image [https://i.imgur.com/5JvBkiM.png]

Sir Firewing disagreed.

“You have not, quote, ‘won,’ Your Majesty,” he quipped.

The Calamarvan ambassador was back in Adara’s throne room the next afternoon. News of Volthorn’s momentous victory had arrived by griffin messenger that morning, sweeping like wildfire through the streets of Saven. Spontaneous celebrations had erupted across the city.

But in the throne room, the air was as tense as a taut bowstring. While Sir Firewing lacked the calculated bravado—and the flashy ribbons—of the previous day, and while he hadn’t yet called Adara a treaty-breaker or thief again, his demeanor was still as icy as a glacier as he stood before her throne.

“You just heard the reports yourself,” Adara protested. She glanced at Skagar, who nodded encouragement. “Calamar’s army is in full retreat. Several thousand lie dead. Thousands more have been taken prisoners. And that was just where things stood last evening—Volthorn will continue to press his assault on the scattered units that remain, perhaps harassing their retreat all the way back to Meradov.”

Sir Firewing shook his head. “I heard your reports. How do I know they aren’t exaggerated?”

Adara opened her mouth, ready to defend the reliability of her intelligence officers. But Lady Luviana reached up and touched Adara’s arm, a pre-arranged signal to let the venerable merfin talk first.

“So, Sir Firewing,” Luviana said casually, “have you received any messengers of your own, bringing a differing account of the battle?”

Sir Firewing hesitated, studying the merfin carefully. “Not yet, no.”

“Ah? But I believe I heard that a griffin courier arrived for you scarcely half an hour ago.”

Of course! Adara remembered that now—it had been one tiny drop of information delivered with a torrent of other reports that morning. How did Lady Luviana remember all those details—or know what details to pay attention to?”

“So if you really have heard your nation’s tally of the battle,” continued Luviana, “but you would feign otherwise, then things truly must be as dire as we say—or even more so.”

Sir Firewing stood speechless for a moment, his head cocked back and his feathers ruffled. Then his eyes regained their resolve, and he turned to who he probably considered the least skilled opponent in front of him—Adara.

“Perhaps the winds of fortune blew your way yesterday, Your Majesty,” said Sir Firewing. “But war is full of reversals. You have won today’s battle, yes. You have driven back one army, yes. But you are still weak. Your kingdom is still at the breaking point, as brittle as a dead branch on a hot day. You really think this is the end of the war?”

Adara knew the question was meant to be rhetorical, but she answered it anyway. “It can be.”

Sir Firewing’s eyes turned quizzical.

Adara searched for the right words. “War doesn’t have to be decided with the sword, Sir Firewing. It can be decided with words. We can decide it with words. How long must our two nations go on destroying each other? How many souls on either side must perish? How many battlefields must be stained with blood?”

Adara changed the pitch of her voice to a plea. “A brief armistice. That is all I am asking for, Sir Firewing. An armistice until I can speak with your emperor to discuss a more lasting solution.”

Sir Firewing weighed her words, his gaze unreadable. Then he cocked his head. “And what advantage, tell me, would Calamar gain from an armistice, Your Majesty?”

“Your armies are being scattered and driven as we speak! Why would you not want to end the death of your own soldiers?”

“Because perhaps they’re dying for a cause,” Sir Firewing snapped. “Perhaps our soldiers died yesterday fighting for the safety and welfare of Calamar—and for us to slink like cowards to the table of truce would be to spurn their sacrifice.”

“Their sacrifice?” Adara said, feeling suddenly angry. She rose to her feet. “Did they die for the safety and welfare of Calamar? Or did they die because they were conscripted to fight a war they never wanted to fight, a war of conquest and plunder?”

Sir Firewing screamed, rearing back on his hind legs, beating his wings, and slicing the air with his talons. Adara stumbled back into her throne, her skin flashing white. Guards sprang forward, weapons ready to defend her.

But the griffin immediately sank back onto all fours, his wings snapping shut. His gaze locked with Adara’s, and his words came low and weighed by emotion. “My nest mate died yesterday. I think I should know her motives for fighting better than you.”

