Whitesteel Peaks - Chapter 5: The Council of Races

Before the council, Turim learns of shocking world events, and the fate of Grandmaster Strongthorn's plan is decided.

Armageddon TM and its characters and story are copyright Terry Tibke. All rights reserved. All music and effects are listed here.

Luke Alphonso [Voice Actor] - Voices Turim Gliderlance

Liam Taylor [Voice Actor]- Voices Grandmaster Strongthorn

Mary-Anne Stanek [Voice Actor] - Voices Malma Bronzeline

Ciaran Daly [Voice Actor] - Voices Ambassador Craith Cancoal

Sam Gabriel [Voice Actor] – Voices Ambassador Brill Flashcut

Ken Dillon [Voice Actor] – Voices Grandmaster Alke Winterstein

Jerron Bacat [Voice Actor] – Voices Emissary Dolgan Owlmooring

Su Ling Chan [Voice Actor] – Voices Captain Exa Dellridge

Vera Tan [Voice Actor] – Voices Emissary Dirdael Starmantle

Cade Watts [Voice Actor] – Voices Quaztar, Dark Knight Guard 1

Angela Tran [Voice Actor] – Voices Ambassador Ephiline Palmforth

Chris Bellinger [Voice Actor] – Voices Percin Storeward

Dio Kerr [Voice Actor] – Voices Dustorn Greyangle

Maia Harlap [Casting Director/Production Mgr]

Produced by: Terry Tibke, Jim Rysinski, Frank James Bailey, Aaron, cfasand, Cory Fulcher; and Kiyra, Torren, Sophany, Mike, and Tippy Tibke.

Transcript

Chapter 5 – The Council of Races

Turim forced his attention back to what Grandmaster Strongthorn had proposed. It was far more important than the Ambassador with the beret, and he was annoyed with himself for being distracted—even if it was unnerving.

The Council of Races gave everyone a voice, transcending boundaries beyond Cornerius. They made decisions on taxes and laws. They acted as judges for major issues. In defense and war, they even advised some of the local knight factions. Dustorn and Percin kept in touch with the Council. So did the Knights of the Saber, and of the Bobcat, and the Falcon. But that was as far as the Council's reach extended when it came to matters of defense. What Grandmaster Strongthorn was asking was something new. Something world-spanning and revolutionary.

Turim watched a man rise, dressed in armor. He hadn’t noticed him before—not specifically. But there were several armored knights around the lower step. “I should’ve spotted the feather though,” He privately grumbled to himself.

The knight wore a hat with a magnificent feather pluming from it like a fountain. Over the ornate plates, he bore a tabard with a device Turim recognized all too well.

Ambassador Bronzeline’s voice rose. “At his request, Grandmaster Alke Winterstein of Lordaris Tower, leader of the Knights of the Saber, is given the floor for questions.”

 “We’ve heard tale of, and read, some of your letters, Grandmaster Strongthorn,” Grandmaster Winterstein spoke in his lofty voice. “Though I have no full opposition to the plan, I do wonder how many factions to which you’ve made this plea?”

Turim saw Grandmaster Strongthorn’s left eye twitch, ever so slightly. The question was fair, but Daynard wasn’t happy. “Grandmaster Winterstein.” He turned towards him. “A pleasure to see you.” He gave a tilt of his head to signify a bow, and with something akin to a sneer, Grandmaster Winterstein returned it. “I have, in this past month, been able to send letters to each and every faction in all of Cornerius. Several more have been sent to lands across the seas.”

At this, a low din of amazement and reverence swept across the Council Hall. It persisted for several moments before hushing to hear what else Grandmaster Strongthorn had to say.

“Nearly all of these factions have pledged to do what they can to aid us in the defense of Daltaria. Save a handful.” He shot a look at Grandmaster Winterstein.

Turim shook his head. Of course he hadn’t. And defending Daltaria was their primary job.

“Council members,” said Grandmaster Winterstein, “Grandmaster Strongthorn has requested you act as a focal point for all the knight’s directions. But I’m afraid that’s a difficult position to support.”

“I would wholeheartedly agree,” came a voice from the Council. A man stood, his dark beard short and clean, and his fine jacket sporting a high collar. Turim guessed this was one of the Ambassadors of the humanfolk. But which one?

Again Ambassador Bronzeline’s blue hair bobbed as she moved to keep order, “Ambassador Cancoal? You have something to add?”

