Skandra Tyullis (roll_the_bones) wrote in caeleste, @ 2010-09-18 22:56:00 |
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Entry tags: | npc, the heir |
who won the day? (narrative)
On the table before him was spread a map of Astarii; from end to end it was perhaps one of the smaller countries. Faustben, to the north, had somewhat less territory. There were the Free Cities, and Tyrus. Perava. Most nations had fallen away after the Breaking. Ramga had no trouble remembering that sensation of falling in his stomach. It had morphed very quickly into an actual descent as the earth made its troubles known beneath him. That palace had stood against all assaults and damages for nearly six thousand years. Strange to think it could give way to an opening on the earth. Yet it had. Marble slabs whistled, servants screamed. Ramga managed to pull two men away from the great openings that split the main castle into five seperate sections. Not pieces, even though most would say such, because the sections had not been intact. Over five hundred people had died in the rain of stone.
It was instinct, and good fortune, that saw him through.
There had been a long time, usually spent in endless drilling, during which Ramga had recounted to himself the mistakes of the last fifteen years. Allowing the temple a hand at all in the formation of government. Eveyrone had looked to the temple for guidance in times of trouble. He remembered quite clearly praying on the white step in Ellothorien, hands clutched together, for the safe return of his sons from the war in the desert. One had come home. Two had not. Ramga had murdered a Perub at his breakfast, and peered into the pot. They ate the same food as elves. The temple.
They hated the Perubs for a discipline, not murder. Not the malice that everyone ascribed to them. The temple would whip up a furor, and young men would enlist, and paladins would lead them east to war. Even the king had found such wars distasteful. When good knight after good knight - the ones who were not licking the boots of the Temple Mother and her servants - died because of their duty, everyone wept. Only a few were angry enough to try and change things. Because deep down, most of the elves who lived here believed that holy war was fine. And most of the elves who believed that, actually believed they were fighting a holy war.
Ramga did not know what it would take to show them their error. Dust was rising on the horizon. A horse, a single horse, kicking furious clouds into the air. Riding hard. The flag that was slotted against the stirrup blazed Ramga's colors. Of course, the longbowmen who were arranged carefully near the edge of the camp did not see it that way. They were still down, hidden behind brush, but they would rise when the horse was in range. And if they rose, they would probably kill him if he tried to flee. Ramga did not think it would come to that, but he was too impatient to watch and wait, so he looked away.
"See here, Lord Usol," one of the lieutenants touched the map.
"Two thousand?" Ramga asked in annoyance. "Maeglin's going to need more than that when he realizes that Airion no longer reports to him."
"But a force of that size would require us to turn our flank," the lieutenant went on in the same respectful voice. "They have no need to win the battle - if they can slow us even by a few hours, the plan is undone."
It would take many lives to sweep Maeglin and his ilk back across the mountains. In the name of peace, it must be done. In his hands was the scroll he would offer to Maeglin when the High Lord was retreating to Iasa. A list of spelled-out terms and conditions for the schism. A breaking into two countries. One for the Sylvan, one for Grey and High. Only one of the three groups clung to religion in the face of what holy wars and prayer had brought them. Only one sought to build up the temple, give them a more-than-equal voice in the politics of nations. Those priests and priestesses were still citizens, even if they did not behave in such a way.
One smile. Very small. Citizens for a short time only.
"Who can spare two thousand to match them?" Ramga began shuffling through the repors that had streamed into headquarters. "Dilo has not yet decided, has he?"
"We have received no declaration, my lord," another - much younger - elf replied. "Nor from Tromas-"
"You'll know which side Tromas fights for when you see his flag on the field," Ramga cut the boy off gently. "Not before."
There were endless messages contained within. Recruitment, training, money, manpower, movement, and short-term plans. All of it was contained the action reports that loyal knights were distributing to him and the other commanders as quickly as they could. The Forenya Guard could not be moved from its post without critically endangering them against the orcs which sometimes poured out of the wild and leaving Ceranarad defenseless. If Dilo had not declared, and Tromas would not declare, that only left Guyther. Ramga lifted the token - a stamp-cut silver coin bearing Guyther's house seal - and flipped it through the air, where the lieutenant caught it.
"Compose orders for Guyther immediately," Ramga instructed grimly. "He is to intercept Maeglin's nephew and match his movement, but do not engage unless Previs begins to march."
"And if Previs marches in retreat, sir?" the lieutenant asked.
"Hound him into the last ditch and cut his throat," the lord snapped. "And the throats of anyone who doesn't surrender."
At last - and seemingly without his knowledge - the rider had arrived. He was drenched in leather riding gear, panting from the exertion of running the final fifty yards while the archers collected his horse, and he couldn't have been older than twenty. Yet there was something in his eyes that was wild, and the paper was half-crumpled in his hand when he he flung himself to his knees before Ramga. The lord actually had to seize the boy's collar and drag him to his feet; deference was one thing, but no one here had occupied a throne or received the coronation. There were no kings in this tent. At least, none yet.
"My lord," the boy gasped raggedly. "For your attention, my lord!"
"Drink and rest," Ramga took the paper and released the boy.
His guest sat gasping upon a barrel gunning water from the canteen as though this was the last water anywhere, for anyone, and he was afraid someone would steal it. Ramga unfolded thick parchment with his fingers. Smudges told him the ink had not dried when the letter was sealed. Yet, when he gazed upon its contents, he was glad for their haste if not for the message it contained. Something must have been visible in his eyes. The lieutenant, who had been scratching out Guyther's orders, stepped around the corner of the table. Concern was on his face, and not just for Ramga. Bad news at this stage could mean the entire thing was finished.
"What is it, my lord?" the lieutenant asked.
"From Ceranarad," Ramga flourished the parchment before reading it aloud. "'My lord. Regret to inform Airion and Ilúvatar have been freed. Champion of the Lion and temple conspired toward release. Airion seized control of Forenya Guard. Airion sent message to Terestai asking further instructions. Messengers could not be intercepted. Possible Maeglin is aware by now.'"
"Fuck!" one of his lieutenants blurted; instantly the young elf's face was red with shame.
"Quite," Ramga replied dryly. "I want this camp ready to move in two hours. Messengers to every commander dispatched immediately. Command post is on the move. Location, Terestai."
"Terestai?" this voice he didn't recognize. "My lord-"
"If Maeglin knows what we did, then he knows what we meant to do," Ramga shot back. "I'll grow old and die before I trust his counsel again. As soon as the siege engines are in range, you break them down and you open fire! Terestai must fall, and it must fall quickly."
For a moment the commander's tent was silent. Many long faces were considering now what had been, until this moment, unreal. A dream. Perhaps they'd thought that Maeglin would acquiesce without a fight. Or perhaps they'd thought that all of this was simply pretend and a compromise would be reached. Ramga doubted there was any compromise in the making. Soldiers were going to die. And when it was done, they would live in a country where religion and royalty did not conspire hand in hand to fuel an empire of death and war. In the end, he would see the White Tower burn, and the young men of the future would have a chance at something real.
He cleared his throat.
The tent exploded into action.