The Storm King

Aulius Arrius Abronius was in a terrible mood. This was a rather stark departure from his usual professional stoicism, but he felt like his current mood had been well earned.

The first thing to try his patience happened several months back when he received word of Prince August’s trial for the murder of Prince Trajan, followed soon after by the word of August’s escape and the start of the civil war. All of Abronius’ attempts to get more information were blocked and stymied by bureaucratic horseshit that he had little patience for, and the only reason why he hadn’t taken a galley straight up the Naga to wring some truth out of the bastards in the capital was that the war was still ongoing.

Making matters worse, once Prince Octavius did get in contact with him, it was to insult him by placing him under the command of Duke Duronius, who’d recently been appointed the new Consul of the Central Territories after Avidius was forced into retirement. All of that was concerning enough, but when Abronius heard that the Consul of the South had been subordinated, too, he was furious. Consuls were answerable only to the King—or if they had the proper orders, Paladins—not to other Consuls!

Abronius felt humiliated, a feeling which only compounded when Duronius refused his recommendations to take Ariminium by sea. Abronius felt like he could do it since the city was now only defended by a single Legion, even if that Legion had commandeered the local fleet. Abronius still had six more fleets, more than enough to take the city, he believed.

But Duronius refused, stating that he wanted to take it by land and sea—or, as Abronius suspected, he’d wanted to take the city himself rather than letting the fleets do it. The problem there was that the land army had been stalled by the rebel Prince August himself. Abronius wasn’t sure if the term ‘rebel’ still fit August after his communications with some of the King’s councilors whom Octavius had dismissed, but it was still the ‘official’ term so long as Octavius held the capital.

So Abronius could only wait for Duronius to get his head out of his ass or to capture Prince August and win the war. Given how their past engagements went, Abronius wasn’t optimistic about the latter, a sentiment which proved prophetic when he was informed that Duronius had recently lost a battle so badly that most of his surviving troops deserted him, leaving him with a paltry two Legions, and that he was retreating to link up with Abronius’ fleet.

‘Figures he only wants to use the armada now,’ the Consul thought, a scowl crossing his darkly tanned, sun-kissed skin, his hands running through the woolly black hair that he inherited from his foreign, dark-skinned father. His mother had been a landed noble, and he’d been her tenth child, while his father had been her sixth husband, an exotic warrior from far to the south with skin as dark as the midnight sky.

Abronius had gotten more than a few sideways looks and dismissive comments from those in noble circles due to his obvious foreign heritage, which was part of the reason why he joined the naval Legions—more foreigners were working on the seas than there were on land. In the fleets, he wasn’t so much of an outsider.

But now, he was waiting on Duke Duronius, one of the men that, in Abronius’ eyes, at least, was a walking symbol of that feeling of isolation and otherness that he’d felt in the Kingdom of his birth. He had to wait for the Duke to arrive, then wait on the man like he was the King that Abronius served, as if he were the King that had so accepted Abronius years ago, who had shown so much trust in him as to give him a Consulship.

No, Abronius was not in a good mood. But the letter on his desk that he was reading promised that his mood would improve, if only he did what was being asked of him.

The Consul sighed and leaned back in his chair, his gaze wandering around his office. He was on his flagship, in his office just across a large hall from the ship’s bridge one level above, with the primary doors to the main deck below. A grand staircase was the main showcase of the open, multi-leveled hall, which was the one consideration for aesthetics on the Legion ship; nowhere else in its structure was the ship so open and wasteful of space.

His office wasn’t too lavishly decorated for a man of his rank, with no works of art adorning its walls, no thick carpet, no marble statues anywhere. It was purely functional, with the polished wood and comfortable if simple furniture its only nod to the luxury expected of such an office.

He found the simplicity comforting, but he doubted that the Duke would agree. In fact, he was looking forward to Duronius’ reaction to the understated welcome that Abronius had prepared.

