Michael Chatfield
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Four Horsemen Book 5 - Old Histories: Chapter 14
🕑 Added 2025-05-30 11:00:06 +0000 UTCBraden, the former foremaster of the Mardun traders, gripped onto the map table secured to the Righteous' deck. The ship rolling with the waves as the room was filled with shouting.
Well they know how to not fall over when the ship shifts at sea now. Though there were quite a few that were looking a bit green with the day's heat creeping up and the constant waves.
General Dalaric's meaty fist crashed against the war table, sending map markers scattering across its surface. The wooden deck beneath them creaked with the sea's motion.
"If Admiral Korrath's forces hadn't been spotted, my men would've secured the temple by now!" Dalaric's scarred face flushed red as he bellowed, spittle flying.
Admiral Korrath, thin as a whip with eyes like knife slits, snarled back. "A raid that none of us were informed about. I was following my orders!"
"As was I!" Dalaric bellowed.
Braden kept his face carefully blank, though disgust churned in his gut. These commanders weren't fighting for any noble cause - they were squabbling like dogs over a bone, each hoping to be first to pillage what remained of the Mardun wealth.
As long as they uphold their part of the bargain.
High Priestess Evelenne stepped forward, her gaunt face severe as she raised both hands for quiet. The candlelight cast deep shadows across her hollow cheeks.
"The gods have decreed that the Mardun souls must be put to rest. We cannot allow their undead ways to tempt others to escape the afterlife's righteous judgment."
Abbot Silvar nodded, his deep voice carrying across the cabin. "If we fail here, others will turn from the gods, seeking power in death instead of peace in the afterlife."
And the gold will stop flowing into your trading god's halls.
Peace? He knew better. The afterlife offered only endless draining by greedy gods or judgment based on cultivation level and place of death - not on the actual merit of one's deeds.
The flagship for the forces of Irdun was filled with generals and self-proposed admirals, given position out of a desire to make a name for themselves instead of any actual military ability. Their forces had paid for it and the Mardun had reaped a deadly toll.
Several made to open their mouths—voice their anger that they were not informed about the raid. That they were not able to send their champions into the fight.
It wasn't lost on Braden that Silvar and Evelenne had been able to get their champions onto the island.
High Admiral Ryker Vorn tapped his cane—a rod of polished silver with the symbol of the Ardani Navy, a navy that didn't exist five years ago—against the deck, the thumps momentarily silencing the chamber.
He was a grizzled man, his silver beard braided with rings of rank, his deep-set eyes weathered by years of naval campaigns.
"What is done is done!" Vorn barked, his gravelly voice commanding attention. "We have trapped the Mardun on Osola and we will put an end to them and be done with them."
Then—finally Braden could rescue his father from his prison in the bottom of the sea, tortured by the dark gods.
The Mardun held onto the foolish hope of raising his mother to godhood. His mother had been mortal, flawed, and alive. Even gods could be bargained with, those of the Mardun traders were the price of his father's freedom.
High Priest Harven step forward, his white robes rustling against the deck. The priest's thin fingers twisted around his holy symbol, a golden disc etched with waves and sunbursts.
"High Admiral Vorn," Harven's voice came out tight, strained with barely contained frustration. "The island has been blanketed in a ritual smoke. Our eyes—both mortal and divine—are blind to what's happening there. Our seers and scryers can no longer pierce it."
The gathered commanders shifted uneasily. Braden noted how their hands drifted to weapons, as if mere steel could cut through magical fog. The cabin's atmosphere grew thick with tension, broken only by the creaking of the ship's timbers.
Vorn's weathered face darkened, the silver rings in his beard shifted as his jaw clenched. His knuckles whitened around the grip of his cane, the polished silver catching the lamplight.
"The Mardun and their tricks," Vorn muttered darkly, slamming his cane against the deck. The sharp crack made several of the priests jump. "They're buying themselves time. It will not serve them this time."
A messenger burst through the cabin door, the young man's uniform darkened with sweat patches. His chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath in the stuffy room.
"High Admiral!" The messenger's voice cracked. "The Dawn Tide, Iron Star, and Vessel of Promise have all had to turn back, their barriers failed!"
Admiral Korrath's face turned an even deeper shade of red while General Dalaric's jaw worked silently. The priests huddled together, whispering frantically among themselves. Braden stopped his eyebrow from climbing, there was a note of worry and panic to the priest's voices.
"I will have order or you will depart!" Vorn growled, the chatter quieting. "Explain yourself. Why would their barriers fail? I was assured they could maintain the bombardment indefinitely."
"We don't know," the messenger stammered, shrinking under the collective glare of the room's occupants. "The barriers just... faltered. The priests on board couldn't keep them active."
They came from different nations but they were representing the god Akem. Braden's eyes moved to where the High Priest Calmar had screamed out his god's name in terror before he collapsed into convulsions.
"Find out what happened and don't come back until you do!" Vorn growled.
"Yes High Admiral!" the messenger stumbled over his own feet in his haste to escape Vorn's withering glare.
The cabin door slammed behind him, the sound echoing through the tense silence. Several of the gathered commanders shifted uncomfortably, their earlier bravado deflating in the face of this unexpected setback.
Vorn's weathered fingers drummed against his cane as he fixed his attention on another messenger, a young manwith close-cropped brown hair and the crisp uniform of the naval communications corps. Her spine straightened under his scrutiny.
"Send orders to the champions on the island. I want them to lay low and wait." Vorn's voice carried the weight of command. "No reckless advances, no unnecessary risks. We'll adjust our tactics and prepare for a coordinated assault later."
The messenger's boots clicked together as she snapped a sharp salute. She rushed from the cabin.
The sound of boots pounding against wood faded as the messenger raced to relay the orders. Around the war table, the assembled commanders exchanged uneasy glances, their earlier arguments forgotten in the face of this new crisis. The priests huddled closer together, their whispered conversation a constant undercurrent beneath the creak of timber and splash of waves.
Vorn straightened, his spine rigid as steel as he swept his gaze across the gathered commanders. The ambient chatter died, replaced by the creak of wooden boards and distant crash of waves against the hull. Even the most argumentative generals fell silent under his weathered stare.
"Today will be the last day a Mardun trader walks on this world or sails its seas. The gods demand it, and we act upon their will." His cane struck the deck with finality. "Signal to the fleet that we will advance and begin the first wave of landings."
Braden kept his expression carefully neutral as the cabin erupted into activity. Officers and messengers departed quickly. The war table's markers were hastily rearranged to show the new battle plan.
Across the fleet tens of thousands of men readied themselves for battle as signals and orders were relayed through the ships. They began their advance on Mardun, guns were loaded and ports opened.
