Central Orenaen, March 17th-18th
Promagus Kniwles leaned back in his chair, waiting for the next speaker to approach the stand. She was an Antemage, not even full fledged yet, so he wasn't inclined to take her seriously. However, she had been slotted to talk about golem sentience, a subject usually reserved for late night speculation, and such an unusual choice caught his interest. He turned to Olan, another Promagus sitting next to him, and was about to comment on the topic before being cut off by the applause, which signaled the speaker had reached the podium.
She began to speak, introducing herself and listing her meager achievements and titles. Then, she moved onto the main part of her speech. "I stand here today to talk you to you about an extremely important point. As we all know, golems are an integral part of modern warfare, and have been used, and abused, since the beginning of human existence. However, most people view them as emotionless servants, existing only because we willed them to, and possessing no thoughts or emotions of any kind.
"I, however, object to this school of thought. I believe golems are living creatures, born of magic and I propose that they are, in fact, alive." She paused, ostensibly to take a breath, but she never got a chance to finish her thought. The council chamber erupted in a mass outcry, all sense of order disappearing, the open floor rapidly becoming a mob. Mages were reacting strongly to the claim, and Kniwles sympathized: he had opinions on the matter, but had never voiced them. For people to react to such statements so radically was no surprise.
He knew golems had been recorded showing pain and making feeble attempts at communication, but those were mostly attributed to the mage's mental state rather than sentience. However, now that he once again seriously considered the point, he saw that this was something that needed to be examined further. However, the chamber was devolving into chaos, and he chose to wait it out in his room.
He retreated, rushing through the hallways, which were packed with similarly thinking council members. He reached his quarters, locking the door as he pulled out a small stone figurine, shaped like a miniature human. It was used for making domestic golems, servant to cook and clean. He quickly muttered the incantation, and the eyes on the mannequin popped open, glowing like the hearthstones of a fire. He had never tried conversing with a golem, thinking of it as talking to a rock.
"Hello," he muttered, embarrassed that he would even think of trying such a thing. Then, a moment later, he heard a grumble, emanating from deep inside the golem. It sounded suspiciously like 'help'.
"Damnit. I think she might be right," he whispered, before he collapsed to the ground.
Three hours later, Kniwles awoke to a pounding on his door. He heard the voices of a mage, "Promagus? Are you in there?"
"Yes. Who is disturbing me?"
"That is not important, Promagus, when time is of the essence. You need to come down to the council chamber." Her voice, for it was now clearly a woman's, was pleading.
"Not now. I'm trying to rest." Kniwles was still reeling from his earlier shock, and felt unwilling to even stand up.
"Yes, now. You will come or I will drag you down there myself. You need to come immediately."
"Fine." Kniwles stumbled over to the door, and unslid the bolt. "Now, tell me, what is going on?" he asked as he pulled open the door. Suddenly, waves of sound hit him, arguments about golems perfectly audible.
"I've amplified the sound to be only twice as loud," the Postmage said, waiting for the implications of that to sink in.
"But... The council chamber is a a quarter mile away... Through solid walls. Oh no! Oooohhhhh nonononono!" He knew, or at least suspected, what was happening.
"Yes," she responded. Suddenly, the Promagus ran off, hurrying as quickly as his old body could carry him. His gray robes waved behind him, mirroring his flowing white hair. Minutes later he arrived at the crowded council chamber, an open air amphitheater in the center of Orenaen.
The chamber was in chaos, as mages of all different disciplines are hued amongst themselves. Snippets of conversation could be heard, most of them containing the word 'golem'. Kniwles shouted, yelling until his throat hurt, but still the mob argued. Finally, he turned and nodded to a servant, who whispered a short incantation.
The Promagus jumped onto a table and spoke normally, his voice amplified twelve times. "Please calm down everyone. I know what the Antemagus said was... Revolutionary, but this is not the way to handle it. We need to discuss this, debate it as we have always done. Now, I for one have evidence to support the Antemagus. I created a golem, and I said the word 'hello' to it. A sound emanated back, but it was not a response to my greeting. The golem appeared to say the phrase 'help me'."
The room once again descended into an uproar, the new information beginning to sink in. "Quiet down, quiet down," Kniwles said. "We can't be sure that's what I actually heard. I, for one, am not going to let this affect my view on golems. They are servants, and they will stay that way."