In the moment of stunned silence that followed, Adara finally saw Sir Firewing for who he was. Yes, he was a staunch believer in his country, his people, and his way of life. Yes, he was a diplomat proud of his powers of persuasion and the service he rendered his emperor. But, above all, he was a person. A person who had just suffered the ultimate loss, at the hands of Adara’s own people.

Adara finally understood Sir Firewing. But it was too late.

The griffin ambassador turned and strode toward the doors, the only sound in the room that of his claws clinking on the stone floor. “Farewell, Your Majesty. I’m afraid these negotiations are over. From now on, all you will see from Calamar will be the sword.”

* * * * *

Two days later.

Lord Salidar did not take the news of Volthorn’s victory well.

“Incompetent fools!” the vizier hissed. “I want General Grimbold sacked for this gaffe, along with his whole command staff!”

The Hakiru cloudship had anchored for a day in a remote valley between Elandria and Wormul, about halfway through their journey. Besides escaping the cramped confines of the gondola for a few hours, the crew needed to restock on fresh water and buy more supplies from a nearby town. (At least, Durrin assumed they planned to pay, but with Twigly in charge of that expedition, it was anyone’s guess.)

While half the crew got supplies, the rest of the crew and their three Calamarvan passengers were enjoying the luxury of a campfire and a freshly roasted deer—all except Salidar, who was pacing back and forth at the edge of their camp, a stone held near his mouth and another stone pressed to his ear.

No, Salidar had not gone insane. The stones he held were called spy stones. A spy stone was a gemstone terramantically synced with a receiving gemstone. Any sound made in the vicinity of the spy stone would be duplicated by its receiver, even if the two stones were hundreds of miles away.

Spy stones required painstaking calibration and could only be made from a very rare kind of gem. They were among the most expensive terramantic talismans on the market, costing as much as entire castles.

So leave it to Salidar to have not just one, but two sets.

He had brought with him the receiver for one set and the transmitter for the other set, leaving the paired stones with his servants back in Imperium. The setup allowed him to continue leading his vast political machinery even from the middle of nowhere.

image [https://i.imgur.com/pOhGrCM.jpeg]

“Yes, I know they were outflanked by surprise!” Salidar’s angry tones easily reached Durrin’s keen ears. “That’s exactly why I want Grimbold removed. Who lets an entire army get around your flank? . . . I don’t care about the weather—they outnumbered the Elandrians two to one! Two to one! I could have won that battle in my sleep.”

Salidar was silent for a moment, listening to the reply coming from several hundred miles away. Then he shook his head. “No, no. General Newfang won’t do. He’s talented, yes, but he’s not loyal enough. . . . not to Calamar, to me . . . Lord Skyfang is who. You should already know that. General Newfang fought under Skyfang in the Wormul wars. They’re still on close terms.”

The pirates were talking and jesting with each other in their strange Hakiru tongue, in good spirits as they dug into their venison. Durrin sat slightly apart from them, staring into the flickering flames. He was concentrating on using his pyromantic powers to magnify the sound waves of Lord Salidar’s conversation reaching his ears. His training had taught him to never pass up an opportunity to eavesdrop on something important.

“What about Captain Jarmen?” Salidar was saying. “He’s bright and capable, and his terramancy is a bonus . . . Oh. Pity.”

The crunch of Salidar’s footsteps in the underbrush quickened as his pace accelerated. “. . . No, none of them have enough experience. This is what we’ll have to do. Leave General Grimbold in command for now. Tell him to pull back to Meradov with all speed, and to not risk any more engagements, even if they seem advantageous. It’s too late in the year for us to take their capital now, even if we did score a victory. Once Grimbold’s back at Meradov, he can release the conscript soldiers and keep the professionals garrisoned there for the winter. Next year, I will lead the army myself.”

Salidar paused, listening to the reply. “. . . Of course I’ll be back by next year! How is the Imperial Council taking my absence? . . . Ah . . . I see . . .” Durrin glanced over to see Salidar’s face betraying a smile before he continued. “So Prince Fireclaw is now backing Lord Skyfang? Interesting . . . who else? . . . Oh, he’s a surprise. I didn’t see that coming. . . . Good, good. I’m glad the rest are still loyal. Keep telling them the story we agreed upon and note how they respond.”

