IrateRapScallion
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Chapter 113
🕑 Added 2021-09-16 00:05:20 +0000 UTCIorweth Morgan couldn’t sleep. Little surprise, there; he hadn’t been able to sleep well for a long time. This was worse than usual, however. This wasn’t the normal insomnia where he trudged through a stupor of guilt and regret, the kind which his love would soothe away with a heartfelt, loving embrace as they lied in their bed together. No, this was the old insomnia, the one ruled by fear that took the form of a single question: what if the witch actually came back, as she had threatened to, and stole away even more of him?
For more than a season after his first encounter, that fear had ruled his every waking moment. His mind became overwhelmed with suspicion, every odd movement, every slightly out-of-character utterance, every slight movement caught in his peripheral vision or heard outside his sight prompted the same paranoid thoughts and terrible anxiety. Was the guard in the corner of his eye a loyal soldier, or that blasted woman in disguise, waiting to strike? What about the ministers he spoke to, or the nobles he reluctantly met with, or the citizens who came to beg for his favor? How would he know, until the blade was buried in his chest?
Though he’d tripled security and implemented various procedures like secret code phrases to keep himself safe, he’d never felt safe, by and large because of the constant reminder that was his own existence. No matter how much he’d tried to forget and move on, he would be dragged back to the past each time he needed to speak. The curse the witch had left upon him showed no mercy. No matter what or how hard he’d tried, he’d found he could vocalize neither words nor meaning—except for the one time he’d pushed impossibly hard, that is.
In a way, though, that mistake had been perhaps the most fortunate mistake of his life, as it had brought him together with Tangwen. Being an unwed monarch had been its own brand of torture. It had long been tradition for the King of Kutrad to marry a member of the noble families, and to such ends, Iorweth had been bombarded with female suitors from the various families for years. No convention, festival, or meeting could conclude before every patriarch there had shoved their most eligible daughter in his face with the hopes that one would catch his fancy. This had not changed, even after the loss of his voice, though the women looked at him with less hope and more unease in their eyes after that.
Though nearing forty years of age, Iorweth had continued to resist marriage for a variety of reasons. First, it would make his life harder. His marriage would be more than just a joining of two people. It would be the joining of a noble house with his own. While he would gain the support of said house, it would come at the cost of the support of most of the other noble houses. Their insubordination would intensify as they turned their sights on him with greater focus than before, for they knew as well as he that the support of his wife’s house would come with the expectations of reciprocation—in total, a net loss.
Second, and—if he were to be honest—more importantly, the thought of joining with a noble made him want to vomit. He already despised interacting with them and their pompous attitudes. The men seemed far more interested in hunting—literally with animals and metaphorically with women—than in effectively administering their domains, which only made running the country more difficult. He enjoyed the occasional hunt just as much as any other red-blooded male, but there was a limit, surely! The women talked only of gossip and fashion, both of which seemed to change by the day. He was supposed to live with one of these people for the rest of his life and interact with their family with great frequency? Not if he had anything to do about it!
But then, a year ago, he’d crossed paths with his soulmate and everything had changed. He could still remember the terrible incident: the injured natuz charging out of the underbrush, its sharp horn gleaming with murderous intent as it charged the court doctor’s back; Iorweth’s realization that Cedrik Daniels—the court doctor and a good man who had faithfully served both him and his father for decades—was unaware of the impending doom; his desperate cry to warn the man before it was too late, with every fiber of his being pushing against the horrible curse inside him and, for the slightest of moments, succeeding; pain so horrible that it redefined agony, followed by blood and darkness.
He’d woken a day later in a room he didn’t recognize to find a moderately attractive woman with long red-orange curls that seemed to glow with an inner fire taking his pulse. The first thing she’d done, upon realizing he’d finally awakened, was make sure he was well and get his account of what had happened. The second thing she’d done was tear into him for his actions as he lied there, unable to shout back.
He’d been utterly irresponsible, she told him. Had he died, there would be nobody left to carry on the Morgan family line, and control of the country would fall to the nobles—or “fatuous, vainglorious, self-centered bastards”, as she’d put it—who would burn the whole nation down in a bloody civil war over their own greed, she’d said. That was how he’d first met the woman named Tangwen Beynon. He’d developed a liking for her immediately.
