The morning after the dead rose, the invaders’ camp
“My lord.”
Then the tent flap opened, letting in the damp draft of the autumn morning seep in, along with the smell of woody smoke from many fires. A tall man stepped inside, his broad shoulders and muscular arms straining against the fine fabric of his travel clothes.
“Lark sent a message.”
Count Highglen stirred on his field cot, the thick wool blanket half-tangled around him. He pushed himself upright with a quiet groan, rubbing grit from his eyes. “What does it say, Marcus?”
Marcus unfurled the tiny scroll. “The warlock made good on his promise. Undead flooded Cliffort last night, spreading chaos and inflicting heavy casualties.”
For a moment, only the muffled sounds of the waking camp filled the air: the distant hammering, the low murmur of men at work, a horse stamping somewhere nearby.
“Summon the others,” Highglen said, voice still thick with sleep. “We’ll hold council in an hour.”
Highglen’s captain of the guards saluted and left the tent to carry out his orders. The count rose slowly and stretched his aching back. It answered with a sharp, satisfying pop that made him groan. Campaigning was for younger men. Long rides, poor meals, and even poorer bedding. He was much too old for such sports. He rolled his shoulders; the cold and the draft had gotten to them the day before.
I’ll see a Priest after the meeting. There was no sense in suffering all that pain and discomfort when healing was readily available.
Besides, he deserved it. The campaign was doing him no favors. It all began with the Priests of Hope proving a nuisance in his attempts to find the Queen, buying her the precious time she needed to escape.
And after she had reached Cliffort, his goal seemed even further than when he had started. It would have become unreachable if not for certain other elements that approached him and helped him form his coalition.
With the allied army, Cliffort would fall eventually; the Queen would be his, but time was a blade pressed against his neck. Soon enough, the word of her existence would spread, and lords stronger and more influential than he would establish coalitions, making a bid for the crown.
He reached for the folded letter resting on the small campaign table. The message was written in a precise, elegant hand, every stroke measured, each character perfect. The mysterious spellcaster had left it in an abandoned home, along with a sack containing five pounds of red powder, and Highglen scanned the instructions once more.
Damn him. Highglen’s jaw tightened. He knew we would fail.
The letter was worded respectfully. Deferential even. The warlock had presented the berserk calx as a contingency in case the nighttime assault failed, but Highglen could read between the lines. The warlock scorned them.
Highglen snorted.
That’s fine, scorn me all you want, as long as I become King.
Dealing with a single scornful warlock inside one city shouldn’t be that difficult once he had the power that came along with the crown.
The notion of betraying the traitorous creature drew a smile to his face. Then Highglen’s stiff leg stung just as he made the step towards the basin.
He washed his face and rinsed his mouth, heard the reports on the happenings in the various camps, then summoned a Priest urgently to soothe his back. With all those minor nuisances handled, he headed for the meeting with the lords who had gathered under his banner.
Longbridge was already waiting, standing stiffly by the table, examining the map of the region. The man was Highglen’s strongest and most dangerous ally. Fortunately, he had a history of being interested more in books than power and intrigue; otherwise, he would have posed a real threat, perhaps even harbored an intent to betray him.
Behind him lounged Viscount Blackmoor, slouching in his chair as if trying to make Longbridge look even primmer with his sloppy bearing.
“Morning, gentlemen,” Highglen smiled and inclined his head in recognition. “Firstly, have you received any news on desertion?”
“A score of mine ran away in the night,” Longbridge showed no emotion. His soldiers were the best, and he was already forcing conscripts to hard labor exactly to stop them from fleeing.
Meanwhile, Blackmoor, whose troops counted less than a third of those under Longbridge, had lost two hundred to desertion.
“Yes, we will put the men to work starting today and tighten the guards at night. However, we shall discuss that once everyone has gathered.”
While they spoke, others trickled in. None dared show disrespect by arriving late, but some cut it close, hinting at their displeasure. Especially William of Thornwood. The majority of the previous night’s dead militiamen were his subjects.
“Well met, gentlemen. Now that we are all here, we have important matters to discuss.” Highglen held each of their gazes for a blink before continuing.
“Last night, through desertion and unfortunate deaths on the field of battle, we have lost close to two thousand conscripts. The guards have captured several dozen of them, and they are being taken to the forest as we speak. My original plan was to chain them to the trees and have them gather lumber, but we may have a different use for them, depending on what we decide in this meeting.”
There was a slight shift in the air, interest mixed with wariness, as nobody wanted to take too large a risk.
It didn’t matter, though. The decision was mostly up to Highglen and Longbridge, since the majority of the conscripts were theirs, but having others agree to the plan would make it less expensive for the two counts.