Salidar changed the direction he was pacing. “Now listen. I want conscription orders sent out for another forty thousand troops to be marshalled and trained by next summer . . . I don’t care. War involves sacrifice. . . . Ram it through anyway! Declare it a military necessity and bypass the council with a military order. . . . Yes, I’m sure. Forty thousand. And arrange to have the garrisons pulled from the northern border and sent to the front. . . . Honestly, I don’t care if there’s a few raids up there. Once we have annexed Elandria, we can deal with the raiders. . . . No, not to Meradov. I want them marched to the Penandre.”

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Durrin’s attention was pulled away by one of the Hakiru calling his name. It was a large human named Bjorn, with an old scar defacing his left eye and cheek.

“Rendhart,” Bjorn called, his Lurrian broken and awkward. “I and the others wonder. Just how good fighter you are?”

“Good enough,” Durrin replied coolly, hoping the vague answer would discourage them from pushing further. But, as usual when this question was raised, he was wrong.

“Let us see,” Bjorn called, rising to his feet. “None of us here be mancerers—”

“Hey!” a snippen named Grimbo piped up from the side of the camp, where he was tinkering with a pile of metal, leather, and terramancy gems. He had spent half the flight so far with his hobby, but Durrin had yet to see any successful demonstration of whatever the device was supposed to be.

“None of us be good mancerers,” Bjorn amended, ignoring the snippen’s resulting protests. “How many from us do you think you can battle?”

Durrin thought for a moment. “That depends. In a real-life fight, where I could hit you from twenty feet away with flame hot enough to melt iron, I would say six. But since I’ll need to stick to less . . .” he made a show of searching for the right word, “. . . lethal tactics, I’ll say four.”

Bjorn nodded respectfully, looking around at the others and saying something in Hakiru. A quick exchange between several of them followed.

Bjorn turned back to Durrin. “Very well. Let us see if breath of Ky’kiaymon be with you truly. I, Tadgh, Krizmon, and Azura will challenge you.”

“Of course you will,” Durrin muttered under his breath. “And right after dinner, too.” That wouldn’t really matter to them—they weren’t the ones who would be performing flips and somersaults at high speed.

image [https://i.imgur.com/Aym8eRD.jpeg]

Durrin shed his cloak and his sword, following Bjorn and the other three combatants to a nearby patch of clear ground. The rest of the pirate crew ringed the perimeter, gabbing in their language—probably making bets.

Grimbo scurried over to the cloudship and fetched a set of practice swords—long, wooden rods covered in leather padding. Durrin selected the longest one and tested it. Its design and material made it poorly weighted, with the center of mass in the blade instead of the hilt. He gave it a few practice swings, slicing it back and forth through the air, getting a feel for how it performed both one-handed and two-handed. Dissatisfied, he replaced it and selected a shorter blade with better balance.

Bjorn grabbed the sword Durrin had just rejected, where it looked much more at home in his huge hands. Tadgh, the Dorinian avir, selected a light one-handed sword and swished it elegantly, his face golden and his eyes shining bright blue with excitement.

Both Tadgh and Bjorn carried the distinctive Hakiru-style shield: a long, narrow oval, about three feet tall and a foot and a half wide. The shields were strapped to their left arm, with a handle they could grab with their left hand for extra stability. The design allowed them to keep their left hand free to grab rigging or climb ladders.

Durrin’s final opponents, a pair of korrik sisters named Krizmon and Azura, started bickering over the remaining shields.

image [https://i.imgur.com/TxygdbH.jpeg]

As their Hakiru jabber grew more and more inflamed, Durrin edged over to stand by Tadgh. “What are they arguing over?” he whispered.

“Color,” Tadgh said, rolling his eyes. “Lahk always.”

Bjorn pointed to the shields in front of the korrik sisters. “Krizmon say they need red and purple shields, strike fear in enemy chest. Azura say green and blue, to counter to your fire.”

“I see,” said Durrin. “Does this have anything to do with the fact that Krizmon has a red tattoo on her face, while Azura has a blue tattoo on her face?”

“Purely coincadentahl,” Tadgh deadpanned.

Eventually, Krizmon grabbed the red shield and a practice spear. Azura slung the green shield over her back and grabbed a bow and a set of blunted arrows.

Bjorn shook his head. “No arrow. Shoot eye out.”

