Chapter B6C42 - Mirasmus

Hot winds blew through the windows, setting the sheer curtains to billowing and bringing with them the scents of the South. Spices and palms, perfumes and steel, rising from the clustered houses of the Nobles around the palace.

Duke Mirasmus was in no position to enjoy the heady feast for the senses as he normally would, hunched over a table surrounded by Generals and Nobles trying to coordinate the campaign. Even the glittering white marble of the palace wasn’t enough to distract him from the subject of his focus and ire.

Across the map were strewn little figurines to represent the position of the various forces of the houses. Soldiers here and there, some on the move, some staying stubbornly still as their masters lost their nerve and panicked, terrified that the Necromancer might be coming for them.

As if he was going to waste time hunting down every insignificant minor Noble house in the South.

A single golden marker indicated the arrival of the Golden Legion, who had, at last report, finally crossed the river and entered the Southern Province proper. Yet it was another marker that captured the Duke’s eye, black, already halfway from the river to his city, representing the Necromancer and his cursed army of the dead.

“My lord?” A voice cut through, dragging his attention back to the present.

In his early fifties, the Duke was in the prime of his life, physically fit and handsome, with a finely oiled moustache and sweeping, long dark hair, he was the epitome of a true southern Noble. Yet, in the brief time since this conflict had begun, a certain haggard edge had come over him, as if he were starting to fray around the edges. Every day, when he awoke and looked at himself in the mirror, he could see it, was made keenly aware of it.

Now he constantly worried that others could see it too.

Drawing himself to his full height, he turned to the man who had spoken, Lord Ashuff.

“What is it?” he said, mustering his dignity and draping it over himself like a mantle.

“I… I had asked for your thoughts on our response to the Necromancer’s march. Do you truly believe he is coming for Mirasmus?”

“It’s a bluff,” Lady Madra huffed, dismissing the concerns of the others in the room with a wave of a bejewelled, wrinkled hand. “Why would he strike at where we are strongest? It would be foolish.”

“That may be, Lady Madra,” Lord Ashuff replied icily, “but I do not believe my question was directed to you.”

“You young pup,” she hissed back, “how dare you speak to me that way? I will give my opinion whenever I see fit and no half-blooded son of a merchant will tell me otherwise.”

Whispers broke out in the room and the young Lord’s face paled at the insult. He was on the verge of baring steel at a woman old enough to be his grandmother when the Duke slammed his palm down on the table.

“Silence! Lady Madra will offer her apology for that remark here and now.”

He glared at the irascible old woman, far too obsessed with the purity of her blood and not enough with good governance for his taste, until she lowered her eyes.

“Perhaps the stress of this war has worn on me,” she offered after a moment to gather herself, “I certainly intended no offense with my words.”

It wasn’t a proper apology, but judging by the stubborn set of her mouth, it was all she was prepared to give without being pressed. The Duke glared at her, unsatisfied, but the young lord Ashuff bowed before he could speak.

“The apology is accepted,” he said clearly, diffusing the potential for a larger incident.

A graceful handling of the matter. He was a capable young man, it was a shame about his blood….

“You’ve got potential, lad, but you should have told the old bat to shut the fuck up if you ask me.”

A familiar voice, still rough with hints of a northern accent, despite the long years of service in the south, preceded General Greyhame as he strode into the room, stinking of the road and sweating profusely. Several Noble ladies shied away from him, raising cloths to cover their noses, while Lady Madra’s face seemed to shrivel in on itself as she darkened with anger.

“I will not…” she began hotly, only for Artur to ignore her completely.

“The Necromancer is coming straight for the capital, my lord, showing no signs of deviation. The latest reports on his movements arrived by ro’klaw just minutes after I myself arrived.”

He threw the pages down onto the table and waited for someone to pick them up. When nobody did, he merely shrugged and turned to look around the room.

“Can I get a seat? I’m fucking exhausted.”

Finding that they had all been pushed to the side of the room to make space around the table, he pushed through the ring of Nobles and dragged one over before collapsing in it with a sigh.

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“I cannot believe how fast those dead bastards can move,” he groaned. “I raced here as quick as humanly possible and barely gained ground.”

Ignoring the scandalised whispers and the thunderous look on Lady Madra’s face, the Duke glared at his General.

“You’re sure?” he demanded. “There’s no doubt at all?”

Artur nodded, similarly ignoring the crowd around him.

“None at all. The Necromancer is aiming to finish the conflict for the South in one fell swoop, defeat your forces and the Golden Legion at the same time. Your lady wife was of a similar mind.”

The Duke blinked.

“Elenia thought so?”

“She did. Asked me to pass on the message herself.”

Duke Mirasmus put great store in the words of his wife, as she was, he could freely admit to himself, more capable than he was. He looked down at the black marker on the table, his mind made up.

