt close to midnight. They almost immediately encountered Bolgrelt just inside the main door. Appearing surprised, Bolgrelt folded his hands submissively.
“Grand Marshal, to what do I owe this pleasure? I must say you look positively marvelous this evening,” Bolgrelt squeaked.
“You slay me,” Ventov said dryly. “We have urgent business with the Emperor. Notify him that we must see him straight away.”
The old man’s wrinkles scrunched curiously about his eyes.
“I’m afraid he retired to his bedchamber for the evening. It wouldn’t be proper to…” Bolgrelt explained awkwardly, but Ventov raised his hand to cut the minister off.
“Don’t lecture me on protocol. It’s not relevant in a crisis like this,” the Grand Marshal intoned with irritation.
Bolgrelt gave the marshals each an indignant glare before turning about and heading back toward Duronaht’s chambers in the fortress’s rear. The marshals waited in silence in the vestibule, some of them eyeing Grand Marshal Ventov for guidance. The Grand Marshal, however, merely stood at attention while the seconds ticked away. At last, Bolgrelt re-emerged at the hall’s end and motioned them forward.
“His Imperial Majesty will meet with you in the dining hall,” he chirped with plainly forced enthusiasm.
Their lacquered leather boots clicked fiercely atop those stone floors, the eight of them creating a cacophony befitting a full company of men. When they entered Emperor Duronaht’s presence, however, their display turned to total fealty as each one of them dropped to a knee before the Emperor, who sat stooped in a modest chair behind a wobbling table.
“Rise,” he murmured.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” Ventov declared.
Vildrious, standing directly behind Ventov, noticed that Emperor Duronaht had taken on an ashen hue while his ample dark green hair became deeply disheveled. His eyes flickered randomly from one marshal to another, sometimes drifting downward to the floor.
“Why are you here so late?” the Emperor asked meekly.
“We are concerned about our present position, Your Imperial Majesty. King Rohmhelt has taken…”
“The Traitor King, you mean,” Duronaht insisted.
Ventov nodded and continued.
“Yes, the Traitor King has taken positions around Methrangia. He should be entering by morning. We could have been there before him, but we received no orders to march, so here we stayed,” Ventov lectured as though he were schooling a fair junior officer in his army. “If the Traitor King’s army can occupy the capital without opposition, we’re not proving ourselves to be a credible army. To be blunt, if Your Imperial Majesty is to prove Himself to be a credible claimant of the title of Emperor, he must confront his rival claimant. His army must march and do battle for Methrangia itself against the Traitor King.”
The marshals all nodded in agreement. Vildrious felt his head move up and down as if by a force not his own. Ventov had an oddly enrapturing cadence that made Vildrious feel as though he had abandoned all reason. Duronaht, however, seemed to squirm in his chair, keeping his eyes off his own marshals.
“He has most of father’s armies now, too,” Duronaht groaned bitterly. “Do we have enough men to fight him? He must outnumber us. I can’t see that we have a chance.”
Defeatism of this sort, unrelenting pessimism, out of Duronaht was jarring to Vildrious. Ordinarily Duronaht exuded unjustified confidence to his commanders.
“Waiting for deliverance will not make this problem disappear,” Ventov riposted. “Yes, their levies are larger, but our armies have actually seen combat, are properly organized, and have superior equipment. I’m sure that the Traitor King’s army’s commander, Marshal Agrehn, would agree with that assessment. Whatever trepidations you have, they are shared by our adversaries.”
Duronaht stood, shakily, from his seat, causing all of the commanders present to click their boots’ heels together. The Emperor had the appearance and demeanor of a man some twenty or thirty years older than he was. He seemed to wobble like a flimsy tree in a stiff wind.
“If that’s all the case, what do you need from me at this hour?” Duronaht asked, seeming genuinely confused.
“With the greatest respect, Your Imperial Majesty, morale in the army has become questionable. You are the uniting force that keeps them together, but with that comes a steep burden. Your Imperial Majesty must be present routinely. Absences weaken their faith, especially against as strong of a foe as we have,” the Grand Marshal explained with a combination of conciliation and irritation. “Further, we missed a vital opportunity to seize the capital for your reign. We now must either fight to dislodge them or concede that the capital will not be part of the overall territorial claim you are making. Action is needed swiftly or the entire cause could be lost.”
Vildrious tried to watch Duronaht for any indications of what the Emperor thought. He saw only confusion.
“You’ve thought about this a great deal. What would you have me do?” Duronaht asked.
“There are two others who are drawing support as of this moment. One is your brother, the Traitor King, who presently stands ready to claim the capital for himself. The other is Nethron. He’s supposedly on our side, but nonetheless is developing his own cult. He shows his face rarely, but he benefits from that display he made for himself some weeks ago now,” Ventov grumbled. “Should Your Imperial Majesty go unseen while there are two powerful forces commanding loyalty, I fear that disaster will befall all that we have attempted to build. Your Imperial Majesty must march on the capital to claim it as your own.”
Vildrious marveled at Ventov’s ability to distill that moment’s necessity into so powerful a message. Duronaht couldn’t ignore it and didn’t. Haltingly, the Emperor swelled to make his declaration.
“We march on Methrangia at dawn!” he declared in a resonant and strong voice so jarring that Vildrious almost wondered if it was indeed Duronaht’s own. “And send Lord Feradnor back to Zarmand to rule the city in my absence. I need a hand I can trust there.”
“As you will, Your Imperial Majesty,” Ventov affirmed. “The army will be ready and I will send word to Lord Feradnor.”
Duronaht smiled for the first time that Vildrious had seen in days. It was an uneasy, if possibly false, front, but Vildrious was pleased to see it nonetheless, even if that meant that a battle of unparalleled ferocity now loomed before them.