Book 7: Chapter 12 |
THE SUCCESS OF OUR NEGOTIATIONS with the elders of the southern clans of mountain men exceeded all my expectations. As our army advanced during the week following our meeting, small units of mountain men were constantly arriving to join us. Such was the influx that by the time we set up camp on the evening before the final leg of our march, our army was just over 9,000 strong.
As they watched the fearsome mountain soldiers flocking to join our banners, with little foxtails already emblazoned on their armor and shields, the Marquis de Gondy and his entourage kept casting strange looks in my direction.
The Count de Broglie (who was the Duke de Bauffremont’s unofficial representative) was the first to test the waters. During our march, he waited for a convenient moment when no other nobles were around before trotting up on his horse to ride alongside me.
“These marks, Monsieur,” he began quietly, nodding to a nearby legionary with the orange-red streak painted on his pauldron. “Surely you understand that these are incredibly dangerous games?”
“Dangerous?” I raised an eyebrow. “Dangerous for whom, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“For these people, first and foremost,” he replied. “And their families and clans as well. Do you think His Grace the Duke de Bauffremont will simply acquiesce to the establishment of another political power in these lands?”
“Does this land not belong to these people?” I looked around at the soldiers marching in their ranks around us.
“These lands belong to the Bergonian nobility,” he replied.
“Is that so?” I asked with feigned surprise. “And where are they? Why don’t I see their banners here?”
The remainder, of course, had fled into Vestonia or the neighboring duchies. They were just waiting to see how everything turns out before they come back and assert their claims to these lands. I didn’t say that out loud, of course, because nobody would understand what I was getting at anyway. The truth was that the local aristocrats lived by their own laws. And of course I had recently joined their number myself.
“By the way — I’m glad you reminded me about the Atalian Legions,” I said. “Don’t you think that until they’re defeated, it’s a little early to start talking about the balance of power in these lands?”
“Do you doubt His Grace the Duke de Bauffremont’s skill as a leader of men?” Count de Broglie was trying to trick me into making a mistake.
“Is His Grace really in command of the campaign?” I answered his question with one of my own. “I was given to understand in no uncertain terms that His Highness Prince Philippe is commander-in-chief. Hm... I’ll have to clarify this immediately when we rendezvous with their forces.”
“Without a doubt, His Highness is our undisputed leader.” The Count was starting to wobble. “But he always relies on the counsel of his uncle, who after all has a great deal of experience in battle.”
“That can only be a good thing,” I nodded with a smile. “I’m eager to see His Grace’s talents on display in person.”
“Just you wait — the enemy will be destroyed,” the Count replied; he had regained some of his former enthusiasm. “Mind you, there’s a grain of truth in your words nonetheless. Our enemy is powerful, and a difficult confrontation awaits us.”
From there, he continued peppering me with melodramatic cliches, and never missed an opportunity to praise either the Duke de Bauffremont or his nephew. To be honest, though, I wasn’t listening anymore, because I was heartily sick of the man after a few days of traveling with him.
In terms of insistence, he could’ve outdone a fly on a dungheap. The Count never seemed to get sick of reminding me about our little “understanding.” He was especially insistent after every council of war where the Marquis de Gondy was present.
A few times, I caught myself toying with the idea of ordering Aelira to strangle him quietly in his sleep, but I knew very well that such thoughts were coming from the remnant of the little werefox in my soul. I certainly hadn’t forgotten the little stunt with the foxtails. In the Count’s presence, however, I always made sure to keep myself under control.
Mind you, he was certainly right about one thing. These games with the little painted foxtails were starting to grow into something more serious — and that was without me being involved in the slightest. After all, I made sure to scrupulously ignore what was happening, and wherever possible I did my best to avoid making the problem any worse. In the end, however, those intentions led me to intervene in the process and take charge of it.
All throughout the preceding days, the nobles who had come with the Marquis de Gondy, and who had been particularly impressed by the way we had sorted out the Marquis de Hangest (who was sitting in the Citadel’s dungeon along with his closest associates), kept trying to make my acquaintance, .
