A Perverted Path to Victory

Seareye

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Nestled within the reassuring privacy of folded wyvern wings, Seareye finally allowed himself to remove ink, quill, and paper from his bag. Ever since he had been condemned to this icy northern hell, his every step had been meticulously monitored. Either by the Warrior-King himself, who had been consumed by an obsession with wyverns that was trying even Taotri’s innate arrogance, or by an endless parade of slave-spies that rarely did more than hover about at the edge of a room, waiting for any command. Only here, embraced within the sweltering heat of his bonded wyvern’s flank, could he be certain he was not being spied upon.

It should come as no surprise to you, Mother, he wrote, that the barbarian army is as incongruous as the society which spawned it. The peasantry is provided a spear, helm, and padded shirt (a primitive wool-stuffed garment called a ‘gambeson’, so stuffy it would certainly kill any who wore it in a warmer climate), and nothing more. They are prepared well enough for marching, enough to competently maneuver on the field of battle, but the combat training they are provided is appalling. I have seen them trained only in basic footwork, the essentials of the thrust, and how to rotate through the line whilst locked in melee. All else is alien to them. They are not an army. They are a sanctioned mob.

Which makes it all the stranger to see those which lead them. Though it pains me to admit it, Mother, their “Knighthood” puts many of our Warriors to shame. They are each bred, born, and raised to be a great many things, and the fruits of their labor are plain to see. I now fear that two centuries of war have created in the Empire a dullness of the soul. Our Warriors are soldiers alone, lonesomely skilled at the art of battle. Exceptionally so, yes, but only in the dance of death. These Knights are so much more. Dressed in the finest of armors and wielding exquisitely enchanted weapons, they are statesmen and diplomats, artists and artificers, and yes, they are all soldiers and leaders. Amongst the most honored of their society are even their so-called “Warrior Poets”! Such a strange philosophy, yet one I find myself increasingly enamored with. Would our terrible war have lasted nearly so long if our leaders personally took to the field of battle?

Taotri’s wing lifted briefly, allowing a hideous gust of chilling wind to make its way into Seareye’s shelter. Her head snuck through the gap as she curled upon herself like a cat, her forelimb lowering to thankfully seal the scaly tent once more.

“What are you spending so much time writing?” She asked, fist-sized eyes glittering in the lanternlight. “Your mother is hardly worth so much consideration.”

He sighed. Taotri, though she had met his family only once, thought very little of them. Wyverns were possessive creatures. She knew his parents had strongly opposed his chosen path, and so considered them contemptible scoundrels.

“I am telling my House of these northern wastelands,” he said, choosing a tack less likely to result in an argument over his parent’s worth. Taotri would never be convinced someone who tried to keep them apart was worthy of respect. “It is part military report, part journal, and a large volume of inane rambling.” He scoffed at himself. “There is so little to do that I’ve been reduced to idle journaling. Perhaps I’ll become one of those poet-writing Knights before long.”

Taotri’s distasteful huff burned away the last of the chill air. “You would do no such thing. This skirmish that we’ve been assigned to will be resolved soon enough, and we will be back to the fight for our homes. I would not let you rot your arms with the pitiful scratching of quills.”

“We fight an army backed by a Chosen,” Seareye gently reminded her. “And the very weapons the Adjutant so desires were invented by our new enemies. You mustn’t fall prey to overconfidence.”

“The King claims his soldiers nearly defeated the rogue Chosen during their first conflict, and now he intends to march upon her city with five times the number of troops. What is there to fear?”

“History is full of battles lost by the larger force,” he warned her, falling into the role of a lecturing parent. Wyverns grew and learned so rapidly that he had to go to great lengths to remember Taotri was barely into her tenth year. Her impressive knowledge was not yet tempered by wisdom. “The enemy uses weapons and devices unknown to us, some of which are claimed to fly as fast and nimbly as yourself, difficult though that may be to believe. I am confident they are no match for you,” he quickly added, cutting off her objection, “but they are artifices of wood and metal. How many they can construct, how often, and how rapidly they can replace them, we do not yet know.”

“Hmph.” A snort of flame burst from her nostrils as she laid her head on the stones, turning her gaze away from him. “Let a thousand of the wooden mayflies take to the skies against me. I will turn the forest to ash with their falling corpses.”

“I do not ask for cowardice, my dear. Only caution.”

One great eye rolled to stare drolly at him. “And you believe there is a difference?”

“There is.” Seareye grunted as he stood, stretching out his legs. “And you know it, too. Now, if you would please allow me to make my exit?”

She huffed again, irritated at the slightest implication of her vulnerability, but lifted a wing.