‘No doubt that man expects to be received like an Ancestor returned from the pyre,’ the Consul smilingly thought. After a few more minutes of sitting alone in his office, Abronius finally took one last look at the letter he was perusing and made his decision. ‘All right Publius, let’s see if you can deliver…’

---

Duke Duronius came into the natural harbor where the armada was stationed like a conquering hero. His armor glistened in the late evening sun, his white steed standing tall and proud, his gray hair perfectly groomed. He looked the very picture of the noble and mighty knight ready to defend his King and Kingdom.

The same couldn’t be said for his retainers, however. They wore harried looks, their armor dirty and crusted with blood, their formations ragged, their morale clearly broken from the way they collapsed almost as soon as they reached safety.

They numbered roughly eight hundred and had moved out far ahead of the rest of the remnants of their army—to properly coordinate the fleet’s movements, they weren’t running, Duke Duronius did not run from his enemies!

But still, they had left forty thousand of their comrades behind and made a death march to the coast, crossing a distance of more than three hundred miles of swamps and forests in less than five days. None of the Legion sailors who were there to witness their fatigue could blame them, though they weren’t in a rush to provide any comfort. Word had been passed down from the Consul, they were to only do the bare minimum to greet their ‘esteemed guests’.

In contrast to the Legion soldiers, the sailors were tight and proper, displaying a professionalism as they went about their business maintaining their camp that hadn’t been seen in Duronius’ army since before it had been smashed by August earlier in the week.

And what a camp it was. It was the closest natural harbor that the armada could dock at, but the closest city that could service their ships was more than two dozen miles west. That meant their camp had to be quite large, otherwise all of their ships would have to stay out in the Gulf, and with the size of their combined fleets, that just wasn’t feasible.

Most of the armada was still out in the water, though, stretching out as far as the eye could see. Duronius’ followers breathed a sigh of relief when they saw it—or those that remained on their feet did.

Duronius himself wasn’t in the mood for taking in the view. A welcome party had been assembled for him, but the Consul himself was nowhere to be seen. A mere Legate had been left out to greet him, seriously offending the Duke.

Walking right up to the Legate while ignoring the man’s greetings, Duronius demanded, “Where is Sir Abronius?!”

Completely unfazed, the Legate instead smiled at the Duke’s rudeness and said, “The Consul of Discord is currently aboard his flagship. He’s given orders to escort you there immediately so that you two may speak.”

“Then get moving,” the Duke imperiously commanded, but again, the Legate seemed to take it completely in stride.

The Legate and his retinue led the Duke and his entourage down to the beach where several rowboats awaited them. The Consul’s flagship was out on the water at the moment, and since there were no docks large enough for it to moor at the coast, they’d have to take smaller boats to reach it.

The Duke scowled but kept his peace as he stepped into the first of the rowboats with several of his knights and half a dozen sailors. Ten minutes of rowing later, the boat was hoisted up the side of the flagship by an apparatus employing earth and air magic, and Duronius stepped out onto the deck of the Consul’s flagship. Again, he was greeted by several dozen high-ranking knights, but the Consul was notable for his absence.

“Where is he?!” he irately demanded of the Legate.

“In his office, I’d imagine,” the Legate serenely replied, his attitude only serving to further infuriate Duronius. “This way, Your Grace.”

The Legate then led the Duke past the other knights, all of whom didn’t even bother offering any greetings, only silently falling in behind the two as the Legate took the Duke toward the Consul’s office. By this point, the Duke was so angry and offended that he didn’t even notice that the rest of his retinue aside from the handful that had accompanied him in his rowboat was missing.

When they arrived at the door to the office, the Legate held it open and graciously gestured for the Duke to enter first. Duronius, scowling, arrogantly strode in like he owned the entire ship. Within, he found the Consul waiting for him, the darker-skinned man leaning back in his chair and propping up his chin with his arm, looking for all the world as if he were bored and waiting on a late lunch rather than the single most important noble in the entire Kingdom.

Standing around the room were a dozen more Legates, their auras towering and oppressive, their expressions stern and unyielding. Walking in behind the Duke came the first Legate along with half a dozen more, loudly slamming the door shut behind them.

