THE TALE OF OVERCOMMANDER CALIDRO
Deep in the bowels of a great Gallion, Overcommander Calidro pushed aside the remnants of a hastily-eaten meal. Calidro had long since grown tired of dried meats and dried fruits. All this water, and everything dried.
The age-worn maps at hand held far more interest. Cracked and yellow, they were to be handled with the greatest care. A finger on a white-gloved hand touched the large land mass at the map’s eastern border. A stray thought crept in. "How many died attempting that at which we will succeed?". The finger lingered on the map just a brief moment. When it withdrew, it revealed flowing script from a long-dead language. It read "The Promised Land".
A single knock sounded on the cabin door. Without looking up from the navigation charts, Overcommander Calidro issued a firm "Come". When the Wavemaster entered, the Overcommander said nothing and continued studying the charts. "Let him feel he has displeased me". The Wavemaster shifted uneasily where he stood, both with the awkwardness of the moment and the lurch of the ship. Finally, the Overcommander looked up.
"We are lagging, Wavemaster. Explain yourself".
"We have encountered a series of islands, Overcommander, and unexpected shallows. It was necessary to calm the winds in order to safely navigate through them. As we speak, we are clearing the last of them."
"Then I was correct", the Overcommander said, while tapping on the charts with a gloved finger, "the southerly land mass was Khor, and these are the Fangs of Khor-Ota".
"Correct, as always, my Kiauma".
The Overcommander gave the Wavemaster a cold stare. "Neither familiarity nor obsequiousness suit you, Wavemaster. When we have cleared the shallows, instruct the helm to turn 20 degrees northward. Dismissed".
The Wavemaster crossed his arms on his bare, tattooed chest and nodded curtly. "By your command". He turned quickly, his long braid swinging behind him, and departed. After the door closed, the Overcommander uttered a somewhat amused "My Kiauma, indeed", before returning attention back to the charts. Khor. The Fangs. So close now.
The ship began its long, arcing turn. Eyes closed, Overcommander Calidro took a deep breath of the sea air. "Noa-tuun is near. I can taste it".
Gloves long since cast aside, Overcommander Calidro ran long fingers through the Wavemaster’s hair, across his powerful shoulders, and down his chest, tracing the circular design in the tattoo that designated him as Controller of the Winds. The Wavemaster’s hands were making similar circles, though no markings graced the Overcommander’s chest.
The Overcommander looked down into his crystal blue eyes. Overcommander of the Fleet or not, it was difficult not to get lost in them. "When we reach The Promised Land, my love, I will build you a palace that will make the Emperor herself jealous".
"And keep me like a caged pet the rest of my days?"
"After all this, if anyone deserves it, my Kiauma, it is you. We would no be here without you. *I* would not be here without you.
Such soft words rarely came, even in these intimate circumstances. It was both a surprise and a pleasure to hear them. His response was cut off by a joyous cry from above decks.
Jean-Luc, son of Gerrard, Slayer of Fell Beasts, swung into the cavern, one hand on the rope, the other holding his True Love Elena close by his side. He killed the first of the Giant Carnivorous Bats with a single thrust. Leaping onto the ledge, he kicked the Rock Giant over the side, slew three more bats with but a backhand flick, and quickly sheathing his blade, drew his diamond-encrusted dagger. "Only one desperate chance", he thought to himself. He kissed Elena deeply and passionately (although he wasn’t quite sure what passionately really was), and leapt from the side of the ledge. Still hanging onto the Love of His Life, he executed a flawless somersault and while coming out of the tuck, fired the dagger straight into the heart of the Witch-King, who shriveled and died before he, Jean-Luc, son of Gerrard, Hero of Brind’amour, executed a perfect landing on the cavern’s sandy floor. Drawing his blade again, he charged out of the cavern and onto the beach, where he knew the great dragon awaited him in te final battle, the ultimate test of good and evil.
Little Jean-Luc dropped his wooden play sword into the sand and ran to tell his father what he saw.
Overcommander Calidro listened with closed eyes to the final strains of "Spirit of My Love", the close harmonies weaving a magical air. The Wavemaster had a beautiful voice, as did The Keeper of the Records. And one as striking as the other. The song finished. One at a time, the Overcommander leaned down and took each beautiful face in gloved hand, kissing eagerly waiting lips fully and passionately. "I would hear more, my precious ones, but I must meet with the Marshali. You may entertain yourselves until I return."
Overcommander Calidro stared hard at Overmarshal Jenet. "If Jenet were not one of the Blood…". The thought died the death it needed to. The Overcommander maintained unsettling eye contact with the Overmarshal. Even many Nobli had cowed beneath that gaze. But not Jenet. Nonetheless, it was time to strike. "If you had listened to me, Overmarshal, this would not be necessary. We know little of these folk, but certainly they would not simply surrender at our request. Remember, they defend their homelands."
