The next couple of days passed by in relative peace. Freeholders were filtering into the city in batches, both in answer to the call for the muster, and in a natural flow of population. Redspire was growing more and more crowded, something that made Matt worry about his food supply. Starvation was a natural event in most medieval societies, but he didn’t want to see half his people starve to death in the capital. Luckily, the wagons bearing grain seemed to be consistently arriving, even if the public granaries was draining his funds at an alarming rate.
Grain carts weren’t the only thing arriving, however. Cart after cart arrived, each one weighed down with loads of brick, all coming from the Red Moon villages to the west. The pyromancers that Tek had lent him were apparently doing well, helping to bake the clay into more and more building material. Once the excavation for the sand filters and the Great Cistern were done, the work crews would put all that building material to very good use.
Fortunately, the rain hadn’t slowed that project by very much. The Gnomes had continued to carve their way through the ground at a good pace, and the rest of the laborers were following their example. Parufeth reported the work was still on schedule, and that they expected to lay the foundations for the actual brickwork and terracotta pipes long before the snow began to fall.
It was watching the Gnomes at their work that gave Matt his inspiration for what he wanted to do in terms of his first Source. Melren was mildly miffed that he insisted on beginning the mantras for a foundation based on Earth—he got the impression that Imps in general tended to value Fire more than other types of magic—but the former nobleman was still encouraging, regardless. It was slow work, but hopefully it would bear fruit soon.
Lady Einreth had left the capital immediately, riding south with the rest of her entourage, but the debates she had left behind in the Grand Council continued. Lord Torth appeared to be using the accusations to browbeat the Goblin nobility into cooperating with his own agendas. Matt was still uncertain about what the Imp was planning, but it appeared to have something to do with centralizing power within some of the judicial Magistrates. He still seemed loyal, however, so Matt didn’t obstruct him. As long as he didn’t gather too much influence, there was no reason to move against the High Imp. Yet.
Unfortunately, not every bit of news was good. Messengers continued to arrive daily from the Small Heights, reporting small scale skirmishes against Itrelia’s forces. Lord Grufen was still holding the line, though he reported casualties on both sides. It appeared the Frost Elves were still determined to take the Gnomish homeland, however, and there were no signs that the war there was going to end.
There were other reports from the northern part of the Spirelands. Itrelia seemed understandably reluctant to try harassing the supply lines leading to Greymouth, but that wouldn’t stop her from reaching the outskirts of the capital. He’d already heard reports of villages being raided, with small bands of Frost Elves stealing food and other goods. Some refugees had trickled in, though some of them were families that had seen the possibility of war and were trying to escape it. Matt had no doubt that the raiding would get worse as the weather grew colder.
Things were even worse down south. Every report that reached him from the Sortenmoors seemed to speak of bloodshed and burning. Lord Teblas was apparently trying to control the region, but the militia that Matt had raised there was just as determined to strike at his flanks and supply train. His retaliatory raids only increased the chaos, however, and the cycle continued to burn and destroy more of the few villages remaining there.
He'd still heard nothing of the forces that Suluth had led to the Sortenmoors, but at this point it was mostly a relief that she hadn’t somehow joined Teblas. There was no news of the Alliance of Light either. They were still gathering troops, but it seemed more and more likely that they wouldn’t be ready to invade before spring. It gave him a little hope that he could meet them with an army of his own by then. Maybe there would still be a farm, mill, or pasture unburned in the Sortenmoors by the time he got there.
All those concerns were outweighed by a messenger from Greymouth, however. The Goblin arrived on a near-exhausted Warg, spattered with mud from the road. He came directly to the palace, not even stopping to rest at the barracks, and as soon as he saw the message, Matt understood why. A moment later, he’d asked Gorfeld to summon the captains.
The Noble Races were regrouping.
“Greymouth can hold, sire.” Captain Worak gestured to the map with confidence. “The enemy might have more troops available, but the fortifications more than outweigh their advantages. If Captain Morteth stays firm, then the enemy will be stuck outside his walls for the entire winter.”
Matt nodded. It was hard to feel that same confidence as he looked at the wooden pieces, marking the last known positions of nearly thirty banners of enemy troops. Morteth had twelve banners at Greymouth; there would be no chance of a breakout stopping them this time.