Despite how much Iorweth had sacrificed to warn Daniels, his efforts had been in vain. The doctor had died almost instantly when the natuz pierced his heart in its suicidal rush. Tangwen had been the doctor in the small town nearby, the only living person with medical expertise close enough to be of use as Iorweth bled out seemingly every orifice at once. She’d saved his life, he had no doubt.
Though he and his subordinates had wanted to move him back to Xoginia as soon as possible, that had proved to be impossible. The foul curse’s punishment for his resistance had robbed his body of its vitality to the point that everybody agreed he would have to stay. In the end, it had taken him twelve days to fully recover from his ordeal.
As he recovered, in the periods when he wasn’t either working while still in bed or fast asleep—the incident had reinforced his fear so greatly that she’d had to drug him into slumber—they’d conversed about a great many things. The more he’d learned of her and interacted with her, the more his liking grew. Eventually, wild thoughts had taken root, thoughts that he found himself unable to completely eradicate. You see, to Iorweth’s shock and surprise, Tangwen Beynon was a noble.
House Beynon was one of the smaller, more middling noble families in Kutrad, but they were still nobles and, as King of Kutrad, Iorweth Morgan knew all the nobles far more than he wished to. And yet, he’d never once met Tangwen in any of the balls, ceremonies, or other noble gatherings, despite her being only five years his junior. That was, it seemed, because her family had done much to pretend that she didn’t exist, going so far as to leave her on the estate while the rest of them traveled to Xoginia every year.
Tangwen was an embarrassment, you see; brash, willful, uncompromising, and utterly lacking in the manners and etiquette that any Kutrad noblewoman was expected to possess, the family was utterly ashamed to be associated with her in any way. This feeling she reciprocated. By her own admission, she’d become a woman of healing precisely because it would greatly infuriate and humiliate her family. After all, doctors dealt with blood, guts, and other unsightly things regularly, and nobody of her stature would ever deign to dabble in such unseemly affairs.
Iorweth found that he loved her no-nonsense attitude and deep caring for others. He loved the way her smile lit up when she laughed and the cute songs she would hum to herself when she thought nobody was listening. He loved how passionate she was during sex—though that aspect didn’t make itself apparent until after the wedding. Most importantly, he loved that she hated other nobles as much as he did, though her dislike was more personal. What better way to fulfill his obligations while simultaneously sticking it to all the swaggering assholes pushing their daughters at him? Still, it wasn’t until he’d journeyed to the Beynon estate and asked for her hand in marriage, upon which her father had offered that he marry one of his other daughters instead, that he’d known for sure that she was the one. She was perfect.
It was Tangwen’s presence by his side the last few seasons that had allowed him to finally attain some semblance of peace—enough, at least, to sleep again. Unfortunately, through that peace, he’d allowed himself to do the unthinkable. He’d allowed himself to mostly forget.
There would be no forgetting anymore.
Even now, many hours later, Iorweth could still hear the witch’s terrible laugh echoing in his ears, could still feel the weight of her predatory gaze bearing down upon his soul from the other side of her harrowing mask. She’d made true of her threat, driving home just how powerless he was against her.
Given her words and company the year before, he’d always interpreted her warning to mean she would return in the form of a knife in the dark. Instead, she’d returned in the most attention-grabbing way possible with two unthinkably formidable figures under her thrall: the unkillable Ubran, said to be the strongest warrior ever to exist, and the overlord of Otharia, Lord Ferros himself.
He had heard many stories and read innumerable reports about the Ubran’s unkillable swordswoman. Ferocious, bloodthirsty, and seemingly immune to pain, she haunted the dreams of what few soldiers returned home after the war’s end. The thought of such an unstoppable killer in the hands of that wicked sorceress, waiting to be let loose upon him, chilled him to the bone.
But as frightful as controlling an immortal killing machine might sound, her command of the other of the two was what truly boggled his mind. Iorweth knew Lord Ferros, having had numerous interactions with the man through Many. The Lord Ferros that he knew was a man who bowed to no one. Fiercely independent and stubborn, the Otharian ruler made it a point to avoid showing weakness in any form in front of Iorweth and the others. And yet, somehow, the witch had forced him to his knees.
How long had Lord Ferros been under the vile woman’s spell? Iorweth had not noticed anything unusual in the last few meetings, but that would make her influence all the more insidious, did it not? What if he was also compromised, and simply didn’t know it? As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t take that possibility off the table.
