Book 6: Chapter 23 |
Bergonia
The foothills of the Iron Range
A PAINFUL FEELING OF HEAVINESS seemed to be wrapped tightly around Édouard de Clairmont’s entire body like an invisible film woven of some sort of baleful magical fiber. It felt like every little part of his body was under pressure from a mysterious, unbearable, exhausting pain. The darkness penetrated into his thoughts, making them bob and blur together like ink dumped into water. He tried to concentrate and remember what had happened, but the memories would quickly slip away, leaving only sharp, vivid flashes: the clang of swords, the screams of soldiers, and the cold stare of the traitor from within the ranks of the Stone Knights.
The air inside his tent was heavy and saturated with a freezing cold that seemed to be coming directly from his wound. It wasn’t just a physical feeling — it was something deeper and darker, something trying to pull Édouard into an abyss of despair and emptiness. He could feel the life force leaving his body with every heavy breath he took. At the same time, however, a stubborn, overpowering desire to fight the darkness was taking shape within him.
The voices around him sounded distant and muffled, as if they were coming from underwater. Édouard tried to open his eyes, but the light was so blinding that he had to close them again almost immediately. He could feel someone’s touch: warm hands were trying to ease his suffering, but every movement was just bringing fresh waves of pain that spread through his entire body like fire.
Édouard’s cognitive faculties were still very much affected, and frequently carried him into a hallucinatory world where he saw snippets of the battle, the faces of his old comrades-in-arms as they were distorted by fear and grim decisiveness. In those moments, he felt helpless, as though he were locked inside his own body and fighting not just an external enemy, but also an internal one that was trying to hem its quarry in with attacks from the darkest recesses of his mind.
The experience felt like the most difficult trial he had ever faced in his life. But even in that condition, on the razor’s edge between life and death, he didn’t feel that he had any right to give up. Even though his body was weak, his spirit was still unconquered. In the depths of his soul, Édouard knew he had to find the strength to stand and carry on the fight. Not just for his honor, either, but for the honor of all those who had fallen defending Vestonia’s banner.
Through the film of somnolence and hallucination, Édouard could feel that his mouth had opened ever so slightly, and a minute later a familiar herbal flavor spread across his tongue.
Édouard even attempted a little smile. Guilleme de Leval had come with one of the potions he’d been given by the de Gramont bastard. Even here, Édouard found himself in debt to the obstinate little boy once again...
Despite its dubious origin, the potion was giving Édouard priceless moments of clarity and strength that he had so desperately missed. He could feel every sip of the miraculous potion replenishing the life force in his body. Every drop seemed to carry a little spark of hope and determination.
A feeling of gratitude surged through Édouard when he realized that his old and loyal friend Guilleme de Leval was next to him, trying his best to fight the darkness that seemed ready to devour his master and childhood friend.
The potion may have come as a gift from Renard to Guilleme (who seemingly just couldn’t shut up about what a “wonderful boy” this new Margrave de Valier was), but the Duke couldn’t help feeling grateful even to the son of his old enemy.
And from the very depths of his soul, he regretted that such a formidable combat mage hadn’t been by his side on the day when the Stone Knights and the Frozen Spears treacherously betrayed the leaders of the Vestonian army...
Old Fred had died that day... As had most of the Duke’s other vassals. The hired Astlandic strykers had an even worse time of it: Lord Gray later told of an attack on their camp by some shades that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. The beasts from beyond the frontier slaughtered all of the unit’s combat mages.
It was only thanks to Lord Gray and his stryker-squires that Duke de Clairmont had managed to pull off a miraculous escape from the bloody massacre. True, it wasn’t a clean escape — one of the Stone Knights managed to land a blow on the Marshal. The blade was poisoned with black magic, and it cut easily into Édouard’s armor and left a deep wound in his side.
Guilleme’s clumsy attempts to neutralize the death magic may not have had the desired result, but his tenacity and loyalty were an inspiration to Édouard. It reminded him of the connections and obligations that sustained him during the darkest times. The look in Count de Leval’s eyes, full of decisiveness and care, gave Édouard extra strength for the fight.
