Sardec sat in his chamber in the Inn, wrestling with his dissatisfaction. He was tired from a long day of supervising his troops. The Foragers were an unruly bunch at the best of times and keeping them hard at their practise manoeuvres had been difficult. Plus his wounds still ached despite all the spells of the regimental wizards and all the alchemy of the regimental healers. He knew he was not at his full strength. At least he was in better condition than poor Master Severin.
He was not entirely happy with the Colonel's practise of continuing the training exercises through the period of Mourning. It seemed to him almost blasphemous although he could understand the reasoning behind it. With war coming they needed to be ready.
Servants had already cleaned his room. All his gear was in place. He had checked, because you could never be sure with humans. The only thing missing was his sword, which was still being purified by the priests. He found that he missed it badly. It was a link with his House and family and their glorious heritage, a reminder of all the things he had to live up to, and which he feared he could not. A prayer crystal on a black ribbon dangled above the window, part of someone’s attempt at Mourning Time decoration.
Sardec had brought a small platter of bread and cheese and a jug of water with him. He took the Mourning seriously, and felt disgusted that some of his brother officer’s did not. It was a link with the Old World of Al’Terra and the high history of the Terrarchs. Briefly he took time to consider what it represented, the death of a world and of an angel and the casting out of the last remains of a mighty people, into exile on a strange world of demon — worshipping barbarians.
Mourning Time taught an important lesson to his people. It showed that though the Terrarchs had been beaten they had risen again triumphant. The royal island of Talassa might have disappeared below the sea, carrying all its shining towers with it, and the Princes of Shadow and the corrupt hordes that followed them might have driven the Terrarchs from their lands and destroyed their whole civilisation, but his folk had passed through the ancient portals that linked the worlds, and found a new home here on Gaeia. A mere ten thousand of them had conquered the short-lived humans and taught them the ways of true civilisation. They had built a new nation under strange skies, the mightiest empire this world had seen since the time of the Elder Races.
He thought about Lord Azaar. There was someone who truly understood what it meant. The Lord of Battles had walked the glades of Al’ Terra and fought beside the Three Hundred before the Fall. He had fought his long private war against the assassin cult of the Shadowblood who killed his family. He had seen the blessed light of the Eternal Realm and spoken to the Dragon Angel Adaana herself. He had planned the conquest of the ancient barbaric human empires, and he had led the armies of the Scarlet Queen during the Great Schism that had brought down the First Empire. When the Dark Empire had risen in the East following that hell-bitch Arachne, he had fought its armies to a standstill. His was a name that still struck fear into the hearts of Talorea’s enemies.
The General’s dispatch to this small army was not too surprising. Even if it was war, this force was not going to be the main spearhead. This was not a glorious post at all, as Sardec was in a position to know. Sending the General who had planned and executed the Conquest here could be construed as something of an insult but everyone knew Azaar was out of favour at the court. The young Queen was no longer so young, and she no longer needed her old guardian, tutor and protector. Perhaps it was as his mother claimed and Arielle was asserting her independence by casting Azaar and Asea and others among the First from the light of her favour. That was natural Sardec thought. He could understand why she would want to sweep away the Old Guard and replace them with more modern advisors.
There was a knock on the door.
“Enter,” he said. One of the serving wenches came in. She was a pretty girl as human’s went, plump and cheerful. Tonight she wore only a thin shift and he was uncomfortably aware that the curves of her body were very visible below it. Suddenly the room felt strangely warm and his mouth felt strangely dry. He strove to remember her name and found that he could not.
“What is it?” he asked. She made a small curtsey and looked up into his eyes. Her lips parted invitingly. Was she coming on to him? Her eyes went down and a faint flush came to her cheeks. He found his own eyes drawn downwards to her decolletage. He wrenched them away, feeling a little embarrassed and oddly, guiltily aroused himself.
“What is it, girl?” She held out a silver plate to him and he noticed there were letters on it.
