Saved from the judgement of the Conclave after the events triggered by the Battle of Nepenthe, Fredrik was anointed King of Brandengrad with little time to grief the loss of his father or allow for celebrations in his name. Dwarfed by the overwhelming display of Spire power in Vatsdam and dangerously isolated by his actions, his attention was turned to Riismark. Cementing his few alliances through marriage and political maneuvering, he turned his eyes not against his enemy, but his neighbors instead.
The year that followed proved volatile for the entire province of Riismark. With the help of his allies, Kings Brand and Otto chiefly among them, he launched a campaign against any in Riismark that wished to see him crushed under Nepenthe’s chitin boot. Ignoring etiquette and the usual practice of war, he raged on through the winter months, isolating enemies and defeating them in court and field alike. Through battle, hostages and marriages, one by one, the rest of the eleven crowns of Riismark either fell in battle or bent the knee. But as long as local houses chose to ignore the ancient oaths or even actively oppose his claims in the Conclave, he knew such a victory held little significance.
Exploiting the unexpected silence of Nepenthe and the Alchemist, Fredrik decided that risking the ire of the Conclave but bringing Riismark under his and his allies’ control in its entirety was necessary. In one fell swoop, he culled through any noble who questioned him, removing long established houses and offering their titles and lands to allies instead. In Riismark, he was named First of the Eleven, as per the ancient custom of the land; in the Conclave, however, what few allies he had left, he forced them to silence, withdrawing their support. Before he had a chance to address the matter and cement his rule with the approval of the Conclave, war was brought from three fronts on his lands.
Dweghom clans led by Alekhaneros of Ghe’Domn came from the east, announcing no reason and making no demands in the process. In the south, tribes of W’adrhŭn led by Nagral of the Coati crossed into Riismark, guided by Everard of the Order of the Sword and the careful maneuvering of Russ nobles who gently steered the barbarians into Fredrik’s lands, knowing he stood alone. At his eastern borders, reports placed the Chamberlain’s war-dog, Erich Schur, in position to move to Riismark whenever ordered. And finally, a great Nord invasion, led by Konungyr Gudmund Odin-eyed, landed on Riismark’s shores – the only shores the Conclave did not rush to fortify. Isolated by his peers in the Kingdoms, Fredrik and his allies faced multiple threats on multiple fronts – and the threat of Nepenthe ever loomed over his lands and people.
Deciding it would be impossible to engage on all fronts, Fredrik ordered the Riismark Kings to fortify their lands and gain as much time as they could, as Riismark’s troops were being rallied. This left time for his enemies to move almost freely and by the time he was ready to move, much had been lost. Ultimately, securing the Dweghom’s absence on the field and while negotiating with the W’adrhŭn for settling rights, his forces moved mainly against the Nord king Gudmund, storming the city of Angengrad which the Nords had come to occupy. It was during the attack that Nepenthe stroke; caring little for resources or losses, elite clones and suicidal harpies fell upon the armies of Riismark, forcing Fredrik to retreat and allowing the Nord King to survive and maintain control of the city.
By the end of the Riismark Campaign, Fredrik and his allies stood; but much of Riismark did not. While the W’adrhŭn tribes were ultimately accepted by Brand in his lands and an uneasy form of feafdom was formed, the Dweghom had raised the city of Enderstradt before their force dissolved, the clans abandoning Alekhaneros with only a few faithful followers. At the same time, much of the north remained under Gudmund’s control, with Angengrad serving as his seat of power. Realizing his hopes of a unified Riismark were all but dead and preciously bereft of allies – instead having witnessed the readiness with which his peers in the Conclave and even the Chamberlain himself had abandoned him – Fredrik turned to the only option he had left: the Orders.
His decision was challenged even by his two closest allies; and this tension became worse when he decided to reveal to them that he had come to terms with a ceasefire with the Alchemist of Nepenthe. In a heated discussion that tested their long alliance, the three ultimately agreed. The Alchemist’s absence from the theater of war did not mean long-lasting peace and the debt would be settled. In the meantime, that same absence should be used efficiently. While the Temple of the Sealed Temple funded the reconstruction of Enderstradt and Vatsdam, the Order of the Sword would spearhead the war effort against the Nords. But while this would potentially bring victory in Riismark, Fredrik understood that without rebuilding bridges with the Conclave, such a victory would mean little. Using the presence of a young, spirited noble from Erich Schur’s troops on the front against the Nords, the King of Brandengrad invited the Chamberlain’s general to his lands to secure the young noble’s life – offering a possible victory against the Nords to the Imperial forces and perhaps open communications once more.
As he allowed Schur and the Order of the Sword to spearhead the reclaiming of Angengrad and Riismark’s northern shores, little did he know that the Swordmaster and his Order had plans of their own. On the eve of battle against Gudmund and his Nords, Everard and his Grand Master plotted for the future of their Order – and Riismark with it.
Following his devastating defeat at Vatsdam and his ascension to the throne, Fredrik could either pursue conflict with the Spires immediately or consolidate his power. Both ideas have merit as careful observations of enemy movements suggest that the Nepenthe Spire is plagued by internal strife, making it an ideal time to strike. It would be reckless however as Olfrend of Degstradt, a known Theist sympathiser, has mustered his men and is seeking to undermine Fredrik’s rule and challenge his borders.
(Choice: )
Fredrik attacked Degstradt to establish his rule and influence over Riismark, before all else.
Olger watched as his young king paced restlessly across the richly appointed room. His intense gaze and focused demeanor concealed the generous and kind nature he knew lurked within. From behind the door he could hear the loud arguments of the other lords of Riismark. They titled themselves ‘Kings’, but Olger refused to acknowledge that rapacious rabble as anything more than jumped up bandits.
As he mused, he noticed Frederick had stopped his pacing and his face settled into a grim cast. He looked up and spoke.
‘There is no sense delaying this. Olger, respond to King Brand. I accept his offer and shall take his daughters hand in marriage. Pen a response to Brand as well, I will support his claim on the Margravate of Bartenstein. All I ask is for his recognition of my claims on Dregsdat and its vassals.’ The King spoke calmly as he upended a centuries old balance and all but guaranteed a vicious war.
‘At once, Sire’. Olger knew the man intimately. There was no dissuading him when he adopted that tone of voice.
His mind made up, the King thrust open the double doors to the assembly and prepared to inform its participants they were now at war.
Kind and generous, yes… but weak? Kings could not afford to be weak.
‘My Lord’, Olger spoke quietly, ‘the latest reports you requested.’Fredrik barely acknowledge his presence, a quick glance, and a grunt about the limit of the capacity he could spare his Chamberlain as he studied the map. The silence stretched until Olger spoke.‘Your winter campaign was a masterful stroke, sire.’ He paused and glanced at his lord, whose growing impatience was visible as a deepening frown.‘Olfrend’s northern holdings have been taken and the fortresses of Angerburg and Kulm reduced.’ Here Olger paused, uncertain. ‘The…uhh…unexpected…ahh…timing…of the attack means our forces marched mostly unopposed upon his lands. Our forces are now quartered in his fortresses for the winter and he shall not be able to mount a counteroffensive until the spring thaw…’‘By which time the melt will have swollen the Oder river giving us more than enough time to pacify the countryside and reduce his manpower pool to almost nothing,’ Fredrik interrupted tersely. ‘I did not call on you to tell me what I already knew’, he said, turning to the Chamberlain. ‘I want you to inform me on what I don’t know.’‘Of course, sire. My apologies.’ Olger took a quick breath before continuing. ‘Lord Statten, Olfrends closest ally, is mobilizing his forces in response to Lord Otto’s advances, but this you already knew,’ finished quickly as Fredrik shot him an annoyed glance. ‘He has already declined Olfrend’s request for aid.’ A quick glance showed him the kings grim smile and he continued, now on safer ground. ‘I have also received a report from our informants that Jasko has refused to move to Ofrends aid. Reasons unknown.’At this, Olger smiled wolfishly and turned to face his lord directly.’ Although he has sent a letter to your betrothed inquiring about the health of his eldest son, who has remained a…guest…at Lord Brand’s manor since your betrothal to his daughter was announced.’‘So Olfrend is isolated. Good.’ The king matched his wolfish grin and turned to his adjutant.‘Gather the men. We march on…’
(Choice: )
…Ofrend. We kill the snake in his own den, shatter the power block and then turn on Statten. Come the spring, we will have shattered this alliance completely, taken their land and will be able to negotiate with Jasko for the safe return of his heir.
