The Storm King

“An old thing,” Nestor mused as his metal hands lightly brushed against the unblemished silver mask. “A very archaic style.”

“Old enough that you know where it came from?” Leon asked.

“No,” Nestor disappointingly replied.

A sigh escaped Leon’s lips. The gold robes were of fine make but devoid of any identifying marks. The silver mask was more distinctive, with light runic framing every line. The mask had been given the shape of a stern older man, with a well-trimmed beard and almost brutally impassive face. There were no eyeholes, which Leon found interesting.

What captured his attention more was the fact that most of the runes on the face, so lightly engraved that they could only be seen with enough light and from the right angle, were decorative rather than magical. The mask still possessed a powerful magical presence, but most of the magic radiating from it came from runes on its inner surface rather than the runes on its face.

Unfortunately, Leon couldn’t quite read those runes. They were similar enough to the writing system he was familiar with that his brain tried, but ultimately, not a single word was legible.

“‘Till he returns, our Lord’,” Nestor recited as he traced one line of runes just below the right eye. “‘To bring back our glory,” the dead man added, tracing the runes below the left eye. “Back in my day,” he explained, “this wasn’t an uncommon phrase spoken among those who followed the Great Lord Khosrow’s teachings. Pathetic weaklings praying for the dead to rise and deliver them from the ‘beast-bloods’ that ruled them. Instead of growing strong themselves and attempting to seize what they felt was deserved, they instead hoped someone else would do the work and graciously allow them to partake in the reward.”

“On the frescos, it looked like those who lived here were descended from people who were enslaved by people wearing these same kinds of silver masks,” Leon remarked. “Maybe it was because of their blood that they were enslaved?”

“Either way, anyone who professes allegiance to the Great Lord, or who prays for his return, is no friend of ours, Leon,” Nestor warned. “They believe in the purity of human blood. They believe us to be abominations. My father ensured that wherever this little heresy took root, it was ripped out and incinerated, but it always popped back up. They are no friends of ours. Do not treat them like they are.”

“I’ll take your recommendation under advisement,” Leon replied.

“Take it however you please, but if you choose not to take it seriously, do not come crawling back to me when these sorts of people start coming after you.” Nestor began turning away to return to cleaning the bones of the Wailing Dirge, as Leon had started mentally referring to the monster, he paused. “Actually, do come crawling back. I don’t think anything would please me more than the sight of you on your hands and knees, begging me for forgiveness as you admit to your own failures.”

With an unamused grunt, Leon turned and left the dead man to his work.

At the very least, he was going to make sure his people knew to be careful around anyone with silver masks, or who prayed in the manner Nestor described. Given his intentions, there was no such thing as ‘too careful’.

---

The ‘throne room’ in Leon’s portable villa was hardly worthy of being called as such—instead, it was more like a moderately-sized hall without even a dais at one end to elevate the King above his subjects. Still, with Leon’s insistence on building out other infrastructure before his palace, it was what he had, and on this day, nearly a full week after the expedition into the Aesii, an occasion called for its use.

Leon’s fingers quietly drummed on the arm of his simple throne, which was far more a high-backed armchair than a proper throne befitting a King of many millions of people. Next to him sat Elise and Cassandra on his right and left, respectively, while Valeria sat to Cassandra’s left. The chair to Elise’s right was empty as Maia was ensuring her river nymphs properly settled into the western side of the river that ran through the Artor valley, as the ring-shaped valley in which Artorion was being built had been named.

Joining Leon and his ladies in the modest hall was a small force of Tempest Knights led by Alcander in his first public duty since Elias was lost aboard his ark. Anzu, the Jaguar, Clear Day, Gaius, and a number of other bureaucrats were there, too, filling the hall almost to the point of discomfort.

The hall was filled with a quiet din as Leon’s people chatted amongst themselves, discussing the ramifications of the day’s business, while Leon glared at the door, impatiently waiting for Anshu—who’d been acting as something of a junior partner with the Jaguar regarding the ark fleet given his rank as captain of Bolt in Shadow—to arrive with the subject of their business. His attention was stolen, however, when Elise, a diplomatic smile plastered across her face, laid a hand on his, halting his drumming fingers.

She didn’t need to say anything for Leon to know what she wanted to say. His showing any impatience in public—at least right now when not given ‘proper’ cause—was undignified. Leon gave her a subtly exasperated look in response, communicating a silent complaint about how long this was taking after he’d received the news that precipitated this meeting. She smiled back at him in understanding, leaving her calming words unstated, but known anyway.

When she withdrew her hand, Leon’s fingers had ceased their drumming, to Leon’s mild chagrin. Fortunately, he hadn’t that much longer to wait as Anshu arrived not even five minutes later. The Indradian hurried into the hall, practically dragging a sixth-tier comms officer with him.

“Make some room!” the Jaguar barked, and several people pushed their way back as much as they could. The comms officer then bowed to Leon as quickly as he could without showing disrespect and then bent down to lay a comm slate on the floor, which he began activating.