Most of the mages seemed to agree, but still a large group were shaking their heads angrily. One of the most vocal, a fellow Promagus named Roryn, stood up from where he had been reclining and started to talk, his voice unamplified, doggedly continuing, ignoring the fact that no one could hear him. Slowly, people began to take notice, ceasing speaking and and instead turning to him. "I believe that forcing these golems to fight against their will is both immoral and unethical. These golems are forced into servitude, unable to even disobey orders, and yet we abuse them. Whether they can communicate or not, I feel they have emotions, and will no stand for the continuation of this exploitation. Unless the council outlaws the use of golem warfare, I will exit this chamber and never return."
"We will do no such thing!" Kniwles exclaimed, and eight Promagi echoed their support, the bare minimum to gain majority. Suddenly, Roryn leapt from his seat and marched from the room, throwing his Promagus badge behind him. Slowly, a single Postmage rose as well, casting down his signs of office. An Antemage followed, someone Kniwles knew. He was a healer and a quiet one, but now his face was knotted in passion. He tore off his green healer robes and ran out the door, passing Roryn on his way. Gradually, more and more left, and the time the exodus stopped, only roughly two thirds of the council remained, a mound of discarded robes rising front he floor like an ominous spike thrust front he ground. Seven Promagi had joined Roryn, severely weakening the council's powers, and Kniwles was unsure what he could do. He returned to his rooms, resolved to make a desicion I'm the morning.
The next day, Kniwles awoke to the sun streaming through his window. He quickly got dressed, mistakenly putting his hat on backwards, and rushed to the Promagus briefing room, eager to find out if any deserters had returned. As he reached the door and started whispering the password, a Postmagus approached him. "Sir, sir! Nations are taking sides in this... Disagreement. Already, Tridia has announced it will stand firm with the council, as has Silisia. However, Ilynein and Arynth have sided with the enemy!"
"Now, my good man, the deserters are not the 'enemy’! We have merely had an argument."
"That said, sir, war seems imminent. Last we heard, from about eight hours ago, Ilynein is mobilizing troops on the Tridian border, and no one knows for sure if a fight can be avoided. This golem conundrum seems to be tearing the region apart.” The Postmagus seemed to relish delivering the news, as if ruining someone’s day was his favorite hobby.
“Well, Postmagus, I think we have nothing to fear. Tridia will be able to hold off the both of them, especially seeing as they probably won’t use golems.” Kniwles rushed by the upstart, hurrying into the emptier than normal Promagus chamber. “Iryth, Olan, what does Roryn think he’s up to?’
“We don’t know, Kniwles. I think it may be a play for power. I don’t think Roryn cares about golems at all,” Olan responded, as he walked towards the breakfast table.
“I agree,” responded Kniwles, pouring himself some tea. Irith sat in a corner chair, silent as ever. “The question is, what does he want to gain? He’s already a Promagus, the highest office, what further could he want?”
“I believe he wishes to be Solemagus, for life. He doesn’t care about the cost.”
"I hope that is not his goal, as it would e costly for us all." He seated himself at a table near the door, and started to eat his breakfast. Over an hour later, someone began pounding on the door. Kniwles opened it, and found before him a dirty, tired boy, dressed in the woolen tunic of a messenger.
“Sir!” the boy yelled, straightening his exhausted body. “I bring news from the Tridian frontlines in Eusus and Orynth. War has been declared on both peninsulae. Tridian is already falling back, caught by surprise. Also, Roryn has been killed by his own men, who say he is not a true believer. General Thurin of Tridia says he is unsure how long both lines can be held, even with their power. We need to help them!”
“Nay, child. This is not a war for the Council to fight. Any intervention by us would trigger more trouble than it’s worth. Nations would turn against us, and we would lose all power. Even if we were to join, we lost nearly half of the Promagi yesterday. Our magic is severely weakened. I’m sorry, but there is nothing we can do.”
"But, sir. We must protect our ideology! We must fight for what we believe is right!" The boy was becoming insistent, seemingly possessing strong views on the matter.
"The thing is, boy, I'm not sure what is right anymore." He returned to his seat, determined to find where he stood on the issue.
