Assuming the Position
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An Assumed InheritanceChapter 8 free porn video
Debra was striding beside Esfalan, leading her horse, while Autonorë was riding with Jorda. Esfalan noted that where there was no apparent danger and no need for sleep, only one of the two stayed by his side. He'd not mentioned this observation.
He wasn't the only observant one of the three of them, however. From as companionable a silence as could be had in the wrack of the plague, Debra spoke. "You are very different when you are commanding, here in hostile territory. Even your speech is... more formal, and odd."
Esfalan nodded. "It is more of my inheritance, the legacy of the Captain-Commander. I will be more... playful when this task is complete."
Debra nodded. Esfalan gave an odd smile, as if hearing a joke she could not, and then told her, "If it were not cruel to the Company when the vast majority lack companionship, I would offer to you and Autonorë the chance to better guard my person at night from within my bedding."
Debra blushed, and stared ahead, scanning the sides of the road for possible threats. "If it were not unfair to the company to see their commander share his bedding when they could not, I would accept." Blushing harder, she continued, "And, so, I think, would Autonorë, though it is Jorda that is likeliest to successfully teach her his magic."
Esfalan silently agreed with the assessment. Companionably, they strode side by side as the leagues passed.
The town lay across the wide river, the river itself between levees and block-stone walls. The increase in the number of small farmsteads had become outlying houses, then a full-blown town, the outer reaches of one of Syrisia's large cities. They were close to the Gulf now, two-and-a-half days later. Esfalan and Pylonem had conferred, and agreed that the elves would ride in a shield of the legion-as-infantry. No one could guess what conditions might be like in the town; caution was certainly called for.
Almost uniformly, the houses they had passed in recent days had been burnt. Here, wood frame construction was the norm, rather than the stone that Esfalan was familiar with in Ehladriel, or the brick of the War College; it was reminiscent of the style of old Syrith that Avatharel had known.
In contrast, the wood houses in this town seemed to have caught fire and spread rapidly, though in a pattern that the wind could not account for.
Verothlen hit upon it, soon after they entered the town. "They tried to stop the spread of the plague by burning the houses of the sick," he said softly. Esfalan nodded somberly.
Nothing seemed to move in the charred remains of the town. The only noises were the horses, and the boots of the legionnaires. Esfalan had the sense of being watched by furtive eyes, and was glad he had his company and his legion.
Rapidly, they trotted - man and horse - through the town, to the bridge at the center, which, Esfalan was happy to see, was still standing, though it was wood. Quickly, they crossed to the other side, then made their way eastward through the debris and rotting corpses on the road. To the north was the Gulf of Syriss, the occasional glint coming from the still-high sun off the waves far out to sea.
Esfalan was sick of the death. Though he tried to be unaffected, it was weighing evenly on all the elves, and he shuddered to think how the humans were holding up. Debra was subdued, and Autonorë was nearly silent. Jorda was the least affected, though. As the sun began to fall, Esfalan ordered a camp be made in another burned-out barn. Esfalan expected nocturnal visitors, though, since the oppressive sense of being watched was so great in the town.
He asked Jorda if there were something the cleric could do to lighten the mood. The cleric sat and pondered for a moment, then fetched a canteen from his horse. Autonorë had sat with him, and conferred for a moment, and then the cleric began a lyrical litany, with an odd rhythm. After he had chanted over the canteen for a few minutes, Esfalan saw the now-expected glow.
Smiling, Jorda held out the canteen. Esfalan felt his left eyebrow climb, but reached out and took the offered container. He put it to his lips, and took a sip.
Instantly, cool water rushed into his mouth, bringing a taste of fresh mountain streams, and along with the taste, putting Esfalan in mind of happier times. As he swallowed, he felt like the strength and agelessness of the world itself were flowing into him; he had to force himself to stop from desperately gulping the sweet water.
"By all that is on Feldare, what is in that?" Esfalan could not contain the expostulation. Feeling lighter and more carefree, he recognized the sadness around him, but was able to put a barrier of good cheer between himself and the devastation. He looked inside the canteen, and it seemed as full as when he had started taking his first of five swallows. Or perhaps it had been ten? Nonetheless, the canteen was still full.