The weather was miserable. A steady downpour of almost freezing water whose steady efforts at drowning the men were only interrupted by freezing gales that swept from the sea, seeking to rob his troops of whatever treasured warmth they had managed to hoard since the morning.
Fredrik turned to look at his forces as they wearily trudged through the sucking wound of mud that the roads had become since the onset of this downpour. The relentless pace and bitter cold had conspired to rob his army of more men than he had lost storming Kulm, Angerburg and Offred together. Heads bowed and limbs stiff from the cold, most of them looked more dead than alive and Fredrik would never have guessed looking at his men, that this force had shattered one of the most powerful kingdoms in the North a scant few weeks ago and currently carried enough plunder to refill his coffers and allow these men to drink themselves into insensibility for the next few years. Ruefully shaking his head, the king acknowledged that the fact they could buy themselves an inn or a farm with that money would never cross the mind of most of his men.
Still, Fredrik could not allow the pace to slow. They needed to be in position at the Glauburg fords within the week to cut off Statten’s line of supply. Statten would then be forced to decide how to end this war: getting crushed beneath Otto’s hammer and Fredrik’s own defensive position across the ford, or watch his army scatter due to lack of food, fuel and pay.
Either way, fewer men would ultimately be lost, so he steeled his heart and beckoned to his adjutant to relay the necessary orders. Statten would fall within the week.
Olger sighed heavily and fretted while looking at the pile of documents on his desk. Between deeds of purchase, loot reports and treasury recounts he was staring at the accumulated wealth of two of the greatest fiefdoms of Riismark. Those represented a headache… but one that could be managed. There were, after all, established customs and traditions for the redistribution of wealth amongst the conquering allies.
The real headache was the second list he gripped in his hand: the hostages. Statten’s desperate gamble had failed miserably. He had launched an ill-conceived breakthrough aimed at Fredericks entrenched position and failed abysmally. His army was shattered and Statten himself had been captured. The remnants of his fighting nobility had either surrendered immediately or been hunted down by Otto’s forces. Coupled with those of the nobility who had been captured at Angerburg and Offred, they represented the entire fighting nobility of western Riismark.
And now a powerful young king held the future of an entire Kingdom in his hand. With their lands in his possession, only those who possessed powerful family abroad would be able to pay the ransom. How he dealt with those who were entirely at his mercy would change power dynamics in the North forever. And he had no idea what the king would do when he presented the counts. He could…
Choice
Cull the Nobility: …cull the Nobility and centralize power, taking their lands and feifdoms for himself. He could then redistribute these lands among his own followers to ensure their loyalty while keeping the lions share for himself. Doing this would cause an uproar within the Conclave, for nothing scared the nobility more than the notion of a warmonger claiming their lands with no recourse. The Chamberlain on the other hand would be more than happy with the situation. Frederick would not be able to reassign fiefs without the Concalve, so he would be forced to dissolve them and create new ones. These new fiefs would not have seats on the Conclave, and the votes of the old fiefdoms would return to the Imperial fold.
Olger believed he knew his King’s mind more than most yet, if he was being honest, even he had been shocked. The decision to unite the province had been taken a long time ago, he thought, perhaps as early as after the Battle of Nepenthe. If Riismark would not stand united by choice, it would be forced. But this… So many titles stripped, so many nobles dethroned, exiled, even executed, or simply denied their ancestral lands and titles… This would shake the Conclave, the Kingdoms, perhaps the world. Fredrik had just shaped history, one way or another, and Olger could not begin to presume what would…
He sighed. These matters were beyond his station and control. His were the “little bricks that make a castle”, as his King often called them jokingly. The meeting would be held soon and he needed to be ready, so he focused on those.
The orders and deeds of transfer alone would take an army of clerks to draft. More than a dozen of ceremonies would need to be organized and held so that titles could be properly awarded but not of course before the appropriate family trees had been thoroughly investigated for ties that would support their new titles. Original heraldries would need to be drawn, emblems and seals would need to be designed then ratified by the King, only to be submitted to the Conclave, after of course the Imperial Office had cleared them and recorded them. Banners, flags, officer markings, shields and uniforms needed to be changed. Entire families would need to be removed from estates, possibly forcefully at times, while new ones would need to be moved in. By Theos, would new coins need to be cut, as well..?
He paused, as his King’s words revealed their meaning to him. Be it by the names of their lords, the colors they saw flying above their gates, the cloaks that dressed the patrols or even the coins they held, everyone in Riismark would feel the change through the little bricks that made his King’s castle.
And clouds would not take long to gather over its towers…
A King always stands alone.
He could not place the quote but remembered it with clarity. He had been remembering it for years now; he had had enough war councils such as this one, as well as committees, meetings and assemblies to know it to be true without any doubt, for it was especially true in a room full of people and advisors. The sight of his war-map was only a symptom of the underlying truth of his condition; he stood alone.
The rest of the Hundred Kingdoms had not only abandoned him to his fate with the Nords, they had actively sought to destroy him through them, as well as the barbaric tribes from the East which they had gently pushed his way. Presumably as further insurance, he knew Imperial forces were gathered near his western borders; possibly to ensure a swift ending to his expanded rule once weakened. As if those were not enough, a band of homicidal Dweghom was spotted marching to Riismark, for reasons unknown. And, last but not least, Nepenthe was ever present. The Alchemist had disappeared for a long time, longer than he expected. But he had no doubt that payment would be required sooner rather than later and there was no time like this one.
“If we defend everything, we defend nothing” he said in the end, the King’s voice bringing silence to the room.
Choice
Reinforce the cities.
Reinforce the cities
One by one, the beautifully carved wooden pieces were moved on the map. One by one, they came in Riismark soil, unchallenged and unchecked, save by token forces whose purpose was to monitor and delay the enemy, more than defend the land. His own armies were also on the move, gathering to defend the cities of his land. It looked cowardly, his map, and felt un-kingly to simply let all these armies march in his lands. But it was necessary.
“No report from Nepenthe?” he asked suddenly, raising an eyebrow.
“Nothing to report, my liege.”
“There will be. Do not stop monitoring the Spire” he said.
“As you command. Now, the reports from the cities… Sire, there are reports of…”
The officer faltered, looking at his colleagues.
“Speak up man!” Fredrik growled, losing patience.
“Reports of Nord sympathizers, my King.”
“What madness is this? Do they want the Nords to plunder their houses and r-“. He paused, suddenly, frowning deeply and angrily for a moment. Then his face turned calm, but for the flame of anger still dancing in his eyes. “Of course. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, good Brandon” he said, smiling coldly “and I have made many enemies in Riismark. Find them. Root them out. If our cities are to mount a defense, I want to know that no one will poison our wells or open the gates from the inside.”
Choice
Fredrik Loyalty
“I promised my bannermen Bartenstein lands, Fredrik. You promised me Bartenstein lands, when I bent the knee. What good are those if those savages have ravaged them?”
Fredrik threw a sideways glance at King Brand, eyes cold, voice colder when he spoke. “For a man with a bent knee, Brand, your voice is raised too high.” Brand made to answer but Fredrik did not let him. “How many men dance on the gallows of Rottdorf? Or Bartenstein? Or Enderstradt? How many would you guess you’d see if you looked outside my very window?”
