He awoke lazily and reluctantly, head pounding.
Where am I-... What is going-...
They were everywhere. An image half realized, a blazing display of carnage, a fleeting feel of life; it all came and went, and came and went again. Broken and tangled.
He was born in 21st century Earth, of that he was certain. Yet, the world of Artrea was all he had ever known–or was that ever truly him? If he had to put it into words it'd be like having your memories tucked away in a corner, living life and forging new memories, only for your original memories to spring loose once more. It was a mess.
No. He told himself. I'm not from this world.
I'm not. He decided.
Clutching his head as he sat up, he steadied his gaze and only then did he take notice of the environment he was in.
This... is not my room. This isn't even a room.
It was a tent larger then any tent he had ever seen, without an object close to modern day technology. He took hold of the wooden base of his straw-filled mattress. A slight shaking took over his hands as the unfamiliarity of his surroundings began to seep in, the fact that he'd been housed in this tent for the past two days seemed to matter little.
I identify more with this old newly remembered memory lane, he once more realized. This me of Earth.
Let's keep it that way, a fleeting hope whispered.
The distant sounds of men, horses and the clattering of armor and weaponry drifted past Clemont's drowsiness until the buzzing in his head receded. The horn brought him out of his digression. A sound that'd sent any man's heart to running.
"Sir! Sir!" Clemont lashed his head to the side as the uninvited guest burst into his tent, nearly tripping over himself. A lean, but scrawny boy, with a face full of freckles. The boy seemed twelve years or less, and frightened in his haste.
"Ewin," Clemont recounted the boy's name alloud.
"Sir. The Archmage is calling the men, Sir Brant says it's battle. Croft's army's coming from the south. Up the Everroad, sir. I-I thought I should wake..." the boy went on, tangling his sentences in a haste mirroring his unceremonious entrance. The latter sentences turned uncertain when he saw the look on Clemont's face. A glare, Clemont's facial muscles told him, one made in annoyance. An involuntary action. He caught himself.
Be careful, he said to himself. I need to know just who this old Clemont was before becoming the man.
"Sigh, thank you, Ewin. Help me into my armor, if you'd be so kind." Clemont stood and pointed towards the obsidian black suit of armor standing sentinel-like at the side. The armor of the Ancien Order. An order no son of an upstart commonborn count ought to be a part of, I'm sure.
Ewin gave him a brief startled stare, however just as quickly went to the suit of armor with a, "Yes sir," as Clemont helped himself to his clothes strewn about.
When Clemont exited the tent fully clad and armored, dawn had yet to break. Knights and men-at-arms clambered ahorse, with swords, spears and all manner of weaponry taken from passing wagons. Men hollered and horns blew. The urgency quickened in his heart. Was war always such an unsettling thing?
"Damner!" To his left, past the remnants of a hastily extinguished fire and opposite of where he had sent his page running to fetch his ride, came a knight, fully clad and ahorse a unicorn black as his armor.
A brother of mine own Order. But... honestly, a unicorn? Clemont couldn't help but stare, it took him a few moments to realize he'd just sent Ewin to fetch his own unicorn.
This Order of mine… not a simple one. He concluded.
The knight, Sir Eric Howe, hardly seemed to notice Clemont's stare as he trotted to a stop at his side, sliding up his visor the black knight said in good humor, "Took our sweet sweet time, did we now? You look about as eager as the whores of Slayton were before they laid with you. Where's Clemont the Slayer gone?"
"Anymore talk of Slayton's whores and you may just find out. Come this Bastard of Hailcourt and I'll show him too!" The jape came naturally, his embodiment of the old Clemont perhaps not entirely. Clemont and Eric shared a good laugh at that.
However, as soon as the moment passed a frown colored Eric's face: "The Lord Constable's calling an inquiry after the day's won."
Eric, face still colored unpleasant, looked about before saying in a softer voice, worry hanging on the edge of his tone, "More than 300 died in the fire. It wasn't just the prisoners. Damner, that wasn't supposed to happen."
"351."
"What?" Eric asked.
"There were 351 victims." Clemont corrected tersely.
"Damner, if the Lord Constable should find Polward and the others' bodies-…" The man's grip on his reins tightened and shifted.
