Chapter Five: A Machine of Death (Part Two)

Cade was fourteen. A full year younger than Charles. An orphan raised as a courier in the small township of Haring Field. He had dark hair and eyes, a light demeanor, and more resolve than someone his age should ever need. Charles had liked him almost immediately.

“You look tired,” he said. That was putting it gently. It was obvious the other boy was running himself ragged. Even with two good legs, scrambling around the camp all day delivering orders and messages couldn’t be easy on him.

“When I look as tired as you, then I’ll be worried,” Cade said with a grin. Then he grew serious. He leaned in and spoke softly. “I’ve been hearing they work you to the bone in that kitchen tent. That the imperial chef is a cruel monster who deprives you of food and sleep if you refuse to pledge loyalty to the emperor every morning. Is it true?”

“What?” Charles scoffed. Had those twins been whispering this? Damn them. The old saying was true. Rumors really did multiply like rabbits. A pledge of loyalty every morning? As if Magnus would have the patience for something so tedious. And since I haven’t starved to death, they likely assume I’ve been pledging away. “No, no, it’s not as bad as all that. Magnus is...well, he’s abrasive as a shark, but he never starves us. We all try to get as much sleep as we can, but it’s not that simple. There’s always another dish to prepare. Don’t listen to any of that nonsense you heard, though. None of it is true. You needn’t be concerned.” Focus more on your own well-being. I am the elder. I’m supposed to worry about you.

“I can rest a bit easier then,” Cade said with a weary smile. “Shall I begin where we left off last time?”

“If you don’t mind. You were at the part right after the royal family fled.”

Charles was grateful to have Cade’s company, of course, but that was not all. The fact that the courier had been brought into camp such a short time ago meant he could provide something invaluable, something none of the other prisoners could ever hope to have: news of what was going on in their homeland. How Dreya was faring. Where her enemies were moving. Which of her towns had been struck or spared. He had not been trapped here, cut off from all information as they had.

Unfortunately, little of that information was good.

Six weeks past, the empire’s main army had flooded across the borders. No more pretenses of peace. No more quietly sending redcloaked riders to slaughter in the dead of night. What followed was carnage. They swept through all that opposed them as a hand might sweep dust from a tabletop. Battles were brief, decisive, and devastatingly one-sided. Dreya had not been able to mount anything resembling a real challenge. For all her richness of culture, determination, and bravery, the difference in raw strength was insurmountable. One could hardly call it war. It had taken the Empire of the Merciful Dawn no more than thirteen days to raise their banner above the King’s City of Frandt. Within twenty, virtually all remaining forces loyal to the crown had been smashed into oblivion, made to surrender, or forced to flee. By day thirty-one, the king of Dreya, now exiled to the World’s Capital alongside his heirs and a handful of representatives from his court, was releasing a statement condemning the empire for the undue annexation of his rightful domain. In the span of a single month, the nation of Charles’ birth had been devoured. Just one more fold in the great sprawl of imperial conquests.

For all intents and purposes, Dreya was no more.

It was like a schoolhouse history lesson, only the history was occurring right now. There was no distancing themselves from the horrible parts. Some of the things Cade told him felt as though they could not possibly be real. But every detail of his waking reality since the fall of Lutz screamed that they were. All of it was so terribly real. The world was unraveling before his very eyes, and its new form grew more twisted by the moment.

“I’m sure the Highlanders don’t really care to have all these crown loyalists around. Feeding and housing so many extras must be taking a toll on their larders, but they’d rather put up with Lowlanders than imperials,” Cade said. He smirked and rapped his knuckles against Charles’ head. “Hello? Is the lantern lit in there?”

“What? Oh, sorry,” Charles said sheepishly. How Cade was able to keep his spirits up in all this was a mystery to him. It was admirable, honestly. When you were taken, did they test your spirit as well? He could not bring himself to ask, and there was little point in doing so. If Cade was here, he had passed any test that might have occured. Now it was Charles’ duty to be a pillar of support for him. To show strength. Or, if he could not bring himself to feel strong, to maintain a visage of strength. “Just lost in thought a moment. You were saying?”

Cade ran in place as he spoke. Apparently, it kept the cold off him.

“Anyways, if you think about it, this plan of theirs is bold, but it’s really putting all their eggs in one basket, isn’t it? I mean, a new nation in the Highlands? The land makes for a strong defense, sure enough. But if things take a bad turn, there’s nowhere to go. Not unless they sprout wings and fly,” he said, flapping his arms.

Or jump, Charles thought darkly.

