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The palace had been blinding, especially in the heat of a sunny day.
Barzah stood as a testament to grandeur, its entire cityscape crafted from pristine white stone quarried from the nearby mountains. The city was built strategically upon a series of gentle desert hills, allowing for a view of the surrounding lands. A distributary of the Crimson River allowed for life in the brutal desert, running right through the heart of Barzah. All seven of the sister cities were built along it, leading all the way down to the sea.
Barzah used to bustle with merchants peddling exotic spices, fine silks, and rare trinkets brought by hunters from distant lands. Now, the market stalls and bazaars stood nearly empty, whatever little goods they had to offer were in high enough demand that entire lines of people formed early in the morning hours for a chance to get their hands on them.
The lands struggled with resources as it was, but the war had cut off nearly all of the trade routes - forcing people to move back and closer to the sea where the land allowed for farming. Were it not for the ships from the West, the people would have already starved.
It had been quite a while now that one of the White Cities fell. It had been sacked by the northern armies - but not occupied. It had been a display of power by Korschey but one that he did not care to maintain. The city stood as a ghost now, its streets bare and limestone houses unoccupied.
Batyr had been in a foul mood for days.
The resources from the West felt like a handout, and this had continually been a point of shame for Batyr. Once, he’d made a fortune as a young man, something that had gotten him not only great respect but power enough for two of the White Cities to back him as King when it was time for the prior one to leave the throne. Now, a shadow of his former self, the war had taken whatever youth he had left.
“Shit-stained hand of the gods.” He muttered, his hand running over a long list of merchants that had declared their leave from one of the cities. He could not stop them; they were free men, but they were leaving people without means to feed. All this had meant was he would have to deploy his own to compensate, and he had very little left to spare.
There was no knock at the door. The queen, Nesmeyana, simply appeared. Her hands were no longer weighed down by gold rings and precious stones, a reflection of the entirety of the state.
“The Ember Sword has returned.” She said dryly. At this, Batyr’s face twisted.
One of the Western generals who was sent as an ambassador to the South, the Ember Sword, was a dark, serious man. He walked with confidence, spoke little, and had a quickly built reputation for being almost as humorless as Nesmeyana.
He came on a ship alongside Iros, the High Templar of the West.
Oh, but how Batyr rolled his eyes at the All-Father’s pompous order. The Templars were only the sons of nobles who took the oath and pledged never to marry - instead gaining both the power of their houses and that which came with the pull of the church. Templars sat in seats of delegation at the Midtrade City. They plagued the East. Batyr had always found that allowing such things to thrive and grow could only end in the struggle for control.
But, the High Templar had been a good man.
He came as the negotiator for both troops and supplies. When the River Cities fell, the West had begun deploying men into Sudraj’s ranks. Typhonos, the Western King, had sent many soldiers to take up Batyr’s banner. They wore his colors on their clothes, now. His heraldry on their shields.
The Ember Sword, however, seemed to have little purpose there. He came and went as he pleased and, when spoken to, would divulge little. Most of the time, he was downright unpleasant; not that Batyr was interested in socializing. He had interested Nesmeyana quite a bit, for one reason or another, but Batyr had not been worried as it was rumored that the Ember Sword had been a eunuch - so adamantly had he refused the company of women, not even looking in their direction despite how much Batyr had tried to entertain.
And besides, he was ugly as ugly could be. Batyr knew that the queen would have never preferred the Westerner over him.
“The Ember Sword.” He repeated. “It’s been a month; let’s see what he has to say.”
The great hall of the palace was always slightly darker; very few windows were carved into the stone.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
When Batyr entered, the handful of his men stood at attention, their backs straight and pikes standing tall. In the center was a circle of large, sturdy chairs. A table between them, once used for entertaining dignitaries - now for planning attacks and doing some rather bleak accounting of the state.
Iros stood at the head, and when Batyr entered, he stepped to the side.
He was a tall man, standing with an aura of authority. One could tell that he took great pride in his cleanliness and well-put-together looks. He gave off an aura of royalty, his face a reflection of patience and intelligence.
