Book 2 Chapter 7: A Lovely Morning

Emilios

March 22, 1787, Realm Time, Northern Moldavia

The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the trees were blooming, and Emilios was staring at the dead body of Nicolaos Mavrogheni, hospodar of Wallachia. The corpse was bent in half on the carpet, his eyes and mouth widened in disbelief at his own fate, the chest a mangled mess of bones and meat. A blunderbuss's work. The weapon lay discarded on the ground.

"It wasn't me, I swear," the man on Emilios' left said in Turkish.

"I just arrived," the man on the right said.

The first was Osman Pasvantoglu, the future Pacha of Vidin, at least on Earth. The second was Rigas, a Greek revolutionary.

"Poetic, in a way," Rigas said, pointing to the wound. "He was a ship captain, and he died by a pirate's gun."

"His own gun. No one heard anything?" Emilios asked.

"Silence spell," Rigas said, taking in his hands the white noise magic box. "Mavro was a sucker for secrecy." The Greek was himself a sucker for all things Outworlder, mainly democracy and culture.

"Call the elf," Emilios hissed. "Don't let anyone approach the tent."

"Yes, sir," his aide-de-camp blurted, rushing out.

"Well… Fuck," Rigas said.

The prince's death was throwing a wrench into their plans to march their combined army against the Russians and help Crimea remain Tatar and under the Sultan's nominal control. In exchange, the Balkans, Moldavia, and Wallachia were to gain quasi-autonomy. The largest part of the troops, ten thousand strong, was Mavrogheni's. If they rebelled or deserted, they were done.

Squeezing herself through the opening, the elf representative entered, followed by Cedric. She was cute, by human standards—which meant Elves considered her hideous—of medium height, blonde, with lively eyes and a big smile, revealing her sharp teeth—the only true Elven feature—along with the pointy ears. She was also thirty, which was young for her species. Barely coming of age, the girl had decided she had found true love in Cedric, and the young Druid, smitten by the fact that finally, a girl was liking him, had lost the battle of hearts even before it started.

"Oh, my, oh, my," the elf said, touching the wound with her fingers. "You want me to raise him to find the perpetrator?"

"The butler did it," Cedric said.

"Really, Sherlock? The butler did it?" Emilios snapped. "Our projects are in jeopardy, and you make detective jokes?"

"The butler really did it. It's the only scent I detect in the tent, besides us."

Emilios raised a hand to stop Cedric from talking, addressing the girl, "Raise him and keep him moving until we beat the Russians."

"No can do. He's gone for too long," she sighed. "Maybe when I level up a bit…"

From the few successful experiments Sam had done with whatever remained of the Awakening shots—the number was a secret Emilios wasn't privy to—the Elven girl had developed a class. Necromancer. Emilios avoided asking questions. That class felt… wrong.

"What if we turn against the Turks and fight alongside our Orthodox Russian brothers?" Rigas asked, hope glittering in his eyes.

"You have to understand one thing about the Russians," Emilios said. "They can't be trusted."

"That's xenophobic," Rigas said.

"It's reality. The Russians are great individually, and so on, but as a nation, they span too much territory and never developed a good system to manage it. They don't have the tradition, the knowledge, the wits, the will, or the numbers. Eighty percent of their population is made up of slaves. The only thing holding that country together is brute force. They cannot be trusted because they can't afford to keep their word. The costs would outweigh the benefits. So any promise they make about freedom, and wealth, and whatever, is wind. Remember Mazeppa?"

"Who?" Cedric asked.

"A Cossack Hetman and Russian ally. Peter the Great asked him to burn his own country."

"Emilios is a history nerd," Cedric said to the elf girl, pecking her lips.

"Fascinating," the girl nodded, returning the kiss.

Not even a nearby corpse can stop love…

"Bury him. I have a plan," Emilios said. "Not outside, you morons. Here!" he hissed, as Osman and Rigas were preparing to lift Mavrogheni by the armpits and legs. "We're keeping his demise secret. Let's get the butler and find out who paid him, then we'll have a council."

"He must be on the run," Rigas said.

"Why? Who could imagine they'd be discovered by the scent?"

"Fingerprints would have worked too," Cedric said.

"I'll go for the butler; you dig," Emilios said, exiting the prince's tent.

Outside, the army was having a good time, taking advantage of the weekend-long break to party. Fires were all around, some with whole sheep or pigs roasting over them. The Kingling's people, the ones in charge of the logistics, had sent herds and provision trains ahead.

The trip was short; the servants were meant to be near their master. In front of the butler's tent, Emilios met a gathering of servants whispering. They looked in shock, staring inside. The motive was evident: the butler had hanged himself from the place where the tent's posts met.

