V3Ch1-Caracalla
The King’s Revenge docked.
The port town of Irmagart was small, but it was the closest port in Niet that Samara and her companions could reach in relation to the Kingdom’s main road network. From there, they could travel to Sevenhills, the nearest major population hub and a significant religious center.
It should only be a few weeks to reach Enh, the capital, at that point.
They would either get transport from the local Temple of Astara or the local Temple of Vika, or, if they were somehow both unable to provide it, they would request it from the local ruler, Count Sevenhills, a noted patron of the gods.
A simple plan.
Samara felt uneasy nevertheless. Her body shook slightly as she walked off the ship.
She knew part of it was that she’d had the dream again last night. It always left her feeling guilty, shaken, dirty, and wanton. She wanted to be his whore. That was how she always felt when she woke from the dream. She wanted to bend and break and be used until she was nothing but a toy for him.
What made it more vexing was that she had learned to tell the difference between the dreams when he was actually there with her and the ones where he was not. She had gradually come to accept that he was real, out there somewhere in this world or the world beyond, this entity who called himself “Tybalt.” The dark thing was that, when the presence of him wasn’t there, invading her dreams beyond her control, she would often conjure him into being - imagine him with her, imagine new and twisted ways to degrade herself for him - and wake just as guilty and aroused as when he had actually been present.
She had taken, without prompting, to calling him “master.”
Because I want him, she thought darkly. I want everything he can do to me… I want to kneel to him and give him my everything…
A sick thought, for one who had already pledged her everything to a deity.
She didn’t turn back as she stepped away from the dock. She didn’t wave. Her mind was elsewhere, and she had already said her goodbyes to the crew members. Black Hailgrim had let his old friend and his apprentices off the hook after all.
With a dozen holy knights and two dozen inquisitors to destroy evil, and a half dozen servants to do grunt work, what use did they have for a bunch of dwarves, anyway?
Samara thought she probably wouldn’t see the crew or the dwarves again, anyway. With how muddled her head was, she wasn’t certain she would even be able to call upon the Goddess’s divine power to defend herself.
She faced forward, trying to keep her mind on the next tasks. But a flash of green pottery, gleaming in the sunlight, caught her eye, and she automatically thought of him and his gleaming green eyes.
She swallowed and turned her eyes up to the sky. She couldn’t look around carelessly anymore. The obsession had her. She saw his dark cloak in every shadow, heard his mocking laughter in the tinkle of glass, tasted the salt of his skin whenever she had a bite of meat.
“You all right?”
She almost jumped out of her skin.
“Grim, don’t sneak up on me,” she muttered.
“I approached directly,” Black Hailgrim replied, frowning and making a right angle with his arms to demonstrate his approach. “Your head was in the clouds. Oh, one last meal from aboard ship. We have salt pork for lunch.”
Samara accepted the boxed lunch, managing to control the trembling in her hands.
She immediately took a bite of the meat, chewing with perhaps more gusto than she intended.
He - it’s delicious.
“You really like that stuff, huh?” the older man asked.
She sucked in a long breath. “Reminds me of other times, other places.”
“You didn’t answer my question before,” he said.
Samara looked at him quizzically.
“Are you all right?”
“Oh, sure,” she said, fingering the holy symbol around her neck. “Honestly, um, Hailgrim, I don’t know how to ask you this… but have you ever doubted your path in life?”
“Is that what you’re going through?” He let out a short laugh. “I knew something had to be wrong. This isn’t so bad, though. You’re a good person, Samara. You have every right to pursue a path that makes you happy. Don’t make any permanent decisions until you’re sure. But remember, you don’t owe the Temple for what they gave you. You have given them service in exchange. And, um, if you’re having doubts, don’t say anything in front of him.” He pointed a thumb to where Inquisitor Bram stood, taking stock of his men, checking that their uniforms were spotless and that their weapons were polished.
“You don’t have to tell me that,” the paladin replied, shaking her head.
Bram had sought out more and more agency in his supporting role as they discussed plans aboard ship, until it became obvious that what he really wanted was to conduct a full inquisition of the desert communities and burn every suspected heretic until they eliminated the Defiant Necromancer - and then maybe a few more heretics, just to be sure. Naturally, an inquisitor would have to lead that operation, not a paladin, or so he seemed to assume.
It was hard, constantly being under the eyes of someone who seemed like he wanted to replace you. Someone who would judge you for the crimes you only committed in your heart and mind. Someone who was looking for any excuse he could invent to take more responsibility…
“Good,” Hailgrim said. “Keep your own counsel, then. Or confide in me, as you wish. Come on, though. Destiny waits for no man - or woman.”
***
By the time the group finally made it to Sevenhills, some of Samara’s anxiety had gone away.