"They won't. Especially if we keep shut and trust the Archmage's word." Clemont said, reluctantly falling into the old Clemont's character. More out of an appalling realization, the act an assurance for his conscience.
However, his tongue went on, "Be that as it may, you retired to your quarters with some tavern wench last night and I had a meeting with the Dame of Nightfall. Right?"
"Yeah... Yes." Eric answered, startled, before righting the uncertain daze in his voice.
Clemont went on, grinning, "You got what you wanted, remember? You can save that charming sister of yours."
Eric returned the look. He glanced past Clemont where Ewin the page was rearing up Clemont's grey unicorn, Victorious, ahorse his own brown destrier, Clemont's shield and sword strapped to his side.
Eric reverted back to normality at the sight.
"There's the Whoremonger!" He called out to the boy, "Ready for another 'battle' after the battle, I see! Damner, I bet you this boy's more a man than half the Order was at his age, blushing maidens in men's clothes that they were."
"I wouldn't dare presume... sir." The boy seemed the blushing maid, not knowing whether to be flattered or ashamed.
HOOOOOOON!!!
The sound crept from the south, a sound that echoed off the earth, and the terrain, and the moist in the air, and the bones in their bodies. The Horn of St. Valian, Clemont remembered remembering. A warhorn that could stir the deepest fears of the sounder's enemies, however, oddly enough, Clemont could feel its sorcerous mechanics bouncing off the walls of his soul.
Ewin's horse reared, as frightened as its rider; the unicorns stood still as stone.
Clemont climbed upon Victorious, as swiftly as if he had done it a thousand times, which he had, and felt reassured. Whatever the case, Clemont had not been named the Slayer for naught.
Clemont took his sword and shield from the dazed Ewin, who's horse was calmer now, and put on his dark helm. His shield bore the sigil of House Damner in the colors of the Order. All colored in the Ancien black, red and gold.
"Look closely boy," Eric once again again took hold of Ewin's attention, "A beautiful thing ain't it? That sword of your master, Blackmyre. Won it on the battlefield when he severed the head of that Mustphalian dog. Markus, I think the name was. A prince too."
Clemont brandished the sword, his weight adjusting as is natural. He took long look upon the gleaming obsidian blade, "Do you still want it Eric?"
"What's this?" Eric's ears perked up, "You've finally gained your sense?"
"Give me the hand of your sister and it's yours," Clemont said, turning his gaze unflinchingly to Eric. The mithril sword sunk into its scabbard in one smooth motion.
"You wound me deeply Damner," a pained look came over the man.
"I jest, my friend. We'll speak no more of it." Clemont said.
Eric gave Clemont a look of uncertainty, wanting to say something, but fearing the answer. With a curt turn of his black unicorn Clemont's knightly friend said to him, his tone solemn, "I'll see you on the front lines. We'll speak when the battle's done... Vice-Commander."
And than he was off, spurring his unicorn towards the south where the Archmage had already formed his battle lines. The drums declared the army's unfolding.
The Lady Commander's going to kill me, Clemont realized. Although Clemont couldn't help but grin when another thought came to his mind. Although... I wouldn't so mind being punished by our Lady Commander, the oh-so-sweet Dame of Nightfall.
• • • •
When night fell the tangent smell of rotten flesh and charred remains had yet to leave the air. The battle had gone well into the afternoon, leaving the landscape thoroughly tarnished. The river was a bloody pool of bloated corpses.
Clemont, with his second-in-command, stood aghast amongst a field of corpses, the relief of the old Clemont's persona receding, Blackmyre still buried in the skull of the Mustphalian footman that had attempted to feign death. A particular activity the old Clemont would always partake in out of sheer boredom.
The setting sun casted a yawning shadow over the morbid remains of the sprawling fields.
"M'lord, are you sure of this? You'd have us tramp through enemy land now, of all times? We've just come off a bitter fight — the bastards were near twice our count — and you'd drive us on with but our own number, and no word of leave?"
"Yes, yes. We've all now seen the fearsome foe." Clemont turned to his foremost soldier, his master-at-arms, "Sir Sears, did I maybe misjudge you?"
The soldier's stout visage shifted uncomfortably in indignation. The hard face of the man gave a well-worn look of unbelief.
