Chapter 11

Icy wind scythed through the heavy fur-lined cloak covering the Templar. He cast a glare at the distant lights of Tressen against the black backdrop of Murder Isle. He was used to the warmer climes of the Theocracy's capital of Galdanth, this piercing cold was alien to him, and annoyed him, in addition.

Long were the years of service for Moghran and he felt deeply those passing days. He was one of the oldest of the Templars and likely this was his last campaign. After these battles were over, and Tressen in the rightful and righteous hands of the Theocracy, he would be elevated to Deacon, and be given a province to rule in the lands. He hoped that province was not this one, the climate and he would not get along.

He spun around to face the pilot of the barge he had chosen as his flagship. "Signal the attack," he said without raising his voice. Moghran rarely raised his voice, and then only from necessity, never from anger. He was an exemplar of the quiet calm expected of a Templar. He dispensed the will of the One with an unemotional hand.

The pilot called an order to other men, who scrambled toward signal lamps mounted on either side of the high aft castle. The lamps clacked as the shutters snapped open and closed in the pre-arranged signal. Sails unfurled and the wind filled them, pulling the barges forward even as the oars began extending, like a centipede stretching its legs before beginning its complex walk.

To port and starboard, the other barges of Moghran's taskforce hoisted their own canvas and began to move. He walked slowly to the forward edge of the aft castle to look down at the circle of magi standing amidship. Twelve of them, together. Powerful magi, unless on a path toward becoming a Templar, were rarely tolerated within the Theocracy. They required full circles to bring powerful magics to bear. The dozen chanted and gestured, as if performing a dance together, their motions carefully timed to arcane and esoteric formulas that Moghran did not even pretend to understand - or wish to.

Even though he knew the plan - had made it, in fact - the other ships vanishing startled him. He glared at them, then at the magi. Three were sprawled on the deck, one with his flesh ripped from his body, the other two showing no signs of what had felled them. Powerful magics also took a toll on these wretches, but what else were magi for?

Moghran did not like having no lieutenants to hand, but he had been pressed with so many ships for this attack that he had to scatter them to the other barges. And he was but one of ten Templars assigned to this assault. Not for over twelve centuries have ten Templars been summoned to one action. Tressen hardly seemed worth such commitment of forces.

The lights were noticeably closer now, beginning to separate into distinct sources. The pyres that marked the fortresses on either side of the bay's mouth were decidedly larger, distinct flames flickering in the night.

The Templar descended the wide stairs to his quarters to perform a last prayer and don his armor.

"You're really a wizard?" asked the round-cheeked girl Defender Giordino had introduced as Claya. Her eyes were wide and her mouth quirked up almost in challenge.

Siska nodded, trying hard to return a warm smile, but feeling impatience sliding into her demeanor. "I'm an apprentice," she said for what she felt sure was the fifth time, to just this one girl. "I'll not be a full wizard for some years."

"Oh," said Claya, as if finally understanding. "My father is a butcher, and he's had several apprentices over the years. Most of them haven't the will to stick with the work, and end up running off. I assume that happens with wizards, too?"

The tall, golden-haired apprentice twitched her shoulders. "I don't know. I've not heard if such happens."

Claya's wide-set hazel eyes regarded Siska shrewdly, narrowing as if trying to examine something of her. "You look Eastron, but have yellow hair," she said. "You must have some Coghlandish in your family, somewhere."

Giordino tried to intervene. "In Tressen many folk share features of several lands, we're more of a stew here than a bowl of whole fruit."

Mannis and Varan both chuckled at his clumsy analogy, but nodded in agreement.

Claya seemed unwilling to be put off so easily. "My mother dislikes Eastrons," she said. "She says that the old royal family was Eastron, and they caused many of the problems we find in Tressen today. She says first brought as slaves, then brought as rulers, in the span of two generations, it's just not right, and surely trouble came of that."

Mannis gently touched Siska's shoulder, guiding her to turn toward the little cluster of light-blue clad wizards, now only about ten paces away. "Siska," he said, as if just remembering something, "I should really meet your mentor, officially. We've not really been introduced." His hand on the small of Siska's back felt stronger than he appeared to be pressing with and she partially stumbled forward as they moved in the direction of Phillip and the other wizards.

