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In a royal fashion, upon their arrival, the audience with the King had been set a whole week out.
The Ember Sword was allowed to stay in the barracks, but only the shabbiest of rooms had been provided. He could only be thankful it had been a private one.
He passed the time drinking and gambling - very little else had been available to him in Middle Town. Despite the stark differences in alliance, the men in his escort party had grown to be fairly friendly with him. They, too, played cards, and sometimes, they would even allow things of interest to pass their lips when truly in their drink.
The locals had been amicable at best. They still stared, and it was still tricky to get service in taverns, but with the ravages of war, even their sons and husbands came back with comparable scars.
He spent the last night before the audience, pacing back and forth down the dirty, snowy streets. Surely, he would be put to death the very next day when, instead of surrender, he came to Korschey with a rather flimsy offer of a treaty.
It had been a terrible idea, truly. One that depended on a man known for his cruelty to be reasonable.
The Ember Sword had tried to find the words, recited them every which way during the entirety of the travel, discarded them and started all over again.
He knew what Batyr wanted, but it was much. It allowed the Southern King to keep too much land and too many resources. Too many men. A proud fool, Iros was right - Batyr would see all the White Cities fall just so his prick looked bigger.
The Ember Sword had also known that whatever he was to say inside the Obsidian Palace, Typhonos would back his words unquestionably—a big responsibility for someone who had just spent two weeks drowning in spirits and playing illegal cards.
He found himself stopped in front of a door. It had been notched at the right corner of the frame three times - the third one crossed with another—a sign of a gambling house.
It would have been an unremarkable evening but for the man - a pathfinder - who’d come trying to relay some very questionable information. He’d said the armies of the North had been at Chernaval. And, although it provided both the space and the proximity to the capital, the lake would not stay frozen forever.
Maybe Korschey did not need it to.
If the Legho was to be taken South in the spring, so could the horde - so would the horde.
“Fuck.” He’d tried to sleep, but sleep would not come. If the man had been right… it would be a big breakthrough for Batyr. Knowing how far the armies were to the North would allow them to advance. Maybe even take the Midtrade City. Trap Korschey in his lands, establish routes between the Iron Wall and the White Cities, deliver supplies…
Typhonos had far too much faith in him.
The men who came for him in the morning were not the usual ones he had grown used to. They were dressed in much finer clothing, their light armor shining and their boots bright red.
He’d dressed in a long jacket and ensured his boots were shined. If one did not look at his face, one would think he was a proper gentleman.
A proper diplomat, like the one he was about to impersonate.
He thought it overdone when thirty men took him up the grand white stairs to the Obsidian Palace. He noted that not one of them made it up without trying to hide how hard they were breathing.
He was marched through the halls and past several rooms until they’d arrived at the large ornate doors to the council chamber. A man went in first, and when he exited, two more guards went forward to open the doors.
Inside sat Korschey.
And only Korschey.
He was dressed plainly, with no festive clothes or furs. Although his tunic was made of fine cloth and the band atop his head had glistened - clearly pure gold.
He did not greet, and neither did the Ember Sword. It was simply silent as the guards exited and left them alone.
“Sit,” Korschey commanded. His voice was deep. It vibrated in the stones when he spoke.
The Ember Sword sat.
“Speak.”
“Your Grace,” he began, “I’ve come as a representative of the other states.”
“Have you now?” Korschey chuckled, although his face remained stern. “And you’ve consulted the Eastern warlords before coming here? Have you gained their blessing? Or was it just Batyr whining into your ear until you’d given in and given him what he wanted, just like his wife does?”
“I come on behalf of the South and the West.”
“And here I was, this whole time, under the impression that poor ol’ Typhonos and his god-child did not want to be involved.” The sarcasm in his voice was evident, although the mention of Dimos had taken the Ember Sword aback. This was unknown, not anywhere outside of Typhonos’ closest advisors. Korschey saw this reaction immediately.
“You think I don’t know? That I am in the dark, here, in the depths of the North?” There was no indignance in his voice. No sting. It was as if a father had been talking to a child who’d stolen an extra sweet cake at dinner.
The Northern King leaned forward, low voice just a little quieter.
“I know quite a few things. Quite a few things about you.”
The Ember Sword sat deathly still.
“Whatever it is Batyr wants, the answer is no,” Korschey said. “I do not even care to hear of it. The only reason you were brought here is because I wanted to meet the man who’d murdered my treasonous general. The man who had stolen my Golden. The man who, by all accounts, should be dead.”
Cold. It spread through the Ember Sword’s veins. He remained quiet.
“And the only reason I am going to let you leave is so you can go back to the kings and tell them there is nothing they can offer me to spare them and their men.” He slowly closed his fist, his bony fingers coming together with a strange grace. “Tell them that I have bound the Nothing and will feed their people to it. I will feed their mothers, sons, and fathers to it. I will send their daughters through ranks upon ranks of my men and should there be anything --anything left, I will feed it to the Nothing as well. And when their bones are nothing but sun-bleached fertilizer upon the earth, I will feed them the kings themselves.”
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His hand relaxed.
“I will save Batyr and Typhonos for last. And, should I feel merciful, I won’t make Dimos watch before I slit his throat myself.”
The scarred man remained quiet, his eyes affixed on Korschey.
The look on the King’s face shouted his next words before they had come out.
“I know you for who you are. And I know you for what you are. You do not even own your name, do you? Now tell me, can you take this message to them, Marat?”
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They were not kind when they threw Iros down in front of Rurik.