Suddenly, the Duke realized his position. His entourage wasn’t with him, his secretaries, assistants, and other followers weren’t at his side, and he was surrounded by powerful sixth-tier mages. With the door closed and the office sealed, he couldn’t release his magic senses, nor could he hear what was happening outside.

“What is the meaning of this?!” he demanded.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace, but the meaning of what, exactly?” the Consul asked, his voice a deep, intimidating baritone, his aura calm and unfazed by turbulent emotions.

“Where are my people?!” Duronius shouted.

“How should I know?” the Consul smarmily replied with a provocative grin. “Do I look like the person whose job it is to keep track of your people?”

“Listen, you insubordinate mudsk—” the Duke began, but before he could finish, two of the Legates behind him kicked him in the back of the knees, while several others grabbed him and wrestled him down to the ground. The Duke shouted in wrath, but one of the Legates pulled out a long rag to tie around the Duke’s head and gag him. The Duke tried to call upon his magic, but there wasn’t much stone or dirt around for him to manipulate, and before he could try and use his magic to create some for him to use or to call out a weapon from his soul realm, one of the Legates slammed his head down into the floorboards of the office, stunning him momentarily.

The Duke came to just a few seconds later, but by then it was too late, the Legates had gotten him into restraints. They’d used enchanted silver manacles meant for powerful mages which inhibited the use of their magic and prevented mages from accessing their soul realm. It wasn’t a perfect solution since it didn’t completely stop magic use, but it was enough to stop Duronius from fighting back in any meaningful way before they got him to a cell where his magic would be completely inhibited.

“Bold of you, to try insulting me in my own office, when I’m surrounded by my own knights,” Abronius drily stated, his expression not changing much despite what had just happened.

The Duke began to scream and curse and fight against the Legates as they hauled him up to his feet, but the gag kept him from making any sense.

“Sorry, what was that?” Abronius insincerely asked, his attitude poking fun at the restrained Duke. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Take him to the brig, let him wait for Prince August’s arrival in chains. Pull up camp on the shore, too, just in case those Legions coming in behind him try to rescue their commander.”

---

Leon stared down at the masses of ships below and frowned. None of the ships were by the coast, and it didn’t seem there was much of a presence there, anyway. It made going to them peacefully much more difficult than he would’ve liked.

He was riding Anzu, and he was alone, for the most part. Alix and Valeria stayed behind at the camp, while Maia had accompanied him most of the way and then merged with the swampy ground once he started drawing near the coast. She was still around, but she would stay out of sight until he started his return.

Assuming he did return and wasn’t shot out of the sky on his approach. There wasn’t much armor he could put on Anzu that wouldn’t weigh him down too much to prevent flight, and making matters worse, the two Legions that Duronius had with him were closing in from the north. If Leon had to guess, then he’d say if they weren’t stopping for the night then they’d arrive at the coast by daybreak.

He sighed and signaled Anzu to descend. It looked like the camp on the shore had been mostly pulled up, immediately indicating to Leon that something was very wrong, but there were still a few sailors and smaller boats on the coast who he could talk to. At the very least, he could check in with them and extend his request for a formal meeting with the Consul of Discord.

Leon checked himself over one last time before their descent was noticed. His armor had been too heavily damaged for him to wear, so he was only dressed in some lightly enchanted mail, over which he was wearing his old snow lion coat, still as glossy and brilliantly white as it had always been. He was vaguely entertained that he and Anzu now matched.

He wore no weapons at his side, hopefully sending a more diplomatic message than he would normally. It had taken a while, but he was finally starting to come around to the idea of talking things out first rather than immediately resorting to violence. He didn’t want to repeat his mistake with Valeria from almost a week ago. The sight of her bleeding and in pain wasn’t one he wanted to see again, let alone cause. He was even starting to regret some of his earlier, rasher actions when he’d acted without thinking, but he pushed those thoughts out of his mind. He had a job to do.

As the two descended, they were finally noticed by the sailors still on the coast. He could hear some shouting and the indicative sounds of clinking metal, indicating that the sailors were arming themselves.

