Blood of the Emperor (4 page)

Spoils of War

“S
ILENCE! SILENCE!” BELLOWED BELAG, his massive, hoary form straining forward on the throne of the Grahn Aur, his massive hands gripping the armrests so tightly that he thought the wood might snap.

Even the roaring voice of the manticore was having difficulty cutting through the tumultuous cacophony that filled the torch-lit hall. Belag had originally chosen the elven temple as the location for the council meeting partly because it was one of the few undamaged buildings large enough for the council to meet in but mostly because its thick walls would keep the sights and sounds of these proceedings hidden from the Army of the Prophet encamped outside the walls of the town. As it was the commanders of the various warrior groups had pitched their tents in the plaza just south of the temple and, no doubt, could not help but overhear the heated words of the Army’s general leadership council as not even the stone walls could contain the rising sound of argument.

Jugar, red-faced, was standing on his chair, his fist striking at the air as though propelling additional force into his every word. Doroganda, the gnome representative, was literally jumping up and down on her own chair, her voice a shrill squeal above the discordant chorus of shouting. Hegral and Gradek—the warrior manticores in charge of the two Legion divisions of the armies—were gesturing wildly while
shouting in demonstration of their displeasure. Neblik, the mud gnome, was trying desperately to get everyone’s positions straight for his narrative and, in the process, only adding confusion to the argument. Urulani, Air Master, sat with her arms folded tightly across her chest as she tried to restrain herself from knocking several council members’ heads together. Ethis sat next to Belag’s throne, his face twitching occasionally although otherwise studiously blank. Soen sat on the ground between the arguing manticores in grim contemplation.

All eyes were focused on Braun, who stood in the center of the circle of chairs holding a scroll of parchment in his hand, attempting to read it aloud to the assembly while a human messenger stood next to him, growing more pale and sickly in appearance by the moment. This was the tenth such communication from Tsojai Acheran since the elf had been appointed Pilgrim Master of the council in the absence of the Grahn Aur; the last four of these scrolls had arrived within the space of the previous week. Each was dutifully read before the War Council that commanded the Army of the Prophet and each epistle had increasingly enflamed the rage of the council members both over the distant elf’s governance of the pilgrim camp and due to the differences between the council members themselves.

Even the manticore’s voice was having difficulty cutting through the din. Belag rose to his feet, roaring. “There will be silence in this hall at once! All of you! You will close your mouths this instant…or I shall be forced to close them for you!”

The general arguing died down enough for a few voices to be distinguished from the noise.

Jugar’s remained indignant. “But, this is an absolute outrage to suggest that…”

Doroganda’s rush of words continued. “The very idea is an affront to the glorious rule of…”

Hegral shouted. “He has no right to…”

Belag leaped up from his throne with a great roar. He turned and picked up the massive chair, pressing it over his head. Then, with all his considerable strength, he slammed it downward, driving it against the stone floor. The chair broke with a resounding crash, shocking the assembly into quiet. Belag snatched up a now broken armrest and wheeled to face the council, holding it like a club.

“I will
personally
push this down the throat of the next council member that speaks without my permission,” Belag seethed. “Everyone will be heard…but each in their own time.”

Belag’s words hung in the sudden silence within the long, rectangular hall. The only sound in that moment was the fluttering of the torches and his own ragged breath.

“Continue, Braun,” Belag pointed at the human wizard with the broken arm of the chair.

Braun cleared his throat before continuing. “And, therefore, we require direction in the form of a written missive from the War Council explaining that the use of occupied lands and the establishment of permanent settlements is contrary to the council’s intention to move the camp in order to more effectively pursue the downfall of the elven Empire. We require this correspondence at once.”

“Require? Demand is more like it!” Jugar snapped.

Belag shook the chair’s arm menacingly in the dwarf’s direction.

“Merely commenting,” the dwarf grumbled.