“Your Majesty.” He greeted the King with a half bow.
“General,” Batyr grumbled.
Next to Iros stood a man slightly below his height. His dark hair was pulled back into a warrior’s braid, gold cuffs woven through it, speaking of high status. He wore closely fitting, dark, velvet clothes, far too thick for the warm weather.
“Your Majesty.” The Ember Sword said, bowing as Iros had.
“The Ember Sword,” Batyr said as if announcing the man. “I trust you hurried here with the information you set out to find.”
His words were clearly meant to drive attention to the freshly bathed man, who, in fact, did not hurry as much as he could have.
The very corner of the Ember Sword’s mouth twitched.
“I have.” He nodded. “May I suggest that your men leave the room, Your Majesty? I am afraid what I have found is up to your discretion.”
Batyr looked back, and the soldiers fell into step, out of the room.
“What have you brought?” Batyr sat at the head of the table, his grim eyes on the dark man.
The two generals took their seats as well.
“It is where the Frozen Sea meets the tundra.” The Ember Sword began. “It stands bound by three chains. A gold, a silver, and iron. It is bound at the very end of the longest Northern road.”
“By gods…” Batyr leaned his head wearily on his open palm. “First the Hag, now the Legho. He seeks to turn the Nothing against our men. Not only does he want to conquer, he wants to feed them to the devils as well.”
“No man can approach the Legho and walk away unscathed, not even Korschey’s men.” The Ember Sword shook his head. “Were they to bring it here, they’d have to pull the chains with horses a day ahead. The lands will not allow such movement in the winter, at least.”
“So what, we live five more months and then they march it into our cities to crumble at our feet?” Batyr’s face reddened.
“This is the news I bring.” The Ember Sword said grimly.
“No one is to know about this.” the King sighed, “If word spreads, morale will suffer and create a stage for it to strike.”
“It may be time,” Iros spoke up, “to revisit a parley.”
Both the Batyr and the Ember Sword looked to him, each man’s distaste originating from different places.
Iros simply sat with his head leaned against his hand.
“Korschey has not entertained it once. What makes you think we can make it happen?” Batyr’s anger was building. These men from foreign lands came to him preaching war strategy - to him - a King known for the most ferocious soldiers in the kingdoms. One of his berserkers was worth two of any other in battle, after all.
“He has two Daughters of the Nothing.” Iros continued, unphased by Batyr. “He has spent the past seven years silently flaunting his superiority. Seven years we have held him off. His people starve as ours do.”
“Only a fool thinks Korschey considers the well-being of his people,” Batyr muttered, and the Ember Sword bowed his head in agreement.
“He will be king of nothing soon. The North does not have the resources of the West to feed their people - they live under the cover of ice for the majority of the year.” Iros was still unbothered. “He wants the Sisters so he can strong-arm ending the war.”
“He had the Hag before the war began.” The Ember Sword reminded them.
“He did not start the war,” Iros remarked, straightening his back. “Aisultan’s general did. Korschey was just the pair of iron balls he chose to hide behind. Now he is dead. If we send a man worth paying attention to, Korschey will listen. Even such as he has something he wants.”
His eyes were on the Ember Sword.
“And who, praytell, Lord High Templar, is a man worth paying attention to?” Batyr’s temper was heating. “Perhaps it is you?”
“Anyone can be a man worth paying attention to, My Liege if it is a King that sends him there. The question is, how does one get this man so far North that the Northern King will even entertain it?” Iros’ eyes were still on the other westerner. “As it stands now, men are killed on sight in their passes. But what we have here is a man who had just gone so far North that the very last road ended there into the Frozen Sea. And he returned to tell of it.”
Had the King not been there, some choice words would have been exchanged, so intensely did the Ember Sword stare down Iros.
“Do it then.” Batyr waved his hand, standing. “We will discuss the details with my generals and must set off immediately. Five months of winter is what our people have left, I will not cut it any closer.”
At this, the High Templar and the Ember Sword took their leave.
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