350 AC, The Capital City of Neraka. The losses of the Silvanesti Campaign dealt a tremendous blow to the morale of the Dragonarmies. After the inevitable purges came in search of who to blame, a Lemish merchant by the name Elan of Muskheim found himself in the unlikely position of Blue Dragon Highlord. It didn’t take long for him to be summoned for a personal audience with Emperor Ariakas after word caught on of his revolutionary new policies.
“Our forces are massing on the Solamnic border,” Ariakas said, his tone slow and deliberate, the weight of an entire continent on his shoulders. “And yet the Blue Dragonarmy is hundreds of miles to the east, far behind schedule.”
Elan, still not entirely adjusted to the weighty scale mail of a Highlord, merely beamed with the confidence of Zivilyn’s surety.
“Ansalon is stuck in the old ways,” Elan began, “still thinking with backwards concepts such as supply lines and soft power. To save funds I cut down on quartermasters and entrusted logistics to an elite team of Black Robe wizards who can teleport our soldiers across vast distances, instantly!”
Emperor Ariakas creased his hands, leaning back in his chair. Clearly Elan had gotten his attention. “Ah, the teleport spell,” he began. “Magic only a few Wizards of High Sorcery can master. Tell me Highlord Muskheim, how do you suppose you’ll use a few wizards to teleport 38 siege engines, 24 blue dragons, 5,257 soldiers, and 2,785 camp followers to Kalaman’s outskirts within the month? Especially when even that mightiest of spells can only transport 9 people at a time, and even archmages can only muster the summonings three times a day at most?”
Ariakas leaned forward. “And more importantly, how much did it cost to hire the Order of Black Robes for this endeavor?”
Elan spoke quickly. Too quickly, to give the aura of confidence rather than show doubt or fear. He knew what the impression of uncertainty and weakness brought about during the Purges.
“44 billion steel pieces, My Lord!”
For once the Emperor was at a loss for words. He merely sat at his Vallenwood desk for several long silent seconds before pulling signed documents out of a drawer.
“It says here that the Zhakar ambassador has cut off all ties with us after you accused him of pedophilia. Honestly I don’t care about whatever personal spats you have with our primary weapons dealers, but I’m hoping that the next words which leave your mouth are truly revolutionary tactics that will all but guarantee our conquest of Solamnia to make up for this…expense.”
Elan spoke again as soon as the last word escaped the Emperor’s lips; he was already thinking of his answer before Ariakas finished his sentence. There could be no showing of weakness, no doubt as to his grand vision. That was what spelled his predecessor’s demise, and forced the White Dragonarmy into occupying a polar backwater.
“To make up for lost funds, I signed an order allowing for the sale of Blue Chainmail on the open market!” Highlord Muskheim answered. “They’re already a status symbol in the occupied territories, and have been ordered in bulk by just about every noble house in eastern Ansalon!”
It was at this point the Emperor's imposing veneer cracked, showing a side of him he never shown even in front of his closest advisors. “You are to tell me,” Ariakas began, his voice rising, “that you are selling the exclusive uniform of Dragonarmy Officers...”
His grip tightened on the Vallenwood desk, its solid frame beginning to show cracks.
“...to any spy, any merchant looking to get out of taxes…"
He was shouting now.
"...to any two-bit idiot who happened to luck into wealth…!”
This had never happened before in front of another soldier. Shouts of genuine anger, and not the feigned passion given at his speeches in the Colosseum of Sanction. The Blue Dragon Highlord tried to speak, but he never got the opportunity. Like the flames of a fresh spark Ariakas rose from his seat, a flash of cape closing the distance between himself and the Highlord.
“...and will surely be the first to die in a real war!”
...
356 AC, the War of the Lance has ended. Nobody knew what happened to Highlord Muskheim since his replacement by Kitiara the Blue Lady. He would go down as one of Ansalon’s unlikeliest unsung heroes, an enigma to scholars on both sides of the War of the Lance. Was he an opportunist who let his greed be his downfall? A true fighter of freedom sabotaging the Dragonarmies from within? Or perhaps just a man who was in the wrong place at the right time?
That is an answer only the gods know.