As he worked, Anshu rendered a low bow to Leon, showing more respect to him in that one gesture than he’d shown in the first twenty years they’d known each other.

“Your Majesty,” he intoned, his deep voice reaching every corner of the hall despite the softness with which he spoke.

“Captain Anshu,” Leon responded. “Bring us all up to speed.”

Anshu nodded. Nearly everyone in the hall already knew why they’d been assembled, but only the bare necessities had been shared; Leon wanted the whole story.

Anshu began, now speaking with much more vigor, “Two days ago, one of our scout frigates was contacted by a nearby city.” As he spoke, one of Leon’s assistants activated a projector in the hall, putting their in-progress map on display. The Artor Valley was in the center, with the coast not too far to the south, mountains extending to the north and west, and plains to the east. Hundreds of miles of rolling hills and flat plains lay to the east, broken up by rivers, forests, and lakes, until they reached another mountain range.

After taking a moment to orient himself, Anshu pointed just off the eastern edge of the projected map.

“Over here lies the city,” he explained, and Leon used his magic senses to see the area for himself. He saw a relatively small city, though one with quite formidable defenses. The city had been built atop a long ridge that ran north to south, so it was long and narrow. Tall, thick walls surrounded it, with sturdy towers capped with large Lance-like weapons. At either end of the city lay formidable fortresses, while a citadel had been built in the center that rivaled the southern half of the Bull’s Horns in scale.

Rather notably, Leon couldn’t see a single arkyard in the entire city, though he saw signs of other advanced uses of magic, such as magically-powered vehicles filling the narrow roads, powerful defensive wards not just in the city’s curtain walls but in the homes as well, and magical projections used for advertising. Unfortunately, the defensive wards were strong enough that he couldn’t see inside any buildings, but he thought he had a good enough impression already that such a view wasn’t strictly needed.

The ridge further down from the city had been terraced, and packed with advanced farms. The eastern terraces appeared to be growing food, with some familiar crops like wheat and fruit trees to more unfamiliar fare that Leon couldn’t identify. These eastern terraces eventually met a lake that protected the ridge’s eastern flank. The western terraces appeared to be growing cash crops, with what looked like some kind of cotton and a strange blue-barked and yellow-fruited tree dominating the growing space. Those western terraces were sheltered by the rest of the mountain range to the ridge’s west.

By Leon’s estimation, the city and its hinterland, including the villages on the wide terraces, was inhabited by perhaps two million people at the most. Not a lot under normal circumstances, but since he had fewer than twenty thousand to work with, still a formidable sight.

“This city has asked to speak with our leader,” Anshu continued.

“And I accepted,” Leon finished. “But before we begin, tell me what you know of this city, Anshu. I’d rather not begin this without even knowing who I’ll be talking to.”

“They’re a strange lot,” Anshu stated, his face contorting a moment in confusion and a hint of disdain. “No post-Apotheosis mages, as far as I’ve been led to believe, but strong and proud. They do not have a King, but they have a position akin to ‘Thunderer’. Their city is ruled by a council of elites, who select from amongst themselves who their ‘Speaker’ will be.”

“Doesn’t sound too unlike how we govern ourselves,” the Jaguar observed. Leon understood him to mean the Tribes rather than his central government.

“It’s this ‘Speaker’ who requested the introductory dialogue,” Anshu concluded.

At that moment, the comms officer straightened up, then informed Anshu, “We’re ready.”

Anshu nodded, then took out his own comm slate and whispered a few words into it. He listened a moment to the response, then announced to the room, “We’re ready at your word, Your Majesty! The Speaker of this city waits for you!”

A quick glance around the room was all Leon needed to silence any remaining hushed whispers, and as he said to Anshu, “Just one last thing: what do these people call themselves?”

“Their city, if I’m pronouncing it correctly, is ‘Alhamachim’, while they call themselves the ‘Hamachoi’.” He pronounced the word with an almost hissing sound at the beginning of the final syllable and didn’t look that confident that his pronunciation attempt was successful.

One last moment was all Leon needed to ready himself. When it passed, he gave the order. “Let’s begin, then!”

The comms officer bent down one last time and activated the comm slate, causing a life-sized projection to appear above the slate, revealing a man with pale skin, but dressed in robes that would make a peacock look bland and colorless. His robes were so thick that little could be discerned of his body shape, while the bright and garish colors he wore emphasized greens and reds trimmed in blues and purples. A thick beard adorned his face while his hair, long enough to brush the top of his shoulders, had been pulled back tight against his skull. His eyes were cold gray, and as soon as his projection appeared, they locked onto Leon. He stared unblinkingly even as Gaius stepped forward to announce Leon in their agreed-upon fashion.

“You stand before Leon of House Raime, King of the Ten Tribes, the stone giants, the river nymphs, and the tree sprites, Lord of Artorion, and Last Heir of the Thunderbird Clan!”

Dangerous though it might be to so brazenly admit his lineage, Leon knew he’d need the legitimacy that it would provide him if he wanted to rebuild the Clan. Besides, he’d have had to come clean about it at some point, and he felt it was easier to not hide it in the first place.