“Too many” Brand said, thoughtful. “I did not expect this many” he added.
“We made no friends when we set out to do what we did in Riismark, Brand. Today, you learn just how many enemies we made, just how alone we stand but for the company we keep each other. I ache for the lives and properties lost in Riismark. But I say this and you better listen; steel yourself, for there will be more. We cannot defend everything; we would simply lose everything.”
“But if Bartenstein was allowed to send forces, to answer th-“
“There are no Bartenstein forces” the King said sharply before forcing himself to take a deep breath. “Enderstradt makes similar requests, Brand. They want to engage the Dweghom, stop them from marching through their fish villages. Glauburg as well. Markson suggested that he raids the Nord camp before their fleet gathers. Otto warned me that if the Nords come in Haubach lands, he won’t be sitting behind walls; well, that was the gist of what he said, his words were more colorful.”
“So I tell you, now, what I said to them” Fredrik went on. “There are no Bartenstein forces. There are no Haubach lands or Enderstradt shores. There is only Riismark. Riismark land and a Riiismark army. You, perhaps above all else, should know this, Brand, for this is what we forged together. We hold this land as one. We keep our cities defended and engage our enemies with the rest of our forces combined. We will lose people. We will likely loose cities as well. But if Markson’s Glauburg falls, then what becomes of Glauburg after? If Riismark’s Glauburg falls, Riismark will reclaim it.” He stood looking at King Brand with unfaltering eyes.
“This land will not leave the threats on its soil unanswered. This land will face those that would challenge it, one by one, to the last woman and man. Send word to every King and lord of the land; keep as many soldiers as you need to defend your cities. Not one more. The rest are to answer the threats in our land.”
Choice
Assemble the army north – engage the Nords
The fields of Haubach
“Stranglers, my lord. They raid and pillage the villages and farmsteads but the main army is gone.”
“For your sake, tell me you did not just lose an entire fleet of the frozen bastards!” Otto’s voice bellowed in the tent, drowning the sounds of an entire army outside his tent.
“N..No, my lord. Glauburg reports that their camp is empty, their ships gone. They report they sailed east. Some claim, they sail upriver…”
King Otto’s hand slamming on the table brought momentary silence.
“I don’t care about what some say” he said in the end. “You hear me?! We are an army, not gossipers giggling around pints of mead. I want scouts east. NOW! I want the coasts checked. And I want the rivers combed. You find those ships, you’ll find their army.”
“What about the camp, my lord? Will we follow?”
“No. Fredrik rides here, as do forces from all the Kingdoms and we are to provide for the army. That is exactly what we will do. But we must take care of these looters and secure provisions. We can’t have them take or burn what we will need for the army. And I’ll be damned if I let a force unchecked on our sides, stranglers or no stranglers.” An eager smile spread across his face as he went on. “Call my lads. I’ll see to it myself.”
Choice
Success.
“Enderstradt?”
King Fredrik muttered the word, eyes widened. He could see Vatsdam’s ruins before his eyes, the marshes filled with dead, humans and Spirelings alike. His mind could not fathom what a city like Enderstradt would look like.
“My liege,” said Brand “you cannot allow this. Angengrad is lost, yes, but the Nords will plunder and leave. What the Dweghom did to Enderstradt however… You cannot allow this to happen elsewhere. Unless you rush to their aid, your bannermen will forget their vows in the wake of such destruction. The word at the Conclave’s corridors will whisper how Fredrik cannot protect his own. That Chamberlain’s dog, Erich Schurr, is still right next to your borders but hasn’t interfered yet. Why? He hasn’t had a reason to. In their eyes, we’re failing already. But how long before those sworn to you call for his assistance?”
“And do what?” Otto growled. “Leave the Nords to plunder freely? We need to show we can protect our cities. Enderstradt is gone. Angengrad still stands and the Nords barely managed to take it. Take it back. We crush the barbarians while they’re weak then move to the shorties.”
Fredrik nodded, raising his hand, indicating that they had been heard but calling for their silence. His eyes were dancing, scanning the map before them. What his old allies were saying was true but he had come to terms that he would not be able to protect everything. He had not accepted, however, that he would not protect anything and such destruction could not be left unchecked. Then again, the Nords…
“Why so deep?” he asked in the end. “It would have been much safer to keep to the shores. I planned on fighting the Nords and it is still the most direct response. But where can they go next? They can leave or try to keep Angengrad for the winter. Or, their goal was to sail south from the beginning. And if south is truly their goal, we could let them; have Stattdorf raise their chains and send word they have free passage to sail through. Meanwhile we answer the Dweghom threat.”
All three leaned over the map, reexamining everything for the hundredth time.
“That’s a Fall of a gamble,” Brand muttered.
“We may lose Stattdorf too,” Fredrik conceded. “But they can’t hold two cities. They’d be forced to abandon Angengrad and then they would be cut off from the sea. I can’t think of a single reason why a general would that.”
“These barbarians don’t understand such things,” said Otto. “They want raid and plunder. Give your people a victory. Aspects, give yourself one! Crush them before they go deeper and cause more damage.”
“If we can stop the Dweghom,” Brand muttered “in the long run, I think that’s a greater victory.”
Choice
Lead the army east – The Nords will be left unchecked.
“Enderstradt.”
The word echoed over the field as if it had a will of its own, as if it was trying to be heard by each and every woman and man in the ranks. A horse snorted and stomped eagerly and the banners flapped furiously against the wind. But beyond those, silence; only that one word that lingered over the army like a ghost.
“I know, that for many of you it is just a word; a distant city of no consequence. I know that for others, it has been a name despised, the name of an enemy. But remember; for some, the word carries the pain of loved ones lost, of a home destroyed. So today, that word will be on the lips of us all. Today we will all carry that pain on the field and let it fuel us. For today, we are not of Brandengrad or Haubach or Stattdorf. Today we are all of Riismark!”
A hail was roared in reply, voiced by an army in unison.
“You may look across this field and fear and wonder; who are those people? What foul purpose guides their monsters and what evil fuels their constructs? How can men hope to fight them? Well, I say, fear not, for we are no strangers to monsters. I say that be they called Spires or Dweghom or Nords or whoever else decides to walk Riismark’s hallowed soil, it matters not. So look across that field now and wonder only about one thing: Who are those who DARED attack OUR city?! Don’t they know this is the land of Markmen? Don’t they know this is the land of the Riverking? Don’t they know that Riismark stands as one?”
Another hail, booming like autumn thunder over the field, then his sword flashed as he drew it and lifted high above his head.
“So I say to you now, men and women of Riismark; fight with me. Fight and drive these monsters off our lands. Fight and with each blow growl and scream and shout the name of Enderstradt in their faces. For today, Enderstradt means one thing and one thing alone; vengeance.”
The army exploded in angry growls, weapons raised as scowling faces screamed vengeance or Enderstradt or both.
It started from one of the militia regiments. “Iron bones” they chanted “and Eleven Steel Thrones…” And as orders were being shouted, the song spread until, when the charge started, the whole army sang:
Hail, Riismark.
“Fredrik, you must keep the pressure on!”
Otto spoke passionately, frantically almost, as if the battle fever had never left him. He was not the only one in this state. From outside his tent, Fredrik could hear the elation, cheers and songs. Yesterday, they were Riismark’s army. Tonight, they were legends. The men and women who gave the Dweghom pause. Those that supposedly had broken the world had not broken them.
“It was a victory, Otto,” Brand replied “but not a clean nor a decisive one. We outnumbered them and still, we barely won the day. I would not be so eager to resume the fighting, not if we can avoid it.”