“I’m not worried,” Durrin said. “It’ll make things interesting.”

“Fine,” Bjorn grunted. He gestured to Durrin’s empty left hand. “You desire shield?”

“I don’t need one.” In Durrin’s style of fighting, shields tended to only get in the way.

Bjorn hefted his practice sword. “Rules be simple. One good hit to torso, or two good hits to arms or legs, and warrior out.” He shot a glare at Krizmon. “No hits to head.”

Durrin spun his sword artfully with one hand, his earlier reluctance replaced with the thrill of adrenaline. Not counting his escapade at Wyvern Way, this was his first real fight since his days at Irongate Isle. “What is the signal to begin?”

Bjorn looked at his companions, who each nodded. He turned back to Durrin. “Now.”

Durrin launched himself across the clearing, gathering a storm of momentum around him as he ran. His four opponents reacted quickly, shouting to each other as they spread out in a half ring, Bjorn to Durrin’s left and Tadgh to Durrin’s right. In the center, Krizmon covered Azura with her shield as Azura nocked an arrow.

Durrin ran right into the middle of their arc—then launched himself high into the air in a spinning somersault meant to carry him behind the twin korrik sisters.

Krizmon and Azura pivoted in a surprising display of unity, Krizmon holding up her shield to deflect Durrin’s coming assault from above and behind. But it never came. While in midair, Durrin twisted, releasing heat and energy to his left to propel him to the right. It was a difficult move, one he could only perform since relearning the third Kymar routine in the last week. He flipped over Tadgh’s head, his sword glancing off Tadgh’s upraised blade as he almost scored a hit on the surprised avir.

“No head!” Bjorn reminded him, even as he ran forward to help his comrade.

Durrin landed on his feet and instantly pressed to the attack. But Tadgh was a skilled fencer and parried his thrusts with fluid, easy movements.

“You’ve had some training,” Durrin observed as Tadgh pushed him back with a series of attacks. Durrin danced left to keep Tadgh between him and Bjorn.

“I’m the second-son prince of Clan Cleney,” Tadgh boasted, one of his thrusts barely missing Durrin’s shoulder. “Fencing be in my very blood.”

Durrin’s pyrosense, running in the background of his mind, picked up a spike of approaching energy to his left. He leapt backward. Azura’s arrow whizzed past his chest and disappeared into the trees. The pirates at the edge of the clearing shouted in surprise.

Ah, yes.

The roaring crowds.

The skilled opponents.

Durrin smiled. It was like the Mancery Mayhem arena all over again.

Durrin snapped his left hand, summoning a ribbon of fire—not hot enough to really hurt anybody, but good for intimidation. He spun it in small circles with his left hand, flicking it out toward Tadgh and Bjorn like a whip if they got too close. The two pirates darted forward and back, shying away from the flame but getting a little closer each time.

Azura loosed another arrow. Durrin knocked it out of the air with his sword.

Bjorn and Tadgh finally trapped Durrin between them and moved in. Durrin feinted at Bjorn, then sprang toward Tadgh. The clan-prince-turned-navigator parried Durrin’s attack, then stepped forward in a counterattack, swinging his practice sword at an angle that would give him substantially greater leverage than Durrin’s parry would have.

But as Durrin swung, he let the flame within him surge, channeling an extra burst of momentum into his sword to knock Tadgh’s sword barely off course. Durrin followed up with a lightning-fast thrust, jabbing the avir below the ribs.

“One!” Durrin called, spinning away before Bjorn could strike him from behind. Durrin sprinted across the field, buying some distance between him and his heavyset pursuer.

An arrow barely missed his head.

This was getting annoying.

Durrin turned and charged the korrik sisters. Seeing him coming, Azura dropped her bow and grabbed a practice spear that her sister handed her.

Durrin pulled up short, using his momentum to unleash a ball of fire at the pair of korriks. Krizmon blocked the fireball with her shield. Then she and Azura charged.

Durrin had guessed, from their bickering over shield color, that Krizmon and Azura would have trouble coordinating with each other in a fight.

His assumption nearly cost him a spearpoint in the gut.

The two sisters fought with a synchrony he had never seen before. They seemed to move with one mind as they stuck together, advancing as one, retreating as one, Krizmon covering both of them with her shield as they thrust their spears with flawless coordination.

