Skybound

Stev Aras fired a magically modified heavy crossbow through the arrowslit, the enchanted bolt punching right through the first shield raised by the enemy spellcasters. The second shield only slowed the projectile, but then the enemy commander raised her hand. The air around her fist rippled as the bolt slowed to a halt, suspended in a sphere of wind magic, before the lack of motion tripped the second enchantment etched into the projectile’s tip. What should have been a messy explosion of shrapnel was instead neatly contained, sparing the nearby soldiers

“The new bolts don’t have the oomph I need, Mister Bracklethwait,” he said, turning to the flamboyantly dressed gnome observing the test through a strangely shaped looking-glass. The instrument rose up from Jemeris’s eyes to peek over the lip of the other arrowslit, without exposing his head.

“Indeed. Those shields are interesting, and different from what I’ve seen the Deskren use before.” Petram, who had little to no direct combat experience, seemed less interested in the ongoing battle than in detailing the minutiae of the equipment in use. His service to the city came primarily by means of assistance with enchanted and enhanced equipment, such as the hybrid crossbows built into Stev’s vambraces. The gnome and his partner had turned their skills with artifice towards providing him with ammunition as well, although at distances such as stood between the wall and the approaching enemy, no normal crossbow would have truly sufficed.

Hence, the massive contraption of coiled springs, mana-charged steel cogs, and other parts that he now carefully leaned against the wall. “I had hoped we could offer more support,” Stev sighed, “but our best archers went with Mother into the Wildlands.” An ear-splitting roar went up from the field, shaking dust from the timbers overhead and barely muffled by the fort’s walls.

“Your sister certainly seems to be enjoying herself, in any case,” replied Jemeris, swapping out several lenses and once again looking over the battlefield. “That gravity mage utilizes his Mana in a fascinating manner, as well...his sword must be even denser than I thought! Do you think he would let Petram and I analyze it, or maybe take a sample after this operation?”

Through the second arrowslit, the gnome saw several armored infantrymen smash into the ground, as if tossed by a giant. Thuds of stone meeting flesh punctuated more roars before the ground rippled out from around the curve of the tower, beyond where Stev’s vantage point allowed him to see. The nature of the gravity mage’s magic was made apparent as the stone and dirt buckled, then flowed like water as he lifted and heaved. He saw his sister charge across the shifting soil, the material solidifying underneath her as she moved through the Deskren ranks like an angry scythe. Already confused by the unstable ground, they swayed as if unbalanced. With their newly-precarious footing, they had little ability to bring their weapons to bear on the berserking Knight.

More soldiers went flying ahead of Taz’s charge; the few weapons that managed to strike her accomplished nothing but deepening her rage. The imperial standing behind the line of battle raised a staff high into the air, drawing mana from the space around her. It arced and crackled around her and her fellows before condensing into a roiling sphere of electricity, which she sent on its way with a broad, sweeping gesture.

“Well, they’ll be regretting that,” Stev laughed. “Watch this, Mister Bracklethwait.”

As the spell approached Taz, the bear-woman turned with a snarl and swiped at it with one massive paw. Instead of detonating, the sphere of electricity became attached to her, as if she were gripping a baseball. Then, she roared, drew herself to her full height, and threw the energy into the middle of the Deskren formation.

Because she couldn’t use a shield, she hadn’t been able to develop any of the magical defenses an ordinary knight might use. Instead, through a lot of trial and error, she had learned [Counter Claw], allowing her to redirect incoming spells at the cost of stamina and health.

The Deskren, on the other hand, had no such defenses; even if they did, it was more than most could do to simply hold their ground against the churning earth that Xerrioth’s magecraft was stirring up. When the sphere connected with the first soldier, it burst apart, loosing all of its fury in a tremendous rush. In the first moment, the initial wave burned through half a dozen soldiers; each one struck by the force set off another, smaller pulse, eventually leading to several dozen injured to a greater or lesser extent. Taz herself was merely singed, a benefit of an extreme focus on constitution and stamina.

“I had wondered how she would deal with magical attacks without shielding equipment,” admitted the gnome. “A sensible skill to train for a bare-handed variant of a knight archetype.”

“I’ll admit, I was worried the two of them wouldn’t be able to hold the gate, but that gravity magic is something else to see,” Stev mused, watching the heavy black blade of metal zip sideways across the front line of enemy troops while Taz stepped back to recover. The sword acted more like a great club, crushing its way through the enemy lines more so than cutting through, a grim testament to the power of the man who wielded it. The dancing blade never came close to hitting his sister, much to his relief. Looks like he was right about being able to tell her mass apart from other people, he thought to himself.