Once a certain level of clarity had returned to his thoughts, Édouard realized the full depth of the desperate situation he and his remaining men were in, and tried as hard as he could to pull himself together and participate in at least the smallest, most crucial councils of war. These were usually attended by Count de Leval, who was in temporary command of the remnants of the legions, as well as Lord Gray, whose face was growing more and more somber with each passing day.
In some of his clearer moments, Édouard would notice a sort of indifferent look in the old stryker’s eyes. His expression was cold and detached, as if he had already let go of all feelings and emotions connected with their common struggle. His eyes, once so full of decisiveness, now looked empty and lifeless, as if he had mentally left the conflict far behind. He wasn’t even bothering to hide his indifference to the outcome of the fight or question of the Marshal’s recovery.
Édouard was already familiar with that look... He had seen it many times in his long life of hard fighting.
Lord Gray’s expression wasn’t that of a broken spirit as much as one of simple pragmatic indifference. There was no trace of either desperation or fear — just a cold, calculating instinct and the total absence of any hope for victory or sense of purpose in their impending sacrifice. The avant was obviously thinking in terms of cold, hard logic, not emotion, and had most likely come to the conclusion that dying alongside the rest of them — including Duke de Clairmont himself — would be more or less pointless.
That was why Gray seemed so distant from the events transpiring around him: his thoughts and plans might already be focused well beyond the bounds of their tent, even beyond the timeframe of the current war. He was behaving more than anything like an observer to the war, rather than a participant in it, which gave the Duke a justifiable suspicion that if the circumstances became dire enough, Lord Gray might simply decide to abandon them all in order to preserve his own life and those of his soldiers. He didn’t seem to see any reason for them to sacrifice themselves. For those who remained in such a case, however, the departure of the strykers would be a catastrophe of the gravest proportions. The rank and file would realize immediately that there was no hope, which would lead to mass desertion.
The same question kept coming up... If things were indeed as Édouard perceived them to be, then why hadn’t Lord Gray abandoned them all already? What was holding him back? After all, a unit of strykers with one of the most powerful avants in the world at its head would have no trouble at all breaking out of the encirclement. Maybe he was waiting for Édouard to die? Maybe that would allow him to wash his hands of the whole affair?
“How are things looking?” The Marshal croaked weakly.
Guilleme and Gray looked at each other. Édouard tried to catch every little hint of emotion in their expressions.
“Spare me the niceties, gentlemen,” he warned. “I need to know where we really stand here. My next episode could well be my last, and as long as I’m lucid I want to give any useful advice I can before I die.”
“We’re out of provisions,” said Lord Gray in a nonchalant tone that suggested total indifference. “The soldiers are living on horse. For the time being, we’ve only had to slaughter the worst of the horses. But at this rate, we’ll be moving onto the mistrals in no time. Water isn’t a problem. We’ve been saved by that mountain stream running nearby. But given that there’s no wine or special potions left at all, the river water might become an issue. There are a lot of wounded, and nobody to treat them. People are dying every day. And if you add to that the fact that we’re currently locked in a trap... Well, this army doesn’t have much time left.”
“And the Golden Lion sure isn’t in a hurry to go anywhere,” said Count de Leval.
“Why would he?” For the first time in a long time, something like a smile flashed across Lord Gray’s lips. But it was a bitter smile, with a note of hollow mockery in it. “Why would he lead his men to the slaughter when the enemy army’s already doing a fine job whittling itself away on its own? The Golden Lion is just starving us to death and giving his men some rest before their campaign into Vestonia.”
“We need to try for a breakout,” said the Marshal. “While we still have some strength left, gather everyone who’s still able to bear arms and try to break out, either to the west or toward the Gray Foothills. Leave the sick and wounded here. There’s nothing we can do for them anyway.”
“Ed — “ Guilleme tried to object, but Édouard laid a hand on his wrist and squeezed it.
“My friend... This way you can save at least some fighting men for His Majesty. As for me... I’ll stay here, to cover your retreat...”