Clemont felt a slight movement in his periphery. Not all were yet dead, he decided. In the middle of the field, where the blood laid thickest, there Clemont and his second-in-command stood. The field was alive with soldiers and scavengers and followers of the camp, like carrions upon a corpse.
Clemont gave wide swing of his arm, "Look at this sight. A beautiful sight, is it not? Here lays an empire in ruin.
"His Excellency, the Archmage of Levingham, had drawn to the Ancraft banner near 60 thousand souls. Yet the Mustphalians had almost twice that number set against us.
"Worse still, they had in their ranks a weapon fit to fell kingdoms — a Hero, and one of a kind not seen in centuries. The full power of whom could break hosts and unmake realms. But, as a spark dies as it takes flame, so was this hope of theirs' choked in its birth.
"In the end, it was we who held the field. Dark craft it may have been."
Sears scoffed at the words of his Vice-Commander, "Begging your pardon, m'lord, but I'd not call that a win. Aye, we held the field, but look around — nearly a quarter of our host lies rotting in the mud, and a good many'll not see home before winter takes 'em.
"That Hero they had — aye, he fell, but not before he took a thousand good men with him.
"And that sorcery the Archmage used… dark craft, you say? Dark's too kind a word, m'lord. I've seen men die, but I've never seen souls torn from their flesh like smoke from a fire.
"If that's the price of victory, then I'll not drink to it."
"War's never clean Sears, you'd know better than any man." Clemont said to the man.
"Aye, I know it well. Still… when I looked upon Croft's corpse, what was left of him, I near pitied the man. His son was found spitted on a halberd, and his nephew now sits crippled in Nevers, refusin' parley." Sears said.
"Not for long." Clemont corrected, "His Excellency tells us the city will fall come nightfall. He's sent the Arcane Archers to bring down the walls as we speak."
Clemont reclaimed his foot from the mud, between bodies stripped of armor and cloth, and in one heavy motion kicked over a Mustphalian body. The boy, a teen, had a bloody pit where his face should've been. Clemont dismissed the corpse and went on to another.
"I've stood before those walls," Sears told him. "Fine white stone, thicker than a siege tower's base. His spells'll do little but scar the paint."
"You doubt the Archmage?" Clemont questioned, kicking over another body, finding a corpse in disappointment.
The man gave a worldless acquiescence, an uncompromising stance.
Clemont turned firmly towards the man. "I care little for his plans, Sir Sears," he shared, "So long as he's got one."
"And I'll tell you this much," Clemont began, "I'll not make my stay here. I will have my hand in the partition of this rotting, bloated corps of an empire."
"By the One God I'll have." He said once more, softer now, perhaps to himself. Have I truly now come to desire this?
Clemont thanked the One God when he found a living soul. The man was old, muddied and bloodied all over, no signs of life. But Clemont smelt the fear, the tense, morbid anticipation of death.
He swung his sword. And met no resistance.
He turned once more to his second-in-command, "We march on the morrow."
"Aye, m'lord." The man took his order, and he took his leave.
Alone now, Clemont looked upon himself, upon the old Clemont. The old Clemont had been impatient to wed his widowed betrothed and secure his new lands and titles before putting an heir in her belly.
He could see it clearly now, the burning desire, the imminent need for power that burned at his core. His very existence depended on his obtaining of glory and power.
Sobering up from his daze, somewhat shedding the persona of the old Clemont, if only for moment, Clemont made his way towards one of the three camps the Archmage had set up to surround the city.
I should not be so at ease within this skin, Clemont firmly told himself. Nevertheless, the gripping thrill of inhabiting a body of such form was a formula which Clemont could not fully shake, it lured him in every time he put on the mask. Or maybe this sense of self he so dearly held onto, maybe it was the mask.
No, Clemont was steadfast in rejecting the notion.
The camp headed by Dame Valeria, Clemont's own Lady Commander, was a village in of itself. It was set up near the south-western gate where the river met the moat.
The numerous banners of minor lords and powerful knight orders laid tame beside their tents on this windless day, the Ancraft banner highest above all. The tent of Dame Valeria of Nightfall, most nearest the river, stood largest amongst them all, almost a villa.
In truth, Clemont felt wronged. The camp of Dame Valeria was the camp of the very host Clemont had taken charge of during the battle, while the dame herself took charge of the cavalry of the nobility.