Clapping Jorda on the back, the Captain-Commander ordered every man, woman, elf, and horse to get a drink from the canteen.
Full night had fallen, and though it was once again a cold camp, with no fires to steep tea, or soften waybread, or, for the legionnaires, to fry bacon with, the spirit of the small company was better than it had any right to be. No one had been hurt, or come down ill, and Esfalan and Pylonem had conferred and agreed that Syrith was only three days by Imperial high road away.
Esfalan was dipping his waybread in cold water, ordinary water, this time, not cleric-blessed water, however much he would have liked it to have been. Jorda was indeed a blessing, Esfalan thought, and wondered, not for the first time, what it was in the elven view of the world that made them see those that humans saw as Gods as equals to the elves. Verothlen had come a bit out of his gloom, with the aid of the blessed water. Esfalan knew him to be in great pain from his internal disease, in addition to the depression the widespread death and destruction had caused in everyone.
He was about to speak to Verothlen, when the sound of an arrow in flight was heard, then the sound of the arrow hitting meat, together with an exhalation of wind from the unfortunate target. Esfalan was instantly at the barn wall, Debra beside him, but they did not see anything. Casting around him, he felt an elf on the roof watching targets try to sneak up. Wordless confirmation that the situation was under control flowed back to him, and he went back to his meal. After a minute, Debra sat down, too. He gave a few moment's thought to how Debra was able to stand down from her readiness to do battle when he had not spoken aloud, but no easy answer came to mind. No easy answer, or no comfortable one? his fey poked him.
But Esfalan could not sleep that night, due to the vigilance of his guards and the persistence of those who wanted to approach. He felt the guilt of striking them down before they had even a chance to ask for help, though he acknowledged to himself that in allowing them to ask, he would grant them food and water he could not spare. The knowledge did not make for an easy night, and much of the cleric's earlier effort seemed to turn sour for Esfalan.
Marching north and east up the Imperial highway the next day, they began to enter towns with less damage. Soon, people were visible, though none went out of their way to greet the company. Likewise, no one made any threatening move towards them.
By that evening, they were drawing crowds to come see them, pass through the town, still marching in legion order, the elves to the inside, on the inside of their horses, their strange armor, weapons, and appearance thus disguised to the extent possible.
Esfalan noted the people were greater in number than he expected, far more than one in five had survived the plague. They seemed reasonably healthy, though there were no markets or foodstuffs in evidence. Esfalan halted the column. He spent a moment to consult with Pylonem, and then the Centurion trotted off to the side, and asked for news.
Ten minutes later, he returned, and breathing slightly from the exertion, he repeated what he had learned.
The local populace had had the disease twenty years before, but the legions had come, and killed all who were still sick. They had heard about the widespread havoc, and had been missing foodstuffs from the countryside, but had been getting by with the stockpile the local Servant had ordered be made.
"Servant?" Esfalan raised an eyebrow.
"I don't know, either, Captain-Commander. I have never heard of it, and I've been a legionnaire all my life."
"And the legions killing the local populace?"
"I have not heard of that," yet Pylonem looked troubled. "Though, eighteen years ago, a legion was destroyed to a man, allegedly for disobedience." Pylonem seemed as if he believed they had been destroyed for obedience, instead. Esfalan left him to this newfound crisis with his government, and found Gileath.
He quickly repeated what he had learned, and told Gileath his suspicion that the town had been exposed to the disease early, in order to form a population base to repopulate the country. "I suspect there are other towns such as this as well, but the city will not be one. Go and find me one of these 'servants'. We shall wait."
Gileath nodded, and called out five elves and five legionnaires. He briefly issued orders, and then each of the ten singled out a member of the crowd. Drawing steel, each told the unfortunate observer they had chosen from the crowd to lead them to where the 'Servant' might be.
Esfalan did not have long to wait. Eight of the ten returned carrying a limp form, unconscious. The remaining two returned moments later. Esfalan called Jorda forth to tend to the man, but Jorda recoiled, gagging.
