Omrai Speartip Abaddon, High General, stood in his war room in Ativa, the capital of Ateya. He scanned the map on the table, eyes moving from Ateya’s center, his current position, and then to the northeast. Each captured city was marked with a red x. In less than three days, an invading force with flying ships had conquered half of the cities of the Farinian tribe of Ateya...
In three days.
Men rushed in and out of the command center, several of his azor generals argued to the side. They each wore crisp glima, their long and flowing silk made in stripes of the deepest hues. He’d ordered them to come immediately, without regard for uniforms. He’d wore his own, but he always wore his uniform.
The dread in the air was palpable. He expected even more so for himself then others. He spent a moment, analyzing the waves of emotion he felt from each of his generals. For years he had only thought that he was better at reading people, understanding them. But as he aged, he began to realize more and more that he wasn’t just reading body language. He didn’t even have to look at someone else to know how they felt. He’d tried for years to understand it, even reading apocryphal texts to find any hint of his ability. None. There was not a reference nor a byword.
Now, he chose not to think about it. Others would call it witchcraft, a dangerous sin in Ateya. Was it witchcraft if it wasn't on purpose? Often, he wondered whether it was a gift or a curse, to feel the emotions of others so acutely. Even now, he longed for solitude.
But, unfortunately, Omrai wasn’t only the best man for his position, he was the only man for his position. No one else could hold the ravenous armies of their neighbors at bay. No one else could look into his enemy’s eye and see his heart, feel the emotional tides of a battle.
He was the only one.
“These reports are impossible,” Omrai said, turning to General Etos. “The dates must be wrong.”
General Etos frowned. “I’m afraid they aren’t. My very best spies have reported them, the messages sent by the fastest pteros.”
General Etos’s frustration hit Omrai like a sharp breeze. Omrai, suddenly feeling exhausted, crossed an arm over his chest and squeezed the bridge of his nose. As if he could massage the current situation away.
“Never, in all of known history, has anyone conquered such territory so fast,” General Tonnin said, the oldest of the group. He gave off an aura of quiet loathing and incredulity. “You can’t move troops that quickly.”
“Perhaps it was a premeditated effort?” General Koakh said. He was the youngest. Promoted by Omrai for his quick-thinking under pressure. Despite his anxiety, there was a solid foundation of vigilance in the man. “Coordinated between multiple armies?”
General Etos shook his head, “My spies on our border did not see them.”
Omrai furrowed his brow. “You mean to tell me that not a single spy bore messages of an invading force?”
General Etos nodded. “None sent a messenger ptero. Either they are dead, or the army didn’t pass that way.”
“Or they flew so far overhead no one could see them,” General Koakh said.
“Don’t tell me you believe what they’re saying of fortresses floating down from heaven, dropping warriors of metal onto our cities?” General Tonnin said with a growl, his disdain for the younger general apparent.
“I do,” General Etos said, “Why would my men lie about this?” His anger and impatience threatened to boil into rage and despair.
Omrai turned back to the table, taking another deep breath and trying to ignore the waves of emotions from the others. What were his own feelings? He lifted one of the reports from Etos’s spies.
They attacked from above. A fortress in the sky, raining down on our troops. They’re attacking the walls and the barracks. It won’t be long before they’ve taken the city. This message is short, because I fear our pteros aren’t safe in the sky with those… things.
Omrai found that he had been clenching his fists. He let out a calming breath. It would not do for his men to see him worry. He grabbed another missive.
We’re under attack! Cannons from the sky! Metal men swarming our fortresses, killing everything in their path! Send aid! They’re attacking the city from every side! They’re within the walls!
Behind Omrai, his generals still argued. He closed his eyes and inhaled again, deeply and slowly. After a slow exhalation, he opened his eyes. He turned away from the table and back to his generals, posture upright. Waves of fear and anger rolled off the men, a primal terror that came with the unknown.
Their argument died off as they noticed Omrai’s gaze and stood at attention.
They don’t know how much this news disturbs me… Omrai thought. How I fear this unknown enemy as much as they do. What sort of enemy bore such weapons, such sorcery? What sort of enemy could conquer a dozen cities simultaneously? Such coordination was not only unheard of, but it should be impossible.
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“We cannot let panic rule us,” Omrai said, meeting each man’s gaze in turn. “We must approach this with caution and forethought.”
Omrai rubbed his stubbled beard. He would have to investigate. Bring an army. Be prepared. Meet with his enemy and try to get a read on him. Perhaps he could negotiate with Jebuthar? The man’s emissary seemed threatening enough. Omrai had thought the foreigner was bluffing about the Conqueror’s capabilities.
These reports made him doubt that conclusion.
Omrai recognized the limping walk and a thud of a cane. He withheld a sigh of frustration as he turned to watch his brother enter the room.
Yishai Abaddon, High Judge of Ateya, was not a handsome man. He had been, once. But that was long ago. A wrinkled scar crossed his face, starting at the scalp, cleaving a scarred eye cloven in two, taking off a chunk of his bent nose and finally leaving a thin pale line in his jaw, thankfully skipping his mouth. More scars left bald lines on his head, and under his shirt one would see where a sword had caught a rib, scraping against the bone. The medicine men said it was a miracle he’d survived. If Omrai hadn’t taken an enemy spear and fought his way through the mob, Yishai would have been beaten to death. A day of blood and victory. All those years ago…
Yishai nodded curtly. Omrai’s brother rarely spoke of that day, and treated Omrai more and more as if it had never happened. Gratitude was not one of Yishai’s strengths.
