Stand By Thy Blood - Updated 20/09/15

[Alwyn]

I'm enjoying both this story and your other CW tale.

[Iron Aquilifer]

The Empress

“Your Eminence, I believe that it is best if we speak plainly.”

Quell Tilk was a large man, the milky white complexion of Ruhr betraying his heritage of being a man with the blood of a conquered people within him. He claimed nobility on both banks of the great river, however there were many from the jaded palaces of Havor who did not recognise the claims of Ruhrland landowners as being nobility in their own right.

“Of course, my old friend, what is it that weighs heavily on your mind?”

The nobleman hesitated before taking a seat alongside the Empress, his eyes never leaving the woman. The garden was a vast, sprawling affair, encompassing at least fifty acres within the heartland of the capital city. Here, it was almost peaceful. Here it was anything but safe.

“I wish to return to the marches. There is nothing more that I can do here.”

Fleeing are we? Dol Myfi had already reported to her on the loyalty of the royal court. The news of the al-Baelgoi gathering had reached them all. They had also come to realise that the Imperial garrison was preparing to march, something even the most blind of them knew could only result in blood. Civilians by the thousand were being recruited, hastily armed to fill out the ranks.

“Tilk your place is here,” the Empress replied, scanning the withered face of the noble.

“The treasure will empty itself with or without me trying to stem the flood. I am of better service as overlord of the marches.”

“You believe that I should not be preparing for the worst?”

Myfi and Parael had argued intensively against the mustering of an army, claiming that their men could end the threat before the realm was split apart. Even if they did succeed, there was going to be violence. For too long had the nobles been able to manoeuvre themselves behind the scenes. She had been away from the provinces for too long. The emerald dragon of the Imperial dynasty had not been seen in all of its majestic power. The Empress would see to it that every family would remember why the Summer War had been her victory and not theirs.

“That is what I wish to do, Your Eminence. Should the Imperial army take to the field, you will need the western borders secured. At home, I am the general of an Imperial army. Here, I am just another man with a title.”

I can see the sense in that. Yet Myfi was certain that Tilk was in communication with the al-Baelgoi themselves. If he wasn’t throwing his support behind them, then he was at least keeping his options open. A sound political stance, if cowardly for one such as the Quell. He had bled for her against Harbrig, losing his left ear and a son for her. She needed Tilk’s support, civil war or not. The Quell’s money had kept the royal finances from running out, and the manpower he commanded was vital in ensuring that the throne had supremacy over the Empire.

“Then who will replace you here?”

“None could,” he answered expectantly, offering a croaking laugh at her reaction. “Dol Kriest would serve you well.”

No, not good at all. Kriest had wealth yes, but if she recalled correctly it was all tied to a dozen different schemes and trading projects. It was all in loans and building projects and merchant companies. There was no ready coin available through him. His influence stretched only to a few Lamber lords and guilds outside of the city, and although he had some strong links within the capital, that would not tip the balance as surely as she needed it to. Worst of all was his military standing: there were few Meb on his lands and his entire household could not number any more than a thousand, servants and all. No, too weak.

“I meant of the al-Baelgoi.”

It was a large family, branches stretching across near enough the entirety of the Empire. Some could be cut and replanted within the garden of the throne. She had enough titles within her court, enough positions open, and there were enough unmarried noble girls and boys that she could be very generous.

“The Dol of Shect can muster three hundred Meb,” Tilk managed after a long pause.

Better. At least her Quell now understood what she needed of him. It would not be enough to defeat the threat, three hundred Meb, but for every Dol she bought, there would be one less standing against her. Dol Myfi can even speak with them himself. That man had a way with words, a trusting aura that diplomacy was a weapon in his hands.

“Any others?”

“Dol Jeslyn. Meb Gyllon. Fa Vytris. Each one have influence and swords at their command. Each one has reason to get back at their peers.”

