War of the Feathers – Epilogue

Even caked in dirt and gore, Evander Penrose held a fierce stalwartness. It was something sharp, striking in its vividness, like lightning breaking out from the grasping currents of darkness, thought Mercy as she watched him.

The so-called demigod sat, propped up by a heap of Xellcarrian bodies, legs stretched out with her heels set upon the torso of a dead knight. Emerald hair fell back in twirls and curls down to her shoulders. Soft pallid skin highlighted her sapphire eyes, though centuries of witnessing, and having to barter with, the worst of sentient kind had drawn creases out from the corners. Whilst the dark colour of the gemstone was still there in her eyes, the gleam had long ago been worn away.

Her role in the Gods’ world was a burden she was all too eager to shed. A bitter, irony which was slowly chipping away at her soul, until only a husk would remain. It was Mercy’s responsibility to provide intervention and absolution to those she often believed unworthy, but the Gods, in their so-called wisdom decided were worth saving.

It was punishment, Mercy knew. Punishment for trying to prevent sentient kind and the natural world from becoming further entangled with the Gods by usurping Them. The divine power Mercy had been granted was something she had never asked for, and neither had Wrath or the Others. But it had been poured into their souls nonetheless, and with it they had been expected to pave the way for the rest of sentient kind to receive the same powers – as if the few who could be worthy of such power could ever be astute or strong enough to endure it. It was safer only for a handful of them to hold this burden and govern the rest, whilst keeping them free from the profound ignorance of the Gods.

But that plan had failed, and Mercy had been cast far from Wrath, and burdened with the role of second chances. Yet, within the aftermath of Wrath’s, Mercy’s, and the Other’s failure, the Gods may have done something right by halted Their divine plan to give a portion of their powers to Sentient kind – though not without a twist of course. Magic was made unnatural to Sentient kind, their minds or perhaps the nature or magic altered, so such knowledge would burn away at their sanity. The greater the knowledge, the greater the death of reason and rationality.

To get around this, the craven, sneaky Gods created what the Maytoni called Pastorals. Individuals considered worthy enough in their souls for the Gods to manifest Their powers through… Like a puppet or mage’s staff.

For Mercy and the Others this placed them in more precarious situation, as their minds were not made immune after the reversal. Some would say it was compassion and generosity that the Gods give Her people a second chance, though it felt more like penial servitude or a sickening joke to punish Mercy and the Others further. To prevent insanity robing Mercy and the Others of who They are, each of Them was given a role within the Gods’ Creation, and by carrying out that role, the oblivion of madness was held back.

It stirred a bitterness in Mercy’s weary soul.

Still, there was always free will, arguably the Gods’ best work, and their greatest mistake – a wonderful paradox and there was nothing more natural in the universe than a paradox. Mercy was still able to take many liberties in her work, as many as she dared, often defying orders, and going her own way.

Evander Penrose could not see her; she couldn’t allow it. He wasn’t ready.

Even though Mercy was able to flex her own wisdom and independence, it still pained her at times knowing what was right was still going to be brutal. But it had been the only way to ensure that the gangrene of this contrived affair did not spread beyond the peninsula. After so many centuries of hardships with no reward she finally felt, once more, the glory and anticipation in struggling for a greater good.

She did not need to engineer the battle, or the actions that led to it. Sentient kind were masterful at that sort of thing. Mercy just made sure that it was so bloody and heinous that it would deter further conflict. For her, the most painful part was in breaking her poor Evander’s heart, leaving it far more vulnerable to the depression within his mind that had threatened to take his life numerous times in the past. But, with her heart leaping and stalling throughout the past few days, Mercy watched as he rose above the darkness like he always did, coming out of the searing, lightless flames stronger than before.

She was forging a Chasm of a weapon with Evander, taking the defective materials that the Gods had used, and pouring in glorious gold to seal the cracks in his soul to build something beautiful and magnificent – a champion.

As Evander turned and began to sleep-walk back to the portcullis of the north wall, away from her, Mercy cocked her head to one side. She watched him, physically a wreck compared to how he looked days before, but stronger in his soul now than he had ever been, and whispered into the breeze, “This is one you owe me.”

