The House of Yeel

Chapter 16: Parlay





Yeel looked out from the gate tower across the vast army besieging Maristaple. Tents dotted the landscape in all directions. The warriors were wearing only animal hides and bones.

“A savage lot, even by your standards,” Yeel said.

“They’re animals,” Aruscetar growled. “If this city falls, my nation is ruined. My people are ruined. They will rape, burn…everything here will be gone. Mankind will fall into an age of ruin.”

“One of them is signaling us to talk,” the captain of the guard called out.

“Please allow me to negotiate,” Yeel said. “I need to see these warriors up close. I want to analyze their leader. We need to gain some insight into what we face.”

“No, Yeel!” Jymoor said. “You’re too valuable. If they kill you—”

“I have a few tricks up my sleeve. It wouldn’t be so easy.”

“I believe you,” Aruscetar said. “They don’t know who they’re dealing with. The mighty Yeel! You should kill their leader and wash flame across their army.”

“Oh, well, I think negotiation is in order first. Then…yes, then the flames.”

Aruscetar shrugged.

“Go ahead. Once you see what those Baltamic animals are really like, you’ll find us gentle as lambs.”

Yeel was lowered down on a tiny rope elevator, as Aruscetar refused to open the gates even for a moment. He scanned the field before the gates. Every bit of vegetation had been stripped away to prepare for the siege. He saw the barbarian signaling halfway across the field. It was a warrior atop another animal, holding a white skull up with a stick. Yeel wondered if the man was some kind of shaman. He moved out onto the vast field toward the warrior.

Yeel felt the strain of many minds focused on him. He strained to maintain the illusion of his appearance as a man in all their minds. It wouldn’t do for any of them to see him as anything else…yet.

Yeel approached to within a comfortable speaking distance, just for appearances. He’d actually be able to communicate with the man from much farther away, but he didn’t want to arouse any suspicion.

“I’m here to take your surrender,” the man growled. “You see our numbers. You know you have no chance.”

“We might consider it. I wish to speak with your leader…what might his name be?”

The warrior laughed aloud. He opened his mouth as if to reply, then lost himself to another fit of laughter. Finally he got himself under control.

“You speak our language perfectly, yet pretend you do not know of our war-king Methric. You attempt to trivialize him as if he were nothing. Should you speak with him, don’t try that trick. He will slay you for such a slight.”

“I apologize. You are right, of course. I was merely attempting to get some leverage. But you have me. I should not have underestimated your obviously considerable intelligence. Please allow me to speak with Methric.”

The man shrugged. “You refuse to surrender? He may simply have you killed to send a message. Do you really want to see him still?”

“Yes, being a brave and formidable man myself, a human like all the others in the city, but still, of power, and man of heroic deeds, I am of course very brave—did I mention that? Yes, I still would like to speak with him.”

The warrior shrugged.

“Follow me, then,” he said. He turned his horse around and trotted back toward the nearest cluster of tents.

Yeel slid along after. The barbarian army grew closer. He saw the angry stares of hundreds of them as he approached. The men looked determined, or desperate. In any case, they were hostile as they stared upon him.

The warrior who had signaled for parlay jumped off his mount and strode over to a large tent. It had countless symbols stained onto its outer surface. Yeel didn’t recognize any of them.

I wonder if they are decorative, functional, or both.

Just before he stepped into the tent, Yeel decided to project a different image of himself. He chose the idea of a strong, seasoned warrior. A tall, armored man of lean strength and rugged appearance.

The air in the tent held a tang of burnt herbs. The skulls of dead beasts hung on the poles holding up the tent. Fine rugs, tapestries, and cushions littered the tent. Yeel supposed this was a trove of items won in conquest.

He stepped toward a large chair holding a man who must be the barbarian king Methric. Many gold objects were on display by the makeshift throne. Yeel wondered if they turned the gold into a lighter metal when it was time to break camp and move elsewhere.

Their leader looked savage. His broad chest spoke of great physical strength. His arms bulged with power. His light brown hair fell across his shoulders in ragged locks. The prodigious claws of some predatory beast hung around his neck. Bands of bronze encased his forearms.

Yeel approached the huge warrior king carefully. He bowed.

“I am Yeel. King Aruscetar has sent me to speak to you, which is what we’re doing right now. So you can see I’m a loyal servant of the king. Nothing more. Loyal, servile—that’s me.”

“Tell me, then, is King Aruscetar reasonable? I think we could come to some kind of agreement.”

The huge barbarian’s voice was soft. Yeel examined the man again. Were his eyes friendly?

