Rella felt the words reverberate in her chest. Speaking with the full voice of the Mantle was unnerving at the best of times, and while never actually painful, it still took her several moments to recover. A Gathering was an occasion which occurred only once or twice a century, and traditions stronger than law dictated the reactions of everyone save the Worldwalkers. Her proclamation snapped Aomhar’s jaw shut, and though his expression was sour, he returned to the slightly raised flagstone in front of Forvale’s table. The rest of the rulers did likewise, leaving Jacob Ward standing at the top of the steps near the edge of the circle. He didn’t quite have a scowl on his face, but it was close.
“Weldtir stands by the Bargain,” spoke Mette.
“Meadowspire stands by the Bargain.” Lamon Dale seemed almost bored by the theatrics, even though he had not been born at the time of the last Gathering.
“Forvale stands by the Bargain,” Aomhar said, more politely than his expression would have indicated.
“Kosala stands by the Bargain.” Desena Kos was by far the youngest of the group to wear a crown, and eyed the others warily. The young queen had never left her homeland until now, but Rella knew the nervous outward demeanor hid a mind as shrewd as any other. Bound to neutrality, she could not have told of the scheming games the girl had played to discredit her aunts and uncles to clear her path to rule even if she had been so inclined to reveal that Story.
“Drakenth stands by the Bargain,” coughed Hanz Geremas.
“The Five Crowns have answered. The Bargain is upheld!”
That is so unpleasant! I know the words; you made me memorize them! thought Rella at Koma’s echo, floating just beneath the surface of the Mantle.
This is part of our job, came the wry response. You know the rest, you have to get them to agree before our last guests arrive.
Koma was not referring to The General. Jacob Ward stood just outside the circle, and she silently thanked him for his patience. The man was angry, but held his emotions in check, bound in an iron grip as disciplined as any warrior she’d ever met. Someone with lesser self-control would likely have completely disrupted the Gathering, ending any chance of her binding the Crowns together in a unified agreement to make war on the Deskren. Another Worldwalker yet approached, however, so the young [Oracle] knew that time was running out. How the General would greet the Hammer was a thing not even she could predict.
There were many formalities that could come later. A peaceful Gathering would have been called years in advance, heralded by weeks of festival and revelry before attending to the business of introducing the new [Oracle] to the kings and queens of Anfealt. Circumstances being what they were, though, such things were a bit more hurried. Rella felt a kinship with Jacob Ward in this moment; she, too, had little regard for the usual pleasantries. She rushed through most of them, carefully weighing the risk of insulting the nobility against the constant wear on even the Battlemaster’s patience.
“Blood has been spilled in the City of Prophets. Blood has been spilled in the Temple of Remembrance.”
Mette responded first. “Weldtir is engaged with the enemy as we speak. I am accompanied by two of my legions; the remainder are helping my people recover from the flooding and reinforcing my borders against Deskren incursions, but they stand ready to march at my command.”
Desema Kos was next, straightening up and casting aside her meek facade. “Kosala has no vast armies to offer, Your Grace. Unless you foresee a need for our fleets, supplies and shipping are all we can offer.”
“It is not impossible,” Rella said with sadness. “The city of Expedition will be under siege in four days, and will fall in forty if not relieved. If they take that fortress, the path is clear to Eastharbor and then Ko’Salana itself.”
The young Queen’s face paled. “Surely the Huntress will return and drive them out.” It was almost a whisper from the woman, a faint hope.
Rella shook her head. “I saw them enter the Wildlands. I do not see them returning. Nothing is certain except that they are beyond my Sight at this moment.”
“The Drakengard are diminished still,” rasped Hanz. “Barely a dozen breeding pairs, and less than a hundred half-trained Sky-Knights. All we can provide are scouts and messengers.” The old man did not embellish or make excuses; he simply spoke the weary facts. “The lowlanders will have to do the actual fighting.”
