Wartorn Obliteration

PRAULTH (2)

She waited for the summoning. She waited with much self-righteousness. Cultat had been so smugly pleased at the news of his nephew, at the possibility that his relative might have succeeded in his apparently wholly independent mission of assassinating General Weisel.

But Praulth had seen the latest intelligence. The Felk were moving once more, closing on the city-state of Trael—just as she had predicted some while ago.

The quarters she and Xink had been appointed were very comfortable, certainly by University standards. Praulth hadn't stirred from these rooms for the past day. In that time she'd barely spoken a word, despite Xink's efforts to engage her in activities. She was even disinterested in sex. She could not accept, on a fundamental level, the prospect that Weisel—and thereby, Dardas—had been defeated by a single assassin.

Now, however, the Felk were on the move, indicating that someone was leading the army. Praulth could only hope that it was still Dardas.

"Do you want anything from the shops?" Xink asked. "There are these sweet pastries I found I think you'd like—"

She turned cold eyes on him, and he ceased his prattling. Really, he could be such a blathering fool. Why hadn't she seen it before? That was obvious, of course. She, too, had been a fool. Naive. Virginal. Blind. Well, that time had passed and was gone forever. One lost one's virginity once. It remained to be seen if one could recapture any trace of innocence, ever. It occurred to Praulth in a distant corner of her brooding mind that this newfound cynicism wasn't a very enjoyable state. But enjoyment wasn't important, she reminded herself immediately. She had a real purpose in this world, and no indiscriminate assassination of her worthy nemesis was going to end that function.

She was going to defeat Dardas. Therefore, Dardas still had to be alive. If he wasn't...

It went around and around in her head, as it had since Premier Cultat had temporarily adjourned the conference. The many representatives of the various threatened southern states remained here in Petgrad. Praulth had waited, watch after watch, until finally the fresh war news had been relayed here by Cultat's Far Speak wizard spies. There was not enough intelligence yet to determine if Dardas was still guiding the Felk army, through the guise of General Weisel.

During the past day Praulth had had enough time to entertain every unpleasant probability. Dardas might be dead. Cultat may have decided to proceed without her aid as a military strategist. This Felk war might simply sputter into nothing; maybe the Felk had determined that they'd conquered enough new territory and had quit their campaign.

No and no and no. The Felk were heading for Trael. By now they might even be in sight of it. This war, whatever else, wasn't over. She was sure of that much.

She also knew, logically, that Cultat and his burgeoning alliance still desperately needed her help. All she had to do was wait for the summons.

She had been pacing a great deal. Now she put herself firmly into a chair, one that was patterned in a decorative design. Xink had gone off without further word to the shops that this district of Petgrad had to offer. Praulth continued her wait.

It ended a few moments later, with a sharp rap on the door. It startled her, as anything which arrives after being so long anticipated will do. Without rising she bid her visitor to enter.

Amidst her brooding she had also entertained the delicious fantasy that Premier Cultat himself would come calling, contritely, begging her forgiveness for any slight she may have incurred, beseeching her to take up her rightful place as the de facto leader of the alliance.

It was, of course, instead a messenger who entered the rooms. A girl, younger than Praulth, her brow damp with sweat and her undeveloped chest rising and falling.

"The premier... requests... your presence." Panting. She must have run full out.

Praulth stood, taking up her coat. There were other clothes here in the rooms, but she hadn't bothered changing out of the traveling garb she'd worn when they left Febretree. Perhaps she should dress in something a little more... urbane. Something to emphasize the importance of her status. As it was, she looked no better than Merse, the uncouth messenger who had fetched her from the University.

"Is it to that tower, then?" she asked. She wasn't looking forward to climbing those stairs again.

"No," the girl said, still catching her breath. "Somewhere... else. I'll show you."

"I'm not going to run with you, girl," Praulth warned darkly, as she followed the young messenger out the door. It was typical of Xink that he'd managed not to be here at just this precise time. The irritation she felt was becoming reflexive. Xink need do very little to annoy her lately, it seemed. She shrugged. Now wasn't the time to examine personal relationships.

They came out of the apartment compound, with its landscaped court and ornamental columns. It was another overcast morning. Petgrad's streets were alive with what seemed like routine commotion.

The messenger pointed. "It's just two streets that way."

"Two? Then why're you so out of breath, girl?"

"I've been informing all the delegates."

"A full meeting, then? Good. Next time, though, you'll inform me first. Understood?"

"Yes. But the premier wanted me to guide you there personally."

Praulth felt a thin smile brush her lips. Cultat still recognized her importance. "That's good, girl. Now lead the way."

Actually, as it became apparent during their short walk, the bustle in the streets was not routine. The intensity of movement, the volume of the voices, clued Praulth that something extraordinary had occurred. She hadn't noticed it earlier, sequestered in her rooms.

"What is your name?" she impulsively asked the messenger.

