Firebrand

Summer brought not only sun and busy days in the fields, but also visitors of unexpected origin via unexpected paths. They came to Archen from the northern approach, over the mountains, and they were Tyrians. Only a small group, less than a score, but all of them armed with bows or spears. After asking to speak to the city’s leaders, they made a small camp outside the walls, ignoring the curious and wary glances from the locals.

The Triumvirate of Archen gathered and walked out the gate to meet their visitors. They brought no guards, trusting in their own abilities as mages, though all wore armour of some kind.

Martel let his sense of magic extend; they wore golden jewellery on their arms, but no weapons. He felt the presence of runes on some of their items, but none of the people gave him the sensation of being touched by magic; no berserkers or skálds in their company.

Seeing the wizards approach, the Tyrians got on their feet and faced them. “Hail, and welcome to our city,” Eleanor greeted them. “Who is it that camps outside our gate?”

“Well met! I am Ulfrik, and we are of the Elk tribe.” Behind the speaker, his followers gestured at Martel’s black staff and exchanged words in Tyrian. “We dwell on the other side of the mountains.” Their leader motioned towards the rising peaks in the background. “For the first time in centuries, we have crossed them, finding the old paths.”

“To what purpose?” asked Eleanor.

“To trade if you are strong and to raid if you are weak.” The Tyrian laughed, as did a few of his followers; those that spoke Asterian presumably. “Simply a jest,” he continued. “Any who settles in the dead lands must be strong, strong enough to make them thrive. We wish only to be friends, and so we come to you with open brow.”

Martel had a feeling that the supposed jest held more truth than any would be comfortable with. He reached out with his magic to sense the Tyrian’s thoughts, but nothing came to him. Bewildered, Martel tried again to the same result. He realised that the northerner had to wear some kind of protection such as a rune amulet or similar.

“What do you offer?” came the question from Eleanor with unusual bluntness.

“Our lands are rich in the finest of furs. Thick pelts from animals that survive the coldest of winters,” the Tyrian claimed. “We have our own forests. We can hunt our own game,” Eleanor argued. Martel recognised the strategy from watching her negotiate with the guilds of Morcaster and kept silent; without his ability to sense someone’s mind, he had little of value to offer the discussion for now.

“You will change your mind when you see our furs,” the Tyrian boasted, and Martel had to admit, the garb worn by his followers supported his argument. “We also have both amber and whale ivory, precious and entirely absent from your lands.”

“Useful for trinkets, no doubt, but we place little value on jewellery.”

The northerner had been smiling throughout, though his demeanour seemed more hardened as he spoke again. “I forget. This is a city of mages, and you value knowledge. We can bring you runes that keep your meat fresh, your water cold, and strengthen the bounty of your fields. Which is but a small part of what we can do.”

Martel suppressed any expression that might reveal his interest. Especially the latter would be useful. None of their own magic could help. Henry, while invaluable as a stonemage, had no skill in strengthening soil. Cornelia, for all her powers over water as a frostmage, had limited influence with weather magic. The greatest threat to Archen currently was a bad harvest, especially if they could not buy food from nearby Khiva; Martel suspected that should famine strike, the Khivans would only be happy to step back and let starvation settle the problem on their border.

“Strange. I was not told you had skáld or loremaster in your number.” Atreus broke his silence, looking unassuming behind the imposing mageknight and formidable battlemage, and he accompanied his words with a disarming smile. Like Martel, the spellbreaker had refined sensibilities where spellcasters were concerned.

“We don’t come by our own word. Our jarl has sent us, who is served by such people,” the Tyrian replied. His mood seemed to tread a line between jovial and condescending, but it was not personal; Martel recognised it as just another negotiation strategy.

“In that case, we shall discuss and give you a message to bring back to your jarl,” Eleanor told him. “For now, you are welcome to make camp as you have and stay as our guests. Should any of you suffer from ailments, we have excellent methods for healing.”

“You need not worry – our jarl sent hardy warriors, one and all!” The Tyrian laughed. “Speak among yourselves as you must. We shall await your answer.”

The three mages retired to the small tent that served as meeting hall for the Triumvirate. Atreus spoke first. “I have little experience with their people, except for a wayward skáld I once pursued, guilty of maleficus. And they came with closed minds, so I gained little insight into their nature just now.”

Martel nodded. “They came prepared for negotiations.”

Eleanor looked at him. “I would wager you know them best. What is your belief regarding their intentions?”

“I think they have already scouted us and formed the opinion that we’re too strong to fight,” Martel considered. “You and I do have a certain reputation in their lands.”

“They recognised your staff,” Atreus remarked.

“I believe their offer of trade is earnest. I don’t know their tribe,” Martel admitted, “but the most prosperous and numerous tribes are to the west, near the sea. They trade or raid in Aster, as they see fit. This tribe, far to the east, is probably among the weakest, which explains why they’d brave the mountains. Tyria is poor in metals, and both tools and weapons would be of great value to them.”