“Two trebuchets just went down!” Jemeris’ outburst interrupted Stev’s focus on his sister’s fight. “I’d say we’ve made a wonderful distraction for our guests! And there’s smoke coming from the wagon camp to the east; I think our rats have been busy while we kept the cat’s attention.”

Stev motioned to the messenger waiting quietly in the corner of the small room. “Send the signal, I want the barrier back at full strength as soon as the strike team gets back under the gate.”

The boy took off at a run, out the door and back up the steps to the walkways between the defensive towers. Stev could see horses galloping back towards his sister’s position, the Deskren advance halted by their own ball lightning attack turned back against them.

“We’ve given them a bloody nose,” he said. “They’re sure to hit back in kind, especially once they realize how much we just stole from their own supplies.”

The gnome stayed silent as the horses thundered back through the gate, their purpose fulfilled. Grimly, he noted that there were a lot fewer returning than had went forth for the charge.

=============================

Millie Thatcher stood on a hill next to a king, a duke, and a drake. For the first time in months, she was at a loss. King Hanz acted nothing like the royalty of stories and bardic tales her mother had used to sing when she was little. He wore riding leathers and a fur-lined coat instead of finery. The crown she had seen at the Gathering now nowhere in sight, he sat on a rock leaning back against the flank of his drake and quite messily enjoying the roasted leg of some large breed of bird. The rest of the unfortunate fowl was transfixed by a skewer jammed into the ground close to the fire.

“Some grub first,” the man growled, looking at the Battlemaster and pointing at the rest of the bird with the remains of the leg. It was Hett who broke the silence with a guffaw of laughter as he stepped forward and ripped the other leg off the skewered dinner.

“Never turn down mountain chargrouse,” laughed the old man. “They’re better’n any turkey or chicken.” He pulled a folding stool out of his pack and handed it to Millie before producing a second one for himself. His pockets held more than jerky and whiskey, to her utter lack of surprise.

“Better a campfire than a courtyard ball any day,” said Jacob, finally looking away from the king. The duke handed Millie a chunk of meat from the bird, raising an eyebrow at her reluctance to step forward. “If he’s not going to act all official, then we won’t either, Millie. Eat up.” He sat on another stool, Calvin Descroix on his other side silently accepting a share. Lady Erin sat next to Jacob opposite the Deskren hostage. Silence accompanied their meal, broken only by the popping crackles of the fire and the basso rumblings of the sleeping drake’s breathing. Only after everyone had eaten did the king finally speak.

“Lowlanders certainly have their fascination with the games of the court, and the Gathering is no different,” said Hanz. “But there are no castles here.” He rummaged through several pouches at his side, his flying leathers a wealth of straps and clasps and other things Millie wasn’t certain the purpose of. With a grunt, he tossed a bottle at Hett. “I’d have bet a bottle of Forvale’s finest I’d never see your ugly face again, Obadiah.”

“And here I am gettin’ prettier ever’ year,” said Hett, catching the bottle which promptly vanished into one of his own pockets. He shook his head sadly before speaking again. “A king isn’t bound to the wagers of a young prince, though I appreciate the sentiment.”

“But a man is bound to his own word, crown or not.”

“Fair enough,” grinned Hett.

“Seems like a King has gone quite a distance out of his way for a camping trip, though,” said Lady Erin. “Even one who doesn’t care for court.”

"I'm sure he has a reason, love. Best we hear him out." Jacob seemed entirely at ease, and without missing a beat, he reached into his own coat and produced a bottle. “You brought the food; least I can do is offer a drink,” he said, nodding at the king. “I’m a bit short on cups.”

Hett regarded the bottle with mild surprise; to his (and everyone else’s) knowledge, Jacob never partook of spirit. That surprise only lasted a brief moment before the old man produced several camp tin drinking cups and passed them around. The only one who didn’t get a cup was Millie, but Hett winked and made a motion with his hand that she took to mean she should just wait. The Battlemaster didn’t pass the bottle around, but walked around the fire and poured a small amount in each cup.

“You’ll want to let it breathe a moment. It’s come a long way, from a place called Kentucky. Was in my duffel by the bed when we fell through.”

Wordlessly, Hett proffered his cup to Millie. She sniffed at the liquid within, and a sharp, astringent scent bit her nose. She snorted and recoiled, suddenly feeling less jilted. “And here I thought you were a teetotaller,” the old drover said to the Duke, grinning once again.

“Not at all,” said Jacob. “I just don’t partake on duty. This seemed like an occasion for an exception.”

“A duke, like a king, is always on duty,” said Hanz. “Some duties are easier than others.” The old king looked down into the cup, seemingly overcome for a moment with a deep sadness to Millie’s eyes.