Jenet considered interrupting, but then thought better of it. Calidro’s temper was legendary. It was one thing to interrupt the Overcommander in the court of one’s cousin, the Emperor. It was completely another when Calidro commanded a Fleet of a thousand ships and one served that command.
"Do not return in failure again, Overmarshal. This time, use the the Cateni, and ensure these natives understand we do not mean to be denied. Under any circumstance."
Gerrard, son of Sebastian, Duke of Chartagne, looked at the hastily-written note on his desk. A thousand ships. Prepostrous. Invaders from across the sea. Impossible. Yet there they stood, anchored off the shore of his ancient land, demanding—without reason or explanation—the immediate and unconditional surrender of not just Chartagne, but all of Lorgaard. He had already declined their offer. They had not so much as shown a single knight, horse or blade. What kind of fools were they? Gerrard, son of Sebastian, intended to find out. For the first time in nine centuries, a sitting Duke issued the command to mobilize the armies of Chartagne.
Overcommander Calidro pored over the reports of the battle. The Cateni were enough of a match for the defenders, these Lors, who had foolishly, yet understandably, decided to fight. Unfortunately, Jenet had decided to use the Pastori as well. Certainly this was overkill. Best to leave some secrets yet. What a brash child. It was now clear why the Emperor had sent her cousin off under Calidro’s command. Jenet would be a major liability in the courts of Hazam—nearly as much a liability as here.
Overmarshal Jenet smiled down at the Wavemaster. He was indeed handsome. It was very obvious why Calidro held such a powerful attraction for him. At least had held. Jenet smiled again, but this time far more coldly. There were still secrets kept by those of The Blood. Overcommander indeed.
Gerrard, son of Sebastian, looked over the scarred and scorched—and certainly now misnamed—Plain of Hope. The nightmarish beasts of the invaders still roamed about the battlefield picking at the corpses of the fallen—almost entirely Lorish. The brave men of Melbois and Belbois, the fiercest warriors in the south of Lorgaard, reduced to nothing in less than half a day. His Sorcerer, Daelomin, had fled at the first sight of the invaders. It was without a doubt the most horrific slaughter he had ever seen. He felt the hand of his son, Jean-Luc grip his own, and looked down to see the fear in the eyes of the boy who would now never grow up to be Duke of Chartagne. And then, Gerrard, son of Sebastian, did the unthinkable. He surrendered.
Overcommander Calidro stared openly at the barbarian chieftan. Reports were one thing. Seeing one in person was another. He was garbed in a strange, bulky metal suit that was certainly ill-equipped for any type of civilized behavior. The barbarian drew a long, sharp blade—filthy thing—called a "sword" in these lands, from a hanging leather sheath at his side. The attending Pastori issued a mental command to his Cateni, but the Overcommander belayed the order with a simple, and undetectable, gesture. The barbarian took a stride forward. The Overcommander then recoiled in horror and disgust when he laid the thing at the foot of the Audience Chair. "He means for me to actually touch it! How revolting"
Gerrard, son of Sebastian, Duke of Chartagne, stood before the most stunning figure he had ever seen. The low lamplight reflected off of skin that could only be called dark bronze, giving it an almost metallic sheen. As Lors go, he was a tall man, but he was easily head and shoulders shorter than the person in the ornate gold chair. He looked deeply into those ice-cold eyes and suppressed a shudder. That a woman could exude such raw power was beyond him. Nonetheless, he had a mission.
Looking carefully around the chamber, he realized that he was the only one with a weapon. Rooster in the Barnyard would flow into Tempest in Spring, and half the people in the room would be dead in minutes. It was the other half that gave him problems. He would probably never reach the woman in the chair. Their sorcery would see to that. And the price for failure would be too great. He may be able to die heroic death, but what would it bring his people? No. He had a mission.
"It must be the Old Way", he said to himself. In the Belbosian style, he drew the Blade of Chartagne. He took a single stride forward, then bent down on one knee, offering up the Blade, and with it, the Duchy. "It is not time to die yet; I have a mission."
Limian paused for just a moment, his breath coming in great, heaving gasps. He was not used to traveling like this. He had to get to the river. From there, he could cross at Delp and alert the Baron. But alert him to what? A dozen sorcerers, all easily more powerful than Daelomin himself, were more than the armies of even Aspermond could handle. That would be, of course, if the armies could ever be raised. It had been generations since the Barons of the Meeting Lands could agree on anything. No, Delp was not enough. He had to go farther. He had to get to Nedderkyrdd—but could he cover the more than 700 miles before the invaders? He sincerely doubted it. After all, he was only in the 8th year of Apprenticeship. If even Daelomin had fled, what chance did he stand? Cracking twigs, breaking branches and the snarl of a Kag-beast answered the question.