"Taff." She was leading Praulth toward an edifice of stone, great blocks of it, stacked precisely into a squared shape, the shades varying, creating a pattern that was pleasing to the eye.

"Tell me, Taff, what is going on out here?" Praulth indicated the milling ruckus.

"The refugees."

"Refugees?"

"Yes. They've been arriving for days. But now the numbers are growing quite high. Some people are worried about food supplies, about housing. There's talk about calling on the Noble Ministry to seal the borders."

The refugees could only be those fleeing ahead of the Felk. Word of the war had spread throughout the Isthmus by now. Panic had evidently taken hold; and with good cause, Praulth judged. Obviously those people worried about food and shelter that Taff spoke of were the Petgradites themselves. These prosperous people wouldn't want their city flooded with copperless rabble who would only be a drain on local resources.

The building that was their destination was fronted by a grand stairway that ran the full width of the structure's exterior. It was another architectural feat that seemed to have been committed for no reason other than impact, like this city's towers.

"We're meeting here?" Praulth asked, halting at the foot of the stone steps.

"Yes," said Taff. She was pleasingly obedient.

"I'll find my way in alone."

Praulth left the girl there and started up the stairs. It was much less of a climb than going up in that tower. Figures scurried to and fro on either side of her, but she kept up a measured pace. She meant to arrive with more decorum than last time, when Cultat had had to catch her from falling at the sight of that vertiginous view.

She entered a huge lobby, beneath an ornate arch. Inside, there were uniformed soldiers, armed. One stepped up to Praulth as she started across the finely surfaced floor. His uniform was spotless.

She didn't wait for him to speak. "I am Praulth of the University at Febretree."

The man saluted, and Praulth liked that. He indicated the way toward a large auditorium deeper inside the building. Praulth continued on at her studied pace, setting her features, letting her eyes settle into a more imperious cast. She had made an effort to alter her walk. Less of a scurry now; more a chopping stride that neither slowed nor sped for anyone. She was no student any longer. She didn't obey the dictates of masters and mistresses less astute than herself. Her fixed future as a permanent academician at the University had been spoiled by this war. But she was glad of it. Without this vast Felk aggression she would never have found herself. Without Dardas to pit herself against... what identity would she have?

So it was that she entered the auditorium in full confident stride. There she halted. It was a scene much different from the one she'd found at the top of that tower.

Upon the broad central dais tables had been gathered. These were overflowing with maps and intelligence reports of a kind with which Praulth was very familiar. Around these tables delegates—she guessed they were all delegates, anyway—moved about in a formalized chaos. However, there were many more representatives than previously. Forty now, at least. Some were in uniform, and those uniforms plainly belonged to disparate militaries.

Out in the space that surrounded the dais was a fantastic company of people. They wore cloaks and gowns that were at once glamorous and cabalistic. They carried themselves with a strange air, circulating only among themselves. They spoke little, watching the proceedings on the stage with an interested wariness. Each had a stick in hand, each stick elaborately carved or jeweled or trimmed with feathers.

Praulth moved down the aisle now, realizing her appearance here was making no impression whatsoever. On the dais the delegates spoke with great animation, but the tone wasn't argumentative this time. Praulth recognized what was happening as she approached. Plans of action were being made, finalized. Troop numbers were being committed. The war now was truly on. The Felk had an enemy. And it was this alliance.

Cultat suddenly mounted the dais from the far side. He was dressed in military regalia, in the red and gold that were the colors of Petgrad's standard. He called for quiet in a voice that didn't order, but that also would brook no defiance.

"Esteemed consuls," he said, coming to the fore of the dais, "as you can see, we are stronger now than we were even two watches ago. With every arrival of a fresh delegate, representing a land and a people—be it state or village—we gather against a common foe, one we all have reason to dread. I welcome also to this conference Thinker Praulth, learned war tactician from Febretree. It's my further privilege to receive here the Noble Ministry of Petgrad."

Cultat swept a hand over the cloaked and gowned apparitions. They murmured amongst themselves, remaining aloof. A few eyes fell on Praulth. She made certain her posture was stiff, expression firm.

No applause or cheers came at this pause in Cultat's speech. The atmosphere was absorbingly serious here in this auditorium. This, Praulth noted, was most definitely a moment of history. War against the Felk was going to be made official. Evidently when the Felk had decamped after several days of inactivity and moved toward Trael, it had convinced these delegates that the intruders from the north had no intention of giving up their plans for full conquest of the Isthmus.

The words that were spoken here today would be chronicled in history texts and read by fascinated scholars a hundredwinter from now. It was a staggering thought. Praulth knew a thousand episodes in history, momentous and pivotal moments; knew these occasions as if she had lived them herself. But she hadn't lived them, none of them. She had read of them and imagined herself there.

This was categorically different. Here she was a living witness. It was remarkable. Yet... it was insufficient. She had to be a participant. More, she wanted her name to be the first one thought of by those future scholars who studied this event.

