The Pulver Chronicles – 20. My Empire Of Dirt

When Elyonn woke up in the morning, he knew this would be a great day, one that would be celebrated for years to come. He knew it, for he would make it so.

Two servants appeared as he left the bed to assist him in getting dressed. They then helped him wear the jewelry he chose, including the six rings on his horns, symbolizing the six Archdemons, and the gold and red pendant around his neck, signifying his status as Archcommander of the Gold and Crimson Legions. He barely paid attention to the clothes that were picked for him, his thoughts focused on what would be happening later that day. Dismissed, the servants bowed deep, and left the room.

Elyonn held his head high as he walked down the hallways of his castle, saluted by his guards as he passed them. He kept it high all through the early morning rites, as his augur read to him the Litany of the Armilus once again. Every word of it filled him with a renewed pride; by the time the priest finished the description of the Tyrant’s destruction, Elyonn felt inspired like never before. He knew in his heart that, very soon, the Litany would no longer be mere prophecy. It would be truth, a truth that every soul would know.

His guests began arriving at the castle through the morning. Yerleg, Archpriest of the Order of Anjramaynya, was the first, as often; he came riding a horse, accompanied by a handful of his warrior-monks, clad in their signature black and silver armor that covered all of their bodies and completely hid their faces. He himself wore a similar suit of armor, but without the helmet, letting everyone see the large scar covering the right side of his face, going from the side of his chin up to his horn.

Bakasura, Archintendent of the Coppertop Plains, came next, his carriage visibly rocking from his weight as he climbed down. The Demon was about seven feet tall, and maybe thirty-five stones. He had brought around twenty people with him, servants and cooks. He was richly dressed as always, with gold jewelry all over his fingers, his wrists, and his ears; he was wearing a robe made out of the finest silks.

Namtar, Archmaster of the Silver Ridge, arrived third; his only company was his son and a bodyguard. Their fineries much like their carriage, simple but elegant, showing the skill but also the refinement of their famed crafters. Namtar was the smallest of the Six, barely reaching five feet four inches. Like the rest of the Silver Ridge Demons, he had no actual horns, only vestigial bumps on the sides of his head.

Elyonn smiled brightly as he saw the fourth Archdemon arriving. Rakshasa, Archcourtesan of the Houses of Opal and ruler of the Opal Coast. She was as beautiful as ever, he thought, with hints of blue makeup around her dark eyes, and wearing her long black hair in a series of knots framed by her painted horns. Elyonn found her outfit to be disappointingly conservative, however. Not even her shoulders showed. Ah, but it wasn’t a day for frivolity, anyway. It was a day for glory.

The guest Archdemons were given some time to refresh themselves after their journey, then convened around the Hexagon, a large pink marble table which, as its name implied, was shaped in the form of a hexagon. Elyonn occupied the largest seat, the White Gold Throne, located opposite the main door. As a symbolic gesture, he invited Yerleg to sit next to him to his left, and Rakshasa to his right. The others didn’t seem surprised, but Elyonn caught what he interpreted as looks of envy coming from them. He chuckled to himself. Such was the way of the Hexacracy. The Archdemons being equals did not mean they had to be treated equally in all things, it only meant that they had an equal chance to serve the purpose for which their union was forged. And all had an equal chance to make a claim for the White Gold Throne.

Of course, Elyonn thought, none of them so far had even thought to try and challenge his position. The power he wielded was beyond contest. It was almost a shame, really. A bit of competition would have been amusing -and no doubt the Hexacracy would have grown stronger for it.

Servants offered drinks in cups of bronze to the guests; one of them placed a large silver cup in front of the sixth seat, which remained empty, then filled it with a dark gray, iridescent liquid. Elyonn snapped his fingers, and the liquid caught fire. Technically, the finger-snapping was not necessary, but Elyonn had always enjoyed a bit of theatricality. The flame in the cup, about one foot tall, began undulating, as if shook by a gust of wind. Its shape changed, until it formed a face, with traits as smooth as a mask. Then, a voice rose from it:

“I am here.”

