11. Chapter 11 #2
Gregor licked each finger on his hand, chewing his breakfast loudly in between. Cyrus had never been one to pay attention to anyone’s table manners, much less be bothered by them, but he found his appetite quickly waning now. And his patience.
They’d spent the better part of the morning at an impasse. Gregor wanted to negotiate building alliances. Cyrus wanted to negotiate breaking them.
“I just don’t know how you expect me to make up for the loss in trade from Mikael,” Gregor said.
“Tarsus trades rice,” Cyrus said. Tarsus was a premier island trading port situated in the middle of the Atolean Sea.
It sat just off the coast of Hetahl, the kingdom Gregor had stolen from his youngest brother.
Cyrus expected trading in Tarsus would be the same or less effort than dealing with the Shadowlands.
“At premium prices!” Gregor exclaimed.
“The same premium prices you’d charge for your own goods.”
Gregor guzzled from his chalice, then thudded it down in front of him, sending droplets of wine splashing over the rim and onto the table. “I already rely too much on Tarsus. This would make me fully dependent.”
Cyrus didn’t care.
“Men, then,” Gregor said. “Ten legions.”
Ten legions. Fifty thousand men. That was three-quarters of Cyrus’s current force.
He wasn’t giving Gregor that. However, he wasn’t opposed to sending men.
His numbers were growing fast, almost faster than he could feed and house them.
Also, if he had men in Japheth, he wouldn’t have to move as many across the Aged Sea when he was ready to march against the Shadow King.
“My people push me to move against Serra,” Cyrus told him. “I need to see to this first. Then I can send all the legions you can hold.”
Gregor nearly choked on his food. “Serra?”
“They are slavers of men. I can’t let them remain.”
“You can take Serra anytime. Did you not hear me about the Mercian wench? She’s plotting with my brother now! We have to be prepared to respond when they act.”
Cyrus didn’t care about Mercia and Aleon, nor was he convinced a threat from them was imminent. And he couldn’t put off Serra. The people of Rael were becoming restless.
“When Phillip moves against me, Mercia will stand with him,” Gregor said. “And Mikael will join them. That cunt heels him like a dog.”
“She controls the Shadow King?” He didn’t believe that.
“By the balls. You know he annulled his wives for her?”
Cyrus sat back in his chair. “He had more than one wife?”
“Living every man’s dream. She stripped it all from him. And he just let her.”
Hardly every man’s dream. One woman was enough as far as Cyrus was concerned.
“I heard she freed all his servants around the castle.” Gregor chuckled. “I would have loved to have been there to see his face.”
Cyrus leaned forward. “She did what?”
“And his Destroyer is sworn to her now.” The king snorted. “I assume that means he’ll be doing a little less destroying . I could have done so much with that man.”
Cyrus sat back again and crossed his arms. Had he judged this queen wrong?
No. And this couldn’t be true. He’d seen the aftermath of her capture with his own eyes.
How could she go from that to taking so much control?
But it would explain the vision of the commander at the queen’s side as she went to Aleon…
“Anyway, the bitch will call Mikael to her aid,” Gregor said, “and I’ll need you to handle him so I can focus on Phillip.”
An opportunity at the Shadow King. That was what Gregor was offering him. But how likely was that? And how soon?
“When?” he asked. “When would we move?”
Gregor nodded smugly. “I’m just waiting for Phillip to tip his hand.”
That wasn’t good enough. “When?” he pressed.
“Soon!”
Cyrus’s army was nearly ready to move against Serra. They had upward of seventy-five thousand men, with more joining training each week, although he didn’t need them all—not for Serra—not even close. However, it was what he’d agreed to with his council.
“Break your alliance,” he told Gregor. “Pull your trade from the Shadowlands and I’ll send you three legions.”
“ Three? That’s only fifteen thousand men!”
“To start.”
“Seven,” Gregor countered.
Cyrus didn’t completely object to the notion. “Pull your trade from the Shadowlands and I’ll send you seven legions.”
“Send them first,” Gregor insisted.
“After you pull your trade.” And after he was certain the Shadow King was truly within reach.
Gregor scoffed. “You want me to act on good faith for our alliance, but you won’t do the same?”
Cyrus took a drink from his chalice. His wine was the only part of his breakfast he’d had.
“Fine,” he said finally. “I’ll send four legions now, three after.
And you’ll feed them.” His council wouldn’t like it, but it would force Gregor to act, and it would also take some burden off Rael’s swelling ranks.
And he still had more than enough for Serra.
Gregor clapped his hands together. “We have an accord! You see? We both move forward in good faith.”
Good faith wasn’t what Cyrus would have called it.