A selection of King Lucius III most famous (known to the public) official orders

  Gathered and preserved inside the Temple of the Fallen in Elysium Fort on the ‘Imperatus Generalia’ obelisk or Menhir, also known as ‘The General’s Orders’.

  Order XV. Larum in Caello

  (Translated, a seagull in the sky or the rising seagull, from the navy’s ‘Operation Seagull’ in 194NC that stopped the Khanate’s Attack Fleet near the Gulf of Colle, also engraved on the entrance of Captain Peter Brakis mausoleum in Illirium and frequently mentioned by Caius-Metilus Plautus in his celebrated ‘Par Ocreis’ to justify Marcus-Antonius’ precarious decisions and actions in the turn of the 2nd century.)

  Order XVII. Civitas in Deserto

  (Translated, a city built in the desert or a poetic metaphor for ‘life out of nothingness’. The order issued to Nipius Bonosus so the latter could begin construction of Luciopolis around 194 NC.)

  Order XX. Nix movens semper liquescit

  (Translated, Moving snow always melts. Addressed to Propraetor Macrinus in the spring of 196NC in a coded message.)

  Order XXI. Mare Custodes

  (Translated, Ocean’s Sentries. The more famous of the two coded orders issued the same day, this one to the Regia Admiralty at Illirium. In recent years the first overlooked order has been reexamined with fresher eyes, as it signified the King’s ability to break down colossal objectives to the minutiae, and use them against each other, all while strategizing in a much grander scale than it was thought possible and with a remarkable levelheadedness, even against awe-inspiring opponents.)

  Order XXII. Contractum Matrimonium

  (Translated, Marriage contract. Issued in the summer of 196NC –days later- in a secret letter to King Frances Davenport of Lesia, who hid it famously from his wife Queen Saskia Lennox of Cediorum. An action that ruined Frances own already strained marriage.)

  -

  Lucius Alden,

  ‘Bloody Tiger’,

  Lord Lucius Aldenus the Third,

  Praetor Maximus,

  Legatus ‘omnis Legionis’

  King Lucius III

  Trace it back and reveal the start

  Part I

  -Will you dare cross it, Prefect?-

  not in scale map of the long perilous Coin Route, the alternate approach to Jelin, with both SETC major naval bases depicted

  Inside the sun-kissed Lorian loggia, hugged by painted silver marble columns and shaded with a net awning, the small fountain made a gushing sound as it toiled. The thick aroma of red and white roses sweetening the air, while the buzzing of the growing around the royal villa town, was now flooded with rich Lorian and foreign tourists that wanted to witness ‘Lucius miracle in the desert’ up close. A city with the grandeur —in its many temples, its rich markets and last but not least a big enough hippodrome— to rival Cartagen.

  You stand strong enough, when no enemy can reach you. Their vile plans drowned by fear, long distance, or pure reverence, a silent Lucius thought, watching Disciple Aulus Ventor discussing with Vibius Ramirus, and the representatives of the kingdom’s most powerful people that had travelled to see the King. All but moving the court from Cartagen to Luciopolis. Drusus Sula for Duke Paulus Sula, Varus Trupo for the Quadrumvirate, Proclus Sextus-Brakis for young Duke Ethan Brakis, Sir Flavius Nasica for the bedridden Duke Holt and the recently arrived Sirio Veturius for the Governor of Novesium. Sirio had arrived directly from Cartagen separately from Storm Nattas’ reply to the King. Nattas’ written answer had been late by a full day, but they were all watching from a distance anyway, reacting to the events and not dictating them.

  Lucius knew this shaped to be a losing strategy if he allowed it to continue.

  For if left to fester, things shall eventually escalate. Alas, he was drawn towards two opposite directions, the king was.