“You can’t avoid it,” the King of Haubach said. Otto the Boar he was called once, and in moments like these, when passion and eagerness took over, it was easy to see it was not a name he had earned by the size of his muscles alone. “All the myths, legends and midwife tales agree: those bastards understand one language and they understood us loud and clear. Repeat the lesson. Kick them off Riismark once and for all!”
“Otto may be right, Brand,” Fredrik said in the end. “If we manage to rout them here, we could turn our attention to the Nords or the W’adrhǔn, while we also send a clear message to my doubters; anyone, anyone, who attacks Riismark is answered.”
“We lost men,” Brand said.
“So did they!” exclaimed Otto, almost shouting.
“Yes, but they don’t have two more wars to fight; three if Erich invades, four if Nepenthe strikes.” Brand paused, taking his usual, calm look, which often accompanied his silver tongue. “Do not risk more men. Send an emissary to the Dweghom. Call for a ceasefire. The very least, find out what the Fall they want in our lands. The thrill of victory would Do not risk the campaign for the thrill of an victory.”
Choice
Send an emissary to the Dweghom leader.
The Meeting
There were no banners. No heraldry. No ornamented weapon, shield or armor. The sage had been adamant in that. The Dweghom, he had claimed, gave entirely different meaning to such things. The wrong symbol, even the wrong animal or creature on a banner or an engraving, could be taken as an insult. So, Fredrik was dressed in simple chain and bore a single, plain sword taken from a man-at-arms and had walked – walked! – to the hill’s top; apparently, even riding while the Dweghom leader walked could be perceived as an insult. Again, could be. For a sage, there was a lot the man had speculated. Watching him swiping the sweat from his brow for the millionth time did not exactly fill Fredrik with confidence but it was all he had; the only sage who had studied the Dweghom language. In contrast, the translator that the Dweghom had brought with him seemed passive, almost indifferent.
Exchanging names and titles took some time, with the two translators trying to understand each other. He recognized some of the words the Dweghom translator spoke, as he had tried to speak some ancient form of High Tellian. To his words, his sage sighed with some relief, happy that perhaps some middle ground could perhaps be found. From that point on, a series of exchanges seemed to happen, now in the Dweghom language, now in that ancient Tellian. It was tedious and tiring so the two leaders spent most of the time starring at each other.
“Enough,” Fredrik said to the sage eventually. “Ask him: why did they attack us? What do they want in our lands?”
“Sire, I would advise that-“
“Ask,” he said and the sage jumped as he struggled to communicate with the Dweghom once more. Eventually, this Alekhaneros spoke in his rough language. Curiously enough, he spoke like Fredrik would expect a teacher or a preacher to speak, not a King or a general; a mild tone, calm and looking at him in the eyes.
“He… He says something about a big war” the sage said after some time consorting with the translator. “A war that your Highness is a part of but cannot hear. He says that he is not interested in your lands. It is wet and soft. But what is done here will be part of history. He says the Northmen stole their words.”
“They… stole their words?” Fredrik asked.
“I… I think so, sire,” the sage replied, wiping his brow yet again. “They stole their words and a killer of dragons.”
“What on Eӓ are you on about, man?”
“Sire, I swear that is what he said. It is… quite different from reading their runes, I am afraid.”
“Tell him there are no dragons or their killers in these lands. There are Nords, that much is true. And he is stopping me from kicking them of my lands. Tell him if he leaves, I will kill those Nords myself.”
The back and forth between translators began anew. Eventually, Alekhaneros… laughed. Then he answered.
“He says Tall Ones – I think he means humans – cannot fight the war of the Dweghom. He says you must stand aside. He will kick the Northmen off your lands.”
“And roam my lands freely, like they have done so far? I think not. Tell him I remember Vatsdam. I remember Enderstradt. Tell him to withdraw east. Tell him not to harm any humans. That will allow me to attack the Nords. And once I succeed, I will allow him to question their leader about their stolen words.” He waited impatiently as the exchange began anew.
“He says,” the sage said in the end “that you fought with weight. I think he means well. For that reason alone, he listens. But you must prove your… weight.”
It took hours before they at least understood each other. Or at least, until Fredrik thought they did. The Dweghom demanded right of way to Angengrad. They offered no guarantees about their departure after and if he allowed the Dweghom to pass would at best paint him in a weak color; the King that allows others to fight for him. At worst, he would be a traitor for he had no doubt what the Dweghom attacking Angengrad could mean. Even Otto’s allegiance would be shaken, he feared and he was just one name in a long line.
On the other hand, they were willing to offer him two weeks to bring the Nord leader to them; if he failed then… Well. As their leader said, without enough weight, he would have no right to rule these lands. What that meant, truly, he could not know for they would not say. But he didn’t like it. And if the Dweghom decided to ravage his lands, Erich Schurr and his imperials were right outside Brandengrad…
Choice
Two Weeks.
“The reports are not heartening,” Brand said “The river-chains are down but the waters are well protected by their ships. They took the city by river so the walls have sustained little damage. What few openings were made have not been repaired properly and if we had time for a proper siege, that would be exploitable but now? While not repaired, they have been blocked by stone and debris by the very giants that broke them. That is another issue, by the way. They have giants. They also have trolls and ogres and some say skinchangers, as well as some type of beastmen proper; and they have Gifted, though they seem more shamanistic than Chapter trained. I have here the reports by the Cadre on how best to fight them.”
“Fat lot of good those will prove to be” Otto scoffed. “Those buggers knew nothing about those metal beasts, nor the flaming warriors nor even the dragonspawn the Dweghom had.”
“I don’t remember you complaining about the Cadre helping with the Brutes and Abominations in Vatsdam,” Brand teased, making Otto scoff once more.
“Pah! All I’m saying is that tactics are well and good but we’re running out of time,” he said. “If we are to observe the deadline, we must take the city by force. Storm the walls and come what may.”
“Or…” Brand suggested hesitantly “we do not need to take it. We could start a siege, feign an attack. A small skirmish force could then infiltrate the city, take their king and bring him to the Dweghom. Would that…have weight, you think?” he asked, turning to Fredrik but the King did not reply. He remained seated, listening distantly as he pinched his lower lip thoughtfully. To any observer he looked oblivious to their counsel. Brand did not press for his attention. Despite what an army of men and women outside thought, the King was full of flaws; but his mind was as sharp as they came and his ability to multitask had astounded Brand time and time again. He would speak when he was ready.
“Won’t their skinchangers sniff the infiltrators out?” Otto asked. “I hear they have a devilish sense of smell.”
“Good thing we have these then” Brand suggested, offering the Cadre’s files to Otto. The later sighed.
“Does anyone else miss waging war without wondering what kind of stuff the enemy’s monsters can do?” he asked and Brand smiled as they both started going through the reports. “Those were good times.”
“When I walked through the ruins of Vatsdam,” Fredrik spoke, and both his allies turned to face him, “I found a Dweghom trinket; a decoration for their beards, I think, but it could be a part of their contraptions.” He turned to look at them and imitated the moves he had performed then. “I picked it up from the mud and realized it was made of Sillubaster. Sillubaster! A King’s bounty, lying there, forgotten and ignored, like some earing dropped after a ball, coming from a box of many. Now, I don’t know if indeed it’s so common among them that that was the case; from what I saw during the battle, it is not. But for a moment, just a moment, it made me question everything. For a moment, all our treasures, as a civilization, looked like trinkets to be dropped. Nepenthe? Vatsdam? They felt like they were just the beginning. The world was about to change in a way we could never have imagined. And when the Dweghom leader said I was part of a war I could not see, I remembered that moment and I thought: this is it. This is what I saw in that moment but it was not just beginning. It had already begun; we were simply blind to it. And here we are, discussing the days we fought Kings and vassals as if they were distant memories.”
He got up, ignoring Otto who was clearly swallowing a joke.