“I won't pretend I’m happy with the title, but if it helps with what we must do, then so be it.” Jacob lifted his cup; so did the king. With that benediction, all of them drank.

Calvin choked and King Hanz failed to hide a look of surprise, inclining his head in approval. Jacob sat still, savoring the moment, as did Lady Erin. Mister Hett exhaled slowly, with great satisfaction.

“Boy, if you have another bottle of that, we need to talk business,” said the old man, suddenly serious and stern.

Jacob grinned, shaking his head. “Sorry, old man; just the one. We’ll have another round once we get the job done and are sitting pretty in Expedition.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” nodded Hett, reclaiming the cups, which vanished back into his seemingly bottomless pockets.

“Now then,” said Jacob, looking down at the fire. “Why does a king come all this way for a sit-down?”

“A sit-down? That’s a good way to put it. Hard pressed to take the measure of a man while everyone is strutting like peacocks in front of the Kingmaker. Kingbreaker, others say.”

“Peacocks and roosters, mostly, though at the Gathering I think I liked that armored queen the most,” said Lady Erin.

Hanz clicked his teeth, grinning. “Mette Weldt is a tough one, and fair sensible as far as lowlanders go.” He leaned back against the drake as it shifted, raising one wing slightly to block the wind that whipped sparks from the campfire. “She’d have done well on the heights. Drakenth requires a certain toughness of its people.”

“I haven’t had time to learn much of Anfealt’s history,” said Jacob. “I know you lost much in a war, but beyond that, I’ve not had time to read. Been focused on more recent events.”

“It was the Steel Crusade, not a war. There is a profound difference between the two in this world. Nearly a century ago, and we still have not regained our numbers.” The drake behind him rumbled again, this time with menace and anger, heat making the air ripple around its maw. “The drakes bear the worst of it, as they breed so slowly.”

Jacob leaned forward, eyes flicking from the beast to its rider. “They’re sentient?” he asked curiously. “Your dragons, I mean.”

The drake suddenly made a snorting, chuffing noise in its throat as Hanz roared with laughter. “Dragons? Gods, no. Draxiganth is a drake, and no more.” Hanz paused, glancing back at his mount. “He’s flattered, though, that you regard him so. Yes, they can understand speech, and can share thoughts with their riders.” His eyes passed from Jacob, then lingered on Millie long enough that she shied away from his gaze. “He likes her,” he remarked. “Stormtouched, he says.”

“No disrespect intended, sir,” said Jacob, nodding at Draxiganth. “Most people on my world would look at Draxiganth and see a dragon, not a drake.”

Hanz shook his head, and Draxiganth laughed again. “Oh, they look near enough, at least according to the old legends. At least when they want to.” He sobered, regarding the ground between his feet. “But the true dragons are calamity incarnate, and rarely spoken of. Even less is written of them than of Crusades.”

“You said that has different meaning here too,” remarked Lady Erin. “Will you explain or stay cryptic and confusing on purpose?”

Calvin made a strangled noise, leaning forward, but Hanz seemed to either not notice or not care about Erin’s tone. “It’s not intentional, nor is it secret. War is war, no matter where you go. A Crusade actively involves the [Oracle], and unless she’s directly threatened, like the Deskren fools have done, she stays neutral.”

Hanz regarded the captive prince, his eyes seeming to pierce through the man. “That’s one of the things I’ve come to find out: why you keep this one alive.”

“Because simply killing everyone in the empire is neither practical nor just,” Jacob replied immediately. “Even just killing the upper castes and nobility would flood the rest of your nations with hundreds of millions of refugees, and while genocide might be simpler, I prefer to sleep at night.”

The king nodded. “And there it is. I knew it wasn’t whimsy, or at least I’d hoped. And what of the Dead Sands?” he asked, gaze switching back to Jacob. “I assume your captive friend here has explained why they raid for captives year after year after year.”

“The Dead Sands must be dealt with in time, and I suspect it will take all the nations working together,” said Jacob. “The Empire hasn’t been able to stop them, only hold them back. What I am less certain of is why they do not encroach northwards the way they do to the south.”

“Ley lines,” Hanz responded simply. “You can see them, from high enough up.” He pointed skyward. “The north edge of the desert brushes against the southern edge of the Old Road, which was built to follow the old ley lines. The magic running through the earth holds the Sands fast, but there’s no such line to the south.” The king leaned back, regarding Jacob. “If fate should allow, consider this an invitation to High Drakenth; our history books may be less convenient than asking the [Oracle], but there’s no fate-twisting price attached to them.”