  Lucius attention had been forced to focus on the Scalding Sea and the merchant war the Barons had started through no fault of their own, although the temptation to blame them for everything was strong in him. The king hadn’t forgotten the opportunistic way the Wine Barons had behaved during Regia’s Civil War, when they had at first attempted to stop him sneakily at Oras’ Navel, and then withdrew or threw in the towel when the tables turned on them.

  Over accursed grape juice, Lucius thought pursing his mouth. The Wine Barons and the Bank of Trust backing them, wanted to keep their monopoly on the higher-end vintages, which was of course unfeasible in the end, but Lucius couldn’t allow an unlicensed, foreign product to flood the more coin-rich parts of the market. Especially when the smugglers benefiting from the situation offered, in this new growing illegal market, everything else; from potions, tools and weapons, to gloves or even footwear. Garth and his SETC behaving like criminals had started selling without permits, manipulating the existing criminal infrastructure or even growing it, without any consideration for the local authorities, or the common decency all Jelin citizens must have to pay their due in taxes. During the Regia’s Civil War they had found their way inside the Lorian kingdoms markets, when nobody was looking, but this practice should come to an end.

  But how to discuss with a cult-favoring, pagan-infested, barbaric society of half-humans or not even that, Lucius wondered. Do we follow the Peninsula Cofols way with their slave-economy and blood sports? Not all manners of entertainment or practices are cultured. Even the brutal Khanate and the savage Horselords are splintered on the matter of Wetull’s new ruler, Lord Garth. The alien controlling a fire-breathing Wyvern. While the elusive Prince Atpa, the Khan’s last son was third in line to the throne but had been passed over in the succession, had found common ground with Wetull according to the Cofol reports Lucius had gotten from the Lanista Anepou Siba-Kal and his father Kenso, the Triarchy of Advisors that run the Khanate’s affairs didn’t, since Lord Garth had assisted ‘Queen’ Elsanne for years.

  Apparently both financially and even with soldiers, especially a certain mercenary company of murky origins known as the ‘Gallant Dogs’ out of Eikenport.

  The fact that Eikenport was now operational, alongside the once destroyed cities of the Zilan –if the reports were all true- revealed to Lucius how many things had changed while he was busy fighting his way back to the throne of Regia. Or while Antoon Eikenaar fought with Khan Burzin.

  Garth had used these half-a-dozen years to grab control of whatever had survived the catastrophe probably after securing himself a wyvern, and restart the once dead Imperial machine, giving it purpose. The fog of war so thick beyond the Pale Mountains, no information reaching them could be trusted. But the actions were there, and Cediorum had felt them.

  “D’Orsi was our best chance to finish off Garth and the Bank squandered it,” Lucius said.

  “My liege?” Cyrus Falx the second asked, but Trupo who had heard the king’s words half-turned, keeping the hand holding the gigantic map-stand firm while a legionnaire secured it. The officer’s healthy mustache dancing as his mouth moved.

  “A case of severe mistrust, birthed out of the conflict of interests we share,” Trupo said and Lucius nodded, running his fingers on the curved marble rail.

  “Nattas report makes no sense,” Ramirus intervened. “But Lesia navy’s actions are also befuddling, Praetor Maximus.”

  “They turned around and moored at Turtle Port,” Drusus Sula scoffed. “A couple of waves made them wet their loincloths!”

  “Let us not pass judgement so easy, Drusus,” Lucius warned the uncouth Lord.

  “The seas south of the Turtle Isles are brutal,” Proclus Sextus-Brakis pointed out. “For Abrakas Gullet’s waters stand beyond it for hundreds of kilometers, its depths and size immense.”

  And there’s a bit of ominous naval lore injecting itself into the conversation, further distancing us from what truly transpired.

  “Yet the Zilan fleet sailed on into the clouds and the storm, committing mass suicide,” Lucius argued. “Why does Lesia’s Fleet not withdraw from the area then?” He queried. “Leaving aside the matter of their rather impolite invasion of Regia’s lands?”