“I myself do not,” the bearded man replied. “But I request that Emissary Muryo Jadefox, under Ambassador Flashcut, give us news of the Red Division’s attack on Wurai. This is a matter of dire concern. Certainly of greater import than Grandmaster Strongthorn’s request at this moment.”

Certain disquiet rippled across the hall. Shock and horror took most of the council members and it was some time before the crowd had settled. Turim took in a breath.

The red-haired Ambassador Flashcut had, until that point, been staring intently at Turim. At this, he finally rose to his feet. “Ambassador Cancoal,” he said with a sharp eye. “In future councils please refrain from requesting my Emissaries be given the floor. They are not yours to command.”

“My apologies,” replied Ambassador Cancoal with a slight turn of the mouth. Then he sat, clearly happy with himself.

Ambassador Flashcut narrowed his gaze, leaning on a wooden cane. He gestured for one of his Emissaries  to rise—yet, as he sat, his green eyes blazed angry.

“Muryo Jadefox takes the floor,” called Ambassador Bronzeline.

A man with a thin mustache and long chin whiskers stood. “I believe the tragic events that Ambassador Cancoal is… cryptically referring to, are those that have taken place in my homelands of Wurai. I tell you this with great sorrow.” He smoothed his long and decorative robes with a gentle flick, and then continued with sadness on his brow. “Several weeks ago, during the time of Cornerius’ Battle of Black Dawn, there was an attack on the countries of Kasako and Lui-Binh.” He paused. Turim could tell Emissary Jadefox was trying to master his emotions before he went on. “No. Attack is too small a word. It was as mighty a strike as the Dragon Army has made. Like the one against the lands of Daropel many years ago. The countries were scoured. Then they were taken for the Dragon Army quick, and certain.”

With these words, the council hall rose in terrible noise again, fraught with the news. Turim even saw Grandmaster Strongthorn take in a breath of shock. Then a grim visage sat on him as the din died away.

“I was there, in Lui-Binh, when the battles began,” Emissary Jadefox went on, settling everyone. “I hardly escaped across the sea to Chunyi with my life. Even there I couldn’t rest. Within two days of my arrival, I was forced to leave,  returning home as word spread of the invasion there as well.  By now, I’d guess that all but the smallest islands of Wurai have fallen under the hand of Gewurmarch Redblade and the Red Division.”

Turim’s heart sank, filled with dread. He’d only imagined it happening to Cornerius. In some ways, he’d believed they would stop the Dragon Army before what happened to Daropel would ever happen again. But they hadn’t. The Wurians had lost their homelands.

“It was all a deception,” cried Ambassador Cancoal. “The Dragon Army used the Black Division’s attack as a diversion!”

Turim watched carefully as Grandmaster Strongthorn sighed. “No,” he said patiently. “The attacks seem to have been coordinated, true. If they’d succeeded, they would already be prepared to bridge the gap of conquest between Genova and Wurai. But that is not what happened. Their strategy was broken here in Genova. They were unable to overthrow Cornerius.” Grandmaster Strongthorn had apparently reasoned it through already. “Though it’s a tragic thing that Wurai has fallen, we must take heed of what could have been. If both of these assaults had been successful, they’d have encircled the entire world with a belt of lands all their own.”

“You have to see then, Grandmaster Strongthorn,” Grandmaster Winterstein stepped away and sat again. “Your plan of unification is nearly impossible. What with all lands having their own problems to tend to, I might even suggest it borders on… selfish.”

At this, Grandmaster Strongthorn seemed to seethe beneath his skin. But before he could give a response, Ambassador Flashcut spoke again.

“Grandmaster Strongthorn,” he said. “I lean towards the support of your plan myself. But before others might be swayed, we should take measure of the rest of the world. Make visible all the knowledge our Emissaries have gathered in recent weeks.” He glanced at Turim again. “I’d also like to hear from your Wing Commander, as details of the Battle of Black Dawn might lend us further aid in the decision.”

There was a general noise of agreement muttered throughout the hall, and Dustorn and Percin gave Turim paired nods of encouragement.

Turim took a breath. He was about to be called. He’d prepared for it, but it felt so sudden. Was he ready? He was still in shock at the Red Division's conquest.

Ambassador Bronzeline nodded. With the faintest of smiles, she turned to Turim. “Then let Wing Commander Gliderlance rise and take the floor.”

At that, Turim took a deep breath, then rose. He stepped forward to stand in the center of the hall, passing Grandmaster Strongthorn as the man returned to his seat. 'The God be with me now," he whispered.