Overcommander Calidro paced across the chamber impatiently. It was small, it was lacking, but it would have to do for now. She moved to the only painting she had brought with her—what was the artist’s name?—and laid a hand on its gilded frame. She looked at the portrait of the Emperor with both an awe and a hatred. She was beautiful, possibly the most beautiful creature in the world. Calidro turned digustedly away from the picture. How could she?
Turning to the desk, she idly shuffled through reports she had already read. Where was he? He had never been so much as a minute late before—what kept him now? Anger bubbled up within, more at letting him affect her this way than his tardiness.
The door swung gently open, and Calidro rushed forward, screaming. "In the Name of the Ocean’s Daughter, how DARE you keep me…". It was all the frightened servant could do keep from fainting dead away. He leaned on the door jamb for support, and made a gallant effort at keeping his composure. He straightened before addressing his Master.
"He, he, is not to be found, Overcommander. No one has seen him…". He hesitated no more than half a breath, but instinctively knew it was too much. He shrunk back and awaited the onslaught.
"Out with it! Since when?"
"Since he was seen in the company of the Marshali after the night meal".
Eyes widening for just a moment, Calidro regained her composure quickly and put on the face of terrifying calm that her servants knew well. "Bring me the Keeper of the Records, and notify Satindra."
The servant crossed his arms, fisted hands resting near his shoulders—I hear and obey. He then flexed his fingers before balling them back into fists—and I understand what to do next. He then turned smartly and departed.
Calidro spun back toward the room. "I have grown weary of The Blood". She glared up the portrait of the Emperor. "Even you cannot protect her here."
In disbelief, Limian stared down at the Kag-beast at his feet, its head neatly removed from its shoulder, mouthful of razors still gaping at him. With the same disbelief, he looked up at a stout, golden-bearded figure, sickly black blood still dripping from the odd blade of his long-shafted weapon. Clad head-to-toe in white armor that seemed to be part of his skin, the figure paused long enough to give Limian the flicker of a smile, before turning to move away. Limian was too stunned to move. The figure turned back, extending a thick, gauntleted hand. "Come on, boy," the sonorous voice boomed, "while we still have light. Thousand Ashes is a long way away."
Overcommander Calidro pulled the small statue down from the shelf. It was an unassuming thing, not longer than the breadth of her palm, but it held her attention firmly. Her thoughts drifted to days long before, when there was a semblance of happiness, back to the time before she…
A firm knock on the door tore her from her reverie. Wheeling, she dropped the statue. Striking the cold stone floor, the little figure bounced once, struck the floor again and broke cleanly in two, both head and feet coming to rest facing the door. She felt remorse for just a moment—some things, once broken, simply cannot be mended—then issued a firm "Come".
Three of the Marshali pushed their way into the chamber—How dare they try to gang up on her like this?—and stopped past a completely respectful distance. Three of them, all of them Jenet’s: Kulide, ambititious and ruthless; Novana, as fearless as a love-striken Kag-beast; and Mapilo, the most quiet, the most timid, and certainly the most dangerous of all. No matter. They were here to protest Jenet’s new assignment.
Kulide, naturally, was the first to speak, a voice that would freeze the raging River Hulo. "The Overcommander is kind to see us. I was—we were—curious as to the whereabouts of the Overmarshal." Calidro counted the three beats, no more, she knew that Novana would begrudginly wait before bursting forth. "This is not the Court of the Empress; enough of this pretense. We speak freely here, we are Marshali. Where is the Overmarshal?" Calidro turned to Mapilo, giving her a rather blank stare. Mapilo returned the stare identically save for a briefly raised eyebrow. Yes, the most dangerous of all.
"You know well the Overmarshal is on a special assignment. Since the three of you…", she was already enjoying the gratification of watching them wilt under her yet-to-be-spoken words, "…were unable to deliver the city of Delp, I have sent Jenet in your stead." Just enough spoken to let them know she was aware of what they thought secret. And enough silence to goad them into telling her who their spies were.
Predictably, Novana broke the uneasy silence. "But you sent her without…". She faltered, realizing her error but continued forward. Brave fool. "…without Cateni. What possessed you?" Calidro’s words responded to Novana, but it was Mapilo’s eyes she met. "You forget yourselves, Marshali. I am Overcommander. I send and recall as I see fit." She turned deliberately to stare at Kulide. "You forget, but rest assured I never do." She closed her eyes. Novana’s head burst into flames.
In the corner, Satindra smiled.