  “The Lesia Admiralty apologized, your grace,” Proclus replied. “Maritime Law permits them to seek refuge from the elements. Some claimed twenty meter high waves reached the island’s south ridges. Everything flooded a kilometer in land and caused significant damages per the local Aedile.”

  “And yet,” Lucius insisted reasonably. “Amidst all this calamity the Zilan Captains sailed forth into the unknown, dooming their crews to certain death. Could it be Lord Nattas suggestion of land inside Abrakas Gullet is credible and not just a theory?”

  “Naught but some inhospitable reefs? How to secure ships amidst a storm?” Proclus argued.

  “Nattas is correct, Proclus,” Lucius interrupted him. “My query merely rhetoric. Do you know why he can’t be wrong?”

  Proclus pressed his lips together, reluctant to openly argue with the King, and after a brief moment of further contemplation, he nodded. “No crew would willingly follow a captain to their demise, your grace.”

  “Especially if they know where he’s heading already,” Lucius agreed. “Trupo, you have the old maps ready yet?”

  “These reproductions are plucked out of sailors tales, old drawings, manuscripts, set over a real map to create a projection of what could be,” Trupo warned them stepping back from the gigantic stand. Three stands in reality, nailed together to create enough surface for all the different pieces of different maps to be displayed. “The crudest reproductions of course come from Captain Basten Dedum’s real-life journeys and notebooks. An Illirium native, Lord Proclus.”

  “I am aware of the Dedum family history, Tribune. Claus Dedum serves under Sir Vel, my own son, in the Illirium marines.”

  “Right then. Here and here, the white represents the sea,” Trupo explained, pivoting the subject towards his patched together maps. “I didn’t have the time to add color, but we should assume this is blue, gentlemen and general.”

  “We can visualize, Trupo,” Lucius assured him.

  “Dedum believed Abrakas Gullet had a corral belt of sorts, a half-hidden collections of reefs lurking at its deepest points and that everything originated from a massive island chain directly south of Turtle Isles. Well over four thousand nautical miles in fact and perhaps even further than the mythical Mistland. He called this mini-continent the Split Isles, and then came to the conclusion this corral belt or dangerous reefs were peaks of… or perhaps a part of an underwater mountain chain that kept the worst of the massive waves away. A submerged massive basin, acting as a water trap. Perhaps Abrakas does indeed nest into these underwater caves in the middle of the ocean,” Trupo continued pointing at the various representations of the unknown water expanse on his stitched together maps. “Lord Proclus, Stan Brakis turned the old Dedum house into a museum, and it’s where the ancient pottery and orichalcum artifacts are kept.”

  “Fragments,” Proclus replied, pursing his mouth. “Stuck on the stabilizing anchors he had dropped to keep his ship from floundering and discovered later. The anchor had shattered an amphorae on its way down, the latter lodged in some underwater reef they auspiciously missed, but not much was saved on its surface but a few words.”

  Lucius breathed out. Obviously Proclus, a man of mixed blood Lorian lineage due to breeding with sea-peoples to begin with, had married an Issir merchant’s daughter and produced even darker offspring to further fuel the gossip of this smaller Brakis cadet house’s proclivity to paganism, was uncomfortable with answering questions that showcased personal knowledge of ancient pagan artifacts.

  It was indeed a case of auspicious luck for the historically shunned Sextus-Brakis clan that the now imprisoned former Duke hadn’t kept Proclus or Sir Vel completely away from additional titles or honors, until Lucius had stepped in to give the duchy to young Ethan of the Brakis side of the family. It wasn’t a case of bigotry by Lucius, just the King delivering proper punishment to the Sextus-Brakis clan for failing him and allowing their kin Stan to murder Lucius father and younger brother.

  “Dawon, pronounced ‘don’ with the ‘aw’ part silent,” Lucius replied having seen a reconstruction of whatever Basten Dedum had pulled out of the depths, at Cartagen’s Academy as a kid. “Which means water in some variations of ancient Lorian, and coupled with the Pos-something faded first part… what our archaeologists believe is another version of the word ‘Potis’, which means of course ‘Lord’. The Lord of Waters or the ‘shakes’. Earthquakes.”