“Alas, nothing of the sort is going to work,” said Lord Gray coldly. “Even if we managed to get nine or ten cohorts together, we wouldn’t be able to break out. I’ve been sending my best men out on reconnaissance. They report that the Golden Lion has taken special provisions to ensure there’s a powerful screening force available at a moment’s notice. Besides that, he’s got plenty of provisions. He’s got our wagon train as well as his own, after all.”
Silence hung in the air, broken only by Édouard de Clairmont’s heavy, labored breathing. He was lying there, eyes closed, as a wellspring of despair began to rise inside him. So recently, it seemed, he had been picturing himself personally driving the Atalians out of Bergonia and returning to Herouxville in triumph. He had even made forced marches especially for the purpose of being the first to catch up to the Golden Lion and his retreating forces, and thereby beating Dukes de Bauffremont and de Gondy to the punch. In doing so, of course, he aimed to prevent them from stealing the victory and the glory that was rightfully his and ascribing it all to that puffed-up idiot Prince Philippe. So where, he wondered, are those Dukes and their forces now? Probably safe back in Vestonia, having learned of his defeat. Their help might have made a crucial difference... Despite the defeat, Édouard’s legions had managed to bleed the Atalians quite a bit in return... This would be the perfect moment to attack them from the rear! It was just too bad there was nobody to do it...
The Duke bit down on his lip. He wasn’t looking or listening anymore, and he didn’t notice that first Lord Gray, and then the ever-faithful Guilleme had left the tent. They had decided to leave him alone with his thoughts.
Édouard felt a hot tear trickle down his temple. All those traitors! All around him from the start! First the Count d’Angland, who had been sending him news and fed him false information. What could have made a man like the Count, whom Édouard had known for a very long time and considered a man of honor, betray his King and country?
The enemy had laid his nets so masterfully! First those letters from the Count d’Angland. Then the Atalians in their graves along the route of the Vestonian advance. All signs pointed to the enemy’s army being stricken by a vicious outbreak of blood fever. But the outbreak simply wasn’t anywhere near as bad as the Count implied...
Then the Stone Knights and the Frozen Spears attacked the council of war itself, right at the start of the decisive battle... All the bloodshed and violence of the breakout would be worth it, if they could get just one message to Carl and notify him of the Stone Knights’ betrayal... Suddenly, Édouard realized that Lord Gray was thinking. He wasn’t thinking about himself — he was concerned about the danger the Knights posed to the King himself. Those fanatics, along with their northern friends, had obviously begun making moves in some kind of long-planned game...
Oh, Gods! His poor Louisa! How would she survive without him? She was a strong woman. She would survive... She would find an heir to keep their line from dying out...
Thinking of heirs, Édouard let out a heavy sigh. His sister’s face appeared in his mind — the sister who had insisted that Édouard bring his nephew to war with him.
“Forgive me, dear Fanny...” He whispered silently. “I couldn’t protect your son...”
He remembered seeing the poor boy slaughtered in front of his eyes. Édouard would never forget the look on Jean’s face when one of the Frozen Spears thrust a knife into his heart. His expression was one of disbelief, and an almost childlike feeling of indignation...
Slowly, the images of his friends and enemies began to disappear, and Édouard began to drift off into a deep sleep, as he always did after taking a healing potion...
A moment before his consciousness sank into a sea of blissful darkness, he said what might have been the first genuine prayer in his life. It was addressed to the Forefather, and it was a prayer for help. He begged the deity for one thing and one thing only: that he might have the chance to avenge himself on his enemies...
* * *
Bergonia
Gondreville
Accompanied by my bodyguards and my squire, I set off down the corridors of the city hall building, headed for the council chamber. My comrades were already waiting for me there. They wanted to know what I planned to do next...
For five days following our victory over the enemy army, we just celebrated. It was the second such celebration in a row.
On the morning when I had accepted the Viscount di Revel’s capitulation and brought my victorious army back into the city, the residents and soldiers alike turned out to hail me as a hero. Beginning with my immediate entourage and ending with the local children, everybody came to gape at me as if I were some kind of mythical creature.
People who had seen the fireworks display in the Atalian camp the night before began telling their friends and neighbors about it, and soon the rumor mill was speaking of a unit of strykers that had destroyed a whole army, including the almighty Gray Reaper himself.