“I think, Brand, that it could be done, “he said in the end. “It would save us men, preserve provisions and we would not be forced to dive into battle against unknown foes with reckless abandon. There’s no guarantee the Dweghom will accept this but there’s also no guarantees about what the Dweghom will do even if we do bring back the Nord King. We also have the barbaric tribes in the south – and Brand, you can be sure that Rottforf’s safety has never stopped troubling me. We also have Schurr, not to mention Nepenthe; both their silences unnerve me. I fear that without an army in good condition, we will be dead before winter.
But, if we do this, I think it would only be respected if I were to be part of that team. I don’t think the Dweghom would see much weight in me sending people to do what I promised to do.” He raised his hand to silence their objections before they were spoken. “I also think that taking the city, routing the Nords proper, here, now, would possibly ensure that the Dweghom would leave. I don’t understand what their feud with them is, but the more we have Nords in our lands, the better the chances the Dweghom will linger. I think victory over a battle proper would also show more weight, to use their words. If it’s some sort of honor code for them, they have already showed that they respect and observe it.”
Choice
Assault the city proper.
The Battle of Angengrad
“No…” he whispered, his own voice echoing inside his helmet. They had killed a giant in the southern front, crippled another in the eastern one. They had fought werewolves and thus secured the ramparts around an opening and his army was moving into the city, slowly but surely. But now…
“No, no, no, NO! Not now. Not here!”
“Fredrik!” Otto growled from a few paces to his left. He groaned, parrying an axe with his own, before he kicked the Nord off the ramparts, unto the city below. “The sky, Fredrik! The sky!” Otto went on, as he lowered his axe again and again and again. Fredrik ignored him, turning his back to the city and facing his own army below the walls, as his Guards skillfully covered him, shielding him from foe and arrow alike.
“MAGES AND ARCHERS TO THE FRONT!” he screamed at the top of his voice, his squire raising the flags corresponding to his orders, as the King pointed high above the city. “LOOK HIGH!” he yelled, once more, searching frantically among the crowd for his officers. “CALL FOR WELLGAR! CALL THE MAGES! AND CHECK YOUR FLANKS! CHECK…” He screamed, his helmet clanging as an arrow found it. It glanced off, gliding against the sides, but his head had shook and his ears were ringing. “…your flanks,” he added weakly but it was not the arrow that had stolen his voice.
In the south, crawling out of the swamp like snakes and jumping out of the river waters, only to run, prancing and jumping like predators closing in on the kill, wielding thin curved blades and bucklers or weird, crossbow-like contraptions, Vanguard Clones were rushing against his army. Before he had a chance to speak again, his officers were responding, anxious, cornered but not panicked. But then a yell was heard, and a man-at-arms pointed high. The first one fell near the front, right under the walls. Then another, right in the middle of his army, aiming for the archers but missing its mark. Then one exploded next to Otto, bursting into noxious green gas, as the smell of rotten eggs pervaded the ramparts and caused gagging sounds from even among the sturdiest and most trusted of his men.
“STRYX!”
Fredrik ignored the yells, trusting in his men’s training. He instinctively brought his inner elbow before his helmet, but the attempt was futile. Coughing and fighting the gagging sensation, he searched for Otto between the smoke. Brand found him instead.
“We need…” he said but coughed, annoyed. “We need to move into the city. Push everyone in, protect the army from the Stryx with the buildings.” Fredrik nodded.
“Give the word” he said. “And take charge. Push with everything we have. I’ll take my Guard and Knights, try to carve an opening and push into the city proper. Then, I’ll find their King. The only way is forward now.” He made to leave but Brand grabbed his forearm.
“I march with you, One of the Eleven,” he said. Fredrik returned the gesture, their arms locked as he returned the greeting of old kings.
“I die with you, One of the Eleven. Hail, Riismark.”
“How is Otto?” he asked, taking a good sip of warm wine. Brand smiled.
“If it were up to him, he’d be here,” he said. “The physicians are of a different opinion. His lungs and throat are burned. They will heal, they say, but not soon and not fully. For now, he can breathe with difficulty but he can’t speak. A good thing really. You can see the curses dancing in his eyes as they follow the physicians around. Doubly so when they tell him he needs to rest.” Both men chuckled, softly, half-heartedly, before Brand’s expression turned solemn. “He is lucky to be alive, Fredrik. If we hadn’t been able to pull him as fast as…”
“But we did,” Fredrik said. “You did. You held the opening. You held the flank. You didn’t just save Otto. You saved the day. Fall, Brand, you saved me. If they had cut us off, we would have died like rats in the city.”
“Your new bodyguard helped, I am sure,” Brand said and Fredrik chuckled. Brand rarely acknowledged or deflected praise, for deed performed or advice offered. He simply diverted the attention. He knew the man for years, now, yet he still couldn’t decide if it was humility or not.
“I don’t think he’d accept the term,” he replied in the end.
“Have you spoken to him?” Brand asked.
“No,” Fredrik shook his head. “We will do it together. This will be your decision, Brand of Rottdorf. But before that, there are other things to see to. Is it true that the Dweghom march east?”
“It would appear so,” the King of Rottdorf responded. “They broke camp and moved east, at least. To what end, I cannot tell.”
“The refugees?”
“There is no way they have not seen them,” Brand shook his head negatively. “If they were after them, they would have gone north.”
“Then for now, I cannot care,” Fredrik said, leaning forwards, scanning the map while he sipped some more mulled wine. “Unless they march north, there’s little they have left standing to destroy. Still, put some distance between us and the city and double the eastern patrols and guards. I don’t want to be caught between an anvil and a hammer. But that’s it. We’ll keep an eye on them but I need our scouts to concentrate on the Alchemist. I won’t move until I make sure they have truly withdrawn and that he has no army around.”
“If we keep this up, our scouts won’t be able to keep up with the enemies we need tracked,” Brand said. “We are desperately low an allies, Fredrik.”
“I know,” the King admitted.
“We won’t last the winter like this,” Brand pressured on.
“I know!” Fredrik slammed his fist on the table. He then sighed, annoyed with himself. “I know,” he said again, calmer but not calm. “The south is filled with this Nagral’s lot. The east is cinders by the Dweghom. Angengrad is still at the hands of the Nords and all this has allowed the Alchemist to have troops roaming my lands unchallenged and unchecked. I have thousands of refugees without a city to return to, a siege to maintain and precious little in our coffers because I had to pay reparations to the Church for killing off their scheming little puppet.”
“You know my advice, Fredrik,” Brand said and Fredrik was annoyed by how calm he was.
“Fall take you, man!” he yelled. “Do you have no passion left in you? Yes, I know your advice. Turn to the Conclave. Only to do that, I would have to show that Riismark knows how to vote prudently, I would have to restore some key titles to the filth that held them, even play the good faithful with the Paeneticum. Or should I turn to the Mint? Oh, how lovely a puppet of the Chamberlain I’d make! Not to mention, I would practically be inviting every single neighbor noble to harass our borders, while hosting Schur and his lackeys in my court; for my safety of course. I’d rather build a Priory in Brandengrad and get the money from the Templars.”
“Then you forget your history,” Brand said, a little cooler than before. “The Conclave? They are our peers, Fredrik. The knot the Templars would tie you with would not be shackles but a noose around your neck. And if you think you are short on allies in the Conclave today, wait until you offer the Orders more say through you.”
“Charles built an Empire with them.”
“They needed Charles,” Brand retorted. “They don’t need you. That makes all the difference in the world. And there is the other option but I don’t like it and neither should you.”
Fredrik said nothing.
Choice
Turn to the Sealed Temple.
EPILOGUE
A King always stands alone.
He had finally remembered. It was his great-grandfather that had spoken those words. No. He had always remembered – he could admit this to himself now. He simply did not like the idea that a man’s last words, especially that man’s last words, were dictating his life. And yet he knew them to be true, now, perhaps, more than ever; he had had enough war councils, as well as committees, meetings and assemblies to know it to be true without any doubt, for it was especially true in a room full of people.