Two Weeks Later…

Blair Tower was the base of operations for Summiteers operating out of the Coastal Province and the Mayne Peninsula, and in part a place of training for those selected to potentially join the ranks of this elite, yet worryingly isolationist part of the body of the Maytoni military.

Whilst the tower had been built as a look put post a thousand years ago, it had been appropriated by the Summiteers at some point, not only as a base to run their operations in the Poet’s Sea from, but to operate a portion of its obscenely brutal selection process from.

Round, with several turrets added to its body in later centuries, the tower could house close to one hundred and thirty people. However, the Summiteers likely didn’t even fill a third of it – civilian adjutants included.

A hexagonal yard with an accommodating slate barracks lay to the west side of the tower, blocky and utilitarian, just about enough shelter for those aspiring to reach Summiteer status to spend a night or two in.

Operations Commander Dylis Wathen approached the great mound of rock upon which the tower and adjoining fortress had been built. Her horse, a dark, nonchalant beast trotted along the dirt path as if it was just happy to be out of its stable. It had been impossible to push the beast into anything more than this casual trot. Not that she was normally impatient, but Dylis did wish to get this meeting over and done with.

The hillside and cliff that the Summiteer’s tower had been built upon surged up from the flat fields like a gigantic wave, frozen in time as it reached its apex. Pouring over the north and eastern sides like a tide in its own right was an immense forest of yew and ash trees, enveloping the paths and trails. On the south side were jutting, jagged rocks shorn into a sheer cliff face. Upon the hill and cliffside every shade of green, silver, and brown leaned into their darker hues, despite the sun overhead. It was a formidable sight, not just because it was a military installation, but because this was a testament to the more nefarious aspects of Maytoni.

Perhaps an inviting prospect to the Summiteers, who were named for climbing impossible obstacles. Still, the south-facing side of the cliff looked more like a wicked rent in the landscape, as if the hillside had had a chunk of its body hacked away, the rock face so uneven and twisted in places. Out from the cliff came the shrill, off-key cries of juvenile golden eagles, and juvenile peregrine falcons to dominate the southern approach. To Dylis these cries sounded more like the raising of an alarm at her presence. Whilst the birds squalled from their nests, their parents swooped and glided on thermal currents high in the clear sky, surveying the swaths of unruly brush at the cliff base, or the open patches of fields surrounding the fort for rabbits, hares, other birds, and at times a juvenile deer.

If the Xellcarrians had made it this far south, they would have swept over the hillside and taken the tower with relative ease. This wasn’t a fortification, it was a glorified look-out post.

A herd of golden dear roamed far off to her right, the golden strikes seared into the coats of their small bodies wavering in the day’s heat, as they worked their way through a wilder part of the farmed territory. Dylis hoped they kept their distance and didn’t need her path becoming congested by animals used to the presence of people – nor did she want her robes frayed by antlers and nibbled on.

As the horse moved leisurely along the north-westerly path, Dylis took in her surroundings; the disorderly tangles of hedgerows marking boarders between the tended fields and the land left to be overwhelmed by wildflowers, overgrown grass, and weeds. Unfortunately, it all made for a scene of foreboding more than beauty. Dylis wondered if any of the Summiteers were lurking amongst this semi-natural world in their camouflage rags, watching her.

It was best to assume so, Dylis thought, turning her eyes back to the path ahead.  

Swallowing the last of her trepidation, Dylis couldn’t help feeling that she was entering enemy territory. For every step the people of Maytoni took towards reformation, the Summiteers were there, looming in the background – at the very least.

A terrible force from an age long gone. Their exodus had ended two millennia ago, and the sinister, sickle-in-the-night, tactics of the Summiteers had become obsolete with that conclusion to that chapter of the Maytoni story – even if they had not realised it.

What Maytoni needed now was greater autonomy in its people. It needed lords like a starving person needed bread and water. The Church’s coverage had been tight when the country was first established two thousand years ago, covering a nation that was unlikely to have numbered a million people. Now it was four times that, and the number of Pastorals, and church charismatics had not grown with the population. Large portions of the population were left without any real governance, and of those most were buried in poverty.