Beneath the light, he squinted a moment to adjust. As clarity returned, he saw hundreds of eyes now staring back in a wide arc before him.

“Wing Commander Gliderlance.” Ambassador Bronzeline addressed him. “The Council of Races will ask questions first. Afterwards, you may say whatever else rides upon your thoughts.”

“Yes, ma’am,” stated Turim, swallowing hard. At that moment, the sound of his own voice seemed strangely foreign to him.

“I will ask the first question myself,” said Ambassador Bronzeline. “I am curious. You were the one who slew the Black Gewurmarch, were you not?”

“I am,” answered Turim. “But I must give all my thanks to The God for that.” It was true, though he didn’t think they’d guessed what he’d really meant.

“How was it he was slain?” Ambassador Bronzeline continued. “It’s told that Gewurmarch Rottbone was both a great warrior and, moreover, a mighty sorcerer.”

An elven Ambassador called out of the crowd: “Yet it’s said he’s the least strong of the three Gewurmarchs!”

Turim considered this a moment. “To me, you seem to seek a story both heroic and deed-filled. As to the details of the fight itself, I met Gewurmarch Rottbone standing dark in the central courtyard. We strove with both words and arms.”

There was a clear moment of improved attention in the audience. Ambassador Flashcut spoke. “Turim, please, tell us of all that was said between the two of you. Almost no one in association with us has spoken with any of the Grand Generals of the Dragon Army. Let alone with one of the Gewurmarchs themselves.”

Turim relayed what he recalled of the conversation as best he could. He told of his request that Gewurmarch Rottbone surrender, and of the Gewurmarch’s statement of a desire for peace.

“At the end, as the black Gewurmarch lay dying,” continued Turim, “he confirmed their purposes for the companies that came through Tusokan. The Dragon Army had planned to march their forces into Daltaria and take it for their own. He seemed to also have some personal hatred for you—the Council of Races, I mean.”

As Turim looked out at the crowd, his gaze met Ambassador Flaschut’s. The Ambassador’s stare was fixed on him, and at Turim’s last words, he thought he caught a flash of strange understanding in the Ambassador’s eyes. But the thought was quickly dashed away by the Council’s next question.

 “Commander, how was it that you were able to determine the Dragon Army would be marching through Tusokan?” asked Ambassador Cancoal. “There has also been mention of allies you’ve made there. Perhaps you can speak of them as well?”

Turim clenched his jaw at the first question to touch on one of his companions. He glanced toward Grandmaster Strongthorn a moment, then spoke. “The plot was uncovered when I was sent to Ys during my mandatory leave. A request that was made, I believe, by the Council itself.” Turim paused, awaiting some confirmation of the statement. When no answer was forthcoming, he continued. “Upon the island, I met with someone from Tusokan. We learned the dark elves had put forth a plan to draw out the defenders of Tusokan and set them defenseless.”

“So far so good,” thought Turim. “I haven’t had to mention Meineken.”

“With talk coming to the dark elves again,” said Ambassador Cancoal, slowly rising from his seat. “I believe it best we share news from Tarvú briefly. I request the floor be given to my Emissary, Dolgan Owlmooring.”

“Emissary Owlmooring is given the floor,” Ambassador Bronzeline said with a quick wave of her hand.

A man with brown hair and fine clothing stood. He was much younger than Ambassador Cancoal and Ambassador Flashcut. He might've been younger than Sand.

“As the Council knows, I hail from the lands of Thun, in the northwest of the continent of Tarvú,” Emissary Owlmooring began. “For the last several decades, there’ve been rumors and debate over the rise of an elven race we’ve come to call: dark elves, or thalui. At first, they were usually passed off as the more common surface-dwelling elves. But after a skirmish here, a sighting there, history has recorded them as something more.

“Roughly four decades ago, their presence on the surface was confirmed. In response, they began an all-out war against the Thunese and the surrounding lands for a time before the Wolfbrother Alliance drove them to quiet rest in the former Wetlands. I stand to report that in the last several years since, the dark elf activity has only redoubled. The dark elves have taken a firm hold in the north, in the area we Thunese now call the Darklands. I’m sad to say that it has grown to… something of an empire.”

‘More confirmation of the rumors Sand mentioned on Ys,’ thought Turim.

“We've learned that what we thought were small cities, are connected with those they’ve erected beneath the surface. They’ve also built ships, and now make raids all along the coast, as far as Brecone and even Ro’Undik. And as we’ve now heard, some of their houses—it seems—have allied themselves with the Dragon Army. Indeed, the dark elves have become a presence that can no longer be ignored by the rest of the world.”

