Nattas

Always stand, on good ground

The King’s council met at the old central hall, inside the Palace. Its austere aesthetics, aged and moldy, bare of adornments stone walls, but for the ancient Alden shields and coat of arms; was highlighted by the heavy but simple, rectangular oaken table that was placed right at its center. Four meters in length, one and a half in width, it reserved a spot for King Alistair at its head, the other end held by High Magister Appius Gordian.

On the right hand of the King, was Lord Hunter Holt, his old Shield and Marshal of Regia. On the left, the Master of Treasure and King’s cousin, Lord Doris Alden. Next to Lord Holt, sat the boisterous Admiral Stan Brakis, Regia’s Master of Sea. Lord Storm Nattas, had the misfortune of seating next to Lord Alden, the man persistent on learning whether he’d found something, with Lord Nattas equally adamant, in his vagueness.

Also present, but standing some distance from the council, next to the King’s guard, was the formidable, with his square jaw, muscular frame and piercing blue eyes, Sir Demos Alden, eldest son of Lord Doris. First Disciple of Tyeus, Aulus Ventor, was also seating next to the High Magister.

Storm had copied King Alistair’s sour expression, almost to the letter, watching as honorable Lord Holt finished his lengthy opening statement, turned into a series of complaints, after the King gave his own brief speech.

“…for this, I must again protest and remind those present of my family’s long service and love… because it matters, for the army and its institutions. I suggest this should be taken into account. Considered, before any such decision is made. I nominate, my son Sir Rupert Holt for the position, who can’t be present unfortunately, as he’s recovering in Asturia.”

“You had effective command of the Legion for five years, Lord Holt,” Lord Doris Alden said, with a smirk, tapping his ring covered fingers on the table. “Since Lord Lennox, stepped down. It helped rebuild the road to Asturia and it was a great help to all the people there, even cut through the Gray Mountains smartly, to open yourself another way to Cartagen. All this is commendable. But surely, someone other than a Holt, can have the honor.”

Lord Holt, raised his white brows insulted and the King had to step in, to stop him from adding fuel to a quarrel that started years back, when King Alistair picked Queen Miranda -an Alden from Aegium- to replace late Queen Vasia Davenport, who had died giving birth to young Jeremy, seventeen years to the day.

Storm sighed, saddened at the memory. His friendship with the late Queen well known. The Holts wanted one of their maidens as the next Queen of Regia, blamed Lord Doris for sponsoring his at the time very young sister to his cousin.

“Enough,” King Alistair ordered, looking worse than the previous time, Storm had seen him. His old resolve was there though, which was promising. “The decision has been made.”

“My King.” Lord Holt said, with a small bow of the head, old sun burned face blank.

“Lord Demos, shall command the Legion.” The King announced, one of his king’s guard slapping the young man on the back, a gesture Storm caught out the corner of his eye. It wasn’t surprising, he thought. Queen Miranda may be away in Cartagen, but she knows how to lure a decision out of her cousin. She has all the tools, Storm thought, a stirring in his groins. Aldens are nothing, if not persistent.

And fuckin’ ambitious.

“Lord Brakis,” The King said, moving on. “Last time we talked, it was back more than half a year now, is it not? You should make an effort to visit the capital Admiral. It’s a fine city, we spent a fortune building it,” Lord Brakis snapped his head up, caught unawares, tried to find a reason to explain himself, found nothing, so he just remained frozen, eyes gawking, like a fish. “As I was saying,” King Alistair continued. “You assured me that there were five new galleons, already in the works, at the naval yard in Ilirium. Uher praise you, those designs were a real beauty. But I’m bereft of news, since then. Now, seeing you… I’m worried. Has the work finished?”

Admiral Brakis cleared his throat, thick neck spilling out his striking purple doublet. He’d a strong, vibrant voice, excellent for singing a gallant song, on the bridge of a ship fighting a storm, Storm thought with the tiniest of smirks, or cursing Abrakas, before you head straight for the ocean’s bottom.

“Work… has moved on famously, my King.” He mumbled, saying nothing.

King Alistair caught Storm’s smirk, before he wiped it from his face and paused, his cold eyes staying on Lord Nattas.

“Are any of the ships finished?” He asked, voice half hiss, half a restraint rumble. Seeing Admiral Brakis not answering, he added sounding tired.

“Give me a number Admiral.”

“One.” The man said, shoulders shagging. Looking at his tied hands on the table.

“How many on the whole, without the heavy transports?”

“Twenty, but two… three of them, are in for repairs. We had problems with supplies, my King,” He answered him quickly, clearing his throat once more. Someone should offer this man some wine, Storm thought.

“Is the problem solved?”

“Nay, it is not.”

“I see,” The King said thoughtfully. “You need half of that number, you’ve just told us, in Cartagen; hunting the pirates stealing your supplies. I assume it was pirates,” King Alistair proceeded counting out loud, so they could listen. “Leaving us eight warships for the straits, and I’m being generous. Should we even consider entering them?”

“Absolutely not, my King,” Lord Brakis replied. “We must guard the coast of Regia. Leave the Shallow Sea to Kaltha’s navy.”

What about the western approaches though? Storm thought, who will stand guard there?

“You need many more ships for that Admiral. Not an easy thing, to produce… Hmm? What do you say Lord Doris?”

The Master of Treasure, consulted the papers stacked in front of him.

“It is unfathomably expensive at this time. We need more iron, more bronze and we have to import good timber from Kaltha. Perhaps, if we finish our infrastructure program, our roads. Let’s say in five or ten years. Then we could do, much more.”

“Unfathomably expensive.” King Alistair repeated. “Hear that Lord Nattas?”

Storm got up from his chair. “Aye, my Lord.”

“Are we doomed then?” The King asked, perhaps teasing, his mood unclear.

“We stand, on good ground.” Storm answered, opting to go positive and regretting it the next moment.

The King kept his eyes on him.

“We will talk, after this meeting is over.”

“As you wish. My Lord.” Storm agreed, with a small bow.

“We gave you a seat in the Council, Lord Nattas. I suggest you make use of it,” The King said, eyes gleaming with amusement. “It might take us a while.