Seareye braced himself against the chill as he blinked his way into the afternoon light, a racing wind seeping into his bones. This city was even more northern than the frigid capital, and it wore at him terribly. So hostile was the winter of this land that even the soil itself had died, greeting him with the sight of long rows of barren fields separated by dry, yellowed grass, the dead hills crunching beneath his every step. The pale locals always seemed confused by his choice to wear a long, furred cloak, but he didn’t care. Seareye was convinced the damnable frost had long since eaten away their ability to notice their own suffering. They kept claiming it was fortunate he hadn’t been present during “true” winter, when the entire land was coated in ice, as if some mad archmage had cursed the entire Kingdom. For once, he wholeheartedly agreed with their barbarian jabbering. If such a thing really was possible, he wanted no part of it.

The city the King had directed them towards was, even by the provincial standards of this land, a shameful affair. Barely some thirty-thousand people lived within the walls which marked the northwesternmost edge of the Sporaton dominion, yet it was nonetheless the home of several supposedly important dignitaries. The King had asked Seareye and Taotri to accompany him north in order to sway them to support the coming war.

That the King had to use such petty appeals spoke poorly to the state of his realm. The more Seareye listened to the whispers of the barbarian nobility, the more he realized just how devastating the previous assault upon the city of Tulian had been to Sporaton stability. The King had cemented his early rule by conquering dozens of coastal city-states, yet now, at the height of his power, he had been turned back by an enemy less numerous and more inexperienced than any of his old adversaries. True, a Chosen headed them, but society’s elites seemed to consider her a lesser sort of Chosen– one born for speech-making, not war. In their estimates, she should have contributed little of consequence to the war.

Though Seareye thought it impossible that the King failed to note the fragility of his authority, the ruler showed no outward concern. The King, as he was fond of saying, was still the King. In the northerner’s traditions, the King was not the mere ruler of a land– he was the kingdom. All were beneath him, and all existed to serve his will. Such was his right.

The reality was quite different, of course. As Seareye made his way through the city gates, shoulders hunched against the wind, he took note of strange figures in the crowd. Wearing simple robes and wooden masks, there was nothing about their countenance which suggested a higher stature than the peasantry. Yet the strange cultists— religious acolytes, he supposed they should now be considered— walked among the commoners like nobles, heads held high, expecting all else to make way.

Will our Adjutant be allowing similar figures to prowl the Empire? Seareye wondered. It wasn’t something he should concern himself with, yet his curiosity burned all the same.

The discovery of a new divinity had, even more than the King’s military losses, shaken the people of Sporatos. Their barbarian religion had still clung to the concept of a simple pantheon, one in which they attributed all the world’s workings to the machinations of nine distinct gods. The discovery of a tenth god– or in the educated Imperial form, a tenth domain– had shaken the populace to their core. Though the King had announced that Sporatos would be embracing the formerly hidden deity, urging his populace to seek its favor as often as they did their others, nothing could remove the trepidation from the people.

It was not helped by the masked priest’s maddeningly uninformative lectures. They spoke constantly of loyalty and worship, pride and satisfaction, but almost never defined any of the terms they chose. Their only concern was recruiting followers of their faith, not professing the values that their divinity represented. They offered only vague promises and unclear explanations.

The rhetoric held no sway over Seareye. The northerner’s pitiful grasp of divinity’s nature was perhaps the most barbaric element of their entire society. As his tutors had taught him from a young age, it had been millennia since the Empire’s populace had been so ignorant as to believe in a nine-deity pantheon. It had long ago been decreed that there were hundreds, possibly thousands of gods, all loosely allied within their nine (now known to be ten) domains. The idea that the Chosen was the scion of a single god, the so-called “Amarat”, was so absurd that he frequently had to bite back his chortling laughter. How could one god embody so much? They claimed that their simplistic deity was the divine progenitor of every last Emotion and Bond. Compassion and rage, lust and apathy, depression and joy, all those and everything between, this “Amarat” supposedly represented them all. To them, that meant that Sara Brown represented every element of such a vast swathe, too.

Seareye did not let himself be bothered by their ignorance. It mattered little. His only question of relevance was one which couldn’t be asked, much less answered: Which real god did the Chosen represent? Those who had fought her called Sara Brown the ‘Mad Champion,’ but the accounts of her actions were too calculated for her to be the Chosen of Insanity. Her contempt for those she deemed ‘lesser’, most obviously the nobility, was rather famed amongst the Sporatons, and by every account that contempt was fueled by a primal, guttural rage. Yet Seareye did not think she could be the Scion of Fury, either. No such Chosen would be content to sit in her city, passively building defenses in anticipation of an assault to come. The other Divine Emotions he had considered, such as Lust, Greed, Avarice, Pride, Arrogance, all had their explanations for why they did not fit. Though it was frustrating, he’d begun to accept that there was no way for him to know more without meeting the woman himself. The Sporaton accounts were too scattered and contradictory.

