Delvar Ironhand, thirteenth of the Thirteen, swept his tent flap aside and escaped the midday sun as it beat down like an angry child irritated by the loss of its favorite toy.

He was greeted by a young woman dressed in a skirt comprised of interwoven grass reeds. She was bare from the waist up but not even her bare skin could escape the warmth that permeated the darkness. She rushed to Delvar’s side as he entered and quickly began stripping him of his official dress; a shirt of dark steel chainmail, boiled leather padding and sweat stained underclothes. Delvar stood, stoic, as the girl went about her task quietly.

The young girl removed everything he wore then handed them off to another set of girls, younger and smaller, to be washed, scrubbed and polished.

Once undressed, Delvar stretched as he lowered himself to a small cot covered with a thin green cloth held aloft by two crisscrossed wooden slats that bent and stressed with every move. He sighed as his bones creaked and his joints popped. His swollen body would mean a long night for the girls. There were three of them in all ranging from their twelfth year to their sixteenth. The little ones would scrub his armor and keep tidy his belongings whenever the tent had to be taken down then reassembled whenever the train of General Hoto Damarion’s army moved further north.  The older one, Irria, saw to his meals and the aches in his body. They were quick learners save for their language skills. The elder girl spoke a smattering of common picked up from passing traders and mercenaries traveling between the Grasslands and the Silver City, while the younger ones simply made hand gestures or nodded their heads in simple understanding whenever he spoke to them.

How long had they been with him now? Delvar couldn’t remember. The first of the three Grasslands girls had been a gift from his own captain, Callum Onath. She was to be a plaything to soothe Delvar’s mounting frustrations with the Unification and the bringing the Nomurrian tribes under Council control. The girl however did not have the chosen effect. Instead, Delvar made her fetch his cup, bring him meat from the camp cook-fires and on occasion she would sing for him, not unlike his Delilah.

Delilah, she had hair the color of ravens, with satiny black strands that wrapped around her waist whenever she wove white Estermonian lace among her tresses. Her eyes curved upwards like the slant of almonds but instead of being a dull, listless brown they were like sapphires, a bright blue that shone with a marvelous brilliance whenever the sun splashed against them. She was warm, inviting, soft and demur and Delvar cursed himself nightly for leaving her behind at court to make small talk and pleasantries with the Lords and Ladies of Silver.

“I could come with you,” she had told him the night before the armies of Damarion were to march north and bring to heel the warring tribes. “I can’t risk it,” he had told her time and time again. “The tribes to the north have resisted Council control for years. Now that the land is nearly united, they’ll resist that much harder. I couldn’t protect you, not out there.”

“Are you not my protector?” She teased playfully while tugging on the laces of his breeches. “Do you not wield sword and shield in my name?” Delilah purred as she nuzzled his neck and deftly teased his flesh with her fingertips. “I can’t,” he breathed sharply. “I can’t.”

In the darkest hours of the night when the wind was still and the only sounds he heard were the rise and fall of children’s breathing he would often wonder if Delilah still waited for his return. Does she dream of me? He wondered.

His own strength had come from his arms. Sinewy and thick, he used them to wield a dark steel blade in the defense of his city and his Council.

A glass bowl was suddenly pressed to his lips and as Delvar lifted his head to drink the tepid liquid he spat it out all the same. “Damn the wine, Irria,” he growled. “Bring water.”

Irria held perfectly still, the bowl still in her hand.

“Speak, girl.” Delvar muttered.

“A…a... apologies…M’lord…Yah ask’d fer wine at suns dawning, M’lord. Mine mind thought…”

Delvar snatched the bowl from the girl’s hand and sent it flying to crash into the thick cloth wall of his tent only to clatter against the earthen floor as his rising irritations began to get the best of him.  “You’re not here to think girl, you’re here to do as you’re bid. Now go.”

Irria scampered away to the far corner of the command tent to seek solace in her duties and comfort in those of her own kind.

“Bah,” Delvar snorted into the darkness. “Forgive me child, this damn heat is far too oppressive. How the tribes ever flourished this far north of Cardiph’s Gate is beyond me.” If the tribes-girl had heard his apology she made no mention of it but instead worked the polish of his dark-steel chain shirt.

