Chapter 3 - Estrid

Three

Estrid

Varanos, Kalduran

20th of Tabus

The man materialised in Estrid’s front garden as she lounged at her second-floor balcony. A neat portal shimmered behind the intruder, then sealed more perfectly than a time-healed wound. As the magical energy of his work dissipated into the still atmosphere of her isolated estate, he looked up to where she waited and waved.

Even if the worldstriding portal hadn’t identified him, the familiar close-cut nature of his striking grey hair did, and Estrid banished her initial fears of an intruder. He’d been admitted into the atrium by her housekeeper by the time she’d thrown on her red-trimmed parade coat and made her way down.

“Kandras Elerius,” her unexpected guest greeted, using Estrid’s military title. “Good to see you taking your leave seriously.” He looked pointedly at the edges of the dressing gown peeking out beneath her coat’s sharp tails.

“You expect me to parade around my house in full uniform, Tanas?” she asked. “I think I’ll enjoy my respite while I can. I expect the Imperium will be back at our doorstep in a few weeks.”

Though she’d enjoyed the winter at her countryside estate, nestled within the quiet valley of Volėnis, she’d always known it was temporary. The Imperium would recommence its military campaign into Kalduran, Drasken’s southernmost province, and Estrid and her army would be fielded once more. They’d fight a pointless scuffle, have the Imperium retreating into Tharghest by autumn, and she’d be home by winter. Then Tanas would return the following spring and find her, once again, relaxing in her dressing gown.

It was a cycle they all tired of, though it showed no signs of halting.

“Sooner than that, I’m afraid,” Tanas said, confirming her fears that he hadn’t arrived simply to prepare her for a fresh spring campaign.

Tanas was the Baltanos’s husband and, by virtue, the second most powerful man in the Drasken province of Kalduran. Though one of the only accomplished worldstriders in Kalduran and therefore the only mage capable of running these errands and acting the part of glorified messenger, his presence here was an omen. The Baltanos wouldn’t send his consort to Estrid had the matter been trivial, no matter how quickly Tanas might be able to cross the distance.

“Aladar wishes to speak with you,” Tanas clarified. “He wants me to bring you to Varanos directly.”

She glanced down at herself, supressing a sigh. “Can I change first?”

―

Half an hour later found her at Tanas’s side, bedecked in the ceremonial military dress expected of an officer about to stand before her superior. Unlike the belted greatcoats and leather vests she’d grown accustomed to during her time in her homeland, the Imperium, Kalduran’s efforts were more reserved. Her coat’s peak lapel cut sharply down across the front, decorated with an orderly line of gleaming buttons that proved the only concession to ostentation. The garment lacked a family crest as Kalduran placed no importance in noble lineages. Instead, the red and black of her army patterned it. The subtle gold chevrons on one bicep were all that symbolised her status as kandras, the highest Drasken military rank beneath Baltanos.

In fact, the only item she owned adorned with any kind of crest was her mother’s old ring, worn on a thin silver chain around her neck. The Elerius kestrel existed nowhere else, all other traces of it having been torn down. Her family line ended with her, a fact she’d just about accepted after more than twenty years.

“Ready?” Tanas asked.

Estrid hesitated, taking a moment to memorise the graceful sweep of her estate. Her steadfast housekeeper waited at the front door to wave her off like a doting mother, and Estrid realised she’d miss the quiet old woman just as much as the quiet old house. If Aladar had requested her presence at such short notice, scant weeks before the inevitable spring campaign commenced, she knew she wouldn’t be seeing house or keeper for a long time.

When she nodded, Tanas looped his arm through hers and pulled her close to his side. He waved his free hand across the space in front of him and, like smoke wafting away with a loosed breath, reality parted. Also like smoke wafted the vague, sickly-sweet smell of active magic, discernible to Estrid’s nostrils only through her own innate ability.

