The Royal Palace of Aerthos had become a tomb. The news of the annihilation of the Second and Third Legions, and the death of the legendary General Kaelen, had fallen upon the court like a shroud. The usual sounds of music, laughter, and political maneuvering were gone, replaced by terrified whispers and the hollow echo of the King's solitary, drunken rages.
King Theron IV was a broken man. The sergeant I had sent back had delivered his message with brutal accuracy, and the story had spread like wildfire. The King, the mighty Lion of Aerthos, had been declawed by his own bastard son. His authority was shattered. The northern lords, long resentful of his power, were beginning to stir. The merchant guilds were panicking at the loss of the western trade routes. The kingdom, which had seemed so unassailable, was rotting from the inside out.
The war council was a scene of panicked impotence. The generals had no answers. Another army? Who would lead it? Who would supply it? The Dragon's Tooth Pass was sealed, and the southern route was now known to be a death trap. The kingdom's military might was paralyzed.
Into this vacuum of power and ideas stepped a new player. Lord Vaelin, the King's Master of Whispers. Vaelin was a man who moved in the shadows of the court, a creature of poison, secrets, and quiet assassinations. He was thin, pale, and possessed a chillingly calm intelligence. While the generals and nobles had blustered, Vaelin had listened and planned.
He requested a private audience with the King. He found Theron alone in the war room, staring blankly at the great map, a half-empty flagon of wine in his hand.
"Your Majesty," Vaelin began, his voice a soft, soothing balm. "The generals have failed you. The hammer has failed. For a serpent, you do not need a hammer. You need a mongoose."
"What are you babbling about, Vaelin?" the King slurred, his eyes red-rimmed and unfocused.
"The bastard has built a nation," Vaelin explained patiently. "He has united the tribes. He has created an economy. A direct assault is no longer viable. But his new nation is a house of cards. It is built on the loyalty of disparate, savage peoples. Push one card, and the whole thing will collapse."
"And how do you propose to 'push'?" the King asked, a flicker of interest cutting through his drunken haze.
"We will not fight his army," Vaelin said, a thin, cruel smile touching his lips. "We will fight his idea. We will use the weapons he cannot defend against. We will use gold, lies, and fear."
He laid out his plan. A new, covert war. "We will send agents, not soldiers, into the wastes. Men disguised as merchants, as travelers. They will go to Grak of Ironpeak. They will offer him a better deal. Royal gold, royal titles, a place at the King's own court, if he will but turn his forges against his new master. Grak is a brute; his loyalty is to the highest bidder."
"They will go to the Ashen tribe," he continued. "They will spread rumors. They will tell them that the Lord of Oakhaven plans to settle their nomadic lands, to turn their ancestral plains into farmland. They will remind them that he is a city-dweller, an enemy to their way of life. They are proud; their fear of subjugation is greater than their loyalty to a man they have just met."
"And for the bastard himself," Vaelin's voice dropped to a whisper. "For him, a more personal touch. An assassin. Not a clumsy brute, but an artist. A poison in his wine. A blade in the night. He is the heart of this rebellion. Pluck out the heart, and the body will die."
King Theron stared at his Master of Whispers, the fog of his despair beginning to lift, replaced by the familiar, venomous fire of hatred. This was a war he understood. A war fought in the shadows, the kind of war his family had always excelled at.
"Do it," the King hissed, his voice filled with a newfound, terrible resolve. "Do it all. I do not care what it costs. I want my son's little empire to burn. I want him to die choking on its ashes. I want the desert to reclaim his name."
Vaelin bowed low, the smile never leaving his face. "As you command, Your Majesty."
He swept from the room, a ghost returning to his shadows. The great war of armies was over. A new, silent war, a war of spies and assassins, of gold and betrayal, was about to begin. The King's fury had not abated; it had merely changed its form. The lion was no longer roaring. It was learning to hunt like a snake.