If the Gods were not manifesting their gifts and wisdom through more people to raise up more Pastorals, then it was obvious to Dylis that the Gods wanted Maytoni to become a more proactive state, rather than leaving those in poverty to continue suffering. The Gods wanted strength to run through Maytoni, to revitalise its lethargic body.

“I’ve seen dragon nests less forbidding,” Cadel Thayer said quietly, upon his horse, behind Dylis.

Her bodyguard, a handsome, sombre man, was often quiet, favouring fewer, but more poignant words. Unlike regular Maytoni military personal, his uniform was white steel, with charcoal-grey accents. And rather than the insignia of a chasm split open by a downward arrow engraved upon the chest armour, there was a downward pointing sword, with a chain constricting the blade like a serpent. The hilt and grip of the sword was set over a half sun on the line of a horizon. This insignia was rendered as a copper infused relief and told of Cadel’s position as a bodyguard.

“And such would be easier to deal with. You can tame a dragon, after all, Cadel,” Dylis replied, looking behind her, to into the rich, warm yellow eyes of her bodyguard. Contrary to his introverted nature, Cadel’s appearance was bright and open; glowing skin and tied up blonde hair, with a wide mouth and inviting eyes – in all he looked more like a young preacher.

And maybe he could have been, Dylis thought.

As Operations Commander, Dylis Wathen was the final say in what military actions the Maytoni should engage in. Or at least she should have been.

Thirty-five, with sun-yellow-blonde hair and pale green eyes, she wore a soft expression, belying her contrarian nature. Pale robes encompassed her torso and waist, woven through with gold silk to form reliefs and swirling patterns. Horizon-orange coloured hose with silver accents matched and sharpened the green hues of her eyes.

It had been a great blessing to be elevated to the position, after her nomination from Prince Sharrow, and a clear sign from the Gods that Maytoni was to move forward into becoming a stronger nation.

Yet, the Summiteers seldom liaised with her on anything they did. Secrecy was one thing, a necessity she understood, but she was the Operations Commander, responsible for the might of Maytoni and the application of that might where necessary.

“Didn’t they used to shoot whistling arrows to greet on comers?” Cadel continued, his voice light, and conversational, a melody to push away the dull clopping of their horses’ hoofs on the dirt track.

“That was when the tower belonged to a militia group, before the Summiteers took it over. Now I suspect if any arrows came our way, they would be broadheads, or armour piercing – if they did shriek, it would be because they were made from banshee materials,” Dylis replied, staying ahead, and resisting the temptation to slow and draw alongside him.

Always resisting, a temptation tempered by the threat of an interloper, going about their own business, and seeing something they shouldn’t.

A row of round archery bosses ran along one side of the dark stone enclosure, all set at differing distances between 20 yards and 100 yards, upon hard flagstones to encourage archers not to miss.

As Dylis and Cadel rode in under an archway sculpted to look like a mountain split down the centre, she could see a group of aspirants gathered together. A breath caught in her throat at the sight. Aside from the filth drenching every fibre of their torn and shorn tunics and breeches, each of them looked as if they had been deprived of sleep, before being thrown from the cliffs, swallowed by leviathans, vomited up, and forced to run back to the fort.

If anything, they resembled beaten, fleeing refugees more than a would-be elite fighting force.

Training sergeants roared furiously at them to straighten up and get into formation. Despite the harrowing yelling, most of the recruits were sluggish in their movements, and seemed physically reluctant to respond – those that managed to anyway.

What should have been a familiar sight, in fact looked far removed from her own army training days, in a warped and sadistic manner. One training sergeant, an elf, pressed their face into that of a clearly disorientated man, screaming at them to either “get into formation, or bugger off into the forest to die!”

Two of the dishevelled group collapsed, crumpling and folding in on themselves. No one dared help, though a couple of hospitallers rushed over to pull them away for medical treatment – prior to being discharged no doubt.

“Only eighteen to go,” a voice said from behind them.  

Already present, as if she had been anticipated, was Colonel Simon Vastwood. Rather than standing at attention, the figure stood with his arms enclosed over his chest, almost nonchalantly. He wore a simple rock coloured jerkin and hoes, and his cap with its indigo arch griffin feathers displayed upon the front.

