The Torch of War
Randolf gripped his axe tightly, his knuckles turning white. He looked at his brother, and their gazes met. No words needed to be said. The time had come. At long last, the time had come.
His emotions swelled further as he took the final step across the hallway to the door. He swung his axe against the door with all his might as he let loose decades of suppressed rage. Next to him his brother let out a cry of pure fury, his hammer smashing the wall.
The door buckled and Randolf raised his arms for another strike. Finally, the door shattered completely, and he felt his heart soar in anticipation, his breaths ragged. And there, in the corner of the sparse inn room, he found the figure of abomination, embodying everything wicked in the world, and everything he had ever hated. It looked a little different than in his memories, but he could recognize evil for what it was, and his blood boiled.
The abomination cried repugnantly and its mouth flapped as savage lispings filled the room, its arms flailing. With a roar, Randolf charged the barbarian, his arms moving on impulse as memories overcame him—
His mother and father impaled and impaled and impaled with spears as he and his brother ran. The barbarians laughing, their sickening cackles plaguing his dreams night after night after night—
His arms struck down as something wet splattered his face.
Plumes of smoke rising from his village in the distance. He patted his sobbing brother, unable to find any words of comfort. "Will anyone avenge them?" his brother rasped.
He could scarcely see through the wetness in his eyes as he chopped unrelentingly at the demon of his past.
His few friends rotting from the black sickness. The barbarians had followed him so far, to bereave him once more, and he wept and laughed. The barbarians had found him; he had found the barbarians.
He was vaguely aware of his brother forcefully shoving him aside, and the justice of the hammer replaced that of the axe.
"We will," he told his brother as the sun rose above the smoke.
Eragon gagged as the sweet smell of death assaulted his senses, the hairs standing up on the back of his neck as he and Brom quietly stalked the dark streets of Teirm. The deathly city had been eerie during the day, and without the shelter of the sun the eeriness had turned into terror. The darkness felt threatening, suffocating, as if it was the miasma itself. Was the very darkness dangerous? It had the color of the black sickness…
Eragon felt the calming presence of Saphira in his mind, and he breathed somewhat easier.
"Jeod," said Brom as they were met with a figure in what looked like a part of the city that was less surrounded by houses.
"I brought my rapier, and candles," informed Jeod hoarsely, his face gaunt under the light. "We should make haste." They started walking toward the castle.
"Something is troubling you," observed Brom. "Has the situation surrounding the watchmen changed?"
"It hasn't. Our endeavor should be of little risk." He sighed. "Ill-feelings toward the nihonjin have grown further with the plague. People seek retribution. I've heard rumors about… killings." For some reason, Jeod sounded troubled.
"You want to return to them as soon as possible," surmised Brom. He too sounded troubled. Eragon held his tongue, gnashing his teeth.
"Let us apply ourselves fully to the coming task, and make quick work of it," said Jeod.
The wailings, which were already fewer than yesterday, grew quieter as they approached the inner walls. Eragon's gaze drifted up the main gate and to the keep beyond. Had it been under different circumstances, this would have been a moment to savor, a memory to treasure for the rest of his life. Him, Eragon, inside a keep and castle of a city. The villagers would never tire of his tale—he stopped the thought before he would be reminded of the reason why he had left.
"Seems you were right," muttered Brom to Jeod as they approached the abandoned gate. It was supposed to be watched by several guards at any one time, Brom had explained during his earlier lecturing on their planned venture. His task was simple; since he could not read, he was to stand guard and keep an eye out. "After we have left the city, I will have to teach you how to read!" Brom had sworn.
Brom chanted a series of words in the ancient language, and a small door set into the gate snapped open. He swayed, panting slightly.
"You could have let me," Eragon murmured. He pulled his bow from its buckskin tube and strung it.
Brom shook his head. "Even if I told you the words"—he paused to catch a breath—"you don't understand the mechanics of the lock."
As they entered the gate, Eragon barely had time to take in the dark surroundings before Jeod led them over to a side door of the keep, which he opened with a key.