"Don't listen to her," said Mannis, sparing a small glower over his shoulder for Claya. "She's not really a girlfriend, just a somewhat pretty girl that Giordino scraped up to accompany him so that he would have someone other than his sister to bear his blade."

Siska blinked at Mannis for a moment. "Bear his blade?" she asked.

"Yes," said the young Defender. "The - companion - of a Defender at his final acceptance ceremony, bears his blade to him."

"That would be me?" asked Siska, beginning to smile broadly.

After the almost furious look she had worn a moment before, Mannis was immensely relieved to see that grin. "Yes," he said. "I hope you don't mind?"

"Mind?" Her expression was incredulous. "I'm honored," the squeeze she gave his arm now was very forceful and warm. "But you should tell me what I'm expected to do." She paused a long moment, a sly look forming on her features and a wide smile to accompany it. "You might should inform me of any other traditional commitments I should be aware of for this night. I should hate to find out that there was some service I neglected to offer."

Mannis nearly tripped at that, luckily Siska was more than strong enough to help him stay on his feet. "No - none traditional," he stammered, trying to swallow around a lump that he would have though visible outside his throat.

They were very near the group of wizards and Siska said in a quiet voice. "A pity," she said. "I take traditions very seriously and wouldn't hesitate to fulfil my role in them. Do be sure to remind me if you remember any."

Tarmal and Phillip turned from the main group of wizards to greet the newcomers. Mannis and Siska both bowed and curtsied, respectively before Siska said, "Mentor Phillip, Mentor Tarmal, this is Defender Mannis, my escort for this evening." She searched quickly with her eyes, realizing that Salira was not in the knot of wizards now, somewhat to her disappointment.

Both bowed in return. "Brother Defender," they intoned in even tones, then rose to offer a hand, Phillip's first, then Tarmal's, in the order they were introduced. "I'm pleased to see such quality inducted into the ranks of the Defenders," said Phillip, smiling at first Mannis, then at his fellow squadmates, nearby.

"You and your squadmates look to be excellent replacements for the Warhawks," said Tarmal.

"We only pray to the One that we fill their honored boots," said Mannis, inclining his head.

With the formalities dispensed with, Siska said, "We had to get away from Claya, the short, pudgy girl there." She jerked her head slightly toward the Defenders, now a group of only four young men and women, the others having all found reasons to be elsewhere in the foyer.

"A better manner of handling irritation than others," said Phillip, a note of sternness creeping into his ostensibly jovial tones.

Mannis stifled a bark of laughter and Siska glared at him, though in good humor, her eyes sparkling. "Yes, Mentor," she said, giving him a theatrical curtsy.

Tarmal coughed and excused himself as Salira returned from somewhere near the sets of double doors to the main ballroom.

"When are you to begin your integration training?" asked Phillip, raising an eyebrow at Mannis.

"We begin in a few days, Mentor Phillip," said Mannis. Strictly speaking, he could address Phillip as Brother, but since he was having a courtly relationship with Siska, an apprentice, it put him in a slightly lower position than if he were simply dealing with Phillip on equal footing. Salira had spend many hours trying to impart the knowledge of these subtleties of interaction to Siska, with mixed success, there was imply so much foundation material missing from Siska's upbringing.

"Good, good," said Phillip. "I expect we shall be working together, then."

Siska blinked at Phillip and Mannis both. "Working together?" she asked.

"Yes," said her mentor, nodding and putting a hand on Mannis' shoulder. "The three groups train together routinely, to practice coordinated actions and such."

Mannis nodded. "It is normal for a wizard to be assigned to each squad during wartime," he said. "Or a squad to each wizard, depending on one's viewpoint." He smiled at Phillip, a playful smile. It made Siska's heart thud when he smiled like that.

Salira touched Siska's shoulder. "A moment," she said and Siska excused herself from the two men, leaving them discussing integration training.

Keeley looked up at Varan from very close, her blue eyes wide and wondering. "Do you mean it?" she asked.

