Book 6: Chapter 24 |
Bresmont
The Count de Brisse’s palace
Temporary residence of Prince Philippe
A TENSE ATMOSPHERE REIGNED in the main hall of the Count de Brisse’s palace in the center of Bresmont. The very same Bresmont on the border of Vestonia and Bergonia that had so recently been the headquarters of Marshal de Clairmont and his army, and which was now home to another force, 9,000 strong (not including noncombatants), under the banner of Prince Philippe and the Dukes de Bauffremont and de Gondy.
Basically, it could be said without exaggeration that the main hall was packed with the flower of southern and eastern Vestonian chivalry. The palace itself couldn’t really compete with the capital-city residences these men were used to in terms of size or interior grandeur. The stone walls were covered with ancient, mildewed, sun-faded tapestries. It was hard even to tell what they depicted. Maybe ancient battles, maybe hunting scenes. There were actually holes and black stains on the faces of some of the main characters. In the dim light of the wrought-iron chandeliers that provided the only illumination in the hall, the Count de Brisse’s ancestors on their aged canvases looked like strange monsters as the shadows danced across their faces.
The bright, majestic clothing and glittering armor of the Duke de Bauffremont and Duke de Gondy and their vassals was a stark contrast to the old-fashioned and obviously impoverished furnishing in the hall, with the result that the whole gathering had an air of disdain and squeamishness about it thanks to the expressions on most of the men’s faces.
The Count de Brisse, who owned the palace, together with his family, all looked slightly confused amid such a huge profusion of illustrious guests. Their lack of self-confidence was only exacerbated by the presence of Prince Philippe himself, the eldest son of King Carl III of Vestonia, as well as his father-in-law to be, the Duke de Gondy, a man the common people referred to as the “King of the South.” Also standing next to the Prince was his uncle and mentor, the Duke de Bauffremont, the lord of Vestonia’s eastern lands, whose presence lent still further grandeur to the occasion.
The air in the room seemed saturated with a sense of the importance and tension of the moment. As he tried to hide his discomfiture, the Count de Brisse ran through all the possible outcomes of this reception in his mind. Unwittingly, he kept focusing his attention on the faces of those present with him in the hall, trying to ascertain what they were thinking. The atmosphere was heavy with anticipation; every whisper and glance seemed laden with meaning.
Despite the fact that all of those present were supporters of the Prince’s “red” party, they were really divided even further into two opposing camps. Both Dukes were trying to manipulate Prince Philippe’s attention and opinions to their advantage, and each was applying pressure in his own specific way.
The owner of the palace himself, the Count de Brisse, may have been slightly star-struck in the presence of so many glittering personalities, but he was no fool. He knew very well that after many long years of obscurity, his family would finally be spoken of again at court. After all, Prince Philippe, who would one day be Philippe VI of Vestonia, wouldn’t forget the Count in his little border city, a man who had so graciously and happily hosted His Highness and his party.
Count de Brisse was almost certainly already imagining his eldest son serving in the Royal Guard, and his daughters being married off to high-born, wealthy courtiers. Just look at how many of them were gathered in his palace!
The Count’s soul was overflowing with pride and joy. That day alone, many people who in the past wouldn’t have paid him the slightest attention had tried to talk to him about politics, the war, even about the year’s harvest. It almost felt like they were genuinely interested in his opinion, and that they were listening to his expansive replies with keen interest. But the Count wasn’t harboring any delusions about what was really going on. He knew very well that they considered him little more than a country bumpkin; it just so happened that at the moment, they couldn’t do much without his participation and help. So the Count was taking advantage of the opportunity, actively cultivating useful connections.
Suddenly, the conversations in the hall were interrupted by the arrival of a group of nobles. Their appearance — battered, dirty clothing and muddy boots — suggested that they had been in the saddle for a long time. The fact that they had dared to appear before such an exalted gathering, including the Princes and Dukes, in such a condition hinted that what they had to say was serious and urgent.
The new arrivals took off their hats and bowed to the Prince. Count de Brisse recognized two of them. The redhead was the Baron d’Ardant, and next to him was his friend, the Baron de Saladens. After recognizing their faces, the Count remembered some other details about them. First and foremost, these gentlemen were vassals of the Count de Leval, Marshal de Clairmont’s close friend.
“Baron d’Ardant, is that you?” Duke de Bauffremont asked loudly.
Count de Brisse snickered to himself. There was no way the Prince’s uncle knew some two-bit Baron’s name. It had obviously just been whispered into his ear by the thin, gray-faced secretary next to him, who followed the Duke like a shadow from a distance and somehow appeared at his master’s side out of nowhere at moments like this. The Queen’s brother liked to cultivate an image as a man who knew everything. Even the names of petty barons that nobody else had ever heard of.
“I’m honored to hear that you know my name, Your Grace,” d’Ardant gushed.
“Unless my memory is failing me, you’re supposed to be with Marshal de Clairmont and his army right now?” Duke de Bauffremont shot a penetrating glance at the young man.
