“No, father. We’ve heard nothing more from Gulnholn,” Lyfress repeated for the third time that evening.
Her repeated assurances were not assuaging her father’s concerns. He had traveled with Lyfress to assist the army in its medical needs as priests and priestesses knew better than most how to close wounds and keep them clean. She had hoped that these looming responsibilities would distract her father from the constant worrying about their home village. If anything, he fretted more. This made the already miserable conditions of their small tent on the camp’s periphery far worse.
“We need to be sure that Nethron’s words haven’t turned them against us,” Cesord repeated. “Being here with the Emperor’s army is pointless if our own homes rot out from under us.”
While she did not disagree with that sentiment, her father’s repeated lamentations were not helpful. They raised his own apprehensions, and hers as well, without proposing even the faintest of solutions. Tired of it all, she let her tempers flare at her father for the first time in years.
“And what exactly do you want to do, father?” she yelled. He jolted in surprise. “They’re loyal to you, the ones who stayed. Those who doubted what you had to say left already.”
Cesord’s eyes drifted off.
“Ulford and…” he began, but Lyfress cut him off.
“He’d been lost to us for years in one way or another. I know you think yourself responsible for every single thing the village does, but that’s ridiculous. You can’t oversee all of their lives,” she implored him. “Please, don’t let unreasonable people break your mind.”
Cesord nodded weakly and folded his hands to pray.
“We need help from Ceuna, from the High Angel herself. I’ve beseeched her to offer those loyal to her something, anything, that we can show others that the faithful will be rewarded for their true hearts,” he said, momentarily taking on an optimistic air before that, too, collapsed. “She won’t intercede, however. The High Angel’s entire hope has been that we can stand without her propping us up. But if we are to confront those who are seduced by Nethron’s gifts and promises and all we have are the words we’ve always said, I fear we will lose the fight that matters; the fight for their minds and their souls.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Lyfress said. “What is it that you think we need?”
“A gift,” Cesord sighed. “Something that you and I and all of those like us can go to each and every person in this empire and show them. We’ve been fools thinking simply repeating angelic teachings would work at a time when Omonrel and Nethron are promising the whole world everything imaginable. There was a time where I thought what Forynda offered, a world that would be left to govern itself, should have been appealing enough. But I’ve felt doubts in that creed, my own doubts. As the world veers toward suffering, simply telling them that they should take joy in the fact that they own their suffering alone is not going to be enough.”
Lyfress felt she knew where her father’s babbling was leading. In her own mind, and in the words of so many of those who had professed loyalty to Forynda, a single conclusion had been reached. Forynda would have to offer a tangible gift to those standing behind her. Making that demand on the High Angel was unthinkable, however. Asking for precisely what Forynda had forbidden would be a dry well.
Instead of suffering in silence with these conflicting thoughts, she chose to draw out her father, who she was certain was attempting to conceal something from her. Yet, it was almost so obvious to her, she suspected he wished it to be drawn out.
“It sounds as though you’ve thought about this a lot,” Lyfress said suspiciously. “Shall we beg?”
Cesord gave his daughter a light smile.
“I already have. And I think that call may have been answered,” he murmured. Lyfress expected him to say such a thing and yet it still bothered her. He motioned out toward the forest at the camp’s periphery. “Come. I want to show you where I’ve been praying lately.”
“When did you do that? I’ve been with you every hour I’ve been awake,” she asked.
“Ah, every hour you’ve been awake, my dear daughter. Being young, you sleep more than I do,” he smiled. “I sleep even less than normal these days.”
They wandered out to the camp’s periphery, Cesord in the lead with a torch that consisted of little more than embers. They happened across a grove separated by a modest rocky cliff that her father maneuvered expertly. There, he uncovered a makeshift altar he had covered with leaves and branches.
“Here, kneel with me. If we pray earnestly to Forynda, she will answer our call,” he said, pointing toward the altar.