“Of course we could! There’s no need to shed blood! We can reason this out,” Yeel said. “Cooperation might provide a superior end result for both our people.”

“It’s possible. Here is my offer. Give up the city to my people, and I will allow half the Rikenese to migrate south.”

“Um, er, I don’t think we are asking to migrate south, so giving us that concession is not worth any offer in return,” Yeel said carefully. “We would like to keep our libraries intact, though.”

“Your libraries? They’re filled with heretic books of false gods. I myself read over a dozen of the books at Talgam before its destruction. I was not impressed.”

“You read a dozen Rikenese books at Talgam?”

“You sound surprised. Yes, I am fluent in Rikenese. I studied their language, culture, and history for years before launching this massive migration. It seemed only wise, given the magnitude of the task before me. You see, I had to save my people.”

“But you have chosen to try and save your people by destroying another civilization,” Yeel said.

“My people must be dominant in order to secure a better result for themselves. We’re now bargaining from a position of strength. If you don’t give me sufficient concessions, then I will simply destroy the city. We’re superior to the Rikenese. I’ll prove it if necessary.”

“You would destroy this marvel of a city just to prove your dominance? Set aside your ego, think of the good of your entire race before yourself. That’s what a truly greater man would do.”

“Well spoken! But it’s not a conquest born of an inflated ego,” said Methric. “There are more basic necessities at stake.”

“Oh? If this is not a conquest, then what is this army?”

“It’s a migration. I believe I already mentioned that. Our two peoples will merge.”

“It could be a peaceful merging. March your army away from Maristaple. Lay down your arms and settle the lands.”

“Ah, I wish it could be peaceful. But resources are not plentiful enough for everyone. So we must fight over them. Already my army grows hungry.”

“Think of the needless destruction—”

“I’m sure Riken culture has some wonderful aspects to it. And many of those will be preserved although many will die. Forced cultural fusion is often bloody. But our children’s children will know and follow many of the traditions of both peoples. Of course, the winner in the military conflict will have the edge in the merging. Likely that culture will be dominant.”

“Are you going to burn the library?” Yeel asked.

“Most likely, yes. Though if you give me the city, we could reach an agreement on that point.”

“But if we let you into the walls, then we no longer have any leverage. You could then burn the library and do whatever you want.”

“Well, just a moment ago, you were asking me to give up my leverage by dispersing my army.”

“What are the resources in contention? We could work together to increase the food and water production of both sides.”

“There isn’t time. And to try would simply result in fighting anyway. I have to achieve victory quickly. Then, and only then, can I spread my people out across the lands Riken used to own. Otherwise, starvation will occur.”

Time for the secondary plan.

“Do your people still worship Gragmaresh?”

“Yes, among others.”

“Well, I have called him here.”

“You?! You call for your doom?”

“Perhaps. We’ll see what he says.”

“He won’t answer you. We sacrifice our hungry children to him. We send out our warriors to smash our enemies in his name. Who are you to call upon him?”

“Well, I called him here because there’s about to be a huge battle, of course. He may wish to watch our conflict in person.”

“Then if he appeared, he would see King Methric earn his new land by martial force. He would be pleased.”

Yeel bowed.

“You may be right. I thank you for the parlay.”

“Tell your king my offer is good. Give us the city, and we won’t pursue Rikenese any further south with this massive army. I’ll settle these lands and be content.”

Yeel left the tent and switched his appearance back. The herald stood and stared at his back as he slid away. Yeel returned to the wall. The rope contraption was already being lowered, so he didn’t have to signal. Once back in the tower, Yeel met the curious eyes of Jymoor and Aruscetar.

“That did not go at all as I had planned,” Yeel said.

“What? What went wrong? Does he have a powerful mage on his side?” asked Jymoor.

“I was rather hoping he would be an unreasoning tyrant. I hoped to use his own rage and fear against him. But he’s actually quite an agreeable fellow.”

“Yeel!”

“Oh. Sorry. Well, I mean, it’s just that he’s so…reasonable. And intelligent!”

“Are you going to save us or not?” demanded Aruscetar.

“Well actually, you are,” Yeel said, pointing at Jymoor.

“What?”

“Assuming that Gragmaresh has not changed a great deal from my memory of him so many years ago, Methric will never believe that Gragmaresh has come to spare the city and sue for peace. But he might believe the god wants the confrontation resolved by a battle of champions.”

“But—”

“And Riken’s champion is you. And I don’t know who the other side’s might be. Doubtless Methric will choose their most powerful and bloodthirsty warrior. Someone with some experience at slaying Rikenese.”

