Chapter One : The Spy

Later Morgan would remember it as the day everything changed, but as she entered the throne room, it looked like nothing so much as just another day for a country at war. The tables of the court were still covered with maps and supply trains and army attendance sheets; and with the King were most of his Chancellors, including Chancellor Herman, who was a personal friend of Morgan’s.

Stevu, the King of Maridia, was aging; his father had seen the early days of the war, and had died to it in those early years when the battles were much more straightforward and noble. Stevu had been Maridia’s king for twenty-six years, and had watched the war twist itself from a straightforward conflict into a hit-and-run battle of strange dark technologies. To Morgan’s reckoning, the war had been going on for over thirty years – longer than her lifetime; she’d been born to the war, and now defined herself and those around her by their part in it.

But Stevu and his father had been the Kings responsible for developing Maridia into the scientific center of the world. Maridia had always been a country known for its genius, its inventions, its scientific marvels; its people were clever and sharp, and before the war the Maridian Scholarly had been the leading institute for scientific endeavors. The war had changed that, rerouting all funding for research into magickal energy science and advanced healing development into the war effort: developing protection against the wicked fire ships and a weapon that could damage them. Stevu had actually recruited the Scholarly’s finest professor to be his Chancellor of Technology Development – Herman, who had single-handedly led Maridia’s efforts in turning their knowledge of magickal energies into weapons and defenses.

Morgan bowed to the King, and gave Herman a nod as she rose. She’d been here every two weeks, to report to the King; but the look on his face told her that there was news she may not have heard.

“General Morgan,” King Stevu said as greeting, “how does the Southern Outpost?”

“It does well,” Morgan replied. “We continue to fortify our position. The ground defenses are stable, and our efforts to convert the tower into a defensive structure are going as planned.”

“Not yet complete?” the King asked, although this was not a surprise; she and her men had only begun the tower’s conversion a month ago.

Morgan shook her head. “Although progress is good, we are not yet ready to defend a full-scale attack on the tower itself. If there is an attack, we can hold them off long enough for the Citadel armies to reach us; but we cannot yet hold it by ourselves.”

King Stevu digested this, making note of it on a nearby map which Morgan knew contained this week’s distribution of forces and supply trains. “Any sign of the fire ships?”

“No, sir. We have been scanning the horizon at set intervals, and have seen no sign of any Southern Forces.”

Herman looked up at mention of the scopes; it had been he who had taught the General to use them. “Any signs of strange activity in the tower itself?”

“No,” Morgan replied, and then chuckled briefly. “The strangest activity in the tower is from my men. They grow nervous around the machinery.”

Herman laughed in response. “We always fear what we do not understand,” he said, shaking his head. “I will be down in four days to take another look at the objects we found on that top floor.”

Morgan nodded, and the King gestured to her. “If there are no more problems, General, let us head into the library, where we can review the week’s assignments.”

She nodded again. Although her own personal assignment would remain at the southern tower, King Stevo liked to pick her mind on various strategies he employed in the defense of the Northern Continent’s various cities and trade ports. He often asked opinions of all three Generals – General Washburne commanded the Citadel defenses, while General Malcolm manned a portion of the forces at the Northeastern Outposts, in Rothandra – and combined the intuition of all three into a strong, clear attack plan.

Morgan knew her own strengths lay in planning defensive strategy; she was clever and cunning at using a particular army’s inherent strengths against all odds, and had saved many a “hopeless” battle with her intuition. As she bent over the week’s map, she idly brushed a couple of their trade convoys into different positions, providing much better warning if fire ships approached from the East –

“My Lord!” The voice from behind them made them all jump, as the greeting was panicked and sudden. A soldier – a messenger, she recognized from his armstripes, with a sinking feeling in her stomach – had run into the library, panting with exhaustion. “Lady General, sir! The Southern Outpost is under attack!”

Morgan closed her eyes briefly as she rose, then turned to the King, who nodded. “You must return immediately,” he said. She turned her gaze onto the soldier next; she didn’t recognize him.

“Is it the fire ships?” she asked.

He shook his head. “We don’t know, sir. Ships were just spotted; we only now got the message, so you should have time …”

She turned to the king, all thoughts of trade convoys gone from her mind as she began to mentally arrange the tower’s defenses to best advantage. “I take my leave, my liege. I will send word to General Washburne to be ready to come to our aid if need arises.”

“Godspeed,” said King Stevu, turning back to Herman to peruse the map, and Morgan was struck by how old and tired he looked.