There had been times when he’d wondered if all of this was simply a game to the witch. Her name, Sofie Ramaut, had never been on the initial reports, the ones Iorweth had used to make his ill-fated decision. And yet, there in his dungeon she’d been, completely unafraid of a man of his power and station. She’d even taken the time to throw a litany of insults his way while shackled to a wall. That wasn’t the sort of behavior of a normal, rightfully fearful being.
Then there was the way she’d behaved within the tower, taking control from Arlette Demirt, the nominal leader, as if she’d always been the one truly in charge. She’d manipulated them all with ease, stealing from him both his voice and the location of the secret passage out as if it had been her plan from the start. And of course, he hadn’t missed the gleam of glee in her eyes when she’d crushed his manhood, the sort of gaze you’d see from a child casually destroying a doll they didn’t like. It was as if she’d simply been toying with them all from the very beginning.
Her supposed message today had only confirmed his suspicion that he and all the others were her playthings. Like a wicked merchant found in the fairy tales of his youth, she’d dangled his salvation in front of them, only to demand the impossible for it. She’d brought hope and then left it just out of reach, tormenting him with its presence. Iorweth could not imagine a more evil being to ever exist.
At least, this time, she’d looked the part. Her robe and hood had seemed to consume the midday light itself, hiding her true form within shadow. Iorweth could have sworn that he’d seen the mask move as if it were alive, its gaze following him even when she turned her head. Then there were the many trinkets she’d worn from her robes like trophies, no doubt amulets used to bind spirits to her will. All in all, he knew now that this was the true Sofie Ramaut, not the thin, unassuming woman he’d first met before. That had all been a guise.
Not that her appearance had really mattered. She could have been dressed in a jester’s outfit or a milkmaid’s dress and it wouldn’t have mattered. Once he’d recognized her voice, the one seared into his memory, he’d lost everything. He could barely remember what had happened after he’d realized who was standing on the bridge in front of them. The rest he’d learned second-hand from the others after he’d somewhat regained himself later.
Now, hours later, he had still yet to fully recover, and he doubted he ever would. As he stared at his bedroom ceiling, Iorweth’s ears strained in the darkness, searching for the ominous low hum of the Otharian flying craft returning. The witch’s unspoken message had come through as clear as a cloudless sky. With her resources, there was nothing they could do to stop her if she wanted in. Be it through infiltration or brute force, she was inevitable. Nowhere felt safe for him now. The illusion he’d created for himself the last few seasons had been irreparably shattered. Safety was but a myth.
Tangwen rolled over, burying her face into his shoulder. “Dearest, you must sleep,” his love hummed. “I know that fiend has scarred you deeply, but you will not heal if you do not rest. Take the draught I made you. I know you hate the side effects, but tomorrow is too important.”
She was right, as per usual. Iorweth climbed out of his soft mattress and fetched the vial on a nearby table. Drinking it in one gulp—it tasted like garbage, even when she made it—he returned to the warm divot where he’d been. He embraced his wife, gave her a kiss, and closed his eyes. Soon he felt the medicine working, clouding his mind, and not long after, he finally entered the world of dreams. That world proved little better for him that night.
* * *
One would expect that communication between parties would be slow and awkward when one of them can’t speak, and for a little while, that had indeed been the case. These days, while communication was still somewhat slower, there existed a semi-formal system that expedited it all. It had gradually formed almost naturally through his and his ministers’ collective struggles until they could hold detailed discussions without too much delay.
First, there was the reader, somebody designated to stand over Iorweth’s shoulder and read aloud the words he wrote down. Usually, it was somebody present but not involved in the conversation itself, such as a literate bodyguard, but more and more often his Queen would volunteer, as she had this time—he felt that it was beneath her and her station to do this, but she claimed she liked doing it, so he didn’t make a big fuss.
Iorweth always carried writing tools with him now, from the moment his wife finished wrapping his lower face with silken bandages in the morning to the moment she took them off at night. He wrote with an ingenious device called a “fountain pen”, gifted to him by Lord Ferros, the same person who had invaded his sanctuary just the day before. To fuel the pen, he also carried a portable inkwell at his side, which hung from a thin strap around his shoulder when he was moving around.