In the Ancien Order the old Clemont's martial and sword prowess were second only to the Lady Commander, and since the Ancien Order were second to none, Clemont was given charge of the western flank to hold the river. Thus, it can be understood why he was a little peeved that the dame had taken his rightful seat of power.
He walked across the makeshift pathway of the Dame Valeria's camp, the gound not soft, not yet beaten through. A briny, earthy scent clung to the air, the smell mingling with horse dung and the sour tang of sweat. Men were busy, some resting. Stablehands moved between rows of tethered horses, brushing the mud and blood from their flanks, and checking their hooves as they went. A young arcane archer hummed a tune as refilled the water troughs. Men had begun to gather around campfires – some gambling with dice, others mending their gear or quietly staring into the flames, others still were praying to the One God – the only respite from this horrid day.
By the time Clemont realize, he'd already arrived the massive tent of the Lady Commander. With a slight elevation the tent gave a pleasant view of the surroundings and a picturesque view of the river-moat. Above the tent laid the dark banners of the Ancien Order and the House of Darke, the Lady Commander's own noble House.
Earlier in the day the Lady Commander had explicitly requested to see him when the sun went down. At the time Clemont was standing dazed over the decapitated corpse of his uncle, Sir Brant of House Damner so most of the message hadn't registered at the time.
Sir Brant had been the commander of the eight thousand Downe forces under the Archmage. A humorless man of the sword.
"He taught me everything I knew of being a knight and swordsman," he told the messenger, a young page named Wilken. The young page of course did not know whether to laugh or cry at being held hostage by his Vice-Commander.
Having known the man since he could remember, Sir Brant was one of the rare people the old Clemont truly respected.
Remembering that particular distasteful experience Clemont reminded himself to send a letter to his father who was currently securing the Archduchy of Pecardy under the Earl of Eddinbury. In this world, using the arcane arts, letters were, quite literally, send flying towards their destinations.
When Clemont reached the entrance of the tent he didn't bother sparing a glance at the two knights standing guard, and neither they him.
However, as Clemont came in reach of the entrance a man exited the tent. The man seemed quite a few years older than Clemont's 24 and was stoutly build with a clean shaven square face that had a rough, yet elegant handsomeness about it. The man was likewise dressed in the Ancien black armor, however a pure white cape was draped over his shoulders.
With an abrupt stop, Clemont and the man stared at one another. Frowning, the man regained his usual posture, which was as straight as an arrow.
"Damner," the man said, curt, and with clear distaste.
"Aye, that is my name," said Clemont, grinning, the threat of violence hanging on his words, "And if my fellow lord Vice-Commander were to use his head perhaps I'm certain my lord would come to remember my given name as well."
Scoffing, the Vice-Commander took his leave, unperturbed. From what Clemont gathered from the old Clemont's memories and almost instinctive actions just now, Vice-Commander Branden of Ashbourne had never liked this talented, malicious colleague of his. The two would always butt heads when it came to even the simplest of decisions that needed to be made by the Order.
Although the two of them were ostensibly equal in rank as Vice-Commanders of the Ancien Order, as the son of the of Prince-Bishop of Ashbourne, Vice-Commander Branden had always looked down on the commonborn Clemont. While Clemont thoroughly despised the Vice-Commander who always found some way to thwart his plans.
And let's not forget the fact that the Vice-Commander was head over heels for the Lady Commander. Clemont can only imagine the Vice-Commander's ire now that he had been given command of the Order when doubtlessly he thought it should have been him.
Clemont narrowed his eyes as he watched the receding back of the Vice-Commander before entering the tent. The tent was predictably spacious and finely adorned. However, there was a certain simplicity and practicality to it.
And in the center of the tent she stood, over a makeshift table, eyes flashing over a piece of parchment. Her tight tunic and breaches seeming to hug the athletic curves of her body. Her luscious mane of ink black hair slithering its way towards her narrow waist.
Clemont looked at this figure of his Lady Commander as various thoughts involuntarily coursed their way through his mind. The Lady Commander, seeming to have read his thoughts, gave him the barest acknowledgment without turning to face him, "Clemont."
A feeling welled in him. Maybe, Clemont thought, not all of the old Clemont's decisions were ill-conceived. And gradually instinct took command. That all too familiar instinct.