“Father…” she began, finding the words elusive. “I have never wavered in my adherence to the High Angel, but…”
“You’re wondering why she would speak to me and not you or anyone else?” he interrupted. “In truth, I’m not at all sure that she doesn’t talk to others. She’s never claimed that. But I’m certain she’s spoken to me.”
Lyfress was unsure of how to accept such a declaration. She knew her father was never one to exaggerate a revelation. All that he had ever revealed to her had been in accordance with what she herself had observed, even if she had doubted it at first. Words from the High Angel herself? That, however, was too much to believe.
“I… I think we should return to the camp,” she said so rapidly that the words almost slurred together.
“No,” he insisted. “Kneel with me. And pray aloud.”
She wished to object, but her father’s earnest command persuaded her at a level she could not question. Atop a rocky ledge, they knelt and joined their hands, throwing their heads aloft.
“Mighty Forynda,” he began and she followed, just a letter behind him, anticipating the remainder of his words, “we do not presume to make demands upon you. Our brethren are weak and scared. They need proof of your beneficence in the face of these traitorous forces who offer them treasurers beyond comprehension. We ask this with the greatest humility. We ask this in desperation. We ask this as your servants.”
She found it unnerving that the words had followed so naturally, as though she had heard them before. She hadn’t. This was an entirely new prayer, a new plea. Those words that she had uttered had never crossed her lips. Yet they felt that she spoken them innumerable times. For a moment, she even felt her own identity dissipate and merge with her father’s. Strange echoes reverberated about her. Voices she had heard and songs she had not. It seemed to last an eternity and yet but a second.
A powerful voice cut through the clamor.
“My faithful servant, you have again come to ask for my aid,” the echoing woman’s voice rang in Lyfress’s head. “And you bring with you your daughter. She is, too, a faithful servant of a pure heart.”
“We do, Mighty Forynda,” Cesord answered. “Will we have aid sufficient to ward off Nethron’s enticements?”
Silence followed. Lyfress’s mind considered thousands of thoughts in but a moment. That she was now in Forynda’s presence was a glory she had never expected to experience, not in her mortal life.
“Those foes you face are great, without remorse and devoid of scruples. Avoiding intervention on behalf of the faithful is no longer a possibility that can be entertained. Your prayers will not go unanswered. The benevolence of Ceuna will empower your efforts and guide you to victory,” Forynda’s voice declared.
Her declaration was comforting, but it also seemed as though it were but part of a dream. That her father, the simple mayor of Gulnhon, could summon the greatest of the angels with a prayer, was beyond her most ardent dreams. Just as she began to believe what she was hearing, the voice began to fade.
“You will have my gift, a true power of Ceuna, a power that Nethron could not grant you. He granted mere trinkets. I shall grant you a power necessary to mend wounds, to vanquish enemies, and to know yourself,” Forynda declared. A terrifying pulse of gilded white light emanated from where the voice had been. It shot through Lyfress and Cesord before pulsing throughout the land. They felt a connection between themselves and between all who now felt Ceuna’s grace ripple through them. “What you do with these powers is your responsibility.”
The voice and the light faded completely, becoming unseen and unheard entirely. Lyfress, shaking with her skin buzzing and running cold, looked at her father with wonderment.
“Father, you knew of this and didn’t tell me?”
“To be honest, I wondered if I was crazy,” he confessed with a guilty glance. “I didn’t want you to think I was.”
Laughing, she hugged him closely, feeling his aged joints crackle and pop. Both of them surged in the warmth of the High Angel’s blessing. It was truly a sensation without parallel.
