Come the Conqueror - Bottlecaps | Nero

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Byron Ainmar was many things. A bringer of peace, a maker of war, a hero to some and a heretical tyrant to others. All people, friend or foe, admitted to the virtues of his determination. He was a king now, but he’d been a slave, a student, a heretical mercenary, and a revolutionary before. Now, he was a king and a conquerer. After leading a successful slave revolt in his home country, Byron had turned his attention to the east, bringing the grace of his rule east until he hit the ocean. Six kingdoms had fallen under his might, and countless tiny fiefdoms and duchies. Each one represented by a jewel in his crown, he was determined to continue forward until he’d wrapped the globe with his empire, circling back to where his capitol would be. He’d caught several kingdoms by surprise, and by the time the rest were ready for war his armies had too much momentum to be stopped.

Having done so much and so successfully, making such an amateurish blunder was rather humiliating. After his most recent conquest, Byron set out eastward across the sea from the icy plains of Rusalka, through uncharted waters in search of new lands to conquer. Rusalkan rumors told of an island nation to the east that he presumed would be his first target. Those under his command found a man who spoke the language of the island, and Byron had set off in search of new lands without taking the time to secure a second. Fate took this chance to punish him for his arrogance, and the ship that contained his translator never arrived on the shores of the island. Whether set upon by storm, pirates, or one of the terrible beasts that lurked deep beneath the waves, something had prevented it from ever making it to the beach, and now he needed to broker a deal with one of the native people to serve as his point of contact. To this end, he’d marched his armies to the nearest unoccupied position that looked even remotely defensible, and ordered his forces to begin construction of an obnoxiously large garrison, with the flag of his nascent empire. Deep blue with a black stripe lengthwise through the middle, the flag rippled in the wind in a manner that made it seem like the icon that split the central black stripe seem to wriggle and move. The icon was that of a flaming hand bound in chains, and it doubled as Byron’s personal coat of arms.

Byron knew that someone would come to topple his impromptu fort eventually. A local general or mercenary band, certainly. He ordered his men to hunt to their pleasure and make all the noise they cared to, provided they keep weapons nearby and started no violence with any locals they encountered. His soldiers called themselves Spellbinders, as he once had in his youth, and would not disobey him out of equal parts fear and loyalty. They were a small force, but an elite one, and made up for their small numbers through open practice of necromancy, animating skeletons en masse to pad their numbers with the unthinking and unfeeling dead, who could march at a full sprint for days and fight endlessly until they were rendered immobile.

Surrounded by the dead in an improvised fortress, Byron and his commanders waited patiently. If the soldiers hunting and partying in the woods did not arouse the attention of whatever powers that held dominion over this part of the island, then the army of the dead out cutting down trees and digging fortifications certainly would. Once the local authorities came to stop Byron and his Spellbinders, he would take his choice of their leaders to add to his circle of officers, as well as a number of talented translators from them, and continue with his conquest,

But for now, the red-eyed man waited with all the patience of a chain of mountains, immovable and set deeply into his path.

 

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“No, no. We’re not going to be here long, there’s no point in making use of those kinds of enchantments. I appreciate the forethought, but it won’t be necessary,” Byron replied. “Have the skeletons dig a trench along this way, then cover the trench with thin wooden planks and a layer of dirt. We need it to look like earth, but it doesn’t need to be strong. Strong enough to hold the weight of a man is preferred, but not necessary. It’ll foil an attack on horseback either way,” he said, drawing his finger along a map to indicate where he was referring to.

The man, one of Byron’s engineers, nodded and slipped away with a bow. “As you command, your grace,” he said, excusing himself as Byron settled into a seat at the head of his war table, pouring over what maps he had of the local area. Most of them had been made by Spellbinder scouts, and while he had faith in the skill of his men, he didn’t doubt for a moment that they would be far less efficient then the work of native cartographers. He gave a low sigh, kicking himself for his amateurish mistake in not preparing to be separated from such a vital piece in his operation. He’d sent a few of his veterans in two-man teams to search for a more immediate answer to his problem, when no local lord or regional war band had come to meet his gathered forces. He’d sent one team in three of the four directions, ignoring the one that would take them back into the sea.

Sandor and Lianna to the north, Van and Aria to the south, and the twins Kieran and Kyrie to the east. He wondered who, if any of them would return before the others. The Spellbinders weren’t a large army, perhaps only two or thee legions, but they were as elite a fighting force as any could find. Their small size allowed Byron to know a great many soldiers personally, which did wonders for morale. That said, their small size had disadvantages too. They were weaker on the defensive than he’d like them to be at present. Small numbers an and unfinished fort did not make for the most impenetrable of lines. Hopefully one of his scouts would return soon, and be able to take the offensive, were it wouldn’t matter.

For now, he was reliant on the tireless labor of the undead and the talent of his troops, trained in both spellcraft and swordplay. Every man and woman under Byron’s command knew at least enough magic to control a squad of skeletal knights, and most knew more. He’d teach his men practical, combat magic when he had free time, serving as an opportunity to brush up on his fundamentals while also equipping his forces with the necessary skills to bring light to darkened battlefields, move loose earth without need for shovels, or create sparks without need for flint and steel. Many would practice and hone their magical talents beyond the low basics that Byron would impart, becoming talented battlefield magicians even without the more academic understanding of magic that Byron and other wizards possessed. It was one such wizard who informed Byron about the two at the gate, sending a bird made of smoke to carry a hastily written message, relaying the situation outside to him.

Byron closed his eyes for a brief moment to focus his will on the skeleton labor-horde that dug his trenches and built his walls, determining what work could be safely paused and what was essential, and taking direct control of the legion of unessential skeletons, commanding them to take up formation with but a thought. They formed two lines on either side of the gate, marking down a path for the visitors to follow and forbidding them from wandering off.

He sent a note back to the wizard, who passed the message down to the man at the gate. The guardsman promptly read the letter aloud in a clear, authoritative tone. “Follow the road of the dead. His majesty finds you suspicious, but has deigned to extend the privilege of an audience to you. Should you stray from the road or cause any trouble, he will assume his suspicions confirmed and send you to join the ranks of those who now mark your path. If you are willing to join his cause, then you have no need to fear anything ever again, save perhaps an overabundance of food and good drink. Sow treachery or malice, however, and you will reap a punishment tenfold.”

The guard cleared his throat. “So, that’d be that then. Follow the path of skeletons, don’t cause any trouble or wander off without permission, or we’ll kill ya’ and use your bones as latrine-cleaners,” he said, jerking his thumb down the path to where Byron sat waiting.