It was quiet inside, and all Eragon saw was an empty hallway that disappeared into the dark. "It seems there is no one to humor Risthart's affinity for indoor torches," remarked Jeod. He sounded relieved.
They sauntered through hallways and stairs, listening carefully for any soldiers on patrol. At the records room, Brom tried the door. It was locked. He put his hand against the door and muttered a word that Eragon did not recognize. It swung open with a faint click and they darted inside, closing the door quietly.
In the soft light, Eragon saw wooden racks piled high with scrolls. Tacitly, Brom and Jeod set to work as Eragon stood by the door. Scroll after scroll was unrolled, and Brom cursed before murmuring softly. An orb of white light appeared above them near the ceiling.
"Much better than the candle," Jeod said appreciably, then busied himself with another scroll.
Eragon felt himself relax and his tension ease as time passed with little fanfare. Things had gone smoothly so far, and in a matter of hours they would be off with the newfound knowledge of the Ra'zacs whereabouts. Your end is near.
Distant footsteps filled Eragon's ears, and he went rigid. He opened his mouth to utter a warning just as Brom raised his head up from a scroll.
"Someone is coming—"
"I hear someone outside—" Having spoken over each other, Brom was the first to continue: "It could be a watchman, or just a rambling nobleman. They don't know that we are inside, so let us work quietly." He spoke in a low tone.
Jeod nodded, and they resumed their search. Meanwhile, Eragon drew two arrows in one hand, bow in the other, and anxiously listened as the footsteps crept closer. As the sound approached their room Brom and Jeod stopped what they were doing, hands on their sword hilts. The footsteps seemed to stop right outside the door, and for a moment all was quiet in the room as no one dared to breathe. Then, after an agonizingly long time, the person outside once more began to walk before passing by the door, and Eragon exhaled a silent breath.
But Jeod did not. Instead, he was seized by a coughing fit so loud it filled the room.
And a voice from the other side exclaimed: "What in the—intruders!"
Eragon reflexively nocked an arrow while stumbling backwards from the door. His heart pounded. He heard Brom and Jeod unsheath their weapons beside him, and the same sound he heard from the other side.
The door opened and there stood a man, torch in one hand and sword in the other. He was clad in a resplendent jacket and furs, and a billowing cloak of purple.
The man's eyes widened as he stared at Eragon. "A peasant youngster looting my castle?!" He took a step forward, sword held high, and in panic Eragon loosed the arrow. As if time had slowed, he saw it travel straight to the man's heart. Eragon's eyes remained transfixed as the man let out a choked cry before ever so slowly sinking to the floor, his hand gripping the arrow, the burning torch rolling away on the floor. Brom and Jeod were speaking, but their voices seemed faint, distant. Eragon could not bring himself to look away from the aftermath of murder. His murder.
He, Eragon, had just murdered someone.
The room darkened, and it took him some time to realize that Brom had extinguished the fallen torch, and the light above their heads. Hands were on his shoulder, and Eragon looked numbly at Brom. "Eragon!" uttered Brom. "Listen, you have done nothing wrong, you had no choice but to do what you did. And now we need to leave, before they arrive!" No that isn't true, he wasn't attacking me, I panicked and I killed him…
Brom stepped outside the room, where Jeod already was standing, waiting for them. "Come on, boy!"
Distraughtly, Eragon took another glance at the slain man, now barely visible in the dark. And his eyes fell on the torch…
"Eragon!"
Eragon! Saphira cried.
Eragon grabbed the torch, then hurried out of the room. It felt so wrong to hold in his hands, but he desperately needed it for the rites of repentance.
As silently as possible they scurried through the hallways, Jeod coughing occasionally. Just as Brom opened the door that led them into the dark, open night, alarmed shouts rang through the castle.
"The great and honorable master of Teirm is dead!"
"Lord Risthart the great and honorable master of Teirm has been murdered!"
"Master Risthart was shot by an arrow!"
"Find the murderer! Lock down the citadel!"
The three quickly made their way across to the gate and then out of the castle grounds. "Should we take refuge at my estate?" asked Jeod breathlessly.