The fire tornado was the subject of a whole separate subset of rumors. Skeptics claimed that my people and I had simply set the camp on fire, and that a fortunate breeze descending from the mountains amplified the effect just at the right time.
The mystically-inclined, on the contrary, were certain that I had somehow managed to summon some sort of ancient demon from the Abyss to do my bidding, who had enabled me to conquer our enemies. Heh... Strange as it may sound, the latter group was much closer to the truth...
We, in turn, didn’t share much by way of explanation with anyone, which only spawned newer and more outlandish theories.
Somehow or other, the “Demon from the Abyss” that was the combined efforts of Ignia and Vaira had wiped out almost the entire unit of 2,000 “Scarlets,” not counting those who had managed to flee into the surrounding countryside. Even as we walked, those fugitives were being hunted down by packs of werewolves. Let’s just say I didn’t envy them in the slightest.
As for Viscount di Revel and the three cohorts who survived the surprise attack... Well, they were just lucky. The herd of crazed horses stampeded around their section of the camp in a wide arc, while the fiery tornado did little more than graze it. Even so, however, di Revel had lost more than half of his legion. And those who survived were in a miserable state indeed. Almost all of them were burned and wounded to varying extents.
So much so that Lada and her team at the hospital had to treat the enemy prisoners before our own casualties. It was she, by the way, who told me that in reality, Viscount di Revel’s legion was only “Atalian” on paper. Its real composition was practically a world’s fair of all the different nationalities and ethnic groups on the continent. Sure, the professional core was Atalian, but even they were from all different parts of the country — places that often didn’t get along with each other very well before the war. The rest of the legionaries had been recruited from the so-called “buffer duchies” and “buffer counties.” I had a very good guess as to how “recruitment” was probably handled in such places. Because I had seen it many times with my own eyes — teams of headhunters coming to a village and grabbing men off the street, out of the tavern, or off the docks. Basically, I had plans for people like this. And that was why I made it very clear from the start that I would be extremely displeased to find anyone mistreating them.
Several dozen “Scarlets” ended up joining these legionaries in captivity, having been taken prisoner immediately after the Viscount’s capitulation. Unlike the rest of the prisoners, the representatives of the Order were in for a very hard time indeed. And that was only to be expected. After all, they knew the rules of the game well before the day when they had voluntarily buckled those red cloaks onto their backs.
Actually, I was worried at first that the citizens would demand a cruel punishment not only for them, but for the rank-and-file Atalians as well. In fact, I was actually making plans to calm the populace down. But that didn’t turn out to be necessary.
First of all, that was because everyone had heard the promise I made to Viscount di Revel, and second, it was because the citizens’ attitude toward the common soldiers who fell into our hands was pragmatic and rational.
In this world, prisoners were first and foremost a resource to be bargained with. I kept the officers and noble-born prisoners in detention, with the goal of eventually ransoming them. Simply put, they got special treatment. They were even allowed to walk around the city, and (depending on their title, of course) they were even invited to participate in balls and receptions at the houses of the local nobility. It didn’t seem to matter that these people had very recently been facing each other on opposite sides of the barricades. After all, that was how things worked in these parts: you might take some count or duke prisoner today, but tomorrow you might be a prisoner yourself. Basically, these things were regulated by a code of honor.
The attitude toward the non-noble prisoners was somewhat simpler. Mainly, they were a source of labor. The city authorities got their bearings pretty quickly after the dust settled and set aside a plot of land to build barracks for the prisoners — a task that fell, naturally enough, to the prisoners themselves.
The sudden availability of a large pool of free labor motivated the city council to finish up an old project. A deep trench would be dug around Gondreville to connect it to the river, and it would have to be done before the onset of winter. Long story short, the former legionaries would have to earn their keep with their labor.
While the people celebrated, the city council didn’t waste a single minute. Chevalier de Latour was unanimously elected Burgomeister of Gondreville, and with his new status he embarked immediately on a whole range of frenzied activity.