And then there was no room for further thought, for she was following the messenger out of the Citadel, meeting up with the small legion of troops who would act as her guard as they made their way back to the southern outpost.

It was not far, maybe an hour’s journey, but even as they approached Morgan could see something was wrong; there was a sharp glowing light coming from somewhere, and her eyes narrowed, fearing the worst. But, as they drew nearer, she realized that the strange blue light was emitting from –

-from the top of the tower? Morgan stopped hastily, reining in her mount, and looked up. Yes, the light was coming from the very top of the tower, so that now it glowed like a beacon. The air around and below the tower was slightly thick with it, strangely blue, as if the air was full of dust.

“General?” one of the soldiers beside her questioned. “What is … that?”

“I don’t know,” Morgan said. She’d always been honest with her soldiers, and now was not the time to break her rule. “Let us make haste.”

They drew up to the gate which would allow them through the thick barrier around the southern outpost, and Morgan’s eyes registered another surprise: No fire ships. In fact, no ships at all. This battle is over.

The first guard at the gate saluted her. “Lady General, sir!”

Morgan dismounted and gave the chief’s-salute in return. “What’s our status?”

“They’re … gone, sir,” the guard replied uneasily.

“It must have been some sort of blitz attack,” added the second guard, seeing the thoughtful look pass over Morgan’s face.

“Thank the gods,” Morgan replied. “What did they do to the tower? Why is it shining that light?”

The guards exchanged a look, and then the second guard said hesitantly: “Honestly, sir … they seemed more surprised than we.”

Morgan shook her head. If the strange glowing light was no threat to her company, then it would have to wait – a mystery for which she would need more information. “Where are the captains?”

The first guard offered, “Captain Terence is in the Control Room. Captain Ayrin is in the Infirmary – she led the ground defenses, which took most of the damage.”

Morgan nodded. “As you were, men. Keep vigilance.” She left her mount with one of her guard, who she knew would return to the Citadel with news, and headed for the infirmary.

The soldiers were all glad to see her; some strangely reassured, as if her presence could fend off the thickly-lit air they all now breathed. As she spoke with them, briefly, and gathered information, she began to put together a story of the attack. Mostly, however, she worked to comfort and strengthen her men; there were many strange things in this tower, but not all were dangerous, and if (as legend said) the Naturi had truly been the makers of this strange beacon, it was probably more helpful than not.

Finally she made it into the Infirmary, where she found her Captain Ayrin, slightly worse for wear and nursing a broken arm, bent over the unconscious bodies of other men with a bottle of precious healing potion.

“General!” Ayrin stood and sharply saluted. Ayrin was a capable soldier whom Morgan had plucked from her company five years ago and promoted. The girl had a slight hero-complex where Morgan was concerned, but as she was observant and obedient, Morgan chose to ignore that.

“I’m glad to see you are alright,” Morgan said, somewhat warmly. “Can you give report now, or should I come back?”

Ayrin set down the bottle of potion; Morgan gestured to a chair, which Ayrin settled in thankfully,cradling her bandaged arm. “We lost a fourth of our battalion of ground forces,” she said grimly, and Morgan cursed inwardly; such a loss would set them back a good couple of weeks. “Several of the buildings were damaged,” Ayrin continued, “but the Southerners left before they could do any damage to the tower.”

There’s a blessing, Morgan thought. “No fire ships, then?”

The captain shook her head. “No, sir. Just soldiers and cruisers. All retreated.”

Morgan shook her head. “Why did they run?”

“Well, sir,” Ayrin said, a little hesitant wonder creeping into her voice, “the beacon lit up, and we were all pretty scared. However, the light formed some kind of barrier around the tower and effectively – stopped the attacks.”

Morgan looked up sharply. “How did it light up?”

“I haven’t looked into it, sir,” Ayrin said apologetically. “I’ve been caring for my men. Captain Terence may know more.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Morgan said. “Good work. I commend your defense. Take care.”

As she mounted the staircase, Morgan found herself obsessively deep in thought. The beacon, lighting up out of nowhere – seemingly – and repelling attack. The Naturi legends say that the towers had something to do with energy …could it just have been a natural defense of the tower?

She entered the Control Room, and Terence – her second Captain, one who had swiftly risen in another company and been transferred to her when she took up residence in the southern outpost – rose in a hasty salute.