No! Saphira protested. You have to come back, now!
Brom promptly shook his head as he continued walking at a brisk pace back onto the streets. "They might seal the city. Eragon and I have to get out while we still can."
Jeod nodded. "Of course." Horns were now blaring from the keep, their haunting sounds causing Eragon to shiver. "This will arouse the few guards that are still alive," remarked Jeod. "We need to be careful."
What have I done? For the first time, the bow in his hand did not bring a sense of comfort, but unease, and he wished he did not need to hold it right now. He felt the same about the torch and arrow in his other hand, and he held them at an arm's length, so that the torch almost touched Jeod.
"Eragon, that torch—is that Lord Risthart's torch?!"
Eragon snapped his attention to Jeod, the man's gaping expression the only thing visible in the dark. "Yes," Eragon murmured reluctantly. "I need it for the rites—"
"Eragon, that is his personal torch! People will recognize it, especially the guards! If they find you with it you are dead!" They had stopped walking.
"You heard him," said Brom. "Forget the rites of repentance. Do you think he would appreciate you stealing his torch over his dead body? Throw it away before you get us killed!" Eragon flinched at the last word.
Humiliated, Eragon was about to drop the torch on the cobblestone street when he saw them. Even in the dark, their presence was unmistakable, the silhouette from their alien attire eliciting animosity and fear in him. The scourge of his village, and bane of this city. And he had promised Brom not to attack them…
"I spot guards coming from the citadel," Brom spoke quietly. "Throw it away, Eragon!"
And Eragon threw everything in his right hand at the barbarians, pouring all his frustration and guilt into the action. The torch and arrow hit them before landing at their feet, and they cried out in pain and surprise, voices not as guttural as he had expected. "Ee-ty! Na-nee!"
Eragon turned toward Brom, expecting him to lead the way. Instead, the man seemed to be staring between him and the barbarians. "You…" He sounded conflicted. Then he looked at the blazing torches approaching them from the citadel, and he cursed, dragging Eragon with one hand and Jeod with the other.
"Have you taken leave of your senses?" Jeod asked Eragon. He sounded indignant. "Why did you attack them, when they"—he coughed—"when they have done nothing to you?"
Eragon said nothing, his eyes on the street before them. I did the right thing, he told himself. I did the right thing, he repeated, feeling sick.
"It was the Japarian devils!" Voices howled in the distance. "The torch, they have it! Lord Risthart's silver torch! And an arrow!"
"They unleash the plague to wipe us all out. So that they can plunder the lord's castle and murder him in his sleep! So they could take his throne and enslave us!"
"Not if we extirpate them first! Like the worms they are!"
"This means war!"
"We shall kill them all!"
"They took my sons and daughters!"
"Death to barbarians!"
…I did…
"Death to Japaria!"
Reiwa 2 December 15
"It's okay, Minato," Rika reassured once again, smiling behind the face mask. "At least you are here with us now."
"There's no way I'd miss the rest of the evening," Minato answered from the seat beside her.
He should have met up with his family at 19:00 for the dinner reservations, but had been held up by a last-minute meeting convened to discuss yet more issues related to the energy and electricity shortages. His recent proposal to further expand domestic logging of cedar trees to raise the production of wood pellets, an increasingly common fuel in the nation's thermal plants, either alone or in co-firing mode, had not been popular with many of the governors, several of whom had requested an emergency session to raise a plethora of concerns, ecological and cultural and logistical. No one had walked away from that meeting satisfied with the outcome. And Minato's first "time off" (which since the transfer merely implied less overtime work than usual) in several months had been cut short, as well as his promise to finally spend some time with his family.
At least I arrived in time for the program, thought Minato, while looking over at his two children, his daughter merely a year short of the Western age of majority. He had barely seen their faces since April 1st.
