Book 6: Chapter 11 |
Bresmont
The Count de Brisse’s Palace
Temporary office of Marshal de Clairmont
THERE WERE THREE PEOPLE in the Marshal’s temporary office: the Duke de Clairmont himself and his two closest friends, comrades-in-arms, and vassals, Count Guilleme de Leval and Count Frederic de Bozon.
The three men had just returned from the main camp, where they had gone about two hours before to watch the duel between the Margrave de Valier and Baron von Neumark. The results of that duel were, to put it mildly, shocking. And not only for the three senior commanders, but for everyone else who saw it happen as well.
For a little while after they returned, the office was immersed in silence, broken only by the occasional clinking of silver goblets of wine and the sound of the Count de Bozon’s heavy footsteps as he paced across the room, smoking his pipe the whole time.
Frederic was the most energetic and impatient of the three. Even as a child, he was always getting into trouble because of his fidgety nature, and as an adult, he could always be found at the forefront of a sharp, sudden attack. So perhaps it’s not surprising that he was the first man to break the silence.
“Can someone please explain to me how this is possible?!” The Count de Bozon exploded. “Where did that little man get so much power?! It took him seconds — SECONDS — to smear Neumark all over the ground like some kind of newly-minted expert!”
“Calm down, Fred,” said the Count de Leval in a low bass. He was the calmest and most grounded of the trio. His main qualities were boldness and total loyalty to their little brotherhood. “We all saw what happened with our own eyes. And I must admit — we all underestimated the bastard...”
“Let’s be candid, Ed.” The Count de Bozon strode over to a little table where a flagon of wine was standing and poured himself a brimming goblet. “We’re all perfectly well acquainted with Carl’s penchant for bringing all sorts of savage swordsmen and other flashy flavors-of-the-month into his orbit. I mean, Zoë de Namur... Need I remind you how that all ended? And that midget of his... I’d bet my right arm on it — none of this would have happened without the little hunchback’s meddling. After all, he knew that Bauffremont was sending the “Uncrushables” here. So what happened then? The Bastard brought the “Savages.” If anybody told me that this was all an innocent coincidence, I’d spit in their face!”
“Ed,” said the Count de Leval to the Duke de Clairmont. “I think Fred is right.”
“Of course I am!” The Count de Bozon snorted. “The Gramont bastard was angling for a conflict with the “Uncrushables” from the start. And our decision just made it easier for him. Pff... We shouldn’t let ourselves forget that no matter what else might be true of him, he’s got the blood of those traitorous cowards the de Gramonts flowing in his veins. His late father, or Heinrich, would have drawn the right conclusions and made the right decision. And by that I mean they’d have sent someone from the “Savages” out to fight Neumark, and that would have been the end of it. But now... Now everything’s only grown more complicated! And that damnable hunchback has thumbed his nose at Bauffremont once again. I’m sure this is part of his little invisible game. Nobody back in the capital has any interest in seeing you rise any higher. Mark my words, Ed! As soon as you start winning, one of the Princes will come and join the army to take credit for your victories!”
The Duke de Clairmont stared silently out the window as he listened to Bozon speak. Sure, Fred always painted events in thick, bright colors, but at the moment Édouard was totally prepared to agree with his comrade-in-arms — a man who, after all, had been a friend since childhood, and with whom he’d been through more than one major battle.
Despite the fact that there wasn’t so much as a muscle moving on the Duke’s stony face, a storm was raging inside him as he listened. Damn these Astlanders and their blood feud, he thought! Instead of focusing on preparations for the campaign, I’m wasting time sorting out this pointless pile of shit!
Devil take this bastard Margrave, and that accursed hunchback along with him! Carl hasn’t done me any favors in all this, either...
The Duke frowned and closed his eyes. On second thought, of course... The King had warned him about the young stryker... And Édouard had seen Émile de Marbot die with his own eyes as a new avant was born. True, the Duke suddenly found himself questioning the chain of events: did the “birth” really happen during that fight at de Gondy’s ball? It must have happened much earlier than that; in other words, the Gramont bastard must have stepped into the ring against Émile as an avant already.