***
Southern Eusus, March 18th
Doryn ducked into a nearby hole, barely dodging the incoming elemental. Quickly she mumbled a counter spell, dispelling the spirit. She poked her head out of the foxhole, surveying the battle in front of her. The Ilyneinians had caught the Tridians by surprise, a fact clearly displayed by their poor showing in this fight. Already, half of the hastily constructed golems lay prone on the ground, slaughtered by the very armies that claimed to be fighting to protect them.
The line was three hundred feet in front of her, down the steep hill on which she was perched. Doryn was a sniper, a long range Destruction mage who stayed behind the lines and picked off the most powerful enemy casters. She popped out once more, evaluating the clashing lines of infantry and golems far below. The left flank seemed to be sagging, the weak and speedily summoned spirits flagging after only half an hour of engagement. The center, where the veterans and skilled mages were concentrated, was holding, and the right seemed to even be advancing. Granted, that was where the golems were located, but it was a victory nonetheless.
The ground shook as a golem regiment pulled back from the main line, running a hundred feet backwards before turning and charging into the center of the seething mass of disorderly infantry. Faster than Doryn could blink, the foot soldiers coalesced into a compact mass, pointing pikes toward the charge. One after another, the golems impaled themselves on the ends before crumbling with the wind, reduced to the clay they were created from.
She fired off a few quick lightning bolts, aiming for a Summoner directly in front of her, but the shot flew wide and hit a red robes low level Destruction mage. Instantly, fifteen spells flew back at her, dashing uselessly off her shield. In the distance, she saw massive plumes of fire, supposedly the lead Elementalist for the enemy. As she watched, seven men on the already wavering left flanks fell to the ground, frozen to death, his hands still grasping feebly at his chest. In a flurry of magic, another fell, incinerated and burnt to a crisp. His white Illusionist robes fell blackened to the mud, scattering in the wind. Beside him, a healer fell to a strike of water, the water in the air around him driven through his skull. And still the Elementalist advanced, leaving dead bodies around him. Before long, a single coward began to run. Slowly, another followed, and another, and before long the entire left hand side had routed.
Doryn watched helplessly as the enemy wheeled around their cavalry and spirits, slamming into the center's flank again and again, pounding the men there into ever tightening formations. She fired helplessly into the milling crowd, hitting red cloak after red cloak. They fell before her shots, and she felt the battle rage wash over her, strengthening the magic and enabling her to accomplish more and more. But her efforts were not enough. No matter how many shots she fired, no matter how many apprentices' lives she ended, they would still lose. She saw in the distance Thurin give the order to retreat, but she refused. She unleashed all her might, draining herself of energy. A ball of pulsing light arced towards the Elementalist, exploding around him with the force of a bomb. With her last glimpse before she heeded the order to retreat, she saw him laughing, his shield protecting him.
***
Southern Eusus, March 21
They had been chasing the fleeing Tridians for days now, working their way through the rough highlands of Central Eusus. Over thirty lives had been lost the previous day in a landslide, including an Elementalist, who specialized in, ironically, Earth magic. Ander had known him well, and they had dined together the previous night. It was shocking he was gone, especially in such a dishonorable manner, but such was life.
Ander, a Summoner, bent down, his blue robes sullied by the mud. Casting them off in disgust to get rid of the hampering cloth, he stooped once more, stoking the camp fire for his commanding officer. He had been assigned to work duty today, which thankfully got him out of the harsh drills run by General Hyren, a tyrannical man obsessed with discipline.
Just as the fire began to roar, his officer exited his tent. Sitting by the fire, the imposing man in black robes pored over the complex series of terrain charts and troop movements that summarized the campaign. Ander wandered away, as the man, known as Chief, seemed preoccupied. He gazed down the rock face they were descending, looking out at the spacious plains beyond. He hoped traversing that wide area would be easier than this hell he was currently in.
Looking back towards the fire, he saw a messenger approaching quickly. As Chief's servant-for-the-day, it was his duty to greet all the petioners wishing to see him. He hurried over, pulling his mud splattered robes over his head as he went. He skidded to a stop before the Postmage, greeting him. "Welcome! Are you here to consult Postmage Chief?"
"Of course, slave. Why else would I be here? Now move out of my way, before I have your master whip you."
"I am no slave, sir. I merely have been assigned to Chief in place of a golem." Ander fought back the urge to Summon a Marid, knowing that such an act would have him executed for treason.
"Why do you assume I care? I must meet with your master." The mage blew by Ander, making a beeline for the Chief.