  “If pottery can be found on a sunk reef in the middle of Abrakas’ Gullet,” Trupo continued, after brushing down the edges of his ever-growing horseshoe-type mustache, with the latter increasing in size the more Trupo’s once rich head of hairs started thinning. “Then there must be land on both sides of the Unknown Ocean, and it is not White Yalca as many believed,” the officer continued and Lucius nodded, “and the king can attest to that personally. If the south, southeastern-most edge is the Split Isles with Mistland to the west and Abrakas Gullet the midpoint, then Dedum’s corral wall is the shield that protects our shores from the worst. A fisher’s net catching whatever spills out and preventing it from reaching us. But the Zilan Fleet wasn’t heading south to reach the Split Isle of course, it was just a feint to trick Lesia’s navy, they turned to the east after entering the eye of the storm and immediately after the Zilan found safe harbor.”

  Lesia knew that so they followed them until they couldn’t, but stayed around because they are certain the Zilan Fleet isn’t really gone.

  Or on its way back to Eplas.

  “Could the Bank know the location of this patch of land?” Lucius probed and most agreed that it was possible. “Alright then,” the king decided. “Assuming this is the last part of their journey,” Lucius continued staring at the map and Trupo. “And the secret base is somewhere southwest of the Turtle Isles, it still makes quite the long journey to reach Wetull or any part of Eplas, Tribune.”

  “Indeed sire,” Trupo replied in his usual unruffled manner.

  “Stay with us Sirio,” Lucius asked the tired-looking historian after the meeting was adjourned. “We didn’t talk at all earlier. I understand you are a father now.”

  “A daughter, your grace. A little miracle,” Sirio replied, a tremor in his left hand forcing him to use the right to stop it from spreading. “Quite difficult to pull through.”

  “Pregnancies are always stressful but daughters are a blessing, if you already have a boy. In your case as I understand, had this had been a boy he would have been a Veturius?”

  “I don’t mind it, your grace. Bianca is a Veturius.”

  Galio would rather you had a son, dear Sirio.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your wife’s troubles. Is she better now?”

  “It is still early to tell, but she’s exceptionally… tough, your grace. Hopefully, she’ll recover fully,” Sirio breathed out, an expression of discomfort on his face.

  “Ban ill thoughts from mind,” Lucius advised him. “Now, you talked with Nattas about the raid?”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “I didn’t have time. I was in Cartagen since the summer due to the epidemic. We feared for the baby,” Sirio explained.

  “Of course. A cautious approach on these matters is prudent strategy,” Lucius agreed. “But before that have you observed any Zilan ships visiting the harbor?”

  “I can’t say I have, my king.”

  “Of course, and I can’t help but notice you didn’t ask me, which harbor I meant?” Lucius rejoined and Sirio blinked just about ready to fade.

  “I assumed Novesium,” Sirio croaked. “Moon’s Haven is a tiny place for big transports to moor or military vessels.”

  “Now it sounds as if you’ve talked on the matter with Lord Nattas … at least a little bit,” Lucius noticed. “And you know he’s rather adamant on the need for us to stay out of the conflict.”

  “The Governor is a big advocate of peace, Praetor Maximus,” Sirio breathed out and stood back on the chair to wipe his sweating face with a small handkerchief. “I’ll trust his judgement on this matter.”

  “I’ve grown up with Lord Nattas, Sirio,” Lucius reminded him. “Your father in law was a much braver man before hurting his leg.”

  “People change, your grace,” Sirio argued after clearing his throat. “Their priorities also, but if I can offer worthy input here, then I must note than the Governor is the bravest man I know. If Lord Nattas calls for patience then it must be the better course of action at this point.”