Shit! Someone had a strong grip on this man… A Russian spy, maybe?

After looking around for a suicide note, alas, non-existent, Emilios shooed away the servants, called a couple of soldiers to watch the place, then returned to Mavrogheni's tent. The body was in a deep hole, and the credit was due to Cedric, who had summoned vines to tear apart the ground.

"The butler hanged himself," Emilios said. "I need you to find out who made him do it."

"Yey," the girl rubbed her hands.

"You stay and cover that hole." Emilios frowned at Rigas and Osman.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"But he can do it faster," Rigas, who was on the plump side, protested, pointing at Cedric.

"I want to go with Juniper," Cedric sulked.

"I can't keep the two lovebirds apart," Emilios said. "Use those trays. And for goodness' sake, take out those rings," he frowned at the two, who had commandeered Mavrogheni's expensive jewelry. "Don't you think everyone will notice?"

"Notice what? It was a gift from a dear friend," Rigas said, with Osman nodding energetically.

Snorting, Emilios went out with the two kids in tow. He had the guards take a few steps farther, ordering them not to allow anyone nearby, closed the tent, and watched the girl work. Tristan had cut the rope, using a jade blade, and put the body in a chair. Juniper drew a circle of runes around it, finishing by putting a small statuette in the dead man's right hand, forcing it through the stiff fingers.

"The focus," she said, continuing in Elven, which Emilios didn't understand. "Now, I want you to understand something about necromancy. Keeping a body moving requires energy, because it can't sustain itself by the usual means, which is being alive. That energy comes from me. Raising mindless thralls and throwing them at the enemy is easier; I could keep at it for a while. Restoring brain functions is hard. The spell will last only seconds."

After a tremor in the body, the butler's eyes opened wide. He was breathing, but whizzing, his windpipe broken. The Elven girl said something in a commanding voice.

"No… body…" he said in a low voice.

The girl spoke again, the inflection like a hill going down a valley and back up. A question.

"He… forced… himself… upon… my sister…"

The butler's head slumped on his chest.

Juniper turned toward Emilios, "He said no one made him do it, and—"

"I've heard. Kids, I have a request."

"Sure, what's up?" Cedric said.

"Go tell every commander to join us in Mavro's tent, in an hour. Don't tell them why, just that it's important."

An hour and a half later, with all main officers and delegates around a table, the story was told. No one was happy about it, which was not a surprise.

"Should I understand we're standing on his grave?" the German Seven Towns regiment asked. They fielded only a thousand soldiers, but they were all professionals, either marksmen or artillerymen.

"Yes, we do," Emilios said, dropping a few drops of wine on the ground. "Rest in peace, Mavro. You were an asshole, but not the worst of the kind. Too bad that butler didn't go over the rape of his sister for the greater good."

"Are you ironic?" Osman frowned.

"The word is sarcastic, and yes. Because you, my friend, and the rest of you have to understand something. You had a bit of luck, and you think you're Napoleon. You're not. You're on the verge of disaster."

Emilios paused, walking his eyes around, his nostrils widened, cheeks flushed in anger. I'm starting to sound like Tristan or Sam… Bossy… It must come with the job.

"Who's Napoleon?" Rigas asked.

Resisting the urge to facepalm, Emilios drummed his fingers over the table.

"I need to contact the Council," he said, looking at the man nicknamed Mother Hen, one of the Vlach triumvirs and co-leader of Transylvania.

"Why are you looking at me?" the man shrugged.

"Because I know you have a way to talk at a distance. Coordination is why you won, not the plagues."

"And if I had, how would that help you?"

"You have spies all around. Call one, tell him to contact… Sam, Penny, Tristan, somebody who can relay the message to the Council."

"It's better to talk about this matter alone," Mother Hen said, looking around.

"You don't trust us?" the Modovan despot, Ypsilanti, raised his voice.

"Would you trust anyone with such a secret?" Mother Hen scoffed.

Emilios closed his eyes, massaging his forehead. From all the warlords and despots of the expedition, Mavrogheni had been the most competent, albeit a lunatic who used a carriage pulled by stags and had ennobled his horse, like Caligula.

"You should trust us. We're all in this together. There is no turning back," Elilios said, trying to calm himself.

"I'll be back shortly," Mother Hen said, leaving the tent.

They remained silent, waiting. Minutes passed, and they focused on the coffees and treats in front of them.

"Even if we stop the Russians now, they'll keep coming," Ypsilanti broke the awkward silence after a while.

"We have to stop them only for a few years," Emilios said. "Soon, we'll have trains, blimps, industry, a modern society they could not compete with. They'll have to reform, and that will take all their energy. It is the same with the Turks if they renege on their word. Before the turn of the century, their armies will be obsolete."

