Oathbreaker: The Knight's Tale (2 page)

The General’s Tale

I write this letter now to send to you, children of my friends, in hopes that I will be able to deliver it to you by pigeon or by hand. Perhaps they will have told you of my rise; I know that I have played the part of uncle to you, and have not spoken of my past. Perhaps you know this history already. If so, I ask your forgiveness. If not, I hope to educate you.

I write this morning from a small inn in one of the lower quarters of the city. I can hear the bells in the High Cathedral toll eight of the clock. I believe that this is the last chance I will have to write these notes, and I beg you to forgive their lack of flower. The words I put to paper here are based on my recollection, not set down with perfect accuracy. I am no scribe, and I may have missed words, intonations, or phrases that might have changed the meaning of the events I describe here. Forgive me my errors.

Forces have been set in motion, forces I can only struggle against. I cannot hope to control them, and I believe that they are already poised to sweep me under, to dash me against the rocks in the current they have created.

I cannot send a note to warn the king of my suspicions. After the conversation I had in the garden this morning, I think the conspirators watch and perhaps control any messages the king receives. I must find a way to put this message into the world, and perhaps a solution will come to me before I have finished writing. Still, I have written to three of my lieutenants: Ilocehr Hargrave, William “Wet” M'Cray, and Nansa Westkitt. I trust them implicitly and with my life, and with their help perhaps we can find a way together to work against the Empire’s enemies.

My window is open. The candles flicker in the slight breeze, which carries the scent of the ivy and flowers outside. I can hear thunder rumble distantly. It’s getting louder. The storm tonight will be a bad one, I think… but I digress. It is time to begin.

My full name is Tomas Glasyin. I am of the Lesser House Stoyan. Our matriarch swears fealty to House Westkitt, yet when I took my oath in the army, I became Houseless. I am a general in the Empire’s armies, and until recently, I was a high commander of the ground forces. Tomorrow, I might be dead.

They say that victory is sweet. I have never found it so. Though it is better than the alternative, far better, victory tastes like ashes to me.

I remember the last time I killed someone with my own hands. It was fifteen years ago, during the Utland Uprising, and the enemy had broken through our lines. I was confident of victory, but not so sure that I would live to see it. I had planned for the line breaking as a ruse, to draw in our foes to be crushed by our reserves, but the enemy fought with greater ferocity than I would have credited and turned the break closer than I anticipated. A fair number of my staff had let their combat skills slip, and because of that, I found myself face to face with an enemy for the first time in years.

My talents were true, and my muscles remembered their training. I bested the three who came against me before my troops rallied around me. I led the counter-charge myself when I discovered that Colonel William M’Cray, leader of the left flank, had been slain with his commanders. I held the flank until I could withdraw to oversee the greater battle. I dispatched perhaps five more of the enemy before the reserve pounded in and I could return to the command quarters. I remember the faces of each of the dead men. It is a facility I have, to remember names and faces, and I can summon up the dying agonies of the hundreds I have killed in my life.

As I said, I killed only eight that night, a far cry from the battles of my youth. I do not wish to take credit for the actions of my men, who fought bravely and well. I will claim credit for my quick action and for keeping morale, and because of that, I can claim credit for victory that day. That triumph led to the suppression of the Utland Uprising, and so I can call it the turning point in that conflict. For that, I can claim credit for holding the Empire together, since the other rebellious counties and provinces saw that we meant to hold our land no matter the cost, and their mutterings subsided. The king saw this as well, and he awarded me the Star of Ydris, an honor given to soldiers of exceptional bravery and valor. There have been only twenty-five stars awarded in the fifteen-hundred year history of the Empire, only twelve in the nearly six hundred Clasping Years since Terona’s last great acquisition, and I hold two of them.

I say all this to establish my credentials, not to boast. Despite my accomplishments, I take no joy in victory. I look on the fields of the dead and I cringe. I order the devastation of cities and towns and I weep inside at the destruction. Time and trouble have taught me to avoid war at all costs. As a younger man, I desired glory on the battlefield, but no longer. It is a last resort, and I curse the necessity of my profession. I have never told this to anyone. I am a private man, and I keep my agonies to myself. If it were not for my leadership, the senior general would be someone more reckless, less skillful, and the cost of war would be more than I could bear. I do the job I hate because there is no one who can do it better—no one who could do it at even twice the cost in lives. That is no choice at all. I serve the Empire and the king that I love.

I have led men in the Imperial armies for thirty-nine years in one capacity or another. I did not rise up through the ranks. I was born into a powerful family and was placed well when it became apparent that I had an aptitude for leadership. It is a common misconception among the troops that if they work hard enough, they can achieve the rank I hold. This is untrue. The command of the armies is a privilege the rich and the wealthy guard jealously, no matter the qualifications of those below them, and there are still many appointments to the higher ranks made purely the basis of blood. I admit that a number of these noble appointments are gifted, such as House Cronen's Count-General Beremany—but I will speak more of him later.