Braun continued his recitation, “Seventh: In addition to these issues come the problems of support for the members of the encampment itself. News of our success has spread from Manticus Bay all along the Shadow Coast and across both Vestasia and Nordesia. This has brought a burgeoning increase in the number of pilgrims seeking the returned Man of Prophecy and the hope for a better life that his return offers them in accordance with his legend. At the time of our victory in Willow Vale, the encampment numbered nearly seventy-three thousand including the Army of the Prophet, their families, and those pilgrims unable to participate in the army directly. Our best count as of the date of my writing puts the number of pilgrims in Willow Vale to have swollen to nearly twice that number with almost a thousand more arriving daily. Those who arrive all ask the question, ‘Where is Drakis? When might we see him? When might we hear his voice…’ ”

When, indeed,
thought Belag as he rubbed his forehead with his free hand.
When will any of us see or hear from him?

“Because of his absence, many of the encampment are even beginning to question his existence and the majority are threatening either abandonment or, in some cases, the overthrow of the council.
Many of these issues can be traced directly to problems of supply and the difficulty of obtaining food and proper shelter for nearly one hundred and fifty thousand pilgrim souls. With burgeoning numbers of pilgrims arriving at the main encampment each day, the People of the Prophet require additional resources in order to sustain the Cause and to maintain the faithful in their support of the army and its goals. Therefore we require that the army turn over to the Council of the Prophet in Willow Vale all material goods, especially food, seized during operations by the Army of the Prophet. Furthermore…”

“Furthermore?” Gradek sneered. “That’s not enough? What more does he want?

“Furthermore,” Braun read on, “we require an increase in material assistance from the Pajak of Krishu and the allied tribes of Nordesia, especially in the form of edible goods…”

“More?” screeched Doroganda. “The Pajak of Krishu is beginning to wonder if his alliance with the Army of the Prophet is worth the risks he is taking on behalf of his tribe!”

“The Pajak has nothing to complain about!” Gradek snarled. “You goblins take the first spoils of our conquests and you’ve been more than compensated for what you’ve delivered to the encampment so far!”

“The Pajak does not make war for profit,” Doroganda asserted.

“No, he only complains when his profit isn’t big enough when he chooses to go to war,” Gradek countered.

“It’s
your
war that we are supporting,” Doroganda replied with an edge of disdain in her voice. “Your great prophecy-war against the Elven Tyranny…and how have you waged this so-called war? By boldly marching in the opposite direction from the Empire you claim you want to destroy! In the meantime, you expect us to feed this increasingly burdensome rabble of your encampment while you boldly continue to conquer outposts that are even farther from your enemy’s armies than before.”

“We have won every battle,” Hegral boasted. “Conquered every stronghold.”

“Well, hurrah for the Army of the Prophet,” Doroganda mocked. “Hail its victorious retreat at the Pajak’s expense.”

Ethis shook his head. “With little help from you or your Pajak. The
manticores charge against the enemy walls while the goblin troops hold back.”

“And where is the great Queen of the chimerians and her ever-changeable nation?” Doroganda said, raising her chin in defiance. “At least our warriors stand on the field of battle. What honor is there in Ephindria when they lie silent and quivering behind their borders lending neither strength nor aid?”

“Our nation…”

“Is your family, we’ve all heard it before,” Doroganda finished in disgust. “You all hide behind that easy answer. Well,
my
family is with me here among honest warriors pitting our blood against elven swords. Where is the blood of Ephindria on the battlefield? Where are their caravans of aid? What do they offer beyond empty words?”

“And for once I would like to hear the answer to the goblin’s question!” Gradek asserted, turning toward Ethis.

“There is more still,” Braun interjected, pointing at the long scroll parchment that draped over his hand.

“Of course there is,” Gradek growled.

Braun nodded and continued. “Eight: The pressures of maintaining order over the rapidly increasing population of the gathering believers has caused the rise of a number of factions within the encampment—several of which demand immediate attention…”

“Everything is immediate in the eyes of an elf!” Gradek snarled.

Soen’s eyes shifted but he remained otherwise still.