Held between his arms was a longbow, dark wood, with lurking green shades along its length – monsoon ash no doubt. Limb tips held an alarming sheen of colour; the same way a venomous predator may display vivid colours upon their body. Rumour had it they were made from deep ocean basilisk scales.

“Colonel Vastwood, good morning,” Dylis replied, effortlessly dismounting her horse.

Before she could say more, Vastwood continued. “If you had sent word, we could have accommodated you with welcoming parade.”

The words were a slight despite the light tone to them and not lost on Dylis as she approached the Summiteer, marching across the yard as if this was her domain. Dylis kept a hand on her ornate bow in its ordained quiver, a gentle rattle from her arrows preceding her. Cadel was behind her, his own gauntleted hand upon the hilt of his exquisite sword.

“Commander Wathen, welcome to Blair Tower!” His voice boomed, welcoming, even charming. Yet the colonel remained a static figure.

He was pushing sixty, and bald, though a grey-free dark brown beard sprouted from his cheeks and chin. A dreadful chasm of a scar opened in a diagonal rent across his nose, beginning under his left eye and terminating close to the right corner of his lips. Ears with a mild taper told of elf ancestry, and the topaz flecks in his dark eyes spoke of siren blood in his veins.

The latter made Dylis shiver inwardly. Such a high-ranking official inside of the Maytoni armed forces, and someone with such prestige and authority, holding a taint within their blood. Frankly if Dylis had the authority, she would have had Vastwood discharged from the military – and immune from any Church based role within Maytoni.

It was widely believed that siren ancestry led to undesirable traits such as bisexuality or even pansexuality. With the southern regions of the Coastal Provance eroding away to degeneration, Maytoni’s higher echelons of command did not need someone like Vastwood poisoning it further.

“Thank you, colonel,” Dylis returned, halting a few feet from him, keeping her voice genial. If anyone was going to snap first, it was not going to be her. She resented the man for this stolid, even defiant presentation. This was his domain, yes. But only because she lacked the authority to change that. The colonel needed to be reminded of this.

“Is this a surprise inspection? Are you here to look over our initiates? What can we do for you?” He continued, keeping up the act.

“I’m here to speak with you, colonel… In private.”

The colonel looked past Dylis, a barely perceptible movement, at Cadel, her bodyguard. “Will your guard dog be joining us. If so, I’ll get my wolfhound, Sally, so she can have some company.”

Before realising she had done it, Dylis clenched her jaw in response to the unexpected barb, almost betraying her composed demeanour.

“Cadel Thayer, my honoured bodyguard, will wait outside whilst we speak,” she managed to reply, keeping her tone of voice level, but stern.

Vastwood only cackled, his smirk was as sharp as any broadhead. “Forgive my confusion. You keep the young man behind you, on an invisible leash. And he is without his bow.”

Behind her, Dylis knew Cadel was holding a neutral expression, unfazed by the words. Nothing ever seemed to strike a spark from him.

“Cadel is a paragon of the Duellists’ Guild, a fellow of the Mastery of the Melee, and a commissioner within the Sect of the Tamed Steel Dragon,” she stated matter-of-factly, knowing these impressive titles would be lost on someone who clung to archery with such infuriating pride. “And can cut arrows from the air,” she added, holding back a sneer.

“A Maytoni without a bow is like a bird without feathers, or a snake without fangs, commander,” Vastwood replied simply.

However, before Dylis could speak again, the colonel continued, “Come, commander.” And he strode away at a quick pace as if to try and shake her from his tail.

Having never been in Blair Tower before, its austere interior took Dylis by surprise. Summiteers did not seek glorification through their actions, that was one of the few positive aspects to their nature, however no portraits of past commanders, or banners, or tapestries adorned the walls. Rather there was the occasional case holding a bow, or arrows – once weapons, but now historical relics – or gifts from other nations or warriors.

As they ascended the tower, over well-maintained steps, Vastwood continued talking, taking the steps two at a time and forcing Dylis to practically jog to keep up.

“I’m sure you can discern from the commotions in the training yard, commander,” Vastwood explained as they passed by tight, arched cuts in the wall. “That we just had a troop come in from a night’s excursion along the Stave Cliffs. Last night we had them leaping from Pineapple Point into the sea. They then have to swim twenty miles, before climbing Giant’s Pull back to civilisation, or at least back to Blair Tower. And now they’re getting ready to shoot a hundred arrows across our yard. Would you like to watch?”

