Chapter 310 - Chaos of Seeds

Sylvester Aurum stood at the top of his namesake tower, fist still clenching the note. He’d read the note. He’d read the note over and over again, doubting every word—and yet, it needled at him.

There was Saint Jherica’s revolutionary orichalcum-integrated glyphwork. There was Prophet Liuan’s amazing advances in soulforged myrvite fuel. He and Tyrcast had reviewed the schematics themselves before they went into mass production, and had toasted to a new day of Akanan ascendance.

And yet, he’d gotten a note—this damn note, and the equations on it kept running through his head like a knife tracing flesh.

Liuan had told him he’d been spared the false prophet’s assassination spree because she’d protected him. The false prophet’s note had found him, though. He’d been ready to laugh as he burned it, but it was written using his own logical frameworks he favored, and it was like she’d foreseen every argument he was going to make and countered it just before he could begin to formulate it.

Which, he supposed, if she was telling the truth, she had.

The math in it was simple. It used survey data of myrvite populations in the wilderness, approximations of Akana’s energy needs per year, approximations of Labyrinth myrvite replenishment, and approximations of the precursor myrvite parts needed to make key nitromyruenides required for a wide variety of important glyphs.

It ended with:

The brightest minds of all the universities and academies have worked on this problem for a hundred years. They have not found a solution, nor will they. If Akana continues to build its towers on such a crumbling foundation, what legacy will you leave?

I don’t particularly like you; pride is your sin, and too often you use your intelligence to make excuses for yourself. But of all the industrialists, you were one of the few who could finally understand. We worked together on this letter.

Liuan believes the Akanan system will survive because it can last a full year within the cycle. Pride is her sin too.

He glanced at the note again, pacing back and forth, when one of his secretaries made his way up the stairs.

“Sir, the report from Ferrabridge has just come in. You said to—”

“Leave it on the desk,” he snapped. He didn’t mean for the anger to come out, but it did. It wasn’t like him to lose control of his emotions.

The secretary scurried off and Aurum moved over to snatch it up and skim through it. Unrest in four factories now. Before he’d gotten the letter, he would have ordered the workers responsible found and fired and his papers to ignite some more patriotic fervor. But he’d also received similar reports of his factories in Mercanton and Arborholm having issues. It was a sign of Akana’s economy buckling under pressure. Inflation was already a problem, and the military requisition of so much material was spreading problems around like a stone mole infestation. Spellcarts that broke down couldn’t get replacement parts. Fossilized myrvite storehouses were empty of everything except dust. Even the price of food had skyrocketed as tons and tons of the stuff had been shipped across the Rift Sea to Urubandar. On top of that, there was a currency shortage; so much silver wire had gone into the ships and spellcarts for the war effort that people were back to cutting up gold coins like it was the god damned Colony Wars again!

He paused by the window, looking out. There wasn’t a good solution. He could fire the workers and hire a few mercs as guards around the factory to maintain discipline, but that wasn’t going to solve the shortages. He could raise the prices he was paying the myrvite hunters to try and get more of that new soulforged myrvite fuel in faster, but that would just raise the depletion rate. With the required myrvites being farther and farther out, there’d be a slowly decreasing return on energy which would put even more pressure on a larger supply, also hastening the depletion rate.

There’s an opportunity here. A way to shift my holdings. He glanced at the note. He was skeptical of nagual and druidism, and he didn’t see how it was possible to do anything with the information. Akana was at war with Tlaxhuaco, no matter what the papers were printing, and the Church had extinguished druidism centuries ago. And if he shifted at the wrong time, the other industrialists were going to eat him alive. The profit margins were a lot thinner than most people realized. Normally, his reputation could get him loans he could chain together and he could operate at a loss in order to do the research and production buildup he needed, but now there was the currency crisis and the shortages and there was no way he could eat losses for however many years it would take.

He started pacing again.

He couldn’t even rely on his staunchest friends, relationships he’d cultivated for years. They’d all died on the 1st of Solem. Just dead. He still woke up in a cold sweat at night thinking about it.

Everything was far more precipitous than people seemed to realize. But the investors he could normally count on were busy celebrating from the short term profits from the war—not realizing what that was going to do to the rest of Akana. They never could see past the quarter.

Then a noise and a flash of light caught Aurum’s eye, and he went to the window again. The rumble and boom of artillery were muffled by the sound suppression wards that protected the building. Part of his mind was calculating just how much money the ordinance those guns were putting out cost. How are Baracueli airships even making it here? And how do they have numbers to raid here and Mercanton after the losses they’ve sustained?

He watched as streaks of fire darted down from—Where? I don’t see anything.

Three more spells blasted into gun emplacements, shaking the tower even through the ward scheme. Then he saw the figure floating above the bay, moving towards the city. Instantly, he knew who she was.