The Speaker’s gaze turned studious—the only sign that his last claimed title affected him at all.

“Another ‘Last Heir’…?” he grumbled, an indiscernible, though pleasant to Leon’s ears, accent adding some lilting flair to his words. “One can’t shake a tree without three ‘Last Heirs of the Thunderbird’ falling from the branches…”

Leon felt several auras amongst his people flare in protest, but before anyone could step forward to angrily shout about this Speaker's apparent disrespect, he projected his aura, weighing them down enough to make his demand for silence clear.

Without missing a beat, Leon imperiously stated, “You requested an audience? You have one.”

The Speaker thinly smiled. “I have the honor of being Asa Hamil-Untar, Speaker for Alhamachim, by the grace of Leth and the people of Alhamachim.”

Leon responded simply, “Well met.”

When his silence left the door open for Asa to continue, the gaudily dressed man quickly asked, “Your arks have been flying for several days in the mountains, and the Protector Mass wishes to know your intentions.”

“We wish to know our surroundings,” Leon smoothly answered. “Nothing more. You have nothing to fear from us.”

Asa’s smile didn’t waver. “A comfort to me and my people. The arrival of new neighbors is always… stressful.”

A smile and nod amounted to Leon’s entire reply.

After a moment of silence that Leon deliberately let become uncomfortable, Asa continued, “Are you planning on remaining long close to my city?”

“Why?” Leon challenged.

Asa suggested, “If you are, then we might benefit from more dialogue? I propose an… exchange, so that we both may speak when needed.”

“An exchange of what?” Leon pressed.

“To send each of us a group from the other,” Asa explained, his accent starting to grow more pronounced.

“An exchange of ambassadors?” Leon inquired.

“Yes.”

For several seconds, Leon stared at the man, trying to discern any sign of deceit or malice, but finding nothing but a pleasantly-smiling politician. Hardly proof that he wasn’t lying, so Leon decided to play it a little safer.

“The land between us is empty,” he stated. “An outpost can be built in the plains where we may arrange meetings. An exchange of ambassadors can come later, when some trust has been built up.”

“An… equitable arrangement,” Asa replied. “Mine are a wary people, but we respond well to honorable deals.”

“Mine are the same,” Leon stated. “Treat us with honor and respect, and see it returned. It takes two to build a harmonious relationship. Let us both do our part.”

“Let us both do our part,” Asa repeated in agreement.

A few more details were agreed to, and before the projection flickered off, Leon had his first non-aggression pact with a native polity within the Nexus.

---

The acrid, though familiar stench of a burning ark filled his nostrils as he strode through the corridors, evidence of ferocious fighting all over the walls. There was something else in the stench, though, something that gave this pungent, glorious aroma a new quality that set his heart aflutter.

He passed bodies, noting how many of the ark’s people had died in defense of their ark compared to how many of his, and was surprised to quickly see that the ratio was skewed more toward the defenders.

This notion didn’t disturb him, however. Even a single damaged ark drifting in the Void, apparently crippled by faulty space magic, was a respectable target, and this one had been made much more glorious with how energetic their defense had been.

It was a small ark, and so it didn’t take long between his boarding and his arrival in the control room. His arrival had the few others there halting their looting and respectfully bowing to him, but he paid them no mind for the moment, the control room drawing more of his attention. Much had been destroyed in the fighting, with even more bodies strewn about, but it was clear that the ark had been quite well made, despite the damage done by their jump.

One of his strongest subordinates entered the control room only a few seconds after he did, and immediately walked over to him.

“Lord Reaver,” he whispered in greeting, his voice harsh and his language guttural. “We’ve finished interrogating the survivors. We’ve learned much.”

“How much?” the Lord Reaver asked, his black eyes glittering like the Void itself.

“A small but wealthy force,” the adjutant replied. “Originating from the Divine Graveyard, bound for the Nexus.”

The Lord Reaver grinned. He’d already suspected the latter given their proximity to the Nexus, but it was nice to get confirmation.

“The materials in this ark,” the adjutant continued, “are valuable. Something called ‘thunder wood’. And those protecting it are vulnerable. Their fleet is less than half the size of ours.”

“Do we know where they went?” the Lord Reaver asked.

“Yes,” the adjutant replied.

The Lord Reaver grinned, greed blooming in his heart. As bold as he was, attacking the Divine Graveyard was a taboo even he wouldn’t break. Even the thrice-damned Thunderbird Clan had their teeth kicked in there. If these people had gone to the Nexus, however… he could reach them there…

“Ready the fleet, then,” the Lord Reaver growled. “We have a new target…”

The adjutant’s grin became an unabashedly avaricious smile, and he rushed out to fulfill the Lord Reaver’s command.

The Lord Reaver himself, however, remained in the control room, his heart beating faster than it had in a long while. This ark’s defenders had been strong and determined.

They’d been worthy.

The material gains were worth an attack, but it was the prospect of fighting someone worthy that had the Lord Reaver more excited than he’d been in centuries…