A Dire Message
The Warlord, Samir, alone in his study, paced its confines like a restless animal. A tall, powerfully built, broad-shouldered man, well-muscled and fit, his cropped, greying, light brown hair, closely trimmed beard, and icy grey eyes communicated a precise authority that made others take notice. His warrior’s leathers only compounded the look of a mighty, ruthless battle commander. In his middle age, his experiences as a leader of men who inspired his troops, binding them into unquestioning loyalty, were widely known. Those who knew him well respected his integrity and the warrior’s code of honour he followed.
But at the moment, his certainty of who and what he was had been shattered. Two of his agents had just left, having told him a terrible tale of betrayal that verified the accounts of the three strangers who had come to him five Moons before. He could scarcely credit his informants’ recounting, but they had presented incontrovertible proof of his wife’s heritage on her mother’s side.
The Warlord felt a hot sweat flood his body, and a tight sensation prickled his skin. He did not want to lose a second wife, especially considering how his previous Lady and their children had perished. Anguished, he thought about the child in Mara’s womb.
Making up his mind, Samir knew he must confront his wife. Did Brannan Marec Mavrenn know? Was his bard complicit? He would decide that after his encounter with Mara. Over Brannan’s tenure at Torrent Mountain, Samir had developed a deep friendship with the younger man and had trusted him implicitly. Brannan’s service was also undeniable: he had risked his life for Samir on more than one occasion. The Bard, now at the age of thirty-two Turns, had served the Warlord and the other members of the Council of Seven with exacting loyalty. He had accompanied Samir on his campaigns, offering strategic analysis, encouraging or consoling the Warlord’s troops with his music, and aiding the dying to pass peacefully on the fields of carnage.
The ravens of battle followed Brannan on his grim errand, but they did not molest the dying when the Bard was present. Indeed, Samir had seen terrified men, some of them his companions, grow quiet and peaceful as the Bard gripped their hands and fell into stillness as they slipped away. Or he would play his harp, and wounded men would cease their screams and listen as if the music banished their agony. Samir pictured Brannan, kneeling as the Warlord had often seen him, with his long hair, dark as a raven’s wing, blowing loose in the wind. He saw in his mind the handsome face, shaded by a closely trimmed beard and brooding dark eyes that displayed an uncommon compassion. Samir had never questioned the fitness of the Bard’s actions before now.
But the Warlord knew that men could do terrible things to each other in war, and he himself was not exempt. Samir sought his chair and placed his head in his hands, tormented by the second hardest decision he had ever made.
A chiming of the doorbell interrupted Samir’s dark thoughts. He straightened and composed himself, relying on his professional calm.
“Come.”
Leoric, one of his personal guards, entered. An older man with iron-grey hair cut close, the guard had been with the Warlord for many Turns and had served him with steadfast devotion. He wore a light chainmail hauberk with a long, black surplice picturing the Warlord’s device: a sword upright against a mountain peak on a blue field. Leoric’s blade hung ready from an over-the-back baldric.
“My Lord, Councillor Raith is here to see you. Shall I admit him?”
The Warlord hesitated at seeing anyone, but the Systems Manager possessed a cool head and might offer some perspective. “Bring him in, Leoric. And have Clea fetch some wine, the Narib vintage.”
Leoric saluted with a fist across his chest. He ushered in Samir’s visitor and left.
Raith stepped into Samir’s office, exuding a calm confidence. Younger than Leoric but still mature, his long brown hair was tied back. Tattoos of wild beasts covered his exposed skin except for his face. His serviceable grey breeches and long, green tunic proclaimed him at work, replacing the formal robes of a Council of Seven member.
“Busy, Raith? Are there problems with the power plant?” Samir asked in a neutral tone that revealed nothing of his internal anguish.
“The water supply from the hot springs has risen slightly in temperature, but I’m not too worried. It’s seasonal. I just have to increase the amount of cold water available from the subterranean waterfall. But a couple of the valves are stiff. My men are working on it. However, you seem to have matters of importance on your mind. I can come back later or—”
“Stay, my friend. Let me run something by you. Ah! Make yourself comfortable while Clea pours wine.”
Leoric had admitted the servant, a young, fair-haired woman who was the guardsman’s granddaughter and trusted by Samir. She stood waiting, bearing a tray containing two goblets and a fluted glass wine decanter. She deftly served the two men, dipped her head respectfully, and withdrew.
The Warlord considered how to break his news to Raith. The source of his dilemma started millennia ago when his ancestors settled on the planet Alsar at the event known as “First Landing,” when vessels from their great Mothership, Eleuthera, which voyaged between stars, first touched down.