He waited patiently with a blank expression, as the commotion his decision had caused had yet to die out – objections and profanities about the Templars and the Orders in general. He did not care for the yelling. Dogs that bark don’t bite, they said. It was the solemn, unkind looks he took note of. Brand’s included – Fall, he would hate if he had to do something about Brand. Otto was there as well, his rough heaves heard despite the commotion, along with every lady or lord of Riismark, some of them kings and queens in title; yet only he was sitting sat on a throne. It was no wonder he had remembered his great-grandfather. The Undying King, first among the Eleven. The one all followed but few loved. Apparently, a King always also sat alone.
“His lordship, Pierre de Montagnard, Master of the Order of the Sealed Temple.”
The transformation in the atmosphere was as immediate as it was absolute. They would not allow “that filth and his ilk” to see them rattled, as if the man was deaf or the double doors that had just been opened could ever have drowned their yells a moment ago. No, the man looked aged, but he also looked anything but deaf; in fact, his sharp eyes seemed to be missing nothing in the room. He smiled pleasantly, with kind blue eyes and strode comfortably as if he was being welcomed to the house of an old friend, unlike his squire and the retinue of scribes and brothers Medicant behind him, who seemed painfully aware that no one in the room wanted them there. From the polished armor to the last hair on his greying head, the man exhumed confidence, drawing eyes from even those that had tried to make a point of looking away. He was very… there, Fredrik thought, as if the very condition of his mere presence had been perfected, a tool wielded by the hands of a master smith. Fredrik returned the Master’s polite smile then, as the man bowed curtly, he threw a glance towards the door and nodded slightly, as if acknowledging one’s presence.
From the shadows, a figure moved, slender and agile, creeping outside the room before the door was closed.
“Progress.”
Otto had spat the word more than said it.
“Gold from the Temple and Steel from the Sword,” he went on and not for the first time, clearing his throat to no avail. His voice would remain damaged, he knew, but he had not accepted it. Not yet. “Do they even remember the blood, I wonder? Our blood. No. We saved their muddy behinds with blood but all they’ll remember is gold and steel. Gold from the Temple and Steel from the Sword. Praised be the Orders,” he added and this time spat in earnest.
Reacting to his foul mood, his mare jerked her head, tossing both ears back, driving Brand’s to snort and follow suit. Her rider, on the other hand, retained his calm exterior. Brand’s eyes gazed almost lazily upon the construction works of Vatsdam, squinting only when the noise rose too high. Otto’s, on the other hand, were narrowed and fixed on the Swordknights that patrolled and stood guard.
“We were not standing too far from here when you were eager to throw the Crimsons against the Brutes,” Brand commented. “Their blood also wet this land.”
“Soiled is the word,” Otto growled. “Besides, you remember half of it. I was happy to throw them at my enemies. I would not ride with them.”
“Fredrik is doing the same,” Brand muttered quietly, as if trying to convince himself perhaps more than Otto.
“And if he isn’t? He ain’t just handing them Brandengrad, you know.”
Brand did not respond and for a while they both stayed quiet, as the sounds of construction echoed around them.
“How are your savages?” Otto asked eventually.
“Less savage than I feared,” came the response. “More savage than I had hoped. They eat like beasts and their beasts twice that over. Their music is divine, though.”
Otto chuckled. “Well, from what I’ve seen, at least you know where you stand with them. If they don’t like you, you will know. With that lot,” he said motioning with his head towards the Swordbrethren patrols “you won’t know until it’s too late.”
“True enough,” Brand commented. “But that has its advantages. They put on a semi-good front but its obvious they are not the united, noble heroes their tales would have them be. They bicker among themselves like ill-suited lovers. This Everard of the Sword? He has few words to say about the Temple’s master but his silence speaks volumes. He doesn’t like him any more than we do.”
“What’s his play?”
“I can’t be sure,” Brand said cautiously. “He has a deep hatred for the Nords. All his brothers do, I gather, and the other Orders seem to acknowledge this for they allowed so many of them to gather here. A plausible scenario? The moment the Temple’s gold is no longer needed, he’ll be the first to try and oust them from Riismark, I think. How or when, I do not know. It won’t be soon and they won’t let swords meet, I am sure. But he will.”
“He’s in your land,” Otto remarked, “and he has sway with the savages. Would you support him in this?”
“I would speak my mind to Fredrik,” he tried to evade but Otto was a bull one had difficulty evading.
“And what would your mind be, then?” he asked.
Choice
I’d rather we are involved than let the Orders play their games in our gardens.
“They have already been invited to the Ball,” Brand said, after a moment’s thought. “I would rather not let them pick the music as well. If they are going to do the lindedance, I would have Fredrik pick who leads. And I would pick the Sword before the Templars any day.”
“The devil you know, eh?” Otto chuckled.
“The devil that wields steel, not gold,” Brand retorted. “One kills, the other owns.”
“I can get behind that,” the large king nodded. “You think Fredrik will?”
“I think he will see reason,” Brand said carefully. “With the Nords here, the Sword would be eager and useful and since they are our liaison with the W’adrhŭn, chances are we will always have to deal with them, one way or another. Once they are gone, chances are the Sword will lose interest in Riismark. The Templars on the other hand…” He paused, his eyes forging a deep frown. “The Templars like to play regent where they settle.”
Otto nodded, clearing his throat and exclaiming annoyed.
“How do we do this?” he asked in the end.
Choice
Go to Fredrik – We speak to Fredrik, try to convince him to support the Sword and give them a greater role. Even if he agrees, however, it may cause tension with the Order of the Sealed Temple.
He listened to his two oldest allies carefully and attentively.
Strange, he mused about how he had thought of them as allies. Once, not so long ago, he would have called them friends. But friends, he figured, did not keep secrets from each other. He had no doubt both Brand and Otto had their fair share of secrets, which they kept from him; them showing up together to discuss this was proof enough. To their credit, however, they had come to him and he loved them for that. King Fredrik of Brandengrad, on the other hand – Fredrik the Great, Fredrik of Riismark, he thought bitterly – had quite a few secrets that he had to keep to himself; one, perhaps, greater than the rest. So, as he listened to them talking about the Orders, raising points he had raised himself, mulling them over again and again, without end, he wondered what it was that King Fredrik of Brandengrad – Fredrik the Great, Fredrik of Riismark – needed; friends or allies.
Otto, he knew, would not understand, even if eventually he could be made to accept. He was faithful to a fault, passionate and larger than life, not to mention the best duelist between them, even if a seasoned one these days. He was a King of old, proud and strong in his castle, ready to defend his lands and truly considerate of his people, as long as they knew their place as his people. But he lacked what Brand had in abundance; the finesse of modern kings, the political understanding of what it meant to be a King these days and the mind to think like an eel instead of like a bull. He was fond of Otto, very much so, and he treasured his friendship and his allegiance. But some things were not for him. Some things were cunning and deceitful and those things Otto would not look kindly upon.
Brand could be told and, while he would not like it any more than he himself did, he could perhaps even approve. In any case, he would surely support him – if nothing else, then in not telling Otto about it, if that was how Fredrik decided to play it. It was a calculated risk, letting him know or at least letting him know he did not mind him knowing. Oh, he’d have his comments and if Fredrik was lucky, he’d voice them openly. But all the things that made him fit to tell to also made him less trustworthy than Otto. He knew exactly how Otto would react; he could not be sure about Brand. And that, for a King, spelled ruin.
Strange and sad, he thought now bitterly, as he pondered whether to reveal his understanding with the Alchemist before discussing the matter of the Orders with them.
Choice
Friends – Fredrik will tell both.
