Ulric turned back to his leather hided, in places scalebound, business associate and apologized for getting distracted
"You must pardon this hussy, she knows not how to behave in public. It's all boundless forests and slavering beasts between those ears." He insisted to the Sauri.
Ignoring the scoffing behind him he continued to pump the Meat Artisan for information.
"Back to our discussion earlier, before I was so RUUDELY," He punctuated that by faking a glare toward his wife, "Interrupted. If it is volcanic spices that you wish, my Glade has that in spades, as do the Iriel'en, although they don't trade outside of Orlethrem, which makes the access to such markets difficult. Or did. Would it surprise you to learn I have just acquired a pair of ships, with which I will, at war's end, connect the lands of the Elves and those of Prespang, by a trade route to the Glade?"
Oliver Greytooth shook a powerfully muscled head and unsheathed the awesome Sauri grin, before he replied, "It would not. Before events of this year, I would have said that was insane, but, clearly, we do not need to concern ourselves with doubt on that mark. The Orlethrem are roused, Prespang is in disarray, and I have had unsettling word from my hatch-mates in distant ports."
Ulric accepted that ribbing gracefully. Water over a duck's back, genius was almost always conflated with crazy, until the shallow minds of others, eventually, recognized greatness. And they would, damn their eyes if they didn't!
"Yes, well, I admit some irrationality, such as keeping this wilderness trollop around," He confessed, continuing to ignore his mate's chirps of indignation, accruing debts that would be paid gladly later that night in their Great Game, "But this venture is plated in gold. I am one of the few Valin who have walked amongst the home of the Deep Woods Elves, the Barbarian holds of the Outer Reaches, the City States of Prespang, and much between them. I have walked Varda thoroughly these seasons past, and I can confidently say that I hold a unique position to play bridge between its peoples."
The large Beastkin shrugged almost armor plated shoulders and looked down upon Ulric with a single slitted eye raised, "As may be, but what have I, humble tender of the rotisserie to do with such lofty schemes?"
Ulric looked toward the Baron for support giving the Sauri chef a "Would you listen to this guy" expression and thumbing toward the Beastkin.
"Supply needs demand, Master Greytooth. Your demand, the demand of a slavering crowd that cannot find enough of your craft." Ulric narrated, telling the Sauri of his plan with the surety of a prophet, "They will flock to you, and you will fail to sate them for their number."
Continuing, building momentum with the certainty of his scheme he spoke louder and faster, "Then you will be forced to train apprentices to your art. Lessers, to be certain, at first, but they will be adequate to tend the masses, if not the connoisseurs, those will be reserved for your gift alone. And, standing behind this explosion of desire for exotic meats bathed in exotic spices, prepared to perfection under your hands, I will be with my ships empty and my purse fat."
He was nearing a fanatical pitch when his wife interjected, "If he survives the year.", which was posed with a certain amount of audible doubt, tossing cold water on his passion.
"If I survive the year." Ulric finished, in much calmer agreement with his partner.
Not a guarantee, by any stretch of the imagination. He was headed for Prosper, to lay his complaints at the feet of whoever had been responsible for them. His complaints would be in proportion to his grievances, thus loud. Probably made by way of lightnings, thunders, whatever fury of the elements he could manage, and an artifact sword's edge.
Baron Kistalfer was no merchant himself, he was a general of men, a warrior creating the stability under which such people might live in relative safety. His father before him had insisted he be tutored in such practice, to understand better all the facets of those under his rule. Even more than the theory of economy, it was the actual practice of the merchant's occupation he found tedious. Tras despised the haggling, the constant survey of markets, the need to travel constantly, not just to hawk your wares but to feel the pulse of the market, to track the progress and tactics of your rivals. It was all the headache of war with none of the satisfaction of seeing your enemy slain at your feet, his army in route before you, the glory of the field yours to savor. Nevertheless, his father's insistence was not without fruit, and Tras Kistalfer knew an opportunity to serve his people when he saw one.
"Since we have come to terms, with such benefit to your own person, if I might say Lord Einar, I will insist that my ports be given first call amongst the City States of Prespang. Consider it an addendum to our arrangements." The Baron demanded smoothly, sweetening his side of the deal, somewhat one-sidedly.
His tone brooked no argument, for all its apparent calm. Deep water running strongly beneath.
Ulric knew when he was getting strong-armed, but he wouldn't, couldn't argue. Besides, establishing a strong port of call was essential to any mercantile venture, so really, he was getting done a solid.
"Agreed, Lord Kistalfer," Ulric conceded, "Consider it a show of faith between us, faith in lasting peace, once the parasite that is Prosper has had its blood drinking probiscus pried from our asses."
"Very good, Lord Einar." Baron Kistalfer sealed the verbal deal, before turning about to face the way that they had come.