“I will clarify that it is primarily House Steelbone who has been involved with the Dragon Army, by my accounts,” stated Ambassador Flashcut.

Turim remembered that only a few months ago, he considered the dark elves a myth. But now they were spreading like a plague of beetliths. He worried how easily Tarvú might also be taken over by the Dragon Army.

“Do we know what seems to be their purpose?” asked Ambassador Bronzeline with genuine curiosity. Around her, however, several other council members seemed to stir uncomfortably.

“No ma’am, not at this time,” replied Emissary Owlmooring. “We are well aware that they’ve fiercely battled against any elven forces sent against them. It's clear they hate their surface-dwelling counterparts. But beyond this, their true objective remains a mystery. Ehm. Perhaps the elven Ambassadors would like to hazard a guess?”

Far to the right, Turim saw an elf rise from her seat. Golden-haired, tall, fair and noble, she was immediately in command of the hall. Turim recalled from his studies that her name was Ephiline Palmforth, Ambassador of the northern elves of the world. “We’ve already spoken of what is known of the dark elves to the Council in the past.” The elf didn’t seem pleased to have the topic broached. "But for now, all that need be said is that the thalui clearly have a great hatred of all surface elves, and that they mean to destroy as many of us as they can. Even their origins remain shrouded, mysteried by a past long forgotten.” As she continued, the elf’s eyes clearly fell on Turim. “Perhaps you, Wing Commander Gliderlance, might have heard more in your dealings with the thalui?”

Turim slowly gave a brief glance about the room, wondering if any would state anything further, or perhaps contest what Ambassador Palmforth had said. There were none who did. "That's all they know? What about the contents of the scrolls? Something is off. Meineken knew more than that.' And Meineken didn’t lie.

Ambassador Flashcut seemed to eye the elven Ambassadors for a moment, but soon returned his gaze to Turim.

“I have heard nothing else of note beyond what’s been said here,” Turim answered, keeping his answer to what was asked. If they didn’t know about the scrolls, he wasn’t going to speak of it any further. But someone had to have hired the Black Talon clan. Someone here.

“I believe we’ve diverted away from Wing Commander Gliderlance’s tale enough,” said Ambassador Bronzeline, attempting to regain some control of the floor. “Turim, you were speaking of your mandatory leave before. Can you tell us of your return trip in more detail?”

Turim swallowed. He was still in debate with himself about how he would answer that question. He wouldn’t lie to them if he could help it. But how could he avoid mention of Sinfa and The Cloudracer?

“When I did seek help in Centerland, Ys capital, I encountered Dark Knights in open daylight, in the streets. They wanted me for questioning. But with the aid of some of the Ysians, I escaped across the Gerathian Ocean into Ruma‘Din.”

“So you chartered a ship?” asked Ambassador Cancoal, coming out of his silence again.

“Yes, in a fashion,” said Turim haltingly. It was an airship.

Ambassador Cancoal almost smiled. “Wing Commander Gliderlance, I should tell you that we’ve heard accounts of a flying ship or some such thing. Can you tell us more of this wonder?” His voice was honey mixed with venom.

Before Turim could answer, he caught Ambassador Flashcut’s stare boring into him once more. “What does he want with me?” he wondered. “Did I offend him in some way?” He almost thought he saw an imperceptible shake of Ambassador Flashcut’s head. “He doesn’t want me to answer,” thought Turim. “He knows something the rest of the council doesn’t.” But what was it?

Turim took a deep breath. He wanted to bend his head low, but he wouldn’t. He feared it would reveal his obfuscation. More about his friendship with Sinfa and his knowledge of the engine. But there was nothing else to do. They knew. He had to admit something. “Yes,” he said proudly then. “There was a flying ship. It’s how we arrived in time to still give warning—”

Ambassador Flashcut clapped his hands together. “Now that is a thing of magic most wondrous! Turim, can you tell us which great sorcerer crafted such a thing—a golem, if you will—of timber and nail?”

Turim gave pause. A thing of magic? He supposed such crafts could exist, though it would require a powerful skill in magic, indeed. But something about the way Ambassador Flashcut had said this made him think he should follow the course of thought. “I don’t pretend to understand how the ship was created, nor anything of magic. My apologies—I stray from my course again,” he said, trying to keep his words moving. “After I returned, we prepared for the coming assault. The rest has been told up to my confrontation with Gewurmarch Rottbone.”