Snolt was studying the map as well, his face grim. Whatever bloodlust might have cheered him during their raids had long since disappeared, with his troops now once again a part of the garrison. “There’s no way we’d be able to cut their supply lines this time, my liege. They’re already watching for us.”
“A problem caused by doing our job too well, Captain Snolt.” Matt grinned slightly, and the assembled captains chuckled. Other enemy banners had already taken up position at the various exits to passes across the mountains. For now, they appeared to be content watching the passes and waiting for another raid in force like the one Matt had led into their rear. Apparently, Hethwellow and his allies weren’t going to allow him to repeat the same strategy this time.
“Yet it is still a problem, my liege.” Captain Karve folded his arms, looking around at the gathered officers. “While Greymouth may be able to hold out for a significant amount of time, a siege will still force Morteth to surrender. No army, no matter how brave, can fight on an empty stomach for long.”
Matt grimaced. “How many supplies does Morteth have available?”
Gorfeld responded after consulting some notes. “Or last account determined that there should be at least three months of food available. The fortress has its own water supply, thanks to a series of wells, so we need not worry about thirst.”
“That’s if some blasted Wizard doesn’t freeze the wells solid, or force them to run dry.” Capain Tirez reached over to tap one of the banners gathered east of Greymouth. “The Azure Covenant has plenty of water mages, and the Coven of Gold has more spells than they’ve ever shown to outsiders. We shouldn’t forget that they can do more than just throw fireballs.”
Captain Cors nodded. “The damn Dwarves might just tunnel into Greymouth too. The Sunken Clans might have only sent four banners, but they are expert sappers. They’ll have siege machines and mining equipment. Morteth will be in for more of a fight than the last time, when he was only facing Knights and Elves.”
“Not that there aren’t plenty of those as well.” Matt tapped the table softly. “If we lose Greymouth, then the rest of the High Peaks are going to be open for the Noble Races to pillage and burn.”
Cors looked around again. “Which is why we need to reinforce the fortress as soon as possible. If we can stop them there, then we can turn the rest of our forces to face other concerns.”
It was a logical enough response, but something about it felt wrong. Matt stood back from the table, still studying the situation as the captains debated the issue. Putting more soldiers in the garrison would help them hold out against a direct assault, but it would also reduce the amount of time it would take for the enemy to starve the garrison out by siege. Worse, if they lost the fortress anyway, he would have sacrificed that many more valuable soldiers for nothing.
At the same time, he couldn’t just let three thousand enemy soldiers rampage through his territory. The impact on morale aside, he wouldn’t put it past the enemy to burn every village east of Redspire before coming and putting the capital to siege as well. Was it worth holding them off at Greymouth to keep Redspire from suffering a little longer?
For now, there wasn’t much he could do, however. Stripping the troops from Redspire would be a good way to let Itrelia, Teblas, or even Suluth make a grab for the capital, and it was going to take time to gather even the freeholder militia he’d called for. In a week or two, he might have the men to reinforce the garrison, but for now he had nothing.
He nodded to himself. “It looks like the enemy is still gathering their troops. They might be trying to secure more supplies after the disaster they faced last time.” The gathered captains chuckled a bit amongst themselves, and Matt smiled. “I would say it will take them at least another week or two before they can move on Greymouth. While they do, we need to get the new troops mustered and trained. I’ll be depending on you to take care of that. Make sure that they are as ready as they can be and prepare to march east. Thank you.”
The captains saluted, and then filtered out of the room. Gorfeld watched them go, waiting until the last one had left the room. He looked at Matt with a solemn glance. “If we wait for them to lay siege to Greymouth…”
“We’ll lose. I know.” Matt rubbed at the bridge of his nose. There had to be a better plan. He just needed the time to think of it. When he looked up, Gorfeld was still watching him calmly. It took a bit of effort, but he tried to force a smile. “I’ll think of something, Gorfeld. We aren’t beat yet.”
Gorfeld nodded, his expression still sober. “Of course, my liege.” The Imp glanced at the map one last time, and then followed the captains out the door, leaving Matt alone with his thoughts.