Standing with arms clasped behind him, not quite hiding a smug smile, he bowed himself out, "With that, I believe I will leave you to your machinations, before I am forced to leverage more such concessions from you. The good of my people would demand it, even if it is, perhaps, less than courtly behavior. I find such things tedious, however, and will retire. Miria, if you would?"
Just like that, the Baron made a tactical withdrawal to his keep, leaving Ulric and Taipan to chat with the Sauri Kebab maker.
Absent their leader’s presence, much of the crowd pressed back in, like water rushing into a lowered cup. Ignoring the whirl of peoples coming and going, Ulric continued to preach the gospel of artisanal tradecraft and the production of select markets distinct, especially in pricing, from the more pedestrian product lines.
Suitably convinced, the Beastkin agreed to speak again with his peers, a glitter of opportunity in slitted eyes. Ever since their first meeting Olivander Greytooth had sought out and traded words with those who shared his passion for creating delicacies. Those talks had, after some hesitance amongst the street peddlers, blossomed into a sort of impromptu guild. Not all had a love for the high heat, but anyone who could procure such peppers could source other novelties, an observation of the Sauri that made many a master of cuisine nod eagerly, anticipating new ingredients to design around. Olivander’s travels that spring, as they always did, took him from metropolis to metropolis, seeking new flavors and fresh crowds eager to try his craft, as well as open minds towards the expanding collection of eclectic chefs.
Adversaries all, to be sure, but also a source of innovation, and the kind of competition that made culinary art interesting. Greytooth’s teeth showed not just for the chance to fatten his purse, although that was good too, it was also for the singular exhilaration of seeing those who consumed his work experience life in all its fleshy, charred, fat dripping wonder through flavor. If there was enough support, establishing a supply of the kinds of beast flesh only currently enjoyed by those the Iriel'en directly traded with would be a blessing. Greater beasts were as delicious as they were fierce, and, even the lesser creatures would be sublime for their exotic flavors.
All parties separated after final exploratory agreements, satisfied by the discussions and plots.
With the rich briny, slightly fishy musk of the Vatyn in his nostrils and a warm, damp breeze on his face, Ulric considered this day already a resounding success.
"You truly are an odd man, Ulric." Taipan told him, leaning against a rail to look out over the Vatyn's rolling waves from the docks.
He nodded. That had always been true, before his Reforging, and, most definitely, after. A man of his years had long since learned to accept that oddness, to embrace it. The real lesson of his Reforged life was that it was also rewarding to share that oddness with others, and to enjoy their oddness in turn.
"Thank you, Taipan." He replied, absent sarcasm.
"So. Tell me. All these plots for a merchant empire fit to unseat the Merchant Lords, how do you plan to orchestrate them in addition to your duties as [Lord of the Ancient Glade] and your role as protector of your nascent realm?" She asked, somewhat dry in her humor.
Ulric had to stop to consider that, letting his grey eyes peruse the lithe curves of his mate for a short spell as he did, before sort of glazing over to take in the activity of the port generally.
"Well, I figure that, especially at the beginning here, my direct presence will be required to handle most affairs abroad.” He thought out loud.
There would be a heavy emphasis on travel, while he established himself and networked the competing interests of neighboring communities. He would be a long time on the sea, on ships not unlike the ones in this port. Indeed, if what he had managed to negotiate with the Baron came to pass, exactly on ships such as the ones tied up on their birthings.
“I can sort of set things up while I do that, maybe bring along some folk with interest or parallel need as a sort of delegation for trade or something, to help out. We'll figure it out. It will be slow going, at first.”
An understatement if ever he heard himself utter one. His eye caught on a fishing trawler whose hold was being emptied of fish, a line of butchers with long, thin, filleting knives, chopping cleavers, and various other implements ready to receive the mass of Vatyn’s bounty. Blood of several hues not red ran freely from the decks into the water. Watching the work, it drew some amount of comparison to his task. One fish at a time, as quickly as it could be handled without cutting yourself. Probably years of effort to hammer down the entire thing.
“Few enough will know that the [Forest Lord] lies slain and, of those that do find out, fewer will know that the Plateau of Ancients is not wild land unclaimed. I will have to prosecute my case directly I suspect, for some of them at least. Especially those for whom the world of the Elves does not hold water, and a messenger proves insufficiently persuasive." He drummed fingers against his thigh as he thought the matter out.
With a slight bit of regret tinging a more aggressively determined tone he told the Huntress next to him, "There will be at least one or two for whom my claim will not be enough. They will seek to deny my right, to supplant me, and to take what they see as an opportunity."
The Lord Instinct whispered its chaos song in the back of his head at the thought.
Taipan smiled, glad that her mate was seeing the problems she saw without having to be told them. She was dazzling in the afternoon sun, supple brown hide pulled over a frame that was solid where it needed to be and soft where he wanted it to be. He wondered if he was as marvelous in her eyes and she to his, on occasion. It seemed doubtful.
"And then?" She prodded.
"Varda doesn't run short of air, but it will be the better for less of it being used wastefully by morons." Ulric decided.
