Epilogue
The Battle of Nordstepped Lands
So it was that the wetlands of Riismark were still cold, and the rice fields sparkled with morning frost, when the forces of King Fredrik of Brandengrad attacked not the city of Angengrad, held by the Nords, but the fort of Schultzfield, half a day’s ride north of the city. Horse and human breaths fled metal helm and chaffron alike, mixing with the morning mist as the clarion call of war echoed over river and land; answered the call was, barbarian horns taking up the challenge, and one by one the watchtowers of the camp around the great fort called its foreign defenders to man the palisades. Banners hang lazily against weak winds, faded in the mist but none less strongly held high than under the clearest sun of day or strongest wind.
Two led the charge; King Fredrik, cheered by his own troops by chants of “For the Great! Fredrik the Great!”, and Erich Schur, whose troops knew better than to yell anything but curses and threats towards the enemy, though not revering their own general any less. Their combined forces looked strong and the day would surely be theirs; if they managed to take the fort before reinforcements from the city would arrive.
It was a bloody morning, a morning of steel and death. Little by little, Riismark’s forces gained ground but by noon, the fort was still adorned with barbarian banners. Then horns sounded, and a giant’s cry; for Gudmund could not well afford to lose control of the river north and he had sent his best to keep the fort.
Thus was the deception revealed, when Fredrik’s bannerman signalled to Schur upon hearing the horns and giant’s voice. Schur laughed hard and wildly and sounded his own horn in reply; three, fast cries echoed across the field, screaming, it seemed, with mocking laughter: ‘now, brothers, now, for the barbarians were fooled!” And, like one, as if expecting the call all morning, the men of the Kingdoms withdrew, having cared more all day to keep their flanks clear and the paths open, than to take the fort itself.
A great chase begun then, the Nord reinforcements screaming as they gave chase, spurred on by their exhausted comrades. “Flee now, ye southern dogs!” they screamed merrily from the fort, watching their Konungyr’s best give chase. Erich and Schur smiled and ordered their men flee, splitting the Nord’s forces and leading them down two paths. The fort was lost to them; but not the day.
For half a day’s ride south of them, Everard of the Sword and three dozen of his best would prove enough to take the city. Centuries of festering vengeance was unleashed upon the Nords that day, as the Order of the Sword claimed lives in the name of all their brethren, felled by Svarthgalm and his army during the Red Years. Long are the memories of the Orders, say the common folk, and right they have it. For the Sword fell without mercy and without end, until the city of Angengrad was freed.
By the end of day, the armored hand glistening red from the death it had spread, Everard entered the throne room of Angengrad and picked up the crown from the dead Gudmund. And, as his men told him that Fredrik would arrive within the hour, he tossed the crown aside but sat on the throne to catch his breath.
When Fredrik arrived, the gates were closed and the Sword was the sole banner flying on the City’s walls.
View on the Living World!
Prelude
Bartenstein, two weeks before the Battle of Nordstepped Lands
“It is as I tell you and no doubt.”
Jahl Pestorik was not the sharpest knife in any kitchen. Had he been – had any of his little cronies been, in fact – or had he a modicum of ambition, he could have been making good money. Slian’s kind of money. Thankfully for Slian, none of them possessed any such attribute. Travelling merchants, second-rate troubadours, the occasional lady in waiting seeking adventure and falling to his charms, all of Slian’s little ears had been handpicked for lacking any sharpness beyond the minimum required to be good gossips and any ambition beyond the spare silvers or services he offered to cover their petty little vices.
“That ol’ noble who Freddie offed? The one who all Hel broke loose after he died and all the nobles swapped around? Yeah, turns out, he was never really offed,” Jahl went on. “Word is, he sought refuge in Siilstok and they are itching to use him.”
“Siilstok you say,” Slian commented as he topped the man’s drink with a smile.
“Aye,” Jahl said, licking his lips before raising the cup to them, pausing and cheering his benefactor before actually gulping down nearly half of it. “Now, Siilstok is good stock and no mistake,” he said after elegantly swiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Pious people. Unlike that bastard, Freddie, Theos smite him where he stands.”
“And the information is… reliable?” Slian asked. He had a policy and one alone: to have no policy. An information broker picking sides meant unnecessarily limiting his clientele. It would be like a blacksmith only selling swords to one side of the war. Preposterously stupid.