I will say that under my command, the upper echelons of the Imperial armies have become far more open to skillful men and women who suffered the accident of low birth, and someday there may yet be a commoner in my position. Not in the waning years of this century, though possibly in the next, if the Empire lasts that long. My aides and those around me are all of noble birth, but of the rank below that holds commoners in its arms, and they serve ably. I pass word of their accomplishments upward when I can. I can only hope that the king will continue to listen to these praises, should he survive what I have recently discovered.

I understand that I am well loved by those under my command, at least as loved as a general can be. Though I am stern, and though I enforce a severe discipline among my troops, I am fair, and I see to it that those deserving reward are rewarded. I ride among them when I am able, so that they can see I do not despise their sacrifice, though I do not always share their worship—many of my troops are religious, but I have treated with the High Exegetes and the ecclesiastical courts, and they are rotten. While the teachings may be sound, the messengers are not—but I take care to conceal my feelings.

Morale among my people, male and female alike, is generally good, and I work hard to ensure that it remains as high as possible. I do not take luxuries when my troops suffer hardships. I go without when they must. I will not have them think that they must suffer so that I may live in leisure. They already see that when they look at the courtiers of the king. I have little use for courtiers—they do little honest work in their lives, instead preferring to aggrandize themselves through the sweat of others.

I toil in the courts of the king when I must, and I do mean toil—I would rather be among the troops, drilling and training and sweating, than passing among the courtiers who are eager to be seen reflected in my sometimes-meager glory. The camps are honest.

Though politics play a part in the decisions we make in the high councils of the army, I have done my best to make their resolutions as visible as possible, so that those under my command will know the reasons behind the orders that affect them. This does not make me popular with some of my more ambitious subordinates, and I have earned enemies in the king’s court for my plain speaking, but I am close—or was close, at least—in the councils of the king. None at court dared curry my disfavor. They know my disdain for Imperial adventure, and there have been times when my words have turned back declarations of war, especially war that would serve only to benefit interests of certain nobles in the court. I dislike politics because I am at a decided disadvantage among the courtiers who practice that skill even in their sleep. Still, I have served my king with integrity and loyalty since the time he rode to campaign with us as a prince.

I value my men, and I love the Empire, though it has fallen into decay. I try to hold back the decay as long as I can. I do not know if even I can do this. It might be too late. No, I am certain it is. My time has passed.

It is now ten of the clock.

I first distinguished myself around forty years ago, when I was but eighteen. My father had just secured me a place on the general staff of the Third Army. I served as a page to General Jon Hawkins, the infamous Butcher of Greenfield. Mine was an honorable job, I suppose, but it was designed to keep me clear of combat, out of harm’s way, and to show how useful I could be to those in power.

My father clearly wanted me to stand out from the others, and he raised me as only a baron’s son can be raised. I received instruction in dancing, etiquette, and some of the other arts, but I excelled only in strategy and weapons craft. I would have made an imperfect courtier, but as my father had no other vision for my future, I had no choice but to continue with the course he assigned. I suppose I should thank him for his interest in my future, but he is long dead, felled by an assassin’s blade at the height of the troubles thirty-five years ago, in the Birdsnest Wars sparked by the death of the old king. My father was a bit player in that drama between the powerful Houses, but he aligned himself stupidly when he could have stepped aside with honor. He could have bettered himself by remaining neutral in a clash of giants—neutrality would have put him in good stead no matter who won. Instead, he made just enough partisan fuss that his sentence was sealed. I was lucky they did not kill me as well. I have never investigated his death, though I have a good idea who ordered it. She is dead now, and naming names would serve only to inflame passions better left to heal. And if I were mistaken, why, that would be worse.

My father’s death showed me that politics is a more dangerous battleground than the fields of war—certainly a good deal more treacherous. By the time of his murder, however, I had ensconced myself firmly in the military, nearly beyond the reach of his particular enemies, and too valuable to the Empire to be punished for his sins.

I digress again.

General Hawkins was brilliant, with a knowledge of strategy and tactics so deep it was practically instinctive. When I was permitted to remain in his tent for any length of time, I learned more than I ever had learned in the training schools, and the more level-headed tactics of Hawkins have led me through many a battle safely and well. He earned his nickname, though, for he did not care if he brought suffering and destruction as long as he achieved his goal, and he loved nothing more than to lead his troops personally so that he might taste the blood of his foes. There were many in his staff who felt as he did, declaring that diplomacy and respect are the battleground of the courtier, that we in the armies were simply the muscle behind the words and should commit ourselves fully to the craft of death. That attitude led us nearly to the brink of destruction.