The source of the strange glow was now revealed; a strange contraption had grown from the floor, where there had once been what had looked like a particularly ornate table. The machinery had somehow aligned itself and connected with an orifice in the ceiling, embedded in which was what appeared to be a crystal of some sort (squinting through the glow, Morgan could not be entirely sure if there was anything physically emitting the light or not). Apparently the object continued through the roof to the top of the Beacon, thus shedding the light on the surrounding area as well.

“General! You’re … you’re back!” She snapped her eyes back to Terence, who had been crouched over the strange machinery.

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. Terence was a confident young man with a mind for protocol; this hesitance was not like him.

“I came as fast as I could,” she said, knowing that it had most likely been Terence who had send the messenger bird in the first place. “Can you report? What happened?”

“I…” Terence trailed off, not meeting her eyes. “Um, I’m not sure.”

“That’s not like you.” She crossed her arms. “Start from the beginning.”

Terence nodded. “We had just spotted the ships using the scopes, and were scrambling for our stations. The Southern Army had cruisers; they let down a full platoon of men, who came ashore in boats. Captain Ayrin led the ground defenses.”

“Yes,” Morgan said, shifting her stance. “I knew that. What happened with this beacon?”

Terence winced, and then said all in a rush: “Well, I think it was me, sir, but – it wasn’t my fault!”

Morgan drew herself up to her full height and said sternly: “Explain.”

Terence began pacing nervously. “I was here, in the Control Room, commanding our archers and keeping vantage point on the battle. We heard something out on the balcony. It – in retrospect, it must have been an assassin of some sort.”

Morgan hissed in anger; Terence continued. “She stunned the two guards who were here and ordered me over to – this thing.” He approached the strange contraption that had once been a fancy table. Morgan followed, looking down at it, curiosity replacing her anger.

“She told me to put my hands on it, so I did,” Terence said, gesturing. “And as soon as I did, the whole thing lit up. I must have blacked out, or else she hit me, because when I came to, she was gone, and so was the Southern Army.”

“Captain Ayrin says the Southern Army ran from the light,” Morgan said, pensive. It certainly explained Terence’s nervous hesitation; but as she replayed the pieces in her mind, something just didn’t fit…

“My men said the same thing,” Terence replied. “It seems everyone was confused.”

“Something is not right,” Morgan pronounced. She began to pace the room herself, and Terence took a slightly relaxed stance for the first time, watching his General think.

“If the assassin had been from the South, the Southern Armies would have pressed their advantage in the confusion,” Morgan concluded finally.

“It – it wasn’t someone from the Citadel? Maybe from Chancellor Herman?”

Morgan almost laughed. “Would Herman send you an assassin? Anyway, one of our men wouldn’t have had to climb the balcony.” She looked down at the strange contraption, and then up at the glowing light. “I wonder if the assassin …if she is friend or foe.”

“It seems to have saved the day,” Terence replied, and then hastily again: “But sir, is it dangerous? The light? I’ve been trying to get it to turn off all day, but nothing is working.”

“It certainly doesn’t appear to be dangerous,” Morgan said. “You will send message to the Citadel, informing them of the attack and requesting Chancellor Herman’s assistance immediately.” She looked back up at the light, and added, almost as an afterthought: “He will be quite interested in our … beacon.”

Terence nodded. “We also ended up with a couple prisoners once the boats had left. We’re holding them for interrogation, but I wanted to wait for you. They may have more information about the assassin and the light.”

Morgan nodded. “Excellent. Send your message and then go oversee reconstruction on the ground floor. I will speak to the prisoners and then retake charge of the control room.”

Terence nodded and then left, returned to his normal and confident self. Curious, Morgan walked a full circle around the strange contraption once again. It reminded her of the kind of circuitry they used in the basement of the Maridian Citadel to light the corridors – but those ran on steam. If this was a circuit, what was it running on?

The legends speak of seven beacons, ancient energies bound by the Naturi…

She shook her head. Ancient legends would not help her here and now. Only information would. With one more cursory look around the control room, she closed it off and headed down the stairs to the dungeon, assigning two men to post guard at the control room door until her return.

The basement of the tower had been converted into a makeshift jail for the occasional dishonorable soldier or petty thief; it currently contained what looked to be one such petty criminal, along with three sullen soldiers dressed in Southern livery. As Morgan entered the room, its guard drew up to salute her, but before he could address her, a voice rang out:

“Hey! Hey, lady! Let me out of here! I wasn’t even part of your stupid battle!” It was the commoner, who had stood up and had his cuffed hands sticking out between the bars of his cell.

Morgan, almost amused, turned to the guard. “I see you have a live one,” she said.