The most important tool, however, was the large book he carried with him wherever he went. Each book—he’d filled up a good number over the seasons—started entirely blank. Most of it he slowly filled with his words to be spoken aloud by the designated speaker, but the front pages were where he had his default responses. These pages, filled with responses ranging from one step above yes and no—the witch’s curse didn’t prevent him from nodding, after all—to far more complex messages and even numbers, these pages contributed the most to the improved conversation speed.
Since he’d come up with the idea, he found he only had to actually write out a message a quarter as often as before; instead, he simply pointed at various words and phrases while saving time and ink. There were even the occasional days where he could get by with only filling a page with writing. Today, however, was not one of those days.
“You cannot be seriously entertaining the idea!” Minister of Commerce Caitlin Carrigan hollered across the table. “Not only is her demand realistically impossible to fulfill, we have nothing that guarantees that she’ll even keep her word!”
“I simply think it’s best to look at what we know of her, based upon her past behavior,” Prime Minister Connor Seare responded in his usual level tone. “Our King says that she mentioned her hatred of slavery as a justification during her first attack. Then this time, she presented her demands as an offer, as if she were the benevolent party. It seems to me that she does, on some level, value at least the appearance of righteousness. Were we to somehow fulfill her requirements, I would say there are good odds she follows through on her half of the bargain.”
“Preposterous!”
“Would you prefer that she return in the future to find that we’ve disregarded her entirely? How would she take that, I wonder? Perhaps you might volunteer to let her take your voice next, my dear?”
The “debate” had raged like this among the people in the locked room for the last hour. Everybody was on a knife’s edge, not only because of the events on the bridge the day before but also because of what had happened shortly afterward. Prime Minister Seare had thankfully possessed the presence of mind to keep everybody who’d heard the witch’s proclamation sequestered from the rest of the palace until Iorweth had regained his faculties.
Once he’d returned to himself, Iorweth, in his full power as King, had delivered unto them a decree: not a single word of what had happened could be spoken to anybody outside of the group, on penalty of death for every single person other than he and Tangwen. He had no choice but to be so draconian; were the nobles to get even a whiff of an inkling that slavery might be under attack, they would not hold back, and so, neither would he. Many of the people who’d been there at the time were important to the workings of Kutrad, but they were not invaluable, and he’d made sure they understood that. They knew now that a single peep from any one of them, minister or soldier alike, would result in the deaths of them all.
Iorweth fully expected this threat to keep the secret locked tight... for now. It was only a matter of time before it got leaked somehow. Half of the attendees here were soldiers, and, like it or not, soldiers drank. No threat would ever be able to keep their mouths sealed forever.
Even if they did stay sealed, however, others he could not control still could ruin their plans at any time. The witch and her cohort could leak the contents of their meeting at any time and there was nothing he could do about it. This was the biggest reason he hadn’t just had the witnesses killed to ensure their silence. It would do little to his security while robbing him of vital subordinates that he very much did not wish to lose.
And so, his logic brought him back to the beginning. Only one plan of action remained.
He finished his writing and held it up for his love to see.
“Silence!” she barked, bringing a blissful end to the noise. She leaned forward slightly to better see his tiny scrawl.
“I have decided that we will attempt to fulfill the witch’s demands and bring slavery to an end within Kutrad,” she read aloud. Several of those in attendance gasped, while a few others muttered to themselves. Iorweth made sure to note who did what. “It is important that everybody here understands the reality in which we all now reside. The witch has implicated us in the eyes of many of the most powerful people in this nation. Should they find out the truth of what occurred, we will be marked for death. I need not remind you that, while I hold far more power and wealth than any one noble house, I do not hold even close to the power and wealth of the noble houses combined. Should they learn of what transpired yesterday, their reaction will most likely be to take up arms against us all. Even should we all decide to disregard the witch’s offer entirely, they will not be satisfied; not when they can ensure their way of life goes unchallenged with relative ease.”
He flipped the page.
“You are all aware of what will happen to each and every one of you if you should leak what transpired, but we cannot be sure that the witch will not return tomorrow and announce every last detail to the entire city. We must assume that the nobles will learn the truth eventually. When that time comes, I plan to be prepared. There is no use arguing over whether or not to obey the witch’s decree. If we attempt it and fail, we will die upon the blades and pikes of the houses. If we do not attempt it, we will still face the same fate once the houses learn the truth. I repeat, we are all already guilty in their eyes. Do not delude yourself.”