Silence fell over the hall as everyone’s eyes turned back to the new arrivals.
The news that Marshal de Clairmont and his legions had fallen into the Golden Lion’s artfully-laid trap had already reached Bresmont and spread like wildfire through the streets of the capital. Actually, that was exactly why the combined armies of the Dukes de Bauffremont and de Gondy, who had been so eager to ride out to victory against the “retreating Atalian legions,” were still waiting at the border. The two Dukes couldn’t come to an agreement about what to do next.
Duke de Gondy suggested staying in Bresmont and preparing to meet the Atalian forces, who he was certain would be moving toward the border any day. Despite the Duke de Gondy’s constant reminders that their force was the only one currently capable of stopping the invaders, everybody knew the real reason why the “King of the South” was pushing this particular plan. After all, the Golden Lion’s route lay directly across his lands.
De Bauffremont, in turn, was insisting on a quick, decisive lunge to the east, to hurry to Marshal de Clairmont’s aid. The Golden Lion’s army was weakened by its battle against the Vestonian legions, and this would be the perfect time to crush it. At the most recent council meeting, de Bauffremont had hinted at certain other commanders’ cowardice and indecisiveness. There were royal legions who needed help out there, after all.
De Gondy replied calmly that while the Prince did his duty “commanding” the defense of Vestonia’s borders, there was nothing stopping de Bauffremont from moving east with his own army. If he was so eager to help the Vestonian legions, he should do so.
Long story short, all the army’s councils of war turned into long, acrimonious debates between the two rivals that eventually came to resemble theatrical performances. A truly pathetic situation had developed; somehow, someone would need to light a fire under the two Dukes.
“Not exactly, Your Grace,” replied the Baron, his red locks shuddering ever so slightly as he spoke. “On the orders of His Lordship the Count de Leval, my comrades and I were accompanying his son, the Viscount de Leval, who was himself assigned commander of a force that was sent along the Imperial track toward the Margraviate de Valier.”
“Is that so?” The Duke de Gondy sounded surprised. “Then why are you here? Has that force been destroyed as well?”
“We’re here because we learned about the trap the Atalians were preparing for the Marshal de Clairmont,” the Baron explained. “That’s why we departed immediately — to inform His Grace of the danger... But alas, we were too late... The trap had already snapped shut. Our unit ran into an Atalian screening force. It was only by a miracle that we managed to survive and retreat. After learning that His Highness was in Bresmont with his army, we hurried here to inform him of everything.”
“Too late,” Duke de Bauffremont concluded. “We already know about the Marshal de Clairmont’s defeat, and soon His Majesty will know about it too.”
Baron d’Ardant exchanged a dour look with his companions.
“So our efforts were in vain...” He concluded in a defeated tone of voice.
“Baron, you mentioned that you learned about the trap before it was sprung,” said Duke de Gondy. “How did you manage to do that? After all, you said you were off down the old Imperial track at the time.”
“Some Atalian captives told us about it,” replied Baron d’Ardant.
“Explain,” de Gondy frowned.
At this, Baron d’Ardant and his companions livened up. And the redheaded Baron launched into a retelling of the Battle of Lake Düren, trying not to leave out a single detail. As he spoke, the faces of those present in the hall started to grow more animated. Many of the nobles instinctively laid their hands on the hilts of their swords. And the feeling of excitement was clearly affecting many people from both the “southern” and “eastern” camps. The ladies in the hall fanned themselves with their hand fans as they watched the Baron’s every move. Little by little, he started adding more flair and drama into his story. When he finally finished, the hall erupted into a flurry of excited discussion as dozens of voices started talking about what they had just heard.
“Baron!” The Duke de Bauffremont’s voice thundered out. His eyes were shining. The fire had been well and truly lit. “You mean to tell us that 3,000 infantrymen — specifically, 2,000 archers and two cohorts of legionaries, one of which is composed of a random assortment of rabble, managed to defeat 3,000 armored Atalian knights?”
“Exactly so,” replied Baron d’Ardant, his chin raised proudly into the air. “My comrades and I took part in this battle ourselves! The Atalians took enormous losses. The survivors fled, abandoning their own comrades, their banners, and even their wagon train. They were still counting the Atalian dead when we left. And they had already passed 800. Almost all their aristocrats and commanders fell. Including the Marquis di Spinola, their commander.”
“I imagine that your force suffered heavily as well — maybe a cohort or two survived at best?” Duke de Gondy asked.
“We lost 167 soldiers,” replied the Baron, which prompted a gasp of shock from the audience.
Noise burst out throughout the hall once again. Everyone was discussing the Baron’s tale, some skeptically, some excitedly. Duke de Bauffremont was radiant with satisfaction from what he was hearing. De Gondy, by contrast, was growing more and more morose with every word d’Ardant uttered. Apparently, he already understood that his opponent would make excellent use of this new development.
“Well, I daresay this means a new star has appeared on all our horizons!” De Bauffremont concluded with a wide smile. “With this victory, Viscount de Leval has written his name large in the pages of military history! Who knows? Perhaps there will be a new Marshal in Vestonia someday!”