A predatory laugh, melodic, rich, filled the air next to him from his Taipan. One of his joys.
"Very good, Glade Chief. Very good." The Iriel'en woman purred next to him.
Inhuman grace in her steps, and greater strength than might be suspected from her womanly form, his Huntress spun away from the railing and snatched his hands, dragging him along into the streets.
"Come then, Ulric! We must return to see your subjects, to give them the good news. Then, we shall occupy ourselves with dancing, and revelry!" the Iriel'en girl proclaimed, cheerfully.
Enjoying the rare openly excited mood of his mate, Ulric let himself be led back through Kistalfer's streets, its bustle, its wash of fantastic peoples and medieval architecture reminding him again of the grand adventure that was Varda. So different from the cloistered, blocked off, efficient compacting of humanity that made up his old life. No vehicle laden roads jammed with haulers, no hum of power quietly filling the air, no trains loudly proclaiming their loading and unloading habits. The sterility of it all was gone, replaced by an almost wild feeling, even here in the city. Varda was alive, and that extended to its people. Being so immersed in it, he lost some of the feeling of separation that had dominated his old life.
Dominant by far were the Valin component of Kistalfer, compared to their Jormun counterparts. Human language, so similar to something he would have imagined to have sounded like a slavic tongue, maybe Croatian. He'd never bothered to learn any of those languages but they'd come up frequently while investigating how exactly the early second millennium geopolitical stage had gotten so fucked so badly. That thought he turned aside from, no need to go traipsing through unpleasant history on such a fine day.
It wasn't hard to find the refugees, Baron Kistalfer had cordoned off a square of his soldier's barracks, slightly isolated within the city behind a set of low stone walls. The heavy iron gates and guard towers turned the square into ta hard-point for city defense, should an enemy get inside the walls of the city. As he looked, Ulric realized that Kistalfer was a harder nut to crack than he'd initially given it credit. By spreading out the quarters for soldiers in such squares throughout the various districts, it would be virtually impossible to route the defenses without absolutely overrunning the entire city.
He was devoutly glad it hadn't come to that. Firstly, because he couldn't do it given that he had about forty people who could lift a weapon that would do it when he told them. Secondly, because his conscious had blood enough on it without exterminating a city magically.
The naturally sort of negative man rejected such morbid thoughts immediately, turning to the hopeful upbeat attitudes of the refugees.
He took in the sight: the former Prespangers were interspersed with their kin, but mixing of cook pots and barracks between Elves, Humans, and Beastkin. The heterogeneous grains of peopledom were more than a little promising. Maybe he wasn't dreaming when he thought there might be a possibility to create an egalitarian settlement out of these folk. After all, none of these people had any real grudge against one another, and all had lost to Prosper's machinations. A common enemy forged together a society as certainly as a proper heat and flux did steel.
He found himself buoyed by his partner's cheerfulness and enjoyed himself a taste of the general air of optimism. Taipan went around shepherding her kin around and the rest sort of followed along to see what was going on. Loud exclamations met his proclamations of success in acquiring ships to transport the crowd to safe territory. His glade was far, far from the war or its combatants. For the freed Elves especially, the notion of a haven in the primordial home of their kind was welcome indeed.
Music was taken up with improvised instruments, many a pot or kettle served as drum or bell, and voices sang songs in a mix of tongues. Some tunes had migrated between cultures and all knew the melody, even if the words were different.
In and amongst the impromptu festival, Ulric found a rare moment to join his Taipan and dance. The waltz of a dead world sent them spinning through a space emptied by the people who looked to him to lead them, somehow, out from harm's way. The Aesir woman who, for whatever reason, found his company not only tolerable, but even seemed to enjoy it, stepped with grace above any mortal who had ever thought to have mastered this dance, and, for a time, all was better than well.
Just a smidgen drunk, the mismatched couple strode through city streets back to the apartments that had been offered to them. They were greeted by the Baron’s staff, Sirrah’d and Madam’d to their room and offered drawn baths and a meal and whatever other comfort might be imagined.
Taipan, former princess of the Iriel'en, acted like it was all just a matter of course. Sometimes he forgot that his old lady actually was an old lady, in every sense of the phrase. She was well over two hundred Earth years old, for all that she acted like a half tame wolf most of the time. She was also long steeped in the upper echelons of Elf high society, by virtue of being the eldest daughter of an Elven king. He was a little less comfortable with being treated like anything more than a gear fit into the machine of post collapse industry, or a somewhat volatile variable in previously mentioned Elven King's squirrely equations for overseeing the longevity and safety of his kin. It was nice, being somebody, sometimes.
At least, when being somebody didn't put a big-ass target on his back, like it had so far.
As soon as the door closed behind him, his Taipan extracted her cruel dues for his blatant tomfoolery in public against her person. He loved every minute of it and they both fell asleep in a boneless pile of sexy time funk. Morning light hadn't yet broken through the opalescent glass window when he was woken from a vivid dream of debauchery. The dream wasn't, he just wasn't fully awake when lush brown hips started humping him vigorously from a mount.