His gaze swept the room as Tangwen spoke, looking for signs of disloyalty—or worse, stupidity and foolishness—within the ranks. Several of the soldiers appeared quite nervous. Had they been contemplating defection? Perhaps informing one of the more powerful nobles in exchange for protection? They would doom themselves along with the rest, but perhaps they could not see this. He made a note to have them watched more tightly. Perhaps a few of them would need to be silenced after all.
“If we must bear this mark of guilt no matter what we choose,” Tangwen continued to read, “then I will choose the path that at least offers a reward for it. Remember, you are all implicated in this, now. There is no going back. Let us set a course immediately.”
He flipped to the final page.
“I know just how unlikely our success feels right now. If we are to accomplish this task, then we will need power. Our first task is to acquire this power through whatever means necessary. Let us begin with the discussion on this point. All ideas are on the table.”
The room went silent for a few moments as his message sank in. Finally, Prime Minister Seare sat down and rubbed his temples with a long sigh.
“Very well,” he said. “The most obvious issue here is our troop count. Since Your Majesty’s army suffered heavier losses than the armies of the houses, we are at an even greater troop deficit than we were before the blasted war. If we wish to stand a chance, we need to bolster the Army. That needs to be step one.”
“But where would we get enough troops?” Tangwen asked.
“I can think of no alternative than the mandatory enrollment of all people within the target age group,” the Prime Minister replied. “If voluntary enrollment was sufficient, the Army would not be so understaffed today.” He sighed again. “I believe we’ve already tripled the initial enrollment bonus, with little result.”
“But we cannot have a functioning nation if so many of our people hafe to set aside their lives to become soldiers,” Minister Carrigan pointed out. “The economy would fall apart, if the affected people didn’t overthrow us first!”
“Of course. That’s why I propose a system of soldier citizens. We train them for a period of time, long enough to get them at least mildly competent, then they return to their old lives until we call upon them. Their quality would be substandard, but with enough of them, it will make a difference.”
“Why wouldn’t the nobles object to this?” the Queen wondered. “Would this not put them on alert?”
“Not if we explain it properly,” Seare argued. “Our Army has been devastated. We have perhaps eight thousand troops left after all our losses. We need to bolster our forces greatly for national security, of course. We impress upon them how chaotic and unstable Eterium is right now. Play up their desperation and the danger they pose.”
“And how will their families survive without them during this period?” another minister inquired.
“We would have to pay them enough to offset the loss, of course,” Seare replied.
“What about mercenaries?” another person asked.
“It’s a shame not even a single general was present yesterday; we could use better information than I possess,” Seare grumbled. “I’m sure we could pad out our forces with mercenaries, of course, but keep in mind that we would be competing with our opposition. Of course, there would be the monetary factors-”
“Sir?” a hesitant voice chimed in from the back. Everybody turned towards the unfamiliar voice, which turned out to come from a scruffy soldier whose name Iorweth did not know. The man was definitely not high ranking, the king could plainly see.
“If you have something to say, say it,” a clearly irritated Prime Minister—Iorweth knew how much he disliked being interrupted—told the soldier.
“Well, sir, it’s just that we probably won’t be able to get many mercenaries for a long time, if ever, sir.”
That drew a scowl from most everybody in the room.
“Explain,” Tangwen commanded.
“Yes, well, my cousin is a mercenary, one of the few who survived Crirada, you see,” the soldier nervously explained. “He told me that almost all the bands are disbanding, sir. They lost so many that there’s just not enough people left to continue, and a lot of those still alive are done with fighting, anyway. He said it’s so bad that the Mercenary Guild itself might fall to pieces.”
“So, few mercenaries and the ones still around will be demanding heavy coin,” the Prime Minister muttered. “Thank you for your information.”
“Raising an army is expensive, mercenaries are expensive... money is the true issue here, isn’t it?” observed Minister Carrigan. “It always comes down to funds, every time. Funds we don’t have.”
“It hasn’t helped that our low manpower has decreased our exports,” Seare added.
“What about getting help from another country?” somebody asked. “A loan, perhaps?”