  Lucius smiled at the stressed man’s words. “As I told you, Sirio,” the king said. “I know how Storm thinks pretty well. Amidst the chaos following my father’s murder he sought the King’s blade and had it delivered to me. What is our governor seeking this time?”

  Sirio grimaced as if in considerable pain. “I ask the king’s forgiveness, but I have naught else to add, other than what I just said.”

  “You were away on family matters,” Lucius helped him out and Sirio nodded. “Have some rest, dear Sirio. You are dismissed.”

  Half an hour later, Ramirus approached the silent King, who had been slowly walking back and forth before the map stands. The four by two meters sheet of wrinkled vellum covered with notes and drawings, representing in a confusing manner a massive expanse of land and water. More water than land.

  “We could have two more warships out by summer,” Ramirus noted and Lucius paused to place his hand on the map. He traced an imaginary line with his finger from where the Zilan fleet was last seen sailing towards the west.

  “It misses Wetull completely,” he pointed out to the director of LID.

  “The maps aren’t to scale, sir. SETC must operate from a known port,” Ramirus replied.

  “And yet no reports about military vessels come from either Mussel or Sinya Goras,” Lucius insisted. “They have to, if the trade company comes to Jelin’s shores like we do, hugging the coastline from Eplas’ straits to Jelin so as to avoid the Scalding Seas perilous waters. The Cofols do it to reach Castalor, but other than small transports no Zilan ships have been sighted near our ports.”

  “They could employ human crews.”

  “Even if they do, I don’t expect them to crew their warships with humans. A Galleass needs soldiers. Cofols didn’t attack Cediorum, Ramirus and the Admiral’s son wasn’t ambushed by merchant ships right at the gulf’s mouth.”

  “Novesium is right there,” Ramirus noted.

  “As is Moon’s Haven,” Lucius retorted. “Have you ever been to the Golden Forest?”

  “No sir,” Ramirus replied.

  “Sir Valgus?”

  “A lot a sand, my lord. Trees and poisonous snakes,” the knight replied from his post. “But I heard the governor built a lot of infrastructure there.”

  “You hear that, Ramirus?” Lucius teased. “The Governor is building a lot of infrastructure in Novesium as well, your agents told us.”

  “He is,” Ramirus admitted rigidly. “And I understand the port there is very small.”

  “It is,” Lucius agreed. “This leaves us only the remote base angle to work with. Who would know if the Zilan have something out there?” The King then wondered aloud, already knowing the answer to his question.

  “I’ll find out which empty house she picked,” Sir Valgus assured the king twenty minutes later, but Lucius had already climbed down from Nightsilver’s ornate saddle fully aware which house it was.

  Of the six newly build two-story houses behind the main square, only one had a bloom of green vines covering its walls. The climbing plants reached as far back as the narrow canal cutting through the neighborhood.

  “Just find me the darn door,” Lucius ordered the knight initially but then decided there must be a door where all other houses had one, so he unsheathed Endariel and hacked at the tightly packed vines himself. The vines dropped, much less material hitting the ground than it should have with the majority turning to nothingness and the door appeared before the frowned King a moment later.

  “This wasn’t there a moment ago,” Sir Valgus murmured stiffly.

  “Of course it was,” Lucius retorted before stepping inside the house. “The door was right where the architect had placed it from the start, all else naught but trickery.”

  Whatever Galadriel is boiling can’t be healthy, the King decided entering the covered in rich vegetation hall, more a garden built inside the house than a living room, where the Zilan witch had lit a small fire under a military-issued iron cauldron.

  “This is Legion property. Did you steal it?” Lucius grunted, scrunching his nose at the foul fumes emanating from the boiling mixture. “What in Tyeus Spear, is this ungodly awful smell?”

  Galadriel turned around to perceive the scowling King. If one forgot about the alien parts of her anatomy, eyes, ears, longish neck… teeth also, Galadriel was classically beautiful. Also without her disguise, Lucius realized.

  “Sir Roman, stand at the door,” the King ordered and the witch chuckled.