She seemed in no hurry, floating serenely above the city. His heart leapt in his chest as another barrage of fire splashed across the sky, sending out bursts of flame and crackling lightning. No mage could survive that. Not even one of my shield engines would, he thought, but then he caught sight of her moving at that same serene pace just a few hundred meters away. He hadn’t even seen her move!

She was saying something, he realized. Aurum hit a glyph switch. “Use the ward bypass. Get me sound amplification of what she’s saying,” he ordered. He clenched his teeth, waiting, while the minutes ticked by. The Prophet in the skies continued to drift over Vadriach, suddenly appearing in three different places as artillery continued to try and target her. Some sort of illusion? But an illusion can’t shield against everything. The divination arrays are designed to see past that.

Another shell went off, this one over an apartment building. He could see shattered windows. Aurum hit his glyph switch again. “And someone tell the fucking military that all they’re doing is damaging the city! If they so much as put a scratch on my tower…”

Though it was a bit late for that. He could see damage on several buildings he owned.

Finally one of his employed arcanists put the request through.

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The Prophet’s voice boomed across the city. “…crisis here will only intensify. Liuan would have you sacrifice everything for her own ambition. Her lies seek to ignite your worst fears. I offer a different path, one of prosperity and a better tomorrow. All you must do is simply work for your own future. Cease the manufacture of weapons. Create what you need for yourselves, Akana. The sweat of your hard labor belongs to you. Akana’s strength is not in conquest, but in building its future.”

Aurum’s palms were sweaty. He could see the light glittering off her armor. Streams of light were blooming out from near her shoulders, giving the appearance of radiant wings. Briefly, as her eyes swept out across the city, they met his. A chill went down his spine.

And he knew.

Then she was gone, levitating fast back across the ocean, leaving vortices in the rising smoke as she passed.

Sylvester Aurum let the note fall from his hand. He hit the glyph switch one more time.

“Call the board for an emergency meeting. Today.” There was no question in his mind which one of the two was the false prophet anymore.

And there was work to be done.

***

Mirian had wanted to push on Akana harder, perhaps even locate Jherica or Celen, but then she’d felt the subtle pulses of soul energy moving through her ring and known she needed to return. By the time she was halfway across the Rift Sea, she’d started seeing the flares going up along the coast of Baracuel; signals for her. Her sorties along the Akanan coast were done. That also meant there was no time to retrieve the chthonic needle west of Ferrabridge. She’d drawn out no ambushes, no Sorcerer Elite, no archmage companies. At least that confirmed where they were.

She had a rapid response force consisting of Luspire and several loyal Praetorians ready in Baracuel, just in case there was an infiltration unit or two she hadn’t detected. Mirian finalized her preparation of the defenses around Palendurio and went through the Mahatan Gate, bringing General Hanaran and her general staff with her. The pressure was now off Baracuel. They could shift to reinforcing the Setarab corridor.

The Akanan advance was impossible to miss. The four dreadnoughts loomed in the clear sky, visible for miles and miles. The wall of dust signaled the rest of the approach.

It was, she had to admit, an intimidating sight. However, she’d spent years contemplating how she might defend Mayat Shadr.

She met with her generals in the River Palace of Alatishad, an old Triarchy temple that had been damaged and restored at least four times in its long history. Fragments of the central dome were made of the original green, white and black stone. Tarnished copper decorated worn marble pillars. One could see from where the stone was less weathered where banners had hung for centuries, though with the recent change in government, those banners were missing now. Only one new banner had been sewn in time for the meeting. It showed a red Divir and white Luamin on a black sky and green pasture.

The meeting was in chambers that had a view of the river. The shore was swarming with people rapidly constructing fortifications, while draft animals dragged around decade-old artillery into positions. The newly formed Council of Rectors had sent a pair of representatives to join them. One of the new ministers from Mahatan also sat in their circle, while Rostal lounged on top of a table off in one of the corners. Several Zhighuan representatives, including General Nagasoma, Zhuan’s favorite general, also sat at the table. Hanaran eyed them all skeptically as she joined them.

The mood in the room was already dire.

“I judge victory to be impossible,” General Hanaran said bluntly. “Moreso if government officials with no military expertise and leaky offices are allowed to attend planning meetings.”

Mirian sat back in her chair with a relaxed posture. “Trust must be rebuilt between Baracuel and Alatishad. The general shape of our battle plan doesn’t rely on secrecy or surprise. It can’t, with all those airships having clear visibility of our positions. Operational security will still be maintained concerning the exact position and deployment of units and fortifications. However, it is Mahatan and Alatishad’s people who will be facing the Akanan advance, and their cities that are at risk. They must be here.”

“Eminently reasonable,” General Nagasoma said in accented Cuelsin.