Though she’d worldstrode with Tanas before, she’d never grown accustomed to it. She wavered before the portal now, staring into the space beyond the physical world. She felt like she stood at a mountain’s peak, about to topple from its heights. The kaleidoscope oblivion beyond the wound in the world glimmered with an oddly reserved luminescence, its power muted by concrete reality.

Tanas stepped through, pulling her frozen form behind. The portal’s edge enveloped her with the lapping quality of water as her worldstrider companion tugged her into the world’s currents.

An immense canvas of flashing colours and blazing lights, loosed from the anchor of observable reality, assaulted her. They accumulated randomly into tight knots of raw magical energy, shining like a billion blinding suns. She couldn’t feel her body, couldn’t even look down to see if she was still there because the non-existence of this ethereal place robbed her of all sense of physicality.

The world unfurled beneath her, captured in one brief glance yet too large to comprehend fully. Her mind flared with panic and her legs ached as if she’d sat on them for too long. Her lungs solidified in her chest, each inhale a gargantuan effort, each exhale ripped from her mouth by the ethereal storm.

Her entire body spasmed with nausea as she emerged onto familiar terrain, reality reaffirming itself beneath her. She had nothing to vomit up, having not yet eaten, so settled for a choking retch. Steadying hands grasped her shoulders and held her upright lest she crumple to her knees. When she found her composure, she shook her head to loosen the lingering disorientation.

Of the portal, only a fading scar remained. The magic used to craft it evanesced into the atmosphere in visible pulses.

“I hate that,” she huffed as she shook Tanas free. “I hate that so fucking much.”

She heard the smile in Tanas’s voice as he spoke. “Better than a week-long ride through the wilderness, no?”

She swallowed acid as she straightened and settled her eyes on the domed expanse of the Baltanos’s city estate, having to blink hard to convince herself it was real; Volėnis lay more than a hundred miles away, a distance crossed in a heartbeat rather than days.

At first glance, Aladar’s estate looked more like a stronghold than someone’s humble abode. With the seething sprawl of Varanos, capital of Kalduran, as its backdrop, it was practically a palace. It had been built at the peak of one of the many hills the city encompassed, the largest and highest structure for dozens of miles. Its glass-ceilinged domes twinkled in the sunlight with all the enthusiasm of a cloudless night sky, and between them stretched rounded arches of rich red stone that decorated walls as tall and thick as any fortress.

“Next time he wants to talk to me, you bring him to me,” Estrid said. “Not the other way around.”

Tanas flashed a smile before directing her towards their superior’s estate. Like most symmetrical Kaldurani architecture, the building evoked the now-defunct temples of the Arisen Theocracies, raised when the continent still believed in gods. Within, the atrium yawned; Estrid easily imagined a congregation of the faithful praying here. The ceiling, which might’ve once been adorned with religious frescoes, had been replaced with a glass roof when Aladar first acquired the place. Now, approaching midday, the sun struck the sheened marble floor and set the room ablaze.

“A warning,” Tanas said, placing a halting hand on her arm. “He’s been having more episodes in recent weeks.”

“Talking to himself?”

“More than that.” Tanas’s eyes glazed with memory. “He shouts, tries to attack enemies that aren’t there. His temper, when it appears, is sudden and explosive. I worry for what it could herald.”

Estrid shrugged, using the gesture to conceal her own worry. “He’s a powerful man,” she reasoned. “It’s stressful. Maybe this is how he copes.”

They both knew she lied for comfort. For as long as she’d known him, Aladar had suffered strange and unexplained bouts of violent hallucinations. Tanas labelled them ‘episodes’ to rationalise them, but in truth they lacked causes, triggers, and warnings. And they were becoming more frequent.

Endarion Boratorren, her old friend and former paramour, had suffered months of insanity following a prolonged period of dehumanising torture at the hands of a demonic race on another planet. As far as Estrid knew, he’d mostly recovered, though still suffered nightmares. His madness had been caused by his experiences, had gripped him in one continuous stretch before flaring only infrequently. Aladar’s, on the other hand, was birthed by nothing, coming and going like a brief illness. She feared the devastating fit that might one day ruin him.

