The Motive for Massacre (The Kinless Trilogy Book 2) Page 13
Remoulard was the first to offer a solution. "We load a train. Two trains. A hundred cavalry and two hundred infantry. The entire Darisian 1st. Support staff as well. The Artificers can supply us with the trains within two days I'm sure. I'm sure they'll maintain their neutrality in this, damn them. That'll give the Apostles time to gather enough priests to send with us. I can start the arrangements immediately.
Two of the other generals set in on him immediately, pointing out the flaws in his simple plan. Marcus, the lowest ranking officer present sat quietly, swirling his brandy and take a pull of the smoky drink. The burn running down his throat reminded him he was still awake and not dreaming.
"What say you LaFleur? How many men do we send?" Remoulard asked bluntly, ending the argument.
The old man, weary of war and strife looked up from his hands and sighed. "There's no war to win here boys."
The other men in the room looked around confused by the man's statement. It sounded senile. Remoulard pressed. "What do you mean LaFleur?"
"We're being asked to provide a sense of security you see. Not a war. I think we all know that the Purple Queen is up to no good, but as she and her mother before her and that one's mother have always done, they're riling us up for some gain. Maybe they want grain again or a string of trains filled with pig iron for some construction. Maybe they've run themselves dry of brandy again? They never do this without cause. We're not being sent up there to start a war so there's no war to win. We need only to send a force large enough to satisfy parliament, and provide an adequate first line of defense should the Empire actually attack. Beyond that, Ancestors forbid, we manage to scare the damned dead lovers back to their city on a cliff. Sending the entire Darisian 1st would be far too much just yet."
One general agreed entirely, one half agreed, and Remoulard shook his head vehemently disagreeing. "Sir, can we risk it? What if they mean war this time? What if this is the real threat for the first time? I don’t think we can afford to send too small a force."
"Perhaps. Knight Major. What say you?" LaFleur aske Marcus.
Marcus wasn't entirely ready to provide counsel in that moment. He'd expected to sit in on the meeting, but to give advice and possibly alter the course of the nation's response to aggression? This was unexpected, but the two full goblets of brandy helped loosen his tongue, and free his thoughts honestly. "You are all aware of New Picknell?" He asked.
The room hushed. LaFleur knotted his arthritic hands up sadly. "We're aware. I went there myself to see the town with my own eyes. I believe you led us back there yourself Marcus. Near two hundred souls lost we believe."
"The loss of that village is still burning hot in the memory of our people. Those embers won't go out unless they're quenched by Amaranth blood and we all know that. The people of our nation still carry hatred over a king we killed seventy six years ago. To be clear, I am not saying we ride north to start a war, but if we don't show significant strength to our people right now, they might lose faith in the military. We have been bullied and harassed by the Empire for too long. With the destruction of New Picknell, they've drawn first blood, and our people want justice. They want blood spilled and souls set free. Now is not the time for us to appear weak for certain."
All the generals seemed to agree. "What would you propose?"
Marcus sat his goblet down, his mind doing the martial equations. "The 1st is too large a force, that I agree with. You need a smaller, more nimble, veteran force. One that won't let an arrow fly out of fear, but will hold the string until letting it loose is the only option, the right choice. Ockham's Fringe has a militia, yes?"
One of the other generals responded. He was a bearded man with a thick Varrlander accent. "Aye. For a small place they've boasted they field a force of fifty, plus twenty archers and ten mounted warriors. No Knights or waymancers. Three Apostles, though we think they are weak in The Way. Our rangers are still present. Ten men with two Apostles."
Marcus approved. "That's a good working base. I propose this; free up the funds to hire thirty carpenters, and twenty loggers. Send them north with the Darisian 2nd, which is half the size of the 1st, and more than twice as experienced. We bring ten Apostles ourselves, of course, we'll need to ask the Cathedral for support, but in a time like this, I'd imagine there would be volunteers. If we could get to fifteen Apostles, we'd be in a more workable place. We'll need two trains still, but when we arrive, we'll fortify the town walls and turn it into a fortress. We can dig a dry moat, place pikes to protect against their cavalry, and build proper towers for archers. Two hundred bowmen, regardless of experience can hold that village for a month if the Empire attacks it, and our Apostles can cast a sending to reinforce us. We would require a lot of arrows."