“Yeel! I’ve only been studying the sword and the mace for a short time. I can’t—”

“But surely you have a higher chance of success of beating one of them than the Rikenese army has of holding off the hordes.”

That silenced her. Finally she said, “That may be.”

“Don’t underestimate your power. I know you’re a very determined individual. Remember how you told me the power flowed from the armor in your last battle.”

“You mean my first battle. This is a physical contest, Yeel. My determination can only do so much.”





***





Later in the afternoon, a hugely muscled ogre of a creature, standing easily half again higher than the greatest human warrior, strode out into the field around the wall. It bellowed loudly and displayed massive fangs. In one hand it carried a huge club fashioned from an uprooted tree, in the other it clenched a great two-bladed axe which, though large for any human, looked a bit too small in its grasp.

It was Gragmaresh, the Baltamic god of war.

Or so it seemed to every sentient creature within visual distance outside the wall of Maristaple. Yeel concentrated on his appearance. The strain was great enough to force him to allow the Rikenese to see him as he truly was.

All they need to know is, I’m some kind of monster-god. Let them think my true appearance is the sham.

The herald of Methric trembled in fear. The man almost turned and ran, but he had to stand before the army, even if it meant his death, in order to retain his status.

The herald tried to speak, but could not find his voice.

“Methrrrriiiiiiickkk!” slavered the god. It was loud enough the herald didn’t have to send anyone. Within a minute the leader of the barbarians had emerged uncertainly from his tent. He hesitated, ordering a shaman or priest to accompany him.

No doubt an expert on sacrifices to Gragmaresh, Yeel thought.

The herald glanced at Gragmaresh, fearful to make eye contact. It seemed the man, so brave the day before, simply wanted to dig a hole and hide.

Methric walked out before his army, practically dragging the shaman with him. As they arrived next to the herald, all three fell to their knees. The shaman put a wooden bowl before them filled with blood. Yeel saw a human heart inside the bowl, no doubt freshly drawn from a northerner.

“Your army is massive,” Gragmaresh rumbled. “Too large. I no longer know if your warriors are brave. I no longer know if they are strong. You must be tested, before you can taste victory.”

“I stand ready for your test, mighty Gragmaresh,” Methric said.

He is fairly brave. A remarkable leader... ah but back to it.

“Select your champion. Bring him here to do battle. I have ordered Aruscetar to do the same. If your warrior is superior, then I urge you, continue to spill blood. But if the Rikenese strength and bravery proves itself better than yours, then I send you back to the north where I sent you long ago. There, you will grow stronger, to await the next opportunity to prove yourselves.”

“As you command,” Methric said. He yelled at the herald. “Go. Bring me Fenuil. Go now!”

“Now, I will fetch the Rikenese champion, or smite them if they refuse,” Gragmaresh growled. To the Baltamic tribes, his voice seemed to shake the ground under their feet.

Gragmaresh walked back toward the city. This time as he arrived, the front gate opened to his mighty roar. He stomped into the city.

A couple of minutes later, the Rikenese champion appeared. Hundreds of heads appeared at the battlements of the wall to witness the fight. Rikenese began to cheer. No one noticed the tall man standing next to the champion in full armor.

“Remember, you must do well, or else this city will probably fall much sooner than it would otherwise.”

“You’re reminding me to do well in a fight to the death?” asked Jymoor. “Then telling me the city will probably fall later anyway.”

“Oh. You’re right. I forgot your memory is so good. You know all about the plight of the city.”

“I meant, you’re telling me to worry about the city, when my own life is in danger! It’s hardly necessary.”

“Ah, you refer to your overriding instincts of self-preservation! You’re right, of course. I should appeal to you on a baser level. You must win, or else you will feel great pain, be humiliated, die lacking progeny…”

“You are so terrible at this! You’re supposed to build my confidence,” Jymoor hissed.

“I motivated you as you suggested—”

“By pointing out I will probably die instead of feeding me some hope!”

Yeel stared for a moment, then looked up over the army before them.

“You see that?”

“See what?” asked Jymoor, peering in the direction Yeel stared. Then she caught sight of it. Though faint, it was clear the moon was in the sky.

“The moon!”

“Yes. You see? You will fight under its light. Even though it’s day, and we can’t see it as brightly, it is there, and your armor will collect power from it. Just as much as it does when you patrol under it at night.”

“You knew this all along? It’s almost full! This is a good sign!” Jymoor said. “Thank you, Yeel!”

“I must admit it was not I who placed the satellite thus—”

“Shut up. I’m ready to fight now.”

“Good! I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever get around to it.”

Jymoor growled in frustration and stomped forward.