A welter of howls poured in through the tight windows as the trainees seemingly failed to do things as quickly as their Summiteer trainers would have liked. She doubted a chimera’s roar held so much heat and acridness. Even in her army days, coming out of university, Dylis could not recall such extreme vitriol from her training sergeants.

“No, thank you, colonel.” Dylis didn’t want to imagine the grim cold festering away at the poor initiates’ muscles and sanity.

“We’re halfway through this training season, now. So, there’ll only be about a third of ‘em left.”

“How many were there at the beginning?” She thought of Evander Penrose, her old friend from university for a grim moment.

“We take in about sixty, and lose… Well, we end with perhaps three. No elite unit I can think of has such a high attrition rate. Even the Outriders only lose half of those who apply. By the time we get halfway through the training season most have dropped out or been medically discharged. Of course, it’s the second half of the season where we get the fatalities.”

He spoke with such matter-of-factness, as if explaining the inner workings of an administrative wing. Fatalities? People dying because of such cruel and brutal training regimes…

“It’s not the easy nature trails you went on in your army days, is it?” Vastwood continued, as if reading her mind.

“Perhaps if recruits are dying, it may be thought that the training methods are too extreme? Afterall, these are potentially the best the Maytoni armed forces has, and I don’t like to see their lives thrown away.”

“They are the best of the regular Maytoni armed forces, commander. And, well, it is a sad reality of what we do. But no one is sitting in secret meeting rooms, trying to devise a training regime that will take the lives of our best. Those few outside are the best of our armed forces, and we want to tap them for every ounce of elite potential. But what we Summiteers do is remarkably more dangerous than that of the regular army, navy, even that of the Outriders – and every aspirant who agrees to undertake the selection process knows the stories, the rumours, and the myths. We all have our limits, but who among us knows truly were they lie.”

They entered Vastwood’s office, another austere setting. Only a neat desk, a slab of slate and wood sat towards the rear of the room. Surrounding them were shelves filled with tomes, and of what Dylis could see of them, they were very well maintained, and all focused on military strategy, history, and archery.

To the right was a bow rack, wrought in acid eaten metal and ordained with several longbows, and a few shorter curved bows. Rows of arrows sat upright with their plumes of colourful feathers in front of the shrine. Several thumb rings, pale and dark colours, hung from string on the side of the bow rack, and Dylis wondered if the scars on the metal were from basilisk venom.

Hanging from the other side of framework was an armguard, tanned leather, its surface fractured like the texture of tree bark. Rumour had it, that it had been tanned from the flesh of a Jermishian War Mage, and given as a gift by the Hasjin Emperor to Vastwood.

Dylis knew too much about the Summiteers to convince herself that this wasn’t true.

“Take a seat, commander,” Vastwood said, taking Dylis back into the moment.

Behind the colonel was a shuttered window, wooden slants cutting across the white sunlight. Yet, only now did Dylis notice the eagle, perched upon a stand, peering between the slats into the yard beyond. It was colossal, and though its wings were fold away, Dylis suspected that when fully spread they would stretch out for a couple of metres. A pale, deathly white, covered most of the body, with tombstone grey flecks shot through with bronze darts, and its feet were the colour of blood, with dull grey talons.

This was a crypt eagle, an all but extinct species of eagle.

The beast turned its head, looking over its shoulder at the new arrival, or rather intruder, if Dylis thought she was reading its Chasm-dark eyes correctly.

“Ah, yes, this is Benbow, my adjutant,” the colonel added.

Benbow then turned his attention back to whatever was happening outside in the yard.

Dylis swallowed a dry lump, taking her eyes off the beast, and then forced herself to sit upright in the rigid, angular chair, however unhappy her back was about the sudden discomfort. Cadel was outside the room, she knew, requiring no orders to do his duties.

“Colonel Vastwood,” she began, eager to take control of the conversation. “I am here to discuss with you the outcome of what is being called The War of the Feathers.” She crossed her legs and rested both arms – as best she could – on edges of the chair.