“From who?” Tangwen replied. “Otharia, Drayhadal, and Stragma would not be interested, Crirada is so mired in the chaos brought about by the invasion that I wouldn’t be surprised were it to split into several smaller states within ten years, and as for Gustil...” She turned to the Prime Minister. “When was the last time we heard from their new ‘king’? Has he even managed to construct a stable government yet?”
Seare shook his head. “Thanks to the Ubrans purging the place of everybody who’d ever held even a spoonful of power, he is finding it quite hard to muster the expertise needed to govern an area as large as Gustil was before their fall. Our people report that their governments are still largely limited to the city level, with the more open land largely ungoverned.”
Iorweth wrote two words and held it up for his love to read. She glanced at them and faltered. “Dear, are you sure?” she asked.
He nodded.
“The mountains,” she read aloud.
The rest of the room stiffened. They did not need him to specify which mountains he was referring to. There was only one place that was known simply as “the mountains”, the Krekard Mountains to the north of Kutrad.
Writing furiously, he spelled out his reasoning.
“The rest of the world may be unstable, but that provides us with the best opportunity. Nocend will need many more resources, especially metals, in the years to come as Eterium falls and Gustil tries to rebuild. Satiating that need will grant us the wealth we require, but we do not currently have the deposits needed to produce the iron and rare minerals that will be in such high demand. We will find what we need in the mountains.”
“But, Your Majesty,” one of the soldiers weakly protested, “the mountains...”
He didn’t have to finish his sentence; everybody knew what he was going to say: the mountains were where people went to die.
“This time it will be different,” Iorweth scribbled. “No more small expeditions. No more mines manned by expendable slaves. The mountains have not yet been conquered because we have never had the spine nor the need to do so. We have both, now. I want an expedition organized as soon as possible to survey the entire range. Spare no expense.”
“Sire, I am not sure we will be able to gather the manpower we would require for an undertaking of that magnitude,” the Prime Minister cautioned. “Given the range’s reputation, I doubt we would have much luck getting even a quarter of the people we would need, even if we paid exorbitantly for them. Nobody would think it worth the risk.”
“We both know that the legends are but myths. The cold and dangerous terrain is what claimed our previous expeditions.”
“That may be so, but you will not be able to convince the public of that. Everybody here has heard rumors of what lies in wait behind the peaks, yes?” Seare pointed at one soldier. “You, what have you heard?”
“Uh, well, my mother used to always say it was roving packs of jaglioths who made their dens in the mountains, sir,” the soldier answered.
The Prime Minister pointed to another soldier. “And you?”
“I heard that there’s something off up there that makes everybody turn into cannibals and eat each other,” the soldier responded.
He pointed to another still. “What about you?”
“Vengeful spirits,” came the reply.
“You see the problem, Your Majesty? No amount of money will make these people go where they do not feel safe enough.”
“Then we make it safe enough,” the Kutrad king wrote. “Send troops to guard them. Enough to ensure that nobody is slain by jaglioths or spirits. Five thousand should be enough, yes?”
“Do you think that is wise, sire? It would be a substantial expenditure.”
“It is time that we claimed that which has always been Kutrad’s. We will make the Krekard Mountains ours once and for all, and from them, we shall prosper.”
“As you say, Your Highness,” Seare said with a nod.
“This has been enough discussion for today,” Tangwen read aloud. “All present will do well to remember what is at stake for all of you. You are dismissed.”
“Your Majesty, if I could have a word,” Minister Carrigan said.
“Later. I grow weary,” he replied.
Iorweth and Tangwen stayed put while the Minister joined the rest filing out into the hall with dampened spirits. Iorweth could see it on their faces, in their eyes. Everyone understood now just what they had all been pulled into. There was no way out for any of them, nor himself, at this point.
“Are you sure this is what you think is best, my dearest?” she asked him once they were alone again.
“I don’t know,” he confided. “It feels impossible. But even so, it is what I desire. I want to be able to tell you that I love you with my own voice. Is that not worth trying for?”
Tangwen embraced him and, for one wonderful moment, the harshness of the world seemed to vanish. “Then let us strive for it with everything we have, my love,” she murmured in his ear. “When the two of us are together, not even the gods can stop us.”
Comments
IrateRapScallion
Why would he? He has his hands full already.
Erdos
Why couldn't Blake help them?
