[Kransha]

Fealty in Pashtia, and the swearing of it, was simple, but important. Unlike in certain nomadic tribes’ political structures, Pashtian fealty did not mean boundless loyalty, it simply meant “alliance” with some noticeable perks. Swearing fealty was the equivalent of promising to back someone, sponsor them financially and with what power was available. An officer of the army swearing fealty meant that he would use his power and rank to support the recipient of his fealty in his endeavors. Siamak, though, would have to be careful. He had probably not had many important persons extend their favor to him yet, since no one wanted to risk giving fealty to the child who might not be heir. According to old customs, he was not supposed to make his supporters publicly known. It was an odd custom, but one that seemed to make sense. Until the heir was chosen, all those who favored Siamak would contribute what they could to him: money, training, teaching, and whatever they could give, rather than announcing their loyalty. By the time the heir was chosen, the King’s choice might be swayed by the experience and wisdom, as well as newfound wealth, of his son – and chose him as the rightful heir. Swearing allegiance to Siamak, Morgôs was risking a great deal. If Gjeelea became Queen, he could not change his alliance, and Siamak would have to publicly implicate all of his supporters. Morgôs would be stuck as the acolyte of a bereft lord, doomed to be second to his sister, and the Queen would hold his preference against him as long as she lived. But, Morgôs knew that his strength, and tutoring, could make a man of the prince. Siamak would be king.

Suddenly, he felt underhanded. He was loyal, staunchly, to his king, but he felt as if, in some subtle way, he was manipulating the spectrum to suit his devices. He swore fealty not to the new king, but to a man who shared his opinions, and he planned to elevate in power. From what he’d heard, Gjeelea was not in favor of the Avari, generally, and he suspected Korak was not either. Siamak, on the other hand, extended his favor to men and Elven-kind alike. He could be trusted not to distance Pashtian mortals from immortals, as his mother or sister might desire. Similarly, Gjeelea seemed most untrustworthy, and everything Morgôs heard about Lord Korak implicated dissolution in the nobleman, a kind that should not be seated on a throne. If Gjeelea and Korak became the rulers of Pashtia, it would mark, almost definitely, the end of Pashtia’s golden age. For years after the death of Faroz’ father, Pashtia had been nowhere near its former heights. The father of Faroz, former king, had indulged expansion and cultivation of his land. He’d been worshipped, thought by some to be the sired child of Rea himself, but those were myths. That king, like Faroz, had supported Morgôs’ endeavors but, unlike the present monarch, he had spurred him to marvelous conquest…though Morgôs did not particularly relish conquest.

The throne could not afford a blow like this; a corrupt lord and a gossipy girl vying for it. No, it needed a strong leader, one who knew that denying the Avari there rightful place was folly, and that things had to be done, great things. Morgôs was no hound of war, no vainglorious philosopher, but his loyalty to Faroz was only dented by his dissatisfied attitude towards the man. He had enough angst to dwell on without nostalgia, and, although war was not a good thing, making too many alliances might place Pashtia in a precarious situation. The next king would need the backing of the Avari and of the army as well. Siamak could be that man, like his grandfather, but not necessarily as haughty or ambitious. Perhaps, if all went well, Morgôs could train Siamak further – not only in the ways of war. It was a manipulative, covetous thought that ran through the Elf’s mind, one which was uncharacteristic in the extreme and it soon left him but, again, he felt the bizarre pleasantry of it, and felt as if he needed to think more thoughts such as this one.

But, he was preoccupied. He instead thought of his wife and son. He had not seen them in some hours. Ever since last night’s banquet, he had been out and about, only able to bid his family farewell and wish them good night. He had ridden all through Kanak to get to the headquarters of the capital’s guards and put together a slapdash squad that was to guard the Emissary’s villa, and a small unit that was designed to guard the queen, stationed in her lavish gardens. He had then ridden, with the first squad, to the guest villa of the westerners, and explained, as King Faroz had told him, the necessity of these guards. Now, he was again riding, this time to the expansive training fields on Kanak’s western fringe. The training exercises of the Pashtian Foreguard had never been completed the day before, because of the Emissary’s arrival, and they had been rescheduled to this morning. So, Morgos was obligated to attend.

It had been trendy to be seen riding a noble beast in Kanak, a horse of good breeding, but that fad went out of style after the conclusion of the Pashtian conquests, when the alliance with Alanzia was made. The walking fashion had diffused over Kanak from Alanzia. Queen Bekah and her train did not use horses. Faroz, being polite, did not do so either, and soon, no one was. Morgôs, on the other hand, required a swift mount, as his duties took him all around the city, and outside of it, on almost a daily basis. Horses, though, were not as long-lived as Elves. Mortal soldiers might bond with the steeds that bore them through thick and thin, but Morgôs could develop no attachments. He’d ridden more than twenty steeds in all of his days, who were named in records somewhere or other. At the Battle of Keldoraz, he’d had one shot out from under him, impaled with Alanzian shafts, and another stricken while he rode through the thick of battle, the carcass of the creature nearly crushing him at the time. His current transportation was a more regal steed, groomed for speed and grace rather than war. This horse had never worn the pitted battle armor of a general’s mount, except once, four years ago, at a rather pompous parade marking the twentieth anniversary of the formation of the Pashtian-Alanzian alliance. It was a thin creature, but its mane and hide shimmered with a gentle sheen that nearly glowed in the light of the morning sun, and its head was proud, neck arched upward to the sky. It was a pretty horse, certainly, but wouldn’t last a minute in pitch battle.

Kanak was a brilliant sight to see, but not for the Elven general. He had seen things greater and more terrible. The grandeur of the city waned, though, as Morgôs reached the outskirts. The walls lowered, the roofs lowered, and the sun seemed to go higher in the sky as thick tiled streets gave way to cobblestones, covered with a few meager weeds. At last, the cobblestones became dusty dirt, with makeshift paths, and the buildings disappeared behind, leaving small structures that cluttered the fringes of Kanak. Then, new structures sprang up, with high pointed roofs that swayed, with banners and pennons fluttering in the warm Pashtian wind. Pavilions and tents, filling the eaves of the city, fenced in by a low, thin stone wall. Past the many tents lay an expansive field, also walled in behind the thick outer walls of the city. The field was composed of dirt and some patches of grass, the whole area roughly a quarter league square, huge and barren. Upon it, soldiers mulled and mustered, marching, running, and meandering to and fro across it. They were preparing for the training exercises of that day.

Morgôs easily reined his steed in as his horse pulled through the gates of training ground walls and onto a path of flattened stones, into which several other paths converged. These roads led throughout the camp og the Pashtian army. Morgôs, as his braying horse trotted neatly to a stop, was greeted by a number of armored guards, whose plated pauldrons glistened in daylight. “General, welcome.” Said one, as the other two took the reins of Morgôs’ mount and helped him from it, “The exercises will not resume for a little while yet.” The General swung himself nimbly from the horse’s back, landing with Elven grace on the earth, and moved towards the guard. “Then I am early?” he said, hopefully.

“Yes, General, but not unlawfully so. Captains Aysun, Iskender, Memnon, and Adbullar are waiting in the strategic pavilion on the training fields, and they have sent word that you should meet with them. They have an issue to discuss with you, one relating to the Emissary from the west.” Morgôs knew the guard was referring to his seconds, the various commanders of the army. They usually had something to discuss with him, so this was not unordinary. Succinctly, Morgôs followed behind the guard who, taking cue from the General, hurried off towards the commissioned officer’s strategic pavilion, which was nearby.