“Aye, as good as they come,” Jahl nodded with a smile that did little to drown his eager look, jumping between Slian and the bottle. “Stopped in Siilstok on my way here from Vercy. I actually saw the man myself.”
“Where you drunk?”
“That’s unfair, Sly,” the man protested. “Almost of a mind to not tell you the rest, after that, I am.”
“But you will, won’t you, Jahl?” Slian asked, ignoring the liberal use of his detested nickname but noting it nonetheless. “Or should we call it a night?” He made no move towards the bottle.
After a moment of thought and false reluctancy, Jahl pushed his cup closer to Slian.
Eventually, he told him, of course, everything he knew and everything he heard, and Slian kept the cup full, while he listened. He listened as he too told him names of many that were unhappy with Fredrik after the destruction of one city and the occupation by the Nords of another; and then some, after he called the Orders, and then even more when he let the Sword take field command of the Nord front. How there were talks in Vercy about of the Scorpion and Urielle vying for power in the Conclave and battling for trade rights with the Russ. How the Church was emboldened after Nepenthe, pushing for troops to secure its priests, while the Polmag mercenaries were recruiting even non-humans nowadays. And as he listened, he realized just how precious those names were, in the grand scheme of things. For, unlike his little pets, Slian was as sharp as they came.
Leaving the Hungry Croc in the small hours, sober unlike any of the rest of the clientele and even the staff, Slian pondered his next move, or, rather, his next client. He readily dismissed Fredrik himself or his lackies. He had no contacts or ties to him and a man in his situation was bound to be suspicious and suspicious clients were unpredictable. The obvious choice, instead, was his own illustrious sovereign, Brandon of Bartenstein. An established client, meek and hesitant to take action but always eager to pay. This information would be a tool to his reluctancy to act or, if he could, to leverage help from Fredrik in order for the Russ borders to be strengthened.
But then, there was the woman, the one who called herself Jelena. An obvious fake, as fake, in fact, as her accent, meant to have him think she was Russ. But she was no Russ. She was with the Orders or working for them. She appeared just when they did, was a warrior trained judging by her posture and, if he was honest, clumsy and unused to cloak and dagger. So, not Temple. Sword, more likely, considering their presence. Regardless, she always paid and paid very well indeed and, until he decided to sell the information of her identity, that’s all that mattered.
Choices
Bring the information to Brandon of Bartenstein.
- Bring the information to the Order’s agent.
Chapter 1
Lake Stalak, eleven days before the Battle of Nordstepped Lands
The barge glided peacefully, a lazy, dark traveler across the lake’s smooth water. There were no torches lit aboard or illuminating the waters ahead; a dangerous undertaking but the moon’s light was enough for an experienced captain that knew the waters. And Jelena had found the best.
She had proven an asset, Jelena – or Sheila, Dihra, Heydi but really Mehrry, had she not insisted on not using the name, even when they were alone. She was viciously sharp, well connected and could blend with the locals easily. She had no exceptional talent for sword-fighting or unarmed combat, but she made up for it with driven dedication, putting in the hours and work with eager purpose. Ghideon knew he had done her no favors by pulling her out of her training, but she did not complain. Proving her dedication to her newfound home, she had done all she had been asked to do and had done so better than admirably. Once more, Ghideon wondered if she wouldn’t have fitted in better with the Templars; their obsession will skullduggery and politics seemed to match her performance of late. But the idea only made him smile. Not only had he deprived them of such a valuable asset, he was certain that she would dislike their mentality more than he did. Mehrry, Jelena rather, demanded actions and results and would suffer such practices only so long as they brought such an outcome closer. She yearned for the direct approach. The Sword approach. It would not be long, he thought, before her communion.
“Do you trust this source?” he asked her, offering a piece of bread, as he did so. They were sitting on the stern of the barge, sharing a humble dinner under the moonlight – and, more importantly, away from the cabin. She swiped her fingers behind her ears, an old habit of a time when her brown hair was long, no doubt, then took the bread as she nodded.
“Slian is slimier than a crocodile in the mud, but he is good at what he does,” she answered, ever using her Russ accent. “Father used him frequently, and he only worked for the best. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Slian suspected, knew even, that I work for you. Well, the brothers, anyway.”
He nodded, munching slowly his own piece of bread with some cheese, noting how her blue eyes turned to look into the distance at the mere mention of her father. Good. If this pain was her drive, then all the better it remained to drive her. Hang on to it, little Mehr, he thought. “Then this is good information,” he said instead. “It can serve us well.”