Even as he tried to unwind from the (as always) hectic day, his thoughts wandered to the eastern expedition. It had caused trouble after trouble, taking up too much of their time and agenda at a time when far more important issues demanded their attention. And with the rising tide of serious violence and other acts of anti-Japanese sentiments against their expedition members, as the Minister of Foreign Affairs had reluctantly informed him over the days, not to mention the walking (or thinking?) intelligence bonanza that the expedition members presented to mind-readers, Minato had finally put his foot down. He had already briefed the other LDP factions of the looming decision earlier today, and the Kantei would issue the official decision tomorrow morning: the expedition would be recalled. Long overdue, many of his aides had sighed. The failure would haunt the Ministry of Foreign Affairs for many years to come, and the imminent cutbacks and downsizing facing their agency had the foreign minister in clear despair.
Rika took his arm. "Don't think about work for the rest of today, okay?"
"Sorry." They made small talk as Suntory Hall became somewhat packed, or as packed as any venue could become in the era of anti-pandemic measures. Less than a third of the front row seats have been filled, thought Minato as he observed concertmaster Shinozaki tune his instrument.
The ambient lights except those projected toward the stage faded, and Järvi stepped onto the podium to moderate applause. A bow, and the first downbeat of the baton, and thus began the first tableau of Pétrouchka. For some reason, the opening section always reminded Minato more of the flowing winds above the trees and chirping birds than of any fair, not that it made him think any less of the work; Pétrouchka was his favorite of Stravinsky's Diaghilev ballets, even above Le Sacre. The Rimskian influences were not as apparent as in the earlier works, but the octatonicism still permeated the harmonic expression.
Rika nodded appreciatively. "A good performance," she whispered in his ear.
A good performance indeed. The tempo was on point, the playing crisp and precise and virtuosic. Perhaps the timbre in parts of the woodwind section were not fully to his preference, compared to the interpretation he had heard from the Berliner Philharmoniker. But the Berliner Philharmoniker would never again grace the stage of Suntory Hall, and they would have to do with the NHK Symphony Orchestra and the other wonderful Japanese orchestras.
His work phone started buzzing. Minato frowned. The agencies had been informed of his "time off", so what could it be about? Almost simultaneously, the Kantei aide accompanying him, sitting on the other side from his family, bent forward and whispered, "Emergency. Foreign minister requests immediate consultation."
Checking his phone, Minato could indeed see that the caller was the foreign minister. Sending a guilty glance toward Rika, he vacated the seat and exited the main hall, closely followed by the aide and security detail. The phone rang repeatedly as Minato sought a quiet spot.
"Yes?" Minato finally answered as he stood in a nondescript corner, trying his best to not sound annoyed. The foreign ministry had been the source of many headaches over the past month.
"We are being slaughtered!" screamed the foreign minister's voice from the other end. "The expedition members are being slaughtered! They are massacring us all!"
The 15th day of the 12th month, 7999 A.C.
The throng of voices whispered in his head, as they had done for many decades. Mostly he ignored their muddled, incoherent susurrations, as he did the mad ravings. Periodically he would discern something insightful, something revelatory, in the chorus, but those moments were growing ever fewer. And most hearts of hearts kept to themselves, quiet but no less rabid.
With a flick of his hand, Galbatorix closed the ancient tome, eyes resting on the enormous tapestries as he sat by the wide, sumptuous desk. It was already well past sundown, though the ensuing night did little to avail him; no outside light ever reached his private library, and the vast chamber was ever illuminated, unaffected by the rotation of the earth.
He was close, he knew. After a century of pursuit, the Word was within his grasp. And with it, the destined ushering of the new order of Alagaësia: The freeing of the lands from the yoke of elven stasis, and the dawning of the human age. Peace and security of the likes not even the Riders of old could have hoped to achieve, impotent as they were to overturn the rule of magic for the rule of law. Impotent, for they were merely an extension of elven power, serving to maintain the arrangements that would ensure the latter's primacy at the expense of Alagaësia. And finally, with him at the helm, the shadow of the far north would be conquered and their dreams reclaimed.
The last few months, his single-minded assiduousness had reached new highs, and his attention to the outside world had waned. It was a necessary price for the portentous task that lay before him, and even whisperings of the hatching of the last female dragon and the first new Rider since the victory had done little to divert his focus.