In reply, I always made myself appear eager to meet them as well. Several times, I even went so far as to invite the Marquis de Gondy and his entourage to lunch or dinner in my tent. When I did so, I always listened closely to what they were talking about; I wanted to make sure I stayed in the loop on what the Dukes were doing.
The most important thing I learned by doing this was that Bergonia had already been divided between followers of de Bauffremont and those of de Gondy. Not only that — the whole affair was being discussed very openly. Specifically, according to these plans, Gondreville and its environs fell into the Duke de Bauffremont’s sphere of influence, as did the Citadel I had conquered.
As I listened to these nobles talk about victory over the Golden Lion and dividing up other people’s homeland (as if both those things had actually taken place already), I couldn’t help wondering quietly to myself. Their entire golden-boy stratum of society seemed utterly divorced from reality. They were strutting around in parade armor on expensive charges, but it didn’t seem like they had even the faintest suspicion of what was actually waiting for us up ahead. If the army under the Dukes was made up of the same sort of people... Well, the Golden Lion would devour them all without so much as a hiccup.
That said, there were some older people in the Marquis de Gondy’s entourage as well. People who obviously had actual experience of battle. And I actually established pretty friendly relationships with most of them...
Eventually, my contemplations (and the Count de Broglie’s incessant yammering) were interrupted by the sudden reappearance of one of our forward scouts. He galloped up to me and told me that the vanguard had found a suitable site to set up camp for the night.
That’s that, I thought to myself... This is the last place where our forces will have a real chance to rest after their long march. From here on, the Golden Lion will be waiting for us...
* * *
Northland
The Frost Temple
A room within the Alchemical Laboratory
Connected to some sort of special apparatus that was suspended from the ceiling was the naked body of a human, contorted into a pretty strange position. Its torso was hanging at a slight angle, while its limbs were splayed out to the sides and its head seemed to have jerked itself upward as high as it could go.
Like the rest of the body, the unfortunate person’s face was disfigured by hundreds of tiny lacerations; upon closer inspection, they came together to form some sort of strange writing. A viscous, foul-smelling black liquid was oozing out of them. The person’s nose, lips, and ears had been cut off, and big, black, empty holes yawned where their eyes would once have been. Strange as it may seem, however, the poor person was still alive, although (perhaps thankfully) they were most definitely unconscious.
A week of hellish alchemical experiments had passed, and still the victim’s tormenter wasn’t allowing them to die. In fact, that very same tormenter was standing about two steps away from his “test subject” and examining their sunken chest with rapt attention.
The alchemist was a tall man of about thirty, with broad shoulders, ramrod-straight posture, and a pale, angular face that seemed like it might have been carved from marble.
His long, dark hair was pulled back behind his head and held in place with two long pins that had obviously been forged from Shadow steel. In his deep-sunken eyes, whose intense shade of lilac-blue gave them the appearance of two pieces of polished lazurite, there was a powerful and genuine look of interest. His eyebrows were thick and expressive, which made his gaze even more intense and penetrating.
“A small displacement is detectable in the energy structure of true gifted number 362,” he noted quietly. With that, he fell silent again as he continued observing the processes within the test subject’s body — processes that only he could actually see.
No sooner did he speak than a nearby scribe, chosen from among the younger acolytes of the Frost Temple, started copying every word onto a sheet of parchment. The quill was visibly shaking in his hand as he tried to render every letter as neatly as possible. Despite the icy cold in the laboratory, drops of sweat began to appear on the acolyte’s forehead. He bit down on his lower lip, trying not to miss a single word of what his master was saying. For his master was always quick to discipline him for such errors.
“Read what you’ve written so far,” said the dark-haired man after a short silence.
The acolyte leafed furiously back through his pile of pages with their tiny, immaculate handwriting, found the required sheet, and began to read immediately:
“Transformation is detectable in the magic reservoir of subject number three hundred sixty — “
Suddenly, his reading was interrupted by a loud bang, followed by an equally-loud shout from the direction of the laboratory door.
“Keyvan! Are you in here?!”
The acolyte flinched and squeezed his head down against his shoulders. The scribe was seized by an overpowering desire to be as far away as possible — far from the alchemical laboratory and the woman behind that loud, ringing voice.