"Our time is short," the premier went on, a rumbling inspiring voice, the voice of a great statesman and natural leader. Plainly, though, this wasn't some rehearsed bit of oratory. Cultat was simply saying what needed to be said to get this alliance under way. "We don't have the luxury of squabbling any longer. The city-state of Trael is about to be captured by the Felk. It may happen within the next watch. Trael has no adequate defenses. They also have no representative here. We have had reliable notice for some time now that Trael would next fall to the Felk. That knowledge, obviously, has done little good. But it could have served. Had we gathered sooner, set aside our petty differences quicker, perhaps we could now be safeguarding Trael from harm. And, not incidently, protecting the as yet unconquered southern half of this Isthmus. We still have the source of that knowledge. A reliable predictor of the Felk's military movements."

He gestured to Praulth, and she felt more eyes on her. This, she realized, was her moment to speak up. She could interject her own words here, something meaningful, something memorable. A poignant quote to be passed down through the ages. A maxim of her own devising, one that would perhaps seep gradually into common usage but still be attributed to her...

"Since this great conference is taking place here within the borders of Petgrad," Cultat continued, "I must ask the endorsement of the Noble Ministry." The subtle emphasis indicated the premier's displeasure with the formality. Nonetheless, he said without a hint of irony, "Lauded members of the Ministry of Petgrad, it is self-evident that the greatness of our state rests on your shoulders as well as mine, and that all of you serve the greatness of the Noble State of Petgrad with a humble devotion that cannot be measured by..."

It went on in that vein for a while. Praulth had let her opportunity go past, of course. She hadn't really believed she would interrupt the premier's speech, after all.

Eventually Cultat reached the end of the ceremonious petition. He was asking this oddly appareled Noble Ministry to officially commit Petgrad's military forces to the alliance. What followed was a curious ritual unto itself. The ministry milled and murmured more, circulating among themselves. They tapped their totem sticks together. Cultat's craggy features were somewhat strained as he watched. This was an effort of patience on his part. The other delegates watched the exhibition with expressions ranging from wonder to bafflement.

When the ceremony was done, the premier had the sanction he needed. He then proceeded to call for the formal declarations of all the delegates present.

Praulth watched it happen. She had a role here. Obviously. Hers was a crucial part. This league of free armies, both large and minute, was an impressive assembly. The numbers represented here might indeed be quite substantial, enough perhaps to stand against the Felk—if they were properly directed. That was her role.

But would she be remembered as ardently and vividly as, say, Premier Cultat?

History was occurring here. But that history hadn't yet been written. No documents chronicling the matter could yet have been assembled by eager war scholars. The page was blank.

Praulth, even as she meticulously noted the details of this scene, considered the great war memoirs that had been penned by commanders throughout the ages. Even the least of these, even the most fragmentary and crude journals, were fairly revered by academicians who made warfare's history their study. Imagine, then, a chronicle written by one with insight not only into military strategies, but insight into a war's proper historical context.

Imagine a person writing such a history of this war. A memoir authored by someone aware of each moment's overall significance. This was a war like no other. It deserved to be chronicled as a war never had been before.

"We are now comrades," Cultat pronounced when the formalities were through, "united in purpose as in action. We are now truly... the Alliance."

At last it did bring forth cheers. They were words to remember. Praulth duly noted them.

Later, after the Noble Ministry withdrew from the auditorium, she came up onto the dais and once more explained her plan to recreate the Battle of Torran Flats. It was foregone that Trael was lost. But the Felk army would encamp while the occupation of the city was seen to. If this Alliance could muster its collective forces quickly enough, Praulth's plan could go into effect on the southward prairies outside Trael. Someone mentioned that these were called the Pegwithe Plains.

Of course, Dardas still had to be in command of that army for the scheme to succeed.

The conference lasted into the evening, but before the day's light had even started to wane, wine and spirits appeared and it became a celebration that grew in volume and jubilation. Praulth didn't join in with the gaiety. Instead, she observed.

She pulled Xink's face tighter against herself, seizing a handful of his long dark hair. Her disinterest in sex had vanished. She put back her head and ground her pelvis at him, thrilling to the warmth of his mouth, the spry movements of his tongue. He, of course, had introduced her to this act, as he had every other sexual deed. She particularly enjoyed this one, even though it left her feeling somewhat guilty—or used to. Before, she had always been concerned that Xink was receiving no stimulation himself while performing so. Now, she took her pleasures shamelessly and didn't waste time worrying about Xink.

Who, after all, was more important—herself or him?

The pleasure was building steadily. He really was quite talented. Groans turned to growls in her throat as he panted and labored between her spread thighs. She was sitting on the foot of their bed. He was kneeling before her.

"Do that!" she heard herself suddenly cry. "Do that. Godsdamnit, that's good! Lick me, you... you... you insignificant fucker!"

And the pleasure flooded through her powerfully, intense enough to burn red shadows across her closed eyelids. When she'd finished, she put a foot to his shoulder, pushed him away, crawled up the bed, and fell into a deep satisfied sleep.