Neither had the plague, although it had caused him some introspection. It was eighty years ago since the last outbreak. He remembered it well, of how he had ordered the Sworn Thirteen to contain its spread. Their worn-out, irritable expressions by the end of it had been quite amusing indeed.
And now a new plague was haunting his dominion, and the Sworn Thirteen were no more, courtesy of the Varden. With his might and the might of the hearts of hearts, Galbatorix could ensure the sanctuary of his citadel, but little else, unless he abandoned his search at the most vital moment. No doubt, the plague would strike harder than it had the last time, with the poor harvest of this summer and a winter unusual in its harshness, for the warm winds of the ocean had been lacking of late. Yet it was but a temporary setback for his race; in the span of centuries it would hardly matter.
And how would the Varden take the news of the plague? With a certain measure of relief, no doubt, as they saw a chance to capitalize on the fumbles of their great enemy, useful idiots of the elves as they were. How, as they harken back to the dark days of the elven order, the rule of magic, the stifling of their race, it never behooved them to ask their elven masters why they were the ones expected to shoulder the brunt of conflict, while a race a hundred times their might were content but to watch from the safe confines of their forest?
For all their warlike disposition, however, the threat that the Varden posed had never been of the martial kind. In that regard, even Surda was their superior. But the Varden possessed a weapon even the elves lacked; the ability to beguile the hearts of his subjects, to instill doubts about the rightfulness of his rule, and subvert his authority from within.
And thus Galbatorix responded in kind. To preempt the Varden's influence in the world of ideas, he merely had to win the battle of ideas. His subjects had a natural fear of the outside barbarians, owing to the wounds of history, and so he sought to enkindle these sentiments, sow the seeds of hatred, and turn it against the Varden. For what difference were there between the Varden and barbarians, between outsiders and outsiders, aggressors and aggressors, foes and foes? They were but one; that was the message he sought to promote, a message he had refined over the decades. A message with much truth. And he was gratified to see the sympathies for the Varden crumble, their virtues blackened, the power of ideas turned against them.
The Varden would be defeated.
Suddenly one of the many gilded mirrors on the desk shimmered, and the reflection of the chamber was replaced by that of a face. The face of Lord Risthart's court magician, Durward.
"Ah, Durward. We are well met once again," said Galbatorix genially. "What brings Lord Risthart to seek me out at this late hour?" Less than a fortnight ago, a panic-stricken Risthart had sought him out as the plague was ravaging his city, and his cowardice and consternation had been trying on Galbatorix's patience. Galbatorix had made it quite clear that little could be done on his end, and that he would be left to his own devices. He had asked Risthart to seal the city, but he knew the torchmonger had not complied. Not that it would matter much in the long run, as the plague was sure to spread beyond the coastal city regardless.
"Sire." Durward kneeled. "Lord Risthart was murdered in his sleep by the Japarians!"
Galbatorix raised an eyebrow. Preoccupied as he had been with his search, he had heard the chatterings and scarcely more. A newly discovered tribe of barbarians from an island to the west. No doubt there was more to the story, that much he could guess from Risthart's brief accounts. "Do tell me more. How many of them were able to get into the citadel, where I'm assuming the murder took place? Have you caught the culprits?"
"Our citizens are exacting justice as we speak, Sire. The Japarians are meeting the end of the sword, for what they did to us."
"And how many Japarians exactly, Durward?" asked Galbatorix patiently.
"All of them are being culled, Sire, all except those on the ship."
"All of them, you say? This isn't simply about Lord Risthart, is it, Durward?" enquired Galbatorix, his penetrating gaze locked on Durward. "There are other grievances at play. What are the Japarians guilty of?"
Durward seemed surprised at the question. "They are the reason for the affliction, the deaths of thousands, the death of our Lord Risthart, and they tried to enslave us!"
"The reason for the affliction? Are you saying they caused the plague?"
"How don't—I'm sorry Sire. Yes, the Japarians unleashed the plague on us."
"Oh? And how did they do that?"
Durward gaped. Clearly he had thought the answer so self-evident that it need never be asked. "They bathed, everyday, to summon the miasma. And not a single one of them has been stricken by the black sickness! And now they seek to capture the city to enslave us!"