"Of course I mean it," said the tall Defender, stroking her cheek. "If you'll have me."

They were down a long narrow corridor from the foyer, behind one of the myriad columns that made up the palace. Not really hiding, per se, but more simply seeking a bit of privacy. Proposals needed no hearers.

She looked at the ring, a traditional Crystern Islander asking ring, set with three emeralds, then she looked at Varan. "Yes?" she said, tears welling up in her eyes, but not quite falling. It made her blue eyes sparkle more than the ring.

"Try not to sound so definite," said Varan, giving her a gentle smile.

"Yes," she said in a stronger tone. "I wish to marry you, if my father blesses it."

The smile that formed on Varan's face made the tears finally fall from her eyes. He seemed so pleased, and that pleased her. They fumbled for a moment with the ring before sliding it onto her left hand's ring finger. It made them both laugh, and also made them both think of the sealing ring that would replace it in a year, if her father's blessing was given, making them husband and wife.

"I know being the wife of a Defender isn't easy," he said. "If you wish to think on it a while."

"Don't try to get out of it now, Defender," said Keeley, giggling. "You have already taken the bait, it's too late to retreat now." She took his arm as he escorted her back toward the foyer, past another of his squadmates, standing in a similar position, behind another column, and speaking to another young woman. "It seems you were not all that original in intent this evening."

He smiled. "Boris has been courting Anja for almost three years," he said. "Trainees are not allowed to be married, else they would have married long ago."

Keeley's finger idly toyed with the ring, touching it as if to reinforce its presence on her hand. "I cannot wait to tell Siska and my other friends."

"You two have grown close in the few days," said Varan. "She is now first among them?"

The brunette thought on this for a long moment. "I suppose she is," she said. "I had not thought of it, but we seem to have so much in common - other than her being a wizard, you know."

He nodded again and covered her hand that was through his arm with his other hand. "She seems a good friend, Keeley," he said.

"You distrust her, though?" asked Keeley, examining his face as he looked down the hall.

"No," said Varan without hesitation. "She is a Blue Sister, and we need to place trust in them. We are all part of the same body." They walked past the gilded doors that led into what was the throne room and the guardsmen standing before those doors nodded politely as they passed. "I suppose, you simply must remember that she is a part of the defenses of Tressen, and as duty bound as I am. You can trust her, but might not be able to rely upon her, for she may not always be available, as a friend should be."

Keeley leaned toward him and kissed his cheek. "I'll keep that in mind, betrothed," she said.

Another of the wide smiles formed on Varan's lips as she called him by that title. "If the One wills it, husband will sound even better," he said.

"Yes, I would love to say that," agreed Keeley, squeezing his arm and beaming up at him.

Moghran smiled as the signal flashed from the tower of the fortress. Both were now secure. His ships slipped past the two tall spires of stone and mortar and into the bay. They had their sails furled again, but were still invisible. Three more of the magi had fallen, one of them actually having melted into a puddle of reddish-brown soup. He hoped at least a couple would survive, to help counter the abilities of the Blue Order in the city.

Not that it would be all that trying if they did not. He had a dozen sorcerers of various strength in his taskforce, half of them aboard this very ship. They could do nearly as much as a magi in countering wizards, but more insurance was always welcome to a commander.

The ships slid nearly silent now, the slave rowers paddling as quietly as possible to avoid extra kisses of the lash. He only saw the faintest of ripples on the water from the other ship's oars and wakes. Two of his dozen barges were now at the forts, securing them for the coming main fleet. If his sortie went well, and he managed a beachhead, he would send for them immediately to reinforce this expedition.

Marines now filled most of the deck's surface, pressed together into a tight square that stood just behind the dropping ramps that made up the forecastle's front wall. When they landed, those five hundred men would pour onto the docks and begin the securing of a beachhead, along with the five hundred on each of the other seven barges. The rigging had been struck, the spars now lashed to the masts themselves, creating a wide open area above the deck. Clear space for the siege engines.

