Legitimacy

Despite Skyrend slicing through the flesh and bones like thin air, his hands were still trembling several days later. Though diverse in race, age, and background, they all uttered the same last words.

“Recant Urzu. Bagroth comes.”

They had liberated several more villages and small cities. With half the Walthurian army on his side, the only thing left for Gilvantes to do was to execute more cultists. At his request, the prince ensured he would only chop one head per session. Understanding the necessity did not make it any easier.

Within a week, rumours began to spread. The third prince was coming and he was beheading cultists. Scouts reported that the citizens were in revolt. Many villages they visited now bore signs of bloody struggles. Some villagers went as far as to turn his bounty posters into objects of worship. The sight of little girls kissing the sinister smirk on the portrait had even Joslyn smiling.

“Where is the 1st Corps?” asked Yazen over dinner. “Shouldn’t they be defending these villages?”

Vorlat, who was awkwardly adjusting his new hand, set down his bowl in disgust. “Aren’t you optimistic? They just don’t want to give battle in the open vastly outnumbered.”

“We haven’t seen a trace of the white dragon,” said Lisharotte, joining her fellow Chamzo. “It’s almost like they’ve vanished.”

Joslyn tilted her head. “The interim council needs legitimacy and legitimacy is often found on the tip of spears.”

Gilvantes continued eating while absorbing the speculations. He did, however, note one possibility the officers had missed. Demonic forces may have already eliminated the 1st Corps. After the encounter with Arcanoctus, this thought did not seem so outlandish. Frowning, he drained his cup.

Only the shrieking Shadewings marked their advance. Gilvantes flinched when he first heard the sound. When no molten flame rained from the sky, however, the archers and sorcerers shot down the dragons with impunity. Perhaps out of spite for his lost eye, Yazen hosted shooting competitions which saw much laughing, cursing, and many silver empresses changing hands. Gilvantes noted, with no small mirth, that the gambling always ended before Joslyn or Ingram could join.

The Worldspire was no longer a needle decorating the horizon. Now, it more resembled a giant tree trunk rendered a lifeless grey by the passing aeons. After all the demons Gilvantes had slain, this closer look at the mountain sent a horde of Seedlings crawling down his back. Did Urzu really need a spear that large to bury Bagroth?

Soon enough, the walls of Melzuriam came into view. Gilvantes clutched Skyrend. It seemed such a long time since he left behind the masonry shimmering with sorcery. He invoked Hador’s focused vision, trying to make out the imperial palace. A black film, previously invisible, obscured his view.

“General Jhazulith,” called Vorlat. “You’ll want to see this.”

Ambrose saluted Vorlat and turned to Gilvantes. “Come, prince,” he said. “We have matters to discuss.”

With the Walthurian Canal forming a belt around the imperial heart, people who rejected the ferries would cross one of the dozens of bridges linking Melzuriam to the ring of cities on its outskirts. Now, scores of hooded men patrolled the overpasses, their tight formation separating them from the cultists Gilvantes had encountered.

“How many do you count?” asked Ambrose.

Gilvantes shrugged. “Not enough to hold Melzuriam.”

Ambrose gave an approving grunt. “Do you think the interim council controls the 1st Corps?”

Scratching his chin, Gilvantes peered at the city again. “Do you think the 1st Corps still exists?”

“Endril will know by nightfall,” said Ambrose. “Now, Prince. How much of Melzuriam would you like preserved?”

With a start, Gilvantes looked at the Lamak general. “Would you believe me if I said all of it?”

“And have Urzu join you in bed while you’re at it,” replied Ambrose snidely. “Prince. I cannot fight with my hands tied. We should tear down those enchanted walls and if they don’t surrender, bombard them with sorcery.”

“You can’t raze it like it’s an empty village.”

“Which is why I’m consulting you.”

Clutching his forehead, Gilvantes drew out a moan.

“Leave the southern bridges. Give my people a chance to escape.”

“Understood.”

A trembling Gilvantes returned to camp. A few days ago, he would’ve sought out the comfort of Lisharotte’s arms. Having lost that luxury, he ordered Ranfa to fetch him the wine pitcher. The grog smelled like the disinfectant he expected to find on Moran’s shelf and burned his throat. Gagging after one mouthful, he wrinkled his nose and drank the rest.