~~~
The 4th Zarmandian Army, core of the Zarmandian Home Armies, was now Vildrious’s to command. Yet, the entire purpose of commanding the Home Armies had been lost in this instance. They were never supposed to be frontline combat forces. While the best-equipped and the best-led of Zarmand’s armies, they were to be the pinnacle of one’s military career in the east. A safe and prestigious post, far away from the Segrison Marche or the Donod Frontier. His only reassurance at this moment was that there were no “safe” postings. Every command was now a combat command.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
It also was of keen interest to Emperor Duronaht himself, which presented both promise and peril. Use the Emperor’s prized troops well in the upcoming battle and the possibilities were endless. Fail, however, and a possible execution for dereliction of duty would follow. Vildrious calmed himself by pondering that there was no alternative to the present dilemma. Choices were few. Were the angels Parlon, Omonrel, Jagreth, and Myrvaness to aid them fully, a swift and total victory could be had. If, however, the High Angel Forynda swept down upon them, delivering fierce judgment to all who had defied her, it would be the end of everything. Rumors were rife that she might intervene at any moment.
Grand Marshal Ventov, however, had maintained a steady demeanor, handling all information, both good and bad, without even the slightest trace of emotion. Calm pomposity ruled all in the Grand Marshal’s world. Vildrious found it effective as he never dared to challenge Ventov’s observations or orders. Earlier that day, when Emperor Duronaht had issued his edicts for which commanders would command each army, the Grand Marshal had made his view of Vildrious’s command clear.
When exiting the Emperor’s command tent, Ventov looked to Vildrious to prompt Vildrious to ask a question.
“Is something the matter, sir?” Vildrious asked.
“Are you proud of your new command, Marshal Vildrious?” Ventov replied coldly.
“Of course! I…”
“Don’t be. Remember, you still answer to me and must obey my orders. Is that understood? All that has happened is that you now relay my orders to a different part of my command than you did before.”
All pride that Vildrious had felt washed away. He couldn’t argue with Ventov and knew that what he said was essentially true. However, for some reason, the Emperor summoned Vildrious and Vildrious alone to convene with him at the camp’s edge looking toward Methrangia. Duronaht wore decorative armor, probably to grow comfortable in it before the looming battle. The Emperor did not alter his gaze to acknowledge the 4th Army’s marshal. Instead, Vildrious walked around Duronaht and knelt.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” he declared.
Emperor Duronaht made only the faintest wiggle of his right hand to call on Vildrious to rise. Once he did, in deference, Vildrious took up a position slightly behind and to Duronaht’s left. In the silence that followed, he looked at members of the Solnahtern who stood stiffly looking outward into night’s void.
“How confident are you in victory, Vildrious?” the Emperor asked in a weak mumble. He did not bother to turn about and face Vildrious. Instead, his head was rigidly locked in Methrangia’s direction.
“We shall prevail!” Vildrious responded with stilted enthusiasm.
Duronaht nodded lightly.
“Do you remember when I asked you about Myrvaness coming to your aid?” the Emperor queried in a muted, almost suspicious voice.
“Y... Yes.”
“I’ve been thinking about that question again. Have you got a different answer? Anything new since that time?”
Vildrious’s stomach clenched, feeling like a rock pressing up against his heart.
“No. I don’t. No. Again, I never understood why.”
“It seems odd that she’d take a personal interest in you. You’re hardly our most accomplished commander.”
“Y… Your Majesty, I’ve only ever served you faithfully and…”
“I wasn’t speaking about loyalty. I was speaking about ability,” Duronaht coldly interrupted. “Did you ever think she might have simply thought you were useful to her? I can only guess that’s why Simel and Vorlan took to my brother. He’s a simpering weak idiot. Perfect for them to manipulate. Maybe that’s what they seek out. Weakness.”
Vildrious fought every impulse to mention Omonrel and Parlon’s affections for Duronaht that had dated back many years. He wanted to defend himself by pointing out that hypocrisy, but there was no possibility of speaking that way to the Emperor. He would simply have to take the insult.
“Right. Again, if there is anything I can do to make my service better to…”
“Your service to me is just fine,” Duronaht sighed. “I mention all of this because I had a dream, a very strange dream. My father came to me in it. His eyes gouged out just as I had left him. He raised his finger at me and shouted ‘THEY’RE USING YOU!’ in that damnable scream he could always do. If you’ve ever heard it, you know what I speak of. It sounded as real as me speaking to you right now.