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"Ye gods, woman, have you no mercy in that black heart?!" Ulric demanded of the lust beast assaulting his person with incredible energy for such early hour, when his mind came fully awake.
"Your fault," Panted his assailant, her motions causing a divine procession involving the sway of breasts above him, "We have had no bed for too long and...mph...I required reminding why I keep you around. In leisure."
It was true. Far too long since they'd enjoyed one another in real comfort. He cupped the alters of his worship and squeezed them, which added some urgency to the riding woman. He couldn't withstand this aggression, already he felt the end approaching.
"I'm getting a bed for the glade, " He gasped, "First thing. Holy fu-"
The most glorious of shivers from the lithe thighs squeezed him, as she frequently did when she peaked. Preening atop him, Taipan of the Glade sighed in pleasure before leaning over to bite him gently on the shoulder.
It took Ulric some few moments to gather enough blood from his nethers to manage a thought.
"That was a hell of a way to wake up. Bless you lass." Ulric told his mate earnestly, while they recovered.
He received no reply, but a roaming hand squeezed his rump, and he rolled his eyes. They lay quiet for a few minutes and he was starting to wonder if he'd be allowed to leave anytime soon.
"Can you go again? Or have I taught you not to challenge my powers, you harvester of unripened fruits Valin buck." Came the muffled nuzzling at his shoulder, not so long later, answering his unasked question.
There was no direct translation for the Elvish phrase she'd used. He was fairly certain she'd just called him a raw recruit in the sack, a sally that normally demanded fervent response.
"The spirit is willing, lass, " Ulric began to quote a beloved classic, "But the flesh is…wait, no, never mind! Game on!"
Thanks be to the Watcher for youth's gifts. The time for feigning weakness was passed, he flopped his oppressor over and reveled in the fruits of the conqueror. Oh! But the wailing and gnashing of teeth!
Finally, they extracted themselves from their finely woven sheets, and made ready for the day. A chipper Taipan dressed with a hummed song of some sylvan origin. He wasn't sure if she was aware of her habit, mostly following the nights when they played a particularly fine game of up and down.
He was in an upbeat mood himself. For obvious reasons. Still, he was going to have to stop the bleeding on his shoulder before he put on a shirt, Taipans bite viciously when provoked.
A small bit of field dressing applied, and he was wearing laundered clothes. The staff at the Keep had rounded up whatever wasn't being worn and washed it as thoroughly as possible. Many of the stains were of blood origin, and wouldn't be so easily removed, but clean was miracle enough in his eyes. Damn if he didn't just about feel like a person again!
"Hooo boy! What got you all riled up lass, if you don't mind my asking?" Ulric addressed his mate, watching with great interest as she pulled her new thigh high boots snug.
Leather not yet broken in was stiff, both from new and from a not so supple a material as her Iriel'en crafted ones. Still. Avert thine eyes, Glade Chief! Before the temptress consumes you!
He turned away from a knowing Elf grin.
Lilting music behind him he felt the Huntress drape herself over his back, arms circling his neck, "We had not had the chance to be able to relax in months. The bowstring held in draw will break. You cannot always be wound like a ballista spring, Glade Chief. Nor can I. And the unwinding, it was delightful, was it not?"
He mumbled generally positive agreement with that. Very specifically he would not mention the state of his back or the fresh dressing on his shoulder. Skin was cheap price to pay, and handling Taipans was never meant to be safe.
"I bow to your wisdom, Lady Taipan of the Glade," Ulric said with good humor, patting the hands toying with his robe's laces, as if to try to slip beneath them, "And none of that! I'm not taking my boots off, now they're on."
"What if I leave mine on though?" Came the seductive whisper.
Blast. She knew his weaknesses.
Ulric summoned all his dire will to reject foul succubi, "Nicht, Fraulein! We've got ships to see to and a whole mob of your kin to get packed up."
Had not the sylvan panther behind him already shagged him nearly unconscious he'd have succumbed to her suggestions.
"Besides, we'll steal one of the cabin rooms on whichever boat we like best and, there, I'll make people think a murder most foul happens." Ulric offered.
Teeth nipped his ear and a whisper in a tone that heated his blood blew on his neck, "Bargain struck. Do not forget." before she released him.
Her bones must have been healed to completion, all this exertion would have pained her before. Whatever, he was all aboard the frisky Taipan train.
They stood then and completed their dressing, donning the equipment of the road before they exited rooms without further mishap. The familiar armor was a comforting weight. He would have to see if Taipan could get something for herself, something light, but just a little extra defense. Her Shadow manifested armor was surprisingly durable, however the hell a shadow, which wasn't even a real thing, being the contrast between a light source on the background, took on physical hardness. However. It hadn't stopped her taking a hard hit from the monster armadillo-ankylosaur whatever the fuck it was. Varda punished mistakes, even when they were rare.