Leon did his best not to seem overly aggressive, landing a good distance from the sailors and well into the tree lines just past the beach. He then had Anzu approach at a slow, unthreatening pace as the sailors spread out over the beach. When he emerged from the trees, he paused, letting them see him and react accordingly.

In short order, he found himself surrounded by more than twenty Legion sailors, though none of them were stronger than the fourth-tier.

“Identify yourself!” a fourth-tier woman demanded, brandishing a long spear at Leon.

He presumed her to be the leader, and she certainly was dressed better than the others, with a prominent silver bracelet adorning her right arm.

“I am Leon Ursus, a knight here representing Prince August. I’ve come to deliver a message to Sir Aulius Abronius, the Consul of Discord.”

“What proof do you have of this?” the woman demanded, her demeanor not lessening in the slightest despite Leon’s lack of concern and his towering aura.

Leon didn’t get angry at her, though. In her place, he knew that he’d demand proof, too. As his response, Leon retrieved first his Heaven’s Eye ID, then a letter stating his purpose that had been signed by Prince August and marked with his personal seal. As far as identification went, it was about as good as Leon was going to get.

The woman spent a long time examining both documents, her eyes frequently alternating between them and Leon.

After more than a minute, she tossed Leon back his ID and said, “Wait here, I’ll relay your request.”

Leon nodded and made no further movements. With a few strokes of Anzu’s feathers, the griffin, too, relaxed, furling his wings and softening his predatory gaze. In response, the rest of the sailors that had surrounded Leon also relaxed, though their spears were always pointed at least vaguely in his direction.

Fortunately, Leon didn’t have to wait long. He was worried that he would be stuck there for hours until Duronius’ Legions arrived, but after only twenty minutes, the fourth-tier knightess returned with another knightess, a Legate if her sixth-tier aura was anything to go by.

“Sir Leon Ursus? The Thunder Knight?” the sixth-tier knightess asked as she approached, her expression turning into one of shock as she registered the fact that she wasn’t able to perceive his aura, providing a strong indicator of his strength and lending a great deal of credibility to his claims.

“That’s me,” Leon replied through barely unclenched teeth.

“Sir Abronius will meet with you,” she replied, not missing a beat despite her surprise. “We can escort you there, or you can fly yourself. His ship is the closest dreadnought.”

It was Leon’s turn to be surprised. These were supposed to be the enemies of the Prince he was here to advocate for, and yet they were going to allow him to approach their flagship without an escort?

[Careful, Leon, this stinks like a trap,] Xaphan murmured from his soul realm.

[Maybe…] Leon muttered back. [Or maybe… maybe I won’t need to employ violence for this job. That would be a nice change of pace.]

[Plan for violence anyway, don’t be caught off-guard,] the demon cautioned him.

Leon didn’t respond. After the business with Valeria, he was starting to get a little tired of Xaphan and the Thunderbird’s way of thinking. They advocated for a violent approach that had served them well, that Leon had embraced, that had already seen him assassinate Tiberias back in the capital more than a year ago.

But that wasn’t what he wanted right now. With Valeria’s offer of peace, he wanted to believe stronger than he’d ever admit that such a tactic could work. But he knew that the demon and his Ancestor would never agree to that and would more likely than not advise him to kill Valeria now that they had laid out their cards on the table if he were to ask their opinions on his current situation.

“I’ll go without an escort, I’m sure they can shoot me down if I make any hostile moves and there’s no need to take any of you away from your duties here,” Leon replied, giving them what he hoped was a reassuring smile—he wasn’t sure, though, being reassuring wasn’t something he was used to expressing.

The sixth-tier knightess seemed to relax a bit, though, so he figured he couldn’t have done that poor of a job.

“Very well, then, Sir,” she said. “Best not to linger here…”

The knightess pointedly glanced out into the forest behind Leon.

“Right. Thank you,” he said, spurring Anzu forward and back into the air.

‘Now… Sir Abronius… why are you so trusting?’ Leon wondered as Anzu flew slowly and lazily over the water, staying highly visible and unthreatening as they approached the massive leviathan that was the Consul of the Gulf’s flagship.