Wooden spheres were slung in nets beneath the giant trebuchet that would hurl the entire mass, like a spider's egg sack, past the first wave of troops. Special surprises lay inside those wooden spheres, and Moghran did not envy those who received the gifts within.

Piled nets, also filled to bursting with more spheres lay ready to be taken up and hurled. The contents of those balls of wood were the real first wave, the part that would do the most to shatter the city's resistance. They would, after the balls struck, be hard pressed to find the capability to organize or the courage to fight.

Urdannik marched behind Squadleader Thean, with Corporal Gulchoff behind him. The remainder of the shift change had proceeded ahead. The mists of the night drizzle only made halos of the streetlamps and lit windows of Tressen.

He disliked moving through town at night in a small group, but being with the squad leader kept his mind from most of that. Even in her scaled hauberk, she had a fine figure, and following her was far from odious. She smiled over her shoulder at the two men. "This night is always a pleasant duty, even if it keeps us up to the wee hours," she said. "Some of these ceremonies are followed by very good parties. If you've done your duty well, you might be invited to go to one."

Urdannik was pleased that he had used his Crown wisely. When a guardsman committed to a two year term, he was given a gold Crown. He had sensibly used his to have his breastplate acid etched and sealed by an armorer in Tressen, rather than spend it on booze and women, as most guardsmen did. This gleaming accessory allowed him to be assigned to inside duty at this ceremony, rather than outside in the mist and the wet, and away from the fun, or so it seemed.

Thean looked back at her two men. Normally, she would have traveled with the main squad to relieve the guards on duty and send them back to the fort. Her boot coming apart had not been part of that plan and she sent the main body ahead of her, keeping only these two men as escorts.

Not that she was fearful of cutpurses or other unsavories, but for appearances. It simply was not proper for a squad leader to not have some sort of person as a subordinate with them.

A trio of toughs were on the street ahead of them and she slowed their pace. The thugs seemed to only just now note their coming, and stood from the all too casual slouches they had been adopting in the drizzle. "What's this then?" asked one of the burly young men, grinning to display a smile with a handful of chipped teeth.

Urdannik and Gulchoff automatically took up flanking positions to Thean, both putting a hand to the hilt of their broadsword. She did not even reach toward hers, instead crossing her arms below her breast. "It is a element of the guard," she said in a cool tone.

"Oh," said another of the rough-looking men. "The guard? And why, pray, is the guard moving about in the night, so far from the forts?"

Thean could not see any weapons, though that simply meant that any they carried were hidden. Probably knives or small clubs. Voices behind her made her wish to turn about, but Gulchoff, an experienced man, did that, hissing, "Three more, Squadleader."

She was now concerned enough to move her arms from their crossed position to rest one hand on the pommel of her own sword. "If you force us to draw steel, we shall ensure that things do not go well for you, citizen."

"She's pretty when she gets mad," said one of the thugs, barking a laugh. In the distance, a dog answered his bark with yapping of its own.

"Arms," she said in a conversational tone. As one, the three guardsmen drew their blades and shifted into a fighting stance, turning their bodies slightly to their opponents. They moved to put their backs near one another.

The row of laughter that filled the street frightened Thean more than all else this night had. There were now four more, approaching from an alley across the street. Ten in all now, and she hoped no more were coming.

"When we're done putting your dogs down, gel, we'll show you what uses a sword can have other than fighting," said the man with the chipped teeth. Somehow he had produced a knife that she would have sworn was too long to have been concealed. It was nearly a short sword in and of itself. His other hand held the end of a pace long length of heavy chain. She worried at the chain more than the knife.

Before the man could advance, however, he blinked and looked over her shoulder. 'What the hell is that?" he asked.

Garel sat with his friends, occupying their favored stoop near where his old home had been. He no longer had many friends remaining from his former coterie. In truth, only two: Marek and Skeen. They eyed him dubiously now, though, but there was no dislike in the stares, only disbelief.

"You attracted the eye of a wizard?" asked Marek, a massive youth, with shoulders wider than most grown men and sporting corded muscles that were the mark of a mason's apprentice. Carrying and carving blocks of stone gave him that bulk and gave Marek an appearance of strength that few could match.

