Fortress Al-Mir

As dawn’s first light crested the horizon, a majestic procession emerged from over the hill of the Principality of Vaales, making its way toward the ancient stone bridge that spanned the vast canyon that was Mystakeen’s border. At the head of the caravan, a group of mounted heralds clad in gleaming armor announced the approach of royalty with the melodious call of trumpets echoing against the canyon walls.

In all his time serving the Duchy, Hawkwood had never had a face-to-face meeting with the King or any of his immediate family. Duke Levi Woldair gained his position through a hereditary title, one earned by his thrice-great grandfather after he successfully led the war that reclaimed the territory of the current Duchy from the Yzanstani Empire—the predecessor to the current Evestani Sultanate. But the Duke wasn’t related to the royals. At no point in his family line had anyone married into King Lafoar’s line.

Despite that, Hawkwood was fairly certain that he knew what to expect. He had met his fair share of counts, viscounts, scions, and earls. He had sat in on meetings with generals and commanders, plenty of whom had earned their positions through nepotism rather than achievement. Prince Cedric Valorian Lafoar was said to have waged a brutal campaign of suppression in Vaales, quelling the revolt so thoroughly that he had to have more tactical and strategic skill than a nepotism position could have warranted…

Yet, if Arkk’s suspicion was correct and Prince Cedric had used a demon—had fed the revolting population to a demon—then all that image was nothing more than bluster. Hawkwood fully expected an arrogant child who had never had to want a day in his life, so detached from the reality the rest of the population lived in that he could barely be considered human.

“So which will it be?” Hawkwood murmured, standing with his best men at the entrance to the canyon bridge that linked Mystakeen and Vaales. “Brutal warlord or arrogant boy?”

White Company stood on the Duchy’s side of the bridge, their black chevron on white background banners held high. They were here today as honor guards, not as warriors. Ordinarily, the Duke’s Grand Guard who were stationed at the fort near the bridge would have been present as well. They weren’t. The fort was deserted.

Lady Katja had done an unexpectedly adequate job of enticing the Grand Guard to her banner, but she had failed here. The soldiers stationed at the border fort had heard of Prince Cedric. Not the demon summoning rumors, but just his more popularly known methods of quelling the Vaales rebellion. Even that was enough for them to fear what he might do upon his arrival.

It didn’t look as if he had come to battle.

The Prince’s caravan was more rugged than a wealthy scion might favor. It still managed opulence with the heralds and the banners embedded with woven threads of gold. But the carriage in the back—the one likely carrying Prince Cedric—was armored. A veritable fortress of metal plates and ritual enchantments. Narrow slits in its sides allowed the occupants a view without exposing themselves. Great beasts pulled the carriage. A pair of manticores. Hawkwood recognized their lion-like bodies and large, scorpion-like tails from books, though he had never seen one in person. Their eyes held an intelligence far greater than any average mule.

This was a carriage designed for a person who knew the realities of war.

Once upon a time, Hawkwood might have found it impressive. The metalwork and the rituals were clearly of fine craftsmanship. It could likely withstand some minor bombardment magic, at least for a single wave of castings.

Unfortunately for its impressiveness, he had seen the Walking Fortress.

Behind the carriage, a contingent of soldiers marched. Some on horseback, some on foot. They were not dressed in the ornate armor typical of ceremonial guards but in practical, battle-ready gear that was still light enough to travel in despite their number being too small to fight a proper battle. Their eyes scanned the surroundings with the vigilance of men who had seen combat but weren’t expecting any fight today. Not here, anyway. Hawkwood knew that look. The experienced members of White Company were the same.

The procession slowed as they approached the bridge. It was too narrow to march everyone across in the same formation that they had moved with prior. This was the weak point. If Hawkwood—or Lady Katja—had been intending subterfuge, this would be the opportune moment. Alchemical explosives placed underneath the bridge could send the entire procession down to the depths of the canyon in one fell move.

So it didn’t surprise Hawkwood when they took the bridge slowly. First with just a few men, all of whom looked to be experienced casters, sweeping prepared wands around as they advanced, likely looking for any sign of explosives. Footmen advanced next, taking the bridge in small squads, each with a mule pulling a cart of supplies.

As the groups reached the Mystakeen side of the bridge, the men quickly arranged themselves in a defensive formation. Hawkwood spent some time observing them, somewhat wary of the Prince himself, despite having been ordered here to meet the man. It was with some relief that the soldiers didn’t appear to be gunning for a fight. The formation was more formality than anything else. They squared up, matching White Company, but were at ease.

Hawkwood did not doubt that they could be ordered to violence at a single word from the Prince—White Company was the same—but if the plan was to fight, they hadn’t been told about it.

The fortified carriage finally moved up to the bridge, drawing Hawkwood’s attention back to the procession. The massive, muscular manticores that pulled it moved with surprising haste. With no footmen in the way, it cleared the vast bridge in a matter of moments, not wanting to stick around and give further opportunity for sabotage.