He had made it through all he had to say. He took a breath, then began to consider the answers they owed him too. “There is one last detail I think should be mentioned with regard to the Gewurmarch’s death,” Turim began, hoping it would prove useful. “In the end, when the Gewurmarch lay dying, there seemed to be a sudden change in the Chromabacks around him. They appeared to suddenly halt, and come towards me for a moment. And not one or two of them—all of them.”

“Surely you exaggerate, Wing Commander Gliderlance,” said Ambassador Cancoal. “They can’t all have turned to come for you alone. That would be deeply peculiar.”

“Of course it was peculiar,” Turim thought to himself. He’d been wondering about that day for a long time. He hadn’t been able to come up with any explanation of his own. “Then you know no reason why that should happen?” he asked, frowning.

There was a murmur of discussion throughout the hall again. The occupants had apparently decided that he was telling the truth. As it continued, though, Turim realized that none of them had an answer.

At last, someone spoke.

“This is a curious thing. One that must be explored,” said Ambassador Palmforth, rising from silence. Then with a gentle turn of her hand, she signaled for another golden-haired elf to stand. “But perhaps it’s time that my Emissary deliver the message she was given by the Knights of the Griffon, in the lands of Maelinost to the north.”

“Ambassador Palmforth gives the floor to her Emissary, Dírdael, of the house of Starmantle,” announced Ambassador Bronzeline.

The elf cleared her throat, though it sounded more like the sound of quiet steam. “My thanks for allowing me to recount this message amongst such great and terrible matters as those spoken of today,” she said. “For the past several years, in the lands of Maelinost and those adjoining, there have been growing reports of disappearances. All accounts have pointed to capture by dragonites. Their various dens have been uncovered, yet Maelinost has found none of its missing people. This has been a mystery to the Maelinostians for some time.

“Many months back, Grandmaster Timberhawk of the Knights of the Griffon tried to uncover the truth of these disappearances. The scale had grown such that the matter could no longer be ignored. Now, after many lost ships, griffons, and dragons, the Knights believe they’ve found several concentration camps. They’re keeping folk of Maelinost and perhaps more. They are in the lands of Esokom, beyond the city of Icebrand. If this news was not dire enough, the Knights of the Griffon located—above the camps, the fortress of the White Gewurmarch.”

* * * * *

Captain Exa Dellridge was in a particularly hollow mood. She’d already been scolded and berated by General Wildmaster that morning for taking it too easy on a pair of fighting prisoners. She’d watched several scores of them die just moments earlier. Despite her best efforts, the death left its mark on her—albeit less so than when she’d had to deal it out herself.

Slow, traipsing steps took her along the main stretch, while she ran her mace along the fencing. Prison houses marked either side of the icy path like dark pox, while the fence’s height and forbidding spikes kept the prisoners yard-bound.

“Secure. And… secure,” she grumbled to herself. “What’s new.”

Past the length of fence, the prisoners were being corralled together. They were filthy and shivering, anxious to get their piece of bread and glass of hot water for the day’s meal.

“Why do we even feed them?” She wondered. Her superiors seemed intent on extracting all the labor they could from the prisoners, but Exa really didn’t see how it was worth the effort. “Waste of supplies,” she muttered under her breath.

As she passed the end of one building, she felt the frozen wind return in force. Her pale blue cloak whipped about her as the frozen wind bit at her few exposed parts. Beneath her white, horned helm, her face lay in darkness to the world–a reflection of her feelings at her endless duty to the White Dragon Army and its work camps. ‘Nasty, desolate place. Two more years of service, and I’m out of here.’

She patrolled alone for many more minutes and passed several more yards of prisoners, each as miserable as the last. She couldn’t pay them any mind now.  A caravan was coming across the Broken Tundra from Icebrand, and she had to go meet it.

The gates were marked on either side by watchtowers, manned by Dark Knights. Captain Dellridge could hear the croaking hisses of the ice raptors outside as she approached.

“Morning, Captain,” one of the Dark Knights called. “They’ve been waiting to deliver the new lot for about fifteen minutes or so. Do we let them pass?”

Exa looked up to the tower. “Who’s brought them?” Her shout came out hoarse. The wind in Esokom tended to drown out one’s words. Dellridge had learned that if she wanted anyone to hear her, she’d have to shout—always. Early in her posting, there had been a handful of… less-than-necessary deaths, she supposed, over misheard orders and panicked confusion.

