Five years had passed since the Gideon assassination attempt. Since then, Vasier had forged its alliances, exhausted all diplomacy avenues, all to delay the inevitable tides of war that were edging closer to their shoreline. King Leichhardt II of Mansour had consolidated his rule upon purging his rivals and detractors, with only his sister Venessa, the Regent of Vasier, and their younger brother, Prince Gideon, to threaten his claim to the Mansourian throne.
To complicate matters further, the protectorate of Pragian, the crucial buffer state between Mansour and Vasier, had dissolved all treaties and allegiances to the Vasierian throne. Led by their Grand Master Wizard and water elementalist Draconian, Pragian and its combined forces of magic and pagan warriors lay at the key junction between the fortified Vasierian army led by Duke De La Castell and the formidable might of the encroaching Mansourian invasion. Draconian, it seemed, held the figurative and literal ability to shift the tides in either side’s favor.
Upon reaching the outskirts of Pragian, Castell’s royal detachment was met with a reception neither warm nor openly hostile. The restless waters of the moat rippled, mirroring the tense stares exchanged between the Vasierian knights and Pragian’s sparse garrison. Behind the modest, vine-covered walls, pagans gathered in silent vigil. Only Grand Wizard Draconian stood between the fortifications and the approaching knights, poised to greet the kingdom’s former protectors—who, by the grim mood in the air, seemed anything but friendly.
Among the royal detachment stood Castell and his well-armored practitioners of the lethal arts. Each had pledged fealty to Castell’s banner, by families eager to profit from the upcoming wars, even at the cost of the less compliant pagans.
“A prickly dustard, he is. Perhaps an arrow to the wizard’s liveables will put them pretenders in their place?” the disgruntled flag-bearer said to Castell.
“We don’t make enemies of friends,” Castell replied. “Where you see confrontation, I see a man of principles and pride. Draconian knows our enemies consider paganism a blight against humanity, and the price of his isolation is one he can’t afford. Draconian might refuse to bend the knee, but that does not mean his subjugation won’t come voluntarily,” Castell said.
“It would not go amiss, my lord,” the flag-bearer replied.
“Need I remind you, I’m not just your lord. I am the reputation of a statesman, the trust of our queen, and countless nobles. My insignia is the beacon of integrity, which I will uphold until my soul departs,” Castell said as he rid himself of all excessive armaments, until covered by nothing more than his undergarments and the orange surcoat, which was emblazoned with the insignia of the outward-facing dove and eagle, divided by a stone tower.
Alone and undeterred, Castell approached the moat’s bank, where the water churned and swirled, parting as if by an invisible hand to form a narrow bridge, mirroring the precarious path of diplomacy he was about to tread.
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“Suppose you permit me fair crossing?” Castell said to Draconian.
“Your war with Mansour doesn’t concern us,” Draconian said, his chin held high, and his hands cupped behind his back. His fingers were obscured, as to hide the magical motions that contorted the water to his will.
“There is no outcome where I can permit Pragian to exist if not by my side. All I ask is you, one hundred men and twice their weight in grain. A small burden, all things considered,” Castell requested.
“If only, but it is my duty to inform you that we have no need for a protectorate. Extort your own, if you need more infantry.”
“Look behind you, dear wizard. There is not enough of you to hold out against my small regiment, let alone the full force of King Leichardt II. Now, if I cross this passage unabated, I will bend the knee and beg that you do not force my hand. Your customs will be respected, your lands untouched and all misunderstandings forgiven,” Castell said.
The impact of his message reverberated through the garrison, weakening their already wavering convictions. Against the backdrop of his battalion’s flawless execution of pre-battle formations, Castel dug his toes into the soft clay embankment and began his descent.
“And if we have neither the quality of men nor grain to spare,” Draconian said.
“You’ll find me rather resourceful, if not stubborn,” Castel remarked, as he gracefully slid the remaining distance into the mucky sludge, which transformed his elegant royal attire into a nauseating shade of gray. The pungent, earthy odor assaulted his nostrils as he faced the daunting, mud-slicked ascent.
Draconian derisively looked down upon Castell, taking no pleasure at the duke’s tenacity. The sloshy sediment ridge was no match as Castel clawed his way to the upper grass bed where he finally reached the wizard’s feet.
Looking up through his one unclogged eye, Castell extended his dirty hand in friendship, aware he wouldn’t extend it a second time. “So good, honorable Draconian. Shall we put this matter to rest? As allies and equals. One hundred men, twice their weight in grain?”
With the foul-retching ultimatum staring him in the face, Draconian pulled a piece of old cloth from his sleeve. As he toyed with the prospect, his watery manipulations flushed into rest upon its natural form. “I dictate the rains. The capability to flood these lands and all who encompass them,” Draconian said.
“Without question,” Castell said, softly, as though appeasing the wizard’s ego.
“I decide the feast and famine. The direction of the tide and the flow of the river.”
“Without a shadow of a doubt,” Castell said.
“I command many wizards who could bring untold distraction to whomever wrongs us.”
“And that is why we need you and cannot afford to lose Pragian. It will be to our mutual detriment if we set ourselves down that jagged stairway to hell. All I ask is that we hold each other as equals, not to bend the knee, but to see these sovereign lands under the protection of Queen Marguen. No worse enemy, no greater ally?” said Castell. He then reached his hand ever higher, fighting the fatigue that would otherwise cement the withdrawal of his offer.
“Equal to you and no one else, for the preservation of my people,” Draconian said before reaching out with his cloth-wrapped hand – wary the smallest smidgen soil his skin – and accepting Castell’s hand and his terms.
With two hands of firm reassurance around Draconian’s cloth, Castell looked his equal squarely in the eye and said, “As it was and will continue to be.”