“What are you thinking, Gran-“ she said but he raised his eyes, then looked around. “Ghid,” she corrected. “How do you think we could use it?”
He sighed, for the question was plaguing him as well.
“I am not sure,” he said. “Everard must be allowed to do his work and no one must suspect until it is too late. With this information we could keep Fredrik busy.”
“Won’t his troops be missed?” she asked but he shook his head.
“If all goes well, Fredrik will involve Schur. After that brat left his forces and rode across the borders to play hero, he can’t afford to let him die. So, he will either go himself to be the hero and appease the Conclave or he will ‘invite’ Shur, knowing fully well that the lad was allowed to leave the Imperial Forces as an excuse for Schur to get involved.”
“But if Fredrik goes after the lad, Everard’s work becomes…”
“Nothing will change,” Ghideon said. “What must be done, will be done. But I don’t think he will. Fredrik’s ego won’t allow him to play nice with the Conclave. But building some bridges with the Chamberlain by involving Schur is an opportunity he can’t afford to miss. He is desperately alone and he knows it. You alone said that so many are questioning him. He needs support.”
“He has us. And the Temple.”
He grimaced annoyed, waving dismissively. “He does not want us. None do. This is why we do what we do here.”
“Regardless,” she remarked, “he will still join the war effort. He could let Schur take credit, true, but he won’t miss the retaking of Angengrad.”
“True,” he nodded his agreement. “But your information will ensure he won’t take a force large enough to thwart our plans.”
Silence fell, broken only by the ring of a bell somewhere far, answered by their own barge’s signal bell; a simple but efficient way for different boats to keep their distance in a night like this. Quietly they finished their humble feast and simply sat there. Her face, relaxed for the first time since they had met, was staring in the distance, absorbing the beauty and calm of the night. His, however, hidden under his uncared-for beard, was thoughtful, troubled even. He carried the weight of his self-appointed quest better than most would but that did not mean it was not taking a toll on his peace of mind.
“Much of what is about to happen will depend on you,” he said in the end, and she turned to face him. “What Everard will do, one way or another, is decided. There won’t be another opportunity like this for us. It must be done and it will. But this is your land, Mehrry. And Fredrik is its de facto ruler. The Orders have ignored the people in the past, playing politics in the name of nations but without their consent. This time, I would have one of the people guide the fate of your nation.”
“I’d rather fight,” she said, weakly.
“I know,” he said. “And you will, initiate. But before that you must understand that a sword’s potency extends beyond the taking of lives.”
She did not answer, at first, her green eyes scanning the shadowed forest beyond the lake. “What are my options?” she asked at last.
“You could alert Fredrik about his adversaries. Both the man in Siilstok and the would-be dissidents in Riismark. This would give him some warning, perhaps allow him to cut the head of the snake before it leaves its hole. But it would open a new front for him, and the Conclave will not tolerate another culling of nobility or an expansion war. You could also find this dethroned noble in Siilstok and offer him the names of potential allies. If you do, then I would ask you look into this man. Closely. There are rumors about Siilstok and we need to stay ahead of them. You could even bring word to the Russ. After all, your mother was Russ, was she not?” She nodded, quietly. “In any case, Fredrik will realize he cannot afford to move his entire army to Angengrad for the attack and will rely on us and possibly Schur. The rest is up to Everard.”
“I… I need to think,” she said and for a moment it gave him pause. She was young, troubled and burdened; and he had just put on her shoulders the weight of a decision that would shape a nation’s future. But Ghideon understood what many of his Swordmasters before him had failed to. Any one of the brethren could one day rise to his position; and therefore every one should know the truth behind the words he had told: the power of the Sword extended beyond the battlefield. His face hardened with conviction.
“You have until dawn,” he said.
Choice
- Jelena will go to Fredrik.
- Jelena will go to Siilstok.
- Jelena will go to the Russ.
Chapter 2
Vatsdam Restoration Site, nine days before the Battle of Nordstepped Lands
“I need the papers, Fergi.”
Fergi Schmitty was perhaps the most admired survivor of the Restoration camp in Vatsdam. For some, it was because his was the hand that fired the ballista that brought down the flying ship of the Alchemist. For others, it was because he had fought side by side with the Crimsons against the Brutes, while for others still he had felled an abomination, fighting with the Cadre, and even receiving an invitation from them to join their ranks. For all of them, however, Fergi Schmitty was so admired because he was the best fibber in Riismark – if not the Kingdoms. ‘Send Fergi to the Conclave and we’ll have an Empire,’ they used to say in Vatsdam and perhaps it wouldn’t be too far from the truth.