The Duke proceeded to launch into a long, fiery speech about the victory being incontrovertible proof of the indomitable Vestonian fighting spirit. He called on everyone present to move immediately. After finishing his emotion speech with the statement that they no longer had the right to remain on the sidelines while their comrades died in their encirclement, the Duke turned to Prince Philippe, who had been listening to his uncle the entire time, and requested that he order them into battle immediately.
The King’s son responded by rising from his portable throne. Under his uncle’s stern gaze, he turned to announce to the crowd with his characteristic stammer that the campaign had begun. The hall replied with a wild, unanimous, martial shout.
Count de Brisse’s lips rose into a big smile. Who would have thought that his palace would be the place where history was made? Enchanted by the Duke’s words, the Count watched at the dim light from his chandeliers suddenly sat more softly and pleasantly on the faces in the crowd. It seemed like the light that glittered off the parade armor and sophisticated decorations was coming from the very stars that His Grace had described. Tears of joy welled up in the corners of the Count’s eyes, which he quickly and furtively wiped away.
He looked around at the others in the room, and his gaze eventually stopped on Baron d’Ardant and his comrades. The Count felt it would only be appropriate to invite these young people to stay in his palace as guests. He still had two spare rooms in the east wing of the palace.
As the Count approached, he caught a snippet of a strange conversation. Baron de Saladens seemed irritated as he addressed Baron d’Ardant.
“Jean — why didn’t you say anything about the Margrave de Valier? You know that he was the one who really won that battle.”
“Does that really matter right now?” The red-haired Baron scoffed in reply. “Look around! The Prince’s army will be there soon, and we’ll be moving out to help our friends out anyway! We didn’t make it to the Marshal in time, but we managed to pass some important news along all the same.”
His other companions all backed him up with quiet exclamations of agreement.
“Yes, but — “ Baron de Saladens tried to object.
“Listen, Fred,” d’Ardant interrupted him as he laid a hand on his shoulder. “Answer me this. Who was leading our army? That’s right: our friend the Viscount de Leval, our master’s son. So tell me... How am I wrong?”
The Count saw Baron de Saladens glance around at his comrades. Then he slowly took Baron d’Ardant’s hand off his shoulder, turned, and walked out of the hall in silence.
Two of the others were about to go after him, but Baron d’Ardant stopped them.
“Let him go,” he said dismissively. “You know how Fred is. He’ll pout for a bit, then he’ll come back.”
Count de Brisse, whose presence they hadn’t noticed, stopped, then turned to follow Baron de Saladens. He suddenly wanted to know more about what exactly had happened back on the old Imperial track. Especially since he remembered the Margrave de Valier and his duel with the Baron von Neumark very well. The Count felt that he simply had to know the whole story...
* * *
Samoeun Valley
The Golden Lion’s army camp
The tent of the elder priest of the Order of the Scarlet Shield
The elder priest of the Order of the Scarlet Shield, Brother Enrico, was sitting at his table, reading the encoded letter from the fortress of Chateau Gardien for what seemed like the hundredth time that night. It had originally been built by the Sapphire Guild of mages to defend their base in the Gray Foothills, a base which for the most part had fallen into the hands of Grand Master di Lanzi and his men. Chateau Gardien, which guarded the entrance to the foothills, had ironically become a prison for its own creators, who had holed themselves up in the Sapphire Citadel together with the remnants of the Vestonian legions and whatever Bergonian forces still existed in some form.
The tent flap fluttered, and Sister Fria’s athletic, flexible figure flitted in.
“I was told you wanted to speak with me?” She said as she approached the table and plopped down into an armchair.
“Indeed, Sister,” said Brother Enrico gloomily. “I’ve just received word from Chateau Gardien. The Margrave de Valier’s force has just arrived outside their walls... And that means that — “
“Your Grand Master di Lanzi is probably already dead,” Sister Fria finished his sentence for him. “As are all his men. I’ll tell you something else, too: while we’re sitting here talking, the Vestonians have already taken that fortress.”
“I remember your warnings,” said the priest with a heavy sigh. “We underestimated that man...’
“Man?” Sister Fria scoffed. “I don’t think so.”
“May I ask you a question?” The priest asked as he stared unblinkingly into the northern woman’s eyes.
“I’m listening,” replied Sister Fria with a wave of her hand.
“I know that you had many opportunities to liquidate him. Why haven’t you done so?”
“That’s not your concern, priest.” A wave of deathly cold flashed out from Sister Fria as her multicolored eyes pinned Enrico to his chair. “Mind you, I’d like to reassure you somewhat. Brother Valdar and I will be heading for the Gray Foothills this very day to take care of this problem. I’ll be leaving the Stone Knights with you. They’ve given a good account of themselves. We’ll select a replacement for Grand Master de Moati later. That idiot has forgotten who he really serves.”
With that, Sister Fria rose from her chair and slipped silently out of the tent. Only a few seconds later did Brother Enrico finally feel comfortable enough to breathe once again...