It would be a lie to say Clemont wasn't dissapointed when he heard the seriousness in her, clearly his visit wasn't intended for pleasure. Regardless, Clemont took large, silent strides towards his Lady Commander, softly putting a hand on her waist and gently brushing aside her hair with the other Clemont bend down to place soft kisses along the crux of her neck. Her smell was intoxicating.
The Lady Commander detached herself from his grasp. In one movement she took his collar into her grip. She held him there.
"Must you tempt me so, my fair lady?" Clemont put on the best pitiful act he could muster. The Lady Commander, unamused, gave him a look of reproach.
In a swift movement the Lady Commander released her grip and handed Clemont the piece of paper she had been reading, "A letter arrived from Venaise."
Clemont accepted the piece of paper. Continuing, the Lady Commander said, "The Prince of Trauded and the King of the Veens have entered the war. The prince took Pecardy a week prior in the name of his wife and has thoroughly ousted our forces from the archduchy a fortnight past. My uncle, he... Eddinbury's host was put to the sword when they were caught unawares. The prince… he took no prisoners."
Clemont knew perfectly well what she meant. His father had gone under the Earl of Eddinbury to take part in the King's subjugation of the eastern archduchy of Pecardy with a four thousand strong host from the Damnford.
Clemont looked at his Lady Commander, "My lady..."
The Earl of Eddinbury had been, after all, not only her uncle, but also her love, if her nighttime whispers were to be believed. Apparently, the Lady Commander had since young been infatuated with this charismatic uncle of hers, and in her 12th year the Earl had, in a bout of pedophilia, no doubt, preceded to engage in a very sexual relationship with her following the death of her father, only calling their relationship off four years later when he had to marry his intended, earning the Lady Commander's infinite ire.
The Lady Commander only shook her head, a distant look on her face, attempting to dispel Clemont's worries, "The King of the Veens has been marching down the Venezian Pass since that Kretian toy of an Anti-pope excommunicated His Grace."
Her hands gripped until they were white where she crossed her arms, "Not only that, but the King of the Fraucians, the King's own cousin and heir presumptive, refuses to participate in the war and instead sits behind his Fraucian walls."
"A sly fox, that one." Clemont kept his focus on the letter.
"A coward," the Lady Commander corrected. The sharp glare in her eyes now turned towards him, "I hear you intend to march on the morrow."
"News does indeed move fast," he said, leaving a silence as answer.
"You could get hanged for that." She said. "Insubordination."
Clemont gave her an amused look, "And who, pray tell, would be doing that? His Grace, the King? When I have given him a Mustphalian archduchy as gift?"
The Lady Commander looked him over once more, as if gazing upon a madman, or perhaps a fool, "And with what host, exactly? Brigands and sellswords and farmhands you found along your march, to add to your meager following among our ranks? You wound the Order with your ambition."
"We shall see what the men of the Ancien Order have to say on that. As for my merry men," a look of mirth came upon his face, "they shall show their teeth soon enough."
She gave no answer to that. He looked at her and knew she held his word, in that moment, in thin regard.
"You doubt my intentions?" He asked her.
"I doubt your senses." She retorted, her visage nearing a blush in frustration.
Clemont took a well placed step and closed the distanced between them, short though it was. His hand moved past her figure, towards the table where a map of the Empire laid in parchment. He placed his finger upon the image of a city, marked in red.
"Fortune lays to the west, my lady, towards the Inner Sea. If we obtained a foothold on the Sea, at Carnevan City–…"
"You wish to lay siege to the second largest city in the east of the Empire?" The Lady Commander interceded, incredulous.
"I only wish to reunite with my betrothed," Clemont gently corrected, "It's the strategic choice. They are weakened here in the East. I seek only to secure it for my King."
"You seek glory," she retorted. They were close now. Focused, yet intimate.
"A soft kiss is what I seek," Clemont whispered, and tried to collapse the little distance between them into nothingness.
She scoffed, and thoroughly the forced a distance between them, she pursued the matter no longer. Though a faint smile hung on her lips.
Suddenly she turned to him, "Treat with the Archmage before then. When the city falls you will have your boon. The Archmage is, if nothing else, a meritorious man. What say you?"
"I make no promise," he took her hand in his and placed a long kiss upon it. "But I shall, if the One God permits, preside over the seizure of the city."