Just a short while after his discussion with the captains, Matt found himself in another meeting room with a large number of leaders. These, however, were not military men. Not by a long shot.
At first glance, it was hard to come up with a label that fit all of them. They certainly weren’t united by species; Gnomes, Goblins, Imps, and Orcs of all kinds were present, though none of them showed the proper posture and upbringing of the nobility. None of them had an agreed-upon wardrobe either. The Goblins wore heavy scarves that nearly obscured their entire faces, while the Imps each seemed to carry a musical instrument of some kind. The Gnomes each held a box that rattled when they moved, and the Orcs all had an elaborately decorated staff, though none of them had the same design.
All of them were Speakers, the unofficial history-keepers of the people of his realm. The Low Folk respected them, and the nobility held them in contempt. All of them had answered his call to assemble in Redspire. It had taken time for so many of their number to gather in one place; apparently, they were often nomadic in nature, traveling between villages. They did so to avoid having bonds that would keep them riveted in place, but it also had made it hard for his decree to reach them.
They were here now, however, in a sufficient number that he believed they could form some kind of quorum. At least, that was what he hoped.
He walked past the restless group of Speakers and took his place at the head of the table. They fell silent rather quickly, showing far less reluctance than the nobles in the Grand Council. Those troublemakers were already beginning to forget the example that Tek had given them; apparently very little could dent the arrogance of a noble prince or princess. The Speakers were Low Folk, however, and they seemed ready to hear whatever he had called them here to say.
Matt took a moment to look around at them; first impressions were important, and probably most of all with this group. He smiled. “Welcome, all of you, to Redspire. I thank you for answering my call for help, and ask you to please let me know if there is anything I can do to help you feel comfortable over the next few days.”
The words provoked a slight stir among the Speakers, though none of them said anything. Their furtive glances and meaningful gestures said volumes, however. They might not be ready to defy him openly, but they were going to be skeptical of an offer coming from a man on a throne.
He nodded and continued. “I have asked you here for an important work. As I understand it, it is you Speakers that have preserved the stories, culture, and beliefs of the people of my realm. Is this accurate?”
The question hung in the air for several moments. An Imp raised a hand from the drum she set before her on the table. “I understand that among the nobility there are many scribes that are skilled in writing. They may have more knowledge of the past, sire.”
A murmur of agreement went through the Speakers, but Matt grinned inwardly as he read more into the statement. It was abundantly clear that the Speakers weren’t exactly sharing the opinion of those scribes, and that they were envious of the resources the nobles had given them. It might be a fragile lever, but he intended to use it all the same.
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“Perhaps they may, but there is more to history than simple words and accounts, is there not?” Matt paused, looking around at them. He saw grudging agreement, even despite the silence. “The nobility is more interested in the secrets of magic, in recording contracts and keeping accounts, than they have been in history itself. At least, that is what I have been told. If I want the stories of my people, what they tell themselves about their past and where they come from, I’ve been told to speak to you.”
There was an uncomfortable shifting among the Speakers, along with more silent exchanges. An Orc answered this time, leaning forward across the table. “Sire, we know the old stories, and we share the tales of our ancestors. We speak of the Old Monarchs, and their choices that led to triumph and ruin. Is this what you have summoned us for?”
“In a way.” Matt leaned forward as well, laying both hands on the table in front of him. “Speakers, I wish to make sure that those old stories are remembered and preserved. I wish to know them, and wish that more among our people would know them. For that, I have brought you here. I will send my personal scribes to record your stories, to make a place for them in my personal library.”
One of the Goblins shifted in his seat. “It is a great honor, my liege, but we also have many responsibilities among our own people. There are many who need us to witness their oaths and speak of their past. We cannot abandon them.”
“Nor should you.” Matt tapped the table in emphasis. “The work will be done soon, but after that, I have another task to ask of you. How do you select the people to become the next Speakers?”
There was another silence until a Gnome raised their hand. “We search among the people we visit for a child. One who is quick to learn, and fast to obey. We tell their parents of the honor they’ve been given, and the child becomes an apprentice.”
