Alliances had been struck, diplomacy exhausted and now five years had passed since the Gideon assassination attempt; and now, the tides of war were in motion. 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. Lead 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 flavor.

It was not of warmest of welcomes, nor the most hostile of receptions for Castell’s royal detachment when they arrived just outside of Pragian. Here, they were met with a line of tensions drawn by the restless moat-dividing pagan arms from the Vasierian knights. The pagan’s were entrenched behind the fortified Pragian walls with only their Grand Wizard Draconian out front to greet their former cross-worshiping protectors, who by the day’s temperament appeared anything but.

Among the royal detachment stood Duke De La 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?’ said the disgruntled flag-bearer to Castell.

‘We don’t make enemies of friends,’ replied Castell. ‘Where you see confrontation, I see a man of principles and pride. Draconian knows King Leichhardt II considers paganism the enemy of the church, and the price of his isolation against the combined Mansourian armies is one he can’t afford. Draconian might refuse to bend the knee, but that does not mean his subjugation won’t come voluntarily,’ said Castell.

‘It would not go amiss, my lord,’ said the flag-bearer, now more reserved in his response, to not temp his master’s leniency.

‘Need I remind you, I’m not just your lord. I am the reputation of a stateman, the trust of our queen, several dukes and countless nobles. My insignia is the beacon of integrity and dependability, which I will uphold until my end of days. I’ve been tasked with protecting Vasier against this Mansourian invasion. To that end, we will ensure Pragian is King Leichartd II’s first and last step upon Vasierian land,’ said Castell 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, he made his way to the moat’s bank.

The water churned under conflicting forces of bulging watery arms that flopped and crashed like jumping whales against a swirling tide of magical propulsion. Only a thin corridor of parted waters was offered as a bridge between both banks.

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‘Suppose you permit me fair crossing?’ said Castell to Draconian.

‘Your war with Mansour doesn’t concern us,’ said Draconian, 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 of you is 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,’ said Castell.

His message was heard loud and clear throughout the garrison, eating into their already waving convictions. His threat was imposed against the backdrop of assembled battalions, who marched with such precision only achieved through rigorous training.

Castell dug his toes into the soft clay embankment, assessing the safest approach down the muddy decline.

‘And if we have neither the quality of men nor grain to spare,’ said Draconian.

‘You’ll find me rather enterprising or, if necessary, uncompromising,’ said Castell before he slid irretrievably down the moat embankment, falling to one knee as he ungraciously struggled to keep balance. The bottom slurry embraced him with layers of greenish brown sludge upon his royal garments. Undeterred, he trotted on through the knee-deep bog. His nose then began twitching to the feral odour of rotting riverweeds, until confronted by the steep muddy ascent that stood between him and the old stubborn wizards.

Draconian derisively looked down upon Castell, taking no pleasure at the duke’s tenacity.

With a brewing confidence against the growing ridicule, Castell slogged up the sloshy sediment ridge. Every effort felt like two heaving efforts forward to one gradual decline back, but persistence would rule the day. His filth-filled fingernails clawed into the upper grass bed to the wizard’s feet. Where mud manicured his kneeled body, he panted the life back into himself. ‘So good, honourable Draconian. Shall we put this matter to rest? One hundred men, twice their weight in grain?’ Castell looked up through the one unclogged eye, offering his dirty hand of friendship, which would not be offered twice.

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,’ said Draconian.

‘Without question,’ said Castell, 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,’ said Castell.

‘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,’ said Draconian before reaching out with his cloth-wrapped hand – he didn’t want to get a smidgen of his skin soiled – 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.’