• • • •
The city did indeed fall in the night. When a servant strangled the crippled Croft the city turned on their liege and opened the gates, presenting the last Croft, a screaming and clawing girl, naked and tied up before the Archmage. Very soon the city was secured and all opposition cleared.
Within a week the resisting peasants within the Archduchy of Aftshire were brought to their knees. And today, as Clemont stood over the spacious balcony of the castle of Nevers and looked over the sprawling main plaza of the city, the final blow would be delivered to the spirit of the Mustphalians.
The plaza was filled to the brim as the people came to, or rather, were forced to watch upon the last line of executions. On the raised platform stood the Hero of Hailcourt, St. Ryo, and his "concubines."
As Clemont looked upon the plaza, having just arived here, he heard the Archmage speak, "My lord of Damner, please, be seated."
When Clemont looked, the handsome Archmage signalled towards a seat beside him. The Archmage looked not a day over thirty and dressed in his mages robes, having forgone his wartime suit of armour, gave off a scholarly feel.
A moment of deep revulsion froze Clemont where he stood.
Not now, Clemont told this inner demon of his. The old Clemont possessed an abysmal hatred of the man.
Why exactly? Clemont wondered. The psyche of the old Clemont proved a labyrinthine endeavor to sort through. There he would get no answers, at least not now.
Few were gathered on the castle balcony there with them. The White Mage first and foremost, the Archmage's constant shadow, an expressionless girl of no more than sixteen years dressed in all-white attire with soft short hair of white; the King's front man, the Lord Constable, Henry Ackerton, and two of his secretaries; the aging Lord Commander of the Vulturian Knight Order, Greralt Vivius; the Bishop of Venaise, Marko Polias; the gold-bearded Captain of the Mytian Company, Horus Gregorian, and his second-in-command; the stone-faced Karl Mardain, Margrave of Britton, and two of his bannermen; the seething Croft girl, now Archduchess of Aftshire; and finally, Clemont's own colleagues, razer sharp Dame Valeria and the stoic Sir Branden.
"You're too gracious, my lord," Clemont answered the Archmage. Only the Margrave bothered to shoot Clemont a glare as he took his seat next to the Archmage. Aside from the Archduchess, the Lord Constable, and the Archmage, all the rest were standing, so it was clear the Archmage favored Clemont above them.
"Ah, I have yet to commend you on your bravery in the battle," the Archmage said, his tone pleasant.
The Hero, who was bandaged in various places, put up a brave front and didn't flinch when the guards dragged him forward and push him to his knees, his companions squirmed in their chains, some begging.
"Indeed… yes, indeed... it is no easy task holding a river against an army that outnumbered you twice over." The Lord Constable spoke softly, perhaps for the first time. The man possessed an ephemeral spirit to Clemont. An uneasy sight.
"Just as you say, Lord Ackerton," the Archmage concurred, brightly.
Clemont heard Sir Branden scoff.
"Truly, it was nothing," Clemont, reciprocating, replied in an equally pleasant tone, "If I weren't at least capable of this much I wouldn't have deserved the title of Vice-Commander of the Ancien Order, my lord."
"Just so," the Archmage agreed.
As the greatsword of the headsman lifted and hung over the Hero's head, realization seemed to dawn on the Hero as he began to futily struggle against the iron grips of the guards.
The headsman looked towards the balcony, where the Archmage gave a leisurely nod. Clemont heard the Archduchess take in a sharp breath, the crowd went into turmoil and one of the Hero's companions was knocked unconscious by a guard when she began to struggle.
"You would make a fine lord for His Grace," the Archmage added.
The sword descended.
The Archduchess gave a wordless scream as the Hero's head bounced off the platform and his body fell limp. One of his companions screamed and convulsed, before going still.
A tumultuous fervor ran through the crowd. Murmurs turned to admonishments turned to denouncements turned to calls for blood. A sea of anger descended over the people. The sound of knights taking the rounds on their steeds, cries for blood morphing into one boiling whole, men-at-arms moving into place, a woman screaming and crying. There seemed a vile chaos descending.
The White Mage spoke a word and all went quiet. She held a wand of white wood, a cold thing, almost metallic. The chaos was no more.
The Archmage signaled for the headsman to continue.