“You did what?!” Otto exploded, his voice booming into the emptied room, before breaking into a croak the led to a coughing fit. Looking at his old friend, Fredrik almost winced; Otto’s face was red, his eyes were fuming and his breath heavy between coughs, like a beast cornered, panting, injured but twice over dangerous for its desperation. Controlling his expression, Fredrik kept a calm facade, waiting for his old friend to catch his words once more.
“He killed your..!” Otto started once more in the end, annoyed and grimacing with pain, before he went on, trying to keep his voice quieter. “He killed your brother, Fredrik! He killed your brother and now you would..?”
“I must admit,” Brand said, putting his hand over Otto’s shoulder, “that I do not like it any more than Otto does, Fredrik. It does not sit right, after all that’s happened. What’s more, you remember what happened to that Galan Count, the one near the Enque Spire. How do you think your people will react if they find out you’ve brokered peace with Nepenthe, after Vatsdam?”
“This isn’t peace,” Fredrik said flatly. “I paid his price, as he named it. At best, it is a ceasefire.” He paused, trying not to let his doubts show in his face, trying to show sure and not apologetic. “It had to be done,” he said. “The Conclave has isolated us, the Russ are reinforcing their borders, the Nords still hold Angengrad. I wanted to secure our flank and I did.”
“You mean you bought it,” Otto said bitterly. “With Order gold, no less.”
“The Orders’ gold went exactly where it was supposed to; restoration and equipment,” Fredrik said, anger flashing in his eyes. “I have no intention of leaving Angengrad and its lands to the Nords. That is why the Orders are here. Meanwhile, however, the eastern army is all but destroyed after the Dweghom were done with it, Erich Schur of all people is waiting to pounce from Norvden, Silisia is already testing our western borders to see how weak we were left, and the Russ are reinforcing their borders, as they claim, for fear of the barbarians in Brand’s lands, supposedly. Having a viper in the grass within my lands was the worst possible scenario. So I fed the viper a mouse. But I did not befriend it.”
“I see the logic,” Brand nodded thoughtfully. “And I can support it. But it still doesn’t feel right.”
“Damn straight, it doesn’t!” Otto exploded hoarsely once more.
“I have not forgotten what he did, much less forgiven it. Not to Villemfred, not to you, not to poor Hunfrid and not to Riismark.” There was no sentiment in the King’s voice when he spoke. “But I do not have the luxury of doing what feels right.”
“Aspects damn you and your luxuries!” Otto croaked once more. “His falling poisons burned my throat! I will not sit and break bread with the falling Spire bastard!”
Choice
“Otto, I swear to you: When the time is right, the Alchemist will pay.”
“You will do as a King of your people must,” he said, his voice harsher, perhaps, than he intended it to be. “We all will.” Otto grunted and growled at this, his eyes tainted by a dangerous glare as he cleared his throat, but Fredrik did not leave him time to catch his voice and answer. “And for now, that means doing what feels wrong. When the time is right, the Alchemist will pay. This I swear to you, and it is no lesser an oath than the one I offered to my brother or the one I took over the ruins of Vatsdam. I will not have me questioned on this. Not even by you. Especially not by you.”
Silence fell, his two friends looking at him without response. If anyone knew how passionate, volatile, reckless even, he could get when slighted, it was the two men in this room. Worse, they knew what he was capable of when calm. And he had not raised his voice, as they had expected. It had been flat, colorless, almost empty.
“The world changed after Nepenthe,” he said in the end, tiredness slipping through his words this time. “What were once myths and legends are now pieces on the chessboard, the villains of our childhood’s tales are now players in the game. We must not lose who we are. But we must still play the game by rules we’ve never played it before. That is not my situation, nor Brandengrand’s, nor Riismark’s. That is where humanity stands. And as the rest of humanity seems determined to see us perish, we must endure. I was ready to perish when I killed the bishop. It was a calculated risk that could have led to a sacrifice that I would gladly have taken. But if you think us perishing, here, alone, would awaken humanity to the dangers we have been trying to warn them off, you are wrong. They would gleefully smile and say ‘this happened to them because they acted as they did. We are safe.’ And this is how humanity would fall. This is why we will act as we must. For Kings, the luxury of personal qualms died with the destruction of Vatsdam. I should not have to explain this to you, King Otto.”
He was patronizing and he knew it. But he was tired, tired of seeing things others did not, tired of questioning if it was wisdom or conceit that made him think so and tired of hiding both of these all the time.
“I will hold you to that oath, First of the Eleven,” Otto said gruffly and Fredrik hid the sigh of relief that built inside of him.
“To do that, King Otto,” he said with a glint of playfulness in his eyes, “we must first address our other issues.”
Choice
Discuss the Nords
“We cannot discuss one without discussing them all,” Fredrik said as he opened the double doors to the war room, Brand and Otto following close. The room would be dark as night but for the candle-gloom of five candelabra on the walls and a dark iron chandelier with eleven branches, river serpents and vines of bronze and black silver twisting around the iron frame. Eleven shields with eleven coats-of-arms were hanging on the wall, the only decoration beyond the chandelier and a beautiful oaken table, heavy with books, reports, tokens for forces and a map of Riismark, already opened and stained by candle-wax. In a corner, a bottle of brandy with some cups were waiting, the only pieces of luxury in the room. Closing the doors behind them, Fredrik went on. “But I think the priority should be the Nords and retaking what is ours. We need to show the world that with or without the Conclave’s assistance – in fact, despite our forced isolation by it – Riismark prevails.”
“You say this, Fredrik,” Brand noted passively, eyeing the brandy, “and yet the Order of the Sword is the tip of your spear.”
“True enough,” Fredrik nodded, “but their involvement was our decision.”
“Or an added insult to the rest of the sovereign Households,” Brand retorted, pouring the brandy in cups and offering them to his peers. “Do you think you made more friends in the Conclave by inviting Temple and Sword here?”
“You keep saying ‘you’ and ‘your,’ Brand,” Fredrik said with thinned lips and staring the King of Rottdorf. Brand nodded, sipping his wine, as he sat nonchalantly on the table.
“I do,” he said calmly. “And I think you should too,” he added pointedly. Fredrik furrowed his eyebrows but Otto spoke before he could answer.
“I thought-” Otto he said, only to stop to cough, while bringing his emptied cup before his eyes. “This tastes like medicine,” he said with a grimace, then went on. “Strong. I like it. I thought,” he started again, “we were discussing the war, not politics.”
“Otto has the right of it,” Fredrik said turning his attention from Brand to the map on the table. He leaned over the map before them, eyes spread and resting on the table. “The Nords have been receiving reinforcements through winter but mostly as escorts to provisions, nothing alarming. I have the estimated numbers here.” With eyes peeled on the map, he lifted a report blindly with his left hand and offered it to them, the two Kings now taking positions around the table and reading through the report in turns as Fredrik went on. “There have been small skirmishes but no major changes in the theater as we know them. However, spring is almost upon us. I expect Gudmund will bring in heavy reinforcements. If he doesn’t, he will be forced to leave.”
He paused and took a sip from his cup, before he went on.
“I seriously doubt he intends to leave, though. Even though he was very careful to retain access to the sea, he has not made much progress in repairing his ships; we cannot confirm if this was intentional or if he has had troubles repairing the ones damaged during the siege, but Everard agrees. The Nords do not seem interested in leaving.”
“Good,” Otto commented. “Where it not for your new friend’s harpies,” he added bitterly, “Angengrad would have been ours already. Without the Dweghom lot running around burning things, Gudmund won’t last.”
“I’d agree but I dare not leave the West and South unattended, nor do I want to stop reconstruction in Vatsdam and Enderstradt unless I absolutely have to. We need to look like we can do everything.”
“Fredrik is right, Otto,” Brand agreed. “The Russ are a true concern. Eghfred reports the same of Silisia. Your own regent confirms that Schur still has an army waiting in Norvden. We cannot pull from every front to overwhelm the Nords.”