If mention of Maytoni’s most recent, and high-profile conflict pricked at the colonel, his lined, leathery face did not betray him. However, he did raise a hand and shook his head.

“I was rather hoping you had come all the way down here to discuss my proposals for advancing our armed forces – you know we need greater magical knowledge and advancements within our forces, especially considering the most recent Jermishian incursion.”

It could have been an attempt at misdirection, to distract her, but Dylis sensed a sincerity to the words. For the past few years, colonel Vastwood had been pushing forward the establishment of an elite infantry force.

“I’m sorry, colonel, but I’m not here to discuss your ideas, or your proposal for a Special Weapons Legion.” Frankly she was fed up hearing about it or even seeing more documentation regarding it waiting on her desk back in the capital. The trouble was it was a brilliant idea, and something Maytoni very much needed. Dylis just did not want a Summiteer, much less one tainted with siren’s blood, at the head of it.

“Such a shame, commander.” Vastwood straightened in his chair, scratching at his beard. “Well, regarding our recent actions against the Xellcarrians, I can only offer the standardised response: I cannot discuss Summiteer operations, or the actions of our operatives. You have the after-action reports submitted by those Summiteers who were present, a liberty I remind you…” He paused for a drawn out second. “Respectfully.”

“And that is just one of many problems this organisation continues to burden Maytoni with,” Dylis jumped in. “I am the Operations Commander, colonel, and this ‘standardised response’ is not how you should be speaking to me. This organisation operates with complete autonomy, failing to submit action plans or even seek permission before acting.”

“This is old news, commander. Secrecy is out foundation. We need it for success as much as we need our stringently savage training regimes.”

Simmering, though holding her resolve, Dylis took a deep breath and decided to leave it for now. That was a battle for another time.

“Well, colonel, we both serve the same people, the same Church…”

“Are you sure about that?”

The words cut hotly across Dylis, and again she took a quick breath.

“I have queries regarding the reports submitted by the Summiteers and would like to clarify them.”

Vastwood only smirked slyly. “Your Inquisition already tried this, and had to be reminded that they too, do not hold the requisite authority to interrogate us.”

“My Inquisition, colonel?”

“Oh, sorry. Slip of the tongue, commander. It’s just with the way you have been mobilising them, especially in the southern regions of the Coastal Provance, I was beginning to think you had been given total command of the security body, and that I had not been informed.”

These sparing barbs were taking her off course, Dylis noted. She had to retain a far tighter hold on this meeting.

“What the Inquisition does, colonel is outside of your purview.”

“Do you know our country’s history? Post-Establishment?”

“I know full well our history,” Dylis snapped, her eyes locking onto Vastwood’s frankly smug demeanour. “And I am not here to discuss that either.”

“I’d hate to see such crimes committed again. That was a dark, dark time, a blight to our so-called progressiveness. The pain and losses are still felt, almost two millennia later.”

A tautness assailed Dylis’ chest, but she deigned not to respond to Vastwood. The Post-Establishment era, the creation of the Inquisition to root out corruption within the body of Maytoni saved it as much as finding a homeland did, Dylis thought. And before her, in the here and now, that corruption was infesting the body of Maytoni again.

“We are here to discuss the reports regarding the War of the Feathers, colonel,” Dylis finally snapped with a finality as if her word came from the Gods themselves. Then she added, casually, “And Staff Sergeant Penrose.”

Dylis could have sworn she saw a flicker in the colonel’s stained eyes as he remained still in his chair.

“What of him? I can’t discuss anything relating to his position as a Summiteer. However, I can give some broad details about his actions in defeating the Unified Mundhonnel Bandit Clans. Or his most recent excursion into The Mane, finding not only another viable milestone from our exodus, but bringing a divine bow back to the Church, and crippling a major threat in the process.”

“What of him?” Dylis repeated as if the words held a sour taste. “We have correspondence, from General Dedrick, who repeatedly stated that he believed his life to be in danger.”

“An astute man. What perception, that he should believe himself to be in danger, during a time of war,” Vastwood returned, deadpan.

“In danger from your Summiteers, colonel. You know what I am talking about. In one message, general Dedrick stated that sergeant Penrose actually struck him.”