First and foremost, he tried once again to convince me to take his city under my wing. Mind you, he wasn’t very upset when I turned him down again. At the time, I just figured that he and his colleagues on the council were probably expecting such a turn of events. Later, however, I realized the real reason. The elders of Gondreville had decided to take a different route...
Five days after our victory, in the central square next to city hall, the city elders gathered on a platform together with all the members of the city council. As the citizenry of Gondreville looked on, the town crier read out several documents that the elders had been working on for several days by that point.
The first was the declaration of a “Liberation Festival,” which would thenceforth be celebrated at that time every year, and which would last for an entire week.
The decree made special mention of the Margrave de Valier and his comrades, and listed their most noteworthy deeds. Then it was decreed that this festival would be celebrated with certain specific events. To wit: a huge fair, a parade in honor of the victors, celebratory services in the temples, and the laying of flowers in front of a stone obelisk that they were planning to set up in the city center in honor of their liberators.
After that, the text outlining the military alliance between Gondreville and the Margraviate de Valier, which we had signed a few days before, was read out to the people. After that, the crier moved on to the preamble of a trade treaty between my Margraviate and the city. And after that, there was a surprise in store for me.
The city authorities declared me an honorary citizen of Gondreville. Just to sweeten the pill a little bit, they read off the main advantages that that status conferred upon me. I was exempt from several city taxes and duties. Besides that, I had the right to own land and a house inside the city. Finally, I would have a place on the city council from then on. When the crier finally fell silent, the Burgomeister presented me with a golden medal bearing the sigil of Gondreville, to thunderous applause from the assembled citizens.
They wanted to get their own, one way or another... Heh... There was a lot of talk about rights that day, but not a word about responsibilities. On the other hand, however, given all the prospects that had opened to me, it would be much better to participate in the city’s affairs from the city council than to attach Gondreville to my Margraviate and have to deal with all the problems that would create.
Besides, I was quite happy for a totally different reason anyway: specifically, because of the cartloads of trophies we had collected after three victorious battles. I was especially excited about a steel chest that had been found in the spot where the Gray Reaper’s tent had once stood. It was pockmarked with protective runes, and seemed not to have suffered at all in the fire. Except for being covered with a layer of soot.
I found a huge quantity of whole bruts inside it. And they were all big. When I first laid eyes on the chest and the treasure within, I immediately felt a strong desire to depart for my new lands that very day. A sense of anticipation and possibility was intoxicating me, filling me with the urge to examine every nook and cranny, every dark little corner of the new territory. In my mind, I was already picturing the new adventures, discoveries, and possibilities that awaited me there. It was like a book lying open in front of me, ready to tell me its story.
Even as I walked down the corridors of the city hall building in Gondreville, I couldn’t help thinking about the Gray Reaper’s treasury, which some of the captive red cloaks had told me about. True, none of them could really give me a good explanation of what exactly Alberto di Lanzi had been doing. Anyone who might have known was devoured by flames during the battle.
The only person who could shed any light at all on the Order’s secret doings in my lands was Master Marco Costa. An alchemist-mage who had stayed behind in my Margraviate with a small garrison of “Scarlets.” This master, by the way, was the only mage in the unit.
So basically, the entire Margraviate was mine for the taking. I would simply have to go and assert my control...
As I approached the doors, the guards (who both had red foxtails on their cuirasses) obligingly swung them open for me.
Everyone was already waiting in the hall. My commanders were waiting for me to announce my decision.
“So then, ladies and gentlemen,” I began, still walking toward my seat. “His Majesty charged me with driving the “Scarlets” out of my Margraviate and taking these lands back under our control. The Gray Reaper’s army has been destroyed. My task is almost completed, except for a few trifling details.”
All the people present were following my every move, trying not to miss a word.
“But in light of the situation that’s developed, we all know very well that as soon as the Golden Lion finishes off the Vestonian army, he’ll send his legions this way — first to the citadel of the Sapphire Guild in the Gray Foothills, then here. So I’ve decided to preempt the Atalians. Ladies and gentlemen — what do you say we break the siege of the Sapphire Guild’s citadel?”
A warlike roar erupted in the hall. That was all the answer I needed.