Elyonn acknowledged his last guest with a nod. Everyone was now present and settled, but he waited a little more, until the others were anxious to hear his announcement. He placed his hands flat on the table, stretched his shoulders to open his chest, and looked each Archdemon in his eyes.

“My brethren,” he said. “I have gathered you today to share with you some excellent news.” After a brief silence, he continued: “The auspices are clear. The time has come to conquer the Southern Marches.”

Reactions were varied around the table, from Rakshasa whose eyebrows shot up, to Bakasura whose face lit up in delight, to Yerleg who looked elated but not the least bit surprised.

“This is the moment we have been preparing for years. Ever since our half-victory against Wiltan the Weak, who just about managed to fight our predecessors back at the cost of many sacrifices. We have gotten stronger since then. We have trained an army the likes of which has never been seen in Varda. We have gathered powers their Inquisitors cannot even conceive.

“The Empire, meanwhile, has only grown weaker, and is still reeling from the last war. Its new Emperor is young, as green as grass; he has never seen battle, and has no experience of commandment. His lords are disunited, and their armies number less than ours. Now is the time to strike, quickly and decisively. By the time the Empire will have finally gathered its strength, the South will be ours. 

“And then…” He took a deep breath. “The true war will begin.”

“Finally,” Yerleg muttered. Bakasura nodded along.

“Weren’t we planning to attack on the first day of autumn?” Namtar said.

“We were,” Elyonn said with a negligent gesture of the hand. “But it makes no sense to wait for the Empire to prepare itself further. We are ready, they are not. It is as simple as that.”

“Are we ready?” Azazel asked through the flame.

“Certainly we are!” Yerleg answered. “Our men are trained, our swords are sharpened, our spirits are honed. Even our horses thirst for battle! Mine own warrior-monks stand ready to take all of Varda by themselves, if they must. I have myself given the auspices Elyonn speaks of. Believe me when I say that the Marches’ fall is but the first step of a long and glorious journey.”

Elyonn smiled in approbation. There was no doubt in his or anyone’s mind that Yerleg was his most faithful support, both among the Six and in the Hexacracy. The others were loyal, without a doubt, but they only saw him as the Archcommander of the Gold and Crimson Legions. Yerleg alone knew he was much more than a military leader. Yerleg alone knew of his grand destiny.

For now.

“If I may,” Azazel said, “I believe attacking at this juncture would be premature. I am still in talks with the city of Atvello regarding-”

“Nevermind Atvello,” Elyonn said. “We knew from the beginning they would not join us.”

“We can still secure their neutrality, with the possibility of trade throughout the conflict. I’m sure I don’t have to explain how it could help with our logistics.”

“Neutrality,” he scoffed. “It is much better to secure their allegiance. And we will do so, one way or another.”

“If you mean to besiege Atvello,” Azazel said. There was a brief silence, then she continued: “I would suggest that this may not be a good idea. Sieges are complicated affairs, they require time, men, and supplies.”

Elyonn smiled again, this time with a touch of condescension. He couldn’t help it. The Archmage Azazel was worried about Atvello. Atvello! He was offering the Southern Marches, and soon far more than that, and she was worried about one measly city. It was a good job Azazel was gifted in the ways of magic, as evidently neither politics nor war were her forte. Furthermore, the solution to her objection was obvious.

“No, I do not mean to besiege the city. I mean to take it.”

“An assault,” Azazel said. “But…”

“As you said, sieges take time, and we have little to spare to this thorn in our side. We will take the city. We have the siege weapons to bring down its walls, and if necessary the ships to blockade its port. For that matter: Rakshasa, what of this fifth column you had there?”

“Captured, I’m afraid,” Rakshasa said, dipping his chin slightly. “And on his way to the gallows, if he isn’t swinging there yet.”