Durrin found himself on the retreat, fending off the barrage of spear thrusts, unable to land an attack due to the korriks’ longer reach. As Bjorn circled behind him, Durrin was forced to use his free hand to create a vortex of flames to keep the large human at bay.

The roar of the onlookers grew in pitch as it looked like Durrin was trapped.

Then he knocked Krizmon’s next attack to the side with his sword, using the opening to dart inside the range of their spears. Krizmon raised her shield, expecting an attack from above, but Durrin dropped into a crouch and swung his sword under her shield, smashing into her hip. Scarcely had the blow landed when he pivoted and stabbed Azura in the stomach.

“Three!” Durrin cried.

Krizmon and Azura each began to spout a flurry of angry words, but Durrin was already turning to defend against Bjorn’s assault. The constant movement to avoid getting trapped was beginning to wear Durrin down. He parried a series of attacks, but then Bjorn slipped past his guard and slammed his sword into Durrin’s left arm. Durrin barely blocked a follow-up to his right, then retreated backward.

“Out?” Bjorn called.

Durrin patted his arm, which was stinging from the blow. “Arm, not torso.”

The Hakiru cheered their comrade on.

That’s it. Durrin thought, his pride stinging worse than his arm. Time to show them why you don’t fight a pyromancer in real life. Durrin leapt into the air, blasting a plume of fire toward his opponent with a flying kick. As Bjorn recoiled, ducking behind his shield, Durrin sprang forward. Bjorn attacked, his sword flashing, but Durrin caught his opponent’s sword on his own sword’s hilt.

As their swords clashed, Durrin stepped forward, closing the gap between them and pushing their locked swords upward. Releasing his sword, he grabbed Bjorn around the waist in a grappling move, lifted the massive warrior bodily into the air, and slammed him down onto his back. A moment later, Durrin held his sword to his opponent’s chest.

“Four,” Durrin said, his breath coming heavy. “Told you.”

Bjorn wheezed, struggling to regain his breath, then took Durrin’s proffered hand and rose to his feet. He shook his head and smiled grimly. “By Ky’kiaymon’s breath, Rendhart! I be glad you be on our side.” Bjorn turned to his comrades and lifted Durrin’s hand into the air. “Ai b’kevetky! To the victor!”

The rest of the crew cheered, then immediately began swapping coins.

Durrin rubbed his arm, which still smarted from Bjorn’s blow. He had deliberately gone easy on the pirates during the fight. He could have used pyromancy to make his blows fall far harder and faster. But it wasn’t in his interests to let them know exactly how good he was.

Azura walked up to him, dragging her sister by the hand. She jabbered something that sounded like a compliment, then nodded her head in a gesture of respect. Krizmon sulked behind her, even when Azura elbowed her pointedly. A moment later, the two were arguing again.

Tadgh strolled up to Durrin, extending his hand. This time, Durrin knew what he wanted and gave his hand a vigorous shake.

“Yah did well,” the avir said. “I went easy on yeh, of course, but yeh did well.”

“Sure you did,” Durrin said dryly. He nodded at Krizmon and Azura. “Those two caught me by surprise back there.”

“Ach.” Tadgh nodded. “They were joined at birth.” He tapped the side of his head. “Stuck together, I mean. What’s the word?”

“Conjoined twins?” Durrin supplied.

“Ach, that’s right. Stayed that way through their childhood, until a surgeon got them apart somehow. Yeh’d never know it half the time, by the way they quarrel. But they still fight as if they share the same mind.”

Durrin studied the two korriks again. They had stopped arguing and were gathering up the practice weapons with movements oddly in sync with each other. The right side of Krizmon’s head and the left side of Azura’s were deformed where they had once been conjoined.

Durrin looked past them to where Salidar stood near the fire. The vizier had finished his long-distance conversation and now stood alone, coolly watching from a distance.

What was Salidar’s plan? With him and Yorid now accompanying the Hakiru on their mission, how had Durrin’s role changed? He hadn’t had a chance yet to talk to Salidar alone. Was he still supposed to kill the Hakiru along with the princess?

Could he?

He looked around at the laughing, jostling band of warriors around him. They were turning out to be much different than he had expected. Less cruel. More light-hearted. More . . . real.