Perplexed by the cleric's behavior, Esfalan splashed water in the unconscious man's face. As he came to, he focused first on Pylonem, who was crouched beside Esfalan. "Ah, legionnaire. Is it time to begin?"
Esfalan could barely understand the man's slurred speech, but there was no mistaking the reaction when he turned and gazed at Esfalan. For a heartbeat, he regarded Esfalan, then his features twisted, as if he'd only just recognized him, and then screamed "Elf!"
At that moment, Jorda shouted, "Kill him!" and Esfalan saw a dark cloud begin to form about the human. Before anyone could move, however, Debra had drawn one of the knives Eritsral had made for her from Esfalan's steel, and thrust it through the man's eye. The 'servant' kicked twice, and then died.
Esfalan sat back on his heels, his heart racing. The crowd began an ugly murmur, and Esfalan realized his welcome in this place was gone.
"Form up!" he ordered. "Forward, march!"
"Fifteen miles," Esfalan ordered. "Fifteen more miles this day, into the night, before we camp. I shall not risk anyone from that town coming up behind us at night." The company marched on, while the sun set behind them.
Esfalan called Verothlen and Jorda to his side: Autonorë was taking her turn by his side already. "How is the pain this day, old friend?" he asked sympathetically.
Verothlen simply answered, "I shall manage."
Jorda spoke. "Verothlen, while I cannot slow your disease, I can help manage the pain. Will you allow me?"
Verothlen rode for a while, apparently considering the offer. "Yes," he said simply.
Jorda took on a look of concentration, and then the now-familiar white glow enveloped his hands and Verothlen's body. For five minutes it went on, then Jorda slumped, and Verothlen gave a sigh of immense relief.
"Thank you, Jorda. For a day, for a week, however long this lasts, I thank you."
Jorda regained his composure and smiled. "You carry a heavy burden, you know. I can help fairly often. Just ask, that's all."
"Verothlen, can you perform your disguise trick on each elf and keep it in place for a week?" Esfalan cut to the reason he had called them to himself. Autonorë gave him a reproachful look, but at his raised eyebrow, she looked to Verothlen instead.
"I can. There is a ward that may be placed on simple spells - a letter of constancy. Further, I can turn the mana inward, so as to be undetectable by leakage. Someone would have to be probing the area of the ward to find it."
Esfalan nodded. "Jorda, can you use the power of the One Who Remains to make us seem human to all senses? For, unless I mistake what I have observed and was told, I think magi and clerics can, while not actively casting, not observe each other's work."
Jorda frowned and concentrated a moment. "I cannot do anything about smell," he said.
Esfalan smiled.
Verothlen and Jorda had performed their respective magics, and even to Esfalan's eyes, they looked like the greater part of a Century of legionnaires.
They had passed through two more gutted towns, and were closing in on Syrith.
Within the day, they had passed the capital's gates, wide open, and found more of the same as they had seen elsewhere: burned-out houses, the occasional soot-blackened stone building, roof gone, and piles of corpses.
At least in this first section of the city, someone had organized the cleanup enough to gather and drop the bodies in piles on the streets.
As they penetrated deeper into the city, headed for the Imperial palace, Esfalan realized they were headed through terrain he quasi-recognized. Soon enough, they were descending the hill Avatharel had trotted his horse down all those years ago, and the city spread out like an ocean before them - right to the ocean shore itself.
As they marched on, Esfalan realized they were headed for the old elven enclave. Sure enough, as they reached the palace wall, Esfalan placed the palace as being on the same spot.
Perhaps it was a place of authority, he thought. When the Mindirrim moved out, the senate of Syriss moved in? Verothlen, he noticed, recognized the location too. They traded glances, and then pressed on.
Pylonem knocked on the large ironbound doors, a heavy 'Thunk, thunk'. A small sally port opened slightly, and a man looked out. "Which legion are you?"
Esfalan hissed quietly. "Abian."
Pylonem hardly hesitated. "Sixth Imperial, Abian. I am under the orders of Marilus Andrem, Commanding General. We shall not fit through that door, we have horses."
Under his breath, to Esfalan, he muttered, "We are Sixth Imperial, Abian."