As it turned out, devouring Dreya had been just a hint more than the empire could manage in a single bite. One sovereign piece remained, and it would make for a particularly bitter dessert. With the Lowlands now firmly under imperial control, the hand of the emperor rose to grasp the final fragment and make whole its dominion. It was not about to settle for most of its prize. But the Highlands cared not for the ambitions of rulers from the world below. The hard people who built their homes here—scattered clans in walled towns and spotted villages who dined on dishes of savory lamb chops, radish stews, and tart cheeses made from berries and goat’s milk—had thought little of being declared part of Dreya hundreds of years ago, and they thought even less of what anyone, emperor or otherwise, had to say of them now. They had responded with indifference at the old king’s proclamations because such things amounted to words and little more. Distant words from a distant king with no true effect on their daily lives. In that sense, Dreya had always been one nation in principle, but two in practice. So long as no one came up and bothered them, whose borders the highlanders fell inside on a map was of no consequence. If His Majesty shouted a curse at them, he’d hear only his own ‘fuck’ echoed off the rocks. They can’t be bothered to give one. Or so Boregard had put it after a few glasses of Chateau Montagne. That unspoken understanding had been mutual for generations. Never had a Dreyan monarch been bold or foolish enough to cross the line by leading an army through these perilous cliffs. To force change where change was not wanted.

The Empire of the Merciful Dawn knew no such restraint.

That, according to Cade, was how the surviving crown loyalists had persuaded the clan leaders to band together and lend their support. Nothing unites old rivals like a new all-powerful enemy on their doorstep. The red banner flies above the Lowlands today, the loyalists might have said. But what of tomorrow? Do you think they will leave you be forever? An invasion is coming. You must protect your independence. Declare a new nation and fight with us. Together we will drive them back. Divided, we all fall.

If any clans were still showing apprehension at such claims, it would not last long, for the promised invasion had already materialized. That was why the Spears of Mercy, and by extension, Charles, had come. To put an end to what they had begun. The empire’s foes would be undone. Scattered, disoriented, enraged to the point of recklessness, and made to distrust one another by random raids on the most vulnerable towns. And when the ideal moment came, when the Highland’s remaining strength was beaten down and weakened through disarray, the main army would deliver the deathblow.

“You’re not wrong,” Charles said. “But some would rather burn than relent. I’m sure they have their reasons.”

“Maybe what they have is hope,” Cade said. “Maybe they’ve decided to believe in the New Liberties. If they can hold out long enough, Leon himself might decide to come and lend them aid. I’d give anything to be there to witness something like that.”

“Leon?” Charles said. “Who’s that?” The name sounded strange on his tongue.

Cade cocked his head at him.

“You know. Leon the Visionary? That Leon?”

Charles blinked.

“Father of Sol Taire? The Tyrant’s Bane?”

More blinking.

“Really now,” Cade said. “I’m surprised at you. He’s all the other boys wanted to talk about back home. What battles he’d fought the other week. Where he might turn up next. Didn’t your friends ever mention him?”

Charles felt his cheeks redden.

“I...I didn’t have much time to socialize,” he said. “Cooking always came first in my house. Father expected...I mean, I had to focus on my training.” Cade merely nodded his head and, thankfully, did not press the matter.

“They say he has no equal as a warrior or general. That he and his companions fight the forces of kings and petty royal bloodlines for the sake of the common man. To that end, he’s declared all crowns his enemy and sworn to bring them crashing down.”

“Bring down crowns?” Charles said. “To what end?” The young chef had little reason to love kings and queens, empresses or emperors, but to live without them completely? He recalled a memory from long ago. An afternoon in the library of Boulier manor. As he had often done in those days, Grandfather had pulled a dusty tome from the upper shelves and read to Charles as the latter sat on his knee. It was a grim story of eras gone by, one that told how the Age of Law was built on the order born from crowns and monarchs. The heroes of that tale had never known order or peace. They grew up struggling in the barbaric Age of Might, wherein handfuls of ambitious warlords vied for power in blood-drenched battles while the rest of mankind scraped and cowered and suffered their lives away. A cruel age where nothing was guaranteed, and the very notion of rights was a fleeting dream. That story had terrified Charles, and looking back that may well have been the point. A man must respect his lawful ruler, Grandfather had told him when the book was finished, for they are all that keeps the ill nature of his neighbors in check. Do not forget, Charles.

What could possibly replace the order of crowns?

“The New Liberties,” Cade said, as if it was the only obvious answer. “Democracy. The right to vote for all men. Equal treatment under the law, whether you’re a noble or a foreigner or a wandering no-name. Leaders who are chosen, not born. That’s just a few of them, anyways. Last I heard, Leon had just toppled a trio of despots in the far south. Three armies against one. Can you believe that? Now he’s rallying his supporters for the next campaign. He says he won’t stop until all the world knows true freedom.”