The black-haired man just frowned slightly and let out a disappointed sigh. Without so much as a glance at the scribe, he snapped:
“Out...”
Carefully concealing his joy and relief, the scribe tried to avoid attracting any attention from the blond-haired woman as he snapped up his things and flitted out of the laboratory like some sort of skittering river crab. Her eyes narrowed as he passed; she watched the pale scribe leave with the same expression that wolves have on their faces as they stare down at sheep in their pastures.
Finally, the woman — whose magical armor was still caked in mud and frost, and whose hair glimmered with still-frozen snowflakes, turned around and began to speak:
“I knew I’d find you down here.”
The dark-haired man didn’t so much as twitch by way of reply.
The young woman rested her fists on her hips, and a flash passed across her multicolored eyes as she shot a squeamish glance at the tortured body hanging from the ceiling.
“Still not sick of playing with your rats, eh?”
“What do you need from me, Aisel?” He asked, still without having turned to glance in her direction even once.
“Is that any way to greet your sister?” She asked with a grin. “The one who, lest we forget, has actually been BRINGING you all these true gifted from so many far-off villages for six months?”
Keyvan turned around. A faint glimmer of anticipation burned in his eyes. The same light that burns in a predator’s eyes when they detect the smell of blood.
“Do you have anything interesting for me?”
“A couple first-born,” Aisel nodded. “As requested... I’ll have them brought down to you now... First, though, I need you to answer a question for me. Have you stopped sensing her too?”
“Yes,” he nodded. He understood instantly what Aisel was referring to.
“So it wasn’t just my imagination...” She murmured to herself; then, slightly louder, she added: “Does it not concern you?”
Keyvan just shrugged and snickered:
“Would you rather I burst into hysterics? This isn’t the first time she’s done this, after all. Or have you already forgotten?”
“Yes, but she’s never been out of connection for this long be — “
“Then she’s probably hunting. She’s conserving power,” Keyvan shrugged as he frowned once again. “Please don’t tell me you came back because of that?”
“Not just because of that,” Aisel shook her head. “Sharptooth’s army will be here soon. We need to arrange a suitable welcome party. Besides, I’m sick of bobbing around in these mountains, tracking these rats. I want to relax and have some fun. By the way, that mortal who just skittered out the door... Do you need him?”
Aisel’s face twisted into a predatory grin. Her mouth had been human just a moment before, but suddenly it transformed into a big, beastly maw with sharp, triangular teeth and saliva dripping down from its thin lips.
“You can take him if you like,” said Keyvan with a dismissive wave as he turned back to his work. “I’ve been wanting to get rid of him anyway. His shivering is too loud, and he’s always sweating. It’s distracting.”
With that, Aisel was about to leave the laboratory; suddenly, however, she stopped and said:
“Still, though — what are we going to do if Fria doesn’t reappear?”
“We’ll wait for a while,” Keyvan grumbled; he was getting irritated. “You’ll see. She’ll give us a sign soon. Just like she has every other time.”
“And if not?” Aisel insisted.
“Then you’ll have to head south,” replied Keyvan. “That’s what you wanted anyway, right?”
Aisel’s grin widened. She turned around and headed for the door.
* * *
Bergonia
The Camp of the Atalian Army
Marshal Ricardo di Lorenzo’s tent
“I want to know, Monsieur — how could this happen?”
These were the first words that Duke Fernando di Spinola uttered as he stepped over the threshold of the Atalian Marshal’s tent.
Despite his advanced years, the Duke was in excellent physical shape. His posture was stick-straight beneath a veritable mountain of heavy, expensive armor. One look at him made it clear that the man knew his way around a sword.
The most influential nobleman in northern Atalia had come at the head of an army 5,000 strong, recruited from among his own vassals and including mercenaries from the adjacent free principalities.
Ricardo understood exactly what had induced the old Duke to dust off his armor, pick up his sword, and head off to war in his autumn years. His only son and heir was dead. The Duke longed for revenge.
