Lessons in Dalemark History (II)

Liquid fire,commonly known as Amil's fire or the King's fire, is a historical type of incendiary liquid usually described as a wet, dark, sticky fire. Contemporary sources suggest that it self-ignited, clung to the target, burned fiercely on water, and could only be extinguished by the application of sand or vinegar. Ranging in consistency from a viscous liquid to a jelly or paste, liquid fire was very flexible in terms of delivery system, with siphons, syringes, pumps, blowpipes, catapults, trebuchets and glass or earthenware hand grenades all being used.

A form of liquid fire was developed in prehistoric times by the Haligland Empire. Early sources link its discovery with the legend of Kankredin, which perhaps has its roots in a primitive Haligland chemist. Its composition remained a closely guarded secret, and was lost with the empire's decline. Harchad Haddsson is credited with its rediscovery in modern times; after his death it was developed by his brother, Navis, later Duke of Kernsburgh. The ingredients used in the liquid fire of Amil the Great's time were classed as a state secret and were never recorded. The majority of modern experts consider the most likely composition to have been naphtha (derived from petroleum distillation) mixed with sulphur and thickened with pine resin. The petroleum source remains unknown, but it is probable that small-scale exploitation of the Marshes oil field began significantly earlier in Amil the Great's reign than has been recorded.

The first known use of liquid fire in modern times was at the Siege of Neathdale in 2808, and many military historians consider its development to have been the most important factor in Amil the Great's defeat of the southern earls in the Civil War. Liquid fire (also termed sea fire in this context) was used extensively in naval battles during the early years of Amil's reign, notably at the Battle of Hark in 2817, which led to the total destruction of the Nepstan Navy. Its naval use declined after 2825, as iron increasingly replaced wood in the construction of warships.

From Thatcher, WR, ed. Gardale Encyclopaedia of Military History, 12th edn (Gardale University Press; 3004)

~*~

Fragments from Three Conversations in Kernsburgh

(August 2811)

'You've made me into a murderer!'

Shit, thought Moril. Mitt had been spoiling for a fight with Navis for weeks now, but he could scarcely have picked a more public spot for it than the Great Hall Quad.

'That's a bit ironic, don't you think,' said Navis smoothly, 'given that on our first meeting you planted a bomb at my feet!'

'That was different!' Mitt's shout reverberated across the entire court. People were beginning to stop and watch.

'If you count killing people who are trying to kill you as murder,' said Navis as softly as Mitt's words had been loud, 'then you've been a murderer since early in our acquaintance. I expect you think that was also different.'

Mitt seemed to have acquired a fascination with the cobbles at his feet.

'I could reiterate the sound military reasons for eliminating the rebel base in terms of disruption to the reconstruction work,' said Navis, 'not to mention the mounting civilian death toll, but an open cloister is hardly the place.'

By now there must have been twenty or more loiterers, Moril estimated, admiring the new Great Hall windows or retying their bootlaces or even just staring.

'You might recall that I explained them all in considerable detail before,' Navis continued. 'That's why you decided that eliminating their base was a good idea. It was the correct decision. It is still the correct decision.'

'That's not the point!'

'It's precisely the point. I thought you'd realised by now – all your rings and cups and swords, even Hern's crown, they're only the trappings of kingship. To be a King means taking hard decisions. It means setting taxation levels. It means bullying the earls into doing what's best for the country. And sometimes it means taking responsibility for the deaths of innocents.' Navis stepped closer till Mitt could scarcely avoid meeting his eyes. Then, despite all the onlookers, he very deliberately dropped to one knee. 'If I've made you into anything,' he said, 'I've made you into a King.'

~*~

(September 2811)

'I used to hate him, you know.'

Mitt didn't need to say who he meant. Since that summer, Moril knew there'd only been one 'him'.

'Not the way you think. He used to make Milda – my mother – smile, and I always resented that.' Mitt sighed. 'He wasn't always mad.'

'Alk said he was a technical genius,' said Moril. 'The cleverest gunsmith in all of Dalemark.'

'The way he used to look at a gun that shot true! He'd stroke it like a cat. I think he must have loved his guns as much as his daughters.' Mitt stopped, and Moril wished he knew a way to wipe that peculiar empty look from his face. 'He's right, I don't remember their names.'

'I don't really know my half-sister,' said Moril. Distraction sometimes helped. 'I think of her as Lenina's baby, but Lenina's my mother. Brid says I'm unnatural. Dagner just says that men can't understand children until they have their own.' He stopped. Babbling definitely wasn't helping.

'Flaming Ammet! I should remember their names.'

'Enna,' Moril said cautiously. Even if he could never think of his little half-sister as more than a distant cousin, he couldn't imagine how he'd feel if Ganner had turned up one day and told him he'd murdered her.

'Enna,' said Mitt, tasting the name as if he hadn't said it in a very long time. 'Enna and… Milla … Milleth … Something like that. I remember, whatever it was, she could never get her tongue around it. They were both just babies when I left.' Mitt shook his head, as if he couldn't quite work out where all the years had disappeared. 'She must've been nearly as old as I was when I threw the bomb at Hadd. When she died.' A tear rolled slowly down to the tip of his nose and stuck there. 'Marilla, that was her name. Milda said it was lucky.' He wiped his nose on the back of his hand, but another tear took its place. 'She was always wrong.'

~*~

(October 2811)

'Sometimes I think you're the only one who can possibly understand.'

Moril knew what Mitt was talking about, even though he thought Mitt in these moods sounded a bit like Brid when she was half his age. Sometimes he was glad, secretly, that there was someone else who had to bear the burden of having killed so many people. He just wished it didn't have to be Mitt.

'How do you forget, Moril? How do you ever forget?'

'I wrote a song for Tholian,' he said slowly, because the real answer was that you never forgot, you just remembered rather less often and rather less painfully. 'Not a lament, that wouldn't have been true, just a song.' Moril picked up the cwidder from the rack and strummed the angry opening chords. The cwidder began to make its muzzy noise, and he put it down again hastily. 'I don't know what you do if you're not a Singer.'

'Write me a song for Hobin.' Mitt shuddered. 'Not—not that.'

Moril knew exactly what Mitt was seeing. He didn't think that he'd ever be able to forget it either.

'And not Hobin the Bloody, or whatever people used to call him in Holand,' Mitt went on. 'Make him brave. Brave and free. He was always a free soul, I think, even when he was working for Hadd.'

Moril handed him the cwidder. 'I think you should write it,' he said.