And meeting the woman myself is decidedly unwise, he reminded himself. He was a citizen of one of her ally’s enemies, and directly aiding the largest threat to her people in the form of King Sporatos. If she let him live through their encounter, he doubted it would be for any reason he found palatable.

He was halfway to his destination when an escort found him. Seareye had no difficulty navigating in the miniscule city, seeing as he was searching for the city’s Keep, which stood several times the height of any other building, but some sort of search party had apparently been sent for him anyway. A squadron of spearmen recognized him on sight and saluted him in the northern style, flat hands touching fingernails to their brow, then fell in around him. One woman, a young girl who couldn’t be more than halfway through her second decade, was the only one among their number who was blessed with steel armor of any worth. Neither enchanted nor exceptionally well-made, it was a suit of armor intended to ape the elegance of a Knight without the funds required to succeed. The girl nodded sharply at him.

“It was good fortune which led us to see you here, Sir Seareye. On behalf of the Great King Sporatos, we of the Nessgall family have been assigned the privilege of offering you an escort from your camp to Lord Hasskind’s manor. Will you allow us the honor?”

He suppressed a sigh. This form of politicking, at least, was deeply familiar. He’d suffered it himself often enough. This woman was likely the young child or grandchild of some middling local nobility, a House insignificant enough that they hoped to curry prestige by mere proximity to an honorable guest. Before he had bonded with Taotri, Seareye’s family had sent him on many such escorts. Knowing her position all too well, he pitied the girl too much to refuse her tiresome offer.

“You may,” he said, even as he looked up and over the ramshackle dwellings to the domineering Keep. “Though I did not fear losing my way. Lord Hasskind-” he butchered the pronunciation, mediocre translation magic failing to prevent his tongue from turning the foreign word into something more like Hoss-Kend, “-certainly claims the title of most prominent structure in the city.”

“That he does, Sir,” the woman replied, finally dropping her salute. “But you’ll be walking through the streets to get there, exposed to every peasant’s wandering eyes.” The girl’s eyes fell to his sidesword. “Though I am certain you would deal with any wandering hands adequately enough, the Nessgall family would rather you not spend the time cleaning a bloody blade.”

He could no longer suppress the sigh; it slipped out before he caught it. Ten years with Taotri had eased the memories of the nobility’s ignorance. That this Nessgall girl truly thought some peasant would dare reach for the pockets of an armed and armored man spoke volumes as to her ignorance. He scanned the eyes of her companions, who were clearly all peasants as well. They showed no reaction to her words. Used to that sort of talk, he supposed.

As Seareye walked, now with a cordon of spear-wielding guards around him, he resisted the urge to keep glancing hard to the side. Several of the peasant guards were walking in his blind spot, and it made him itchy. The young girl escorting him walked on his good side, head on a swivel. She was taking her farcical duty seriously. Something was bothering her.

“You may speak freely, young Nessgall.”

“Thank you, Sir. If it is my place to ask, may I know if your noble steed will be attending the meeting, Sir?”

“Taotri, you mean?”

“Taotri…” She spoke the name carefully, running her tongue over the consonants and vowels. “Is that the creature’s name?”

“It is her name, yes,” Seareye said, putting heavy emphasis on Taotri’s gender. Too many of those unfamiliar with wyverns thought of them like beasts, with no concern for their individuality. “She has decided she will not attend the meeting. There is little in the way of accommodation for her, and she could contribute little of consequence to the conversation.”

After all, both she and I are only here as a token to be put on display and bragged of, the bitter part of Seareye’s mind added.

“I see,” the girl breathed, amazed. “So it is true that wyverns speak?”

Ah. So the barbarians know this little? I suppose she is too young to know much better. I was certainly ignorant at her age.

“Wyverns can be as clever as you or I,” he confirmed, “and their mastery of language frequently exceeds even the best of our kind. Taotri is only ten years old, but she is already fluent in three dialects of the Imperial language.”

“Truly?” Behind a military visor, girlish eyes grew wide as saucers. “My tutors have been teaching me several of the eastern tongues, but I still struggle to remember much of the intricacies. To only be ten years old and to know multiple languages, I cannot imagine-” The passion in her voice faded as the girl remembered their relative stations. She cleared her throat. “Ah-hem. My apologies for acting with undue familiarity, Sir. I thank you for answering my question. I have seen Noble Taotri from the walls, and ask that you give her my compliments. She is as magnificent an example of her kind as I ever could expect from what I have read.”

Seareye allowed himself a small smile. “I see that you have heard of the wyvern’s weakness for flattery, hm?”