Only as he sat there in his chair, still in shock after seeing Neumark get slaughtered (which was really the only accurate way to describe what had happened), did the Duke finally realize who he was dealing with. He had never seen such a powerful stryker. Even Lord Gray was stunned, although he tried his best not to show it. But Édouard hadn’t failed to notice the absent-minded gaze of the best avant in the Kingdom as he stared at the Margrave. Although to be honest, everyone also realized that Gray had just been removed from his pedestal.
And for the first time, the Duke also realized that the newly-minted Margrave had every chance of successfully driving the “Scarlets” out of his new territory.
Lost in thought, Édouard didn’t immediately realize that Frederic had fallen silent, and that both his comrades were looking at him expectantly.
“Ed — are you listening to me?” Guilleme asked with surprise. “What have you decided?”
“Ahem...” The Duke cleared his throat, glanced at his friends’ expectant faces, and then began to speak in a firm tone: “What’s done is done. I’ve already given Lord Gray the order to take command of the Astlanders during the campaign. And that’s the end of the discussion. We’ve got more important things to worry about at the moment.”
“Fair enough,” nodded de Bozon in agreement. “Gray’s authority will be more than enough to keep the Astlanders in line. What have you decided about the Margrave?”
“He’s — “
The Duke didn’t have a chance to finish. Someone suddenly knocked at the door.
“Come in!” The Marshal shouted.
The heavy, engraved door lurched open, and the Duke’s nephew — who he had finally agreed to take with him on campaign at the intense insistence of his sister — appeared across its threshold.
“Your Grace, a courier has arrived with an urgent report,” said Jean in a worried voice before adding: “From Bergonia.”
“Send him in!” The Duke suddenly had his energy back, as did both his comrades.
A chasseur strode in immediately, his clothes and face still caked in dust. The room filled quickly with the familiar smell of horse sweat. The soldier bowed and handed the Marshal a leather scroll case.
For a few minutes, the Duke just sat there, reading the message as his friends looked on anxiously. As before, not a single muscle on his stony face moved the entire time. But the look in his eyes... That changed. It was the look of a predator, preparing to jump on its prey.
The Duke looked up at the chasseur and asked sternly:
“You know what this says?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the rider replied with a bow.
The Duke nodded; then, looking around at his comrades with an expression suggesting big news, he announced:
“Our scouts report that Ricardo di Lorenzo is moving his forces out. Toward the Atalian border.”
“What?!” The two Counts replied almost in unison.
“Has this information been verified?” The Count de Leval asked dubiously.
“This was written by the Count d’Angland himself,” said the Marshal.
Hearing this name, both Counts nodded understandingly.
“Theodore’s word can always be trusted,” said the Count de Leval.
“But why is he retreating? This is Ricardo di Lorenzo we’re talking about, isn’t it?” The Count de Bozon asked, sounding thoroughly puzzled. “He was advancing so confidently!”
“Blood Fever epidemic in his legions,” said the Marshal, without a hint of a smile. Sure, the news was good overall... But the Duke was a man who valued an honorable confrontation, a fair fight. And it was unpleasant to realize that his coming victory would be due at least in part to the dirty water the Golden Lion’s men had been drinking. “The healers can’t cope with the epidemic...”
“Uncle!” Jean shouted excitedly. He had been in the office the entire time and heard everything. “This is wonderful news!”
The Count de Leval glanced at the young man with disapproval and shook his head. The Count de Bozon, meanwhile, paid no attention to the young aide and turned to address the Marshal:
“What are your orders, Your Grace?”
“We’ll move out in a few days,” the Marshal replied. “Begin preparations!”
“Finally!” De Bozon exclaimed happily; then, with a bow, he rushed off toward the door.
“Guilleme.” The Duke stopped his bulky friend and said quietly: “I have a certain task I’d like you to take care of for me. Frederic, unfortunately, is unlikely to be able to handle it.”
“I won’t let you down, Ed,” nodded the Count de Leval.
“Your legion moves out last,” said the Duke; then, once the Count nodded in understanding, the Duke continued: “I want the Margrave de Valier to move out with you.”