“Disappointing,” Elyonn commented. It wasn’t surprising, however. Elyonn had never cared much for all this skulduggery the Archcourtesan commonly indulged in. Espionage served its purpose, certainly, but even a thousand spies could never be anywhere near as efficient as a hundred soldiers. “But no matter. With or without inside help, taking Atvello will be simple. Their garrison numbers less than a thousand men, including mercenaries, and they will desert as soon as the money runs out anyway. Two armies should be sufficient for this purpose.”

“Agreed,” Yerleg said. “I would gladly volunteer these two armies.”

“Your warrior-monks would make short work of the city, no doubt. But it will not be necessary. They will be better suited for another, more glorious purpose. Another enemy.”

“C’fa?” Bakasura said.

Elyonn scoffed. “Them? Certainly not. Their corsairs will not even try to threaten our ships; they will see power and turn tail, hoping to find weaker prey. No, I think of a much more important enemy, one that has been hindering our efforts in the South ever since the last war.”

“The Inquisition!” Yerleg exclaimed, spitting the word as if it was a curse.

“Indeed. These self-righteous, hypocritical cultists have their commanderies all over the Southern Marches. Their destruction is a priority.”

Everyone around the table agreed; even Azazel had nothing to say against that.

“It will be my greatest pleasure,” Yerleg said.

“Good.” The Archcommander smiled. “Make sure to hunt them all, we can’t have any of them at our back disrupting our operations. We will have to dedicate most of our magis to this, as well; pious frauds they may be, but their magical abilities are real.”

“So when will we march down south?” Rakshasa said.

“We begin operations in eight days, at the new moon,” Elyonn said. “Namtar, have you ensured Ranol’s cooperation?”

“I have, at no small cost. In addition to the gold, the marquess has demanded lands to add to his fief.”

“Of course he has. We’ll see about that later. Now, then: eight armies will cross the Western Mountains through Aurus Colles, while six more will board our ships, follow the coastline, and take Llorysport on the eastern coast. Both forces will then converge at the Steelfort, which we will besiege. I don’t expect marquess Farroh will resist us for long. At the same time, two armies will march west, to Atvello.”

They discussed the finer points of the strategy for a while, as large, detailed maps were deployed on the table. Elyonn dominated the discussion, naturally, not just due to his position among the Six but also owing to the fact that said strategy was originally his. Namtar, Yerleg, and even Azazel had contributed to it, of course, each in their own way. But for the most part, this was Elyonn’s plan. He had spent countless waking hours hunched over these very maps, thinking, planning, anticipating. And now finally the time had come, and his dream was within reach.

“I can provide enough supplies to outlast the defenders,” Bakasura said, as they were discussing the siege of another fort, near the eastern coast of the Marches. “It is only a matter of bringing it there. Can you ensure the protection of my caravans?”

“Certainly,” Namtar said. “With the Steelfort and Atvello occupied by our forces, the western part of the Marches will be ours. Provided the commanderies there will be gone.”

“They will be,” Yerleg confidently said.

“Then taking the ports along the eastern coast should be easy. With the fates on our side, we’ll have secured them before the bulk of the imperial fleet arrives.”

“That is the ideal scenario,” Azazel said. “But we should be prepared in case events unfold differently.”

“We will be prepared,” Elyonn said. “When we meet the Empire, it will be from a position of strength.”

Even through her scrying, Elyonn could tell Azazel wanted to reply something to that, but she didn’t. At least she knows when she’s wrong, he thought. 

The conversation went on. More details were discussed, from the garrisons of captured castles and fortified cities, to the varying allegiances of several marquesses all through the campaign, to the possible implication of C’fan maliks in the conflict -the latter was considered very unlikely. As it neared its end, the Archcommander could tell the others were as galvanized as he felt. Even Azazel hadn’t said anything negative in a while. Elyonn stood from his throne, having decided to end the gathering with a few words.