Braun pressed on. “The self-proclaimed ‘Brothers of Drakis’ are a human faction which has been growing steadily in strength over the last month and recently has become openly defiant of the Council of the Prophet, claiming that Drakis is being deliberately kept away from the camp. There have been several incidents between the ‘Brothers of Drakis’ and the Grahn Aur Guard—a faction of manticores who believe in their right to stand in the Grahn Aur’s place to rule over the pilgrims in his stead. The Pajak has also decreed Willow Vale to now be within the boundaries of his domain as his just spoils for his assistance in the battle against the elven Legions. His warriors on wyvernback patrol through the camp side by side with the council’s constabulary with tensions running high on both sides. The constabulary force is inadequate to oppose the goblin warriors and a number of
incidents have been reported of goblins intimidating pilgrims—largely Hak’kaarin gnomes and humans as well as a number of chimerians—into surrendering their goods under threat of reprisal. These thefts…”

“That is a lie!” Doroganda shouted, her small brick-red fist thrust defiantly at Braun with her thumb and first finger extended. “The warriors of the Pajak are no thieves!”

Belag saw Soen smile. The manticore also knew from his negotiations with the Pajak that the gesture was a supreme insult among the goblins although apparently among those present only Doroganda, Soen, and himself were aware of it.

“Which part?” asked Neblik, trying desperately to keep the narrative straight in his head.

“Which part
what
?” demanded the goblin.

“Which part was the lie,” Neblik asked. “The part about the ‘inadequate force’ or the part about ‘goblin theft by intimidation’?”

“Both of them, you idiot!” Doroganda snarled.

Ethis shook his head impatiently. “Braun! Can we get on with this?”

“He lists a great number of other grievances,” Braun said, unrolling the scroll further as his eyes scanned down the page.

“Pass over them!” Ethis threw all four of his hands up at once in frustration. “What does the councillor want us to DO?”

Braun continued scanning down the page, pulling more parchment from the roll twice before stopping. “Ah! Therefore, we require that the War Council return the Army of the Prophet, led by the prophesied Drakis, at once to Willow Vale with the intention…”

“Shades of Hchai!” Hegral swore. “Who is this elf to order our armies at his will? Let him move the encampment to us here! Then we can gather our strength, build our clans, and prepare properly to take on the Empire!”

“You meet and you talk and then you talk about meeting!” Doroganda spat. “The Pajak will not stand for it! We stand with warriors not with cats who sleep when the sun is shining and only hiss when danger is upon them!”

“You will swallow those words, goblin-whelp,” Gradek growled, “or I’ll tear them out of your throat myself!”

“And what will that profit you, cat-man?” Doroganda sneered. “I
know you and your kind! You would count yourself happy to be rid of the Pajak of Krishu and his goblin warriors. The warriors of the Pajak will walk with their spoils, take their mighty wyverns with them and you would not care—until your belly was hollow and your mewling whelps were without suck. If our warriors walk from your army, big cat-man, we walk with our grain and our meat and our stores. We walk with your lives. How long will the pilgrims remain? How long before this great army of yours starts eating itself?”

“It is late,” Belag said. “We will convene again tomorrow at dusk to consider our response.”

A silence descended on the hall.

Belag stepped forward, turning around as he spoke to the now silent council.

“We have forgotten,” he said, his deep voice resonating through the hall. “We have forgotten our destiny. We have forgotten that we are the Children of the Prophecy.”

Doroganda leaned back in her chair with a sigh. “As I understand this fairy-tale prophecy, you’re supposed to be led by some great human who will bring down the elf oppressors and avenge the fall of his people. He shows up on the big, nasty dragon and everyone is impressed but where
is
he now? No one seems to have seen him since he arrived and the Pajak of Krishu is becoming concerned that he does not exist at all.”

Belag eyed the goblin then turned to look at where his throne lay smashed and in pieces.

Where are you, Drakis?
Belag thought.
Where are you?