An hour later a rough and old voice called from the tent flap. “Commander, a moment?”

Delvar had prayed for sleep but found it lacking. When he heard his captain call, he cracked open his eyes and tried to adjust them to the light that was pouring in through the flap like a beacon above open water slicing through the shadows. “What is it, Callum?”

Callum Onath had been the first man Delvar chose from the recruits in the Silver city of Corvega when the Council put forth the call. As a retired city watchman with near thirty years of service; Callum’s knees weren’t as strong as they once were nor his back as straight and he often walked with a slight limp, but his mind was clear, and his sword arm was as strong as Delvar had ever seen. To call the man grizzled was an understatement as he often let his gray hair fall about his shoulders and he kept a large beard that covered most of his face. He had watery eyes that made it appear as if he had been crying that only got worse in the throes of battle earning him the nickname, ‘Weeping Death’ from those that served under him.

Callum stepped into the command tent and eyed Delvar stretched out along the cot then glanced at the bowl laying upside down across the tent and the slaves huddled together in the corner scrubbing the day’s stains from a shirt of mail. Callum coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s happening again.”

“Has General Damarion called the Thirteen together? You three,” Delvar said, pointing to Irria and the two little ones. “Fetch my clothing, no mail. The sun is too damned hot for mail.”

Irria leapt from her corner and rushed the two smaller girls to an unadorned cedar chest on the far-right side of the tent and began pulling out suitable attire. Soft deerskin breeches, a pair of supple leather boots, a dust brown tunic and a white cloak lined in silver thread to mark him as a member of the Thirteen.

“No, commander.”

Delvar buckled his sword belt around his waist and tucked a jagged dagger into his boot. “How many does this make today?”

“One hundred and fifteen at my count, commander.”

“Divines grace…” Delvar growled. “Have any of them given up the remaining location of the tribes?”

Callum shook his head and eyed the three girls as they fussed with Delvar’s remaining attire. “No, commander.” He replied. “Every single one has given the same answer.”

“Damarion grows more restless by the day. Who is administering the beatings?”

“The same as ever. Taggert.”

“Beady eyed little monster. He’ll kill them all whether they talk or not and Damarion won’t call off the display in hopes he’ll get an answer out of someone and we’ll be at war with the tribes for a lifetime if we keep killing their people.”

“I have more, commander. An ambassador has arrived from the Citadel. A blue robe. His palanquin sits near the Green River.”

“A Diviner? Balaara’s grace save us all. Has he been seen in the camp?”

“No, commander.”

“Good, simply because the cities have been united it doesn’t mean bad blood doesn’t linger in those that lost families to the damnable magi. Keep an eye out for the bastard.”

Callum nodded and pounded a fist into his chest. “By your leave, commander.”

Delvar understood war. He above all understood sacrifices had to be made, that no one leaves the battlefield unscathed. But this, this was not meant to be a war. These people, these tribesmen, they were meant to join them. To be unified with all the cities in Immur.

This however, Delvar thought as he watched Irria and the two Grasslands girls return to a dark corner with cloths in hand to polish his armor, was not unification, it was subjugation through fear and violence.

As Delvar grabbed the flap to his tent it ruffled and came open from the outside as a group of four young boys with the looks of Sikan descent; dark eyes, black cropped hair and skin the color of night, entered forcing Delvar back several steps. Instinctively his hand reached to the blade at his hip, a long piece of dark steel that curved upward near the tip.  

The boys dropped a large, ornate chest on the ground then bowed in unison.

Delvar released his hold. “What is this?”

The tallest youth, wearing a light-colored tunic and tight wool breeches strode forward. “The illustrious High Magistrix, Lord of the Prophetic Voice, gifts this wealth to you, Commander Ironhand, in hopes you’ll meet with him privately in his palanquin near the Green River.”

The boy spoke perfect common. His voice was eloquent and graceful as he rolled each word over his lips. Most likely he had been bought and paid for long before his birth and the island nation that was his home was not even a distant memory. His life belonged to his master, the Lord of the Prophetic Voice.