The guard’s voice was raised too. “It’s Captain Quaztar. He has a train of—” the guard paused, looking out over the icy white walls again. “—of thirteen cages with him, sir. They’re all filled to the brim with elves, dwarves, sprites, and other jurgus. There’s some traitor men there as well.”

Jurgus. There at the camp, that was what they called the filth brought in. It was an ogre word—‘feebles’. There were enough ogres here beneath the White Fortress, it had caught on quick amongst the rest of the army.

“All right—let them in,” Captain Dellridge called back.

It would take an entire minute and either two teams of ice raptor riders or a pair of ogres to open the massive gates. The raptors were on duty today; as the gates groaned open, Dellridge stepped aside to let the train of prisoners pull through.

At the front of the line, atop one of the cages, rode the white dragonite, Captain Quaztar. His whip cracked above a team of four ice raptors. The creatures patrolled throughout the procession, and their presence alone seemed fearsome enough to cow all the jurgus to silence.

“That’s quite a haul this time, Quaztar.” Captain Dellridge crossed her arms.

“I expect this time the payment for them will be much handsomer than the last.” Quaztar’s croaking hiss of a voice was not at all suited to render into the common tongue. “I could barely cover all the costs of shipping overseas.” A strange chortling sound erupted from his throat, emphasizing his words at the end.

Captain Dellridge snorted derisively. “Your payment doesn’t change with the waxing and waning of the moon, Quaztar. It’s the same now as it has always been. And don’t think that you’re the only one supplying us with prisoners. There are plenty of Dark Knight ships with routes across the seas, and there are already ships coming in from Wurai.”

“Bah!” Quaztar growled. “You are scoundrels of the lowest order.”

“Watch your mouth, reptile,” Exa growled back. “You be happy you and your lot aren’t in here with the other jurgus.” She knew well that Quaztar could have easily pounced on her at any moment, sunk his teeth into her skull, and torn her head right off her shoulders. She took a deep breath in; beastly as he was, even Quaztar wasn’t fool enough to jeopardize his own business just to lash out at her. And yet—beastly as he indeed was—the danger was always there.

Sure enough, Quaztar only grumbled in his own tongue before cracking his whip at the pale flanks of his ice raptors. The train moved off, making its way towards the processing houses.

‘Chance taken. Head intact. Life… goes on.’

Captain Dellridge watched as the last cage passed through the gates. Briefly, her eyes met those of an Ysian man. His gaze was full of confusion as he took everything in—and a profound sense of despair.

Dellridge pushed any thoughts of pity aside.

As the mighty gates started to close behind them, Dellridge turned, her gaze following the cages. She drew herself up to her full height, clasping her hands behind her back.

“Welcome to the Whitesteel Peaks, filth!” She roared. “Life as you know it, is over!”

* * * * *

The council room erupted once more.

Turim stood beneath the light, but felt like he no longer belonged there. With the delivery of the news from Maelinost, not to mention the assault in Wurai, the time for questioning him was clearly over.

To Turim’s surprise, the first clear voice to speak next was Winterstein’s.“As I said, Grandmaster Strongthorn, there is much that goes on around the world. It is more than Genove who struggles with the Dragon Army. The Knights of the Saber’s duties lie here.”

Turim turned to see Daynard rise. He came to Turim’s side in the center of the hall, moving with purpose. “My good people,” the Grandmaster stated with authority. “That is the very reason I ask this Council for its coordination. We need to help one another. But first, please, we must allow Emissary Starmantle to continue.”

“Indeed. Thank you, Grandmaster.” Emissary Starmantle regained the attention of the room. “With the recent defeat of Gewurmarch Gorrick Rottbone, Grandmaster Timberhawk has requested the aid of the Knights of the Hawk in determining their appropriate course of action. In fact, the Knights of the Griffon specifically requested that Wing Commander Gliderlance travel to Ethilom Keep, to help plan for the rescue of the people of Maelinost. This would mark the first cooperation between the knightly factions under Grandmaster Strongthorn’s proposal.”

Turim glanced sidelong to Daynard. Then he caught the Grandmaster’s wink.

Daynard stepped forward. “You see, we now have a greater need than ever before. And with the Council of Races in place already, there is no better body of representatives to operate as the coordination point for the knights. We must strike out in full offense at the Dragon Army, now, together. We can no longer wait. We also have our first objectives: to rescue those imprisoned, and then, to make an offensive against the White Gewurmarch, Bombrah Frostwolf.”

The room remained silent for a few moments. Turim examined many faces. Those present seemed to take thought for what this cooperation might mean, and what—if any—possible argument might remain against it. Turim’s gaze fell on Ambassador Cancoal.