Inquisitor Bram was too full of his own importance to notice her defects of character. He yelled at the servants for making the fire too small or too large when they were camping. He made everyone miserable, and it seemed obvious he hadn’t spent too many rough nights actually in the field. When the Divine Trust came to town, the pious locals opened their finest inns to them and let them stay free of charge. And they kept their heads and tongues.
But Niet was a vast country, not all well populated. Some bits of land were better than others and thus more populated.
Fortunately, this part of the journey wasn’t long.
Five days’ walking at a brisk pace took them from port to Sevenhills.
They slowed as they finally entered the Count’s territory. Everything from the first hill onward was breathtaking. Lush greenery covered the ground, and trees lining the paths practically dripped with ripe fruit ready for the picking. Beneath the trees stood carts selling fine clothing and interior decor, silks and light furs at ruinous prices. Atop two of the great hills stood the local Temples of Vika and Astara, the first and second grandest to each deity respectively within the Kingdom. They gleamed with gold, silver, gemstones, and marble. The only finer temple in the land was the Great Temple of Astara in Enh.
The whole place looked so rich as to be a thief’s dream.
“Greetings, party of inquisitors.”
A voice from Samara’s side announced the presence of a half-dozen guardsmen. The paladin’s heart thumped hard in her chest. She hadn’t done anything wrong, she knew that. Not counting sins she had only committed in her own mind.
“Greetings.” It was Black Hailgrim who answered.
Samara silently thanked him for asserting himself in her place, before Inquisitor Bram could take that initiative.
“His lordship, Count Vespasian Sevenhills, welcomes you to his lands. We have been expecting you, and you’re not a moment too soon. There will be a meeting of the Royal Army High Command in a matter of days.” The guard who had taken charge of speaking looked at Samara. “I am given to understand that the presence of the paladin, Lady Samara, had been specially requested.”
Samara felt all eyes fall on her and forced a slight smile.
“Why, of course,” she said queasily.
She tossed and turned that night before yielding to sleep. She was full of tension and worry. Their mission had been a secret. She shouldn’t be expected or requested at all. What did it mean?
The next few days weren’t much better for her. Finally, on the fifth morning, fate showed mercy. A messenger knocked at her door.
“My lady, the Count and the rest of the High Command are ready to meet. Please present yourself in the Count’s war room in half an hour.”
“Yes, understood!” she called, pulling herself free from sheets she had twisted around herself with her nighttime movements.
When she arrived at the Count’s home, she had made herself almost presentable, she thought. She stepped into the war room - a space filled with relics of war, from swords and shields to long boat oars and what appeared to be a functional chariot - and immediately found herself confronted by the man himself.
She knew in an instant that she was in the presence of Count Vespasian Sevenhills. The piercing eyes seemed to see through her, looking at her secrets and finding them unworthy of his attention.
Then he smiled.
“Good to have you here. Please take a seat.” He gestured to a plush, comfy-looking chair - he himself was in a wooden, hard-backed one - and then turned to a man dressed in simple robes. “Gerard, please begin.”
“What is happening, um, my lord?” asked Samara.
“Oh, it’s very simple, Lady Paladin,” said Gerard. “In order to place you and His Lordship in the meeting space with the other members and guests of the High Command, I and the other illusionists stationed with key officials will cast the same illusion. It is synchronized, so that everyone experiences the same virtual space and can take part in the same conversation.
Remarkable, Samara thought.
“If only we had such a clever mechanism ourselves,” she said quietly, trying to sort through the implications of this power. “The High Priestess and I still communicate through physical mail.”
“Encoded, there is nothing more secure,” said Count Vespasian with a shrug. “But this is certainly quicker.”
Samara sat, and the illusion unfolded all around them.
The paladin found herself in a room of a dozen people - ten men, herself, and her sister. The High Priestess smiled nervously back at Samara as she looked at her, and Samara knew immediately that all was not quite well.
“Let this meeting of the High Command commence, now that we are all here,” said a middle-aged man with slicked back hair.
“Please forgive our tardiness, Your Grace,” said Count Vespasian.
“I think we must,” said an old man weakly. He wore a crown, so Samara supposed he was the King. “We cannot lose this man, Grand Duke Giovanni is always telling me. He fights with a warrior’s heart and a demon’s cunning!”
“You honor me, Your Majesty,” the Count replied, lowering his head formally.
“Now, onto giving you more of the work of preserving the Kingdom,” said the Grand Duke with a hint of humor in his voice. “Scholar Claude, please summarize the present situation.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” said a man with a thin neck and a thinner voice. “The situation is as follows: threats to all sides. To the north, in the Salt Waste, we have heard of a heretical faction that follows a necromancer and is seeking to either form a breakaway kingdom or overthrow our own government here.”
How do they know that?
“Where did this information come from?” asked General Vespasian in a tone of mild interest.