She stiffened. “I did not mean-”

“Do not worry,” he cut her off. “It is a well-known truth. Wyverns are vain creatures by nature, yes, but I will warn you, they are not fools, either. Though they may adore a sycophant, they are more than capable of detecting dishonest praise. So long as you give compliments freely and honestly, you’ll satisfy them.”

“I see.”

They walked onward for a time in silence. The peasantry huddled in eaves and alleyways, whispering in awe as they passed. Seareye paid them little mind. The common folk were even more easily impressed than Taotri.

He could tell that his escort was working up the courage to say something. She was visibly nervous, sweating even in the abominably chill air, and her eyes kept darting his way, mouth half-opening for an instant, then shutting with a toothy click. While the Nessgall family had sent her in hopes that their House would become proudly associated with a foreign power, at least in some small way, it seemed the girl had been given more than one task. Seareye did not bother to react to her. Either she would work up the courage or she wouldn’t. Truthfully, he hoped she wouldn’t.

Her fingers twisted on the hilt of her sword’s pommel. She took a breath.

“If I may ask you a question, Sir?”

A brave child. How unfortunate.

“Yes, you may,” he said, hiding his impatience.

“It is well known that the King wishes to gather an army with which to assault the Mad Champion’s dominion, Sir. But it is not known how, exactly, he intends to do so. We Nessgalls wish to best prepare our lands to serve our Lord, but struggle to prepare with so little information. Are you at liberty to share how, exactly, our noble King intends to bring his loyal subjects to bear?”

She was painting the references to her family’s loyalty with an exceptionally thick brush. Seareye wondered if these Nessgalls had a reputation for opposing the King’s will, or if the girl was simply paranoid that she would be misinterpreted.

Whichever was the case, Seareye supposed it wasn’t out of place for him to toss such a minor House a few crumbs. She reminded him too much of his younger self to not provoke a sense of pity.

“The King intends to transport his army to the south in a rapid, efficient manner,” Seareye replied. They turned a corner onto a busy street, and he lowered his voice accordingly, so the peasants wouldn’t overhear. “He hasn’t the inclination nor time to march tens of thousands of souls across hundreds of miles. If your House truly wishes to prepare themselves for service, you must do so quickly. Once the King’s forces are gathered, they will be in the fight far sooner than any expect.”

Excitement glittered in the girl’s eyes. She had just won a major piece of information for her House, no doubt. Her parents would be proud of her.

The opportunity now recognized, she did not let up.

“I thank you, Sir, and assure you, the Nessgalls shall be preparing to commit themselves to the effort at once. Though I cannot speak for my grandfather, perhaps we will be sending our levies to the coast at all due speed, in hopes of being the first upon the transports.”

“Transports?” Seareye suppressed a chuckle. “No, I’m afraid that won’t do. The King is not going to send his army by sea.”

Seareye knew this for an utmost fact. One of the earliest meetings he had been present for had been the King traveling to his coastal dominions, trying to whip his diminutive Navy into a frenzy. He had failed outright; the lone surviving Sporaton Admiral had risked his life by directly refusing to sail mundane ships against the Tulian Navy. He had begged the King to allow his ships to replicate the enemy’s cannons, explaining how impossible it was for anything less than a Magecraft to overcome such a disadvantage.

That Admiral had been executed for insubordination. He was then replaced by a particularly loyal captain, but King Sporatos, thankfully, did not push the point further. He had accepted, if only in private, that the Tulian Navy would run amuck against a fleet of half-armed transport ships. The Admiral’s execution had been required, but the late fellow had made his point, if only post-humously.

“If the King is not sending our army by sea, how does he intend to reach Tulian so rapidly?” The girl’s confusion was evident.

“That, I am afraid, I am not at liberty to say,” Seareye replied. “But I assure you, if House Nessgall follows your Lord’s instructions, you will achieve your goal of serving with faith and diligence. Now,” Seareye nodded forward, indicating the Keep which now stretched upward before them. “I believe we have arrived. I thank you for your escort, ma’am. I wish you luck in your own and your family’s endeavors.”

“Thank you, Sir. May your own efforts meet success.”

Seareye left her without further comment, moving through the great fortified doors which a pair of guards opened for him. The meeting would be starting soon, if it hadn’t already. Seareye’s role would be the same as ever: stand in the corner in silence, speaking only when called upon. He would explain his role in the Imperial Armies, then what the Adjutant had promised in aid to King Sporatos, then he would fall silent for the remainder of the meeting. It was a dull, repetitive affair.

Even in the stone walls of the Keep, Seareye tightened his cloak against the chill. He despised this hellish cold. The sooner that he could be back to civilization, the better.

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