“Infantry moves slowly,” said the measured voice of Lamon Dale of Meadowspire. “Thanks to the Storm Breakers, the harvest has not been disrupted in the Golden Meadows this year. None of our armies will want for bread, but it will take more than forty days to reach Fort Expedition. Fifty days, at least; more if you want the Magisterium’s battlemages in any condition to fight. I don’t need divination to know that having to retake the fort will be worse than losing it in the first place.”
“If Expedition falls, the paths will be open for the enemy to march on Kosala or Forvale,” said Rella as she turned to face Aomhar Valence. “You’ve had the Rangers shadowing the Black Lance ever since the day of Thunder and Mud. Can you not send them to Expedition?”
The sour-faced king, confronted with the possibility of danger to his own lands, wiped the arrogant expression from his face. “If Forvale is truly at risk, I have to strengthen my own borders...but I think I can spare the Rangers,” he allowed, rubbing his chin. “Few would be as well-suited to slipping past the Deskren.” After another moment of consideration, he nodded. “It shall be done, and extra supplies sent alongside -- so long,” he said, raising a finger, “as recompense is paid. Forvale lacks the grain fields of Meadowspire or the great cattle herds of Weldtir.”
“Remember honor, whelp,” admonished Hanz. “If they get a foothold in Kosala you’ll lose your kingdom come spring when their reinforcements arrive.”
Rella kept from smiling, but only because she had been distracted by the pieces falling together as Fate wove its web. So it was that she had a bare second of warning before Jacob finally interrupted.
“You need to keep Expedition from falling in the first place,” the Battlemaster interrupted, striding into the middle of the pavillion.
Aomhar’s expression regained its contemptuousness at the interruption, but Rella remained silent to allow the fool his blunder. “Who is this outsider giving advice? Tricks with a levee won’t march troops nearly two thousand miles in forty days, General.” The Forvalen King nearly spat the last word as he matched Jacob’s steps to close with him near the center of the circle.
“Are you the asshole that refused to allow the farmers and traders to sell us food under threat of imprisonment?” inquired the [Hand of Solace].
“We don’t do business with invaders,” Aomhar sneered, and Rella stepped back a pace, pulling Sophie and Sonya back with her. “Your wench should keep her mou-”
Crack!
The back of Jacob’s hand interrupted the King’s outburst, the impact so vicious that Aomhar lost his footing, shoulders and head striking the flagstones before his backside. His crown clattered to the masonry, tumbling away as blood spattered the stones. Two of his guardsmen rushed forwards, and Wyatt appeared, shield raised, in the span of an eyeblink.
“I am not peacebound, and you will watch your tone when addressing my wife,” said Jacob as calmly as if musing about the weather while the King’s servants called out for a healer.
“I can heal him,” said Erin, stepping forward and ignoring the drawn blades of the Forvalen Guard. “I think he’s learned his lesson. If not, my husband can continue his education.”
Jacob turned back to Rella, and she steeled herself for what was to come. The prisoner he had brought, and the terrible thing he carried in the pouch at his side, were a burden and a trial she knew she must face. At least we can get this part over with before the rest of them arrive, she whispered to the others within the Mantle.
“I’ve come to make a bargain,” said the Battlemaster. “This world seems fond of those. I’ll help you with your little slaver problem, but I have a price of my own.” He reached to his belt, tossing the pouch onto the stones before gently pushing Calvin Descroix forward a step.
The pouch opened, spilling its contents onto the stone. A collective gasp rose from the crowd, and everyone flinched back as the glittering gold loop of the Collar tumbled onto its side at Rella’s feet.
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Millie Thatcher took a half-step forward after the Battlemaster sent the rude King tumbling, her hand raised and outstretched, fingers poised to snap, when the guardsmen rushed forward. Jacob waved her down as Miss Erin stepped forward to heal the foolish man. The pretty lady with the eye-patch had to be the famous [Oracle] Millie already knew of, but she had thought it would be an older grandmother and not a young lady. The woman had stepped back with two other girls just before the General struck, and so avoided the blood that spattered across the paving stones.