Turning towards those in attendance, the Archmage said, "Ladies and gentlemen, come, we have much to discuss," before standing up to leave.
• • • •
They entered the Council Chamber.
"My lords and ladies, rest assured, this great victory shall serve as the opening salvo of our rise as a great nation," the Archmage said. "The Kingdom of Ancraft will speak of this day, of this week, forever more."
A long table laid at the center of the room, polished and imposing. The resinous scent of oak, mingled with the must of ink-stained parchment.
A seat was marked for each of them, at the table only those of import sat, their lieutenants and secretaries were to be scattered across the room, in the background.
Clemont did want to look at the sour face of Sir Branden as he took his seat at the table, however, the personalities gathered here drew greater interest from him.
"Yes, yes, a great victory indeed. And we owe it all to the Archmage," the Bishop said. He would have stricken a simply figure, with forgettable features, if he was not so ostentatiously attired. He continued, "Your Excellency has finally brought the wrath of Saint Clane upon this heretic land."
Clemont was for a moment taken aback at the ready praise of the Bishop, even the old Clemont would hesitate to call their victory here at Nevers anything close to holy.
The Bishop went on, "Now with this victory, let us not be taken by haste, we must look to strengthen our–"
"Just so, just so! A grand victory for the nation!" Opposite the bishop, towards the left of the Archmage, sat a lightly armored man in his prime. Lord Commander to the famed Vulturian Knights, a man of steel and fire, the common soldiers will tell you. He had risen a goblet in celebration, but found it empty, "Bugger, where is that damned slave girl?"
The bishop's white cloak swished in agitated movement. Soft murmurs spread in tense conversation as everyone had taken their seat.
The Archmage signaled for the White Mage to have the slaves equip the table with refreshments. He returned his attention to the matter at hand, "Now, let's not squander any more time, we have a mission set before us. Ancraft has suffered a grave defeat in the east… my Lord Constable, you may speak freely if you have a point to raise, as first man of the King, you have command of this table just as I do."
"Is that so?" The Lord Constable lowered his raised hand. The man was seated directly opposite the Archmage, towards the other end of the table. "Then I shall not stand on ceremony."
Slowly he stood up, in deliberate ease, "We have much to discuss, my lords. Yes, that is certain."
He looked across the room, across the various faces gathered here now, all of them focused with curiosity. He rested his gaze on his second, a limping, but deeply focused man. The two shared a look, and with a nod from the Lord Constable the man exited the room.
"I would, if you would all allow, like to bring attention to a matter few have given a thought to," the Lord Constable paused here.
Maybe for dramatic effect, Clemont humored.
"I take it, you have not all forgotten the massacre at Slayton?"
Clemont froze.
"A tragedy, yes." Next to the bishop, the Margrave interjected. The slaves have now returned with beverages and treats. The potbellied Margrave, clearly a man who loved the simpler delicacies of life, sank his teeth into an apple, "But I fail to see the relevancy, Lord Constable."
The Lord Constable gave a terse a smile, nonthreatening to the simple-minded, "All will be clear soon enough, my lords and ladies."
Footstep rang from the corridor, heavy with effort. There was a moment of silence of intrigue, across the room. A slave girl came to Clemont, she was simply dressed in the Ancratian tunic. She placed before Clemont a small cup of tea, as all at present had been given.
She would make a pretty gift, Clemont thought, and realized that would be the exact opinion of the old Clemont.
Unsettled Clemont paid no further heed to the slave girl, except that she placed within his a line of sight a serviette. It was an elegant thing, weaved into a fine pattern. A curious word was weaved into the fabric. Silincia, it said.
Clemont blinked in recognition. And the word was gone, as if a phantom.
He knew what the word meant, the old Clemont knew very well what that word meant; what it signaled. He looked towards the slave girl, gone now, and the White Mage, who was unperturbed. And Clemont knew what it meant.
There was no equivalence of the word in the Ancraftian Tongue. The word was of Eldred Speak origin. Groups bound to secrecy held Eldred Speak in sacred regard. Words and phrases in this ancient tongue were the light by which these internecine groups made a map of the world. The means by which they organized. The method through which they conveyed messages.
There was no question, the word Silencia meant to kill, to make quiet, to silence. And in the world of secrecy, it meant to herald an enemy, a mortal enemy.