“You have papers, Mehr,” he said, grimacing at the angry look she gave him under her hood. “Proper ones. Sealed all nice and proper, and with your name and everything. I liked your mother and all but you taking on a Russ name goes too far.”
“You never liked mother,” she said sharply.
“Liked her well enough to make papers for her when she needed ‘em, didn’t I, Mher?”
“Stop saying that name,” she snapped and went on as he nodded apologetically. “You liked father, that much is true,” she admitted. “For him you’d do anything, I know. And this, too, you will do for him, Fergi.”
Fergi motioned his strong, working hand dismissively, the other bringing his tankard to his mouth.
“It’s for him I do not want to do it, cub” he said licking foam off his moustache, as he put the tankard on the table. He then traced his wide palm over his barren head, wiping off beads of sweat from his skin, and sat back, sighing as he looked around. “You know, I convinced the Templars that the first thing we should build was the taphouse. Keeps the morale up, I said, and they agreed.”
“I am sure you did, Fergi,” she said good-naturedly and he nodded.
“After the hospital, of course,” he added, as an afterthought. “A place to mend bones and a place to mend souls, that’s what I told ‘em and they were all for it. Wise man, this Fergi, I heard their Master say. Ask Pohl, he was-“
“Fergi…”
Her voice was pleading and her eyes were matching, as he reached for his hand. “I really need the papers.”
He paused, looking deep into her green eyes and his brown ones mellowed. He smiled but soon the smile was gone. “I…” his voice faltered, for a moment, as his eyes searched low, aimlessly. “I’ve made papers for your father so many times, cub,” he said in the end. “Didn’t do much good to him, now, did it, in the end? Doesn’t feel right to…”
“It’s going to be alright, Fergi,” she said, her hands still covering his palm over the table. He looked up, doubt dancing in his eyes. “Jelena Alexeya,” she said in a reassuring tone.
“Never could say no to you, could I?”
“I don’t think there’s many things you’ve said no to, Fergi.”
“Fair enough,” he chuckled, releasing his hand from her grip, then reached for his tankard once more, wiping his face with the back of his other hand. “Haubach seal? Or Rottdorf?”
“Can’t do Brandengrad?”
He shook his head. “You’d never reach him. Your best bet is one of his pals and those you’d reach easier with papers of their own Kingdoms – though that name won’t do you many favors.”
“That name will make sure they know I am a spy. That’s the point. Easier to talk to someone important.”
“Stupid.”
“I prefer bold. Who are the two?”
“Otto of Haubach’s one. He often holds audiences for widows and orphans of Vatsdam that have sought refuge in his city. Helps him remember, he says. Brand of Rottdorf, on the other hand, is more elusive. But hint at you having information and he’ll make sure you’re brought to him. I’ll make papers that’ll help as well.”
“Would they both bring the information to Fredrik?”
“Otto certainly. He’d favor flushing out traitors in Riismark, though, I’d wager. Brand… Brand is a hard egg to crack; even your father thought so. He might or he might not, until he checks out the information with his own people first. He’d also play the long game; suggest Fredrik turns his attention to the rumors about Siilstok, do some digging.”
“You have time for both?” she asked. “I’d rather decide after I’ve reached Brandengrad and assess the situation.”
“I can’t be sure when he’ll move, cub,” he said. “I don’t think you’ll have the luxury of playing this slow. I’ll have both ready come morning, sure, but you better have your mind made up once you reach the city.” She nodded thoughtfully, but then perked up and flashed him a smile.
“You are the best, Fergi, you know that?”
“People keep saying so,” he said. “If you’d hear some of the stuff they say…”
“I am sure I would not believe half of them,” she said with a playful smile as she was getting up.
“All the worse for you then, cub,” he chuckled. Then, more serious, though still smiling, he added: “The apple does not fall far, does it, cub?”
“Guess not, uncle,” she said and leaned over the table, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and left.
Choice
- Jelena will try to reach Otto.
- Jelena will try to reach Brand.