Heads nodded around the table, and Matt nodded. He began to walk slowly around the table, forcing them to turn to follow his progress. “An efficient tradition, but one that is fraught with risk. What happens if a Speaker never finds their successor? What if some accident befalls a Speaker before they can pass down the stories? Your precious knowledge might soon be lost that way.”
More looks were exchanged. An Orc leaned back in their chair, staff upright and anchored on the floor. “We have no other path to tread, my king. What other choice do we have?”
“I would give you a place where your apprentices would come to you.” Matt continued his path around the table. “A school where future Speakers could come and learn before they go back out into the world. Only a few of you would need to stay in Redspire at a time, to teach the ones who come to learn from you.”
A Gnome abruptly stood up from her chair, her eyes suddenly wide. “These scribes, the ones that will record our stories…will you share them with us? The records?”
Matt grinned at her. “Of course. We’ll make several copies so that you can use them. Eventually, I wish to make enough so that every Speaker could have a copy, or maybe even every village!”
There were now whispered conversations among the Speakers. Obviously, some of them were more excited about the possibilities than others. Some of them were likely to see the threat to their own positions. Right now, they were cherished and protected by the Low Folk as the sole source of the histories. What would happen to them when those stories were loose in the world?
Others, however, were catching on. They saw books with their words in them being sent to every village. The chance to make sure their histories did not die, that the old ways would be preserved in a way that had been denied them forever. Hopefully, it would be enough to persuade the rest to participate.
Then a Goblin, an old one by the whitened tufts of hair sticking out from his scarf, harrumphed. “Your pardon, sire, but what good would such books do for us? Only half of us here can read or write, and most of the Low Folk would never dream of having the chance. A book isn’t much use to an illiterate farm serf, now is it?”
There was a stillness. Some of the Speakers had frozen in place, barely moving their eyes as they looked from the old Goblin to Matt and back. Clearly, some of them expected some sort of sentence to be pronounced; even the guards at the door seemed to tense up, as if ready to respond to his demand.
Instead, Matt simply nodded, and continued back to his place at the head of the table. “You are correct, sir Speaker. A book is a tool that is ill used by someone that cannot read it.” He paused. “All the same, you will have them, and they will do much good. Because alongside the old stories, I will have you teach the people how to read them.”
Another frozen silence followed, as if the gathered Speakers were shocked. The old Goblin seemed like he was the only one who wasn’t surprised. He raised one eyebrow at Matt and tilted his head to one side. “You’ll be needing quite a few more Speakers for that. Well-educated ones, too.”
“Then it is going to be important that we have more available. How lucky that we are establishing a school where we can train them.” Matt grinned. “For generations, you have guarded the knowledge you carry. It has been your responsibility to share it among the Low Folk. Now I am giving you the chance to do even more—to share more knowledge, to make those stories immortal. You will be the teachers of my people, and together we’ll build a foundation for our Kingdom that will last into the ages.”
He paused. “Will you help me, then?”
It took a moment, but one of the Speakers nodded. Then another, and another, until even the old Goblin was slowly nodding. It was another beginning, but a good one. At least something was going well.
Unfortunately, it was one of the few bright spots in the news he received that week. As the days wore on, more reports of battles on the Small Heights came back, along with matching reports of raids along the border with the Frost Elves. Even more news arrived of the gathering invaders to the east, and the chaos on the Sortenmoors. Everywhere he looked on his map, he saw enemies gathering and time running out. It felt like a noose was tightening around his neck, even as he sparred and recited mantras and moderated Council debates.
It was something of a relief when news came that Paralus had a new trade deal for him to consider. The Wizard from the Western Coalition might not have been his favorite person, but at least he wasn’t actively trying to kill him or his people. A trade deal meant they were interested in maintaining that state of affairs, which said good things about a future, lasting peace. He just hoped it wasn’t something too ridiculous, like another request for disarmament.
The Greenriver Orc who had brought him the message waited while he finished up the work he was doing, standing with a blank expression between the two lifeguards. Matt found he was having an easier time ignoring the presence of the Grand Council’s assigned minders, but it was still hard to focus sometimes when they hovered near his writing desk. At least none of them appeared to be a chatterbox.