Aladar’s office, where she knew he’d be, was a smaller echo of the atrium. A round, marble table dominated the centre and bookshelves packed tight with tomes stood proud along the walls. The Baltanos himself hunched in a strip of shade at the far end, his back to them, his trailing greatcoat granting him a malevolent aspect. A towering statue of Skiron, the Arisen godking associated with war and soldiering, loomed over him. As in all depictions of him, Skiron held a blooded blade in one hand and a severed head in the other. His patrician features had been twisted into a snarl, evoking the overly dramatic statues along Empyria’s Path of Triumph.

Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

Though religion hadn’t had a place in society for millennia, Aladar clearly felt it appropriate to own such a statue, being the exalted general he was. It didn’t matter that the real Skiron, an immortal who’d once ruled an empire, had been labelled by history as a violent tyrant; his image was enough to convey martial strength.

The Baltanos muttered to himself. At first, Estrid thought he addressed the statue.

“You’re a monster,” he hissed. He cocked his head, as if reacting to his own words. “I know I am. How could I be unaware?” A chuckle, low and menacing. “Oh, if you know, others will learn soon enough. You can’t hide yourself forever. Someone will figure it out.” A whip-crack sound as he slapped his thigh. “I know that as well. You’re the worst thing to set foot on this world, in this universe, even. The others will return, they’ll see you betrayed them in this skin. You’ll disgust your own even as you disgust the ones you try to be. Oh, shut up and leave me alone.”

His last words were clipped, punctuated with wild gesticulations. He threw one arm out and tapped a fist against Skiron’s stone knee. His other hand tugged at his collar.

Estrid glanced over at Tanas, noting his grim expression.

She stepped forward, cleared her throat. Aladar turned slowly, his hooded eyes gleaming. When he saw her, they cleared, and his mouth split in a grin. “Estrid,” he greeted, his mood change neck-snapping in its suddenness. “How are you?”

That was the worst thing: Aladar didn’t acknowledge his episodes. She wasn’t sure if he was oblivious when they struck, or whether he just ignored them for everyone else’s sake.

“Fine, considering,” she replied.

Now his episode had ended, she took a moment to study him.

It was difficult to marry this calm, composed individual with the twitching madman he’d been mere seconds before. Where his episodes at once diminished and enlarged him with their malevolent influence, the man himself was unremarkable. He stood before her now in a plain, unadorned military coat, the shirt beneath rumpled. He’d clearly scraped his hands through his hair during his fit, because the brown shoulder-length waves curled around his high collar and flicked across his cheeks in disarray. Patchy stubble hazed a face usually clean-shaven, affording him the kind of scruffy demeanour she wouldn’t expect even of her greenest rankers.

Aladar had apparently risen from obscurity years before, a common soldier who’d climbed the ranks at unexpected speed. He had no family, no noble name, no home, no ancestry. Yet, for all that, he was heir to the Kommer of War and would one day sit upon the Varkommer and rule the entire Drasken Empire as one of them. His complete lack of aasiurmancy meant he’d reign for a fraction of the time his long-lived colleagues did, but a mortal on the Varkommer remained unprecedented.

The costume of pristine, put-together commander had never fit him particularly well, but right now, his crazed words still echoing, it seemed to drown him.

Tanas stepped forward and set a gentle hand on Aladar’s shoulder. For a moment, the two men stared at each other; Tanas to assess for permanent danger in the episode’s aftermath, Aladar to silently convince his husband he was fine. It was an old ritual, and Estrid had witnessed it often enough.

Eventually, Aladar set a hand over Tanas’s own and skimmed his thumb over his husband’s knuckles.

“Why am I here?” Estrid asked.

