“. . . . When our men are gathered in Olieati, we strike Valden. We will crush the rebellious dogs, divide their forces, and march unhindered on Liandrin. Of course it is not that simple. . . .”
Jaret stopped listening to the small man at the other side of the long table. Nabim an’ Pmalatir, Commander of the Western Peace, had been speaking for what seemed like hours, droning through every detail of his elaborate plan to invade Liandria. The idea was utter hogwash, and Jaret listened to just enough of it to be certain that he could properly denounce it when the commander’s time was through.
A glance at the hourglass in the center of the table showed that it would still be some time before that fortuitous event occurred, so Jaret turned to the agenda in front of him. He already knew what he would find there, but like a jilted lover, he kept returning in hopes that the unyielding list had finally changed its mind. And like that lover, he kept finding the same heartbreak. They were over halfway through the briefing, but he had grouped the imperial appointees at the end, and there was still time allotted for four of them after Commander Nabim. The thought made him groan in dismay.
The half-hour allotted to each commander was meant for updates on the status of their forces. Jaret wanted to know about the equipment, training, and morale of the various components of his army, but Commander Nabim had started what was sure to be an agonizing trend away from such useful information by choosing instead to present a plan that would surely result in all of their deaths. Undoubtedly, Nabim considered it the best way to conceal the fact that he had stolen his men’s equipment, failed to train them, and, as a result, lowered their morale considerably. Jaret sighed and reminded himself that it did not matter. He already knew enough about Commander Nabim’s men from the legionnaires posted throughout his forces. The frustrating thing was that he could do so little about it.
Nabim an’ Pmalatir had been the Commander of the Western Peace for over two years now. Over that time, he never ceased to amaze with the extent of his corruption and incompetence, but he had been appointed by the Emperor, so Jaret could do nothing about it. The regional command duties were not supposed to be open for imperial appointment – in other words, the Emperor was not supposed to know that they existed – but Nabim had told his cousin, the Emperor, that there had been an uprising in the West. It had created a storm that had nearly cost the supposed overseer of the region – a man who didn’t actually exist – his head. In the end, Nabim was appointed to command the Imperial Armies of the West, and Jaret had been forced to deal with him ever since. He assigned legionnaires to subordinate positions and funneled most of the money and supplies through them while giving Commander Nabim pointless administrative jobs to keep him busy.
The thought made Jaret’s temperature rise. How could a nation function like this? Realizing that he was about to explode, Jaret detached himself further from Commander Nabim’s elaboration and glanced out the high windows along the far wall of the room. A few high clouds still drifted through the purest blue of the summer sky carried by a slight breeze that shifted the air just enough to keep the furnace-like heat from becoming overpowering. The steady hum of carts on cobblestones, hawkers selling their wares, and jumbled conversations accompanied the breeze to remind him that he was surrounded by one of the largest cities in the world. He could jump out the window right now and, following an eighty foot fall, land in the sprawling Eastern Market. If not for the fall, the idea would be tempting.
The Imperial War Room was on the top floor of the Great Chamber, the huge administrative building that completely surrounded the Palace of the Dawn in the eastern most part of Sal Danar. The Great Chamber was the largest single building in the known world, standing like a massive wall around the palace, and this room was one of its largest. It had a high ceiling and tall glass windows that looked out over the city all the way past the Temple of Order and Hall of Understanding to the main wall in the distance. Around the room was sparse utilitarian furniture: a massive oak table dominated the center of the room, small desks for aides lined the walls, and a huge cabinet full of maps was at the back. The walls were decorated with still more maps that depicted the remainder of the once mighty San Chier Empire and its sparse military forces, but the map in front of Jaret was by far the most impressive. The entire surface of the ancient table at which he sat was delicately carved to show the precise topography of the continent and inlaid to depict even the smallest roads and streams. It was the most extraordinary map in the world and one of Jaret’s favorite tools.
Admiring that map, Jaret studied the area where the Olieati and Asmae Rivers met at Olieati. The track from there to Valden was rich farmland. Jaret knew from experience that it was a latticework of fences and fields with small, winding roads that were ill-suited for the movement of anything more than oxcarts. The only reasonable way to move an army from Olieati to Valden, as Commander Nabim was suggesting, was to go up the Asmae River, but it was overshadowed by a series of gorges that were ideal for ambushes.
Jaret shifted his view north. If he were going to attack Liandria, that is where he would start. He would mass his troops in the forests south of Souris where he might be able to maintain some semblance of surprise. From there, he would race down the old imperial highway into Liandria. He might even manage to capture Valden, though he would never hold it for more than a fortnight and would certainly not capture anything else before the much larger and better equipped Liandrin army sent him running. That, of course, was why he had no intention of invading Liandria. Still, he wished that if Commander Nabim was going to suggest such idiocy that it at least be well-constructed idiocy.
With that thought, Jaret realized that Nabim’s time was, thankfully, complete. The commander was just summarizing his ineptitude as the final grains ran from the glass. Jaret allowed him to complete his rant about the power and glory of the Empire only because it would be mildly traitorous to disrupt such a sentiment, and he didn’t need any more political liabilities.