“Then I wondered if he had a point. It’s troubled me all day. And if the others are using my brother and even you, then what does that say for me?”
A quiver of panic built through Duronaht’s words as he continued to speak. Vildrious suspected that Duronaht was on the brink of crying. He saw in that panic an opportunity for himself.
“No. No. No. Your Majesty, angels came to you before anyone else because they saw you as worthy of their attention. I don’t know why Myrvaness came to me, but it was probably to aid you. As for your brother, I suspect it’s because they were envious of Parlon, Omonrel, and Myrvaness building a loyal following they could never have. I’m sure they’re just petty little bastards.”
Duronaht chuckled and turned to Vildrious, a crooked grin on his face.
“I apologize for earlier. That’s quite good, Vildrious. Quite good. That’s what I’ve come to realize. It’s the only thing that explains it. The Empress said as much to me this morning when I woke,” he said fondly.
“She is an example to us all,” Vildrious quickly added.
The Emperor smiled broadly at his marshal and slapped him on the back.
“Come. I wanted your thoughts on something,” Duronaht commanded.
The Emperor and the Solnahtern surrounding him ventured down away from the river. Vildrious warily followed them. A stiff wind picked up, blowing the smell of rotting river weeds and dead fish from the Nehal River toward them. As it was late summer, this was an ordinary occurrence since both would wash up on the river’s shores. Being away from all of that was one of the few benefits of being posted in the far eastern commands. That one minor blessing had not offset the other adversities, however.
The Emperor and his guards stopped outside a small grove, surrounded by thick old trees with almost barren branches. Within the grove, a smattering of men and women had their faces illuminated by floating orbs of fire while engaging in some manner of ritual Vildrious had never seen before. Standing before pails of water, they all conducted movements with their hands or staves, to extract from those pails water sufficient to craft icy spears that they launched harmlessly to the east.
“They’re followers of Nethron, or at least some who learned from Nethron as he’s been meandering around the world. Whatever they are, they’re here and they want to fight for me. They’re calling themselves ‘mages.’ The question I’ve got for you is, how much use do you think you can get out of them? Ventov doesn’t seem to think they’ll be much good. He kept saying, ‘Gimmicks like these don’t win wars.’ Or something like that,” Duronaht took manifest pleasure in mocking Ventov’s heavily-affected manner of speaking.
At first, Vildrious was inclined to agree with Ventov’s assessment as he watched the mages continue their exercises. They were impressive in their own right, but compelling military value was not quite so apparent. Ultimately, those icy spears were not meaningfully better than arrows. However, he saw a couple of the mages manage to craft some dozens of ice shards at once out of their water and hurl them forward. Also, another mage appeared to manipulate the air itself to spew forth crackling lightning. Another practiced tossing magmatic orbs of fire as far as one hundred yards at least. They splattered on the ground, splashing hot gobs of fire every which way. These ever more impressive displays that grew as he watched filled him with dread. This could be a terrible new way of war, but that itself gave him an idea with which to advise the Emperor.
“Your Imperial Majesty, if I were on the field and I saw that all happening,” he paused to point toward all of the mages, “I’d commit everything I had to charging at them and trying to eliminate the threat. A good commander can’t tolerate the presence of a threat that can expand like that. It’d be unmilitary to do so. The western men are green and have never fought before. Show them that and they’ll start breaking. Again, that would force any commander worth his skin to attack to try to remove the threat.”
Duronaht nodded silently, his eyes fixated on these two dozen or so mages as they continued to practice their arts.
“You and I share a mind on this, Vildrious,” Duronaht said, causing Vildrious to perk up and smile. “And if I know my brother, he’ll lose his nerve. He’s a simpering coward, a true fool., and he has father’s temper in some ways. I could easily imagine him panicking when faced with these wonderful creations.”
“He’d have good reason to,” Vildrious chimed in during Duronaht’s pause.