Outside, a sprightly young man in the livery of one in direct service to the Baron greeted them.
"Good morn, guests of the Baron. My Lordship sends his greetings and apologizes that affairs of state occupy him for much of the day. I have been given instruction to see to your guidance through Kistalfer today, wherever the Lord and Lady desire to go." the young man delivered his speech smoothly.
Ulric looked to his partner and shrugged. They didn't need a guide but, why not?
"You will have to convey my thanks to Baron Kistalfer for his hospitality. And you may call me Ulric, the Lord and Lady stuff gets tired. What name do I give you, young man?" Ulric informed the dark-haired lad, who appeared to have just reached majority, maybe twenty years of age, tops.
A short bow with a hand to an imagined sword at his belt preceded his words, "I am Thulis Kistalfer, second cousin to our Baron, and his squire. I have just begun my apprenticeship, so I beg patience when I fail to serve."
It was Taipan, oddly enough, who offered quick reassurance, "All who begin their path deserve forbearance while they learn. We are honored to receive your guidance, Squire Thulis. Please, escort us to the dockyards. We would inspect the ships negotiated with your Lord and see to their supply."
At that, another short, quick bow, and the figure reminiscent of a younger Baron Tras Kistalfer took off with the both of them in tow.
Unlike before, the citizenry didn't stop and part like the red sea as they came through so they actually had to move with the flow of the city's traffic. Rather more traffic than the day before. It would appear that Tras Kistalfer was enacting his plan to effectively "capture" ships docking in his ports by preventing the sailors of those ships from accessing the docks.
It was a slick move. Nobody knew the defacto blockade was in place because it was originating from the inside. It had the effect of virtually shutting down maritime trade to Prosper, however. Kistalfer was a favored port of call to the Western coasts of the Vatyn, a last stop off before many mercantile vessels either went North across the Vatyn or took the long jump to the Reaches, forgoing the more frequented Southern stopovers where greater competition made for lesser profits. As a result, there were fully a thousand extra visitors in Kistalfer's streets and inns.
Ulric judged that Baron Kistalfer could absorb another hundred ships worth of crew before he ran out of space to keep them, without recourse to some kind of prisoner's camp. By the overheard talk of sailors spending their pay on booze, even so early in the morning, the rumor was that a stowaway pest animal was loose on the ships and the Baron was quarantining crews to ensure it did not spread from port to port, while ships were cleared of the creature. Very slick.
"The ships my Lordship has selected are here, anchored on these consecutive births. They are fast, with four main sails and crews known for fearless running of the tides and storms." The squire said, gesturing to four carracks, each sitting high in the water.
While not a naval man, he'd traveled on what was considered the finest ship in the Beastkin clan Hora-Bitsnez and that vessel shared many parallels to these. The relatively small number of crew to handle such large ships was no longer surprising to him, he counted not much more than half a dozen on any one of them. All the better, that meant more room for the refugees.
Those crewmen were the only sailors allowed in the dockyards once unloading of the incoming ships had finished. Three ships came in early, having anchored not so far from the city when they failed to arrive in time for the docks to be open. Their crews were disembarked, paid both their contract and a bonus for the delay in departure, and escorted to a tavern to drink their pay or to find alternative entertainment through games of chance or the attentions of a man or woman's bed, depending on the preference. It was all very orderly, and without violence. Such was the power of owning the city, Ulric supposed.
At a gesture, the captains of the respective vessels granted him left giving directions and insults to the intelligence, breeding, and overall character of the sailors to their first mates to come see who it was their Baron had deemed a priority client. So much so that two of the ship's captains had agreed to sell their service to the strange visitor, who rumor said led an army to overthrow Kistalfer, one so fierce that many men had been lost and the Baron had been forced to recognize the Barbarian as an equal. The two who agreed did so because they were unmarried and the chance to make runs all the way down the Zelas was a promise for being able to afford a fat dowry.
Squire Thulis addressed the captains thusly, "Here I present to your graces Herald Yismen, Conrad Ross, Perim Bells, and Eckbert Talwer, all agreed to carry your wards as far as needs must, and two, Captains Yismen and Bells, to stay on as per the agreement for intercession with alliance and as part of the treaty with the Orlethrem."
At the formal introduction, each of the captains gave the same short, shallow bow.
Ulric gave the men in their sleeveless vests tucked into sturdy pants, rough hands and deeply tanned skin a good once over. He could find no fault in any of them, all had the look of men in their prime, with enough seasoning not to be easily panicked when things went tits up. Because they would go tits up, Ulric had no doubts on that score.
Taipan's emerald and bronze flecked eyes locked on the horizon and the rest of her went rigid.
Iron bells might as well have rung, he knew that look. Trouble followed it, guaranteed.