“You’ve made your points,” Craith conceded. “I believe that the Council must now take a final vote: to either take up the role of centralizing control of the knightly factions, or not.”

Bronzeline gestured to the doors. “All non-Council members are dismissed for an intermission.”

In a few moments, Turim, Dustorn, Percin, and Grandmaster Strongthorn had filed into the hall with several others.

Daynard turned to his advisors with a whirl. “Assuming this actually works, retrieve the remaining missives. Coordinate with the Emissaries for delivery on their return journeys.”

“Yes, sir,” the two stated with slight bows. They then strode swiftly outside.

Grandmaster Strongthorn gestured to a bench. Turim followed him.“What happened in there?” asked Turim. “You told me so little of what you seemed to already know.”

“I told you to listen for a reason, Turim,” Grandmaster Strongthorn smiled faintly. “Do you think I had time to disclose all of that before the council meeting? What difference would it have made if you knew?”

Turim thought a moment about that before responding. “I suppose you’re right. But you know me. I just don’t like being in the dark on details.” He knew he was being obstinate and returned a smile as well.

“Not everyone can know everything all the time,” said Grandmaster Strongthorn. “Besides, you now stand in the light, as you put it. You know everything I’ve been at work on for the past several months, which is still more than anyone else at Grendelock Keep. So, if that brings calm to your worry, be at ease.” 

“You did pull that all together quite well,” Turim acknowledged. He felt hopeful about the outcome.

“Thank you,” replied Grandmaster Strongthorn. “And you were able to keep from talking about most of your companions, as you feared you may have to. And to handle yourself like that before the Council of Races is no small feat.”

Turim nodded, placing his palms together across his knees. “True. Maybe now they can try to hide away and live their lives. Settle down, like Lala.”

Grandmaster Strongthorn’s face was stoic for a moment. His gaze held a deep empathy. “I’m sure the people of Wurai hoped for the same.”

Turim shifted, as if it would help him avoid the terrible thoughts. “I feel like the Council knows more of what happened than they let on. They nigh-on forced me to discuss Sinfa’s airship. And Ambassador Flashcut has been watching me since we arrived—even yesterday, on the street. It’s odd.”

“Hmm. Well, I agree, there is something more that Ambassador Flashcut knows.” Daynard nodded. “But I don’t know what.”

Before they could discuss things further, the doors were thrown to, and the occupants of the hall were beckoned in.

They soon settled in their seats, and when all had grown quiet once more, Ambassador Bronzeline called the hall to order. “The Council of Races has come to conclusion on the matter of acting as a focal point for knightly governance.” She appeared to steady herself. “I must first say that the decision was a difficult one. For several reasons stated by Grandmaster Winterstein of the Knights of the Saber, it will be dangerous to divert forces away from any one particular land. The Dragon Army has shown great aptitude for unpredictable behavior. This is exemplified by their attack on Wurai, and even in their foiled strike during the Battle of Black Dawn.

“Nevertheless, I delay no further in announcing that the Council of Races has agreed to enact Grandmaster Strongthorn’s proposal. Henceforth, the Council agrees to take on the mantle of coordination and advisement to the knightly factions of Caball. Here we will keep measurements of strength of force, and of the armies’ deployments across the world. We will also help direct communication through the various methods currently in use by the Emissaries and Ambassadors.”

There were several claps and mumbles of approval before Ambassador Bronzeline continued. “However, I wish to reiterate that this role is advisory, and advisory only. We will give no orders to any faction of knights. Force will not be used to ensure compliance. It may prove too dangerous to order a faction away from their homeland at any particular time. We will rely on the judgment of the Grandmasters and our collective understanding and trust in one another to ensure forces are gathered in appropriate areas at the appropriate times.”

“An acceptable concession.” Grandmaster Strongthorn gave a distinguished nod to several Council members.

“So be it then.” Ambassador Bronzeline looked out over the assembly. “From this moment forward, until a determination that it is no longer needed, Grandmaster Strongthorn’s amended proposal shall be made policy, and known as the Order of Unification. We thank you for your time, Grandmaster Strongthorn, Wing Commander Gliderlance, and all those in attendance. The Council adjourns.”

The sprite struck her podium with a mallet three times. The assembled crowd began to disperse, whispering with what Turim thought to be a mix of cautious optimism, and anxious uncertainty.

“You did it!” said Turim to Grandmaster Strongthorn in a hushed tone of excitement.

