smiled wryly. “Later some more truths struck home. It seems my father, his Glorious Majesty the high king of Ximerion, has set me up to fail. He has given me totally inadequate means to hold the Northern Marches and, what's more, he knew perfectly well what he was doing. Draw your own conclusions.”
Gorth looked at his friend with a worried expression.
“Why don't you ask him for reinforcements?” he said. “Explain to him in what state you found the defenses of the northern border.”
“As if he didn't know that already, Gorth,” Ehandar replied, shaking his head. “If I ask him for reinforcements, I as good as admit that I am incompetent. No, that's the last thing I want to do, go crying to daddy for help.”
“Can't you recruit extra troops locally? The cities must have militias. Commandeer them. You are the lord governor after all. Surely it is within your authority.”
“Maybe you're right,” mused Ehandar, “the Northern Marches consist of the province of Amiratha, the county of Mirkadesh and, in the south, the duchy of Landemere. I'll visit the most important cities of Amiratha, to begin with Dermolhea and Ghiasht. They are nearest the border and stand to lose the most. If I remember correctly there isn't a count of Mirkadesh anymore since four or five generations. The county is ruled by a council of elders, chosen from all villages. If I can organize them, they may be able to defend their stretch of the border. That's about twenty, thirty miles taken care of. The duchy of Landemere is another matter. They lie so far to the south that they feel not responsible for the defense of the frontier. The old duchess is stingy it seems, but I'll pressure the old broad to give me a contingent of soldiers.”
He smiled at Gorth.
“Yes, it could work.”
“And don't worry about Portonas or Tenaxos, we have everything under control, Ehandar. We'll keep you posted of their slightest move,” Gorth assured him with a broad, self-confident grin. “You'll see, the Devil's Crown will be yours eventually.”
“Is it that what I want?” Ehandar asked himself. “The Devil's Crown? Legend has it that the crown of Ximerion hails back to the first man who declared himself king. Zardok, the king of the devils, became so enraged at this impudence that he swore to exact vengeance. He forged a crown of pure gold and gave it to the first human king, who wore it proudly, thinking that the devil himself bowed to his majesty. But the longer he wore the crown, the more the poison that Zardok had imbued it with drove him mad. At first it made him overly confident in his own accomplishments, then haughty and arrogant with pride. Later it made him paranoid and suspicious of all those around him, still later mad with fear of losing it and at last ruthless and cruel in his efforts to keep it. At the same time it's magical beauty was such that everyone who saw it coveted it. And since that day no wearer of the crown has ever known a peaceful night. Is it really that what I want? But what else can I do? I am in a race that I must win or lose, because I am not allowed to quit. Unless I flee my homeland.”
The following day Gorth left to rejoin the Southern Army. Ehandar accompanied him a few miles. When he saw his friend disappear behind the hills, the feeling of abandonment returned, but this time he had a feasible plan and he was certain that he could drive his fears away by resolute action.
On the south-eastern side of Torantall, the capital of Zyntrea, there is a steep hill of solid rock, rising abruptly to a height of over three hundred feet. It is only accessible from one side. At the top, on a plateau of about four hundred by two hundred yards, stands the ancient temple of Astonema, the Goddess of Wisdom. Or so the common people believe. In reality it is the main temple of the Great Mother and the seat of her cult.
Three old women were slowly traversing the vast interior space. The oldest was known to the worshipers of
Gorth looked at his friend with a worried expression.
“Why don't you ask him for reinforcements?” he said. “Explain to him in what state you found the defenses of the northern border.”
“As if he didn't know that already, Gorth,” Ehandar replied, shaking his head. “If I ask him for reinforcements, I as good as admit that I am incompetent. No, that's the last thing I want to do, go crying to daddy for help.”
“Can't you recruit extra troops locally? The cities must have militias. Commandeer them. You are the lord governor after all. Surely it is within your authority.”
“Maybe you're right,” mused Ehandar, “the Northern Marches consist of the province of Amiratha, the county of Mirkadesh and, in the south, the duchy of Landemere. I'll visit the most important cities of Amiratha, to begin with Dermolhea and Ghiasht. They are nearest the border and stand to lose the most. If I remember correctly there isn't a count of Mirkadesh anymore since four or five generations. The county is ruled by a council of elders, chosen from all villages. If I can organize them, they may be able to defend their stretch of the border. That's about twenty, thirty miles taken care of. The duchy of Landemere is another matter. They lie so far to the south that they feel not responsible for the defense of the frontier. The old duchess is stingy it seems, but I'll pressure the old broad to give me a contingent of soldiers.”
He smiled at Gorth.
“Yes, it could work.”
“And don't worry about Portonas or Tenaxos, we have everything under control, Ehandar. We'll keep you posted of their slightest move,” Gorth assured him with a broad, self-confident grin. “You'll see, the Devil's Crown will be yours eventually.”
“Is it that what I want?” Ehandar asked himself. “The Devil's Crown? Legend has it that the crown of Ximerion hails back to the first man who declared himself king. Zardok, the king of the devils, became so enraged at this impudence that he swore to exact vengeance. He forged a crown of pure gold and gave it to the first human king, who wore it proudly, thinking that the devil himself bowed to his majesty. But the longer he wore the crown, the more the poison that Zardok had imbued it with drove him mad. At first it made him overly confident in his own accomplishments, then haughty and arrogant with pride. Later it made him paranoid and suspicious of all those around him, still later mad with fear of losing it and at last ruthless and cruel in his efforts to keep it. At the same time it's magical beauty was such that everyone who saw it coveted it. And since that day no wearer of the crown has ever known a peaceful night. Is it really that what I want? But what else can I do? I am in a race that I must win or lose, because I am not allowed to quit. Unless I flee my homeland.”
The following day Gorth left to rejoin the Southern Army. Ehandar accompanied him a few miles. When he saw his friend disappear behind the hills, the feeling of abandonment returned, but this time he had a feasible plan and he was certain that he could drive his fears away by resolute action.
On the south-eastern side of Torantall, the capital of Zyntrea, there is a steep hill of solid rock, rising abruptly to a height of over three hundred feet. It is only accessible from one side. At the top, on a plateau of about four hundred by two hundred yards, stands the ancient temple of Astonema, the Goddess of Wisdom. Or so the common people believe. In reality it is the main temple of the Great Mother and the seat of her cult.
Three old women were slowly traversing the vast interior space. The oldest was known to the worshipers of
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