"I swear it," said Garel, reclining against the wall of the old woman's house that they had adopted as a stoop hostess. She tolerated their presence, only because they did help her out when she asked the occasional favor of them, such as lifting and carrying things. "I think she liked me, she smiled and blushed when our eyes met."

"Maybe she just thought you were funny looking," said Skeen, almost the diametric opposite of Marek. Slender and wiry, he had hardened himself in Tressen's alleyways. If he was an apprentice in anything, it was a profession that bore no true name and certainly had no guild. A long scar ran along his chin, following the angle of his sharp-featured face and marking where a merchant's guard had taken a dislike of his trade.

Marek blinked at that and chewed his lip. "I think she was just nervous," he said, patting Garel's shoulder. "Wizards don't court silversmiths. They take up with other wizards, or nobles, or people of that sort."

Garel sighed and quirked his lip up in a crooked smile. "Well, she is courting a Defender. So I suppose you're right in that, but she would have taken more interest in me, had she not been."

"Ifs and butts don't get you kissed," said Skeen who fancied himself a alleyway sage, bursting with urban wisdom. "By the by, aren't you out late?" Normally Garel was home, with his family for the night, just after dark.

"They're all at the palace, Keeley's boyfriend Defender is to graduate, and they were invited to attend."

"Your youngers?" asked Marek.

"My aunt Renah is keeping them," said the slim young man, sitting up. His voice had become distant and he was straining his eyes, squinting downhill, toward the bay. "Is that fire?"

The porch roof over the stoop had kept them dry against the falling sprinkling of rain. They stepped from beneath it and looked toward where Garel pointed. "Looks like it, down near the docks, I'd say," said Marek.

A reddish glow was brightening against the bottoms of the low-lying clouds. As they watched, it grew visibly and a fainter red glow formed to its left some distance.

"Where are you going?" asked Skeen as Garel started moving toward the glows. "You're not on the fire brigade."

"My family is that way, in that part of town," said Garel, breaking into a jog.

Marek and Skeen looked at one another for only a moment before chasing after him, dashing into the misting night to follow their friend.

"Let it be, Mist," said Leetha, shaking her head. "You've done little but whine about how envious you are of Siska and Keeley since you came over."

Mist slumped against the one of the bed's posts... Leetha's room was nearly as well-furnished as Siska's. Her mother was a successful merchant of imported wines and spirits and she wanted for little. Her wide bed supported a canopy of fine linen and the posts carved to resemble fluted columns.

"It just seems unfair," said Mist. "Siska has only been with us a week or so, and she's already courting a Defender and Keeley and she are like old friends."

Leetha smiled patiently and picked up her cat, a fat white creature of fluff with a pugged nose. "Do you not think they, perhaps, deserve a bit of a good luck? Given their histories, I don't begrudge it in the least."

"They do," said Mist morosely, looking down at her limp hands in her lap. "I should be happy for them."

"I'm proud of them, myself," said Leetha, smiling softly and tickling the cat's ears.

"Why?" asked Mist.

"Siska was a slave. Keeley's mother was a slave. Both have done well given that," said the skinny blond girl.

"Keeley's mother?" asked Mist, blinking.

"You didn't know?" Leetha looked a bit uncomfortable. "Well, it's no great secret. Yes, she was a slave. Keeley's father fell in love with her when he was working on a large commission for silverware for a noble's house. He managed to win her freedom as part of the final payment."

Mist giggled. "That, in a twisted way, is very romantic."

"He freed her immediately, and they were wed a few months later," said Leetha, plowing on with the story. "They don't speak much of it now. I think Mistress Davshan prefers to put that behind her." Her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know young slave girls are not treated with - kindness."

Mist blinked at her again. "Oh, my," she gasped.

Darina, Leetha's mother, called out from below, "Girls, come look at this."

The two rose and descended the stairs to find Darina, dressed finely, despite her rotund figure, peering out off the second story balcony of their spacious home. Toward the bay, red lights were flickering against the clouds and flames could be seen licking toward the sky in a few places. "What is it, mother?" asked Leetha.

