Weekly Drabble #198: Submission (Patreon)

This week's theme is 'joining resisted' from Pyro Hawk and 'joined forever' from EBB. With these themes, we travel back a bit to High General Domain Goodson, Under-Lieutenant Samuel Khempa and their mission to broker people between their name and that of the Unmade. When last we left them, they were at the doors to the throne room. Now, they step inside.

ETA: I'm so glad that instead of randomly running two words together, Patreon has decided to up that to three.

~

Submission:

The Court of the Ascended was a vast three-levelled hall, the upper levels thronged by onlookers. Samuel Khempa spotted what appeared to be officers of the Black Fleet amongst rows of men and women dressed in the garments of nations he recognized – those who’d already bowed to the Unmade. Upon the gallery’s main floor were those of apparently higher rank; generals, admirals and fleet commanders alongside attendants and what were, he supposed, the upper civilian echelons of their nation – such as it was. A notable number of them had slave marks of their own, wearing the symbols of their former status without shame. There was a simple, utilitarian – almost martial – cut and style to their clothes. Colours of blues, greys, whites and black dominated. The only bright hues came from the vassal nobles in the upper floors.

Banners, twice as tall as a man, hung from the high ceiling and walls. Some were simple in design, bearing the symbol of the Ascendancy and its military, some with oaths and vows written in a language that the under-lieutenant could not read, while others denoted victorious campaigns and battles, a few of which he thought he recognized.

Tall doric columns stretched from the floor to the vaulted, stained-glass ceiling. Khempa raised his eyes to the top of the ceiling, then blinked and looked away. The mosaic spread across the gallery’s roof depicted a swarm of great black snakes of grotesque visage swarming from the darkness through a field of slaughter; knights and soldiers crushed beneath them or torn in half by their jaws as civilians wailed and attempted to flee, but were swallowed and massacred alongside those who failed to protect them.

The young man’s jaw tightened. He’d known many nations of various methods of rule, but even the most authoritarian and ruthless empires refrained from picturing themselves as all-consuming monsters. Well,he told himself. At least these people are honest.

As the doors opened, the murmur and rush of conversation ebbed away, the crowds and courtiers turning to appraise the new arrivals, a softer and more restrained chirr rising as the representatives of the Grand Alliance of the Six Crescents entered. Lady Virago took the lead. Khempa saw each of the Ascended officers bow their heads in respect as she passed them by. No such gestures were made to the Alliance officers; in fact, Khempa saw expressions of mirth on the faces of the vassal nobles on the upper levels as they chuckled and whispered to one another. The Grand Alliance had stood by and done nothing when their nations had fallen to the Black Fleets. It probably gave them a great deal of pleasure to see its envoys suffering this humiliation.

The High General said nothing, but Khempa knew his superior had seen the same things he had. Almost as bad as the laughter and unheard comments of the vassals was what he saw in the expressions of the Ascendants watching them pass. Despite their poise and place here in this court, they were largely slaves and outworlder trash. In their faces, the Alliance men saw vindictive smiles, amused smirks or just as insulting, cold, stony expressions as if the Alliance’s envoys meant nothing to them at all.

Goodson ground his teeth at being judged by such lowly men and women, but he kept his opinions in check. He’d known he’d have to swallow his pride to entreat the Unmade’s lord for terms of surrender, but in the face of what had to be yet another deliberate insult, it was harder than he’d imagined. Still, he said nothing. Their footfalls echoed through the great hall, each step taking them towards the raised throne at the chamber’s end and the figure seated upon it. The Warlord. The supreme commander of the Black Fleets, the Voice of the Unmade and a thousand other titles, but only the first two were spoken by his people.

He reclined upon his throne, one hand resting against the side of his head in a show of weary expectation. The High General sized up his opposite. The Ascendant’s supreme commander looked young, but that meant next to nothing. In an age where cosmetic surgery and age-extending treatments were common – particularly amongst the wealthy and powerful– a man or woman could look whatever age they desired for most of their life. The man sitting before Goodson could be just as young as he appeared... or he could be very old indeed.

The Warlord was somewhat handsome, his features suggesting natural rather than genetically-modified or purchased looks. His hair, kept short,was a cinnamon brown. His left eye was a dark green. His right... The general couldn’t tell. Across the right side of his face, the Warlord wore a metal plate, sculpted to match the curves of his features, the dark metal engraved with the skull of a snake. There was an eye hole, but Goodson didn’t see more than the barest glint of light upon an iris through it. At the edges of the mask, there was a puckering of skin, hinting at a much less attractive visage beneath the concealing half-mask.

Domain wondered about that. Whatever injury or deformity the Warlord had suffered, it could have been easily rectified – so why the mask? Was this some kind of pomp and circumstance to add to the “Unmade’s” reputation? He suspected so. Why else would any man allow himself to remain disfigured? For all he knew, the mask and the hints of scar tissue might be nothing more than makeup and costuming.