Now that it was closer, Hawkwood could see shadows moving in the thin slits of its walls. Its occupants shifted in place as they looked about the exterior. Hawkwood, at the fore of the White Company reception, waited, expecting the Prince to come out for a greeting—or for him to send someone in his place, but the carriage merely pulled in line with the rest of the footmen and stopped, now waiting for the rest of the procession to make its way across the bridge.

It was not a quick affair. Although they were less wary now that the carriage had gotten across, there were still at least two hundred soldiers that had to make their way over, plus the myriad horsemen, and then the squires and logisticmen along with their carts of supplies. By the time the caravan made it fully across the bridge, the sun was high in the sky.

One of the horsemen broke away from the rest of the group and dismounted, followed by his own set of honor guards. He was a man of imposing stature, almost as tall as an elf, clad in the hardened leather and metal of a leader with only a single regalia of royalty to associate the man with the Prince. Perhaps Hawkwood was projecting on the man, but he carried himself with the assurance of one who had commanded on the battlefield, his eyes sharp and assessing as they swept over Hawkwood and his men.

Hawkwood, on foot, stepped forward to meet him.

“Hawkwood, Commander of White Company?”

“I am,” Hawkwood said with a nod of his head.

“I have heard of your exploits. Both in this and the previous war with the wretched Evestani,” the man said, extending a hand. “The legends do you credit.”

“Legends are often exaggerated,” Hawkwood said, keeping his expression neutral. “Might I have your name?”

The man breathed out an amused note as he released Hawkwood’s hand. “You don’t know? Perhaps not as perceptive as I had been led to believe.”

A knot of tension tugged at the base of Hawkwood’s skull. His eyes flicked to the metal carriage.

“Ah. You thought I would be arriving in that.” His laugh only served to increase Hawkwood’s tension. “A deception. Give your enemies a target to strike and they’ll strike it. Disguise the target and they’ll reveal their hands. I couldn’t be sure of your intentions until I safely made it into the Duchy. Or, rather, Mystakeen, isn’t it? The Duke is dead and no heirs exist. My father is… most upset with the situation.”

Father clinched it. “Prince Cedric?” Hawkwood dropped into a bow. “I meant no disrespect.”

The man hummed. He offered no casual commentary or assurances that Hawkwood’s informalities were expected or warranted. The note in the hum didn’t exactly carry good connotations. If anything, the way the tone changed made Hawkwood wonder if his bow wasn’t further offending the prince.

“You have been around Mystakeen a great deal, engaging with all these factions that have arisen. That knowledge is valuable.”

Hawkwood dipped his head in acknowledgment.

“Come. Walk with me. We make for Cliff. I would have you tell me of this Lady Katja, this Arkk, and the current status of the Evestani invaders on the way.”

“Certainly, Sir,” Hawkwood said with another bow. He would tell Prince Cedric whatever he wanted to know.

And, in the meanwhile, he would keep his eyes and ears open for any sign of a demonic presence or the requisite materials necessary to summon a demon. If he could confirm that rumor… Well, his personal allegiances would be all the clearer.

“Your presence is unwanted and unnecessary.”

A stiff breeze swept across the water, carrying with it the tang of salt and the pungent odor of seaweed from the shore. It whipped the ships’ hoisted sails, causing them to flutter and snap in the wind. The sound mingled with that of the distant cries of gulls circling above.

The warships, moored in the span of sea that divided the bulk of Evestani’s lands from the jagged cliffs of Mystakeen, gently rocked back and forth with the wind and waves. Large cranes mounted to the sides of the ships lowered smaller boats to ferry soldiers and supplies to land. Each boat brought over a force of strength and support.

Unneeded strength and support.

Not one of the ships bore the emblem of the Golden Sun, nor did they display striped banners of the Duchy of Mystakeen or the greater Kingdom of Chernlock. The breeze kicked up into a harsh wind, unfurling the great black flag bearing nine white swords of the Eternal Empire.

A young boy with glowing gold tattoos around his skull stared out in distaste from the cliffside. The one possessing his body had long thought he had seen the last of that flag. To have it here now flooded his body with ill feelings and simmering anger. His teeth clenched tight enough to hurt his jaw, not that the one possessing his body noticed or cared.

“You squandered your opportunity.”

The boy’s head wrenched to the side as his teeth clenched harder. Worse still was the woman at his side, watching from the cliff.

She stood tall. Graceful. She was like the stories of elves except for the lack of her pointed ears. A golden ring, with nine spikes jutting off it, hovered just behind her head. A matching golden glove covered only her right hand. With a black, flowing dress and a white cape, all adorned with fine gold, the boy thought she was as beautiful yet terrifying. It was her eyes. Her whole face. Framed with blonde hair, her luminous white eyes stared down without a single emotion. She was as impassive as a statue. Her lips maintained a perfect mask of neutrality.