“You don’t say?” Charles said. Best steer well clear of all that, he noted silently. I have enough on my plate without getting mixed up with a pack of impertinent rebels. Men of old, established names and wandering vagrants treated as equals? If he had ever spoken such things in the house, Father’s head might have exploded from sheer rage. And this leader of theirs. Leon. Anyone with the word ‘bane’ in their title is probably a little unhinged.

“It seems you think very highly of him.”

“He’s incredible!” Cade kept his voice low, but he could not hide his enthusiasm. “Can you even imagine what it would be like to fight alongside someone like him?”

Charles imagined just that. Over a dozen scenarios of hardened warriors clashing on fervent battlefields flashed through his mind. He heard the roars of pounding rain and thundering storms. The cries of men ending men. Perhaps the screams of great beasts trained for war. Mounted drakes, giant bats, or sea leviathans smashing against one another in a bed of chaos. All his imaginings ended with him being brutally and unceremoniously killed as soon as the battle started.

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Crushed under a giant foot.

Beheaded with a greataxe.

Hurled high into the air and struck lifeless on impact.

Pierced and held aloft by a trio of spears. A chill ran through him that had nothing to do with the cold.

“Ah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Sounds glorious.”

Cade beamed. He seemed to like that response.

“I’m afraid that’s all the time I can spare for now. Don’t want to draw their attention. I’d best be moving along. Take care of yourself, you hear?” the courier said with a parting clap on his shoulder. Charles waved him off as he ran on. He wondered what it might take for someone like him to be worth emulating. To be seen as Cade Calwell saw Leon the Visionary. Maybe you should start a little smaller, his doubts suggested. Like getting to the point where you don’t lose fights in your own fantasies.

“Oh, shut up.”

He wasted over ten minutes hobbling around trying to find the cobbler. That man was always elusive, but this was just taking it to absurd lengths. This was supposed to be the last delivery. Where was he? They must have him busy elsewhere. Charles felt badly; the man probably would likely go hungry this morning.

But there was no more time left. A mass of mounted Spears were arriving near the marquee. Cardinal Thorne dismounted at the head of the vanguard. Charles noted their numbers compared to when they left, but as always they remained unchanged.

Fresh from another raid.

That meant a delivery. He had best hurry back.

Magnus was already simmering when he entered. That alone told him all he needed to know. Sure enough, the stash of new provisions was the most miserable thus far. Some of the early hauls from the Lowlands had left the three cooks with little room to walk without carefully choosing their steps. That was not going to be an issue today. Two truckles of milk cheese. Jarred cumin and canned artichokes. A pile of beets and parsnips. Some chickens, but not nearly as many as would be helpful. Charles counted off the rest of the ingredients, committing them to memory. They were going to have to try to do what they could with what they had.

What they had wasn’t so terrible...for feeding one man or even a family. For a battalion, it fell abysmally short. If things continue like this…

Supplies from the empire were sparse to begin with. Coordinating drops with the ever-moving Spears was a demanding logistical task in the Lowlands. The Highlands made it near-impossible. Only once in the last three weeks had anything made it through, and most of that went to keeping the Spears of Mercy armed and armored, not fed.

Magnus fumed over the food, raised his foot as if he was about to stomp his anger out on one of the wheels of cheese, then seemed to think better of it and settled for flattening a patch of grass instead.

“Unbelievable!” he shouted. “What does he expect me to do with this?! I’m a chef, not a fucking wizard! They’re all insane!”

It was an apt summary of Charles’ own thoughts. What was Thorne expecting from them? So few ingredients wouldn’t possibly keep so many men fed. He must know that on some level. Even with the cache of canned goods, it would be a matter of days before they could not feed everyone, and only days more before they could not feed anyone. All because they had come to a place they didn’t belong to sow death and misery. The way the Spears had to rely on stealing their next meal was insane. It was the tradeoff for being so mobile behind enemy lines. They were cut-off from aid. Isolated. It was perhaps the only obvious crack in their iron strength, and something that might be usable against them...if Charles’ fate wasn’t tied so closely to theirs. There was no telling ahead of time what towns would yield what ingredients, or whether they would yield anything of worth at all. The barren villages of the highlands were no culinary treasure troves.

Many times, Charles had asked himself who would be crazy enough to accept these kinds of gambles. To not know where your next meal was coming from, or even if it was coming at all. Then he would remember who the Spears of Mercy were and what they believed. They’re probably expecting the One Mercy to drop a solution from the sky.