The guard nodded, a weary nod, as if this particular prisoner had perhaps been yelling like this for quite some time. “We caught him in the inn-and-bar,” he said. “He appears to be a spy.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed as she glanced over; the commoner caught her gaze with a brazen grin, and called out, “But I’m an equal opportunity spy! How ‘bout it, my freedom for some information?”

Morgan shook her head in utter disgust. “Brazen fool,” she retorted, mostly to the guard. “No loyalty means no trust.”

Ignoring the clamor from the noisy cell, she approached the first soldier. “You are a soldier of the Southern Army?” she asked him curtly; he spat at her feet, and instead of giving him another chance, she moved on.

The second soldier looked up at her as she approached his cell. “You are a soldier of the Southern Army?” she queried again, to which he replied: “Damn straight, and proud!”

The commoner was yelling something again, but Morgan tuned him out. “What do you know about our tower and the light?”

The soldier looked up at her wearily. “We didn’t have any information about your fancy defensive barrier before we attacked. But we retreated! You should let me go.”

“Unlikely,” Morgan replied coolly, and approached the third cell. The soldier inside was a young woman, asleep; Morgan made a mental note and moved on – to the final cell.

The commoner grinned up at her cheekily. He looked like any other Southerner – tawny brown hair held back with a shaggy bandana, middling height. He wore a traveling cloak over what looked to be a uniform of some sort; it could have been a Southern imitation. What impressed the most on Morgan’s mind was the strange manner in which he held himself and moved: it was as if he were constantly shifting, too fast for the eye to see.

“You are a soldier of the Southern Army?” she asked him, stonefaced.

“Look,” he said, his tone casual. “I deal in information, and I’ve got something I know you want.”

Morgan sneered. “You disgust me,” she said.

He simply shrugged. “Heard that one before,” he said casually. “So how’s about a deal?”

Morgan simply turned on her heel and stalked away, nodding to the guard as she put her foot on the first stair –

“You wanna hear the truth about the fire ships?”

She froze. A thousand questions filled her mind, but – Southerner and spy though he may be – the chance to learn firsthand about the technology behind the deadly ships could prove to be the key to Maridia’s victory…

She turned around, taking two angry steps towards his cell. “Excuse me?”

“That’s right,” said the man, grinning at her again. “There’s a truth about those fire ships, and boy, it’s a good one. Also, I have information about your new beacon, and why it’s glowing like the frickin’ sun.” He gestured to the soldiers in the cells around him; it was not a polite gesture. “I’ve got more information than these chunks’ll have, anyway.”

Morgan sighed. The man’s very presence grated on her; but if she brought him to Herman, and they learned how to penetrate the fire ships, or how to defend against them…

“What do you want for it?” she said finally.

The man’s eyes gleamed. “First, you’ve gotta let me out of this cell.”

Morgan nodded; she’d expected nothing less. Turning to the guard, she asked, “What exactly is he here for? Being a Southern spy?”

The guard opened his mouth, but again the man roared to interrupt: “A measly fifty gil!”

The guard nodded, somewhat satisfied. “This man is a pickpocket, General. He was arrested in the tavern; but when we searched him, we found Southern papers.”

“See?” called the man, indignant. “I wasn’t even in your stupid war! I’ve been in here for two days!” He then added as a necessary afterthought: “And gods and angels, does it smell.”

“Wait,” Morgan said, turning to the man again, as something clicked. “If you’ve been here for two days …how do you know the beacon has been lit?”

A grin lit up his face, and he imprudently waggled a finger at her. “Hey, no information until I’m out of here,” he said.

It was perhaps this piece of information that made Morgan believe his wild claims of information more than anything – a man, locked in a basement for two days, who nevertheless knew something about the light that had lit the sky…

“Guard, release his shackles,” she ordered. “Once King Stevu arrives, I will take the prisoner into my custody, and we will meet with his majesty and the Chancellor.”

She leveled a strong gaze at the spy in his cage. “You have until then to think up all the evidence you possibly can to make me actually believe you.”

He grinned at her. “Information is my middle name, lady. I’ve got other news, too. Southern battle tactics? Locations of all five southern fleets? The regent’s middle name? You just let me know.”

“Your name,” Morgan said, sternly.

“Flash,” he said, extending a newly-freed hand through the cage. “Call me Flash. It’s nice to finally meet you, General Morgan.”

Morgan shook her head, looking bemusedly at his hand, and then heading back up the stairs to prepare the control room for the king’s arrival.