“Came in with the courier, sir. They are for you.” Her voice was low and husky and he thought he heard a note of invitation in it. He knew that Jazeray and the others often had their way with these wenches, but such pleasures were beneath him. Still…
“Leave it on the table then,” he said, his voice gruffer than he intended. She walked slowly and sensuously across to the table, put the plate down, and then turned to look at him. Again there was that frank, measuring, inviting look.
“Will that be all, sir?” she asked. He found his eyes flickering momentarily towards the bed. She noticed his look and made a small involuntary movement in that direction. Not wanting to be misinterpreted, he said, too hastily.
“That will be all, girl. You may go.” She looked at him oddly.
“Are you sure, sir?” A small flash of anger passed through him, as well as an odd reluctance. Who was she to question her betters?
“Of course, I am sure, girl.” Slowly and almost reluctantly she went. And almost as reluctantly he let her go. Once she was gone, he loosened his tunic and slumped down in his chair. He felt ashamed and embarrassed. For a brief moment there, he had felt the urge to throw her on the bed and bury himself in her, to rut like a beast with one of the lower orders.
That was not seemly, he thought, though it had been happening to him more and more of late. Such feelings were common to Terrarch males of his age, the thirties were famously a dangerous time, but he found the whole concept disgusting. He pushed the thought from his mind. He got up stalked about the room and then eventually picked up the letters.
He allowed himself to sit down on the bed, and begin to work through the mail. He crossed his legs neatly as he lounged back in his armchair. His thoughts drifted back to their new commander. Perhaps Azaar really had lost his gifts as some claimed. Certainly his long slide from the Queen’s favour showed that he had lost his grasp of the basics of Terrarch politics. He had fallen a long way from the pinnacle of prestige he had once occupied.
Sardec shook his head. As his father always said, gossip was the curse of the Terrarchs. We are a race with too much time on our hands and too much malice in our hearts. It was an old joke. Put three Terrarchs together and you will get five conspiracies. His experience in the army had allowed him to see the truth in that.
There were several letters. He put the one from his sister aside for later reading, and opened the one from his father at once. It began with the customary formalities, his father was a stickler for them, and then got to the meat of the matter;
My son, good news indeed. My old friend, the Lord Azaar, has been appointed commander of your Regiment and its associates in the new army of the South Eastern Provinces. I had word from Count Urazel at court this morning, and it appears our beloved Queen, may she reign ten thousand years, placed her signature on the document this morning. I have written to my old comrade and requested a place for you on his staff. I feel sure that this will be granted.
I cannot stress enough how you must do your utmost to serve your new commanding officer, and not alone because that is every officer’s duty. He is worthy of every respect, and of your emulation. I will be most happy if you take him as your model in all things. Pay particular attention to his thoughts on matters military, my son, for Azaar is the finest General the Exalted ever fielded, and there is much to be learned from a commander who has never lost a battle. You may find some of his thinking perhaps a little unfashionable, but Azaar has always been a committed Scarlet, and I feel it is speaks well of him that he remains so even when it is no longer the orthodoxy of the hour.
I feel we are approaching a time when being Scarlet will find its way back into favour. War with the Blues is coming, and that always rallies our people to the Scarlet cause. It is my sincerest wish that you excel in service to my old friend. My one regret is that my damnable illness prevents me from taking up arms once more and fighting at your sides.
Sardec put the letter down and cursed his luck. It had been dated more than three weeks before and doubtless held up by some delay or other. If it had arrived sooner he might have gained some greater advantage from it. He would have known of the General’s appointment before his brother officers and thus been able to steal a march on them. As it were, most of them had probably visited the Lady Asea and began lobbying for staff positions with her. Doubtless Azaar would listen to the opinions of another of the First.
He had no great faith that Azaar would grant his father’s request merely for the sake of their old friendship. There were too many families at court who had much greater influence than his own, and the General could gain a great deal of political capital by allocating choice posts to them. If he could have met Azaar in person perhaps he might have persuaded him. So far no word had come of any new appointments. It looked like the General would be doling them out once he arrived.