“I understand that the High Priestess was informed about it in a vision,” said a man wearing a policeman’s simple cloak with a truncheon at his side.
“But, of course, we had our own separate channels. Spies in every region, you see,” said Scholar Claude.
“Yes, that’s right,” hastened the policeman.
Samara could see from her sister’s reactions - a subtle contemptuous sneer, a shrinking back from the Scholar - that they were lying. The information had come from within the Temple, which meant - given the earlier secrecy she had maintained - that she had been betrayed by someone.
“And in order to preserve a good secondary source of information from any assassination attempt, they have kindly stationed agents all around the Great Temple,” said Asha with a false smile.
Without her consent, that verges on the sacrilegious, Samara thought. She could feel her sister’s anger, boiling beneath the surface. This seemingly amounted to a secular attempt to exert influence over the Faith of Astara - a matter that could end in religious warfare.
“Moving along,” said the Grand Duke curtly. “My apologies for interrupting, Your Holiness, but we have to assign responsibilities. These are busy men.”
“Yes, Your Grace!” exclaimed Claude. “As I was saying, threats to all sides. In the southeast, there are reports of a horde of ogres, led by a ruthless female called Ragga the Faithless. They appear to be raiders, looking for whatever riches they can carry. The Discontented Lands often- ”
The Grand Duke gestured for him to move on.
“To the South,” Claude continued, “the Walian Empire has begun an attack. Not officially. There has been - and will be - no declaration of war. Rather, they are engaged in symbolic warfare. The attacks are almost entirely confined to a patch of rich farmland we took from them in the last war, and rather than taking the land, they have been conducting their old periodic raids to seize prisoners for their gladiatorial arenas and combat rituals. In the midst of their succession crisis, various prospective heirs will try to show their worthiness through feats of military success. This happens- ”
“So, the question is what we do about it,” said Grand Duke Giovanni.
“I place the matter entirely in your hands, Giovanni,” said the King. Those words from him felt inevitable somehow as he spoke them. Samara couldn’t imagine this feeble-sounding old man taking anything into his own hands.
“Thank you for your faith, Your Majesty. I propose that we send General Pius to deal with the horde under Ragga, General Vespasian to the southern front with the Walians - just to keep them from taking and holding any land, should they try to, not to engage with them. A pissing contest is just what they’d like, as a way of demonstrating the strength of whichever candidate’s ordering this nonsense. And I’d send General Caracalla to deal with the heretic in the northern wastes. Do the three of you find those assignments acceptable?”
All three Generals clapped their fists to their chests and declared how honored they were by the assignments.
General Caracalla was dressed in a cloak and cowl that concealed his features above the chin except for a pair of blue eyes that gleamed through the shadows. But Samara had the feeling that he was a bit older than the others.
“Are you certain you do not want me to teach the Walians a sterner lesson, Your Grace?” asked General Vespasian. “A succession crisis might even be the perfect opportunity for us to respond to their actions by taking territory ourselves. Perhaps General Verus and I together- ”
“General Verus must remain in the capital to defend it,” the Grand Duke said calmly, in a relaxed tone. “If you feel the need to go beyond your orders, Vespasian, please don’t do anything that will expose us to too much additional risk. In this multi-front situation, it would seem to be a bit too dangerous to gamble on making gains. Generals Commodus and Pertinax, meanwhile, are to remain on standby, preparing their armies and ready to respond to any of the three fronts should that assistance prove necessary.”
It was interesting that General Vespasian felt the need to suggest a different strategy at all, given how the Grand Duke seemed to have the High Council’s affairs completely under his thumb.
“Yes, Your Grace,” said the mentioned men as a group, General Vespasian bowing his head low as if in apology for questioning the orders.
“I understand that Lady Samara was summoned by her sister, High Priestess Asha, to assist in the fight with the northern heretic,” said Grand Duke Giovanni. He looked at her.
“That’s correct, Your Grace,” said Lady Samara. “I was instructed to destroy the heretic and prevent the subversion of the proper order.”
“Very well,” said the Grand Duke. He looked in General Caracalla’s direction. “Will you be waiting for her to launch your attack, or going as soon as you have everything prepared?”
“I have over thirty members of the Divine Trust with me as well,” Samara interjected before the General could answer.
The Grand Duke’s lip twitched with irritation. “Be that as it may- ”
“I intend to wait,” said General Caracalla. He looked Samara in the eyes. “We will only have one chance to get this right, after all.”
A knowing look seemed to pass from man to man in the group, as if they were all privy to some secret together.
“Very well, then we shall await you in the capital, Lady Samara,” said Grand Duke Giovanni, seemingly no longer irritated in the slightest. “Do us all a favor and kindly hurry.”
“Don’t worry too much about it,” said General Caracalla, smiling confidently. “Time is on our side.”