Normal people didn’t act like that, the boy knew, not when he was like this. Those who weren’t a part of the Golden Order were often awed, disturbed, or frightened, and rightfully so, when in the presence of a god. Even the boy could hardly believe that he was in the honored position of serving as a vessel. It was what he had been born to do. He had been raised for this, granted the sacred markings, and now he got to watch as his god acted through his hands.

Except his god wasn’t happy. And this woman wasn’t impressed. It looked more like she wanted to crush him under the spiked heel of her boot.

“Why appear before me in this form?”

The two were talking. The boy didn’t understand the words. He and all those like him were taught a special language, only known by them and their handlers. But their god didn’t speak in that language, nor did anyone else.

“You take me for a fool? You think I don’t know what you plan? The moment this truce ends, I’ll be fighting you off my lands.”

“Your lands?” The woman turned, leaning down. She touched her finger to the boy’s chin. “Immortality, power, prestige. Anything you want, so long as you continue to serve the Heart of Gold. These are not your lands. These are Their lands.”

“Of course. Everything that is mine is Hers.” The boy smiled. A grin spread across his face that wasn’t his own. “And if I say the Heart of Gold wants it all?”

The woman’s face remained inexpressive and utterly still. She leaned back upright, looking down on the boy. “Then I invite you to the Almighty’s shores once again to try to take them.”

Frustration. Anger. Annoyance. Emotions seeped through. The boy didn’t know what they were speaking about, only that his god wasn’t happy with it. The boy didn’t understand. Why not smite the woman here and now? Such insults—for what other meaning could those words hold—were undeserving for the ears of a god.

“Regardless, attacking you now would violate our truce. I will depart these lands peacefully once we have finished our work. Unless you give me cause to act otherwise.”

The boy scoffed as both turned their gazes back to the sea.

The warships continued to unload. There wasn’t a large port here, so everything had to be carried on the smaller boats.

“Where is our contemporary?” the woman asked as they watched a cleric in stylish robes that almost matched the woman’s dress direct laborers to their tasks.

“Huh? You think the… the… Lacking Light would actually show up?”

“The truce—”

“Don’t you get it?” The boy tapped the side of his head. “You are the only one who cares about that truce. It is, at most, a polite fiction between us. One which can be nullified the moment it becomes convenient.”

The woman stared for a long moment before calmly turning away. “I suppose it is no great loss. With the… diminishment of the Holy Light, I question her ability to contribute meaningfully.”

“It is a shame she didn’t show her face. She wouldn’t be able to resist stabbing us in the back. But I’d be a step ahead…”

“Save your energy for our true opponent. This should be the final servant. The final link to that abysmal hell. We sever it and this world will finally be saved.”

The boy looked up to the woman, one eyebrow popping up. “You don’t think the Lock and Key or the presence of the Cloak of Shadows’ regalia implies that we’re too late?”

“It may take work, but so long as we prevent the issue from spreading, we will be victorious in the end. The Solution can be mended once more.”

Frustration welled within the boy once more as he stared at the side of the woman’s head. Another gust of wind picked up, fluttering her cape. One lock of hair ended low on her face, hanging over her white eyes. Only then did a flash of irritation—her first emotion—cross her face. She raised her hand slowly and deliberately.

With a snap of her fingers, the air stilled. The flags atop the boats drooped as if there were no air at all. Not only was the wind silent, but the woman’s blonde hair was back, swept over the top of her head where it draped down her back. The boy hadn’t seen her move to fix the stray lock.

The boy felt his eyes roll.

“I’ll return in a few days’ time,” his mouth said, the words alien and unfamiliar in his mouth. “I fear my subjects have grown a minor streak of independence in my absence. They must be reminded of their duties.”

The woman, dismissive, waved her hand as she lowered it back to her hip. “I will alert you once the remainder of my forces arrive.”

The boy sagged in place, feeling the divine presence leave his body. He fell to his hands and knees, trying to remind his body how to breathe on its own. He panted, clenched his fists, and stared up with a glare as he sucked air down his lungs.

The woman still stood at the cliff’s edge, watching over the sea. She didn’t look at him. She didn’t see him.

A righteous rage filled every bone in his body as he got to his shaking feet. There were no handlers around. No other vessels. Just the woman who dared to disrespect his god.

He raised his hands before he could stop himself. His god hadn’t acted against the woman. Who was he to try anything? A nobody. Which made him the perfect vessel to act. He could suffer any punishment, even death, and none would care.

The boy reached forward, shoving.

A snapping of fingers echoed in his ears.

He found himself over the edge of the cliff, tumbling and falling through the air. He spun over and over again, catching a glimpse of the woman at the edge of the cliff above. She stood, impassive and imposing, staring out at the sea without a single regard for him as he tumbled to the jagged rocks below.