“My brethren, a hundred years from now, historians the world over will look back on this day and say: “Then began the fall of the Empire. Then began the rise of the Armilus.”. For centuries -for millenia-, our ancestors have dreamed of a world that would be theirs, a world they would own. No longer would they have to live by the law of others. No longer would they have to submit to gods that weren’t their own. And today, today finally, we stand ready to build such a world, upon the ruins of the old one.

“For we are not simply about to wage war against the Empire. We are about to wage war against the Tyrant.”

Yerleg let out an exclamation of exultation, while Rakshasa and Bakasura raised their cups. The latter added a few words of his own after finishing his drink:

“I recall, quite some time ago, when the Imperials said with disdain that the Hexacracy wouldn’t last a decade, confident as they were that they would crush us, or that our union would collapse upon itself. And here we are, over a generation later, stronger than ever, and poised to succeed them as the dominant power in Varda.” He chuckled, his large pale face taking a slightly pink color. 

“Meanwhile,” Elyonn continued, “this Empire that they claimed was prophesied to last a hundred millenia will not last even one.”

Namtar and Yerleg laughed. Elyonn noticed through a window that the sun was descending in the sky, and decided to adjourn the meeting. Servants were called to guide the guests to their rooms. Azazel’s scrying ended, and the flame died, leaving the plate empty but for a silt at the bottom. Still invigorated, Elyonn elected not to retire to his study as he usually would. Instead, he went to the training fields in the castle’s inner courtyard.

He trained there for hours, until the sky turned orange, then dark. First, he honed his skill with the bow. He never liked fighting at a distance, much preferring to meet his enemies head-on. Then, he practiced with the ax. Finally, as he was glistening with sweat, he trained with the longsword, by far his favorite weapon. It gave him a good reach and, combined with his natural strength, allowed him to make short work of any opponent.

As he raised his blade in the air, Elyonn turned to one of the wooden training posts he hadn’t used yet. To strengthen his attacks and increase their accuracy, he pictured the post as an actual enemy. He imagined, as best he could, that the mere construction of wood was the Emperor himself. Elyonn, of course, had never met him, and even Azazel and Yerleg had not been able to scry him, protected as he was by the mages of his cult. However, the man -or rather the boy- had been described to him several times. So he imagined Damian III, his black hair, his iron crown, and upon his face the look of arrogance that befitted every Emperor.

To complete the picture, he pictured himself fighting Damian in the Sanctotum of the imperial capital. This was a fantasy he had entertained often: facing the Tyrant’s puppet in their most sacred place of power, in the heart of their false kingdom. Elyonn had no doubt the young Emperor would give a good fight, green though he was, but not even the best Human warrior could hope to stand against an Archdemon and live. The Archcommander would disarm him, bring him to the core of the Sanctotum, and behead him. Then, it would only be a matter of sitting back and watching as the decapitated Empire crumbled, and with him the old order. 

Once again, it was a dream that would soon come true. Elyonn was absolutely certain of it. For he wasn’t just the Archcommander, not just the Archdemon leading the Six and the Hexacracy.

He was the Armilus. He was the prophesied elect who would bring an end to the Tyranny of the Demiurge -the one the Imperial Cult superstitiously called the Divine-, break their hold upon the realm, and cast their servants into the Abyss. He was the one fated to sit on the world’s throne, and lead it into a new era of greatness.

He knew it, for he would make it so.

***

Namtar checked that the door was locked four times before letting out a breath and turning away. He then verified that all of his belongings had been carried to his room, muttering all the while. Placing his ear to the wall, he tried to hear his son Navna in the next room over. He was reassured by the fact that he couldn’t hear a thing even by staying very silent. As to his bodyguard Lodmor, he would never eavesdrop through the door. All right, this was fine. He shut the windows’ curtains, and lit the candles on the table at the center of the room. Leaning over the table, he whispered the words, and after a few minutes the flame came alive.