“My lord…” Lord Ashuff said.

“No. We cannot afford to delay any further or allow ourselves to become paralysed with indecision.”

He rose to his full height and looked around the room. Many of the gathered Nobles represented families that had loyally served his for generations, while others came from disparate factions or the newly promoted nobility who had married into the blood. Without the Imperial Order, he knew they would be scrabbling to save themselves and their assets for all they were worth, but with the eye of the Emperor pressing down on them, they were forced to put aside their personal squabbles and desires.

Neither the Duke nor his father or grandfather could ever have imagined a united Southern Province might occur in any of their lifetimes.

“The Imperial Mandate is in effect,” he reminded them all. “With the authority of the Imperial Court and the Emperor himself, I order every Noble house of the court to gather their armies in Mirasmus. Those who fail to begin their march within twenty four hours will be declared traitors to the Empire, stripped of their titles and land, then served to the capital in chains.”

His words fell on the gathered Nobles like a boulder. It wasn’t often a Duke was able to act in such a high-handed way. He had authority, certainly, but it paled before the true power of the Imperial Court. Privately, he relished the chagrined expressions on the faces of Nobles who were unaccustomed at being so bluntly told what to do.

Yet, they could not resist his order, there was no choice in the matter whatsoever. Most had already begun gathering their troops to bring into the fold, while others had delayed perhaps a hair more than they should have. Now there was no way out.

“I hear and obey,” Lord Ashuff said, bowing fluidly before he turned to leave the chamber.

Soon he was echoed by others, bowing low before they excused themselves, no doubt to run to the ro’klaw rookery in the palace or to their own private birds within their mansions. If those Soldiers weren’t on the move within a day, they would lose everything they had, including their lives. Stakes that high were indeed a powerful motivator.

In just minutes, the audience chamber had emptied completely, leaving only the Duke, General Greyhame and the guards along the walls.

“Be nice if you could always threaten them with that stick, wouldn’t it?” the General grunted, taking out a cloth and using it to wipe the grime off his face. “Would have made life a lot easier for us over the last twenty years.”

The Duke whole-heartedly agreed, but he wouldn’t say it aloud. Instead, he frowned.

“Couldn’t you have washed before you came in?” he asked pointedly, staring at the unkempt state of the general.

Artur chuckled.

“I’ve been on the road for a week straight, swapping horses every chance I got. I wouldn’t have bothered if I didn’t think the message was worth rushing for, Lord Duke. Now that I’m here, though…”

He stood up and yawned hugely.

“I think a bath and a sleep are just what the doctor ordered.”

“Before you go. Do you have word from Elenia? Is she on her way back?”

“The Duchess? I’m not sure, but I assume so. She hadn’t left when I did, but if she left much after me, then she won’t beat the undead here. If I were to hazard a guess, I would say that she is going to gather up whatever remains of the Noble houses from the western side of the province and march here.”

That did sound like something she would do. He wouldn’t have been shocked if she rode into battle herself, leading a glorious charge straight into the centre of the undead horde.

“As long as she is safe,” he sighed.

“She’s far too smart to be caught flatfooted,” Artur said, “you know that.”

The Duke looked his most loyal General in the eye.

“Be honest with me, Artur,” he said directly. “How bad is it? You went and saw this Necromancer directly. Most of the Nobles don’t think we can lose, but we’ve had two cities sacked in a matter of weeks. Even the Imperial Court is involved. This isn’t normal.”

Artur Greyhame put his hands on his hips and slowly shook his head.

“Your instincts have always been good, Lord Duke.”

Duke Mirasmus barked a short laugh.

“My ‘instincts’, you say. I believe in the past you described it as ‘mewling cowardice’.”

“And you were right back then too,” the general acknowledged. “Thanks for not having me hanged, by the way.”

“Most days, I don’t regret it.”

He waited patiently while Artur gathered his thoughts.

“It’s bad,” the General said finally. “If the Necromancer can take the city before the Golden Legion arrives, then it’s done, completely.”

“And how likely is that? Mirasmus may not be a fortress, but it’s well defended. With the gathered forces of the houses here, we will have more than enough to withstand a protracted siege.”

“I don’t think this man is interested in protracted sieges. Kallas was bowled over in a day. I think he’ll attempt the same thing here. If he gets over the walls and moves his army inside the city, then I can’t see us pushing him out. He could hold off the Empire's reinforcements long enough to chew us up, then turn around and fight them too.”

The Duke grimaced. He’d feared as much, but strangely he found it comforting to have it confirmed by the General. At least he knew what he was dealing with.

“What do we need to do?” he asked simply.

Artur blew out a heavy breath.

“Get as many Mages on the walls as you can and prepare the people for hell. It’s going to be like a scene out of their worst nightmares.”