Esfalan snorted, as the doors began to creak open.
Two hours later, the legionnaires having helped the elves get the horses in the stables, and at least give an appearance of settling in the barracks and searching for food, Pylonem was summoned to appear before the court. Esfalan and Jorda commented on the numbers of workers in the palace area - seemingly untouched by the devastation in the city and the countryside on the other side of those massive oaken doors in the wall.
There had been no time to have a council of war, to plan what to do inside this enclave.
Esfalan, Verothlen, and Jorda went with him, Debra and Autonorë had had some sort of quick game of chance to determine which went with Esfalan. He saw that Debra had won, to his relief, the oath of the trident would surely have been tested if what he had thought might occur in these walls came to pass. Jorda looked ill at ease with a sword on his hip. Verothlen told him to think of it as a rod with which to divine truth, and that seemed to settle the man down.
"I do not know who the summoner is or what may be discussed. I have never spoken with anyone inside the Imperial palace before." Pylonem was nervous to Esfalan's eye. He clapped a hand to the man's shoulder in encouragement.
The four presented themselves to a functionary on the second floor of a larger building. Esfalan had determined that though the site was the same, the building was far newer and of a different plan than the ones he remembered. The functionary took the four though vast suites of offices, seemingly all fully staffed. There was no sense of disaster, no urgency in the palace and Imperial bureaucracy. Esfalan felt he was in some surreal dream, almost as if the world outside the palace were irrelevant.
The small group stopped in a large antechamber, populated with other small groups, each with some sort of palace staff member. Their guide brought them over to another official at a desk, where Pylonem's name and reason ("summoned") were recorded, then they were issued another palace official to wait with them.
Esfalan studied the others in the antechamber. None of them seemed to be armed, though no one had asked the legionnaires to disarm. Esfalan itched to ask what was waiting for them on the other side of the door. He realized his voice would sound an alarm, though, for his old form of the language, if not for his elven tones. Similarly, though she had the outward appearance of a slim Legionnaire, Debra could not speak or her light tones would draw attention. Jorda seemed to understand his desire, for after a few moments, he murmured to Pylonem.
Pylonem nodded. "How are we expected to behave in the presence?" he quietly asked the official waiting with them.
The other sniffed, it was clear he was miffed that he would have to present such country yokels to the Imperial court. For it was eminently clear that that the court was on the other side of the door.
"Stand, and wait to be announced. Do not speak unless addressed, when the Emperor is finished with you, you may stand on the side of the court, and converse quietly with the others present. Loud discourse is strongly discouraged, unless one wishes a visit with the justicer. When the audience is over, all leave. Unless you have been given an order to carry out immediately, in which case you leave at that time."
Pylonem nodded. It was difficult for Esfalan to avoid nodding, as it was not his station to, in the role he was playing.
They waited for perhaps thirty minutes, unable to discuss plans. From Verothlen, Esfalan simply had a sense of waiting, like water in a dam, ready to flow downhill instantly when the obstruction was removed.
The doors swung open, and the man who had opened them received a list from the official at the desk. A name was called, and a haughty-looking man with thick silk clothing and a sheaf of papers was allowed in. The functionary who had waited with him left the antechamber, headed for the rest of the palace, with some haste.
For three hours, Esfalan and the others waited for their turn. Pylonem's stomach rumbled loudly, and his impatience was showing. Esfalan gave him a sharp look, and Pylonem made a visible effort to calm himself.
At long last, the doors opened, and "The representative from the Sixth Legion" was summoned.
Entering the long hall, Esfalan and the others were awed by the scale of the room. Easily fifty paces wide, it was a hundred paces long also. Ten paces from the walls, a line of long columns supported the arched roof. Lapus lazuli inlaid bands chased with thin bands of gold within the marble of the columns at eye height, and a long carpet of the same blue color, running the length of the hall between the pillars gave the room a rich appearance. Low tables at the side walls were under stained-glass windows, pure white silk cloths covered the tables, and fruits and delicacies were on the tables. A few knots of the earlier audience's participants were clustered at a few of the tables, and Esfalan marveled at the ostentatiousness of the display when the Empire was in shambles outside.