“A remarkable show of resolve, I’d say.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve met that desk-mounter, and if Evander was able to hold off whacking him for more than a day, that shows real fortitude.”

“General Dedrick was a superior to sergeant Penrose, and to you. I won’t tolerate this authority-unto-ourselves attitude, colonel!” Dylis seethed, watching as her words swept past the colonel with all the weight of dead leaves on the wind.

“The man was a feckless, royalist buffoon, commander,” Vastwood shot back, his tone striking as hard as a pickaxe into rock. “He hid himself within that lighthouse, whilst Maytoni died for his undeserved reputation.”

“Well, about that,” Dylis interrupted. “If general Dedrick was so much of a coward, then how is it he unexpectedly found the courage to enter battle on the final day, where he fell… According to three of your Summiteers – sergeants Penrose, Anker, and Fiala. That is something the Inquisition might say is an inconsistency.”

Vastwood only leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers on its arms. “So, he finally found his courage… Or he saw the battle had been won and then decided to join it.”

The dismissiveness of the colonel’s tone rankled Dylis, burning through what remained of her composure. Speaking to Summiteers was like trying to get through to unruly children. The whole organisation should be disbanded; she wanted to scream in the colonel’s face.

“You knew sergeant Penrose, did you not?” Vastwood then added, casually, though it may as well have been a hook catching in Dylis’ throat.

“Yes. We attended university together, and were both members of its Archery Society,” Dylis replied flatly. “I knew Juliet Anker as well. We three were all good friends.”

“You and Evander were also members of the Theological Society, where you attempted to oust him for his more progressive interpretations of holy writ.”

“You are not the one doing the interrogation here, colonel.”

“No, I’m just making conversation, commander. I find it so interesting that you both knew each other in another life.”

“Even so, we were good friends.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Enough, colonel!” Dylis barked, cursing herself for letting this struck nerve show.

Vastwood only raised his hands in mock placation.

“What is it you are accusing my Summiteers of commander?” He then said, cooly, joining his hands together over his chest.

“No other Maytoni soldiers recall seeing the general in battle – five thousand or so, against the word of three.”

Vastwood reeled in the distance between them, a fist set down upon the desk, obviously holding back an outburst of his own. “By the time the battle was over, only two thousand three hundred Maytoni remained. Over half the army force was killed in the fighting. By the time the final battle was engaged, how many of those five thousand Maytoni were still alive, or even in a position to continue fighting?” His eyes darkened, his words undercut by a growl.

Something tight clutched Dylis’ chest, and she paused for a moment to collect and organise a response. “Three, against the word of many others, two thousand plus, does not make for a clear picture, colonel.”

“You’re designing this investigation in such a way that it sounds as if every soldier who was present during the final battle is stating emphatically that Dedrick was not present. When questioned, they said they did not see him. There is a difference between failing to see someone and claiming they were not present. My wolfhound is outside, in the yard, yet you could claim she isn’t here in the fort because you did not set eyes upon her. Do not twist the truth, commander.”

“I’m twisting nothing. We know something happened to the general.”

“My money’s on him slipping coming down the base steps and cracking his skull.”

“I want to speak with Evan- sergeant Penrose, colonel. I can still give you orders, so make it happen.”

“Does he want to speak with you, however?”

“Stop with this petulant humour, it impresses no one!”

“I’m not looking to impress anyone here.”

Imagery of Cadel booting the colonel off of his chair and stomping on his head beset Dylis. She had to admit it made for a soothing sight.

“I asked sergeant Penrose about your character when you were elected to the position of Operations Commander,” Vastwood continued. “He stated, with alarm, that you were a narcissistic, manipulative person who lacked the social filters seen in those with a rational mind. And you say you were friends? Don’t come in here accusing me, or my people of dishonesty, when you bury the truth yourself.”

This lash of words slashed deep into her spirit leaving burning acid in their wake. It could hardly be true, and Summiteers were renowned for craven, deceitful behaviour. Sure, Evander did not always see things the way she did, and often Dylis had to correct him, but they were friends, and still would be, she was sure that.

“I hide nothing, colonel. Ask sergeant Penrose. I have always been clear and honest with him for example.”

“I’ll bet,” Vastwood said, more to himself. He then looked back to Dylis. “That scent of yours, orange and desert wildflower?”