“Knowledge can change a man’s fate just as much as prophecy can,” said Jacob.

“Even so,” acknowledged Hanz with growing respect.

“About the Empire, though,” said Jacob. “After talking with Calvin here, and many others, things are not as simple as just exterminating the slavers. What we have here is a beast more akin to the old Greek or Roman style of slavery and caste separation, aside from the Golden Collars.”

“So how does one deal with that beast?” asked the King.

“You don’t; at least, not as directly as you might think. You give the Deskren people a better option. Calvin here--” he paused to slap a hand down on the man’s shoulder before he could protest. “Mister Descroix has a claim to the throne, and while not a saint, he cares for his people.”

“To pull off such a coup you would need to break the Golden Guard, but that’s bound to happen now with the decree from the [Oracle].” Hanz sat back again, rubbing his chin.

“What do you mean by that?” asked the Battlemaster.

“He means people like me, but not as nice,” said Hett roughly.

“There are already whispers of legendary classers on the move again,” said Hanz. “Hett may be the highest levelled fighter that’s known for a fact to still be alive, but with others you never know for sure. Often old classers simply get bored and retire somewhere, forgotten until some idiot doesn’t have sense not to pick a fight with one.”

“The girl’s decree means easy levels for a lot of right bastards. Even the good ones aren’t exactly what you’d consider sociable or anythin’ of the sort,” gruffed Hett. “Most of ‘em is as ornery as my mules.”

Jacob glanced at Hett. “I pity the Deskren who get in their way, then, if I know your mules.”

“It won’t just be the Deskren, lad,” Hett replied, shaking his head. “You take people like this and give ‘em incentive like that...well, they won’t much care who or what gets in their way, and ‘their way’ starts looking mighty broad.” He spat at the ground, then dug at it with the toe of his boot.

“I’ve wondered why this world even has wars, when those such as you can tear through enemies with what looks like barely any effort.”

“You have to have noticed the effects of command skills,” said Hanz. “You have ten thousand troops following you, you can’t not feel it.”

“I feel a pressure,” admitted Jacob. “At the back of my mind, like I’m being pushed forward as hard as I’m pushing them on the march.”

“It’s different for everyone,” said the King. “Some people gain skills and classes that make them individual powerhouses, others go into business or a trade. Not everybody becomes a [Swordsman] or a [Spear Maiden] or a [Brawler].”

“But anyone, no matter their class, can become a [Soldier],” finished Hett.

“Soldiers share a lot of abilities, and people with actual classes built for it are affected to an even greater degree. This is why the girl can march the entire company like hell’s at your heels.” The King grinned at Millie, then Jacob. “Her [Soldier] skills add to her bardic ability; it’s the only way you could have marched this far so quickly. All your troops, under one singular command. Have you promoted any lieutenants to spread out the pressure?”

Jacob nodded, looking surprised but not totally shocked by the revelation. “Yes. I had my theories, but I could not be sure.”

“They will make you stronger, and you them,” said Hanz. “There are things that are known that are not given by the numbered words or anything the scribes can measure, though. Things like faith and loyalty have an impact, even though no numbers for them ever show up when we look at ourselves.”

“And that is how I will tear down an empire, so that something new can be built,” said Jacob.

“Oh?” The King had a wry smile as he spoke, and Draxiganth focused a vertical slitted eye on Millie with a rumble of approval before also turning his gaze on the Battlemaster.

“I had wondered why their lines would break so easy. Such things should not have been possible. But what value does loyalty have if it is extracted at the tip of the lash instead of earned side by side?”

“You begin to see,” Hanz said respectfully. “Or, perhaps, already knew.” “Imperial tactics have always been based on overwhelming numbers to mitigate their losses, except for the Shackled.”

“Those were much stronger, yes. But still, weak in the ways that matter.”

“And those who follow you?” the king asked, eyes fixed on Jacob. “The dread company already being sung about in the streets of the City of Prophets, the Black Lance? By the time I left Possibility, that girl had cryers at every street corner speaking of your vow to march to Expedition. And here I find you more than halfway there, even faster than the Prophet herself expected.”

“There’s a reason for that,” said Jacob, grinning with an intensity that Millie felt mirrored on her own face as he gestured down the hill at the encamped company. His words settled within her like embers as she looked into the fire burning in the eyes of the drake. “Those down there? The ones who follow me? They have a power no slave could ever hope to match, nor stand against.”

The king leaned in. Draxiganth swung his head to regard the Duke of the Endless March. “And what is that, Otherworlder?”

The space around the group grew quiet, as if awaiting his answer.

“They chose to be here.”

Hanz Geremas, King of Drakenth, smiled.

“You do understand.”