Before the [Oracle] could respond to Jacob’s statement, the foolish king stood. Now healed thanks to Miss Erin’s magic, his expression was still comically angry enough that Millie had to suppress a giggle. She didn’t like laughing; her lack of speech rendered what sounds she could still produce into softer versions of themselves which Miss Jenna and the other women had all declared to be “cute as a button.” Now is not the time to be cute, she thought to herself.
“If you are not bound by the Peace of the Gathering,” he snarled, “then neither are you protected by it. I’ll have your head for that!”
“Yer pappy weren’t half the jack-ass you are, boy,” drawled Mister Hett. “Iffen ‘e was here, ‘e’d have ye up by one ear and whipped on down the hill for embarrassing yer family line. You just settle down or I might take a mind to do Old Man Valence one last favor since I missed his funeral.”
The man turned purple with rage, his hand dropping to the fancy jewelled sword at his side. Hett didn’t move, nor did he bother reaching for his axe, which lay strapped across his back; Millie knew how fast the old mule-driver could move, and she had no doubt that, were he to draw his blade, not a second would pass before Forvale would need a new king.
“If that’s not Obadiah Hettle, I’ll eat saddle leather,” boomed a man that looked almost as old as Hett. His voice was gruff and tired, but his eyes twinkled with life below a crown of thin black wire woven into a band.
Hett seemed to forget all about the red-faced Aomhar, as the other rulers and their guards stepped back even further from his shaggy form. They know him! she thought. He’s more than just a man with some mules! He turned with a grin, rubbing his beard.
“Hanz! Hanz Geremas!” he laughed, slapping his thigh. “I thought for sure you’d have fallen off your drake by now!”
“Mister Hett, a pleasure as always.” Rella interrupted the two old men with a half-bow and a conspiratorial smile. She winked her one eye at Millie, before continuing. “But I’m afraid you let your accent slip! The country farmhand disguise is ruined!”
“Aye, lass. There’s a time and a place for affectation, but I had to step in before Anfealt lost another King. The Battlemaster has more important things to speak with you about.”
“Indeed he does,” said the one-eyed [Oracle], turning to face Jacob and the collar he had thrown on the ground. “Do you realize what you have brought here? The Deskren have always managed to reclaim or destroy any of the Soul Shackles before they could be brought to me, even if it cost them entire legions to do.”
“It is said in my homeland,” croaked the prisoner, Calvin Descroix. “It is said that should the [Oracle] lay hands on one of the Shackles, that it would cause another Oasa, and the Dead Sands would take us all.”
“The Elemental Desert was not caused by the [Oracle]. She let the first Emperor put the collar around her neck, knowing the Mantle may not be Bound. Her sacrifice rent the world itself, and the Gods, in newfound humility, gathered together to seal the tear before it could swallow the world.” She bent down, pulling a linen kerchief from a pocket in her dress to gingerly pick up the collar as if holding a venomous snake.
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“Those that bore the Mantle before my time,” she started almost reverently, “schemed and planned, offered riches and titles without end...sacrificed of themselves, and sometimes sacrificed themselves entirely...did their best to lay hands on one of these, or to commune with the elves.” She turned the collar in her hand, staring at its glittering surface, and let out a long sigh. “But the Gods slumber still, and the elves have long since fled for distant lands, much diminished.” Sadness, and a grim smile, washed across her face. “And yet here you stand today, throwing it at my feet. Today, we can finally take the first steps to right that ancient wrong.”
“That’s quite a lot of information to take in.” Jacob’s voice was gruff and to the point. “You need to save Fort Expedition. I can do this, if I have a free hand and enough supplies. Of elves and Gods and holes in the world, there you are on your own.”
“No one can march that far that fast, Worldwalker,” spoke the armored queen. “Nineteen hundred miles, nearly two thousand to pace the southern shore of the Sea of Possibility. Fifty days if we emptied all of our treasuries for alchemical enhancements for an army. And that’s with fair weather and no battles on the way there. Today is the last day of summer; you’ll hit the snows a week’s march before you even reach the lower end of the pass. You’d never cross the Wild Waters in time once you got there.”
“I didn’t ask if it could be done,” Jacob replied. “I said that I can.”