I don’t know these nobles. They were not ones who had ever graced her court for long enough to be remembered. Though neither are they with the rest of their kin. Making a point now to remember each name, the Empress rose from the bench. There was no time to even attempt to try and enjoy the solitude of the garden.

“I owe you a debt, Quell Tilk.”

“Allow me to serve you, Your Eminence, and you may consider the debt repaid.”

Neither of them made mention of success against the al-Baelgoi.

[Iron Aquilifer]

The Al-Baelgoi

They numbered three hundred, a tight column five wide. The first ten ranks bore lances aloft in the haze, small pennants of blue cloth fluttering in the brisk wind. Behind the lancers came bowmen, quivers securely fastened tight against the flanks of dark-haired horses. They were an imposing sight, cantering along the water-logged dirt road. On either side fields stretched out as far the eye could see, interlocking squares of green and gold and brown. Some were so arid that nothing visible grew, knee-high weeds that shied away from the neighbouring crops that dared to stand as tall as a man.

Nearing the village, an anthill of stone and wood and sundried mud, the column slowed, allowing those at the back to come up to the flanks. For the villagers, now spreading the appearance of the riders as if passing water to quench the thirst of a wildfire, it looked as if the nearing horsemen were a bird unfurling its wings, about to take flight over their holding. The horsemen continued to close on the village, pacing themselves out until they were at a width to match the village itself.

“The collectors?”

Odyael did not know, calling out for her children to get back inside the relative safety of their home. Before, even in the aftermath of the killings, the collectors had never numbered more than twenty. Twenty of Dol Faelyse’s men had ravaged the village in to poverty and Odyael could not understand the sight before her. Just a show of strength. That was to be expected. Fifty horsemen, a hundred at a push. Three hundred is too much. Even with her limited knowledge, Odyael could guess at the expense of such a show of force. Fear, she tried to conclude. They use it as a tool as much as wealth and blunt trauma. They are predicable, these nobles who look down on us. Yet it was a young woman who would have commanded them, and untested youths were dangerous.

“All the children should get inside!”

It was better to be safe when it came to armed bodies descending on their homes. It would not save them, but at least they would not be slain within sight of their parent’s bodies. Hearing the children being shooed towards their homes, Odyael forced herself to take a deep breath, feeling the lightness of the air in her lungs. She had been named to represent her village, something that could not be done if she did not stand and be recognized. She took a step towards the oncoming riders, gazing off in to their silent and expressionless faces.

“Rygel, you had best go check on the tithe.”

The man in question did not argue, all resistance withering before the sight of the horsemen. Not that I blame him. Staunch soldiers would waver in the face of that much might assembled in a small place, and Rygel was no soldier. Even still, he held a foot of rusted iron alongside the fifty others who had at one point offered to defy an empire for her.

“Lets go and give them a welcome befitting their status as masters,” she told everyone and no one, taking another set in front of the pulsating mass of villagers who now interlocked their arms. “Prosperity and glory be yours!”

Even as the words were uttered, the first flight of arrows soared through the air. The lances, fifty solid beams of dark despair, came down level like the executioner’s axe. Horses, beasts black as treachery, thundered towards the villagers, towards the lone figure who defied them alone on the muddy ground. Men of cloth and glistening metal reached forward, death their only interest. Odyael screamed, watching them come forward like the coming tide of destruction that would cleanse the earth. Her feet were rooted to the spot, unable and unwilling to move. There was nothing she could do.

“Odyael!” someone cried, terror hurling the words towards her.

Someone needs to go to the capital. She did not know if it was her mind or the last cries of one of her people. It was a voice that was not her own, flinging words that made no sense at her, boulders that sent her body in to action. Run.

She did not look back.

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

That's a great chapter! The slow build up to the attack, and the description of it when it comes ("fifty solid beams of dark despair", and "beasts black as treachery" - lovely writing!) are very powerful.

(I admit, I was kind of expecting the attack - which makes the impact of the writing even more impressive, since I wasn't surprised.)