“Are we alone?” the flame spoke.

“Do you think me simple? Yes, we are alone.”

Azazel’s mask was hard to make out in the very small body of the candle’s flame, yet Namtar could swear it had expressed some sort of silent snark.

“You were wrong,” Namtar said. “Elyonn did not change his mind.”

“I never said he would, actually, I merely suggested that he should.”

“Well, he hasn’t. The war will happen.”

“Indeed. And sooner than we thought,” Azazel sighed.

“Sooner than the Imperials thought, which is what matters. They are not ready -will not be ready in time.”

“Let us hope so.”

“Ever the defeatist, eh?” Namtar sniffed. “Listen, I agree that this plan has risks. I will even agree that it has flaws; what plan doesn’t? But it can truly work. We can finally take the South.”

“Which, you believe, will solve your problem.” Even perfectly atonic, her voice could still carry sarcasm.

Namtar’s eye twitched. “I would hope to solve my problem before then. Before anyone else realizes there is a problem.” He pointed a finger at the flame. “And do cease acting so glib about it. You have your share of the responsibility. The lion’s share, I dare say.”

“Do I? They are your creation, as I remember.”

“I created the shell, but you filled it with essence.”

“Following your instructions. You wished them to be ferocious? They are the greatest predators, possibly, to have lived on Varda. You wanted them to be resilient? Their will doesn’t bend even through the storms of war. You demanded them to have a warrior’s instincts? They are essentially born to love violence.”

“I needed them to be obedient!” Namtar nearly screamed, making the flame flicker.

“Obedience cannot be instilled in sentient creatures,” Azazel retorted, still the very image of calm. “It must be earned. You put a leash on them, but couldn’t hold it. The responsibility for that is not mine.”

The Archmaster let out a “bah!” combined with a gesture of exasperation. “Let us not change the subject. It is a problem, and neither of us wants it to be known to the others. I have taken steps to resolve it, but I am not sure whether they will be sufficient.”

“I suppose you’re alluding to your mercenary band.”

“How do you-” 

The question died on his lips, for it was a pointless one. First of all, because it was no surprise that she knew; in spite of her act, Namtar knew the problem down south concerned her, so it made sense that she would seek to know all about it. Second of all, because it served no purpose to ask how she knew, as she would never say. The most Namtar had ever gotten from such queries in the past was a laconic and somewhat impatient: “I simply knew.”.

The Archmage of the Occultatum was largely considered the weakest of the Six. She had the smallest army, barely a couple of thousand soldiers -and it was mostly mercenaries. She ruled over the smallest fief, which was mostly made out of mountains, sparsely populated, and contained very few arable lands. Still, she wielded an impressive amount of magical power, and her Occultatum was widely believed to host a great wealth of knowledge, both material, occult, and ethereal; the greatest, some said, of the continent, perhaps the world. Those fcts alone were enough to grant her a seat at the Hexagon. In fact, in the early days of the Hexacracy, Azazel and her fief had refused to enter the covenant, showing no interest in it. It was only after years of negotiations -and pressure- that she had agreed to join the other five Archdemons.

But Namtar had recently begun to suspect that, in addition to the aforementioned knowledge and magical power, Azazel had another trick up her sleeve. Much like Rakshasa, the Archmaster seemed cognizant of the fact that knowledge, properly used, was another form of power. Unlike the Archcourtesan, however, there was no obvious way as to how she could be collecting said knowledge. It was an open secret for the Six that Rakshasa used the courtesans from her Houses of Opal as her own spy ring; pleasure and alcohol made people loquacious, this was well known. But Azazel had no equivalent to those Houses. She owned no property outside her mountains, and her magis rarely left the Occultatum. And when they did, they were treated with some distance, and trusted with the minimal amount of information. So how could Azazel possibly use them to gather intelligence?