“And to which crown will you swear fealty?” This one Millie thought of as the Tall King, younger than the old man Hett had called Hanz, but older than the Foolish King or either of the Queens. “You lead a mercenary company with neither charter nor sanction, bound by neither oath nor blood. Yet you seek leave to travel as you will, through our lands? Impossible.”
“My oaths have already been sworn,” Jacob almost growled, not quite with contempt for the rulers before him. “They still bind me, even in this world. I won’t swear to any crown.”
“To whom, then, are you sworn?” Hanz asked, pulling a pipe from his pouch and lighting it with a faint spark from his thumb. Millie found that the most interesting thing she’d seen today, with the single exception of the warrior queen’s arms and armor, and resolved to ask Miss Jenna about the Drakengard the next time she practiced her letters. “If you’re sworn to no crown...” He let the statement hang, and Millie didn’t like the feeling his words left in the air.
“Freedom itself.” Jacob looked the kings and queens in the eye each in turn. “I have no interest in your crowns, not the ones on your heads or any left laying about. If you failed in your duties as monarchs your own people would see to resolving that; either through uprising, or by weakening your own nations until you fell, you would lose those fancy crowns if you were truly bad at the job. But those,” he spat, pointing at the collar held up by the [Oracle]. “Those are inexcusable. A person has the choice to overthrow a tyrant, or at least to try. Those things are an abomination, and the fact that you’ve let them exist for four centuries means I will never swear to any of you.” He swept his gaze back across the nobles, only to refocus his gaze on Rella as she spoke up again.
“Will you destroy them?” asked the young woman, without looking up from the worked golden circlet in her hands. “You say you serve freedom.” She looked at the General. “Would you take on this duty, to seek them out, these insults to the very idea of free will? Until the last one is gone, would you set yourself to this task?”
“Lady,” gruffed Jacob. “I already have.”
“And after?” she pressed. “Would you stand watch, lest the like of these one day come again?” Clouds had begun to build in the distance to the northwest, a cold breeze punctuating the question. Millie thought the clouds looked strange, but saw no way to interrupt the conversation without making a fool of herself and embarrassing her commanding officer.
“Until the last day, and then one more.”
At that, Rella straightened as if shocked, and drew a deep breath to Speak:
“The bargain has been struck! Five Crowns stand as Witness!”
The woman’s voice nearly knocked Millie down, and, in fact, did send several servants in various royal livery tumbling outward from the circle. She stumbled, but did not fall, bracing herself as the [Oracle] continued to Speak, while thunder not of Millie’s making rumbled in the distance.
“The Black Lance marches ever onwards. Let those who aid his banner be blessed with fortune, and those who impede him be trampled underfoot, so long as he holds to his duty without end. The Duke of the Endless March rides forth! Should he stray from his path, let Fate forget his face!”
Jacob reeled back, but did not fall, cursing as the weight of the decree fell upon him.
“What-- a Title--?”
The [Oracle] merely smiled. “You should have learned by now to have better care with your words in this world,” she said, glancing aside to share a smile with Millie.
“A title won’t get you to Expedition Pass any sooner,” said the Warrior Queen. “Nothing I know of will make armies march that far that fast.”
“That,” said the [Oracle] as she held up the Golden Collar, “is simply a matter of sufficient motivation to sufficient numbers of the right people.”
====================================
Mette Weldt stepped back as the [Oracle] spoke, an eerie silver light glowing within her remaining eye. The winds picked up again, a bitter cold that carried a wild scent in the air that tickled her memory. The younger woman stepped towards the captive Descroix man, but her attention was caught by Hanz Geremas. The ruler of the high passes of Drakenth was sniffing the air, like an animal who had caught a familiar scent. No, she thought. Like a Drake. There was nothing of fear or apprehension in the old man’s bearing; merely intense curiosity. Her own interest was further stoked when Rella spoke once again.
“We have more guests arriving soon; I see some of you have caught their scent on the wind. It is not of import to the Gathering, so let us proceed with our own matters first.” She turned to the newly titled Duke of the Endless March. “You are absolutely right that it is inexcusable that this filth has persisted for so long. Allow me to set in motion the righting of that wrong, here and now.”