  “Sire?”

  “It is fine,” Lucius assured the tensed knight.

  “Fermented cabbage,” Galadriel replied with a croaking chuckle. “A girl has to eat.”

  “Goodness me,” Lucius retorted. “I’ll order the soldiers to bring you meals from the army kitchen. We still need to sell the other houses and this stuff looks toxic! A public hazard!”

  “Your soldiers can feed the boy,” Galadriel replied and tossed a freshly cut onion inside the cauldron, green stems, white bulb, dirty roots and all. “I’m on a special diet.”

  Lucius looked around him for a window to crack open and air the place, but found nothing amidst the hanging wines, the garlic flowers and the… “Is this a Cinnamon tree?” The king asked with a grimace of confusion. “How… Good grief! You dug out the floor tiles? This was yellow marble!”

  “To reach the soil underneath,” Galadriel explained and filled a bowl with her soup. “Is the general hungry?”

  “I’m done eating for the day,” Lucius grunted with a grimace. “Before this conversation is completely derailed, I’ll have you know that your Zilan raided Cediorum.”

  “My Zilan? How lovely, I guess. Oops… you think the matter serious? What is this place? A city?” A mirthful Galadriel asked raising the bowl to slurp at the boiling mixture. Her eyes watered as she swallowed.

  “The biggest port inside the gulf,” Lucius retorted. “Surely, you know of it!”

  “Why should I?” Galadriel croaked and coughed a couple of times. “The cabbage was really old. Moldy even. Hmm. It shall move the bowels nicely. Eh, don’t look so shocked. How big is this Cediorum?”

  “Well over two hundred thousand people live there,” Lucius hissed.

  “No way!”

  “Yes… why do you look so surprised?” Lucius asked.

  “Is it bigger than Asturia?” Galadriel cut some leaves from a plant, started chewing them for a while and then spit it inside the bowl. She used a long finger to stir the mixture while the sickened Lucius attempted to answer.

  “Asturia is the bigger city, but Cediorum is up there.”

  “Lesia’s biggest city? A capital?”

  “Lesia’s biggest city, but not the capital. That would be Armium,” Lucius replied stiffly. “I find your lack of knowledge concerning Zilan.”

  “Why is the general so troubled? I don’t need to know these things. I’m a Sibyl, the future is like my garden, and I can walk inside.”

  “Your garden is a mess,” Lucius grunted. “Why would Garth provoke Lesia?”

  “You don’t believe Garth concerns himself with Lesia?” Galadriel chuckled, raised a finger to ask for a pause and slurped another mouthful of her soup. “Not that I think this was Garth’s doing. This is the Imperial Trading Company renegotiating the old trade routes again.”

  “They go by South Eplas Trading Company now.”

  “A fat garlic might look like a dry onion, but still tastes like garlic.”

  Lucius smacked his lips, his expression blank. “It burns on the way down,” Galadriel whispered. “But it is a good burn? Cleansing.”

  The King all but rolled his eyes.

  “So they acted without his knowledge?” He grunted.

  “Hah, of course Garth knows, but does he care?”

  “What do you mean? Is this how they operated before?”

  “Before… after. Pfft. The Zilan are very independent in their business, these matters well-agreed in advance and unwilling… to accept changes. Hence, why I’m here. A different reason really, but born out of the same principle.”

  “Where did they find the ships?”

  “How many ships did they use?” Galadriel asked, then paused again. “You wish me to tell you the number. I’ll need a moment to prepare and might have to visit the lavatory first. Haven't for a week. All the dry food, the sand. Um. The one that came with the house I turned into a storeroom, so I'll need to step outside for a bit?”

  “Why on all-gods green earth... never mind, I don’t want a divination,” Lucius said stiffly. “I have an estimate already, but I do want to learn if it is possible to reach Jelin without following the shoreline.”

  “You know it is,” Galadriel taunted.