The Allonis slave led the Alliance officers to the base of the raised platform. She knelt in front of it and the figure sitting upon its throne. “Warlord.” She breathed the name with respect and genuine reverence.

“Lady Virago,” the man spoke. He stood, gesturing for his general to rise. His voice was soft, with a roughness to it – either because of whatever had ruined the unseen half of his mouth, or as an affectation to suggest at such. He descended the platform, stopping next to the former slave, looking Goodson and Khempa up and down. “Thank you for you bringing our guests here. What do you think of our visitors?”

Helfer looked over her shoulder at the two Alliance officers. “Unimpressive,” she pronounced.

There was a titter of amusement from the upper galleries and the court, but it stilled quickly at the Warlord’s raised hand. He looked from Khempa to Goodson, locking eyes with the older man. “You’ll forgive my general’s bluntness,” he said in a tone of voice that sounded more like an order than an apology. “Lady Virago is very direct in her statements. I value that. I have little patience for dissembling and obfuscation.” He smiled. “I also value her tactical skill. To ensure there is no doubt, allow me to allay your concerns: yes. She personally oversaw the military campaign against your nation.”

“An ex-slave?” Goodson repeated, still not completely believing that a Guild-bred whore could do what she’d done.

“Such is the power of ascendance,” the Warlord replied cryptically. He looked to Virago again, his smile warming. “I was otherwise occupied and I felt that your Alliance needed... shall we say, a certain touch. Lady Virago was only too happy to provide it. And now you are here.” He paused slightly. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“Yes,” Goodson said. His cheeks burned with humiliation, but he swallowed back the bile and rage. His Caliph had given him a mission to fulfill. For all his faults, he was loyal to his nations and his liege. He would carry it out.“By the authority of the great Caliph of the Six Crescents, I have come to seek a negotiated settlement for the end of hostilities between our nations-”

“No,” the brown-haired young man interrupted. “That’s not why you’re here at all.” He turned his back on the men, putting a hand on Helfer’s shoulder. “A single pair of fleet officers to broker terms between nations? Such things are handled by delegations. Ambassadors, legates, attaches and functionaries by the score.”

“Then why are we here?” Goodson snapped.“Enlighten us, sir.”

Khempa remained quiet. He already suspected the answer to that, but he had never mentioned it. Nor had Goodson spoken of the Caliph’s orders to his subordinate. He had assumed that both of them had read between the lines of this directive and the High General did not want to discuss it. Samuel doubted that he would have wanted to, either.

The Unmade looked back at the Alliance flag officer, half a smile on his face. “The man most opposed to peace, the most outspoken officer in the Caliph’s military?” The smiled turned gentle... gentle and half-mocking. “You’re here to die.”

That caught Goodson by surprise. His mouth dropped open. Khempa felt a flicker of shock. He didn’t know. The High General was a clever man, but a prideful one, too. Sometimes that pride clouded his judgment. It had done so this time. He’d known the Caliph was reminding him of his place with this mission, but he had never dreamed that it was anything more than that.

“Yes,” the Warlord nodded, reading the shock and realization in his guest’s eyes. “A blood sacrifice to soothe the savage breast. Accompanied by a single junior officer of no renown or infamy with whom we’d have no quarrel and who would carry our terms back to your Caliph. That is why you’re here, general. You’re here for me to kill you. I suppose to exact some petty display of power or vengeance.” He snorted in contempt. “And that is why we are here.”

“I... don’t understand.”

“No. I don’t expect that you would. Your nation does not deserve to live. You conquer and enslave others, you trade in chattel and genetic slavery. Your own ruler throws away the lives of his subjects as if they mean nothing at all. Fortunately for you, I am not the great Caliph of the Grand Alliance of the Six Crescents. I reject your monarch’s offer. I want you to return to him. Tell him that now he must come before me. He will knee before this throne and offer your nation’s unconditional surrender to the Ascendancy.”

“He would never-”

“He will,” the Warlord said. “This is not a negotiation, High General. Negotiations ended the moment your ruler offered you up as if we were mere animals to be swayed by murder. What you are receiving now are terms. Your Caliph and nation submits, or I will remove Lady Virago’s gentle hand from around your throat and replace it with mine.” That smile turned merciless, seeming to sap all light and warmth from the room. “And let me assure you, Domain Goodson – that is not something you or your Caliph desire.”

“I...” Goodson took a breath to steady himself. “I understand.”

“Good. The day has been long, General, but the night is coming. Sooner than any of us realize.” The Warlord gestured in dismissal of his guests. “It was a pleasure to meet you. Don’t bother to give your Caliph my regards. I will deliver them to him myself – one way or another.” He returned to his throne, allowing the guards to escort his guests from the hall. Lady Virago remained behind, staying at her Warlord’s side.