* * *
Southern Bergonia
Near the city of Chéran
“We’re finally here,” sighed the Count de Leval with relief as we caught sight of the dark walls of Chéran looming in the distance ahead of us. This was a fortress city that sat astride a major fork in the road: one way led north, the other led east into Bergonia. “I haven’t been here for a long time... Twenty years or so, unless I’m mistaken.”
I was standing next to the Count, watching silently as the Third Legion marched in column along the wide section of road in front of us. It had been just over four weeks since my duel with von Neumark. For three of those weeks, me and my people had been moving through Bergonia’s southern provinces alongside the Third Legion, under the command of Guilleme de Leval...
From time to time, I caught excited glances from the Vestonians, which always reminded me of the events that had happened a month before... The death of the leader of the “Uncrushables” proved a real upset in the minds of many, an upset which my people once again took advantage of: they all made good money on their bets. Mind you, I did the exact same thing. Most of the “Savages,” on the other hand — including the commanders and Hans Krause himself, hadn’t really believed I could win, and so they put bets on my opponent and ended up losing their money.
Still, there were a few exceptions. Thavin Brinn and his wife Kaylinn ended up winning, as did Leo von Grimm, who heeded Lorin’s advice on the matter. By the way — Leo had become my squire. The young man was so enthralled with my duel that he came to me the very same day and asked me to train him. I couldn’t really say no.
The attitude toward me among the “Savages” was also markedly different than it had been before. Suddenly and obviously, they were taking me very seriously indeed. Despite Kurt and Georg’s rather restrained congratulations after my victory (they were obviously trying to minimize their displays of emotion as much as possible), I noticed that they were now on their guard, collected, and even tense whenever they were in my presence. Sure, my orders had always been carried out without question, but I could sense that the silent feeling of vacillation between confidence and skepticism on the part of my subordinates was completely gone.
I should point out that the furore that erupted after the duel proved short-lived. The very day after it happened, the news was bumped from the headlines by the announcement that the Atalians had retreated, and that the Vestonian Army was moving out on campaign. I imagine that that day was one of the happiest in living memory for the residents of Bresmont — the army would finally, finally be leaving them in peace.
The news that the Golden Lion had decided not to risk a battle put me on my guard at first, but rumors that Blood Fever was raging through his ranks soon spread through the city, and that explained everything to my satisfaction.
Lada did her work very conscientiously, reporting that according to the rumors, the virus was spreading among the Atalian soldiers with unbelievable rapidity.
Gradually, as always happens, the discussions and rumors spilled out from the military camp into the taverns and streets of the city. People who had some knowledge of the matter at hand were quick to share their interpretations of what was motivating the commanders on both sides.
It need hardly be said that this news reached Herouxville very quickly, and prompted furious activity on the part of the aristocrats there. Within about ten days, when we were already on the march, Guilleme de Leval told me that the Dukes de Bauffremont and de Gondy were already mustering their forces. They would be heading for Bergonia, and they would be commanded by Prince Philippe. More and more, the King’s eldest son was being talked about as though his coronation was only a matter of time. I couldn’t help smirking as I pictured Prince Heinrich’s angry face in my mind. The campaign, and a near-certain victory over retreating, sick, and demoralized Atalian forces, would serve as a good starting point for his elder brother’s ascent to the throne. That had to hurt for Heinrich, given that he had once had just such an opportunity himself, but managed to squander it.
As for me and my people, the unexpected news of the epidemic in the Golden Lion’s legions was a positive development. It meant that we could probably reconquer Shadow Pass earlier than planned.
My assumptions were soon confirmed by the Count de Leval, who informed me that half the Third Legion, along with 500 of the “Last Chances” and 2,000 Mertonian archers, were being sent to the Margraviate de Valier. According to him, this would be more than enough to knock the pathetic remnants of the “Scarlets” out of my new territory.
While we’re on the subject, I should point out that Guilleme de Leval and I had established a pretty friendly relationship. And that despite the friction between me and Marshal de Clairmont, who the Count had been close friends with ever since childhood and to whom he was bound by a vassal’s oath.
Actually, I met the Marshal again shortly before we set off on campaign. He informed me drily that my unit had been “put under the command” of the Third Legion, and with that our short conversation was over.