Overmarshal Jenet surveyed the carnage. The entire legion lost. Damn Calidro. These animals even attacked the Pastori. How could they? This was her fault. With the Cateni, this battle would have been over days ao. Instead, these Lors, as they called themselves, fought on. They were as tenacious as Kag-beasts and smelled little better. Worse yet, they had their own Cateni—unchained! How could this be possible? For some reason, they allowed the horrors to run free. It was unthinkable.
No matter. Even though she must return in the same of failure, it was long past time to finish the undoing of that arrogant sea hag. Several ideas, most of them involving prolonged exposure to dooli-worms, floated through her mind. She didn’t bother to suppress her smile.
A delegation of the barbarians approached. Most remarkable was a stout one in white hide. Its chest was painted with the rather odd image of a thick tree. Another though, ina a more (for these Lors) conventional metal skin, spoke. Its slurred speech was difficult to understand. "I am Jean-Marie, son of Jean-Claude, Baron of Brind’amour. You are in command here?" Oddly enough, it spoke to her as if it considered itself an equal. Pretentious animal.
It was difficult for her to take her eyes off of the weapon in the beast’s hand. Being this close to it made her want to vomit, but she steeled herself and faced the one that addressed her. With the formalities done, she would be back on her way to finish her business with Calidro.
"I am Jenet of the Al’Kair Dacora, in temporary service to Calidro, Overcommander of the Fleet. I am Overmarshal of the Guerri-Dar. I now demand hoshama, as befits one of The Blood.
The song of good Lorish steel cutting the air was the only response.
In a corner, Satindra smiled.
Overcommander Calidro lifted the lid on the enameled box. The two large gems gathered up the flickering candlelight and fanned it about the room, a dazzling array of colors. Such power, such beauty. That they must be expended irritated her.
She turned and faced the aging woman in the gold and silver dress. Such wretched colors. "You know I don’t like this", she growled. "This had better work". The woman bowed her head deeply and spread her arms wide in the palms-down gesture of submission. "My life is nothing without service to you, Overcommander; speak a word and I will end it".
Calidro snapped shut the lid of the box and stalked past the woman, slamming it down on end of the table. She wheeled back, facing the crone, her eyes full of fury. "That won’t be necessary…yet." She paused long enough for the words to sink in. The old bag showed not a drop of emotion, and simply stared back at her. That in and of itself was almost infuriating. She continued. "I would still hear other options".
The old woman once again offered her submissive gesture. "I believe we are out of options, Overcommander. The barbarians fight like cornered greel-hounds. Their tactics seem inspired by a intelligence they simply cannot possess. They rally around this Phillipe Mille-Arbes as if he were one of The Blood. And their sorcerers…". For the first time, the old woman showed some emotion; a quick but fierce look of distaste—or was it nausea?—flashed across her wrinkled face. "And their sorcerers offer them sufficient protection from the Cateni as to render them nearly useless. Yes, we are out of options. Unless you wish a long and protracted battle—which we may eventually lose—the Jewels of H’Shan are our best chance for victory."
Calidro’s anger did not dull her senses one bit. The old woman had begun over-stepping herself recently; now she dared twice in one sentence. "…WE are out of options…"; "OUR best chance". Even the most valuable servant outlived its value. But that was a matter for later; this one still had its uses. She listened intently as the old woman listed the powers of the Jewels and their applications.
After Calidro had departed, the old woman permitted herself a seat. This had surprised even her. Calidro had come to see her! In her own chambers! The strain was beginning to show. Most deliciously, the strain was beginning to show.
She reached a gnarled hand inside the folds of her dress and drew forth an enameled box. She lifted the lid, and as the REAL Jewels of H’Shan drank in the light of the flickering candles, Satindra smiled.
Knees weak, Overcommander Calidro leaned over the railing of her Command Gallion and emptied her breakfast into the sea. Looking up, she could still see the smoke and flames billowing from her former command post. She gazed upon the impossible. Thousands dead. Her glory stood in ruin. Heaving again, she did not hear the soft footsteps coming up behind her.
The deck stood clear save for the two figures. Calidro became aware of the presence behind her and turned. Ancient eyes, brimming with life, met those already dead. Satindra smiled. Smaller by a span, she nonetheless loomed above the Overcommander.
"Are you ready for my terms, child?"
Calidro didn’t notice the address. "Terms? There are no terms. We have failed. I will have hor-duk."
Satindra smiled again. "You will have no such thing." She reached into the folds of her dress, and produced the Jewels of H’Shan. "You will have victory."
Calidro’s mouth worked furiously, but all she could manage was a croaked "but…"
"Remember this, child. You are Overcommander. But I am Al’Kair D’Acora."
Calidro could do nothing but continue her open-mouthed stare.
"Now that you have had your lesson in humility, we will claim The Promised Land. It is not, however, among these barbarians."
The light began to dawn on Calidro’s face. Satindra continued.
"Set a course south-eastward. We sail for an island called Kiron."