Samir sipped his wine and looked at his friend, his expression bleak. “Raith, let me tell you a story. The Histories relate that after the First Landing, our forbears changed the land, displacing the life they discovered with stored seeds, plants, and creatures long kept in frozen stasis on the Eleuthera. But gradually, as they multiplied and spread, the people warred with each other over resources, and their highly efficient weapons wrought great damage. The people separated themselves even more and, adopting different cultures from their stored history, built our great Redoubts, tunnelling deep into mountains. They were the repositories of knowledge and technology, fortresses and shelters to keep the inhabitants safe in times of conflict.”
Raith did not interrupt, and his silent attention encouraged the Warlord to continue.
“Our human ancestors approached the one race native to the planet able to communicate, known simply as the Alsar, like our planet’s name, with factions seeking to enlist the natives’ aid. But these Alsar refused, and the settlers rained destruction upon them. It is written that, after being nearly wiped out, they retaliated. Since that time, technology failed us, and we gradually became what we are now. Instead of travelling in airships, we now rely on our horses. We blamed the Alsar.”
“They are still feared and vilified,” Raith reflected. “No one could understand their strange powers.”
“Yes,” said Samir. “They are synonymous with a race of sorcerers that can enslave people’s minds.”
Samir breathed deeply, pausing before he announced, “I have discovered that my wife shares their blood. Her mother was one of that accursed race.”
Raith started from his chair. “Is that even possible? What does it mean?”
“Mara is pregnant with our child. Men came to me from my wife’s birthplace in ArMorica and told me that any child she produced could supplant me. My estates are large, and I am of a noble and influential lineage. Such an offspring, Mara’s accusers told me, with its Alsar powers trained by a malicious mind, could unleash untold harm on our people and the Torrent Mountain city-state that I am sworn to protect.”
The Warlord paused, suddenly stricken by his own words. Was her plan indeed as they presented it? Samir asked himself. Had all the love she had shown him merely been a ploy to ensnare him?
“Samir, this is incredible news, and I mean that. Can it be true? It is not like you to listen to rumours.”
“You know I cannot accept things at face value, Raith. Rumours by themselves are worthless. So, I sent out my agents to ArMorica to corroborate the tale. Many Moons have passed since they set out, but today, they returned and can confirm the original informants’ accusations. My wife indeed has the blood of the accursed Alsar race. They could not confront her mother directly, but tales of her abound. The local people in the fishing villages call her a ‘sea witch,’ but the ArMoricans do not seem to fear the Alsar as we do. She met and mated with Mara’s father, Carwyn Morgwynt, and visited him and the child, whom she had left in the father’s care for seven Turns until his death at sea under mysterious circumstances. I should have found this out long ago, but when I first encountered Mara, she was a ward of their Ruithin Bardic College in the mountains and under King Cyndyllan’s protection, as her father was the King’s cousin.” The Warlord fell silent.
Raith responded, “But who are these men who accused Mara? Who can have sent them? You have an enemy, Samir, with an agenda against you.”
“I am considering that, and I have other agents in place to find out more. But the original informants told me that the man who sent them hates the Alsar, whereas most ArMoricans do not. Indeed, they are said to sympathize with them. The Alsar are still very much present and active among us, although they no longer have their cities, which they never rebuilt—unless they are on another continent.”
Lord Raith said, “But do you know for a fact that your wife works against you? Her heritage might just be a circumstance of birth with no other meaning. Mara has certainly shown no untoward behaviour to me. I attend the symposium when our scholars gather each Moon, and Mara puts forth her arguments with knowledge and humility. It’s hard to conceive of her plotting against you and the State.”
“You said it yourself, Raith: she has great knowledge and, I now believe, cunning. The rumour is true. I must move to counter the threat, and I fear for our city-state. I am Torrent Mountain’s Warlord and, like you, a member of the Council of Seven. I am sworn to protect us against all enemies. Who knows what powers of the mind she has exerted over me? I have loved her without question for our entire marriage, and perhaps that was part of her magic.”
“What do you plan to do?”
Samir did not look away as he answered his friend. “I will confront her—if she does not twist my thoughts—and I will make a decision. It may be severe, even final, but I must force myself to act.” For a moment, the Warlord looked away as if seeing far into his past. He inhaled deeply and continued, “However, the stakes are great, and I have no choice. I will not delay. It’s best to act now before she beguiles my thoughts again. But I will hear my wife’s admission of her parentage from her own lips before I pass judgment.”
“And what of the Bard? If there’s anything to your theory, Brannan must have known of Mara’s supposed plots,” said Raith, frowning.
“I have valued him greatly and hold him in affection. He has risked his life for me and performed every task the Council and I have set him. His great skills place him apart from our negotiators and ambassadors. You know how accomplished and persuasive he can be. I will give him a chance to demonstrate where his true allegiance lies.”
But Raith had a further comment. “For the sake of our long friendship, I ask you not to act without informing me. I’m concerned about what you might do, Samir. Step back and think it through. For the Mother-of-All’s sake, do not proceed in haste!”
* * *
To be continued...
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