It was almost sad, Galbatorix thought, that someone capable of sensing the tiny organisms knew not the true nature of the plague. Almost sad, had it not been for the necessity of it all: magicians had to be enfettered, their power subdued, their wit shrouded in ignorance, to ensure the thriving of his race. Their gift, left unrestrained, was a threat to the future of Alagaësia like dreams of a black sun rimmed by black flame against a darkling sky. "What method did the Japarians use to kill Lord Risthart?" asked Galbatorix.
"An arrow to the heart, Sire!
Killed in his sleep, by an arrow to the heart. Not unheard of, as he knew from the memories of hundreds, but far from orthodox. On its own, the claim of Japarian murder sounded credible enough. But the claim had been borne out of the severe grievance and suspicion that Risthart's court held toward the Japarians for their supposed role in the plague. Even the claims of the Japarians not being overcome by the plague was likely a product of their clouded judgment. A slight pity, for the Japarians had hoped to seek ties with his empire, or so Risthart had apprised him. He had deferred the issue, as the greater matters captured his attention, and Risthart himself was little enamored by these island dwellers and had rebuffed their overtures. Still, with the Empire being surrounded by hostile neighbors, the idea of establishing peaceful ties with another land of his kind was not unwelcome, even if this land of islanders was too small and remote to have any bearing on Alagaësian affairs.
'Tis a truly heinous and barbaric act!" Durward continued.
Growing weary of the dithering, Galbatorix asked in the ancient language, "Did you witness the Japarians commit the murder on Lord Risthart? Answer in this language."
"No," Durward uttered crudely in the language of ostensible truth.
"Did anyone witness the Japarians commit the murder on Lord Risthart?"
Durward opened his mouth but no sound left his lips. "Risthart was dead when someone found him," he finally said, the words heavily accented and clumsily put together. "The Japarians killed him before we found him. We found Japarians with Risthart's torch. And they have the same arrow, the same arrow that killed Risthart."
So the Japarians had killed Risthart after all? The act made little sense to him, like most acts committed by members of his race.
"I take it Lord Aldbur has succeeded Lord Risthart as governor," remarked Galbatorix in the human tongue.
Durward grimaced. "Sire, Lord Aldbur fought valiantly against the black sickness…"
"So there is no one to claim the title," stated Galbatorix. "That is unfortunate. Do the soldiers still answer to Lord Risthart's court?"
"They do, Sire."
"There should be enough soldiers to secure the order in the city and save my subjects from their foolish ideas, at least for now. I will have reinforcements arrive in the weeks to come, along with the next governor of Teirm that I have selected. Your orders are to hold out until then. Tell me, Durward, how far have the rectitudes of my subjects fallen thus far, and how far are they into their waywardness, as they find themselves without a ruler to offer his guidance?"
There seemed to be enthusiastic chatter on the other side of the mirror, before Durward replied, "Sire, your subjects will not revolt against the court, for we are united in our resistance against the Japarians!"
"And my subjects are leading the culling of the Japarians, I presume?"
"That is right, Sire! The people, the commoners are hungry for justice, and are delivering it with an eagerness that I've never witnessed before!" He had a glint in his eye.
Galbatorix idly wondered if the court in Teirm were fanning the flames of enmity to shield themselves, but dismissed it; from what Durward had told him the court was just as incensed as the rest of the city. The result was the same however, as the fear and hatred of barbarians that Galbatorix had instilled in his subjects were ensuring their loyalty to the Empire. Except these barbarians were not the intended target of vilification.
"Tell me, Durward, who do you think is more despised among my subjects in Teirm: the Varden, or the Japarians?"
The question seemed to perplex Durward. "Why, the Japarians of course! The Japarians by far."
"And I take it that was the case even before the plague?"
"Assuredly, Sire. People were cursing the Japarians and Japaria, their foul island, ofttimes, far more often than people did the Varden."
"And since the discovery of the Japarians, people have been cursing the Varden less frequently than before," surmised Galbatorix.
