Chapter 144 - Tribune (Patreon)

Notes : Chapter 446 of The Fallen World has been written and added to the queue !

Started writing a Battletech fanfic. It won't be on patreon because, well, it's a fanfic, and even if it was in public posts I'm fairly sure the IP holders would still disapprove. But it'll be available early on the public channels of the discord (channels are set up for discussion already), then up on RR once I get some backlog.

Wrote a fair bit of it so far. Around 11k words or so, though it is separated into two parts I need to join up.

My reasons for writing it is mostly to let loose a little bit. Combat wise and social wise. The fanfic will follow a ROM operative from Comstar, who's tagging along as 'hired' security for a Canopian pleasure circus (the MC is Canopian herself as well). For anyone who knows what Canopus is, I'm fairly sure you can guess what I mean by 'letting loose social wise'.

Combat wise it's mostly that high tech combat is basically something that doesn't happen often in my stories, and when it does, usually at a small scale. Or, to be more precise, high tech vs high tech. And that's fine ! I love me some tech disparity, it's my favorite thing.

But from time to time, I want high tech mechs to obliterate the ever living shit out of each other with lasers and particle cannons. This fanfic will help me fulfill that. Also copious amounts of yuri, because it's a Canopian pleasure circus.

In IRL news, I convinced my dentist to get me a mouthguard and let me see a specialist, so hurray on that front ! Also my vision is doing a lot better more often, which is really good. It's nowhere near back to normal mind you, but I don't need to increase text magnification to 150% just to see what I'm typing.

Also, chapter 145 on sunday, then we're switching off to The Fallen World !

Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy the chapter !

Chapter 144

Starborn Mountains, Starfire Valley

Starfire Pass

"Hail, and welcome Tribune. I am centurion Jalks. In the name of-"

"Stop."

The centurion froze, as the Tribune leapt from the back of the Roc.

They had travelled across an entire continent in a time most would consider a record. They had done it by flying day and night, through storms and enemy deployments, using and abusing magic the entire way.

Undead or not, clinging to a resurrected monsters while nature unleashed its fury around you was not without its strain. To say nothing of having the thoroughly unwelcome surprise that the enemy's 'gunboats' had broken through the cordon trying to isolate the fortress in the middle of Lake Milas, the vast expanse of water that separated Exacor from the south of the continent, and that truth be told was more of an inland sea than any lake.

Fortunately, the Roc had proven equal to the task, and they had survived the bombardment from the ships, who had fired great projectiles of steel and fire. Shells. Made to explode in mid-air, to destroy flying targets.

It was, perhaps, fortunate that the rebels relied so heavily on their new technology. For had they furnished those vessels with proper warmages or arcane weapons, as any Imperial commander would have, the Tribune and their mount would have been sliced to ribbons by beams of energy and other vastly more accurate forms of long range attack.

As it was, their own defenses and wards had been sorely tested surviving the hail of explosions and shrapnel, and their patience for obsequiousness, protocol and arse kissing was at a complete and utter end.

The Tribune took off their gloves, staring at the pitiful assembly before them. The remnants of the troops here had tried their best to put up a good show, but it was pathetic. A handful of officers, who had held back to save their own skins, and what little forces remained to them.

Though, to give credit where it was due, rather more of those were left than the Tribune had believed. In fact some of them looked downright intact.

The Tribune froze, holding their gloves.

No. They could not have been this stupid.

"Centurion." They spoke. "Where are your necromancers?"

"At the center of the camp, sir."

They stared at her.

For several seconds it was all they could do.

Finally, they relaxed. The officers relaxed as well.

The Tribune's arm lashed out, and the centurion went flying. The Risen soldiers serving as the honor guard unsheathed their weapons, before stopping, conflicting imperatives in their minds.

The Tribune walked over to the fallen centurion, who was struggling in the dirt, still reeling from what had just happened. They extended their hand, and after a look of pure confusion, she took it.

They brought her back up.

