In the 17th year of the reign of Artoc, in the 274th year of the Empire, war came to the continent of Erda.
From where they perched atop their high towers, ever vigilant, the enchanted eyes of the empire's farseers spied the enemy ships a hundred leagues from shore. Messages flew, magic and mundane. The Emperor was informed without delay. Armies were assembled and marched.
By the time the invading ships could be seen with the naked eye the Emperor himself stood ready to greet them, there on the craggy shore known as Hermit's Hollow, and before him sprawled the armed might of a continent. The army of darkness and light, it was called, for the sheer variance, and it was a force unlike any other ever assembled. Warriors from a dozen nations stood ready to defend their empire, their homes.
But the enemy came on undaunted. Their red ships broke over the shore like a bloody tidal wave, and sleepy Hermit's Hollow came awake with the sounds of war.
The invaders burst from their ships in their thousands, in their tens of thousands. They wore armor of hide and bore weapons of horn and fought like madmen eager for death.
For long hours, battle raged. The enemy attacked in a seething horde, savage and howling, but the army of darkness and light stood firm. Gradually, the invaders were pushed back towards the ocean from whence they’d come.
And on a ridge above the battle, in clear sight of all, stood the Emperor and a hundred of his wizard-born. Magic rained from them in a constant, deadly deluge.
But the enemy had not come without their own arcane powers. From the midst of the enemy army emerged their wise men, their shamans. Each was naked save for a loin cloth and a swirling pattern of tattoos, and even their own soldiers recoiled at their passing. A train of slaves was brought forward and the shamans went to work with their wicked knives, harvesting the blood necessary for their dark spells.
At last, the final slave dead and drained, the shamans unleashed their vile blood magic. The air itself seemed to scream in terror as that dread force went hurtling towards the ridge, towards the Emperor. The defenses of the wizard-born, potent as they were, crumbled in the face of such raw, terrible power. To a man, the wizard-born fell to the grass, unconscious or dead, their reserves exhausted.
For a long moment every eye on the battlefield turned toward the armored form of the Emperor, as he stood alone upon the ridge, a shadowed silhouette against the darkening sky beyond. Then the image shimmered and vanished. A gasp of disbelief went up from the surviving warriors of the army of darkness and light, but there could be no denying what they had witnessed.
The Emperor had fled.
The invaders charged forward with renewed vigor, and the battle became a rout. Though the shamans had spent all their power in the attack on the Emperor and his wizard-born, they had served their purpose well, and the heart had gone out of the men of Erda. Many fled, casting down their weapons as they went so they might run the faster.
But a determined core remained, though they knew the fight was lost. Better to die fighting with a blade in their hands,they thought,than to die running with a knife in their backs. So they battled on, unrelenting.
But, as will men ever do in the face of despair, they cried out to their gods. For salvation, for hope. "Aid us!" they pleaded. "If we fall, our kingdoms will be pillaged. Our families will be massacred. Take our lives, oh gods, but please, spare our people!"
And there on the corpse-riddled shore of Hermit's Hollow, amid the remnants of a broken army, the seven gods of Erda heard, and gave answer.
Their coming was like a chill winter breeze on a warm summer day, like a red dawn at midnight. Every living soul on the battlefield felt it, deep and humbling. The men of Erda sank to their knees, but the invaders did not press the advantage--no, they were far too busy falling back in slow, wary retreat, for now, just before the front lines of the army of darkness and light stood figures unmistakable.
They were all there, from Turkus, his mighty warhammer resting on his shoulder, to Finel, He Who Waits, to Shroud, the dead god, veiled in shadow and unknowable. And among them stood another--lesser, but the sight of him warmed men's hearts all the same, for it was Artoc. The Emperor himself.
He had not fled, as they had feared. He had only gone for aid.
Now the shamans of the invading army grew angry, for their army was still by far the greater. The battle still seemed theirs for the taking. But scream and threaten as the might, they could not coax a single man forward into the reach of those eight foreboding forms. Enraged, they pushed through the ranks of their men, toward the waiting figures. Arms were raised, tongues chanted, spells flew. The shamans fell back like children rebuffed.
The Emperor stepped forward, then, and the entire invading army took an unconscious step back. He lifted a single gauntleted hand and pointed towards the ocean, to where the enemy had first appeared upon the horizon.
"Go," he said.
For a long moment not a single soul among the two assembled armies dared draw breath. The only sound was the lingering echo of the Emperor's command.
Then, without a word of discussion, without a single order given, the invaders threw down their weapons, turned from the battle, boarded their ships, and went.
Or so the bards sang it, anyways. I have my doubts. Oh, not that some great battle took place. That I believe. Perhaps a god or two even deigned to involve themselves. Turkus, for instance, was ever eager for a good battle. But all of the Seven? All in the same place, at the same time, working towards the same goal? No, I think not--though I never did bother to ask. So, perhaps. At any rate, it makes a good tale.
Even in Caldor, hundreds of miles from the battle, we felt the ripples. Though the enemy might be defeated for the moment, the empire remained in a state of war. Slaves were worked harder as production quotas increased and more and more farmland was given over to growing wheat and corn, for though the troops defended well our borders, they grew no crops, and they must eat.
Overseers became even more generous with the switch, for now there was true need behind their natural brutish tendencies. Many a slave, I am sure, felt the lick of a whip for nothing more than the scant justification, "there's a war on, you lazy dog!"