***





The Baltamic champion stood a head taller than Jymoor. A massive black morning star dangled from a strap around his right wrist. He wore hardened leather on his torso, adorned with the black feathers of vultures. A small round buckler shield of iron was strapped onto his left arm.

Good…his armor is light. My decision to forego the mace has worked out this time.

Her opponent stared at her. His face held a frown. She noticed the man had no left ear. No doubt it had been chopped off in some contest of arms.

The only reason I don’t feel terror is the armor.

The warrior crashed his weapon against his shield fiercely, showing his readiness. Jymoor lowered the point of her fenlar to aim at the foe’s heart. At this, Fenuil charged forward.

Jymoor jabbed with her fenlar as he came into range. Her attack caught him on the side of the neck, a grazing blow. Fenuil knocked the fenlar shaft aside with his buckler and swung his morning star with the other…

CLANG!

The weapon struck Jymoor’s shoulder guard and the helmet. She staggered. Even the moon-enhanced casing of metal couldn’t completely deflect the gigantic blow. Jymoor staggered to one side. Vaguely, she heard the roar of onlookers.

I got him with the fenlar. But did it inject its poison?

Jymoor quickly moved back to avoid another swing from the morning star. Her right hand drew her short sword almost by itself.

Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.

Jymoor thrust. The tip of her weapon found only the metal of Fenuil’s buckler. She moved to one side and tried again. Fenuil easily blocked her thrust again.

Jymoor’s problem was completely different than she’d envisioned. She thought she would need great strength to fight. But the moon armor provided her that strength, and what she now lacked was speed and timing.

Not enough training!!!

CLANG!

Fenuil’s morning star smashed into her left arm. First sharp pain shot through it, followed by a dull ache that almost made her moan. A wave of power from the armor washed the ache away, but it was slower this time.

She saw a massive red boil rising on her opponent’s throat where she had grazed him with the fenlar. His face betrayed no pain, though. Only a mad battle lust.

Still, the poison has to have given me some advantage...

CLANG!

The blow struck her side. Jymoor wobbled. She couldn’t seem to move. Her breath came in painful gasps. Her sword point dropped, digging its tip into the ground.

Must be broken ribs, she thought. I must try to thrust again…

The man rose his arm in victory. The barbarian horde cheered him. Then he staggered to one side. He caught his balance, but looked shaken.

The poison.

Jymoor saw her chance. She stepped forward, reaching. One knee hit the ground in the lunge. Her sword thrust into the man’s lower torso.

The champion fell to his knees. The cheers diminished. Jymoor struggled to stand. She didn’t have the strength to pull the blade free, so instead she simply drew her gauntleted hand back, then smashed it into her opponent’s face.

The Baltamic warrior fell back, unconscious or dead. The sword stuck straight up out of him, which made him look a bit more the latter.





***





As the Crescent Knight dispatched her foe, the Rikenese soldiers on the wall went wild. Yeel kept a clearer focus.

She doesn’t look good.

He watched her stagger back from the contest. Her stride became increasingly erratic. She fell to one knee, then lurched back up. A group of soldiers came out to help her back. Yeel appeared at her side, then grasped her in a tentacle, shooing the others away.

“She needs medical attention. Back please, plenty of time to congratulate her later!”

Yeel led her to a tent set up inside the walls for tending wounded. A Rikenese healer was inside. He looked up, quite surprised by the appearance of Yeel carrying Jymoor in full armor.

Yes, she is heavy, but I’m a bit stronger than you are.

A Rikenese soldier came in behind.

“What wounds?” he asked.

“Leave us,” Yeel said.

The soldier and the field surgeon obeyed. Yeel and Jymoor were alone in the tent. Yeel removed her helm.

“Jymoor. Look at me, please.”

The scout’s eyes fluttered, but opened. She gazed up. Yeel thought about his appearance. He let the illusion fall from his mind.

Jymoor’s eyes grew wide.

“Why do you look like…your servant creature?” she moaned.

“I’m so very sorry, Jymoor. But you see…what you now see…is my true form. You know of my powers? I make myself look like one of you, so that I may walk among you. To help you. I’m very sorry this deception was necessary.”

“Ah. I…see,” Jymoor whispered. “That…makes sense.” Then she expired.

Yeel replaced the helmet on her head, covering her face. Aruscetar entered the tent.

“How is she?” he demanded.

“Her wounds are dire. I’ll have to take her to my house immediately.”

“She’s a hero!”

“She is. But she’s only bought you a few weeks at most. It’s enough time to carry out our plan, if you’re a man of your word.”

“I am. Speak of it later. Now, take her and heal her, please!”

“I intend to,” Yeel said.