Aladar pulled away from Tanas and paced past to halt at his table. Scattered maps decorated it, curling like shed snakeskin. He snatched one and rolled it into a tight scroll, then brandished it like a sword. “I sent an envoy to the Imperium not long ago to discuss the possibility of them ceasing their repeated efforts to invade Kalduran. A pointless endeavour, I know, but the moral high ground should count for something sometimes.” He threw the map onto the table, where it unfurled. “Tanas learned on his most recent ‘stride to Empyria that my envoy was killed seven days ago.”

“Killed?” Estrid asked.

“He was arrested by the Praevin and perished during an interrogation,” Aladar clarified.

“Why was he arrested?”

“The Imperium’s Warmaster, Novissa Boratorren, was assassinated eight days ago. My envoy was deemed guilty. No trial, mind.”

Estrid stiffened at the name. Technically, the Warmaster was the second most powerful person in the Imperium, behind the Caetoran. Novissa was Endarion’s aunt, a Boratorren, and an incredibly powerful woman in every sense of the word. Aladar must’ve been watching her reaction, because he nodded when she realised what the matriarch’s death meant.

“Her murder would worsen the rivalry between the Boratorrens and the Caetoran’s family,” she said. “The Boratorrens have been plotting against the Caetoran for decades. This could be the catalyst.”

She’d long ago informed Aladar of the insurrection fomented by the Boratorrens, a plot she’d once been heavily involved in as an old ally of theirs. Her association with Endarion had given her intimate knowledge of their plans to topple the Caetoran and destroy the ruling family. The Boratorrens had always intended to claim the throne for themselves, a minor detail Estrid had never truly pondered the ethics of. Let one power-grasping noble family usurp another, so long as that murdering bastard the Caetoran was one of the casualties.

But the Imperium and its petty squabbles were long behind her. Or, she’d hoped they were.

“The Caetoran would assume you know of this rivalry from me,” she added.

Aladar nodded.

“So, you didn’t send your envoy to kill the Warmaster?” she asked. “Incite the Boratorren insurrection, cause the Imperium to go to war with itself?”

He hesitated before saying, “No.”

Estrid noted the pause then moved past it; he was her superior and she had to trust him. “It was an internal ploy, then. The Caetoran’s done it before, killing his own allies to incite inner conflict. He killed my family for that reason, the cowardly cunt.” Before she even recognised the gesture, she raised a hand to her jaw, which had been knocked crooked during that dark time. Her nose was similarly bent, twin imperfections she carried everywhere with her, insistent reminders of how sorely the Imperium had wronged her.

Tanas, who’d remained silent for the last minute, roused himself from what looked to be deep thought. “The Caetoran’s answer will, of course, be war.”

Without a doubt. Estrid knew from personal experience that the Imperium needed little pretext for conflict. Just look at Tharghest, a conquered kingdom nestled between Kalduran and the Imperium and often used as a buffer between the two. Acquired sixteen years ago, Tharghest had been a casualty of the Imperium’s addiction to war, its conquest needlessly violent.

“If he’s gone to the trouble of creating a reason for full-scale war, the Caetoran won’t settle for Kalduran alone,” Estrid said.

“They cannot hope to endure in any serious conflict with Drasken as a whole,” Tanas said with the certainty of a man whose strength had never been properly challenged. “We’re larger than them, both by landmass and population.”

“They can call upon allies,” Aladar replied, shooting his husband a glance. “We cannot.”

“They have the Castrian League,” Estrid confirmed when Aladar looked to her. “Not a large nation, but enough to even the field. We only have four armies in Kalduran. The rest are in Drasken proper. I don’t suppose the Varkommer would field any here, to support us?”

Aladar swept his hands across the table before shaking his head. “I’ve spoken to the Kommer of War about this. As long as it seems the Imperium only targets Kalduran, the Varkommer would never agree to bolster us.”

As much as Kalduran was now a Drasken province, it retained much of its autonomy. Though freeing in principle, this autonomy meant the Varkommer always proved reluctant to rouse themselves in Kalduran’s defence. Even the Kommer of War, Aladar’s superior, had never involved himself in the recent campaigns executed by the Imperium. All well and good, it seemed, for Drasken to lay claim to Kalduran in principle; quite another for Drasken to bother defending its youngest territory.

