Dream of a Vast Blue Cavern

Chapter 5: Whispers of Treason: Medoc

 Medoc lay in a pool of soft, hot water, feeling the tickle of bubbles against the hairs on his skin. At the far end of the pool, a Semija played a soft rhythm on a tanka drum, a sound like dripping water. As he laid his head back on the cushioned ledge, another Semija placed something in his mouth. It was juicy, salty and crunchy when he bit through tiny bones—a stuffed flat, flash-roasted. He closed his eyes and tried to give himself over to the pleasure of decadency. Yet another Semija leaned over and wiped Medoc's chin with a soft piece of hide.

 The pool was crowded, full of the most beautiful young Ladies the Kingdom had to offer. They lounged nearby with sharp eyes, ready to swim over and wait on him, subservient as a Semija. Though Medoc was married, it was not uncommon for someone of his power and wealth to take a mistress, or even a second wife. Medoc had no desire for it; the first wife was trouble enough. His duties left him little time for dallying. Still, he let them stay; it would have been impolite to ask them to leave. They might wait on him like Semija, but they were the daughters of the most powerful noble houses in Chraun. It would not do to offend them.

 Normally the bath was a sheltering space, and he could shut off his mind for a time, let the drumming and the heat take away his inner fury of thoughts and feelings. This time, that peace would simply not come. He gestured for the oldest Lady, a widow with thin, arched eyebrows, and she came quickly to his side. He sat upright on the padded ledge under the water and let her slip behind him. Her fingers were warm and experienced, and her T'Jas strong as she healed his aches and pains. Still, she could not heal away the turmoil running through his mind, and he sent her back to the other ladies after a time. She took the rejection gracefully, masking her disappointment under a tight smile.

 Medoc had done as ordered, and razed Iskalon for his King. The mission had been more than successful; their lake was still on fire, their great Palace melted away, and their city destroyed. Sure, a few thousand Icers and their humans had escaped, but they would be scraped away in time. In fact, it was almost a boon to have them; the Flames would have something to ease their restlessness in times to come, once the glory of this battle had worn thin. No, Medoc had done better than might have been expected. So why did he have this grim feeling, a tightness in his stomach, a sense of urgency that would not let him relax?

 He thought of the enormous task of counting and identifying the dead. He had lost men, a lot of good men. And women, several of the few who served in the army. He saw in his mind the great, horrible wave sweeping over the lake, slamming against the T'Jas shield bubble he stood under as he commanded the battle. He imagined sinking under the icy, dark water, feeling his lava harden, feeling the cold leech T'Jas from his very body, unable to create a breathing shield, choking and suffocating to death. Medoc had once watched a Semija drowned in the baths for a Flame Lord's pleasure; the man had struggled mightily. Would Medoc have struggled to reach the surface, or would he have merely sunk like a stone?

 Many of the bodies of his Flames had floated, later to be scooped out with the Icer's nets and carried back down the tunnels to be consecrated in the lava river. Yet even more must have sunk; there were still hundreds of Warriors unaccounted for. Chraun did not have the means to dredge the lake, and so they would never receive proper consecration in the Lava River. Medoc had grieved as befitting his station; he had shed tears of fire, and thrown in firedrops and rubies after the bodies as the lava rushed up to meet them, and prayed to the Fire Spirit to shelter their souls in the Lava Lake. His Warriors had merited grief, and he had given it.

 There was no reason to dwell upon the matter now. But the numbers kept swirling back into his mind. Two thousand Flames unaccounted for or consecrated, a full quarter of his army. Two thousand good men and women, some young, others experienced officers, many of whom Medoc knew by face if not by name. Another five hundred would die soon of exhaustion, their life force battled away through T'Jas use. The Semija losses were not as personal, but just as staggering—more than twenty thousand gone. It was a small percentage of the over-all population, but a large percentage of his war-trained Semija. Even the cababar used in the lake were a loss, nearly five hundred.