Darina shook her head, her ornately woven plaits of hair clicking as beads collided. "I believe there is a fire, Mist you best get home, and go quickly." She raised her voice. "Rathdarl, escord Miss Mist to her home, please, dear."

A middle-aged man wearing the simple livery of one who serves the middle class came to the door of the sitting room. "As you ask, mistress," he said in a gravelly voice, with only the suggestion of a bow and gesture to Mist to follow him. He was a simple servant and the family was not a noble one.

Mist hastily said goodbye and followed the stocky, balding man.

As he and Mist left the house, he picked up a short baton from a bin inside the door that Mist had always thought contained muddied boots. It had a narrow leather cord that he wrapped about his wrist and he held the club in such a way as to be unobtrusive, but visible.

The sudden worry that formed in Mist's mind made her very glad for Rathdarl's company on this walk home. She walked very close to him, then as sounds came from toward the bay, like tiny, distant screams, she clutched his arm the rest of the way home. The old retainer took it in stride, patting her arm comfortingly and murmuring gentle words that said it would be fine and that he was only coming with because people acted strange when odd events transpired.

"Still, I am very grateful," said Mist, cringing as a boom rolled over the city. It was not the clean sound of thunder, but a low grinding rumble that could only be something massive collapsing or exploding. Her house was in view now and she sprinted up the stairs to hammer on the door before her father unbarred it and let her slip in. He invited Rathdarl, but the servant begged leave and ran back toward Mistress Darina's home, his face betraying fear that he dared not show the young Mist.

Leetha and Darina were both waiting inside the front door, Leetha opening it and Darina holding another of the ash batons. He slipped in and they moved about the house, securing the tightly-fitted shutters on all three floors and checking the pantry for supplies. Tressen played host to riots from time to time, and the wise among those who had property in Tressen planned for what amounted to miniature sieges when they happened. The pantry had enough food for weeks, with care.

After they performed an almost routine check of things, the three retired to the roof. Rathdarl stood behind Darina and put his arms about her waist as she cringed at another rolling boom. Leetha had known they were lovers for more than two years, and they only kept up the facade of employer and servant for others' benefit. "Is it just a warehouse fire, mother?" asked Leetha. "Aren't your warehouses down there?"

"They are, but no," said Darina. "That's nearer the palace than the warehouses."

The new Defenders were kneeling in a line along the top stair of the raised dais of the ballroom. All nine had their eyes downcast and studied the floor as the Comandant of the Defenders stood before them and orated the Call to Duty of the Defenders.

The audience was large, filling most of the massive ballroom. Over a thousand people were there. Proud fathers, beaming mothers, jealous brothers, and many other people. Dignitaries of other lands, even, were in attendance for these events were a good place to lay eyes upon future leaders of Tressen. For all its size, though, the crowd was starkly silent. Such was the solemnity of this ceremony. These young men were now giving their lives utterly to the defense of Tressen, swearing to lay those lives down in that one pursuit.

The Call to Duty was a long speech, and grew longer every generation, as new honors were laid at the feet of the Defenders. Each of those honors was pronounced and taken to heart. Mannis felt the weight of all those honors as they settled onto him and he glanced to the side to see Varan sweating, as well. If Varan, a virtual paragon of a Defender, sweated, then Mannis supposed he was not doing so badly.

The oration ceased and the Commandant stepped back in a jingle of scaled ceremonial armor which glittered, casting little spots of bright light onto the floor and walls.

The young new Defenders looked up to regard the opposing row of young women standing opposite them, against the back wall of the raised dais. Most of them were the young mens' escorts this night, but two were sisters, who swapped the honor for each other's siblings for the propriety of the event. Had there been but one sister, then one escort would have traded places with her.

Salira had taken her to a side chamber, where she, along with the other eight young women who acted as escorts for Defenders, were given a fast course in their duties this night. While not strictly a secret, the ceremony was rarely discussed outside the Defenders and little of their internal rituals and practices was known to the public at large. The Commandant instructing them seemed to be trying very hard to speak in soothing and friendly tones. She half expected him to begin yelling curses and ordering the girls about to get the results he wanted.