“That I’ll be happy to see,” said the Duke, “although I must leave today if we are to save this city, Expedition.”
“For that, I require the blood of the original Emperor Descroix, or one of his line.”
Jacob glanced at Calvin, then back at Rella, his gaze suddenly wary. “All of it? He’s been a cooperative prisoner, and a wealth of information on the Empire.”
Mette’s spine tingled as the [Oracle]’s silvery laugh chimed across the stone circle. “By rights I could demand it, though I have seen his misery from his duties conflicting with his wishes. This one dreams of peace, but it is not to be.” Rella tilted her head to one side in thought. “No, for this a drop will do.”
The armored queen gasped as one of the girls standing behind the [Oracle] vanished in a ripple of dispelled illusion, reappearing next to Calvin Descroix before stepping back to hand a bloody dagger to Rella. A thin line opened up on the man’s cheek, and a single drop of crimson stained the tip of the blade.
“Thank you, Sonya,” said the [Oracle] with a prim smile.
Mette suppressed a grimace, and by the looks of the other rulers, they had the same thought as her. The crown of Weldtir, like most other symbols of rule, was actually a powerful Artefact. I should have seen through her illusion! Only Hanz seemed unfazed, letting loose a guffaw.
“Blind children, all of you. You shouldn’t rely on old relics. If you’d been paying attention, you would have seen her image go perfectly still without breathing or blinking.” The old man nodded with respect at the girl. “Excellent form, but remember to let the illusion breathe and fidget.”
The young Worldwalker nodded, taking another step back to stand next to her twin sister.
================================
Rella drew a long breath, bracing herself for what she meant to do. The others within the Mantle murmured with unease, but she hastened to explain herself. It’ll hurt, to craft this seal. But we may never get another chance, and I need something to motivate the people! A mere bounty of experience won’t get them moving! she thought urgently within the dreamscape. Her forebears protested, but saw her reasons. The Battlemaster may have had his own reasons to destroy the collars, but she knew he could never succeed unless she could spur everyone else in Anfealt to act as well.
There will be consequences, warned one familiar voice: her direct predecessor and the previous [Oracle]. We will be quite busy in the coming years, as will whoever takes up the Mantle if you should fall.
I’ll still be busy even then, you know! Rella smiled inwardly as the others laughed.
“Mister Hett,” she said out loud. “If I could have your assistance? Our other guests are almost here, and we must hurry so the Duke can make for Expedition.”
“I’ll be taking our new friend Descroix here when I go. His insights and knowledge of the enemy will be invaluable.” The Duke looked at her as if daring her to challenge, but Rella had seen this outcome and had no issues with it. With what she was about to do, executing the man would have been nearly as pointless as watching the other rulers squabble over who deserved the honor of playing headsman.
“As long as you take responsibility for him, he’s yours,” she replied. “No one will bat an eye if something happens to him elsewhere, under your watch.”
“Fair ‘nuff,” he replied with a nod, replacing his darkened steel helm on his head.
Rella returned to her current business, her will twining together with that of her sisters dwelling within the Mantle. Threads of silver light spun from her fingertips, weaving a net around the collar. No single mind could have traced the delicate patterns, but thousands of minds handled it together almost like an afterthought.
She let the Threads of Fate sink into the metal before tossing it to the ground between herself and Hett. With a careful flicking motion of the dagger, a single drop of Descroix blood fell into the web. No turning back now! She felt almost exultant, despite the pain she knew would come later.
“What was done so long ago, one single act cannot fully undo. But now, we set our feet upon the path of justice! Let it be declared, from the steps of every Temple and the heights of every Tower: by the power of this seal, I declare a bounty upon this Golden Shackle! Let any who destroy these blasphemous chains gain a Level as their reward!”
