The royal palace of Marrad
Pel Marrad
“The king is ready for you.”
Master Kelmor Dardis took a few seconds to clamp down on his annoyance, making sure that it wouldn’t bubble up during the no doubt unpleasant interaction that was about to unfold. Once he felt like he had sufficient control over his emotions, he crossed the threshold into the meeting chamber, a richly appointed room meant for smaller, more personal meetings with the only self-proclaimed king of the New World.
“Your Highness,” he said in what he hoped was a sufficiently polite tone, bowing as deep as he could manage without giving in to his urges to incinerate the worthless cretin across from him.
“Kelmor, finally. We sent for you hours ago.” King Marrad was lounging in his plushy chair with a glass of wine and a platter of fruit beside him, looking down his nose at the visitor. The twenty-something king was truly a tragic figure. Kelmor was unsure if it was only due to him succeeding his father too soon, that same father having cared more for the boy’s younger sister, or his mother doting on him incessantly, but he was the last person anyone would choose to put in charge of anything. He was an angry man, likely due to a – not unfounded – suspicion that those around him didn’t respect him. Kelmor suspected that this was why he had long been obsessed with the kingdom of old and had jumped on the opportunity to crown himself king. His declared goal was to bring back the ‘glorious’ times of the Noble Pursuit, when aristocrats divided up the world amongst themselves, and valiant knights in shining armor rode down helpless peasants to settle ultimately meaningless squabbles between their betters.
His newest fixation was some warrior king Kelmor had never heard the name of. In trying to imitate his role model, King Marrad was taking lessons in swordsmanship and riding, and was trying to grow a full beard. As far as Kelmor was aware, none of the three were going particularly well. Truly, the boy’s only strength was that he made a decent mouthpiece. His speeches, carefully cultivated by his advisors, actually managed to rouse the rabble and make them believe that they could achieve greatness, glossing over the fact that only the rich and powerful would benefit at all in the world the king intended to create.
He should have had another twenty years to mature and learn how to be a ruler before becoming duke, but life rarely goes according to plan, and when the former duke’s favorite horse had thrown him on one of his outings, not even magic had been able to save him. Healers could un-snap a neck, but they couldn’t un-dead a man once he was gone.
At first, Kelmor had seen it as an opportunity, a chance to enact his plans years before he had anticipated. In hindsight, he cursed himself for his impatience. His control over the College was lacking, and on top of that he had to deal with the brat.
Only as long as he serves my purpose, Kelmor reminded himself. You can kill him once he has played his role.
“I apologize, my king, I came as soon as I received your summons. How can I aid you today?”
“You can explain what is delaying our troops in the east,” King Marrad ranted. “You assured us that your mages would easily break through the fortifications at Archibald’s Overlook, yet months have passed, and the Harvand dogs still hold it. With a single division, no less! Where is the ‘bending the laws of the universe’ you promised me?”
Kelmor had to double his efforts to suppress the budding sneer as the cockroach slipped out of the royal ‘we’ in his rant and bowed his head to seem apologetic.
“It is my mistake, your Highness. I underestimated how quickly and decisively the Harvand College would join the war effort. Without their mages, the fortress would have fallen within days.
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“Yes, who could have imagined that their mages will actually defend themselves?” the king said mockingly, sinking back into his chair and popping a grape into his mouth.
You little shit, Kelmor seethed. I warned you that it was likely they would join the fight sooner rather than later, but you laughed it off. ‘They are weak, they will argue for months!’. Patience, Kelmor. Patience.
“Yes, your majesty. Still, their efforts will eventually be futile. My colleagues grow in experience and power by the day, rediscovering powerful spells of war that our foes have no access or answer to. I humbly ask for your patience, my king.”
“I suppose,” the brat sighed, having seemingly lost his interest in the topic already. “But what is this I hear about some of your healers getting captured? By one of those new divisions, no less, who are barely more than armed peasants and conscripted adventurers?”
That is what happens when you fail to properly protect them you waste of space. What do I have to do with that? Ask the useless puppet you put in command of your soldiers about it.
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It was half an hour later when Master Kelmor finally stepped out of the stuffy room, pausing in the corridor to take a few calming breaths before he made his way back through the palace. As he crossed into the outer courtyard, he spotted a familiar figure in red-accented Journeyman robes waiting for him by the gate.
“Julius,” he greeted the mage. “What is it?”
“The report from the eastern front arrived shortly after you left, Master,” his aide said as he fell in step beside him, the two crossing through the gate and into Pel Marrad proper. “I tried to catch up to you, but when I got here you were already in with the king.”
“Just my luck,” Kelmor sighed. “Not that it is likely to have changed my answers. Go on then, spill. What the hell is going on up there?”
“We are now certain that whatever is rendering our fireballs ineffective is a ritual, but our people on site have yet to find a way to counter it. They are experimenting with different approaches, as well as searching the Codex for useful spells, but aside from the fireball, surprisingly few of them are useful against fortifications.”
“Damn it. And the delays?”
“It seems like they are dragging their heels, Master. The materialists and ritualists especially seem to have gone on strike, only doing the bare minimum to not be in open defiance.”
“So that was their plan. I was wondering why they didn’t fight me on my orders to head to the front. They pretended to cooperate, but stopped doing so once they were out of sight. I was hoping that once the war was in full swing, self-preservation would take over and they would have no alternative but to fight.”
“Apparently not. Especially now that the healers of Lord Lidvar were captured peacefully, they have a reasonable expectation to not be killed even if they lose.”
“Damn it,” Kelmor repeated. “What do the numbers say?”
“We have almost all spellweavers on our side, as well as a number of those with secondary disciplines. Of the materialists and ritualists only one in ten support our cause, if even that.”
“I suppose I should have expected that reaction after… what happened to their department heads. I had hoped for a little more fear.”
“There was quite a bit of that, but with the nebulous danger of… accidents now replaced with the very real dangers of war, that has mostly evaporated. More than the deaths of their leaders, they blame you for ruining their peaceful lives and livelihoods, so many oppose you out of petty spite.”
Makes sense, Kelmor thought. They are all builders, architects and artists. Unlike my spellweavers, the materialists never had any interest in fighting.
“Maybe we should make an example. Do they have a ringleader?”
“There are some with influence, but I caution against it. Right now they are unhappy, but they aid in the fighting, albeit not as much as we would like. An example might make them fall in line, but it might also incite open rebellion.”
“That would be catastrophic at this point in the plan. Very well. So what do our people think? Can they take the damn fortress? The king’s entire strategy hinges on that attack.”
“They are certain they can, but it will be another month at least.”
“If only that fool Lindvar had managed to complete a simple mission,” Kelmor said, frowning. “This could all have been over by now. What about the Inquisition?”
“Still preoccupied, but our contact has gone silent. I assume that he has simply gone to ground, but I cannot know for sure.”
“Great,” Kelmor said, angrily kicking a pebble. “Why does nothing work the way we planned it?”