The man who had opened the doors led the way down a wide carpet leading to the dais at the far end. On the dais were a number of people, dressed in silk, some lounging, some occupied in a game of dice and moving small figures on a board, and some drinking wine and spectating. In the center of the dais was a young man, his features vapid and eyes devoid of intelligence. Something was wrong with the young man, it was clear, as he seemed thin and emaciated, and moved with a jerkiness, a palsy, that caused both Jorda and Verothlen to draw air in sharply. The young man giggled loudly at a jest some one of the courtiers or another made.
"Your Imperial Majesty, the representative from the Sixth Legion." The man gave no particular emphasis on the title, and Esfalan relaxed marginally.
The youth on the throne gave a high-pitched nervous laugh. "Is that the legion that mutinied?" He turned around, asking some of the others on the dais. "Is that the one?" Apparently, no one knew.
"Your Majesty," Pylonem began, "We have not mutinied. We have been dying, your Majesty."
"What? Dying! Who are we fighting?" The eagerness in the young man's voice was frightening.
Esfalan and Pylonem shared an incredulous look. "Your Majesty, there is plague and widespread disorder in your Empire. I personally have seen tens of thousands of dead here in the city alone, and hundreds of thousands more in the countryside. How do you not know this?"
Two persons on the dais sat up and paid attention. The others were completely uninterested in the goings-on below. To the two, Pylonem addressed his next words. "Are there no plans in place for such a disaster?"
One of the two started, and said to the other, "Where will the wine and performers come from?"
Pylonem had his hands on his hips, and shouted. "Damnit! Are you all drugged or just simple? Is there not one of you who cares that the Empire is dying out there?"
The Emperor shook a finger at Pylonem. "It's not nice to talk to me that way. If my mage were here, or any of his servants, I would have him teach you. Yes, we care. There was nasty smoke and an awful smell for some days, I could barely sleep."
Pylonem grated out between clenched teeth. "Boy... you just get your mage here. I will have words with him."
Esfalan and Verothlen both reacted to the word 'servants'. Trading a glance, they readied themselves for action.
"And why should the Emperor summon me?" the voice was deep and smooth. Standing in the doorway at the far end of the hallway was a dark figure, clad in robes of dark earth tones, browns and deep greens. The figure advanced towards them, and Esfalan felt his eyes widen as he took in the scale of the figure - easily six feet and four inches, massive and broad - Esfalan put its' mass at twenty stone - two hundred and eighty pounds. Esfalan felt something strange, then, a wave of something unpleasant, and it gained in strength with every step the figure took.
Several somethings then happened in Esfalan's mind. It is evil, and I cannot abide it came suddenly from his fey, a sentiment Esfalan wholly agreed with. Esfalan remembered clearly the demon Avatharel had destroyed once before, years before Hrosz' appearance, and remembered the easiest way to kill a demon was to get a clean swing and decapitate it at the junction between shoulder and neck. And then suddenly, Garvaiden was filling Esfalan's mind.
Garvaiden! No! Do not let it detect you! Esfalan trusted Jorda's skill, more than Garvaiden did, apparently, since the demon had not paid Verothlen or Esfalan any special attention.
Instead, it chose to focus on Pylonem. Where the human found the reserve of will to face that creature, unfettered and closing on him, the waves of malice pouring forth and washing over Pylonem, Esfalan did not know.
Yet, withstand it the human did, though he knew what he faced. "Demon, you have laid waste to my nation. I shall not suffer you to live." With that, he drew his sword.
The demon leapt forward, while Esfalan and Verothlen stepped apart and away from Pylonem. Jorda dropped to a knee, and suddenly blazed in white light.
The tableau was frozen, for one second, a heartbeat. Stark shadows streamed away from the brilliance that was Jorda, and the light began to separate from Jorda. The figures on the dais were all hellishly lit, expressions of horror and shock on their faces. Esfalan forewent his hyandrel and instead drew his celandrel, circling behind the demon, while time sped up, and the demon turned to the column of light, a length of sooty red fire streaking upwards for six feet from its' hand, spitting and dripping gouts of fire.
Jerri
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