Iron bells began ringing from watchtowers along the great port of Kistalfer, their heavy funeral sounding declaring the city to be under attack. Ulric looked towards where his partner was fixated but he couldn't see anything. It was open ocean all the way to the horizon, which looked to be slightly dark with clouds.
Or…no, not clouds, he realized as he watched. Ships. The horizon was dark with ships, too faint for even his excellent vision to distinguish them as a blur on the edge between sea and sky.
"What do you see, Taipan?" He asked his frozen Huntress.
She turned to frown, not happy about the news she had to give.
"Vessels large enough to be for war, and many of them. Painted black to sail invisible in the night, as raiders do. I believe I am seeing the vanguard of an armada." The tall Elf reported, shaking her black silken hair in aggravation.
Just like that, Ulric's plans went up in smoke once again. An armada. Varda's horizons were long, those ships could very well be more than a day away. Probably not, since the Vatyn's air currents pushed toward the Southern coast reliably. They would have full sails, those war schooners. Not that it was likely they were all schooners, to be seen from so far. Many of the approaching ships were probably multidecked galleons accompanied by sleek, fast brigantines. They would see any departing ships and be able to cut them off, pinning them against the coastline.
He and his refugees would never be able to make clear without a fight.
Sighing heavily, he addressed the grim-faced squire, whose expression held the answer already to his question, "Any chance those are friendly?"
The squire turned away from the looming threat to give him his attention, his expression so very similar to his older cousin who, even right then, was probably marshalling Kistalfer's forces for defense.
"No, your Lordships. The decree of Prosper and all the City-States of Prespang, say that no ship may be painted darkly, none but the Federal Navy. Those vessels fly Prosper's flags, my eyes cannot see it yet, but I can promise you." foretold the dark headed youth.
After so forbidding a pronouncement there was…surprisingly nothing going on. Those ships were most of a day away, even with the wind in their sails. Ulric and Taipan double timed their way to the barracks square that was packed to the brim with Gladefolk. Taipan delivered the news with characteristic brusqueness and it was received with a quiet determination to make life very uncomfortable, and short, for any who tried to take newly found freedom from them. The boyish mage Brodin separated from the herd of refugees, his Leor wife glued to his side, as always they were to be found. He came to join Ulric, Taipan, and the young squire of Kistalfer.
Presenting himself with a nod to the squire, in recognition of the Baron's proxy presence, and a short bow toward Ulric, the Germen mage made plain his desires, "I would like leave to go to the docks, to take a fast ship out into the bay. There are arts I may employ that will slow the enemy fleet, though I cannot hope to stop or even down any ships. Still, I might be able to forestall them in range of the batteries."
Ulric's eyes widened at that request, it hadn't even occurred to him that a plant magic wielding magus could create difficult terrain for seabound vessels.
"Knock yourself out, lad, do your utter worst." Ulric agreed, still not used to people asking his permission to do much of anything.
Speaking of which, Geras Blackskies strode up like a man prepared to cause trouble. Ulric suppressed a groan at dealing with the crotchety mage.
"And what can I do for you Master Geras?" He asked reluctantly.
The former High mage of Kistalfer cleared forty years of smoking rough pipe smoke from his throat before he croaked, "I need that thing in your chest, if you got the sack for it. Little something I been working on loosing if it ever came to it."
Jerking a thumb towards the sea, the Cloud mana wielding mage said with his usual dry gruffness, "Looks like it has, unless I miss my mark."
Ulric couldn't really disagree. Kistalfer had tall walls but not so many men to man them. Much of her strength had been depleted pooling for the illfated attack on Orlethrem, and by the fanatical orders of the solar lance slinging zealot Ulric had tangled with not long ago. The same men he and Taipan had poisoned would have come in real handy standing on the walls right about now. Nothing for it, times changed and fortunes blew on fickle winds. The remaining patrolmen were stout hearted, but not potent. What few soldiers remained would be hard pressed against the numbers that could be fit onto as many ships as were currently darkening the horizon.
What he didn't see was what his core had to do with it.
"Alright, your vulgar implications about my jollies aside, what are you plotting?" Ulric bit, too curious.
A rare smile found its way onto the wrinkled face and blue eyes bore into him with malice, not for Ulric but for the ones who had betrayed the Magus for an entire lifetime.
"I got to thinking after seeing how you handled my Skylance. Figure I have a way to get around that nifty trick you pulled, guiding the mana to the soil." Geras told him smirking with no little satisfaction.
Ulric should have figured a crafty wizard would find a way to get around his Faraday cage. It was a sound reminder not to underestimate the ingenuity of those far more experienced than yourself.
"There's going to be mages with that armada," The mage informed him spitting on the stones at his feet for emphasis, "Prosper don't send the punitive navy without a detachment of War mages, probably a good bit of Prosper's own reserve force. I don't feel charitable today, so I'm going to give them something to think about. But. I do not have the touch with Ceraun that you do. Hence I need that unnatural thing sitting behind your heart to do the heavy lifting for what I have in mind."