"There is an enemy Dominion at the gates of your camp, alongside, by my approximate count, six maniples of cavalry. A Hand, with heavy artillery and Vestige weapons on the other side of the pass. These necromancers are our ace and our lifeblood. They will be on their way to safety by the time the sun sets or I will take your head. Am I understood?"

The centurion nodded. The Tribune took a deep, superfluous breath.

"Good." Excellent. A little show of impulsivity. Good to unsettle them, break their patterns, take control.

The Tribune was their superior, but that did not mean that career officers would accept orders wholesale, especially for one that had not served with them.

Besides which, volatility, or the appearance thereof, had its advantages. And it set the tone.

The Tribune turned towards the rest of the officers, and calmly pocketed their gloves.

"Recall all outlying forces. Reinforce the center of the pass. Do not bother holding ground on the outer perimeter. We will begin the real negotiations right now."

Some of the officers briefly looked like they wanted to protest. Then they looked at the centurion, and thought better of it.

Already, that little demonstration was paying dividend. They had to move fast. Very fast.

Sarcher would not be an easy nut to crack. And there was no telling how much damage the Hand would do with the Vestige.

There were things below those mountains the Empire had been afraid of at its height.

In the hands of those unknowing, the damage could be catastrophic. Everything depended on Opal getting the Vestige.

Everything.

*****

Sapphiria gazed at the pass, and the forces arrayed inside of it.

It probably looked impressive in person. At least to most people.

But she'd destroyed ten times as many foes in the last battle. And they had a bone tyrant to boot.

"Shall I prepare a minecart for immediate departure to the surface?" Asked Cia.

The AI's eyes narrowed as she gazed at the tactical disposition.

"...No." She said, finally. "We let the Hand do this alone."

"...Why?"

"This isn't an attack. It's posturing." She tapped the hologram, and one of the undead was highlighted. "That one. At the head. We haven't seen them before. Their equipment is different. And they don't wear the symbol of the Nineteenth." Her eyes narrowed further as she reviewed the scan data. "In fact, they aren't wearing any symbols. Except for this."

An image of the...man? The undead seemed male, at least, if that even meant anything to something that was raised from the dead. Then again, AIs usually adopted a gender as well, and it's not like they had biological functions either, unless you really wanted a bioandroid. Plus, if nothing else the Bane had been human once.

The new undead also seemed to be the same kind of lich the Hand was. Just without the skeletal appendage. They were entirely flesh at least.

The image focused on a medallion they were wearing. She remembered the undead observer who had met with the Hand had worn a similar, if less elaborate one.

It was a medallion holding an opal.

"Oh." Said the AI. She paused, then turned towards Cia. "Start a library search, on the documents we got from Teman. Search for any imperial factions called 'Opal'."

"Yes ma'am. Right away."

Sapphiria felt the simulacrum organizing the process at the back of her mind, as she turned back towards the hologram.

Thanks to her reading, perhaps she had just gotten her first step in the door of understanding the Bane.

Or, at the very least, making sense of their current conflict.

Now to hope those negotiations didn't go horribly wrong.

Or horribly right.

*****

The Hand didn't bring any troops. They didn't even rearrange those on the walls.

It was a statement all of its own.

Also...it camouflaged the fact that they couldn't order many of the troops on the wall.

Sarcher simply walked through the sea of stone spikes, and went to meet the delegation.

They slowed, as they saw the clothing of the one facing them. The lack of symbols was telling all on its own.

Not a Hand, not a Dominion. Not one of the myriad of military ranks of the vast legions of the Empire.

"Hail, Tribune." Said Sarcher.

The other undead didn't flinch. They simply nodded.

"Hail, Hand Sarcher."

So the guess was correct.

Tribunes were...strange. They were a consequence of the Empire's intertwined nature. Where the military and the civilian were always so close together, yet so far apart.

In most city states...though not the strange kingdoms and nations of these modern times, there was no difference. The military was the government. Whoever held the loyalty of the army held the city.

In the Empire it was not so. And thus, something was needed to bridge the gap. An office not military, yet not civilian. One who neither belonged to the vast legions, nor held featly to the bureaucracy.

In a way, they were so very much like Hands. But Hands were extension of their Dominions, of the Throne itself. Gifted with power, figuratively and literally both.