Luet broke the tension.

“And what would this thing be?” he said. His foot was pointing at a metal object poking from the center of the pile. Somehow it had escaped their notice. The teen stared. Unless the Spears had learned how to chew and digest steel, it was strange that they had bothered to bring something that clearly wasn’t food back with them.

Then it clicked.

“Looks like a pressure cooker,” Charles said, grabbing it for a closer look. “A fancy one, too.” Design is a bit strange. What few cookers had passed through the Boulier kitchen looked a bit like upturned buckets made of cast iron; this was closer to a drum or a barrel. No scars on the inside. No one had used it yet?

“Fancy or a failed product,” Magnus noted. The crass sea chef was always quick to skepticism. This was the most he’d spoken to Charles in weeks without any venom in his voice. “I’ve never seen any pressure cooker that looked like that.”

“Could be a new model,” Charles said, squinting for an engraved name that might indicate its designer. He caught Luet staring with curiosity, so he passed the device and gave the pastretta a chance to examine it. “Do you think we could get some use out of it?”

“Absolutely not,” Magnus said, slamming the door on the matter. “We have too many mouths to feed for a pressure cooker to be of practical use. It’s a waste of space. And besides, they’re prone to exploding.”

Luet dropped the cooker and used his foot to gently nudge it away.

Magnus sighed and sank into a seat. His mane of red hair fell in streaks about his tired face, and those eyes looked more exasperated than ever. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“We’ll figure something out,” he said. “We just have to get creative.” Whether he was speaking to them or himself was unclear. There was silence for several minutes. Each chef kept their thoughts to themselves. Nobody wants to admit it, but it feels like we’re near a breaking point. If one more thing were to go wrong, what wou-

Luet stumbled. He pitched forward like a bumbling toddler before catching himself with the corner of the cooking station.

“You been drinking?” Magnus said. He folded his arms and gave what was supposed to be a disappointed look, but there was a glint of hope in his expression. “Why, that’s terrible behavior, sneaking alcohol and not sharing with your fellow cooks. I would dive headfirst into a creekbed with no creek running through it for a bottle of imperial rum.”

“I’m no drunk!” Luet said indignantly. “The ground shook. Didn’t you feel it?” Magnus and Charles shared a glance. The young chef had felt nothing. He was about to say as much when Luet was thrown off balance again, and this time they all felt it.

“An earthquake!?” Magnus roared. “Oh, bend me over the railing! As if we don’t have enough problems as it is!”

“I’m not so sure that’s it,” Charles said, eyes wide. Earthquakes were common in Dreya. He had felt the way the land shifted and lurched under your feet during a real one many times. This had seemed...wrong. Too brief. Not enough force behind it. It didn’t sit well. The memory of his capture in the Lowlands, and the light vibrations he’d felt in the hillside seconds before, filled him with vague dread. He stepped through the tent’s opening and saw similar looks of confusion and curiosity on the men outside. Reds and blues were crowding round something across the way, their backs to him. He pushed through and through the pack of bodies until he could finally see what all the commotion was about.

“Oh no,” he whispered. One of the burial mounds had been damaged. Its pristine beauty marred by a hideous crack winding from the top before splintering along the side. At the base, where the damage was greatest, a split in the earth had made an opening. A passage into the blackness within. Large enough for a person, if they got down on their knees and crawled. Almost...yes. Almost like a doorway enticing you inside. It was too dark to see beyond a few inches. Not without getting closer. But if he listened hard, he thought he could pick up faint sounds coming from somewhere in the deep.

A Shattered moved to investigate, but the closest Spear placed a firm hand on his shoulder. He raised the other in a fist, a clear gesture to all present: stay back.

The red was cautious. He approached the crack in the cairn with his spear raised. One careful step. Two. Four. He was close now. Close enough that he could have taken a stab at the darkness inside the hole.

That was when the hole moved.

There’s something alive.

The spear flashed. Pierced. Drew blood. The moving surface flashed, lashing out. It seized the Spear of Mercy around the ankle and retracted. He was pulled inside the cairn with a cutoff shout. Sucked completely into the abyss. There one instant. Gone the next. It had been so fast, so surreal, that for half a breath even the personal raiders of the emperor were stunned to stillness, unsure if what they witnessed had actually happened.

Then the spell broke.

A dozen reds flew into action. One shouted an order to alert the cardinal, while another blew a horn Charles had not heard before. He had a pretty good idea what it meant. It served as a warning to those who could not fight, and a call to those who could. The camp was under attack.