With a sigh, Matt stood up from his writing desk and gestured for the messenger to precede him. “All right, let’s see what the Western Coalition has decided to offer us.”
The messenger bowed, and both bodyguards straightened up slightly. He imagined they would be excited for the opportunity to move rather than simply standing in place for another hour or two. He’d spent the last three trying to come up with another plan for how to deal with the impending attack on Greymouth, only to find he was no closer to a workable strategy than when he had started. There simply had to be a way to win. He just had to focus hard enough…
Matt found that the corridors of the palace were, as usual, fairly empty. For some reason, most of the servants in the place seemed to want to avoid his notice. Maids tended to duck away into a room or a serving corridor as soon as he came into view, and those valets that failed to disappear in time bowed and seemed to sweat the whole time he was nearby. Matt wondered if it was his lack of a Consort that worried them, or if they tried to stay out of sight for whatever warlord sat the throne. After all, if their past few monarchs had been as cruel as Matt suspected, the staff at the castle were likely the ones who suffered the most.
As he followed the messenger, though, something began to feel off. It was hard to put a finger on it, but the empty corridors were just a bit too quiet. He saw dust on the floor, too, which his servants would have been quick to clean up. Had he ever visited this part of the castle before? Paralus had moved into a small home outside the castle. Why was he being led through an otherwise unoccupied part of the castle?
“So, did Paralus mention anything about why he wanted to see me?” Matt tried to keep his voice casual. The messenger still flinched a little before he answered.
“No, sire. Only that he had received a message from his masters in the west, and wished to speak with you at the earliest opportunity.”
“Right.” Matt glanced to his sides, where the two bodyguards were marching along in step with him. They were both strong, sturdy types, probably drawn from the ranks of some nobleman’s armsmen, or maybe even from the Guard. Their eyes were fixed on the corridor ahead, and he came to the disturbing realization that they weren’t exactly diligent on the level of a Secret Service agent. He made a mental note to have his new guards trained a bit more thoroughly—they needed to know not just how to fight, but how to watch for trouble.
He hoped it wouldn’t be a little too late for that.
“So this message, how did he receive it? Did he just travel back to his home and return, or did they actually send somebody through?” Matt thought he saw the messenger freeze a little, but it could have just been a hitch in the Orc’s step.
“I’m…not sure, sire. He merely summoned me to send a message to you.”
Matt’s fingers twitched a little, wishing that he hadn’t left his mace back in the writing room. He’d kept it by his side in most cases, but had stopped bringing it to meetings with the ambassador. Threatening the emissary of a power you wanted to keep friendly only went so far, and Paralus had seemed terrified enough by Matt’s ideas lately that brandishing an extra bit of metal seemed unnecessary. At least, it had seemed unnecessary.
So instead, Matt simply came to a stop. His bodyguards marched an extra step before they also paused, looking back at him with a mixture of surprise and concern. The messenger made it another three full strides before he realized what had happened. When he turned back to look at Matt, his expression was a mixture of fear and concern that more or less confirmed Matt’s suspicions. “My liege?”
“I’ve decided that I can meet with the Wizard at another time. Come with me back to my office, and I will send you with a letter to explain things to him.” Matt kept his voice even and calm. He didn’t want to give things away.
The Orc messenger stared at him in shock. He rapidly turned a rather unhealthy shade of pale green. “M-my liege, I believe he is waiting for you. He said it was of greatest importance and urgency!”
“Yet he did not say anything about what it was? I am not a servant to be summoned whenever he wishes.” Matt gave an elaborate shrug. “As I said, I’ll try to give a more polite response to him. Come back with me, and I’ll have you take it to him.”
The messenger stood frozen and uncertain in the corridor ahead of him. Clearly, things were not going as planned. He spoke in a voice full of confusion. “My liege, I—I do not know if this will endanger our peace with the Western Coalition. We need to see him, immediately.”
Matt took another step back, glancing at the guards. Their hands had gone to their sword hilts, as if the reality of the situation was starting to dawn on them as well. “No one tells a king what needs to be done, messenger. Kind of a problem with the job, actually.”