Shrugging, Ulric rejoined, "Why not? We've got nothing but time to kill for a good while yet. Might as well see if we can put our heads together and come up with something to savage those ships before they make landing."
He made a slight bow and an "after you" with his hands.
Geras took off back toward the docks, at as brisk a pace as the hobbled man could make.
Twenty minutes later, with Geras puffing hard and leaning on the majestic catalyst staff for support, they had arrived back to the seaside. The incoming ships were growing noticeably larger. Ulric thought he might even be able to see color on the sails, but, at that distance, he couldn't be certain. When the light hit a certain way he would have sworn there were glimmers of gold on some of the biggest of them.
Taipan, one hand shading her brow, intense concentration upon her face, turned and smiled her predator's smile at him. Uh oh. She only did that when she was leaning hard into the [Shadow Panther] part of her personality.
"Ulric, it is good tidings that I have for you. It would seem you have no need to go all the way to Prosper to find your vengeance. Gold strands woven into sails means the spiders have come along at last to see what shakes their web." She reported with fierce excitement.
The Lord Instinct reared up in his mind, ravening.
A similarly feral eagerness made him smile, not even bothering to suppress the Ancient Glade's Akashically conferred destructive impulse.
"Well now," Ulric mused, "That does change things, now doesn't it lass?"
Stroking the beard growing white on his chin, the color a gift from a pyromancer on the Merchant Lords' payroll that had come damned close to incinerating him, he began to think evil thoughts.
"Tell you what, Master Geras. I'll share with you a little something I came up with that I think you'll like. I call it [Vortex Flare] and, while I have no doubts as to its power, I think a man of your ability will have some thoughtful insights towards improving it." Ulric said to the elder magus.
Carefully, he began spooling out Caelum, grasping the air just above their heads and forcing it into the concentric flows that made up the [Cloud Hammer] he had devised as one part of the hybrid spell that had ravaged a huge meadow of plant monsters. He explained what he was doing for the classically trained Valin war mage, who picked up on its purpose instantly.
"Hells, you mad man! You're a genius! Only, what would make a man think to do…no, never mind, this, I can work with this!" Cried the retired High Mage.
Ulric ignited a thumbnail sized Incendere [Flame Pearl] on the surface of the stone slab on the dock landings, about twenty meters down the pier. Then he brought down the [Cloud Hammer] on top of it, activating the miniature by far version of his firestorm generating spell.
The violent spiral of flame that roared outward before drawing in and reaching up almost fifty meters before it dissipated was impressive.
Geras frowned at the sight, ignoring the singing of his eyebrows as he leaned toward the source of the heat. He was silent a moment as he took in the flows of mana, the synergy of the working and its efficient weaving of Incendere and Caelum.
At last, the mage sighed heavily once before he turned to Ulric and announced, "[Lord of the Ancient Glade] indeed, it seems I owe you for not turning that on my city."
The mage grinned suddenly and cackled, and nobody who heard Geras Blackskies laughing thought any good was coming to anybody.
"You've got spiders weaving chaos webs in that Barbarian's skull, but I can do you one better. Come here you half mad bastard, we're going to make something beautiful and terrible!"
So invited, Ulric put his head together with the old battlemage and they set to crafting a magic that would make the Golden Thrones weep for their sins.
Cloud mana sang a harmony of air and water joined, but not smoothly. Like minor notes in a major melody, the whole worked because of its differences, not in spite of them. For Ulric, watching Geras gather and direct his magic was eye opening. Gother’s technique was vastly different from the manipulations of the High Mage. Where the Aes’r archmage made magic seems like something grown from the ground, Geras worked the ether like a clockmaker. Every movement of mana just so, and in this degree, that thread to go here, which in turn powers this working. So on and so on. This was the difference in the Valin and Aes’r magecraft.
There could be no doubt as to Gother’s mastery, his incredible precision, and adaptability in wielding the arcane. But there was always a disconnect for how the Elf manipulated the magic. Perhaps he picked up Geras’ methodology far faster, the techniques mesh more easily into his own style of casting, because his mind was simply more in tune with the Valin way of thinking. Or, perhaps, because of his exposure to the teachings of Iriel’s tradition, he found the Prespang art simpler, less profound, and more tactile. There was no reason for both not to be true.
Nephel was not a harmonic of mana that Ulric was used to wielding. He had dabbled in water and air, sort of coming at the problem sideways. Geras showed him the note and how to tune his magic to it. There was an instant synergy with Ceraun, and that made sense. This was the combination he’d felt from the cores of those [Thunderhorn Sheep], the tone of storm magic. Just like Ulric had not been able to completely work his [Cloud Hammer], having to sort of back into the spell, Geras had not been able to finalize his [Skylance] without the control of Ceraun to link his working to its target.
Between them, they crafted two halves into a whole. Nephras above, whirling in the rings of concentrated mana at incredible speed, countercurrent flows that excited the Ceraun that was tied between them, like a transmission linked to an engine, the cloud magic drew power from the movement of air and water, the electrical magic would transform that power into a flow of energy, connecting the engine to the wheels.
