The Warden

Chapter 12

"How much longer do we have to wait?" asked General Biligrim.

Master Elwith glanced at the man out of the corner of his eyes. Though a brilliant strategist and a seasoned warrior, the silvering man kept shifting his feet, never letting them settle. He kept one hand on the pommel of his sword, while his eyes darted about at every rustle or shake of the scraggly gorse growing in patches about them. Every few seconds he would glance toward the sinking sun, his eyes measuring how much daylight remained.

Not scared of the dark, are we general? Master Elwith coughed away his smirk. "Patience, general. The beastie told us she would arrive not long after sunset. We still have a finger's worth of daylight left. We're all anxious to kill a few wighties. Myself included. We just have to wait."

The general nodded, coughing into his fist. His feet did still a little, but Master Elwith could tell from how the middle-aged soldier's lifelight danced about, shot through with infinitesimal flecks of every shade of green imaginable, how the man truly felt. On some level it was a comfort. If even such a veteran like General Biligrim had issues with his nerves before going into a skirmish, Master Elwith could hardly fault himself for any of his own flutterings. Of course, he kept a tight grip on his nerves and lifelight so that neither wavered in the slightest.

Horses nickering drew his and General Biligrim's attention back to the rail-ship. Master Elwith looked at his creation, a self-satisfied smile creeping onto his lips as he inspected its proportions. It was so much more than a ship on wheels that rode along a track. No. It represented the future for the mages.

His foolish predecessors may have backed Master Elwith into the proverbial corner with their poorly conceived Waning, making it harder and harder to induct individuals into the mages' ranks without arousing suspicion. However, he felt confident he had a solution that would allow him to not only maintain his current position but advance it.

Industry. Industry was the answer. If he could produce services and goods that only mages were capable of making and maintaining, integrating them into the very structure of society to the point that first the nobility and then the commoners saw them as essential, he could secure the mages' position and rise for centuries to come.

His rail-ships, or the lines as the common folk called them, was one of many such improvements he planned to introduce to the kingdom.

He hadn't built the rail-ship personally, with his lifelight or hands. Mundane laborers were more suited to such a task, but he had been part of the collective that designed it and oversaw the construction.

The rail-ship, itself, designed to link together in a long chain of berths, was not the true innovation. Any craftsman of even middling ability could assemble one, since unlike a boat it did not have to be watertight. The true "magic" resided in the poles that lined the tracks at regular intervals. With an actual ship, the wind—its speed, direction, and consistency—dictated everything from course to arrival. The mages had eradicated all that pesky inconsistency by simply manufacturing the wind. Mounted in each pole, a stone and apparatus of elegant simplicity generated a constant current of air, allowing each rail-ship to maintain a regular speed.

Master Elwith's eyes brightened, peering down the line in the fading light. This would revolutionize travel, trade, everything. They had already covered a large portion of eastern Haimlant at great expense, but the profits had already begun to trickle in. And they would inevitably increase, since the whole system had to be maintained by mages.

Master Elwith rubbed his hands together. And this is just the beginning.

"Settle them down," called General Biligrim to his men unloading the horses from one of the berths. The iron-shoed hooves clopped loudly against the wooden ramp. Unused to traveling in such a manner and emerging into fading daylight, several of the mounts let out distressed whinnies. A few reared, tossing their manes about in protest.