Luet caught him by the arm. He was breathing heavily from a short sprint.

“Hard to…,” he said, wheezing between words. “Hard to catch your wind up here. Did you...see what happened?” He whispered the next part. “Is it...some of ours?” There was hope in his voice, but Charles merely shook his head.

“No….no, whatever this is, it’s not our ally. I don’t even think it’s human. I couldn’t get a good look, but it grabbed one of the-”

There was another tremor far greater than those that preceded it. The crack in the grassy hill widened and deepened. It broke from the cairn completely and shot toward the two chefs like an arrow, tearing the ground in half as it went.

“Get back!”

The cairn erupted, sending stray pieces skyward. Earth and stone rained across the camp, smashing tents and men alike. A chunk of debris that could have crushed Charles like an insect missed by mere feet and struck a disoriented Spear before he could make a sound. The Shattered fled in droves, making a mad dash to get as far from the danger as possible. Any reds who had been too close either lay unmoving or were trying to right themselves on unsteady legs. The sides of the cairn had collapsed entirely. They fell inward, and from the depths rose a monster straight from some holy book’s description of hell. Its scale-covered skin was a cold silver. Its body, the length of the Boulier manor. Its eyes. Charles swore he caught his own frightened face in those black slits contained by purple irises. Each fang ran the length of a man's arm.

Magnus broke between him and Luet, doubled over in breathlessness. Then he looked up and paled.

“What the consecrated fuck is that thing?”

“A colossal boa,” Charles said. The largest snake in the known world, and a native terror of Dreya. Once feared and worshipped as gods by the primitive tribes of ancient history. He had heard the species’ name as a young child in tales from passing travelers. Broken men with horror beneath their expressions. Had any Boulier before him seen a beast of this caliber in person? If so, they had certainly not written it down in Recenne di Boulier. In spring and summer, the serpents gorged themselves on whatever Highland prey was unfortunate enough to cross their path, but when winter came they preferred to burrow underground for the long, sleep-like state of brumation, where their energy slowed and they did not need to hunt. This one must have been drawn to the dank warmth inside the burial mound.

A second rumbling started, and with it, a second crack in the adjacent mound. A head broke free of the grassy surface. This newcomer dropped Charles’ jaw. It utterly dwarfed the first snake. For a moment, the head passed in front of the morning sun, casting them all in shadow.

“Make that two,” Luet said. His skin had gone clammy, his curled brown tangles matted against his forehead. “Gods above. Let’s see now...um, I think I remember hearing that they like it when their food runs away. That way they can get a chase in before they eat it.”

The three of them froze solid.

“Any ideas, Chef?” Charles said through gritted teeth. “Haven’t you dealt with giant creatures on the sea?” He hoped no one noticed the fear in his voice or the trembling in his legs. The obvious suggestion—that they all start sprinting in different directions like chickens with their heads cut off and hope for the best—hung in the air, but no one wanted to be the first to draw the pair of behemoths’ attention. In all likelihood, those massive bodies could slither faster than any man could run, and those jaws wouldn’t have any difficulty closing around a grown crocodile, let alone a fleeing chef. That bigger bastard could make breakfast of everyone here and still have room for brunch. The three chefs were still doing their best impression of statues. And for now, they were still breathing. Maybe Luet was onto something after all. Maybe if they were inconspicuous as possible, they would not startle their guests.

“Aye. I’ve dealt with my share,” Magnus finally said. The uminara seemed to have collected himself. “Right then. Gentlemen, they say discretion is the better part of valor. I’ve picked more than a few foolish fights, but even I know when to bow out and leave something to the professionals.”

“What does that mean? We’re supposed to stand here and do nothing?” Luet said, trying to squeeze the words out without moving his mouth.

“It means this is the part where a sea chef is grateful not to be on a ship with nothing but other sea chefs. Let’s just give this a moment. Then we run.”

It quickly became evident what Magnus meant.

The Spears of Mercy had shrugged off their wounds. They aided those who had fallen to their feet, then took spear in hand and wordlessly began to move into formation. All knew their place without order or direction. When the colossal boas had burst from the cairns, each had stood alone and been briefly overwhelmed. Now they rose with a singular focus. The sheer size and might of their foe had, for a moment, caused thirty individual warriors of the empire to hesitate, questioning if victory was possible, but now they rallied as one strength. There was a new fire about their eyes. A look of utter fearlessness. A look that promised only the swift delivery of death. The larger boa bared its fangs, letting loose something between a hiss and a roar, but the redcloaks’ only answer was the raising of their blades.

Serpents and Spears stood at the ready. The stage was set, and the wheels of the machine in motion.