As her ringing voice faded into silence, and the light of the Seal flared into brilliance, Rella fell back into Sophie and Sonya’s waiting arms. Her legs felt weak, and she could no longer hold herself upright. She felt herself be lowered to the ground, her every breath a battle with exhaustion. The Seal’s light crawled along the pavilion’s flagstones, threads of silver and gold reaching and then climbing the massive columns that encircled the Gathering. At their apex, the light dimmed for a moment before pulsing outward in a massive wave that threw off the coming storm’s shadows as it spread from horizon to horizon.
“Mister Hett!” she wheezed with great effort. The Duke, and all of the kings and queens, stood in shock. Experience bounties had been declared from time to time in the past: rare, yes, but often enough to be known. A Level Bounty had never been mentioned in any records written anywhere, and Rella knew that her declaration had been the first in the history of Anfealt.
The old man needed no more prompting: he unstrapped his axe and raised it high, the blade flashing in the light before he brought it whistling downward to slam through the collar, burying itself in the stone with thunderous impact.
He froze in place, as golden light rippled from his head to his shoes. His hair, gone past white to the yellow of the last days of old age, began to darken. His shoulders stooped less, and his legs grew slightly straighter. He took a deep breath, his chest still heaving, but without the elderly rattle he had had before. The regen from gaining a level would not stay with him for very long, not at his age, but Rella knew he would have several weeks of feeling young once more.
“Ninety.” he spoke, no longer rasping or drawling his words. “Three.” He continued, turning a slow circle to eye the monarchs upon the hilltop, stepping back towards Rella with a truly frightening grin. “Do you know what you have set in motion, girl?”
“An ending,” she whispered. “Long overdue.”
Howls interrupted them then, as Rella thanked the others within the Mantle for helping her finish her tasks in time. A rush of wingbeats filled the evening air, along with snarls and yips and growls and roars. From the north and the west they came, and blades were bared as startled guards and rulers withdrew as one to the other side of the pavillion to flank the [Oracle] where she lay, propped up on the ground.
“It’s alright,” she whispered to Sonya and Sophie, but it was the Battlemaster who heard her first and called for everyone to halt. His booming voice cut through the chaos and he turned back to her.
“Who-- what--? There are thousands, hundreds of thousands!” He seemed truly unsettled for the first time since he had appeared in Rella’s Sight.
“They are--” she began to respond, but was interrupted by a reverberating growl that shook the stones.
“We are the Children of the First Beast. The Alpha has come, and we have followed.”
The voice came from all around the pavillion, from hundreds of different throats. Some chirped like birds, some yowled like cats, others growled or yipped. A massive shadow strode into the circle of stones, a canine silhouette thrown against the flagstones. It shrank as its owner drew closer to the center, eventually shrinking to match the size of its owner: a young man dressed in hide breeches tied with strips of leather, barefoot and bare-chested. His unkempt hair drifted in the autumn breeze, and the jagged scar across his chest stood out, raw and red, against his otherwise pale skin.
“Hello, Adrin Holt,” Rella managed to say with something that almost resembled a reasonable volume. “Or should I call you The Hammer?”
“They call me the Alpha, but it’s nice to hear my name.”
“Who are you, boy? And why are you here?” rasped Hanz, unfazed and unintimidated or at least old enough to not show it.
“I am Adrin Holt, and I have brought the Children of Ka’Na Oko to repay their debt to the [Oracle].”
“This is the Gathering of Kings,” Mette interjected, her voice carrying a hard edge. “The beastmen have no part of it, or of the Deskren!”
“They have millions of our brethren in chains; you know we have a part of that,” replied the young man. “But the Debt was old before there were ever any Kings to Gather.” The man turned back towards Rella, where Wyatt had placed himself with shield up. Adrin made a strange bow, dropping halfway to one knee and turning his head to the side as if baring his throat. “Lady Prophet, we have come to repay the Debt.”
“I see you, Adrin Holt, and I see the Children of Ka’Na Oko.” She weakly nodded her head towards Jacob Ward. “This man marches against my enemies. Will you, as well?”
Jacob, who had been carefully surveying the massed shapes outside the Gathering, turned back to the pair as he was addressed, laughing and shaking his head wonderingly. “How many did you bring?”
Adrin glanced at him with a shrug. “All of them.”