The Duke de Clairmont himself moved out with the First and Second Legions. The Stone Knights also set off with him, along with the Astlandic mercenaries under the command of Lord Gray. I figured that was why I had been grouped with the Third Legion: they didn’t want to put any more pressure on a situation that was already very tense. True, it was only a temporary measure. Dietrich von Neumark would definitely try to avenge his brother at some point. But for the time being, he and his warriors were keeping the peace.
I still hadn’t seen Sister Fria at all. Even though other knights from the so-called “embassy” of the Frozen Spears had set off together with the Marshal. Knowing that a Frozen Spear was slinking around somewhere made me tense...
The Count de Leval might not have been the most intellectual member of the local aristocracy, but despite his relative simplicity and bluntness he was a good commander who cared about his men. His soldiers and officers loved him and respected him.
From time to time, he would ride through the Third Legion’s encampments, devoting his attention to all sorts of minor issues. He would take his pick of items from the canteens at random, listen to reports from the healers, check in on the infirmary, make sure the horses and oxen were being fed properly... Everything was under his personal control.
The Count sighed again, tearing me out of my train of thought.
“Are you unwell, Your Lordship?” I decided to ask, although I knew exactly why the old general was in such a bad mood.
“No, Monsieur Valier,” the Count shook his head. “Thanks to the potions you gave me, I feel excellent. It’s something else... Surely you’re aware of what’s happened?”
“You mean the strange disappearances in the First Cohort that everyone’s talking about?” I asked.
“Yes,” he nodded. “I was informed an hour ago that most of them were true gifted. And all of them were experienced soldiers. I don’t like it... The occasional illness, or maybe falling off a cliff, is one thing. But not seven soldiers — it’s like they were swallowed by the earth. No one has seen any sign of them since. Some say they may have deserted. But why would they do that? The war’s practically won. All we have to do now, really, is establish our garrisons in the local cities. And drive those bastards in their red cloaks the hell out of here! I’d bet my beard on it — the Gray Reaper definitely knows about the retreat already, and I wouldn’t be surprised if their trail has gone cold by the time we get to your Margraviate. They’re brave enough when it comes to burning innocent people and chopping them to pieces in the town square. But when faced with a force that could wipe the floor with them, they flee.”
The Count sighed again.
“That’s why I have my doubts... Why would these men desert, and choose to live like criminals on the run for the rest of their lives, when they could return home as heroes with silver in their purses? And they didn’t even take their things with them when they went. They laid down to sleep at night, and by morning they were gone, as if they never existed. I’ve ordered double patrols... I’d recommend that you keep an ear to the ground as well. I think the enemy’s strykers might be lurking around, protected by invisibility magic.”
Saying this, the Count jerked his horse’s reins gently, and the big gray beast slowly started moving forward.
Hm, I thought... No, old man. These aren’t strykers. This is something scarier. This sounds like shades out for a hunt. I hadn’t seen any sign of the soulcatcher since we set off on campaign. Apparently his “subordinates” had themselves a pretty good meal in Bresmont, devouring several first-born and two witches.
By the way, Yavlina, the old coven mother, refused to meet with me. She said she already knew who killed her daughters. She did, however, agree to trade with me using Lada as a go-between. And to tell you the truth, that state of affairs was more than acceptable to me. I wasn’t actually all that keen to go spend time with another insufferably-arrogant coven mother. She sold me what I needed, and that was the main thing I cared about. And it turned out to be a good thing she did. Because we didn’t find a single coven in any of the Bergonian cities we passed through. Witches and other true gifted had abandoned these places for safer haunts inside Vestonia. Or at least that’s what we heard from an old Brownie, who was living in a small, abandoned farmhouse about a week’s journey from the border. And even he wasn’t particularly keen to chat. Although to be fair, that’s kind of typical for Brownies: they don’t like to talk to beings who aren’t Brownies. Lorin had a hell of a time making contact with him in the first place.
This Brownie was the one who told the hejdelf that a powerful soulcatcher was traveling with the army that had come before us, and that this soulcatcher was a man. So it turned out that Sister Fria wasn’t the one summoning shades — it was someone from her “embassy.”
Either way, though, it was clear whose soul they had come for. But they really should have gotten rid of me before, when I was weaker. I would prove that to them soon enough.