Gors Velen, the Silver Heron

Though he was several weeks riding away from the Yaruga, the sorcerer could sense the tension and fear gripping the nordlings with every passing moment. He could sense it, but he did not need to, for he knew just how frightened and desperate people were. Years and years of hard work finally paid off in having a great quantity of personal contacts and informants that were so valuable in his profession. No self-respecting mage had a lack of people owing him or her favours, people in important positions with perked up ears and deep pockets. Information, Tarquin had found, was key to getting on top of things, right after money. Usually these two formed a simple equation of which the result was influence –or its more overt cousin: power.

Gors Velen was ancient, far more ancient than any of the Northern Kingdoms. Thanedd was even older and more prestigious. Since the… incident in 1264, however, the city had come on harder times. Many of the old generation perished, their pride going before their fall. Vilgefortz had staged a coup in favour of Nilfgaard and its supposedly divine Emperor, only to have found out that he had not been half as smart as he had thought to have been. The Brotherood of Sorcerers had been decimated, wiped clean of any hint of treachery. However, the distrust and fissure it had created within the organisation had proven to be fatal, a thing Tarquin still mourned for.

As with many professions, the nature of it tends to pick one of the sexes. In spite of the first mages being male, using their will to bend the Power, the profession had evolved over the centuries to become a female calling. In fact, the Gallery of Glory –pompous wretches- contained several paintings celebrating womanhood in the field of sorcery. There was an entire series devoted to triumphant womanliness and the increasing feminisation of the profession. None of the sorceresses depicted on those pieces of art were longer alive, of course. The last one, Tissaia de Vries, having taken her own life after the Coup.

Now the women were calling the shots, mostly. Using their fancy Lodge of Sorceresses and artificial female assets to pull the strings of monarchs and notables. Tarquin sighed at the promiscuous and arbitrary nature that seemed to possess the colleagues of the opposite sex. They were driven as much by ambition as by their lack of logic. The sorcerer was still unsure what made them such spiteful and arbitrary creatures. At the moment he blamed hormones and vanity that were so inherent to sorceresses. It seemed that all sorceresses, at some stage in their lives, developed an insatiable appetite for sex, wealth and position. Then again, this was true for a lot of men too, Tarquin admitted, but never in the same fashion –the same hunger for luxury, pomp and unabashed brazenness. Sorceresses did not even heed their own creeds!

Tarquin was sitting in his private apartment which he rented from the proprietor of a fine establishment called ‘the Silver Heron’ –reputedly the finest inn in Gors Velen. A book laid on his lap, page-down, its title ‘The Secret of Secrets’ etched in gold letters on its broad back. The volume was a tedious read from the hand of Agnes of Glanville, one of those examples of triumphant womanhood. A finely crafted pipe, with ivory and obsidian ornaments, lay smouldering to the side, filling the room with the scent of tobacco. Tarquin Brantimokem Kleist pinched the bridge of his nose as he mumbled a spell to remove the encroaching headache.

A knock came at the door, followed by a distracted movement of Tarquin’s hand allowing the lock to be turned. A lean man, with a mop of thin blond hair, emerged from the hallway, clad in black riding leathers and knee-high boots. Under his arm he carried a satchel containing correspondence and a plethora of items requested by the wizard.

“Selward,” the sorcerer said, memorising the page of the book ere placing it on the table. “What did you bring me?”

“News,” he said, ever the practical person for which Tarquin had employed him years ago. The devoted ruthlessness was another fine trait the man possessed. The sorcerer nodded for him to continue. He had placed warding spells and magical blocks on the room and inn proper the previous day. Selward cleared his throat before speaking. “It is as you have said. The Nilfgaardians are crossing the Yaruga at Dillingen, but there are reports of other beachheads and forces active in Angren. From there they can cross the river better if they avoid the inaccessible parts.”

Tarquin sighed once more, feeling the headache returning. There was so much to do and so little time. “Who leads them?”

“I have no idea yet,” Selward replied with a shrug of his shoulders.

The sorcerer made a dismissive gesture and began talking. He was confident of Selward and trusted the man, yet oft-times when he spoke to his agent, it was merely to talk out loud to himself. The wizard simply required a listening ear at times, while Selward had provided interesting perspectives in the past. Additionally, Tarquin was careful not to say too much. “Pah, it does not really matter. The old officers are dead, either during the First Nilfgaard War or following the imperial defeat at Brenna. Coehoorn is dead.” The statement did not have to be stated, everyone knew Coehoorn was dead. “They will be led by young officers that have filled the positions of the old ones. They are gifted and eager to show their ability and have waited for a long time for this opportunity. We also must not forget these will be men trained by Emhyr. Men who crushed the rebellions in Ebbing, Metinna and Nazair a few years ago. That was mere practice.”

Selward studied his master’s face whilst listening. They had discoursed concerning this subject before. “As you say: they are gifted. They appreciate a new way of fighting, using swiftness and forced marches to move around and striking far from where they are expected.”

“I have heard as much. During the Second Nilfgaard War they have displayed their mastery at outsmarting the Northern commanders. I well remember the spearhead operations in Dol Angra, Selward, for I was there.” The Nilfgaardian war-machine had been honed in battle and grown increasingly professional. New siege engines were preferred over magic, which Emhyr considered unreliable. “I remember Sodden and Brenna. Two victories over Nilfgaard.”

“Why do I have the feeling that we have lost two wars then?”

“Because,” Tarquin answered, his blue eyes catching fire. “Emhyr takes his time. He plans and organises, he thinks in long-term paradigms, whereas our Kings and Queens –who’s left of them in any case, cannot look past their evening shit and morning piss. They’re blind, calling victory while in fact we are being beaten. After the first war we lost half of Transriver, the second half after the second war. This third war… Perhaps the border will be demarcated at the Pontar instead of the Yaruga. Piece by piece, Selward, piece by piece.”

The two men sat in silence for a while, pondering over the current situation.

“What of Saskia and Iorveth?” Hard as it might be to admit it, the leaders of the Vergen Free-State could be their best bet.

“She still sits in Vergen, nesting away. Iorveth… I don’t know where he is.”

“Alright,” Tarquin said. “I will need you to carry letters to Redania and Kaedwen, after you have visited Cidaris. I myself will go pay a visit to Old Natalis in Temeria. Find me in Vergen, unless we have moved from there. You know how. I suspect that by then the fronts will have shifted due to the Nilfgaardian onslaught.”

Selward nodded, then took his leave, marching off with the strut of a professional soldier.

Tarquin sighed and took a last drag from the smouldering pipe. Why did everything always have to fall on his shoulders? Had he not warned people sufficiently over the years? After a while you get enough of being a whistle-blower if nobody listens to your tune. Now it was time to act. To act against the Lodge that was in disarray, to act against the invaders, to act against chaos.