The Marshal received the grieving father with an expression of sympathy; in his mind, however, he was rubbing his hands in gleeful anticipation. That stubborn idiot Hugo di Spinola had managed to lose his head in the perfect way — and more importantly, at the perfect time. All that remained for the Golden Lion to do was to make the best possible use of the valuable resource that had so unexpectedly jumped into his hands. The sight of the long, richly-laden wagon train alone was enough to make Lorenzo want to smother the Duke with kisses.
“I’m lost for an answer myself, Monsieur,” the Marshal shrugged. “The reports I’ve been receiving are contradictory in the extreme. The only thing they seem to agree on is that 3,000 of our cavalry, commanded by the valiant Marquis di Spinola, were beaten by 3,000 Vestonian infantrymen.”
“I’ve heard that already!” The Duke di Spinola frowned. “Nothing but insolent lies and the vulgar fantasies of Vestonian minstrels. Such a thing simply cannot be! When have infantrymen ever defeated cavalry in equal numbers?”
Without changing the expression of outraged sympathy on his face, the Marshal couldn’t resist a quick, malicious thought at the expense of the Duke, who was every bit as much of a puffed-up loudmouth as his son had been.
“Well, obviously such a thing CAN be, now can’t it? Your idiot son managed to lose a battle against a bunch of former peasants and village hangmen.”
Out loud, of course, he was quick with a very different reply:
“I couldn’t agree more, Monsieur! These are rumors — nothing more. And utterly implausible ones to boot. After all, who in their right mind could believe that three thousand trained cavalrymen could lose in battle against a bunch of hired bowmen and two cohorts of legionaries — one of which, moreover, is filled entirely with criminals who’ve been condemned to death or hard labor? Pff-ff... These rumors are nothing but the purest fantasy. It seems almost certain that your son was deceived into some malicious trap. My scouts inform me that the mountain men are fighting for the Vestonians. And the idea that THEY might be able to arrange such a malicious trap is something I find very believable indeed.”
The Marshal’s words seemed to light a fire in Duke di Spinola’s eyes. Apparently, Ricardo had voiced a convincing and satisfactory explanation for the demise of the Marquis di Spinola and his 3,000-man army. The “rumors” were almost certainly being spread by ill-wishers and enemies of the Duke; they certainly didn’t show his son in the most flattering light. After all, dying without honor in a losing battle against the common rabble — still less a horde of condemned criminals — would truly be a lasting disgrace for the entire family line.
“Monsieur,” the old Duke continued. “My heart thirsts for vengeance! I must punish my son’s killers and restore my family’s honor! Therefore, I’m ready to move my army out to meet this rabble.”
The Marshal pretended to be deep in thought, although of course he was already rubbing his palms together again in his mind.
“Hm...” He continued speaking after a short silence. “I’m a father myself, Monsieur, and I can imagine how you must be feeling. Therefore, I’m willing to grant this request of yours.”
The Duke di Spinola’s face lit up.
“Not only that, I’ll even add one of my own legions to your forces,” the Marshal continued. “Besides, you should know that you’re not the only nobleman who’s expressed a desire to punish these scoundrels. His Highness Prince Adrian, your son’s dearest friend, has decided to seek vengeance against the Vestonians and the filthy mountaineers as well. True, you’ll need to finish off Marshal de Clairmont and the remnants of his forces before such vengeance can be obtained. But I have no doubt whatsoever that you’ll dispose of him easily.”
The Duke di Spinola straightened his shoulders and raised his chin proudly into the air before replying:
“I will not forget this service, Monsieur.”
With a quick exchange of bows, the Duke turned and strode out of the Marshal’s tent.
“Well? What do you say to that?” The Marshal chuckled as he sat back down on his chair.
The figure of Tony Nappo, his secretary and most devoted servant, emerged from the shadows in the corner of the tent.
“I never cease to be amazed at Your Grace’s talents. This readjustment in the order of battle will allow you to send significantly more men against the army of the Dukes de Bauffremont and de Gondy.”
“Indeed.” The Golden Lion nodded and turned to stare dreamily up at the ceiling. “And once I crush them, there will be nothing remaining between me and the Vestonian throne. It’s unlikely that Carl will be able to assemble another army. Besides, he’ll probably be well on his way into the Abyss by the time I arrive anyway...”