  “Is there land south of Turtle Isles?” Lucius hissed, clenching his jaw.

  “Ah… yes? There is land to the south, land to the west—”

  “The coral reef belt?”

  “Hissing Corrals Cay is an island chain. Tiny, but a known Imperial Trade Company base,” Galadriel replied.

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve been there myself.”

  “Is this how you reached Jelin after the earthquakes?” Lucius insisted.

  “I came to Jelin long before that, general,” Galadriel revealed. “Many Zilan though used it to evacuate to your shores after it. You know this for your ancestors hunt them down for years. Used the priests of the Issirs as a weapon to excuse their murdering ways, called those poor souls witches when they weren’t.”

  “Aren’t you a witch?” Lucius retorted.

  “A Sibyl is much more than a witch,” Galadriel cut him off. “Listen. So you can see. Uher’s Church killed the ‘witches’ for your warlike kin who sought a reason to invade his neighbors –any reason, but the priests indoctrinated your own people in the process. Many innocent souls perished to make Regia and when the dust settled, you found yourselves bound to the Issirs.”

  Lucius stood back thoughtfully. “Can you reach Wetull directly from this base?” He finally asked and Galadriel walked to a messy table to deposit the empty bowl on. She covered the cauldron when she returned with a wooden lid.

  “If you know the landmarks hidden behind the waves you can,” Galadriel replied. “But this sea route leads to Calamer’s Isle and Cydonia Cazan eventually, or the port of Mussel in Goras.”

  “They don’t use Mussel,” Lucius grimaced.

  “You are well-informed, general,” Galadriel noticed. “You also have your answer.”

  “All reports state that this ‘Cydonia Cazan’ is destroyed or uninhabitable,” Lucius grunted and paused for the suddenly sullen Zilan female to collect herself. “The mist prevents the ships from approaching through the reefs and the sunken peaks. A large number of them struggling in and out of the straits would have been noticed. Sailors talk a lot. No, SETC is operating out of a different port.”

  “I know of no other port,” Galadriel said. “But I can learn.”

  “Well, I rather not provoke the gods. Your way is unreliable and it might even manipulate the outcome. Is this how Garth learns his information?”

  “Malantur O’ Furu,” Galadriel hissed. “Hates witches for they can expose him. I can’t see him befriending one. No sane witch will trust him!”

  Galadriel halted with a pout as if something was bothering her. “Eh,” she hissed her face contorting. “Hmm.”

  “The Lord of Lies,” Lucius said, returning her to the subject they discussed. “You spoke of him the night my son was murdered.”

  “You remember my words.”

  “I can’t help it. It’s very difficult to forget what happened to my own boy!” Lucius grunted, the anger making his throat muscles stiffen. “Why?”

  “It’s a long story, general,” the Zilan seer said with a leer. “Your people might wonder of our relationship.”

  “Foul gossip follows all kings, Galadriel O’ Tir,” Lucius rustled bitterly. “Same as all other men, whether they deserve it or not. Make it short, but answer my query.”

  

  ‘The great First Sibyl Sintoriela saw the disaster unfold in her dreams and it scarred her’ Galadriel O’ Tir had told a skeptical Lucius. ‘Three Millennia before it happened for the calamity’s ripple was too great to miss or not leave a mark. When she sought the aftermath, worried about the fate of our people Hardir O’ Fardor appeared.’

  ‘Aren’t all prophecies unreliable?’ Lucius had probed.

  ‘Not like you think. Many witches sought to catch a glimpse of Hardir O’ Fardor afore he appeared. Many versions of his deeds already exist, but only few were written down and discussed in the Coven. To speak of the future is to change it or alter it. Sometimes the differences can be too great or meaningless. Sintoriela’s Hardir O’ Fardor was a judge and a restorer. It is what the First Sibyl thought was needed at the time, the outcome she most favored. A harsh savior.’

  ‘You saw a deceiver instead,’ Lucius noted.