“I am sorry, Commander Rammeriz, that I have gone over my allotted time, but I am certain you found it to be worthwhile.” Nabim concluded with a sweeping bow. His robes ruffled loudly at the excess of motion, and he spent several minutes adjusting them so that he could sit. The over-puffed fool was wearing layer after layer of extravagant silk even on this hot day and was not aided by fingers that were encrusted in gold and gems so that he could hardly move them. Finally, several servants, who had been taking up space at the back of the room with no purpose that Jaret could ascertain, scurried over and helped their master find his seat.
The spectacle was so disgusting that Jaret did not know whether to laugh at or strike the ridiculous little man. Undoubtedly, many of the extravagances that so burdened Commander Nabim had been purchased with the money that was supposed to buy food and equipment for the men under his command. The very thought of it made Jaret ill, and from the look on Nabim’s face, he did a poor job of hiding his contempt.
The puffed up little noble returned to his seat with his great beak of a nose held as high as he could manage and his layers of silk ruffling in a chorus of self-approval. He scanned the room from his seat, accepting the silent congratulations of his fellow appointees. They all looked much like Commander Nabim – though none was as outrageously ostentatious – and they were the only ones congratulating him.
Jaret scanned his own friends and advisors. Unlike Nabim’s cronies, his men were dressed in simple military uniforms consisting of black pants, light-grey shirts with banded collars, and dark-grey jackets that buttoned almost to the collar. The breast of each jacket was embroidered with a golden rising sun beneath which bars were arrayed to show the owner’s rank as either a commander or sub-commander. Those jackets were unbearably hot on a day such as this and almost all the men had unbuttoned or removed them to show the sweaty cotton shirts that hid beneath. All of those men had weathered faces and cold eyes. None of them was smiling – though some were close to la
ughing.
With one more look around the table, Jaret rose to his feet and shook his head in contemplation. He decided to be gentle with Nabim, mostly because he did not feel like expending the energy on this hot day that would be required to rebuff him properly. “As much as I believe in ‘reclaiming the glory and honor of the Empire’ and 'crushing the rebellious dogs' who ‘dare to bow to some master other than the Most Blessed Lord of the Morning Sun and Protector of the Holy Order Kristor az’ Pmalatir,’" Jaret used the Emperor’s full title with surprisingly little contempt. "I do not think that now is the appropriate time to move on this plan. I think that we would be better served by concentrating on the numerous problems here at home before we create new ones with our neighbors. Perhaps we can reconsider this suggestion at some other, more appropriate time." Hopefully never, he thought as he looked down at his agenda ready to proceed to the next fool in line.
"That is the splendor of this plan, Warlord Rammeriz,” Commander Nabim said as if Jaret were not capable of seeing the full depth of his genius. “Once the people see that we are restoring the glory of the Empire, they will rally to us. The troubles that now plague us will dissolve. The Empire will be united, the people will cease their fool riots, and law will be returned to the fallen lands."
A groan escaped Jaret. He scanned the table. Nabim’s followers were nearly frothing at the mouth. He would have to crush this plan before the others got it stuck in their heads and decide to do something without his approval. Preparing his response, Jaret sauntered to the side of the table that depicted the border with Liandria. When he reached his destination, he turned on Nabim with fire in his eyes. His long sword slid from its scabbard and slapped onto the table in one smooth motion that left the blade at the throat of the Commander of the Imperial Guards – an imperial appointee. The man almost fainted when the blade flashed before him.
"Do you have any idea what is waiting for you on the other side of this line, Commander Nabim?" Jaret ran his blade along the border between Liandria and the Empire but did not wait for an answer. "There are forty thousand Liandrin soldiers along that border according to my sources and another sixty thousand behind those. Now, despite your years of military experience and tens of successful campaigns,” many of Jaret’s men did laugh this time – Commander Nabim had never seen a battle in his life – “I don’t think that your ten thousand are going to defeat that force.”
Jaret walked over to another section of the map and slapped his sword down near the throat of another imperial stooge. “There is also an entire nation of Morgs, in case you have forgotten, who have not seen a proper fight in almost twenty years. Now, I know that the Empire can’t afford to hire them, so unless you plan on opening your coffers, I think they too will be fighting for Liandria. And once they take the pass at Pada Por, we might as well cut our own heads off because with two hostile armies camped outside the gates of Sal Danar, it is going to be very hard to convince the Emperor that his power still reaches to the Clouded Range."
Despite the drumming Jaret had just given him, Nabim remained calm and confident as if he knew something that no one else could comprehend. He must not have read the scouting reports that Jaret had sent him. They were false reports designed to keep the man scared – Liandria did not have nearly that many men, having scaled back their military – but the reports were meant to be read nonetheless. Still, the fact that he was smiling through Jaret’s insults was alarming. The man was obviously a grander fool than Jaret had guessed possible. He pinned the commander with another piercing stare and concluded in his most sarcastic tone. "That being said, this is a free council, and I will accept a vote on this proposal. If my commanders believe it worthy, I will consider it. So . . . all who wish to invite Liandria to burn our cities, pillage our lands, and separate us from our heads, please raise your hands to be counted."
Jaret's hard eyes scanned the room inviting men to vote. Many of his generals put hands over their mouths to hold back laughter while Nabim’s followers lowered their heads in shame for having listened to the idea in the first place. No one, not even its originator, voted for the strategy, but the smile never left Nabim’s face.