He looked at the guards. “Take him back to the study. We need to get—”
A burst of projectiles interrupted his orders, flowing out of the nearest shadows in a sudden spray of death. He reacted instantly, hurling himself to one side as the arrows swept towards him. At least one of them struck him in the left arm, and he cried out in pain. Both of his guards also yelped in surprise, and one of them abruptly fell to the floor.
Matt hit the ground and rolled. The arrow in his bicep bent and tore a little wider wound as he twisted the shaft, and he bit down on another gasp of agony. He heard the surviving guard roaring in anger and caught sight of the man’s sword flashing out to catch the messenger in the throat. A vague feeling of disappointment moved through him; the messenger would have been a useful source of information if they could have captured him alive.
Not that it was a mystery as to who had sent the assassins. As he watched, five Goblins stepped out of the shadows ahead of him. Four held horsebows, and the fifth had a curved saber in her hand. Clearly, Suluth had decided to rid herself of a troublesome king before he could arrest her.
Fortunately, the remaining lifeguard was not about to go down without a fight. Sword still drawn, he charged into the Goblins. His larger stature as an Orc meant the assassins had to try to back away; at least two of them were frantically trying to nock arrows and draw, but he was on them too quickly. He cut down one assassin with a broad slash. A second went down as he shoved them up against the wall and stabbed.
Then two arrows slammed into the guard from the side. He staggered, his sword swiping clumsily to the side. Then the Goblin with the curved sword stepped in and stabbed him beneath the shoulder, where the armor showed a gap between plates.
As the bodyguard stumbled to his knees, Matt threw himself forward. He managed to get a hand on his other bodyguard’s sword, an arming blade that was completely alien to his training. All the same, it would do better for him than nothing. When he stood, he saw the Goblins turning back towards him.
The one with the sword laughed. “Now, now, little king, that toy does not suit you.” She stepped forward and waved his bloody saber in a warning gesture. “If you cooperate fully, I will see to it that you survive intact to plead for your life before my mistress.”
A nice promise; it conveniently left out the possibility of Matt surviving much longer. If anything, the assassins probably had orders to bundle him off to Suluth so that she could kill him personally and claim the throne without trouble. He smiled. “Thanks, but I think I like my chances here.” He tried to put his left hand on the sword hilt, but his fingers felt numb. His whole left side was starting to feel like it was tingling, as if every nerve was on fire.
“Overconfident, as usual.” The Goblin spat on the floor, and her two companions nocked new arrows. Matt saw some kind of greenish fluid covering their tips and realized with horror that he had probably been poisoned as well as shot. “Put the sword down, usurper, before I cut your hands off.”
Grim, and trying to ignore the way his sight was going blurry at the edges, Matt stepped back to gain distance. He shook his head; there was sweat starting to run down his forehead and into his eyes. “Come and do it, if you think you can. Otherwise, stop talking. I’m tired of hearing empty threats.”
The Goblin assassin stared at him a moment longer and then sighed. She looked back at her comrades and gestured at him. “Aim for his legs. We don’t want him trying to run off once the sleeproot is done, and if we have to drag him anyways, we might as well make it clear escape isn’t an option. Once he’s down, Alip will go for the Wargs while Enerm and I—”
She was still talking when a brilliant bolt of fire took her directly in the head. Her calm, dismissive orders abruptly became an agonized scream that choked off just as quickly. The Goblin dropped her sword and raised both hands to her burning face.
Matt didn’t even wait for her sword to hit the ground. He charged immediately, heading straight for one of the other assassins. They brought their horsebow up, but then hesitated, as if trying to decide between targets. By the time they shot, and he felt the punch of the impact in the numbed left side of his chest, he was already on them and swinging the sword as hard as he could. The blade chopped through bow, padded armor, and Goblin flesh. Unfortunately, he stumbled over the dying assassin and fell to the ground alongside them, suddenly unable to find the strength to stand.
He saw the second bowman turn to flee, only for another stream of flame to catch them from behind. They were engulfed almost immediately, becoming a flailing, screaming torch. Matt shuddered slightly, and then was shoved onto his back.
Melren was standing above him, panting with clear exertion. He was saying something, but Matt couldn’t hear the High Imp’s words. There was too much fog between them now, and he could barely see. Why was the man bothering him when he was so very tired…