“May my service lift you,” Omrai said to his brother. The other generals and aides repeated the phrase.
“And you also,” Yishai said. He looked at Omrai, his scowl critical and burdened with concern. “So, our nation is under attack, yet again?”
Omrai nodded. He did not want to deal with Yishai right now, especially when he needed to think. But one did not deny the High Judge of Ateya. The other generals stepped back; heads nodded in respect. All discussion had ceased. The room had gone silent, waiting for the whims of the man who ruled Ateya.
Yishai motioned for some aides to move the reports away from Yishai’s place at the head of the table. His chair that made the other seats in the room look like stools. Where they were wood and only slightly padded, Yishai’s was an intricate construction of metal and plush cushions. He let out an audible breath of relief through his nose. The aides moved the sheets aside. Omrai slid the map over to his brother. Yishai relaxed his cane and leaned forward.
His eyes opened wide as he read the dates next to the x’s.
“That’s impossible,” Yishai said. “There must be a mistake.”
Omrai noticed General Etos stiffening, his lips tightening in a line of annoyance. But he said nothing. The man gave an aura of provocation, but also withdrawal.
“We have multiple reports of the same,” Omrai said. He explained with hesitation. He hardly believed it himself. “They say, the enemy has flying fortresses. They descend from the sky and release a torrent of metal men into the defenses from the inside. In mere hours, they take the city.”
Omrai stood straight, staring at the map. He shook his head. This should not be possible.
Yishai’s scarred brow creased deeply, and Omrai felt a rush of resentment coming from his brother. “Again, our men tell us the impossible. What of the battles?”
“They… could hardly be called battles, as they’re described. The metal warriors sweep our men aside like kindling, and the fortresses themselves, apparently, drop fire like rain.”
“Black sorcery from the netherworld,” Yishai said, “I shall have to confer with High Priest Vaulod.”
Omrai doubted the old man could help but kept his concern to himself. His brother was a firm believer in the Church of Shevidaro. Omrai shared his faith in Father God but wondered about his brother’s interpretation. Luckily Yishai showed no sign of a similar perception of others’ emotions.
“There’s more. Do you remember that emissary from the man who called himself Jebuthar the Conqueror?”
Yishai nodded. “Yes. What of him?”
“He leads these armies.”
Omrai paid close attention to what he felt from the man next. Yishai frowned, giving off a twisting buzz perplection and a spike of surprise. “A stranger from an unknown land threatens us, then attacks with dark powers.” He let out a breath. “His letter mentioned the other nations. What news do you have of them?”
“There’s a rumor that he’s also attacked Sendeval,” Omrai said, “And the most recent trading caravans from Mirhaden and Virfhaden never arrived.”
Yishai’s frown deepened. “That must mean he struck them first for news to arrive so close to our attacks.”
The room went silent. Omrai looked again at the maps. It had been a very, very long time since he had felt so afraid. He found himself holding his breath and let it out in a rush. His hands had been clenched into fists. Yishai looked from the map and up at Omrai.
After a moment, Omrai finally found the words that matched his thoughts. He leaned in closely, to whisper to his brother. Hoping that his azor generals would get the message to focus elsewhere. The curiosity he felt from them told him his hope was likely misplaced. “Yishai, I have no idea how to fight this.”
Yishai considered his words for a moment, then he spoke in a firm tone. “You have to figure this out. War is your responsibility.”
There was seriousness in his brother’s words… and not a little anger.
“Ever since the first report, I’ve been gathering troops in Solin,” Omrai said, standing straight again. He tried to shrug off his brother’s disapproval. “I will take them east. If I can help it, we’ll meet Jebuthar on the field of battle. Somewhere he won’t be able to attack us from the sky, boxed in a city.” Omrai looked at the map and nodded. To his side, he knew his brother approved from the faint aura of trust the man gave off.
“Omrai.”
He turned to his brother.
Yishai’s eyes turned harsh. “Don’t let him take any more cities. I want him dead. There will be no peace treaties for this upstart. He must pay the price.”
Omrai could feel the emotional jab. Yishai was referring to the day Omrai had saved his life. Yishai was still angry Omrai had let the king of Sendeval live. He often reminded Omrai that he should have driven their enemy to extinction.
Omrai chose not to accept the challenge from his brother. They had argued this before, and the past would remain unchanged. He chose to say nothing.
“When will you be leaving?” Yishai said.
“Today,” Omrai said.
Yishai nodded.
Omrai bowed, a symbol of respect to a superior, and said “May your burdens be light.” His generals and aides repeated the farewell.
Yishai nodded. “And may my service lift you.” He stood, turning to leave Omrai with his generals.
Yishai let out a slow breath. His younger brother cared deeply for his people. A care that often manifested itself as harshness and impatience.
Omrai turned back to his generals, “I want you to be ready to leave within the hour.”