All things considered, Scratch and I had timed our escape from fieldwork rather well.
I was with Briar, there in the main hall, when news of the battle arrived--first from mouth of an official imperial messenger, and then, only hours later, from the honeyed tongue of the bard who'd traveled with him.
The imperial messenger also demanded, by order of the Emperor, a levy of troops from House Delokay. Clearly, the news brought the Count no pleasure, but he left to carry out those orders at once.
After the epic tale of near defeat and sudden salvation the bard spun for us, war seemed a very fine thing indeed, to Briar and I. Adventure. Heroes. Honor and glory. What child could resist?
Thereafter, we could speak of nothing else. It had been a peaceful few years in Erda, at that time, and the battle marked the first serious outbreak of violence in our lifetimes. We were smitten with thoughts of war.
"Telth," Briar began, his tone earnest, as we sat in his rooms not an hour later. "I have decided. I shall become a great warrior. "
I nodded, as if that was the most reasonable thing in the world, for my fantasies were running no less fantastical right then. Indeed, becoming a warrior seemed just exactly the thing to do. "Then I'll be your sworn sword-slave, sir, and see that your back is always guarded."
Briar's brow wrinkled as he considered this. "Hmm. I don't think they let slaves become warriors. But maybe it'll be alright, if it's just to fight the savages. They come in hordes, you know, and I dare say we'll need every sword." A grin lit up his face. "But hang that--I know where the guardsman keep their practice swords, and I'll bet you anything you please I can trounce you, easy, right now."
He was as good as his word. We ran off to collect the practice swords at once, and he did indeed trounce me, easy. Caldor, as apeaceful nation surrounded by allies, put no great emphasis on military prowess, but as the son of a noble house Briar had already received some instruction in sword work from the resident guardsmen. He knew well how to hold a weapon, how to stand, even a few simple forms. He'd shown promise enough, in fact, that his father had even spoken of hiring him a fencing instructor.
I, on the other hand, hadn't the slight idea what I was doing beyond some vague idea of sticking the other fellow with the pointy bit. Still, we had a grand time clashing our wooden swords together, bellowing our great war cries, pretending we were there on the field of battle fighting for the Empire.
So began our obsession with all things martial.
The next day, Briar broached the subject of a new fencing master while he broke his fast alongside his father. As my position demanded, I stood just beyond Briar's shoulder, waiting to hear if he required anything more. And waiting to hear his father's response.
The Count listened to his son's question as he chewed a piece of fruit. He swallowed. "As it happens, I've already taken the liberty. I sent for one of the finest fencing masters in Caldor just this morning." He frowned, then, and I noted his eyes jerked in my direction. "A guardsman told me of your renewed interest in swordwork last night, and also of your choice of practice partner--and as glad as I am that you've taken up the sword, I won't have you sparring with some common slave."
"But he's the only one here wh-"
His father raised a hand, interrupting him. "I won't have it. It's fine enough to use a slave as a playmate. I know well enough that a boy shouldn't spend too much time alone. But learning the sword is anything but play, and I won't have you learning alongside a slave. It's degrading to your rank. You're the son of a count, Briar, and that means excellence. Already you're an excellent horsemen, you're an excellent hunter, and I'll be damned if we won't make you an excellent swordsman, as well. But you will take your lessons seriously and you will take them alone."
Briar, of course, though slightly put off that I wouldn't be allowed to practice with him, was still elated to learn he had a fencing master already on the way.
I, of course, was crushed.
I was a bit sullen as we made our way back to our rooms after finishing breakfast. I moped along behind Briar, trying not to let my disappointment show. It wasn't as though it were his fault. We entered his quarters and, without a word, I went about picking up the assorted clothing littering the floor and stacking it as neatly as I could in a corner, where another slave would take them to be washed. Well, perhaps scattered might be a better word than stacked--as I said, I was feeling a bit sorry for myself.
At any rate, Briar seemed to notice something was amiss.He sighed and collapsed onto his bed. I felt another wave of self-pity at this--he'd paid no attention to his dirty boots on the freshly cleaned sheets. I'd have to change those and have them washed too, now. "I would have preferred to have you taking lessons at my side, Telth. It would be a good bit more fun with another student to spar with, I think. It's unfortunate my father disagreed."
I nodded, and kept up my sullen busywork. I knew it wasn't Briar's fault, but that was a weak salve to my shattered dreams. I wanted to be a warrior too, damnit--however impossible I knew that to be.
"Hmm," he said, and sitting up. "Hmmmm."
I stopped working and looked up at him. "Yes, m'lord?"
"My father distinctly forbade me from learning alongside you. There is no arguing that, and I will not go against my father's command." His fingers tapped along the side of his face as he broke out into a smile. "But he said nothing against me passing what I learn on to you."
My expression must have beenhumorous, for Briar laughed.
"It will have to be done in private, of course--here in my rooms, or perhaps somewhere out past the fields. If my father learns of it, he'll simply forbid the teaching as well. But I see no reason you cannot learn from me while I learn from the fencing master. You'll be my student. Like as not, it'll be good practice for me. And with me as a teacher," he said, grinning, "why, we'll make you into the fiercest slave ever born."
I felt a matching grin on my face. "Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me yet. I intend to be a brute of an instructor."