"You wish for the glory Marcus?" Remoulard proposed softly.
Marcus started to answer, but wasn't sure what the truth was. "I don't know. I know my regiment General. I know my soldiers can do this, and I trust them to make sound decisions. I trust my judgment in that regard as well. I think the plan is sound if we have enough time to get the construction completed."
"You've left an element out of your plan Gray," LaFleur said, almost chewing the words like a meal.
"What?"
"The plains near Ockham's Fringe bear no fruit of lumber. You'd be bringing twenty loggers to cut down bushes and dig holes. You'd be better off bringing plain laborers or more carpenters. Any lumber you wish to build with you'd need to bring."
"Easy enough," Marcus said back. "Give me forty carpenters and a train car of sturdy logs. In a week we'll be impregnable."
"You can't live through a siege of the undead Marcus. The stories of starvation told of those who tried to wait them out are endless in Elmoryn's history," Remoulard said.
"Sir, I don't seek to outlast the dead. I seek only to last long enough to get reinforced. That failing, we'll delay an invasion for sufficient enough preparations to be made to repel it properly."
LaFleur was nodding, in agreement with everything Marcus said. Marcus felt a surge of confidence from the old officer's approval. LaFleur had a thought. "You'll need more than fifteen Apostles to hold them back if they come at us. One Apostle strong in The Way is better than ten archers against the dead Marcus. You'd need more than just volunteers. Someone at the Cathedral will have to persuade some of the fence sitters to commit."
Remoulard spoke up. "I am good friends with Bishop Alisanne. She has some clout in the Cathedral. I can visit her within the hour if need be."
LaFleur seemed to like that idea. "Yes. I agree with the Knight Major. His plan is sound. I will see to the funds to hire our builders and buy our lumber. Let us plan to leave tomorrow night by nightfall. General Prad please contact the Guild and let them know about our transportation needs. Remind them this is of the highest importance. General Remoulard go to the Cathedral of Kincaid at once. Securing a proper force of Apostles will be crucial. Tell the Bishop her efforts in this regard will not be forgotten by Varrland's military men and women."
"Yes Sir," Remoulard said before exiting with haste. General Prad, the bearded one, and the other man left on his heels.
Marcus downed his last sip of brandy out of the snifter and headed to the door. LaFleur stopped him. "Marcus, a moment please?"
"Of course sir," Marcus said, stopping and closing the door.
"Do you think this is real? Is this more than posturing by the Empire? Do you know something I don't?" LaFleur asked, his tone laced with skepticism and uncertainty.
"Sir I've spent a good amount of time with the two survivors from New Picknell, Malwynn and Umaryn—"
"The twins? The ones who claim to have gone to Graben?"
"Yes. Sir I believe the things they've said to me, not all of it of course, but enough of it that I am worried. I think the Empire has a plan underway that we haven't divined yet, and unless the Ancestors want to speak up and reveal the truth to us, I feel playing it safe and preparing for a proper attack is best."
"Mm. Well. Yo
u asked for it. If they come south, they'll stop first at Ockham's Fringe and you give them hell. Show them the meaning of the name Ghost Makers. You lead that regiment for a reason. Show me why I put you there."
Marcus saluted the old war hero. "Yes sir. Let them tell tales of our valor."
"How about you tell me tales of building a big fence for nothing over a drink in a few weeks when this all passes over?"
"I'll drink to that General."
Alisanne had a heady rush as she watched the General leave her office. Her eyes drifted over the small box on her shelf and she smiled.
Everything is coming together. It's almost like the Ancestors are completely in support of all that I do…
She picked up a letter opener that looked like a miniature dagger and rolled it in her fingers, letting the streams of the late afternoon light play off of it. The gold light bounced off the metal and danced across the ceiling and floor. She felt confident warmth spread through her, almost as if a thousand souls were embracing her, telling her everything would be alright.
