Intelligence about such things was not all that difficult to come by. When soldiers returned from a campaign, they always talked about it in the taverns. But they always exaggerated, too. Numbers could not be trusted. However, one could get a general sense of the campaign by comparing stories. Their spies reported that the Army of Anuire had fought undead within the Shadow World, monsters like albino spiders, only even larger, big enough in some cases to drag off a cow, if the stories were to be believed. They had encountered deadly vines that lay dormant and withered-looking on the ground till stepped on, then suddenly snaked around a man’s legs, rapidly climbing up his torso and sending root tendrils deep into the flesh to suck out the vital fluids. Cut the vine and the tendrils keep on growing underneath the skin, sending shockingly rapid new growth out through bodily orifices. Death came within hours, filled with excruciating agony. Derwyn shuddered at the thought. What would make men risk such things time and again?
His father could not command such loyalty. He seemed to know it, too. Arwyn ruled by fear. Michael ruled by inspiration. Perhaps his reasons for not taking troops into the Shadow World were strategic, as he claimed. Or perhaps he was secretly afraid his troops might mutiny if he attempted it. Indeed, thought Derwyn, it was a crazy thing to do. Maybe that was it. Even when they were boys, Derwyn had seen traces of that craziness in Michael, but at the same time, it was an infectious craziness. He could always get the other boys to do the most amazing things, things they never would have considered doing on their own. He was a natural-born leader, with a very special and powerful charisma.
Doubtless, it ran within his bloodline, as it did within Derwyn’s own, but Derwyn had never manifested it. His father had if to a degree, but Michael possessed in abundance the blood power known as divine aura. His troops would follow him anywhere. And if a man were to fall in battle, Michael would see to it that his family was provided for. It had to be a ruinous expense considering the losses his army had sustained over the years. If we tried it, Derwyn thought, it would quickly bankrupt our treasury, but Michael had the advantage there, as well. The Imperial Treasury had built up a considerable surplus over the many years of the empire’s history, and the Roeles had never been profligate spenders. Until now, of course, but the entire empire knew Michael dipped into his treasury to support his people, and so they contributed all the more willingly. Surely they were as tired of the war as the people in Boeruine or Brosengae or Taeghas, but they loved their emperor because he never forgot them. Still, there had to be a limit. If this war continued for much longer, it would break them both.
If it weren’t for the considerable resources of the guilds in Brosengae or the merchant shippers in Taeghas, thought Derwyn, our own war effort would have stalled at least five years ago, and the interest on those debts was mounting steadily. The only way they would ever be able to repay the debt would be to conquer Anuire, seize the empire, and then bleed the country dry. He didn’t want to think about the possibilities of what might happen if the guilds called in the loans. His father had the troops, of course, but the guilds had powerful alliances with other guilds throughout Cerilia. They could easily raise a mercenary army or else freeze Boeruine out altogether, isolating them and cutting off all trade. They could not afford to lose this ill-considered and seemingly interminable war. But then, Derwyn knew, as did his father, that if they did lose, they would undoubtedly be put to death, so there was little point in worrying about the debt. If they won, it would be paid off by taxing the people of the empire, who would certainly not love them for it.
Even his father was growing tired of the war. A man who had always lived for the thrill of leading troops into the field on campaigns, Arwyn was showing the strain of the long fighting. He brooded about it obsessively, spent long hours with his advisors and field commanders, planning his campaigns, constantly sending observers out to report on the conditions of the border garrisons, which he expanded and refortified each spring. He so often complained about the goblins’ failing to hold up their end of the alliance that Derwyn could recite most of his litanies by heart. How long could it possibly continue?
Given the continued support of the guilds, or some significant victories such as the seizure and garrisoning of western Alamie, the war could go on for years. It had taken over all their lives, and Derwyn was weary unto death of it.
Once, and only once, he had broached the subject of a negotiated peace. His father had flown into such a rage that Derwyn never brought it up again. Still, it seemed the only sane alternative. Assuming Michael would negotiate. And knowing Michael… well, he didn’t really know him anymore, did he? Michael seemed to truly care about his people. Perhaps he would be willing to negotiate a treaty wherein Boeruine, Taeghas, Talinie, and Brosengae could form their separate empire, but the Michael he remembered would not give up on anything. And so it went on. And on, and on, and on …
“Milord,” said Arwyn’s chamberlain, entering the hall, “the wizard waits without and craves an audience.”
“Send him in,” Arwyn said in a sullen tone, gesturing for the servants to clear away the plates. “Perhaps he has some good news to report. I could use some for a change.”
A moment later, Callador came in, walking slowly and supporting himself with his staff. Derwyn had no idea how old Callador was, but he looked ancient. As a child, Derwyn had been afraid of him because whenever he had misbehaved, his governess had threatened to have the wizard turn him into a newt or strike him dumb or make him “feel the fires.” He had never been entirely clear on what it meant to “feel the fires,” but it had certainly sounded unpleasant. Such impressions, gained at an early age, died hard, and Derwyn still felt uneasy in the wizard’s presence. He shifted in his chair uncomfortably as Callador approached.
He was as bald as an egg and extremely thin, so slender that it looked as if a stiff breeze would blow him over. He had no hair at all, neither beard nor eyebrows, the result of some illness he had contracted many years ago, which had also left his voice hoarse and gravelly. Perhaps he could have cured these conditions with magic or gone to a healer, but he didn’t seem to care. He was not very much concerned with his personal appearance, as evidenced by the threadbare robes he always wore, which were a faded brown wool, coarsely woven. Derwyn grimaced, hoping he would stop before he got too close. He smelled perpetually of garlic, and his body odor would have stunned an ox. His father, apparently sharing his olfactory sensitivities, spoke before the wizard got within a dozen yards of them.
“What news, Callador?” he said curtly.
The wizard stopped and stood, leaning on his long staff as he gazed up at the dais where they sat at the long table. “I bring word from our special friend at the Imperial Cairn,” he said.
Derwyn raised his eyebrows and glanced from the wizard to his father. “We have an informant at the palace of Anuire?” he asked with surprise.
Arwyn smiled. “It has been a fairly recent development,” he replied. “One that has taken some time and considerable trouble to arrange.”