Chapter 3
Bandengrad, seven days before the Battle of Nordstepped Lands
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Her uncle had tried to warn her but she did not listen: her clever name with hints of Russ heritage and a special meaning to her had ensured she had not gone past the guardhouse before the gate, much less gain an audience with the King of Haubach. But it had worked partly as she hoped; the bad part. Figuring out she must be a spy, rather than an audience, she had gained a tail – one that knew the city much, much better than she did.
She darted left once more, into an alley. Then, the moment she was out of view, she opened her step as fast as she dared to avoid drawing even more eyes, rushing to reach the next busy street as fast as possible. It had not worked the past two times she had tried this one trick she knew – but third time’s a charm? she hoped against hope. Throwing a glance over her shoulder as she reached the end of the alley and exited to a street, her hope was crushed; the man following her didn’t seem even remotely concerned as he walked casually down the alley she was just leaving.
Coming to a new wide street, she sighed. There was traffic here, as the street housed a number of shops and masters; but nothing she could really use to lose her tail unless she run. She sighed again, disappointed and desperate and almost did exactly that – but she stopped.
So, what if I was ‘caught’? she wondered. She was marked, even if she tried again or another avenue to gain an audience, the name would be known now and that would make it harder. She’d need new papers, new names, a new story… Those things took time. Time she did not have. But if she was caught… That’d be a way to gain an audience, wouldn’t it? Well, being questioned wouldn’t necessarily be the perfect way to describe an audience but if the information did get where it was supposed to go, what did it matter? Play it right and she might even actually speak to Fredrik himself… maybe.
She shook her head. That scenario presumed a lot of things would go the way she wanted them to. She needed speed. She needed certainty. She needed leverage. What if she waited in one of these alleys? A… discreet one? Even better, a dead end, to make her prey certain of his success. He would think her weak, a socialite spy, and in any case not a warrior trained by the Orders. What if she grabbed him? Then, she could demand an audience and…
She resumed her walking, as the man following her exited the alley and turned in her direction with uncanny certainty. Those were desperate options, she realized, as her mind kept spiralling deeper into such fantasies.
But then again, time was running out. Did she really have a choice?
Choice
- Get caught.
- Try to capture the man following her.
Chapter 4
Bandengrad, seven days before the Battle of Nordstepped Lands
It was important not to change her pattern, but also to appear to be trying variations. Whoever was following her knew she knew they were there, so it had to appear like she was trying to lose them but was not good at this – which was, she thought bitterly, apparently, true. Her plan – which was largely forming as she went along – was to find one of the alleys she had seen earlier. There was a pile of barrels stacked on one side, which she could use to hide and lay her ambush, while it seemed far enough from any crowd to maybe not raise any alarms should a fight ensue. To manage that, she thought, she had to appear lost and effectively double back without appearing to double back.
So, she tried the same routine only this time she opened her pace, trying to appear desperate to make her follower drop their guard. She pretended to get confused and look around lost, then rushed in an alley she knew – or, rather, hoped – would bring her back to a street she had passed before. From there, she was positive that she could find her way back into that alley. Probably.
She took a deep breath and jumped in the alley. Here goes nothing, she thought.
((NOTE ABOUT THE VOTE: The Success option indicates that Jelena manages to capture her pursuer, one way or the other. The highest the percentage towards success, the quieter and more efficient she will be. The Failure option means that Jelena fails to capture her pursuer, ranging from the pursuer capturing her instead to him injuring or even killing her during the fight. Depending on how events unfold, her information could be delayed and not reach her intended recipient before the battle or even get lost entirely.))
Choice
- Success
- Failure
Chapter 5
Bandengrad, six days before the Battle of Nordstepped Lands
“Do you think she was tellinacg the truth?”
“I wasn’t exactly in a position to read her expression, Captain” Gheorgas grimaced, rubbing the itching, small scar on his neck. The cold stare he received from the one behind the desk brouacght him to his senses before Captain Klauseric next to him had a chance to berate him. “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he added hurriedly, bowing his head at the man, “I am still a little shook. What I meant, Captain,” he turned to answer his officer’s question again, “was that it is hard to say. I would, however, say that she really wanted this information to reach Fr- ahem, to reach his Majesty, King Fredrik, I mean.”
“King Fredrik?” Brand asked. “I was under the impression that she had tried to gain an audience with me.”
“Aye, Sire,” Gheorgas nodded. “But the way she spoke, a slight slip of the tongue to boot… Her true intended recipient was King Fredrik, I am certain.”