“I’ll attach these good souls to your army. I think you appreciate them more than some of the others would,” Duronaht said with a smirk.
Vildrious bowed toward his emperor.
“A thousand thanks, Your Imperial Majesty,” Vildrious said, choking on his words, genuinely overwhelmed by the favor.
After Duronaht departed, Vildrious continued watching the mages for some time, his mind conjuring images of how they could deliver to him a mighty victory that would assure his place throughout all of history as one of the innovators in warfare. He could even imagine how that would pave him to the very highest positions, supplanting Ventov and anyone else of his ilk.
This is a great gift. The greatest gift. I will not fail to appreciate it. No. I’ll use it at every opportunity.
~~~
Vorlan glided across one of the nearby farm fields in central Methrangia, near enough to the bend in the Nehal where the armies had gathered that he could respond should conflict erupt. While floating above it, he could sense that Tathyk had enriched the soil some centuries ago. There had been few farms in the world that had not felt Tathyk’s benevolence at some juncture/ Tathyk had always gone underappreciated among the mortals. Without him, food would be far scarcer and less enjoyable. Most mortals would be consigned to scraping out an existence with nothing to spare, always teetering on the edge. Tathyk’s bounties made their more comfortable existence possible.
So it was with mortals that they lost appreciation for the most fundamental requirements of life to complain about their luxuries. That Parlon, creator of music and many of the other arts, had so much more influence than Tathyk the farmer and provider of the world’s abundances was not lost on Vorlan. There were times he understood Forynda’s frustrations. On the eve of this calamitous battle was such a time.
Tathyk, with whom he had been traveling, took up alongside him as he floated.
“I have done all that I can to help these souls stave off the devastation of famine as this war sets in,” Tathyk lamented. “There was a time when there were few enough mortals that I could help feed them all. That was long ago. Their successes in this world have made them so numerous that we cannot aid them.”
“They shall be fortunate if that condition is still true at the end of all of this,” Vorlan lamented. “I feel that there exists an answer, a solution, to this entire tragedy, but I have searched in vain to find it. Looming over all of this is my greatest fear: that we cannot find it because it does not exist.”
Tathyk slowly nodded in agreement, his seed-like eyes twisting in his face’s soil. Both of them looked upward at the moons as a flight of glowing nocturnal birds soared over the world. They had been Rithys’s creations, creatures that would gain their power by the moons’ light rather than the sun. Vorlan wondered if they found the world more peaceful at night with most of the more troublesome creatures, man included, asleep and harmless.
“I have begged Forynda to allow us to protect the mortals from our wayward brethren. We cannot allow what became of Emperor Covifaht to be the fate of all other mortals. Parlon would sooner burn the whole world to the ground than allow any mortal being to insult him,” Vorlan said. He felt unease pulse from Tathyk. “Cyrona is attempting to persuade Forynda to allow us to intervene. Only one force, however, will prevent our brethren from brutalizing each other and that is Forynda herself. I doubt she will intercede, however. She constantly raises the threat, but ultimately she is so fearful of what her intervention would mean that she avoids it.”
“I would not be so certain of that,” Tathyk murmured.
Vorlan turned to glare at Tathyk, attempting to extract more information. Like the ground itself, Tathyk liked to bury his secrets.
“Forynda may well be more involved than she cares to admit. I should not say much more,” Tathyk continued, his eyes twisting inward as if to hide in his face’s soil.
“My dear friend,” Vorlan responded with a hint of annoyance guarded by a smile, “you cannot say such things and then expect me to simply sit by and not prod. Please, something more.”
Tathyk guiltily glanced and the Earth Angel and then back at the moons.
“I can only say that even the High Angel is not immune to the pleas from her modest ardent followers,” he said cryptically.
Vorlan huffed and smiled. Suspecting as much for seemingly eons made Tathyk’s innuendo no less satisfying.
“Perhaps she will hear those pleas now,” Vorlan said. “Let us hope she does.”