“Could the W’adrhŭn be used?” Fredrik asked and Brand turned to answer.
“Hard to say. It’s a new thing still. I cannot find fault with Nagral so far but his people are a hard lot to read.”
“Pah,” Otto exclaimed. “We are Eleven Kings, for Theos’ sake. We need neither barbarians, nor Orders. Let the wrath of Steel fall upon this Nordling before Spring and call it a day.”
“We are hardly three,” Brand snorted. “Enderstradt is out of the picture for all intends and purposes. Brandon of Bartenstein won’t move with the Russ flirting his borders as they are. Normak will come, a week late, like usual. Glauburg would rather see you-“
“Villmar of Glauburg can rot at the bottom of the lake for all I care,” Otto blurted. “Even the crocodiles won’t eat his sour corpse.”
“-my point exactly.” Brand went on. “And the rest? They’ll find excuses. We speak of the Eleven so much, Otto, that you are beginning to believe we are the Eleven of old. What momentum we had built, we lost last summer. Angengrad in Nord hands, Enderstradt destroyed, the Orders in Riismark… We are barely holding on to a thread here, if we are at all.” He turned to Fredrik once more. “But Otto has a point; we do speak of the Eleven. Call upon them. Assure them of your plans and their role in them. I cannot guarantee success but we could see where it leads.”
“It is a thought,” Fredrik said, browsing through reports. “A good thought, possibly. We could minimize the Sword’s involvement. But we wouldn’t attack before Spring. Gudmund will have his reinforcements.”
“Then us three,” Otto growled with a smile. “Bring your Sword if you must, but we muster what we have and strike before Spring comes. Surprise them.”
“For a reason,” Brand cautioned. “If the rivers flood, we’ll be caught between their walls and a watery grave. Not to mention our three Kingdoms would be exposed, even without having to worry about Nepenthe. Our numbers are not what they were last year.”
“Or,” Fredrik said, staring at one of the new reports. “We let Schur come to us… and lead him to the Nords,” he added with a wolfish grin. “If we play it right, we could build some bridges with the Chamberlain.”
Choice
Attempt to use Schur – In an attempt to play nice with the Chamberlain’s Office, Fredrik will try to offer the Chamberlain a victory through Schur.
Brand leaned over the unfinished letter, eyes furrowed in thought, while Otto glanced at it sideways, casually finishing his drink as he did so.
‘To Commander Erich Schur etcetera…’ he said jadedly, as he put the cup down, ‘from His Majesty King Fredrik etcetera, etcetera… The Year of Redemption, etce-…’
‘You’ve backdated this,’ Brand noted, his eyes shooting up to measure Fredrik’s reaction.
‘Alas, the messenger had to bypass Spire patrols and was delayed for days,’ the King of Brandengrad said with a wolfish smile. ‘This won’t work if the letter was sent knowing that Etienne has reached Everard. I could have sent a letter to him or ridden there myself.’ Nodding approvingly, Brand leaned over the letter once more.
‘Looks good enough,’ Otto snorted. ‘What’s the hold up?’
‘The wording in the end,’ Fredrik replied. ‘Ideally, I would invite him to join our efforts. But I can’t. I am sure the Chamberlain doesn’t want to be seen coordinating with me; that’s why Schur didn’t lift a finger during the war. What do you think?’
‘But we’ll go in anyway, right?’ Otto asked.
Both Fredrik and Brand nodded absentmindedly, as if neither had really heard him, seemingly absorbed by the contents of the letter. Scoffing angrily, Otto followed their example.
Commander,
You will forgive the lack of etiquette, however We feel that haste and clarity must be prioritized. We have just received word that the young Lord Etienne D’Ahnzu and his Companions have left Haubach, having secured leave by the city’s Stewart to engage the Nords on the northern province as he sees fit. While the Stewart has exceeded her authority in doing so, We are confident that, thus equipped, the determination and bravery the D’Ahnzu blood is famous for will push the boy to Nord controlled areas. As Our Commander-on-the-Field is obviously not authorized to detain nobility nor move forces in a manner outside Our battleplan, We fear for young Etienne’s safety.
Along with this letter, We are also issuing an order to our Commaner-on-the-Field to ensure the young Lord’s safety, while We are also mustering Our forces. Alas, however, We find discretion, secrecy even, are paramount and thus delays inevitable. The enemy is closely monitoring Our movements and We are certain that such preparations would alert them and encourage them to enhance their lines and patrols, thus endangering further the brave young lord. It is for this reason that We…
Choice
…hereby invite you into Our Lands of Riismark etc. etc…. – Fredrik will invite Schur into Riismark and give him leave to surprise the Nords and reach Etienne. This will reinforce Fredrik’s image as a King in control of his lands, but the Chamberlain’s enemies could use it as another indication that he cooperates with Fredrik.
The Battle of Nordstepped Lands
“What kind of stupid name is that?”
Everard was furious, of course. Expected. But Etienne had a way of ignoring the fury of seasoned men, didn’t he? He had a way of ignoring the fury of reason, if Erich had anything to say about it. It was why he had been the perfect candidate to send here – and it had worked like a charm.
“It is inspiring and challenging,” the youth replied, completely oblivious to the fire dancing in the Swordmaster’s eyes. “And it underlines our failure to secure our own lands, our failure to keep those Nords from our soil. OUR soil. OUR failure, Swordmaster. As men and women of the Kingdoms.”
“Had one King, one duke, one bloody baron called for us, boy..!” the Swordmaster fumed but the boy simply interrupted him, wielding the oblivious superiority of pampered noble youth everywhere.
“The Companions and myself were not invited by anyone, Swordmaster. We simply did what was right. And here we are. Here you are.”
Erich almost laughed. Almost. What stopped him was not the boy’s words – obviously. What stopped him was that they gave the Swordmaster pause. And that ambushed him.
“Well,” he said, “I on the other hand was invited.”
“To bring me back, no doubt,” Etienne said and then blurted out: “even though you practically sent me here in the first place. Wasn’t that nice for you, Master Schur?”
“Enough.”
Even Etienne thought twice before challenging a Swordmaster with that tone. Schur, on the other hand, seemed to have had no intention to bicker in the first place, taking out his flask and taking a good, long gulp instead. Everard looked at them both, before looking at the camp around them. He then picked up a parchment, eyes dashing through the numbers of the report.
“This is all we have then?” he asked, turning to Erich.
“Aye,” he shrugged, after he took a sip from his flask. “Reckoned if I brought more the locals were bound to get a bit fidgety, if you know what I mean, and invitations be damned, eh? Still, I’d say we’re safe enough, lest they risk moving their bulk out of the city. They can see we’re not… locals, no doubt, and Fredrik’s bound to bring more.”
“We’re not waiting for Fredrik,” Everard declared.
Erich raised an eyebrow, ignoring the wide, excited eyes of the youth next to him, as did the Swordmaster. Everard was looking straight into Schur’s eyes weighing him.
“Bait and sneak?” Erich asked after a moment.
“Bait and smash,” the Swordmaster replied. “I don’t think you’ve seen Swordbrothers in action, General. We are not much for sneaking.”
“And the bait is…?”
Everard smiled.
Danger, the little voice said inside Erich’s head – and it was not the booze. This man was dangerous, his instinct told him, and that danger went far beyond his prowess in battle. There were things at play here. Things he didn’t understand and which, usually, he considered above his paygrade. Things with Orders, Kings and his the Chamberlain. Something inside shifted uncomfortably, a feeling that he was being played – though he could not be sure if it was by Fredrik, the Swordmaster or his own boss. And on top of everything, he had to bring Etienne back. Alive, preferably.
He hated that feeling.
“If we’re going to do this,” he said, carefully, trying to calm the storm of anger rising inside him, “if we’re going to attack the city…”
Choice
“…then I’ll be the bait.” – Erich will try to provoke the Nords to come out of the walls.