He woke with a terrible headache and thirst. Groaning feebly, he looked up. The cloudy night greeted him with not the moon and stars, but a droplet of rain that hit his eye. He winced.

“Sorry Gil,” came a familiar voice. “Was trying to douse you but my control over water is still poor.”

Gilvantes jumped. He was so absorbed in his own misery that he didn’t notice Linsk sitting beside him.

“Hate to admit,” continued Linsk, “but Ravan was right. Another Mengot with water affinity.”

The prince cocked his head. “Come on. Try again.”

A jet of water hit his face. The two men laughed.

“That’s the drink for a desperate man escaping the debt collectors,” teased Linsk, peering into the empty pitcher. “That, or two boys trying to catch the attention of pretty barmaids.”

“That’s very specific.”

Linsk sheepishly scratched his sideburn. “Speaking from experience. Gil, why are you drinking alone?”

“I’m going to kill lots of people.”

“More will die if you don’t.”

“It’ll be my legacy.”

Linsk patted him on the back. “I doubt it.”

Hair still clinging to his forehead, Gilvantes joined the officers of the 2nd and 3rd Corps around a table. While they discussed the upcoming siege, they glanced around constantly, expecting Phantoms to step out of the shadows at any moment. But Tavir Endril did not return.

“We’ve tarried enough,” announced Ambrose, screwing up his face. “Winter is coming.”

“My siege engineers are ready,” said Ingram at last. “We can start on the walls first light tomorrow.”

Blaring horns jolted Gilvantes and many young officers from their seats. Ambrose got to his feet and slammed the table so hard that he toppled several goblets.

“To arms!”

The silver eagles scrambled to obey Ingram’s commands. Even in his hurry, the Flying Tiger exchanged a brief handshake or embrace with his subordinates. Joslyn, on the other hand, summoned the golden lions to her and began listing orders. The 3rd Corps officers saluted her in silence and dispersed into the night.

Gilvantes jumped on Ursha and would’ve dashed straight for the frontline had a Najar sabre not barred his way. Joslyn, pointing her sheathed weapon in one direction, rode off, fully expecting to be followed. Sighing, the prince rode after her and joined the other officers surveying the battlefield.

Screaming cultists surged across the tall grass, followed by archers mounted on Shadewings. The heretic mages, trailing behind their brethren, lit the night sky with flashes of magic.

The Lamak foot soldiers fell back, inviting the enemy to advance while the cavalry swung to the flanks. Sensing the time was ripe, Ambrose rode to his mage units. The sorcerers raised their staves, yielding their mana to the Thousand Sun Knight. The general, throwing up both arms, unleashed a battle cry.

Within moments, hundreds of shifting circles hovered above the cultist formations, spewing cobalt needles. Screams of pain and terror infected the hooded men. Those who did not burst into flames turned tail, racing for the bridges. Gilvantes looked away, having not the heart to witness the devastation a second time.

Ambrose dropped his arms and puffed heavily, undoing his deadly spell. The cavalry chased the fleeing foe. The general, taking a swig from his wineskin, wiped his mouth.

“A textbook victory, General Jhazulith,” remarked Gilvantes. “Congratulations.”

The general shook his head. “But a battle.”

Then came a prolonged rumble Gilvantes knew too well. It was the churning of gears that opened the Melzuriam gates. From the parting slabs of marble emerged a sable knight. His helmet, covered in spikes, resembled a crown haphazardly forged from a collection of blades. A pair of scarlet whirlpools peered through the visor. Glyphs, like the ones found in towns defiled by Arcanoctus, danced across his cuirass. Easily as large as a Blightfang, he dragged behind him a pillar-sized sword. The Walthurian Canal sloshed about as the giant crossed the bridge, his every stride shaking the earth.

The colossus twirled his great sword, fanning a gust that sent the cultists flying. Lowering his stance, he pointed the weapon straight at Gilvantes.

“Malice, Knight of Bagroth,” boomed the behemoth. “Taste my blade, seed of Urzu!”