  ‘A mass-murderer. This Hardir will kill thousands of my people,’ Galadriel retorted. ‘I have seen it. He already killed one of my sisters. Another Sibyl. A damaged soul that tried to stop him. He’s not to be trusted. Every word out of his mouth a lie. Garth is a mirage, neither a savior nor a hero. All he cares about is himself.’

  'This perceived murder sort of locked Garth into your version’ Lucius murmured, not thrilled with what he was hearing, despite trying to remind himself that the future is what one makes of it. He was a Lorian and couldn’t settle with a future already decided. ‘Could it be your words are what killed your sister? A series of self-fulfilling prophecies sought by those believing one version more than another? Are we to act accordingly to ensure a foretold future instead of another? How is this any better? How about we seek to carve out our own path instead? Yes, the volcanoes exploded and perhaps this was an event impossible to avoid, but Garth is but a single person, not a force of nature. A mortal can fall, same as any other. Isn’t this what you seek?’ He asked the Zilan witch, who opened her glowing eyes wide and Lucius felt her everywhere for a brief moment. The walls and the vines, underfoot and touching the ceiling, even pressing against his own skin.

  Then Galadriel retreated and stared at the sober Lorian King intently. ‘You won’t have a path with Garth out there. Only one of us is right, general.’

  ‘You never made a mistake?’ Lucius insisted.

  ‘Once. I missed a parameter and it was costly for me,’ Galadriel revealed. ‘But this has been foretold by more than one Sibyl and it came to be,’ she added bitterly. ‘Fighting with the Zilan won’t mean anything as long as Garth stands. He’ll just use others flocking to his cause, unless he’s stopped. The more time he has, the stronger he becomes.’

  At least I know where you stand, Lucius thought.

  ‘What is his cause?’ Lucius asked and the witch’s reply was dressed with a manic leer.

  ‘What is yours, general?’

  -

  Lucius climbed up the ladder to the Castrum’s Watchtower an hour later in order to perceive the desert sands shift in the distance, beyond the edge of the emerging city squares and the shade cast by the massive Aqueduct’s concrete and stone pylons. The latter supporting the kilometer-long bridge snaking down the sides of the mountain to his northwest.

  The mounted on an army horse Prefect Lepidus rode his animal through the gates, but spotted the king staring at the distance above him and turned to bring it under the watchtower.

  “Any news from the Waystation Prefect?” Lucius asked grabbing the wooden rail with both hands.

  “A certain rigid fellow named Robert Tar arrived,” Lepidus reported. “Told us Lord Mortymer is on his way here with Baron Vendor of Two Rivers Castle.”

  “Cornelius Mortymer?” Lucius asked not expecting the visit by Lesia’s Master of Silence. “Isn’t he too-far from his home?”

  “Mister Tar was unwilling to divulge more, Caesar,” Lepidus rustled, straining his neck to stare at the King. “Anything of note on the horizon? Something the patrols missed?”

  “Naught but the desert,” Lucius replied. “The Castrum is secure.”

  “The men agree, sir.”

  “Would you dare cross it, Prefect? The desert?” Lucius queried. “March forth to the other side?”

  “Only if I was desperate, sir, out of options,” was Lepidus answer. “or was ordered to.”

  “I don’t wish to return to Cartagen,” Lucius told him after a thoughtful moment. “But I might have to.”

  “The good Queen is here, sir,” Lepidus said, then grimaced remembering Lucius had another, who didn’t deserve to be painted in lesser colors because of the Prefect’s personal preference. “But I understand the conundrum.”

  “I was speaking of the Cediorum matter,” Lucius sighed.

  “Yes sir. Apologies,” Lepidus rustled.

  “Find my horse, Lepidus,” Lucius ordered. “I’m coming down. Let us ride to the Waystation and speak with Lord Mortymer.”

  He didn’t have to.

  Lord Mortymer arrived at the Castrum twenty minutes later.