His cheek was pressed to the floor as a man stepped on the space between his shoulder blades at his neck.
They’d not even picked up the bodies of his men, leaving both the dead and the dying on the road to rot. He could still hear the few that were too injured to move, their gasps for air and wet wheezing as blood filled their mouths.
The Ember Sword should have never left. But, ultimately, it was Iros’ responsibility. He knew they would not pass, and he still took them forward to their deaths.
“Is Batyr ridding himself of Typhonos’ lackeys at the final hour?” Commander Rurik laughed. Iros saw the man’s road-worn, dirt and horse feces-stained boots step up mere feet from his head. “Here we are about to take his lands, and he has already handed them to the West. They probably kissed Typhonos’ golden balls and then thanked him for it, too. A shame.”
He motioned for the men to let the High Templar go and watched as Iros stood slowly but gracefully.
“You did not train your man well, General,” Rurik said. “He came with all but your location marked on a map.”
“We had not made it a secret, Commander. We came under a black banner.” Iros answered. “My men had done nothing short of what they were told.”
“And how many more had come under such a banner? How many men’s deaths until the lesson is learned? Did you not see the pikes with the easterners’ heads upon them?”
Iros remained quiet. This had been a grave mistake.
“I suppose you got at least the one through.” Rurik turned and strolled in the other direction, musing. “Have to surrender at some point, may as well do so now. Treaty indeed.”
Iros’ eyes shot up to him. The Ember Sword had been a fool.
“His Majesty won’t accept it, you know.” It seemed that Rurik liked to talk and did not care if the conversation was with himself. “He is not interested in the White Cities surrendering. He will keep enough to work the gem mines, and the rest will take apart the cities stone by stone - until the work puts them into their graves.
“Have you imprisoned him?”
“I sent him North.” Rurik smiled. “And should he survive the winters, he will be taken to Volkograd. Should there be a miracle of his return, he will get to witness the death of the High Templar in the middle of the Cathedral. What a clever endeavor that will be, strung up on the face of the building just like Aisultan. The All-Father’s grace, his message of hope –just an ornament decorating the Midtrade City.”
When Iros did not reply again, Rurik nodded toward the guards at the door.
“In a room somewhere. I care not where. Make sure it has no windows.” He said.
Iros was taken and pushed into a room that must have been used exclusively for storage. It smelled of rotting wooden crates and the earthy smell of potatoes. Neither of the guards said anything when the door shut.
He spent the next two days this way. The door was barred from the outside, and now and then, they would bring him dried-out bread and water.
Iros knew he fared better than most.
Commander Rurik was known to be a cruel and extravagant man. He’d been a baron under Korschey, one that was not particularly welcome at state events before the war.
On the third day, a soft tapping came at the door. Iros did not know if it was day or night, but it looked like the light under the door was coming from a lamp.
“High Templar..?” The whisper came in a deep voice, the man seemingly pressed against the door.
“Well met?” Iros felt silly answering in such a way, but there was no appropriate greeting for this situation.
He heard the lock slide and then another. He stepped back from the door.
A man entered, careful to remain quiet, and shut the door behind him.
He was poorly dressed in a soldier’s coat atop his dirty wool shirt. His face was weathered and many wrinkles were formed around his eyes, mouth, and forehead. He gave Iros a nervous smile.
“High Templar, All-Father be with you.” He whispered. “You cannot remain here.”
“Who are you?”
“Edric.” The man answered. “I was a scribe before the conscriptions. I’ve written many a book of the All-Father and the Order.”
“Why are you here, Edric?” He asked.
“I saw what they were building, outside, that is. The Commander means to provoke the West, kill you, Lord Iros, and put you up at the Western gates. It rolls, Lord Iros. He wants everyone along the main road to see before it reaches the Iron Wall.”
His words were troubling, and Iros did not doubt they were true. A display of the High Templar’s body sent to the West would force Typhonos’ hand. He could only imagine in what state it would be by the time it reached Titan’s Pass.
“They will execute you for this,” Iros said.
Edric shook his head.
“I am to kill men in the name of the Undying King. I did not so much as harm a rodent before coming here. In death, I would not be obligated to serve.”
“You forsake your life?”
“I have already sinned, High Templar. We did not know where we were sent. We were told that our homes were under threat. That the enemy moved forward and wiped out the villages.” The man’s face was fallen. “We were near the border. I thought, surely it was true.”
Iros frowned. Before him stood a desperate, broken man. He spoke as if for many, the assistance of whom would have been needed to meet Iros here.
“All-Father save you,” Edric continued, “but you could do some good. Please.”
“What would you do?”
“The Cathedral has many entrances and many exits. Some of us will turn a blind eye should you find one.”
“How will I know where these blind eyes are?”
“We wear fur hats made of black prairie bear. It is native to our region. There is not a man among us that does not wish to go home. Not a man here that did not leave their impoverished family behind, fields to die, and livestock to starve.” Edric said.
“Do you know what lies past the Cathedral?”
“I cannot help with that. There are patrols and guards. They trap people in their homes. Some are like us, but some are also cruel. They go into the homes and take what they want - food, clothes, and daughters.”
“I will manage.” Iros nodded. “Thank you, Edric.”
The man gave him a half smile and listened nervously, his ear to the door.
“Before you go,” the soldier said, even quieter now, “I must tell you - there is talk that the South is surrendering. And there is talk that they will kill them anyway. The men joke, but they’ve heard the Commander speak of it as well.”
“The South is not surrendering,” Iros sighed, “there is just a raving lunatic on the loose.”
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