The disparities in equipment and deportment notwithstanding, in the aggregate, the various units of humans, genasi, and a sprinkling of other folk added up to a formidable army. And despite Jhesrhi’s delaying tactics and the loss of Shala’s organizational abilities, it was an army that looked ready to march. Jhesrhi assumed that Tchazzar was about to give the order until she noticed how his demeanor was changing.
At first, riding back and forth on a white horse with red and gold trappings, the sunlight gleaming on his gilded armor, the war hero had been the expansive, enthusiastic monarch who’d initially charmed the realm. He’d chattered about dozens of topics, some relevant, some not, and joked with both officers and men-at-arms. Gradually, though, his mood darkened, for no particular reason that Jhesrhi could discern. He glowered at one or another of the units arrayed before him, then abruptly jerked the reins to turn his steed and rode on to the next without a word. Exchanging surreptitious looks of concern, his deputies and Queen Arathane’s representatives rode along behind him.
Until eventually they all fetched up in front of the siege engineers and artillerymen, who stood before the long wagons bearing their towers and mangonels broken down for transport. A few men wore badges or amulets in the shape of scrolls to identify them as namers, priests of Oghma, god of knowledge and invention. Wizards newly added to that particular corps sported green tattooing on their hands; the old stigma had become a sign of royal favor. A couple of the arcanists smiled up at Jhesrhi, and she made herself smile back.
At the front of the group was an old, stooped earthsoul named Jarelamar, whose reputation was such that even the Chessentans, with their high opinion of their own martial prowess, had agreed to put him in charge of that particular company. Bowing low, he said, “We’re ready to travel, Your Majesty.”
Tchazzar grunted. “Are you? Then tell me how you’re going to crack open Djerad Thymar.”
The elderly genasi cocked his head. “Your Majesty?”
“Am I speaking Aragrakh? I need to get into the dragonborn’s fortress quickly. Ideally before the end of summer. Tell me how you intend to accomplish it.”
Jarel-amar hesitated. “Majesty, I certainly recommend investing Djerad Thymar and prosecuting a siege as diligently as we can. And who knows what opportunities we’ll discover? But at the same time, we should be realistic. The place is a citadel like no other. It’s more likely to fall to starvation than anything else.”
“I agree,” Magnol said. Akanul’s Steward of the Fire was a burly warrior with skin the color of brick. The lines running through it were duller than average, more copper than gold. Though of the highest quality, his arms and armor had a plain functionalism to them that reminded Jhesrhi of Aoth’s and Khouryn’s gear. “Surround the capital, lay waste to the rest of the kingdom, and eventually the dragonborn will have no choice but to surrender. But it’s likely to take a little time.”
“I don’t want their surrender!” Tchazzar snapped. “I want to exterminate them! Their crimes against our two peoples require nothing less! Or don’t the genasi agree?”
Magnol and Zan-akar Zeraez exchanged glances. Then the ambassador said, “Majesty, that would certainly be the… optimal outcome. But the queen hasn’t instructed us that we must inflict that ultimate degree of retribution. If we simply conquer the dragonborn, force them-”
“Shut up!” Tchazzar snarled. “The dragonborn have to die, now, by my hand, before another play-never mind! I’ll hang the next man who tells me it will take years or can’t be done at all!”
Magnol was courageous or maybe just didn’t understand how volatile Tchazzar truly was. Either way, he answered the war hero in a cool, matter-of-fact way that again reminded Jhesrhi of Aoth. “Majesty, my sovereign has placed my troops at your disposal, and you can count on our obedience. But I’ll need you to explain what we must do to achieve the outcome you envision with the resources at our disposal.” He waved his hand at the army drawn up on the field. A tiny ripple of flame ran along the top of his thumb. The pseudo-mind inside Jhesrhi’s staff nudged her to start a fire of their own.
Tchazzar followed the gesture and took another look at his assembled forces. From the sour cast of his expression, perhaps even he was finding himself forced to admit that his host, formidable as it was, was unlikely to reduce Djerad Thymar in a month, a season, or conceivably even a year.
Then, however, he laughed, wheeled his horse, and spurred the animal into a gallop. He raced away from the field as fast as his steed’s legs could carry him. His companions gaped after him in astonishment.
After a heartbeat or two, one of Tchazzar’s bodyguards remembered that he wasn’t supposed to let his master wander around unescorted. Spurring his own mount, he yelled, “Come on!” Whereupon everyone else, warriors and dignitaries alike, pounded after him.
Tchazzar led them all past the ongoing demolition that was clearing the site for the new temple and deeper into Luthcheq’s crazily twisting streets. It occurred to Jhesrhi that Gaedynn would have grinned to see all the overly dignified aristocrats struggling to keep up. He would have particularly enjoyed watching Halonya bouncing along, white-faced and pop-eyed, her miter fallen away and left in the dust.
But Jhesrhi couldn’t relish the prophetess’s discomfiture. She was too worried about where Tchazzar’s latest notion was taking them. And even Gaedynn would have stopped laughing when the living god rode right over an old woman who was too slow getting out of his way and hurtled onward without a second glance. A pear from the woman’s wicker grocery basket rolled into a muddy puddle.
Tchazzar halted in front of a gymnasium and bathhouse. What had led him to that particular establishment, as opposed to one of its many counterparts around the city, Jhesrhi had no idea. The monarch swung himself off his horse and, without bothering to tie the animal or secure it in any way, strode toward the main entrance.
By the time his entourage reined in their steeds, the war hero had disappeared inside the building. Somebody, the doorkeeper, perhaps, gave an involuntary squawk when the lord of all Chessenta unexpectedly barged in.
“What’s happening?” Hasos asked.
Jhesrhi replied with a shrug and a scowl. She liked the baron better than she used to, but at that moment, it felt unfair that she was the one expected to understand.
They all scurried after Tchazzar as soon as they could climb down from their saddles. They found him in a spacious, high-ceilinged room with straw mats on the floor. Apparently the athletes he’d interrupted had been tumbling or wrestling.
Those athletes were boys, none of whom looked older than eight or nine. Dressed in breechclouts, they were kneeling in front of their sovereign. So were their teacher and the various mothers and servants who’d brought them to the lesson.
“Rise!” Tchazzar boomed. He spun around and gave Jhesrhi and her companions a wide, white-toothed grin. “There you are! It’s about time! Here’s our weapon! Here’s the power that will burn Tymanther like a dry leaf in a bonfire!”
“Majesty, I don’t understand,” Jhesrhi said. She figured she had to. Everyone else looked too wary or bewildered.
“I’ve explained,” Tchazzar said, “that I draw power from the faith of my people. You must remember.”
Jhesrhi remembered his claiming he drew power from blood sacrifice. It had been his justification for the slaughter of the prisoners at Soolabax. But she knew better than to point out the discrepancy.
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Well, watch this.” He spun back around, grabbed a child by the forearms, and hoisted him into the air. The little boy gasped. His pulse beat visibly in the side of his neck.