Dylis had another retort nocked and ready to loose, but her tongue stalled.

“I noted the same scent coming from your bodyguard,” Vastwood continued, nonchalantly. “Perhaps it would be best if he tried a different scent, should there be any rumours, commander.”

It was a numb blow, dull but deep. Dylis knew her eyes lit up, her jaw clenched visibly, and she could feel the blood draining from her face. Rather than try to cover things up, she willed herself to continue her demands as if the veiled accusation was not worth a response.

“General Dedrick was in fear for his life,” she reiterated. “And there was his plan to ensure unrelenting pursuit against a Xellcarrian retreat, which this organisation was adamant should not happen. Dedrick wanted to eliminate the remnants of their army if they were defeated militarily by our small army force – to send a message to the Xellcarrians, colonel. Something your organisation is good at, so I can’t imagine why the Summiteers present would have taken umbrage with general Dedrick’s orders.”

Dylis was especially proud of the quip at the end of her argument, never mind being able to respond coherently.

“Yes, the Rags. We cut them down, in cold blood, and then we cut them open,” Vastwood replied without hesitation – to Dylis’ disappointment. “But don’t you dare compare the Xellcarrians to those bigoted murderers. The former should never have been our enemy, and the latter are some of the most mindlessly ruthless killers I have ever seen. We’re comparing our civilised neighbours to serial killers and thugs. And yes, sometimes you do need to send a message, but it’s knowing when that matters.” He took a breath. “Just who are you accusing, and of what?”

“Staff sergeant Penrose, either give the order to have general Dedrick murdered, or did it himself, defying orders as well, in order to let an enemy of Maytoni withdraw to safety. My evidence is weak, I will admit, however, in general Dedrick’s final correspondence, he reiterated that his life was in danger and should he die, to look no further than the Summiteers. In addition to this, he added that he would fulfil his duty to Maytoni and pursue the enemy to their total annihilation. I know sergeant Penrose and the Summiteers had orders to not only undermine the general, but to only engage the Xellcarrians with restraint – you, and other Summiteer officers made that clear in previous military planning meetings. I can imagine general Dedrick demanding they pursue the retreating Xellcarrians, and… I think lethal force, perhaps an assassination order, was implemented.”

Vastwood’s lips compressed as if he was clamping down on a scream. His eyes narrowed in a gesture of restraint, lines breaking out in the corners. They seemed to darken, only enflaming the topaz flecks from his corrupted bloodline. “I will tolerate – barely – such slander, whilst we are in private, commander. However, if you speak in such accusatory tones about my people publicly, you’ll find we don’t need any special hearings, or Inquisitorial intervention, to remove you from your position.”

There it was Dylis thought. The type of threat which confirmed her suspicions that general Dedrick had been murdered to prevent further escalation.

“Are you threatening me, colonel? Because I would enjoy showing you how Cadel can knock away arrows with his impressive sword skills.”

“Oh, no, commander,” Vastwood laughed, rolled back into his chair. “I’m so sorry I gave you the wrong impression. What I meant, was that we would take our claims straight the Moral Body of the Church, to clear things up as openly as possible.”

“Of course, colonel.”

“What I will say of staff sergeant Penrose, is that he prevented escalation, that he prevented total war, a war that would have lasted at least a decade and seen millions of deaths. You dare to come here, and accuse one of my people of criminal actions, when he prevented a war, yet you let Darren Sharrow flee the country, and still will not bring him in, for starting a conflict which has seen over two thousand Maytoni die.”

Like a bard with who knew only one song, the Summiteers had been crying out about Prince Sharrow with falsehoods accusing him of game hunting and poaching.

“Well, this is a stalemate, colonel, and I won’t have my time wasted further. But this will not go away. It can’t. A general fell in battle and that deserves an enquiry in and of itself. I am upholding that general Dedrick’s death happened under suspicious circumstances and will ensure further investigation.”

“Oh, surely you have better things to be doing, commander?”

Dylis rose, smoothing her attire, and taking a grip of her bow in its quiver.

“I have plenty to be getting on with, colonel.”

As she turned to leave, Benbow, the crypt eagle, turned its ruffled head about to give her one final darkening glare.

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