44 – Spymaster
It was rare for Novos to get his hands dirty. For all his power and wisdom, he was a cautious man. To be out on a battlefield, in person, always ran the risk of something going wrong. Even his many layers of magical shields could be overcome if he were to face off against suitably strong or dangerous opponent.
He did not fully believe that the Wight was dead but there remained the very distinct, very real possibility that someone among the Rhondians had killed him. Possibly, even, the Celestial Blade.
Still, with the Wight’s absence he had had to take a more direct hand in his military affairs. His opponents were pressing in deeper into his territory, and he had lost more men then he cared to admit.
Of course the Rhondians were far from claiming victory, but... well, they were doing better than he would have liked.
Rain fell from aloft, across the blackened and scorched fields of Korden Marsh. Smoke and steam rose up in great gouts, from the mangled corpses Novos had left in his wake. Any man who tried to count the sheer number of the Rhondian dead would have been quickly overwhelmed.
His men were picking through the battlefield, seeking out plunder and killing any of the few men who had been unfortunate enough to not immediately die under Novos’ rain of fire. His mud men, tall and lean silhouettes of sodden earth, prowled about in their usual silence.
“You’re... a damned monster.”
Novos looked down, dispassionately, at the burly man chained up on his knees. “Commander Faulk, do you truly believe any name or insult you give me will impact me in any capacity? I have been called everything under the sun by your wretched kingdom. Over there,” he called out to a pair of his mudmen.
The skeletal figures marched silently to where he was pointing, where a scorched soldier was weakly trying to pull himself to freedom with his one remaining arm.
One of the mudmen raised a foot and crushed his skull into pulp in a single casual motion.
“How bothersome,” Novos said. He squinted up at the rain and made a dismissive gesture, broadening one of his outer barriers into an unseen canopy for the rain to wash over. “Feres, take the commander into one of the tents and ask Tender to see to him. If anyone can find out what he knows, it’s her.”
Of course Novos had many torturers in his employ, as did every monarch of note, but Tender was the best he had seen over the span of his protracted life.
It was generally good practice, he found, to surround oneself with oddballs. They always had some valuable skills to call upon.
He stood and continued to inspect the landscape, while Commander Faulk screamed and frothed, fighting in vain to break free from the ironclad grasp upon him. Wet and heavy footsteps drew steadily toward him, but Novos did not bother to turn their way. He knew who it was already.
“You really do know how to make a mess, your majesty.” The voice was suave, confident, and hardly seemed to belong in a field of scorched corpses.
“You did well today, Olette. Your scouting, as ever, proved invaluable,” Novos said, his voice devoid of any emotion.
The man stopped beside him, a tall and strong figure in a flowing red cloak. His skin was a dark shade of brown, and his head was as bald as a stone. Southerners were a rare sight, particularly a man all the way from the Sunlands, but Olette perhaps could have blended in better without the distinct scar that ran from the bridge of his nose and past the right corner of his mouth.
“Oh, much as I would love to, I cannot take all the credit. My network is vast, my agents many. It was their efforts that allowed us to pinpoint where these wretches were coming from.”
“Even so, I owe you.” He folded his hands inside the sleeves of his robe and quietly clicked his neck from side to side. “Have you had any luck with the other task I gave you?”
Olette grimaced. “Alas... no. Not as of yet. There is no indication of the Wight in Rhonde, or in any facet of Novosia. Nor in the Commonwealth, or in the Sunlands. That just leaves us to check... the north of Hyperborea, which presents the obvious risks of probing the elven lands. Or the east. But I’m sure you understand the dangers of sending agents into Cathaya or Tsukio.”
Indeed, those countries could be... tough nuts to crack. Had been for the entirety of Novos’ long life. Even taking the cultivators out of the equation, and only a fool would do that, the Cathayan emperors always maintained vast armies with robust spy networks. And they did not take kindly to foreign agents sniffing about their business.
And Tsukio was much the same.
Those kingdoms had centuries at each others throats, but they disdained other kingdoms nearly as much. Any trade with them was a damn fiasco.
“Your eminence, may I... speak freely?” Olette asked.
Novos raised a thin brow at the man. “Of course. I don’t like to be surrounded by sycophants.”
“I realise you are committed to the idea that the Wight is still alive somehow... and I don’t fault you, with the things I’ve seen that frothing mad bastard survive with my own two eyes, but is it not possible he is simply gone? I mean, why would he not come back to you?”
Novos took in a small breath through his nose. He could not fault Olette’s ignorance. The man was adept as a spymaster but did not understand magic. Of course he could not grasp how unkillable the Wight was, the specific things that would be required to overcome both his physical might and the nature of his immortality.
The Celestial Blade could potentially bypass his immortality. Or, if the Wight were to abandon his own hatred... no, that was too silly to even consider as a hypothetical.
The man was not dead. But it was possible, or at least moreso, that he had been captured by some foreign power. Each of them, in their own way, had powerful magi and strange artefacts that could have enabled them to do so if done properly.
To what end? Who could say. Perhaps they wanted to somehow convert the Wight into a weapon of their own. Or, more likely, they wanted to rob Novos of one of his greatest weapons.
His eye slithered toward Olette, who grew tense under that sharp gaze. “He is out there.”
“As you say, your Eminence. I shall... organise agents for the east.”
Novos allowed himself a smile. “There’s a good man,” he said. “You remain ever reliable, Olette.”
Olette forced a smile. “It is my duty to serve. Though you should know it will take me some time to find the right agents and gather reliable contacts in Cathaya and Tsukio.”
“I must shoulder some of the blame there,” Novos admitted, letting out a small sigh. He had had designs for the east, to be enacted whenever he finished claiming control of Endres. It was simply too great a threat to leave unattended, same with the Hyperboreans.
But he was so fixated on Rhonde and their allies that he had not had time to build a proper network of spies out that way.
The Emperor scowled to himself.
Honestly, why did everyone insist on making things so bloody difficult for him?
There came a sudden shrill scream from behind, blood-curdling in it intensity. Olette winced and glanced over his shoulder. “Sounds like Tender has gotten started.”
“Indeed.” Novos smiled at his spymaster. “Shall we watch?”
Even an emperor needed to take a break and some light entertainment from time to time.