The pressure brought on by the greedy Amaranth Queen had dragged out her nephew and neice's strongest ally in the city. The Knight Marcus Gray, the same one that had nearly foiled the destruction of New Picknell and her retrieval of the…
But now, with a little more work, she could send along all the Apostles in the Cathedral she didn't care for. All the skill-less sycophants and those who didn't believe in her brand of Ancestor faith. She could send them to Ockham's Fringe with the meddling Knight, and then pass along the plan the good General Remoulard just told her to the people in Graben that would appreciate it so…
And then she'd get one more thing she really wanted; a true and great war to finally purge the Amaranth Empire off the face of Elmoryn once and for all.
Yes, people would die by the thousands, and there would be pain and suffering on a scale not seen since the Great Plague three hundred years ago, but those souls would be ushered into the afterlife by all the loving and caring Apostles of her church. Out of tragedy and horror, there would be a grand rebirth for Varrland, for the oppressed people of the Empire, and for all of Elmoryn.
Alisanne sighed happily.
- Chapter Ten -
AN AWKWARD ADOPTION
Chelsea sat back in the train car seat, shaking her head in refusal. Her voice was slightly slurred, like she'd been at a bottle of wine for too long. "No, I'm fine. I just got whacked in the head. I'm fine. Really. Just leave me be."
James, the Apostle standing in front of her on the train, refused to hear her complaints. He spoke as if she were a child. "Chelsea. Thousands of your elders, your ancestors spent their entire lives here on Elmoryn, having babies, working hard, doing good, and they're all looking at you right now as you act a fool. Sit still, and take your healing like an adult. Isn't your mother an Apostle? Why is this such a struggle right now?"
Chelsea glared at him, but her eyes were wobbly. She'd taken a healthy blow to the head when a crossbow bolt nearly killed her earlier that night, and her brain and emotions were rattled. She also had a cut across her forehead big enough to stick a few fingers into. The bleeding had stopped, but you could see skull through the injury. Chelsea looked over to Malwynn, who stood behind James and tried to gather his support for her independence. He shook his head, and she knew the fight was lost. Chelsea leaned into James' hands, and he summoned The Way to heal her.
"Ancestors be praised, lend this woman your eternal strength and mend her mind and body. Make her whole once more," James said softly. He could've cast the spell with less words and gesticulation, but the ritual of it pleased him. The dedication and devotion, the rote of it all satisfied him, and made him feel whole. As his words faded into the dark train car the flesh on Chelsea's head stitched shut from the magic. Her eyes gathered and focused, and the effects of the blow to her head dissipated. Other than some dried blood on her head and armor it was as if she'd never been harmed at all.
"I've got two more injured in the very first train car. The conductor is dead as well. I bound his hands so he couldn't be a harm to anyone until you get to him James," Umaryn said as she took a heavy seat next to Chelsea. The sister put her arm around the freshly healed warrior and gave her an affectionate squeeze. Chelsea smiled.
James seemed pleased. "Thank you. I don't have much left in me to heal anyone else though. Are they injured badly? I might be able to manage enough of a spell to keep them from dying until I rest."
Umaryn looked unsure. "I think one of them might have some kind of bleeding on the inside. He's breathing real hard, sweating bad too. Lots of pain. The lady has a big cut on her arm. She's in pain, but I dug out a bottle of whiskey for her. She's three sheets to the wind now. Hardly aware she's got an arm that'll never make a fist again."
James sighed softly. "I'll head over and do what I can for the man. I've enough to keep his suffering manageable until morning. The woman will have to wait. But her hand will work again if the ancestors touch her with The Way."
"They won't have to wait until morning James," Umaryn said confidently.
"Why's that?" James seemed worried. Her statement sounded a little like the woman was doomed somehow.
"There will be another Artificer team along soon. These bandits have a small window to do their thing and get out and they missed it. There's a rail team between each train, and the next one along can't be far away. Each team has at least one Apostle, as well as guards and red trimmed Artificers. The man and woman only need to make it the next few hours. They'll be fine. The ancestors will find their way to them."