“Yes, my mercenary band,” Namtar said. “Sometimes, the simplest solutions are the most effective. They will cut off the head, and the rest will collapse.”

“Simple indeed,” Azazel said.

“It will work,” the Archmaster insisted.

“What if the rest… grows another head?”

“You mean, what if they find another leader? Who? Shatter-the-Shields is the only one to have managed to federate them. Or perhaps you allude to her sister?” He let out another “bah!”.

The Archmage stayed silent for a while. “So you believe you have it under control. Why are we having this conversation, then?”

“Because things are moving quicker than we thought,” Namtar said. “As I said, I want this fire to be doused before anyone smells smoke. Now, I believe the mercenaries can handle the problem, but then again I believed that very problem handled after the Dusk Steppe. This time, I need to be certain.”

“You want me to finish your work.”

“I’ve been uncautious in the past, but I won’t have it said that I don’t learn from my mistakes. Especially not on this. Should the others learn, this could be bad. For both of us.”

He had added that last sentence, sensing that she was once again going to deflect responsibility.

“We will both be made to answer to this, if it goes wrong,” he added, hammering the point home. “Do you think the rest of the Hexacracy will care who is more responsible than the other?”

“All right, fine,” Azazel sighed. “I will lend you a hand. It’s fortunate I’ve kept abreast of that particular situation.”

Of course you have, Namtar thought.

“So what will you do?” he asked.

“I have people in the Marches,” she said laconically.

“Mercenaries? Assassins?”

“Potentially. Is there something else for us to discuss? There are matters I need to attend to.”

The Archmaster hesitated, then shook his head.

“Very well, then,” Azazel said. “A good day to you, Archmaster.”

The flame returned to normal before Namtar could bid her goodbye as well. He blew the candle, and reopened the curtains to catch the evening’s last lights. The hour before dusk was spent trying to assuage his stress. In vain, as he still felt restless as he went to bed. He rubbed his eyes, and massaged his forehead.

It wasn’t just the problem in the South that preoccupied him, but also the fact that Azazel had not seemed as concerned as she should have been by the situation. By the Armilus, she did not seem to consider it a problem at all! Sure, she had agreed to help, but she had not said how. It could be that her idea of helping would be to cast a few spells, scry a little, and leave the rest to him.

He shuffled in his bed. Why did he ever decide to ask for her help in this project to begin with? In theory, she was the logical partner: she had the knowledge he required, and she was naturally secretive enough that she was unlikely to reveal anything to anyone. In practice, she had proved… difficult. She had made demands, shot down many of Namtar’s requirements as impossible, and shrugged off several criticisms -yet offered many in return. The project had been a pain as well, as it had kept running over budget and ultimately taken three times as long as originally planned. Ultimately, the Archmage had done her share of the work -just-, pocketed what was owed to her, then had gone back to her affairs in the Occultatum, seemingly without a care for the results.

Well, the results had been disastrous, thank you quite so much! It was a good job Namtar had been able to smother the ensuing madness before it got too far, as Azazel did not lift a finger about it. It was his land, his project, ergo his problem, she said. If it had been any other Archdemon, Namtar would have suspected that the whole thing had been a deliberate attempt to weaken him, but Azazel had always been too unconcerned with Hexacrat politics and too focused on whatever she was doing in her Occultatum for this theory to be plausible. Ah! Next time, I’ll simply build Golems, he thought bitterly. At least they are stupid enough to be obedient.

It was only when the problem fled the Hexacracy and migrated to the South that Azazel agreed -with great reluctance- to lend a hand, and only because, as Namtar had reminded her, she could suffer its consequences as well.

Truly, Namtar decided, this partnership had lasted too long, and had not yielded any meaningful results. Maybe ending it on his terms could prove more profitable.

If this southern problem could not be quelled in time and were to be found out by the other Archdemons… Well, in Namtar’s opinion, a problem could either be solved, or it could be blamed on someone else.

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