Tribunes were not meant to command armies, to change the fate of the Empire. All the same, they could do things no Hand would.

They were a necessary gear in the machinery of the Empire, an interface between the many moving parts that made it whole. They could be imbued with great authority, or very little.

"I am going to presume that your arrival either means we are about to remove this flag of truce we stand under...or that the real negotiations have finally started."

There was a pause.

"The latter." Said the Tribune.

Sarcher nodded.

"Then I trust your proposal will be serious, and not nearly as insulting as your predecessor's."

The Tribune's smile was mirthless.

"It depends on one's definition of insulting. Agylvan."

That border fortress again. Well, the Hand did say it was a workable basis for future negotiations.

"Not enough."

"Not enough for a small valley?"

The Hand gazed at the Tribune, then turned around, and walked away, past the strange vehicle that the abomination had fielded, and kept walking all the way to the jagged forest of rock that now protected the approaches to the wall.

They grabbed one of the skulls, still mounted on one of the many stone spikes, and returned under the flag of truce.

The Tribune did blink as the skull landed at their feet.

"...Point taken." Said the Tribune. Nothing had needed to be said.

The scale of the carnage all around them said everything that needed to be about this 'small valley'.

One did not send entire cohorts to their doom, or a bone tyrant, for a mere 'small valley'. One would, however, send such forces after one of the only functional ore mines on the continent, at least on the right side of the frontlines.

What they weren't aware of, was that the Hand had a pretty good idea of what Opal was actually after here.

When they realized that their prize was up and about, helping the rebels...

Well, better be somewhere else then. Or at least be departing towards that somewhere else as fast as possible.

"So. As for your next proposal?" Said the Hand.

There was a long pause.

"Faulmont." Finally said the Tribune.

The Hand froze.

Faulmont wasn't on Kauvis. It was on Merian, the Empire's home continent.

It was a fairly minor asset, all things told. Leveled, like everything else. First by the Crusaders, then during the reconquest.

It was being reconstructed of course. But it wasn't repopulated. Nor would be for a long time.

It was, however, near the territory Amethyst held. And had some strategic value.

More importantly, it was home territory. Not freshly conquered ground.

...This wasn't the kind of concession you made early on. Not unless you really wanted to speed things along.

Chances were, the Tribune knew that. And knew that Sarcher knew.

This was as close to an open signal that Opal wanted to get this over with ASAP as they were going to get.

It was an invitation. To not just review proposals, but make demands. Deliberately ceding the initiative.

"Recognized by the Imperatrix, and ratified in the City of Spires, I trust?"

The Tribune inclined their head.

"Of course."

It was technically what was supposed to happen for all of these kind of trades. All must pass before the eyes of the Throne.

Of course, in this day and age, few cared about the opinion of the abomination masquerading as Imperatrix, and many deals of territory and conquest were struck elsewhere.

Nonetheless, the Imperatrix had intervened here. And her signature on a deal...

It would guarantee Opal wouldn't be able to go back on it. The Imperatrix' power was limited, but she could not allow this to stand.

Which meant, of course, that they wouldn't be able to go back on whatever they ceded, so long as Opal respected the letter of its agreement, and at least most of its spirit.

...The legate wasn't going to like this. She was not going to like this at all.

Actually, it would be more accurate to say that she already didn't like it. They had convinced her in the end, of course. But now that it was going to move from theory to practice.

All the while, they were going to have the rebels at their backs, doing Throne knew what. Planning to stab them, and Opal, in the back simultaneously.

"There may be some merit to your proposal at last. I need to confer with...my Dominion." The words stuck in the Hand's throat.

"Of course. I look forward to hearing your response."

And with that the Tribune left.

The Hand watched them go, then turned around and left, unobtrusively sneaking a glance at the golems on the wall, and the tower beyond.

Wondering just how much the automata had seen. And how much their mistress would be able to deduce.

No one picked up the skull, still on the ground. It simply stared, now empty of anima and purpose. A silent witness to the start of a cataclysm few realized had come.