A miniature supercell formed, no larger than a patio deck, but wind twisted off from it, lashing against the stones of the pier hard enough to raise dust, flinging loose grit away with force against the onlookers. They had drawn a small crowd, the two men bent close, their emphatic whispers, hands gesticulating madly, and scrawling symbols on the pier with chalk that made no sense to anyone watching but the two wizards.
“And I am telling you, we can’t wait for a supercritical charge before we throw the link!” Ulric argued, still straining to hold onto the construct.
It had taken two hours for Geras to teach him how to perform choral casting, sharing the magical load by dividing up the task between mages. The older mage was working the spinning clouds, holding them together while achieving wicked velocity. Ulric was channeling the budding lightning, drawing off the charge generated and isolating it to build potential at a frightening rate. They were at an impasse now.
The High mage wanted to delay the link to the intended strike for as long as possible, sliding the Ceraunic path into place at the moment the spell blossomed to fruition. Ulric, having already played that game once, knew that waiting to build the link until breakdown was asking for trouble. He was about to explain why you cannot hold the lightning too long beyond its natural limit when his grip slipped a nanometer and a vicious searing bolt blasted from the tiny, black maelstrom, repeated a dozen more times, each more powerful than the last, until it blew the clouds apart around it in a violet flare, thunders rocking everyone nearby.
Screams, ducking, and panicked flight marked the event. Both mages were on their backsides, looking at a small crater whose glassified center was only just cooling enough to stop glowing red.
Taipan stood nearby shaking her head at the pair of them, “I will have to cut one your throats if this goes on, before you end us all.” Was her only commentary.
Geras, harrumphed, spat, and picked himself up slowly, leaning heavily on his staff.
“Perhaps,” the old mage begrudgingly conceded, “There is merit to your position. Fine. Spinup and link should go hand in hand. But know that you give away your intent! Any with mana sense worth mention will feel this connection. Some, like that ancient Meister sitting in the Deep Wood, could use that warning to counterspell.”
Ulric dusted his pants, tassel, and armor off, flicking a pebble from where it was caught in a buckle.
“That’s why you stop being so stingy with the wind. The vortex, you can stream Incendere on one side of it, alongside Caelum, and an equal measure of Infrig on the other, driving the cold down and the hot up, they will naturally spiral. That wind will occupy the enemy, distract them, make them think the intent of the working is the cyclone, rather than the power the cyclone gathers.” The former engineer explained.
Geras frowned and rebutted, “You want five streams of mana, all at the same time? The working becomes leaps and bounds more complex, more difficult to maintain, all so that you might sell a feint to one of the passing rare individuals that might actually be able to counterspell?”
Well, when he said it like that…yes.
“Yes. Precisely because there are those who can do it. This magic is blistering overkill against nonmages and it’s probably more than most Adepts can handle. But. Against those who can disrupt the easily read workings, that is where this shines. Our project here is perfect for removing everything but an Archmage from the field.” Ulric rebutted.
Now cool, the cracked and demolished stone of the pier was a poignant piece of evidence for his claim.
They both looked at the damage and mulled that over in silence.
Eventually Geras spoke, “Aye then, and what if there is a second such afflicted mind with a core that can withstand the flow of lightning?”
Ulric paused to think. What would he do if he had to kill another him? Test their multitasking. If they had his core, but lacked Gother's training or his Elementalist multithreading ability and mana recognition, then that core wouldn't save them from a spell of this complexity. According to his studies, it wasn't possible to counterspell against a working you only poorly understand, even if you didn't know its weaving well enough to attempt to cast. Or, so far as he knew, Varda was full of mysteries and tricks.
“Even more reason to complete the spell as I described it. Between the two of us, they would be unlikely to unravel the flows of mana and, if the lightning doesn’t get the bastard, the wind will. Now, I say again, you don’t have to create the link when you drive the clouds to rotate, you can concentrate on the flows of hot and cold shearing, wait until the funnel cloud drops, the vortex will be self-sustaining for a few minutes by that point. The link and the skylance can come after.” He rationalized, playing out the idea.
“What do you mean, funnel cloud, Glade Chief.” Taipan asked suddenly concerned.
Laughing, he started to gather up another bit of mana to make a new cell.
“You’ll see in a second.” Ulric chuckled, “Come on you geezer, grab this cloud and start it spinning, I’m going to get those shearing winds going. You’re going to just shit when you get a load of this.”
A few minutes later, blasted by dust and sand, hair swept backward and more cooling glass in the bottom of the now wider crater in the pier, no one was laughing. Taipan was looking thoughtfully at where the violently spinning cyclone had torn pieces of stone up from the pier and sent them flying at arrow speed into a ship, which had a clean hole in its side and was taking on water.
“It’ll do.” Geras announced, into the stunned silence.