Pieces of the Eternal Empire

DATE: IMMORTAL REIGN 1023 MONTH 5 DAY 13

His blood seeping through the thin dressing, a trembling captain entered the golden tent. Nobody so much as spared him a glance. The Magecraft engineers, with the white coats and large diagrams, had the undivided attention of Aergot Paerawyn and his generals.

“I’ll pass on your message,” whispered a masked guard. “Get yourself treated.”

“Thank you, sir,” whispered the wincing captain. “We captured a dozen demons and procured supplies for the men.”

Aergot eyed the exchange, annoyed. His heightened hearing caught the entire conversation. Why do soldiers like to report insignificant tactical minutiae? Did this man really think ransacking a Dracon hamlet noteworthy? 180 years ago, he too, was this foolish.

The engineer concluded the presentation. “The only promise fully satisfied was the range. We partially satisfied the required power and accuracy. With further –”

“Three thousand brams a month and a monopoly on Magecraft in Halfington,” Aergot interrupted, sending a shudder through every spine. “I gave you two decades, and all you could come up with was an array of glorified catapults. I forget, how many templars did you need to operate your contraptions?” He continued without letting the man answer. “Twelve. And now I have to explain to His Highness and His Holiness why we lost hundreds of our precious mages. Go on, what were you going to ask for?”

Aergot stormed outside. He made a note to send a corruption probe against the man. For now, he had a more pressing concern. Though the troops had reported one victory after another and piled up their spoils, the silent soldiers packing away tents said it all: they lost.

Defeat was not the problem. Aergot could survive the disdain of his extended family. The failure to meet the quota, however, turned his blood cold. So many things had gone wrong, and that was setting aside the underperforming siege weapons. The Dracons were everywhere, running circles around his men despite their smaller numbers. It was as if they had eyes and ears in the clouds, tirelessly conspiring against his forces. With all the frontline templars dead, however, there was no one left to solve this riddle.

“Your Excellency,” greeted a young officer. “Rokshama wishes to trade prisoners.”

Aergot frowned. Again, trifles. “Give the negotiators full authority to proceed as they see fit.”

The soldier saluted. “I shall have their horns removed right away.”

Eyes briefly lingering on the soldier, Aergot nodded in approval. Still, this was the lipstick on a pig. In these desperate times, Logram reared its ugly head.

DATE: IMMORTAL REIGN 1023 MONTH 5 DAY 17

Two days of relentless rain had finally eased the sweltering heat. While the farmers welcomed the downpour, Lucius tossed and turned in his bed. Susie had disappeared, Ruxian remained at large, and worst of all, Aergot Paerawyn had launched a doomed campaign southward. With no tavern to calm his fraying nerves during the night, the fat priest rummaged through his drawers, ignoring the disapproval he felt from the Goddess on his table.

“Need a drink?”

Lucius jumped. A hunched figure at the doorway cast a long shadow into his room, dangling a bottle. The priest could smell the liquor from here. It seemed the Goddess had not abandoned him after all.

“Bless you, Cabron,” sneered Lucius. “Why are you here?”

“Goddess my witness,” began Cabron. “We’ve just arrested Vera Gilverman.”

Lucius jolted, his eyes wide with terror. “But her father is –”

Cabron plopped his bottle down. “Relax,” the lanky man chuckled, patting Lucius on the back. “She’s here right now.”

Lucius seized the liquor and took a swig, gagging as the foul grog seared his throat. Wiping his chin, he lifted the bottle again when Cabron caught his hand. After some fruitless tugging, Lucius relented his grip.

“And what do you want from me?” asked Lucius. “If you want to incur the wrath of Kerroth Balethorn, then you must do it alone.”

“Goddess my witness,” Cabron sang. “The general’s wrath will be but a pinprick should Aergot Paerawyn fails to meet his quota. Unless you want Sothrend to become another Logram – which never existed – you better make yourself useful.”

Lucius shuddered. He reached for the bottle again but Cabron pulled it just beyond his fingertips. Grunting, he glared at the soldier who cackled like a crow.

“Don’t you worry your fat head,” said Cabron. “Join us in the cellar.”

The priest’s dismay grew with each step downwards. As a boy, he feared the cellars for the darkness that sheltered the unknown. Now, he dreaded the descent for he knew what awaited him. Vera Gilverman, a woman whose beauty delighted painters and despaired poets, sat in her chair, her spine straight, not the least bit bothered by the damp and cold. The two men charged with her arrest kept their distance, as if cowering from her gaze. If anything, she appeared more like a warden than a captive.

“You see my problem, Brother Lucius?” asked Cabron. “I need you to –”

“My husband spoke highly of you, Cabron,” said Vera, her sapphire eyes ablaze. “He vouched for your talent, fought for your pardon, and promoted you to his deputy. This is how you repay a brother-in-arms?” She then trained her sights on Lucius. “And you, good brother, a man of faith who blessed our marriage, would go along with this?”

“He never quite knew where to place his loyalty,” replied Cabron, averting her gaze. “First in me, and now, the Dracons.”

Vera surveyed the room. “A fine hound has loyalty. A real man, principles. And my Dramien, is a real man.”

Despite the basement chills, Lucius’s palms were sticky with sweat. Tugging at his collar, he felt himself wilting under her gaze, like a patch of mould exposed to sunlight. He scurried out of the cellar, dragging Cabron with him.

“I won’t do it,” Lucius whispered, trembling. “I can’t. They’re my congregation, my friends. I can’t do this!”

Cabron guffawed. “Good to know this is where you draw the line,” he said, folding his arms. “You didn’t have such reservations for the farmers’ daughters.” The soldier strolled by Lucius and leaned on his shoulder. “I was at Logram. You don’t want to know what happened to their women.”

Lucius brushed Cabron off as if he were a snake and fled the cellar. Stumbling past his lectern, he dared not look up, fearing the judgment of the Goddess, curling up in the dusty sacristy. The quiet isolation stretched each moment into eternity until he could no longer stay idle. He fumbled about in the dark and touched a light glyph. Slowly, he went from shelf to shelf, collecting the scrolls, ink bottles, quills, and tomes until his arms could carry no more.

“Ah, Lucius,” said he, laughing. “You were always a coward.”