“Whether it is in our interest to provide them with arms is another matter.” The spellbreaker stretched his neck.

“In addition to that, the question is whether we would gain from this,” Eleanor spoke. “Our most pressing concern, the threat of famine, cannot be alleviated this way. Transporting food across the mountains would not be feasible. Their offers of luxuries may please some of our people, but few would have the coin to pay for it.”

“Their offer of runes is the most intriguing.” Martel shifted in his seat. “If they truly mean it and will part with such magic.”

“In my experience, those who control magic are most reluctant to share it,” Atreus said with a closed smile.

“There is one thing they can offer us, which I believe they might also want.” Martel paused as the others looked at him. “Friendship. A neighbour we can call upon in times of crisis, and we’d pledge the same, protecting them from their tribes.”

“A long distance for allies to travel, across the mountains,” Atreus pointed out.

“Some manner of system for exchanging brief messages could be devised, using lightstones from atop the mountains,” Martel suggested. “Regardless, I think that’s our best reason to trade with them. We gain a friendly neighbour, possibly an ally to deter Khivan aggression. We’ve seen Tyrian scouts in the war,” he added, looking at Eleanor. “Even if few in number, they could be of great aid. And if we are to sell them steel and arms, let it be employed on our behalf.”

“As always, there’s wisdom in the words of the sage,” spoke the rogue of the Triumvirate.

“Perhaps another advantage can be gained,” Eleanor considered. “We may not be in a position to buy all the goods that the Tyrians offer, but Khivan merchants would be. In their lands, northern furs and whale ivory would fetch high prices.” ᴛhis chapter is ᴜpdated by novel·fiɾe·net

“We gain little if the Tyrians simply travel through Archen on their way to Nahavand,” Atreus pointed out.

“Which is why we invite the Khivans to come to Archen. We make it the crossroads between Tyria and Khiva, even Aster if we send word to the guilds in Morcaster,” Eleanor continued. “Trade makes winners of us all, and our relations strengthen with our neighbours. The more that the Khivans see us as a normal city, one that brings prosperity to their own lands, the less they will fear us.”

“Fair point. I am convinced,” Atreus assented. “We have a steady trickle of Khivans coming and going to the infirmary, so spreading the word of Tyrian traders will be easy. But how do we go about establishing cordial relations with the northerners?”

They both looked at Martel. “Right. They pay no mind to treaties or signatures. Sworn oaths and acts of friendship will matter instead. We should celebrate harvest with a feast in a few months – let the Tyrians go back and return with their jarl as our guest. We will honour them and promise steadfast friendship with oaths and demonstrations of our magical prowess, just in case any of them should doubt our strength.”

“We should tell them to bring any goods they wish to trade,” Eleanor suggested. “A swift messenger can reach Morcaster before the last ship of the year and tell them of the opportunity. In addition to a feast, we turn it into a market and bring together Archeans, Tyrians, Khivans, and Asterians.”

“I’ll make sure our Khivan visitors bring word back to Nahavand,” Atreus chimed in.

Martel nodded. “Very well. I’ll inform the Tyrians of the Triumvirate’s decision.”

The Tyrians received the invitation with delight, promising to return for the harvest festival. Martel watched them break camp and depart; they said the journey across the mountains to their own lands took ten days, with a few more to reach the city of their tribe. Probably longer for less hardy folk, especially if travelling with large packs; the mountain paths did not allow for carts either. Perhaps if relations developed as well as could be hoped, Henry might carve a road through the mountain passes, but they had far more pressing projects to finish first, notably the aqueducts and water supply for Archen itself.

Returning to his workshop, Martel began to consider the question of communicating across distances. The conversation regarding the Tyrians had prompted the thought; if they were to one day call upon them as allies, every day would count. But even if not, the Archeans might still benefit from such a device. If the Khivans crossed the border, a speedy warning would be essential to prepare defences. Likewise for raising the militia, considering most of Archen’s population lived on the farmsteads spreading west of the city.

Usually, this would be solved by having watchtowers with fires ignited, acting as beacons to send a message. But their numbers were already spread thin between guarding the border and the walls of Archen, and their labour could be better spent rebuilding the city.

A lightstone seemed the answer. Its light could cross a vast distance immediately, passing on a message or warning as needed. Towers erected at certain intervals with prisms or mirrors could direct the light beam onwards. Martel was not sure how to make it work, but they had glassblowers and glasscutters in Archen; he would have to convene them for a meeting and discuss it with them.

If his idea worked, they would have an unmanned system for sending messages across the entire country, from the border to the farmlands, the miners’ colony, and even across mountains, all of it centred around Archen. Martel smiled to himself, going outside his workshop to find the infirmary’s runner and dispatch them.