Delvar eyed the trunk. The box itself was an impressive sight. Gold bands ran across the top to the where an opening separated the lid from the chest and then continued in pairs wrapping itself in a circle of shining gold. The image of a drake’s head with a twisted and forked tongue was emblazoned on the front under the lid; its eyes were small fragments of rubies.

The slave-boy bent to his knees, gripped the latch and flipped it open.

Emeralds, sapphires, and rubies the size of the boy’s eyes was mixed with a trunk full of sovereigns along with pearls and dragon stones.

“Our Lord, Magistrix Pyrus, hopes this will be enough to entice you.”

The youth snapped the trunk shut and looked to Delvar. “Shall we depart, commander?”

How four boys, envoys of a Bashalian Magister, had managed to slip through Damarion’s camp, past a thousand soldiers armed for bear, carrying a chest filled to the brim with enough treasure to make an Estermonian noble envious, Delvar couldn’t even begin to fathom. It didn’t matter. Whatever this Lord of the Prophetic Voice wanted, he made sure that his invitation would find its way without harassment. “Take me.”

At the far edge of General Damarion’s war camp where the Green River forked and ran east and west, a monstrously sized palanquin sat, held aloft by four swirling vortices. A golden drake’s head with a forked tongue was prominently displayed on the front. “The symbol of our lord’s home, the Citadel of Anuar’Bashal,” the elder youth was saying as they approached. “The drake is the greatest being in the Void. To make a pact with one is to have power over life and death and thus the Magisters have taken its visage as their most honorable symbol.” 

The entire litter was painted in an array of blues from azure, sapphire and turquoise. Any windows the palanquin had were draped shut as weighted silks dyed a deep cerulean kept the light out while giving the entire procession an image of wavering water as it hovered several feet off the ground.

“This…Lord of the Prophetic Voice travels in this…monstrosity?” Delvar asked eying what could only be described as magical opulence gone awry.

“The Lord of the Prophetic Voice is the mouth of the School of Divination and as such, he demands certain comforts when he travels.”

The Magisters envoy suddenly took up positions at each corner of the palanquin while a fifth boy, one Delvar had not seen in the escort, approached and bowed low, one hand to his chest with the other stretched out wide. “Welcome commander Ironhand,” he said as he stood tall once again. “The Lord of the Prophetic Voice is pleased you have accepted his offer to join him.”

Delvar eyed the litter, his hand resting comfortably on the pommel of his sword. “He would be pleased, wouldn’t he?” Delvar said in a sardonic tone. “A Magister from the School of Divination should have seen this happening already.”

The boy smiled wide and gestured to a set of gently floating steps. “If you will.”

The inside of the palanquin was far larger than the outside would suggest. A row of velvet pillows and exotic furs lined every wall as men and women, all nude save for glowing blue jewels around their necks were lounging, drinking, eating and enjoying the pleasures of each other’s flesh as soft moans and heavy gasps sang from every corner.

Looking beyond the writhing bodies, Delvar spied long, thick tapestries that depicted the histories of the Magisters. Each tapestry was a different story. The Piercing of the Void, the First Pact, the Fall and the destruction of what is now known as the Lower City and finally the raising of the Citadel from the ashes of the old to sit high among the clouds; the sun glinting off its white towers surrounded by low glass domes and tall, thin minarets. There were other stories, histories of the Bashalians that were curiously absent among the palanquin’s tapestries. Stories Delvar had heard as a child.

In the middle of the room Delvar spied a low table covered with all manner of delicacies. Steaming turkey with clear juice running down its sides, berries set in ice covered in a thick and sweet-smelling cream, decanters over flowing with wine with smells that reminded Delvar of the Royal Estates of Estermont on the southern coast of the Immurrian Sea where he and Delilah had danced under the twin moons; the waters of the Immurrian lapping at their feet as they kissed and caressed one another as husband and wife.

Certain comforts indeed, Delvar thought.

“Commander Ironhand,” The voice was clear and rung out easily above the din of the litters other occupants. A short, bald headed man with a hooked nose and a closely trimmed, triangular beard pushed himself out between two buxom red headed women who purred and pawed at him as well as each other. The Lord of the Prophetic Voice lazily freed himself from their grasp and rose to his feet. He barely reached Delvar’s torso. “Please,” the Magistrix said as he took Delvar’s fingers in his own and kissed them lightly.  “Sit, relax. A girl to soothe your weary bones? Or perhaps you prefer a cock?”