Even Sardec's trip to the hills and the wound he had taken had conspired against him. It had delayed his sending his card to Asea. It could not be helped, he thought, even as he cursed it. He had been performing his duties, and those had to come first. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. No use crying over spilled wine, he thought, and considered his father’s words.
The first part was obviously a politely worded instruction to flatter the General, for imitation was always the sincerest form of that. He considered the second part of the message with regard to Azaar’s well-known political stance. What was his father trying to tell him? He still had sources at the court of the Amber Throne. He obviously expected war and a long one. He was basically instructing Sardec to hitch his star to that of the General. It might work. In a time of war, a successful field commander would find himself in favour at court no matter what colour his politics were, and those on his staff with him. There was no doubt his father expected Azaar to be successful and why not? He always had been before. There never had been any doubt of his genius on the field of battle.
Sardec considered this from all angles. Perhaps Azaar had seen better days. All of his real fighting had been done in the age of dragons, and before the coming of these damnable black powder weapons. He was a hero from the great days of truesteel and sorcery. Perhaps he would fair less well in this new era of cannons and rifled muskets. In any case, Sardec decided his father’s advice was worth taking. Certainly with the Lord of Battles in command there would be no shortage of fighting, and no shortage of opportunities to seek to add to his father’s glorious legacy.
Satisfied he had divined his father’s meaning, he gave his attention to the rest of the letter which contained a great deal of family news, most of it of little interest to Sardec. Two of his cousins were betrothed. His brother Magnus was doing brilliantly at court at least according to his own letters to their father. This did not surprise Sardec. Magnus has always had a very high opinion of himself. His sister Elena’s studies at the College of Magisters were going well.
Sardec noted that his mother had dragged herself away from her latest lover long enough to send her best wishes and let him know she was still negotiating his marriage to the eldest of the Kasaki clan. The matter of the bride price remained to be settled. He knew that would likely remain the case for some time yet. They had been discussing it for a decade. Only the news that old Sathrax had hatched a clutch of eggs excited him. It was the first time that had happened in decades. More than that, it seemed all of the hatchlings were doing well. It looked like the line of the great dragon Sardenys would not become extinct after all. It was an omen, perhaps of better times ahead. His father concluded by wishing him well in the old formal fashion.
He opened the letter from his sister next. It contained some news of her studies at the College of Magisters, and a warning concerning the portents all the fashionable astrologers were discovering. It seemed now was a particularly dark and threatening time for the Realm, and for their House, and for him as well by all accounts. His stars had entered a particularly ominous house. His recent encounter with the spider demons seemed to confirm the truth of that, at least.
It mentioned that her spell-craft was advancing with great speed, although the same could be said of all members of her class, so she felt no great pride in the matter. That was odd, Sardec thought. Although sorcery had never been his forte he had been given to understand that in recent generations the aptitude of Terrarch wizards had been greatly lessened. Certainly the older Terrarchs always managed to give that impression. Perhaps, this was just a particularly gifted crop of new mages, or perhaps it was an omen too, like the dragons, that the good old times were returning.
Elena went on to tell him all the family gossip that his father would not. His youngest sister Mariel was apparently still causing a scandal among the youths of the capital which, considering the decadence of the place, spoke of quite a talent for it. Elena concluded with a few enquiries about his health and his career, and he made a note to answer them as quickly as he could.
He summoned a servant and wrote a note to the Lady Asea requesting permission to call on her, and then made ready for bed. His head hurt and Mourning Time was not the time to go back to losing money at cards to his brother officers.
From downstairs he could hear the sound of chamber music. Some of them were playing instruments as others played cards. The likes of Jazeray and Paulus and Marcus would be drinking and joking and getting ready to visit the brothels of the town. Not for them the contemplation of the mighty deeds of their forefathers at this most significant of times. Sardec felt they were symbolic of how far his people had fallen. Still, if he was honest with himself, he admitted that he found that thought of the bawdy houses contained a certain piquancy, but now was not the time for it.
He opened the Book of Prophets and read several pages about the Last Days of Al’ Terra before he fell asleep. His dreams were troubled and whispered of cataclysm. In many of them, strange spidery demons gnawed at the roots of the world.