“Perhaps she thought it easier to reach you, Majesty.” Brand nodded.
“Or she wanted to avoid someone else in his Court,” he said. “Was that all she said?”
“She insisted that she also delivers her information in person, Sire,” the man answered. “I am to contact her in the Brown Serpent Inn. That is why I am sure she was eager for the information to reach you and King Fredrik. She wanted an audience but was quick to share the information with me as well. If I never did get her an audience, the information would still be passed along.”
“An information broker that gives away the information, without reward or recognition. If only more shared her enthusiasm for the craft, eh?”
The Captain and Gheorgas laughed softly – it was what one did when a King made a joke.
“Very well. I cannot really commend you on a job well done – Gheorgas, was it? – but regardless, I am glad you were not hurt. Now leave us.”
Gheorgas bowed at Brand, saluted the Captain and left. After a few moments, Captain Klauseric spoke.
“I can only apologise for the inefficiency of-“ Brand interrupted him with a dismissive wave.
“What’s done is done, Captain, and at least we have a contact point with this mysterious woman.”
“Do you think she was telling the truth, Sire?”
“No,” Brand shook his head, sharply. “The man she claims is harbored by Siilstok is dead. Fredrik killed him and while I was not there and he is one to boast, he is not one to boast about a deed undone.”
“Some of the other names she said, however, make sense,” the Captain commented. “At least a third of them were on our lists of potential insurgents as well.”
“Her list,” Brand said, going over the names on the paper Gheorgas had delivered, “is long. Too long to be reliable, perhaps, but too long to be ignored as well. With the attack imminent, we don’t have the manpower to cover all this ground. And yet, if the list is true and if they are led by someone, then the time of the attack would be the perfect time to strike.”
“My thoughts exactly, Sire,” the Captain said and, after a quiet pause he added. “Orders, Sire?”
“I doubt she will actually be at the Inn, but try to find the woman. Send a better man, this time, Captain.” The Captain bowed curtly but did not comment further. “In fact, send Gheorgas to Siilstok. A good assignment, I’d say, to chase ghost stories. As for the rest… I don’t know if we can afford to assign men to this; but we can’t afford to ignore it either. With Schur on the way, however… perhaps we could spare men to secure our regions while the main army attacks the Nords.”
“Will you bring this to King Fredrik, Sire?”
Choice
- There is no time. My men will investigate this list. Schur’s forces should compensate.
- There is no time. My men will investigate this list. I can try asking Nagral to send some of his W’adrhŭn in my stead.
- It will cost us time, perhaps, but he should know.
Chapter 6
The wetlands east of Haubach, four days before the Battle of Nordstepped Lands
“Who was this damn woman?!”
The heavy table was slammed, the wooden figurines bouncing slightly around the spread maps. Silence followed Fredrik’s outburst – a more common occurrence lately than in the past but few could blame him. The reign of the King of Brandengrad had been a path few would envy, even if many declared they admired – perhaps less so lately than in the past, at least openly.
“We tried to bring her in but, perhaps unsurprisingly, she was not where she had said she would be,” Brand said after Fredrik had collected himself.
“You think she was lying then?”
Brand grimaced, expecting the question and how the answer would be received.
“I think it doesn’t matter what I think,” he said and, seeing Fredrik’s eyes narrowing, he went on, calm as a crocodile on a summer noon. “While the source of the information is important, as is its validity, the timing is even more so. Whether the information is accurate or not, it is a possibility we cannot ignore. If the list is accurate, if the insurgency is as organized and as widespread as it implies, then the best time for them to strike would be when you are occupied with the Nords. We spent our autumn and winter planning for the attack and those who would refuse your claims know this. We have given them the perfect opportunity to strike and the exact time to do so. Even if half or a third of that list is accurate, they would still be a threat when all our forces are engaged and our Kingdoms are left with skeletal forces to defend them.”
“What if it’s a ruse, though?” Otto’s raspy voice boomed in the tent. “To address all the names in that list in four days would mean mobilizing most of our forces towards that goal; forces that’d best serve against retaking our lands from the Nords. If this report is a ruse, Fredrik looks weak for not facing the Nords, and also half-mad, chasing ghost stories and unverified threats.”
“I have to agree with Otto, Brand,” Fredrik said. “I don’t mind being mocked for my choices but at least I usually stand by them. I know who I’ve killed and this woman claims there’s a man in Siilstok who is very, very dead,” he said, with some humor in his voice.