Both had nearly emptied their lands of men capable of wielding arms, and that wasn’t sustainable for more than a handful of weeks.
“Time is passing, and after forty days in the field, we will be required by law to pay the militiamen for their service.” The viscounts and barons made strained faces while Longbridge was already aware of his duties towards his subjects. “As we can all agree, this is no small matter, especially with how many men we have brought. If we act carelessly, our coffers will gather cobwebs, not coins.”
Highglen let the weight of the costs settle on those gathered, Longbridge looking at him carefully to see what kind of game he was playing.
“But not all is bad. While our attack on the walls last night was met with an unfortunate setback, our allies in the city had used the chance, killing hundreds of defenders and forcing them to waste manpower on manual labor. They will be tired and demoralized…”
Highglen painted a bright and flowery picture, his account based on the scant few words exchanged with Lark in the secret message. Then, with his audience invested, he moved on to the main portion of his plan.
“I have come into possession of an alchemical powder which, when dissolved in water, can give men great strength with no adverse effects other than a lingering fatigue which passes in a day or two.”
He then proceeded to explain the plan of assault, presenting the warlock’s ideas as his own. Everyone knew it wasn’t his, starting with Longbridge, but that was normal. Any ideas thought up by Highglen’s entourage were his ideas, and his captain, Marcus, was well known both for ruthlessness and ingenuity.
When he finished, silence held for a breath.
“We would suffer catastrophic losses,” Longbridge said what everyone was thinking once they heard the plan.
“We will capture a large city full of Commoner refugees. We can recoup all our losses and expand our domains. Not to mention I would become the King, while you would all enjoy various benefits based on your contribution to my ascension.”
That did it. The hunger sparkled in their eyes, the force that would drive them forward. The greedy snakes would have gobbled him had they the power, and had they not feared the aftermath of becoming the King.
Longbridge considered, fingers steepled. “Well, it would certainly end the war in a day one way or the other, thus reducing our casualties in the long-term while also freeing our serfs. And our chances don’t look that bad. Assuming this berserk calx works as you advertise it, I agree with your proposal.”
Murmurs of approval spread among the crowd of nobles. Like Highglen had assumed, if he and Longbridge reached an agreement, they would fold one way or the other.
“Naturally. I have already set aside a pair of deserters from my camp so we can test the medicine. If you would be so kind as to follow me.”
***
Half an hour later, they were in the forest. Two dirty men, with bruised faces and chained to the trees, sobbed.
“Mercy, m’lord, mercy!”
“We’re not executing you.” Highglen said, maintaining an air of calm despite the rising headache from the peasants’ shouting. “You need to try a draught. That’s all.”
The deserters’ dismay increased, eyes widening, but at least they remained blessedly silent, not daring to test their lord’s patience.
Highglen took a measured pinch of the red powder and dissolved it in a cup of water.
“You have to take one gulp each.” He could already see the Commoners’ minds scrambling for ways to deceive him. “We will check the cup after each of you, and there is no way for you to trick us. You first.”
The man’s hands shook, and he made a face as if he had tasted the most foul liquid in the world, but still swallowed before returning the cup. Highglen looked at it and took a whiff, but smelled nothing, before the guards gave the other peasant a cup.
“It should take around one hundred heartbeats for the drought to take effect,” Highglen told the gathered nobles, trying to sound like a confident expert.
Despite his poised display, Highglen was nervous. He barely stopped himself from swallowing a lump when foam started bubbling and sticking to the peasants’ messy beards. Their bodies seized, then convulsed, followed by raw, animalistic screams and roars as they pulled on the heavy chains that bound them.
The motion grew more vigorous. Thick chains groaned and scraped against bark, sending chips of wood flying. A light smile touched Highglen’s lips; the men were obviously pulling with more strength than they should have had, to the point that Baron Whitefield took a step back.
“Nothing to fear, gentlemen. These chains are strong enough to hold a rampaging bull.”
The chain squealed, startling them all, guards pointing their spears at the two men, but the chains held.
Highglen chuckled, failing to hide his nervousness. “You will agree with me that the draught greatly enhances a man’s strength.”
Nobody tried to deny it, but Longbridge still had a remark to make. “We shall see what happens with them when the effects wear off. Their minds seem gone; are you certain they can follow simple orders?”
“Positive,” Highglen wasn’t sure one bit, but he would be damned if he let it stop him.
“Are we certain about offering them land?” Whiteleaf asked.
“An acre of land and ten years of tax exemption won’t beggar us, and it will seem like untold riches to them. Besides, that land goes to the ones we find worthy, at least twenty men, split amongst our number.” Highglen smiled. “A bit of land is a cheap price to pay for victory.”
As were the peasants’ lives.