"That is right, Sire."
For in Teirm, the Japarians had replaced the Varden as the barbarians of imagination, had substituted the Varden as the enemy. And as his subjects directed their hatred toward this Japaria of the west, they had less to spare for the Varden of the east. Then, as the plague would inevitably spread across the lands, and rumors about the Japarian's culpability would follow, rancor toward the Varden could lessen throughout the Empire, supplanted by rancor for the new barbarians. His narrative on the depravity of barbarians, Galbatorix realized with a stab of annoyance, was now working against him.
Galbatorix weighed his options. He had not anticipated the existence of actual outlanders when devising his message, who now found themselves its unwitting targets. Even the tumbled insights of his Eldunarí had not unearthed the existence of such an island people. In a way, it made sense that his message would prove more effective against them than his intended target; the Japarians were truly foreign and from foreign lands, and thus better fit the mold of the barbarian than the familiar Varden. The relatedness between the Varden and barbarians of imagination had always been tenuous, Galbatorix could admit. And for the plague to reappear at a time like this…
Could Galbatorix convince his subjects that the Japarians were in fact not the barbarians of their nightmares, that it was the Varden all along? That the Japarians had not spread the plague after all? No, for that would undermine his message as a whole. If there was one thing that the Eldunarí and his experiences had informed him, it was that people could only comprehend, could only be roused by simple narratives. Insisting that the Japarians were no barbarians, that only some outlanders were barbarians and not others, even if it was the truth, would only dilute the simplicity of the narrative and make it less digestible and evocative to the masses. It would lessen the antipathy toward the Varden all the same.
The Varden would be defeated.
"Why is it, Durward, that the court and the citizens of Teirm have not decided to cull those Japarians on the ship?" asked Galbatorix.
Durward gulped. "We… have demonstrated our rightful anger, and the primacy of the Empire over the barbarian savages, Sire."
"I sense there is something more," said Galbatorix. "What is it, Durward, that you are so afraid to tell me?"
"A few retinues of the court…" began Durward hesitantly. "Agreed with the will of the people. The people have been clamoring loudly for this as retribution."
"Speak clearly!" demanded Galbatorix.
"The retinues have declared war on the Japarians," Durward spoke quickly. "They signed the declaration, they are passing the scroll to the Japarians on the ship as we speak."
The desk before Galbatorix creaked as the air around him shifted and flashed. A soft tremor pulsed through the floor beneath him. "I am sure that you, and everyone else on the court, are aware that I am the only one with the authority to declare war," enounced Galbatorix, his voice like the calm sea before the violent storm.
"F-forgive me Sire! They were not thinking clearly. Fervor runs high for everyone here. And without Lord Risthart to—"
"How many retinues overstepped their authority?"
"T-three, Sire."
"You will execute them after this conversation, and after they have returned, for their mutiny against the crown. Is that understood?"
Durward paled, but he could not object, for he was bound by his oath of fealty in the ancient language. "Yes."
"You will also spread word of the truth, Durward. As well as everyone else who is present beside you. You shall let everyone hear the truth."
"The truth?" asked Durward dumbfoundedly.
"That the Varden has stooped to a new low, by recruiting the Japarians to do their bidding."
"Varden?" murmured Durward confusedly.
"Despicable, is it not, Durward? The accursed Varden ever wants us to suffer, to satisfy their twisted sense of jealousy. We have done nothing to deserve their hatred, and only seek to live in peace with the rest of Alagaësia, yet they continue to assail us and our people. And this time, they instructed their underlings in Japaria to unleash the black sickness upon our people. This time, they have gone too far."
"As underlings of the Varden, it was only natural that I would declare war upon the Japarians," said Galbatorix. With Japaria being a small island, it would be of little consequence to the Empire, he thought. They were but a necessary casualty to maintain the seeds of hatred against the true barbarians of the east. "Any underling of the Varden is an enemy of the Empire. Remember, however, that it is the master of the underlings that is the ultimate enemy. To win the war against Japaria, we must first win the war against the Varden, the true instigators of the plague. Spread the tidings."