James looked at the twins, time frozen in his mind. He had imagined these two to be evil. Wicked from the core, but they weren't. They were young, scared, filled with a powerful sense of right and wrong, and had put their lives on the line for a hundred complete strangers. They had fought bravely and used The Way wisely by all accounts, and were exhausted now, but they still worked on selflessly. Others had been their only concern.
Malwynn and Umaryn were not the villains the Bishop had made them out to be. Not by a long shot. James was torn. They were either very different than what the Bishop had said, or they were hiding their true motives behind a façade. His duty to the Church and to his Bishop had been his entire world for so long, having his world view tested like this caused him almost physical pain. He had no idea how to react to them not being the way he expected them to be. Rationalizing his expectations versus the reality was proving to be a more difficult task than he found himself prepared for.
"James?" Umaryn asked.
He'd thought for too long. His silence had become awkward. He felt exposed. "I'm sorry. I'm very tired, I was lost in thought. What were we talking about?"
"You must be exhausted. The Artificer teams that will be through soon," Umaryn said. "We were talking of them. They'll be here soon, and take care of the others. You can probably rest. When you wake up, we'll be on the road to Davisville, and everything will be right as rain."
"Oh, that's good. I didn't realize how spent I was. I can barely stand." A convenient truth that hid his internal debate.
Mal reached over and put a strong but gentle hand on James' arm. The Apostle almost stiffened out of fright, but when he made eye contact with Mal, there was softness there that made him feel okay. The softness didn't clear up any of James' doubts.
"Do you have a room on the train James? I'll walk you there."
James smiled and shook his head. "No. I wouldn't spend the Church's money on something like that. I've just a seat in a passenger cabin the same as you, I imagine. Any seat will do."
"Let's walk you to the car those people are in. If you think they need help, maybe you can rest a bit then try a spell," Mal said, taking his hand off James.
"Mal, can I talk to you for a minute?" Chelsea asked, her voice soft.
"Love bird time. I got this Mal. James, I'll show you where I put them," Umaryn said, standing.
Out of impulse, James spoke to the twins. "Thank yo
u for all you've done here tonight. Without you, many of these people might've died. Criminals can't be allowed to prey upon the weak like this. It isn't right. Your family would be proud of you. So very proud of you. They look upon you from all around us, singing your praises I'm sure."
"Our family was burnt to death in New Picknell James. Their souls weren't given a chance to be set free. If our family is proud of us, it's going to need to be some pretty extended family." Umaryn said sadly and almost sarcastically.
"I didn't know, I'm so very sorry." Something about what she said chilled and disturbed James. There was an innate wrongness in letting someone die without setting their spirit free. It was as unthinkable as a mother starving her child would be.
"It's okay. Let's get you some rest."
Umaryn and the Apostle left the train car, shuffling along on sore and tired legs. Mal sat down next to the woman he loved and kissed her forehead right on the spot where she'd been cut open earlier. Other than the thin crust of dry blood her skin was perfect, as if it had never happened. "What's on your mind?"
Chelsea looked at Mal, and he knew immediately something was wrong.
Umaryn was right. When James awoke, the train was cresting over a series of small hills and pulling into the rainy city of Davisville. Davisville sat against the great western sea of Elmoryn, a cold and unforgiving body of water that consumed sailor's lives with great regularity, especially this far north. The city proper rested nestled against a sloping hill that started with the few meager piers of Davisville. They extended into the brackish coastal bay like the rigid fingers of a muddied skeleton. Several small boats rested there, tied snug against the piers.
The homes and businesses of Davisville were stark and cold like the land of The Northern Protectorate. Most of Elmoryn's concrete supply came from the NP, and the residents used their great natural resource more frequently in construction than anywhere else. Homes were slate gray almost as a rule, and were contained to squat one or two story structures made entirely of wooden beams and concrete blocks. Roofs were made of slanted thatch, or shingles cut from the sparse trees of the NP. A few of the homes and businesses dared to reach as high as three or four stories tall, and they stood out against the rest of the city like the black space in the smile of a man missing a front tooth. To the southern end of the city a larger complex of buildings could be seen, set slightly away from the homes nearby. It too was made of gray stone, and looked to be a military keep.