“I believe you,” he said. “But again, truth has little to do with this. If your doubters believe it to be true and rally around a dead man’s name, they are rallied all the same.”
“Idiots,” scoffed Otto. “Idiots everywhere.”
“And that is the issue. The list claims they are everywhere or near as to make no difference. I do not think we can ignore it.”
“What do you suggest then?” Otto said, not without some bitterness. “That we allow Schur and their lot to do our job for us? What does that say for us, what does it say for Fredrik and his ability to lead Riismark and the Eleven?“ he said, motioning with his head dismissively towards one corner of the tent. The Sealed Temple Priory Commander, clean shaved and short hair, helm held under his armpit, said nothing, showed nothing, as did his retinue.
“You know King Otto, Commander Möller” Fredrik smiled towards the Order member, who simply nodded and Fredrik went on. “As we are at risk of King Otto displaying his usual elegance in diplomacy, perhaps you would prefer we reconvened later?” Again, the Commander nodded and, after a moment’s hesitation from a squire, he was followed outside.
“Seriously, Otto,” Fredrik said but Otto simply exclaimed in disgust.
“Send them or the Chamberlain’s hound to deal with the treacherous rabble and we do what we must: retake Riismark,” Otto said but Fredrik and Brand both motioned negatively.
“No,” Fredrik said first. “I need Schur in Angengrad to offer a victory to the Chamberlain – and, if I am lucky, to make him present it as a victory of the Conclave as a whole. As for the Orders, the Sealed Temple is only here to help with the reconstruction and Everard only cares about the Nords. Besides, using the Orders to hunt down rebel nobles will poke a whole new nest of vipers in the Conclave.”
“No,” he went on. “We must address this or risk leaving all three Kingdoms exposed. We need to see our options.”
* * *
“Couldn’t we have stayed?!” Jelena’s whisper came almost annoyed but the sharp look from the Priory Commander reined her in. “…Commander,” she added, in a different tone.
“The man in Siilstok,” Möller said, ignoring her. “Is he like the others?”
“My master thinks so, Commander,” Jelena said after a moment’s hesitation, her hand mechanically reaching for a tuft of hair to pull behind her ear. She found none, her hair dyed once more and this time cut short and she tried not to sigh wistfully. “How many others, if I may ask, Commander?” she urged politely.
Commander Möller turned to look at her, his eyes piercing as if a mere look was enough to interrogate. “Tell Everard that I know of two confirmed,” he said in the end. “A Knight in Vaansburg. He leads a hunter’s club for young nobles – a front for their cult, obviously, or an avenue of recruitment. Also, a baroness in Sieva, who apparently made a miraculous recovery from bloodrot. She leads the Gate’s guard so the fortress is probably being used as a hideout; the rumors of it being haunted only help.”
“The Whisperer?” she asked in a weak voice. “She is real..?” He ignored her.
“There are rumors about others,” he said instead. “Tell him those are still being investigated.”
“Is this why your men grabbed me in Brandengrad, Commander?” she asked and immediately regretted asking. The Commander stopped, turning to face her, as she remembered to stop and stand attention only after a few seconds.
“No,” he said flatly. “This is the reason I agreed to Everard’s plan. Tell him that. They grabbed you in case I was forced to offer you to the King to appease him. Be grateful, recruit. Your antics could have cost all of us.”
She gulped, feeling small and vulnerable under his look. Mustering her courage – and drawing from the endless supply of her audacity – she pressed her luck further. “But… if you support him then why did we leave? We should have stayed, find out what they will do and…”
“Two of them will address the issues you brought to their attention, though I doubt they will pay the report about Siilstok any heed. In good time, I will confirm the report and urge Fredrik to move. He will welcome this, after Angengrad.”
“Who will..?” she started once more but his look gave her pause.
“Know this,” he said. “And more importantly, let Everard know this. Not all of us are of the same mind. Many would prefer we keep working from the shadows, let the Kings play politics while we do the work. But I don’t agree. What is to come is not for Kings to face. We need to take the reins once more. And if his little… coup fails, we risk everything.”
“But who will…?”
“Tell him not to fail or I will be forced to hunt him myself. Dismissed, recruit.”
Who will go to Angengrad while the other two secure Fredrik’s territories from the insurgents?
Choice
- Fredrik
- Otto
- Brand