Delvar just stared at the little man and crossed his arms, after wiping his fingers on his breeches.

“No time for pleasantries. I see, I see. You received my boys, yes?”

Delvar nodded. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Expectations rarely meet our realities my dear commander,” Pyrus said pouring two crystalline cups with a deep, red wine. One he pressed to his lips and swallowed, the other he handed to Delvar who stood stoic and unmoving.

“It must have been quite the ordeal to secure the invitation to be sent to my tent,” Delvar said as Pyrus shrugged and took the second and then a third cup to his mouth, smacking the remains of the deep red from his lips. “Yes, yes, yes,” the little man replied grabbing a two-pronged fork then stabbing a hunk of turkey and pulling a sizeable chunk free. “Quite the ordeal but,” he said before popping a bite into his mouth never minding the juices that ran down his chin and settled as glistening blobs in his beard. “I knew the invite would arrive, unharmed.”

Delvar eyed the queer little Magister warily. It was difficult not to wonder if the blue robe had foreseen this entire conversation. If so, Delvar was at a severe disadvantage. He tried to change the subject. “You eat like a man famished.”

Pyrus chuckled, spitting bits of saliva-soaked meat onto the women who hugged his legs and caressed the small bulge that pressed against his robe. “My appetite knows no bounds, commander. But, I’m sure you want to discuss more than just that. You want to know why I summoned you.”

Delvar nodded, hand still resting on the pommel of his dark-steel blade. If the Lord of the Prophetic Voice had truly already seen this conversation then he saw all possible outcomes and there was nary a chance Delvar would live to tell the tale if the discussion went sideways but still, instinct dictated his actions and his fingers caressed the smooth dragons eye that was his pommel.

“The girl in your service, Irria, I believe she is called.”

“You know much…” Delvar said.

“Do I?” Pyrus replied almost playfully. He winked and cracked his lips into a small chuckle as if laughing at a joke only he was party to.

“She is nothing, a Grasslands girl we found near the Gulch. What of her?”

“Oh? Nothing is she? Good, good, good. Then you won’t mind surrendering her to me.” It was more a demand than a question.

The moans and gasps of the palanquins occupants grew louder as Pyrus smiled. Delvar saw them now, men and women they were not but rather boys and girls. No older than Irria in most cases and younger than the two little ones he kept in his tent along with her. They frolicked and played with each other, pawed at each other’s bodies only stopping to gorge themselves on food and drink that never seemed to end. When the wine in a cup ended it magically refilled to the raucous laughter of everyone. Whenever the last morsel of sweet meats or sweeter fruits passed someone’s lips, the table refilled, and the party continued.

Delvar slipped his hand from the dragon’s eye to the tightly wrapped leather grip and felt the tug of his arm start pull away from his hip. “You peddle in child slaves…” He growled.

“Now, now,” Pyrus countered. The sounds of the children suddenly silenced as their eyes turned towards Delvar. “It seems you’ve offended my pets.”

“Take yourself from this place,” Delvar threatened. “Leave now and I will not inform General Damarion what has transpired here. Be thankful, for if he knew…. your head would be sent back to the Citadel…without your body.”

Pyrus near fell to the floor in laughter. So too did the women at his feet and soon the entire palanquin became a chorus of mocking laughter. When Pyrus stood again and the voices quieted, he narrowed his eyes on the foolish man who would dare threaten a Magister of the Citadel. “Dear commander Ironhand,” he began. “I daresay you should indeed speak with your general. I assure you, you’ll find the conversation most enlightening. Now,” he pointed to the steps leading back outside. “Go fetch my latest prize and don’t make me wait long.”

Delvar shoved the blade back into its sheath and ground his teeth as he passed the Lord of the Prophetic Voice. “I will not sell her.”

Pyrus simply grinned and replied, “she’s already bought and paid for.”

Next Chapter: Worth its Weight in Sovereigns