“The Imperium will be at our borders again soon anyway,” Estrid replied. “This assassination gives them the pretext for an extended, more permanent conquest.” She glanced down at the nearest map and saw the wild expanse of Drasken, many times the size of Kalduran. “What about the Sky Fleet? Can they not offer support?”

“I asked,” Aladar said. He dragged over one of the larger maps—a sparsely detailed, blocky version of the entire continent of Indaver—and skimmed a forefinger across the empty mass in the centre that depicted a vast, seemingly eternal ocean of plainlands that Drasken, Kalduran, and Tharghest bordered. “The Kommers of War and Fleet both informed me the Sky Fleet is needed here, in the Karhes, and along Drasken’s border with it.”

“Fighting mercenaries still?” Estrid asked, unable to keep the disdain from her voice.

The continent’s heartland, the Karhes, was an endless stretch of rolling plains and grassland. Drasken and the Imperium had never expanded their borders into it not only for its sheer size, but also because of the mercenary fleets such size concealed. Drasken’s Fleet had long been engaged with those mercenaries, and the infinite Karhes seemed to churn out infinite ranks of them.

Aladar lifted his eyes, looked to her and Tanas in turn. “This information doesn’t leave this room,” he said, tone steel. “There are rumours of a warlord in the Karhes who is uniting the mercenary fleets.”

“Do the politics of barbarians concern us?” Estrid asked.

“They do if Drasken is their target,” Aladar replied. “Evidence gained by our Fleet scouts suggests the warlord is whipping up anti-Drasken sentiments, both in the Karhes and west of it, in the distant nations there. If he foments an invasion of us, the Imperium and its posturing could be the least of our worries. We’ve never ascertained how many mercenaries are out there, but united they could be enough to threaten us.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Estrid pushed herself away from the table. “So, we do this alone.”

Aladar nodded. “The Varkommer would prefer the Imperium dealt with before the Karhes mobilises.”

“The Imperium has done this before, assassination aside,” Estrid countered. “We push them back again this year, and next year they return. What if they end up invading at the same time as this Karhes warlord strikes? We can’t fight two wars at the same time.”

Aladar leant back and regarded her. “The Kommer of War has suggested we make our retaliation permanent. Our tactics before now have been purely defensive, which has served us, but only to a point.”

It took Estrid a second to understand his meaning. When she did, she frowned. “You mean we should act offensively? Break the Imperium?”

“If that’s what it takes. You were an arch-general once. We can use your knowledge of them to topple them.”

She glanced at Tanas, gauging his reaction. Though she couldn’t admit it to these two for fear of appearing disloyal, the Imperium was still home to old friends. Luck had ensured she’d yet to take the field against them, which was just as well; she couldn’t imagine campaigning in earnest against those she’d once considered almost family.

“If the idea is unattractive,” Aladar said, noting her hesitation, “then announce your resignation and seek out a career elsewhere.” All at once, that aura of command she often found absent in her superior saturated his voice and his posture, turning him into the general she knew existed beneath his plain, ruffled exterior. “I know of the threats and assassination attempts you endured in the Imperium. I know this is why you defected to us. I would never resort to the same. But I cannot have serving as one of my kandras a woman whose loyalty to us is in question. If your loyalty to old comrades who have abandoned you is stronger than what you owe to the ones who saved you, took you in, raised you high, tell me now.”

Stunned as she was by his words, Estrid snapped herself to soldierly attention. It was the only reaction such pulling of rank merited. “My loyalty is to Drasken and Kalduran.”

The Baltanos nodded slowly. “Good,” he said. A single word laced with threat, heavy with menace. A warning, a promise, an oath accepted.

“We must do what is necessary,” he added, before stepping away from the table. “The other three kandras will be arriving in the city shortly, and then we must prepare for war.”

“War,” Estrid echoed, raising a hand to cup her crooked jaw. “Again.”