Hanaran’s frown deepened. “Sacred One, I don’t mean to… question you.”

“Question me as you wish. A Prophet is not infallible.”

“No army in history has defeated an enemy that outnumbered them like this or had such advantages in military technology.”

Mirian conjured her soulbound spellbook and flipped through the pages. She glanced over her notes on the trials she and Zhuan had conducted, what she’d learned from Gabriel’s practice sabotage campaigns, a miniature map covered in annotations about the terrain. She had dedicated roughly three pages to what war would look like in this theater.

One of the rectors caught a glimpse of the pages. “Those are glyphs, but they’re not enchanted. What…?”

“It’s a shorthand I developed. When a glyph or rune conveys information more succinctly than a word, I use it. The language of the Elder Gods is quite useful at conveying certain concepts, and I have been fluent in it for some time.”

The room grew still.

She knew why. She knew what effect she had on people now. Sometimes, they could see past Equinox and the light of her eyes and see someone just as human as them—and then she would remind them how inhuman she’d become. To be a Prophet was to be an aberration of human experience. She had accepted this long ago. Here, at least, that would be to their benefit.

“The seeds of our defensive strategy have already been planted,” she began. The room listened with rapt attention.

***

The Tlaxhuacan spirit-rigger cut across the Obcassium Ocean, still heading northeast. Meztaca lounged back in his hammockvine chair, chewing on a stalk of spicegrass. His apprentice continued to clutch the railing nearby so hard his knuckles were white. A few others of their sparse crew were similarly watching from the foredecks.

Most of the nearby aft deck was covered by the tangle of interconnected plants. Not a particularly complicated spirit construct; most of the myrvites were incorporated to help the primary construct survive in the unrelenting sun of the open ocean and filter saltwater. The rear of the skiff was taken up with the spirit engine, a large mass of myrvite algae and connected plants. It was currently dormant. The sails were bundled up against the masts.

The boat was currently being pulled by thick ropes that were attached to a leviathan. Its huge spines cut a surprisingly small wake as they cut through the ocean.

“You can relax,” Meztaca told his apprentice for the third time.

This time, his apprentice responded. “Relax? Relax!? Nagual Meztaca, with all due respect…” He didn’t finish because the boat hit a wave at a nasty angle and he went back to clutching the railing.

“If it decides to eat us, it decides to eat us, you know? No sense worrying.” Meztaca had operated Tlaxhuacan cargo ship for many years. Some people liked to worry about being on the open ocean. For him, though, it was freeing. There were some things you could do, but there were things you couldn’t do. When you fate was in Xylatarvia’s hands, why fret?

The harsh sun beat down, and the bow of the ship creaked as it was dragged through the waves. At last, the leviathan pulling them slowed.

Meztaca rose from his chair, spitting out his well-chewed stalk. The wind quickly carried it away. “Detach the ropes! Get me a bearing. Going to have to use Luamin out here. And tell those scribes to get up here!” As the crew bustled about, a pair of scribes emerged from belowdecks, just in time to watch as the colossal leviathan’s tail vanished beneath the waves.

Terrifying, Meztaca thought with a grin. Then he brought his attention to the spirit construct. It was a classic myrvite lure, designed with a very specific bird in mind. He closed his eyes and communed with the construct. Soon enough, wisps of mana floated up into the air, joining the ocean spray rocking the hull.

It took a few hours for the first one to show up.

There was a flash of horizontal lightning in the sky, but abruptly, that lightning stopped just above the ship. A small zephyr falcon circled the boat several times, then dove down, landing gracefully on the central plant.

“Hey, good bird,” Meztaca said, sending soothing signals through his aura. His Elder reliquary focus didn’t do so well with animals, but he could manage a single domesticated bird in stupor. “Now let’s see what kind of orders you have.” He handed the letter off to one of the scholars.

The scholar read it, then frowned. “Assassination orders,” she said.

“Wow! That sounds bad. Okay, what should we replace it with?” Meztaca put a finger to his lips, thinking. “Ohh… how about… sending some patrols off the coast of Florin to deal with privateers? Or maybe reinforcing the north coast in preparation of a Baracueli counterattack? Let’s do that one, I like that one.”

The first scribe dutifully pulled out one of the pre-prepared messages from a satchel, while the other carefully moved the magical seal from the original order to the new one. It looked like hard glyph magic, but maybe it wasn’t. He knew about as much about glyphs as he knew about snow.

“Great. Off you go, little bird!” Meztaca told the zephyr falcon, and directed the spirit construct to cease producing the mana the falcon liked so much. Once he saw the lightning streaking west, he reactivated the lure. Then he lounged back in his chair again, taking another stalk of spicegrass to chew on.

It was a beautiful day, and they probably weren’t even going to be eaten. Who could ask for more than that?