"But Outworlders already have all those advanced weapons. Why don’t you help now?" Osman asked.

"I'm not here as an Outworlder; I'm here as a Greek, and the kids are here as Elves. The Tatars killed seven thousand of the Protectorate's citizens last year. It's out of the question for the Council to help them directly. All who came with me are volunteers."

"Deniability," Rigas said. "You are helping, but not officially."

"I have brought the device. Your youngsters will assist."

Mother Hen returned to the tent, followed by Cedric and Juniper. Putting a black bag on the table, he opened it, revealing a crystal ball. On one side, it had a small indentation. Cedric extracted a USB cable from his pocket, inserted it into the crystal ball, then into his phone.

"Who do you want me to call?" he asked.

"What the heck is this?" Emilios asked, staring at the ball.

"Sorcery," Osman said.

"The people who came to help us tried different ways to bounce the signal through the Manasfere," Mother Hen said. "They tried to imitate various Outworlder concepts."

"The Palantir, from Lord of the Rings," Cedric said.

"And this… crystal thingy works?"

"It's not crystal, it's enchanted salt," the Triumvir said. "Acts like a… train's sister."

"Transistor," Cedric said.

"I hope you will prove trustworthy and keep the secret."

"From our enemies, sure. What would be the point in keepin it from your allies, like Ypsilanti, or Sam?" Emilios asked. The Vlach leaned his head sideways, scratching his right cheek.

"I guess you have a point, Greek."

"And this is supposed to help us, how exactly?" Rigas asked.

"You'll understand in a second. Cedric, Call Tristan," Emilios decided. "Put it on speaker."

"He's not answering," Cedric said half a minute later. "Who should I call next?"

"Call Sam."

"Moment," Cedric said, scrolling through the agenda. "Ah, here it is."

"Cedric?" Sam's voice arrived a few seconds later.

"It's me, Emilios," Emilios said.

"Who?"

"The Greek cook," Cedric said.

"Chef," Emilios said. "You don't remember me?"

"Oh, yes, now I remember," Sam said. Emilios could swear he did not. "What's up?"

"I'm here with a bunch of friends from the Balkans. We're in Moldavia, with a small army, trying to stop the Russians from conquering the Crimean Khanate. We aim to maintain a buffer zone between them and us. It's an unofficial Council mission."

"Council mission? I was not aware of it. Who exactly on the Council hired you?"

"I don't know. You have to ask Tristan."

"I see… And how can I help?"

"I heard one of the other teams has a shapeshifter."

"Moment… checking the file… Yes, a girl. Very young."

"Can you ask the Council to send her here? We need her to pretend she's Mavrogheni. The guy unexpectedly died, and we need his troops to stay with us."

"Who's Mavrogheni?"

"Wallachia's despot. Hospodar, Voievode, Prince."

"Sorry, but here are two problems with that. First, she shapeshifts into a dragon, not other people."

"Err.. But does she have, you know, a lot of firepower? That could come in handy too."

"Here comes the second problem. She's on the run."

"From whom?"

"The Council is no longer in charge. There's a duke now."

"And who's that?"

"Me."

"Oh… Err… congrats?"

"Good job, Sam," Cedric yelled. "The Council sucked."

"I had nothing to do with it; I just picked up the broken pieces."

"The crown lying in the gutter, huh?" Emilios said.

"Sorry?"

"That's what Napoleon said when he became emperor: I found the crown in a gutter, just picked it up."

"Fuck that punk," Sam blurted on the other side. "That was a good line. Sorry, Emilios, can't help with your problem. However, I'm going to change that policy of no advanced weapons outside our lands. I could send you a few, if you want."

"Do horses like oats?"

"I take it as a yes?"

"YES!" Emilios yelled.

"It's a deal. Question for Cedric. Do you know a tribe of elves who deal in portals?"

"Nope. I'll ask my girlfriend. Juniper?"

"Doesn't ring a bell. Anything specific about them?" Juniper asked.

"They sound like elven supremacists. For them, slavery is nice and—"

"I know them," Juniper blurted. "They call themselves the High Elves. We nicknamed them the Vanity tribe. It's a small one."

"Can they be trusted?"

"Depends. They're mad," the girl said. "Mom hates them."

"Shoot…"

"If you must deal with them, praise them a lot. They like compliments."

"Shit, I forgot!" Sam said, a facepalm audible through the speaker. "I think I could help with your problem after all."

"How?" Emilios asked.

"If you send me a photo of that guy, I could print a latex mask, and you could have someone else pretend they're him."

Emilios looked at the ground below his feet. The only way to take a photo was to unbury the prince. Nevertheless, there was no other way.

"I'll call back once I have the photo," he said. "It would be great if we had the mask before Monday."