“We did it.” The old man smiled beneath his beard. “Do not forget that. I won’t.”

Afterward, the halls outside the council chamber were filled with individuals of all kinds. They poured out, some lingering, and others hurrying off other parts of Daltaria, and beyond.

As Turim proceeded alongside the Grandmaster, they saw Dustorn and Percin enter from outside.

“Sir?” asked Percin.

“Are we approved?” Dustorn followed.

“We are. Proceed, and work quickly,” replied the Grandmaster. “Ready yourselves when you’re finished. I expect to ride out later today.”

The pair of them moved off, beginning to socialize with many of the individuals on their way out the door.

Turim stood somewhat in shock at it all. “Sir, I have a great deal of new questions.”

“I’ll address the logistics of your journey soon. In fact, I’ve a few remaining things to finalize. If you’ll excuse me for a moment.” Grandmaster Strongthorn turned aside immediately and went to speak with Emissary Starmantle, who was in discussion with another emissary of the Southern Elves’ Ambassadors.

Turim nodded and folded his arms. He stood near the doorway, but each gust that leapt in as the door was opened began to gnaw at his bones.

“I believe it is time we talk,” someone said behind Turim. He turned slowly, recognizing the sound. “Ambassador Flashcut.” He did his best to conceal his surprise.

The ambassador lowered his eyebrows, again appearing to be glaring. Yet, now the Ambassador was closer, Turim realized the look was something more akin to a measuring gaze than a glare.

“Forgive me, it is good to meet you face to face, Ambassador,” said Turim, recovering himself—testing the waters. Behind Ambassador Flashcut stood three of his emissaries, Muryo Jadefox, and two others Turim hadn’t heard during the council.

“We can’t speak more than a few brief moments,” said Ambassador Flashcut quickly and quietly. He tapped a cane against the floor gently. “But you seem to know more than you let on about the airship. Why’d you hide that knowledge?”

Turim, holding his measure, returned: “Meaning no disrespect, Ambassador, but so do you.”

The tiny wrinkles around Ambassador Flashcut’s mouth deepened as he smiled. Turim briefly wondered how old he was. He guessed somewhere in his mid-sixties, but had no way to be sure.

“I think it’s safe to tell you that I know,” said Ambassador Flashcut seriously.

“Know what?” asked Turim, caught off guard by such an open statement.

“About the engine—or rather, of the engine. I first encountered such a thing in my youth. I can’t say any more just now, but you’re wise to do what you’ve done so far. The Council knows more than they let on too, but I counsel you to continue keeping this knowledge to yourself as best you can. The less you seem to know, the better. More importantly, the better your friends shall be.”

“But I have questions for you, Ambassador Flashcut,” said Turim, seeing the Ambassador was preparing to depart. Already the three emissaries were moving in various directions. One back into the council hall. One leaving the doors. The last gently pressed Ambassador Flashcut on the shoulder. “Is its creator safe? Why does that… contraption matter?”

“Please,” replied Ambassador Flashcut quietly, “you may call me, Brill. And unfortunately, there is no time now. I hope there is minimal cause for concern just yet at any rate, as Gewurmarch Redblade’s focus seems currently on Wurai.”

“I must depart Daltaria soon if I’m to make my ship to Tarvú, as that is my next destination. I have several suspicions I still need to confirm.”

“Ambassador Cancoal approaches,” said Emissary Jadefox quietly

“Turim, just know that you and I fight the same fight,” said Brill.

 And with that Ambassador Flashcut bid goodbye to Turim, quickening his uneven steps out the door and into the bright and chilling day, leaning on his cane.

Turim watched, his face set stone once more. Several others filed out the doors, including Ambassador Cancoal and some of his emissaries, who gave him a respectful nod as they left. Sure, he was conniving, but he didn’t seem as terrible as he’d suspected. Why had Ambassador Flashcut—Brill, avoided him though? ‘

‘They don’t trust each other,’ Turim mused. ‘That’s clear. What’s so important about this engine?’

“I’m ready now,” said Grandmaster Strongthorn as he approached.

“Yes, sir,” replied Turim with a quick salute.

‘Are you still set on time with the Paladins?’ asked Daynard as they made their way out onto the outer steps.

Turim hadn’t thought about it most of the day. “I have to. But now I feel like I cannot spend nearly as much time as I’d hoped. Every day I do… people die in captivity in the north.”

Grandmaster Strongthorn offered a comforting pat on his shoulder, their exchange wordless as they strode forward together, the weight of their duty heavy upon Turim’s mind.