The Mountain City of Clavieras
The sun stood high in the sky, baking the stone roofs, walls, and battlements. Heat pressed into the gatehouse, relieved only by the cool mountain wind. Autumn had already passed, and the coming winter gave the air an extra chill.
The twenty-four men stationed at the main gatehouse waited in tense silence. Almost everyone else had gone out with the guard leader, leaving barely a hundred men stretched thin across the walls, gatehouses, towers, and Stone Citadel.
All they could do was wait for news.
The reports that reached them had been heartening, if sparse. Their men had met little resistance and were reclaiming one district after another. But the deeper they pushed into the city, the fewer the reports became.
The gatehouse commander, a man in his early fifties, sat inside the gatehouse chamber, chewing on his late lunch. From time to time, his aide glanced through the narrow slit toward the street below, but the angle was poor. Too many roofs, too many walls, too many bends in the road.
Clavieras had been built with defense in mind, but the clans had grown powerful, and the city had expanded beyond its old design. Roads narrowed. Courtyards shrank. Houses and workshops crowded area once meant to give the defenders clear sight and room to move.
Slurping down the last of the hot broth, fragrant with dried herbs, strips of goat meat, garlic, and spice, the gate commander finally felt satisfied. Though the riot from the previous night still troubled him, the crisis now seemed under control.
Noticing that he had finished, his loyal servant offered him a jug of strong ale.
The commander raised his palm in refusal. “No. Keep it for the victory celebration.”
The servant, a third-generation captured Lowlandian, dipped his head low, then cleared the plate and eating knife into a bucket before withdrawing to a corner to wait. Another lower servant would come later to take away the scraps and do the cleaning.
Unlike the masters, bondsmen ate early in the morning and again near supper. They were only given lunch if their master spared them leftovers from the table. Today, because of the chaotic situation, there had been no lunch feast, and thus no leftovers.
The gate commander walked to his observation post. The large window facing the city gave him a broad view, though several tall buildings obstructed parts of it.
Despite having only twenty-four men under his command, the gatehouse and the adjacent wall still held enough presence, thanks to the bondsmen who helped in small ways as lookouts and maintenance workers. With winter approaching, preparations had already begun. Gaps in the walls and roofs needed filling, windows needed repair, and hearths and chimneys needed cleaning.
As he waited, a group of men marched toward the gatehouse. They were not rushing, but their pace carried a sense of purpose.
“Oi,” the lookout called down to the men below. “What news from the fighting?”
“News?” one of the men answered. “We’re here to pick up the food.”
“Food?” the lookout replied, his brows furrowing. He glanced toward the gate commander.
The commander stepped closer to the window and called down, “What food? We heard nothing about it.”
“What?” The man below exclaimed. “You didn’t get the message?”
“What message?” the commander asked, eyeing him. He had never seen the man before, but he looked every bit a local.
“The guard leader sent a messenger. I swear I heard it myself. We’re here to take the meals for the officers. The rest, for the men and clansmen, they’re sending carts for right now.”
At that, the gate commander felt his full stomach knot. He forced himself to reply. “We received no order to prepare food.”
Another man stepped forward, flamboyant wicker hat on his head, carrying himself like a servant of a powerful clan. He looked up at them with open disdain. “Do my eyes deceive me, or have all of you already dined while the rest labor under the sun? Remarkable...”
He shook his head in disgust before continuing. “We risk our lives putting down the riot, and yet you dine in peace as though nothing is amiss. That bodes ill for both of us. I wish for no trouble, but the officers and men need their food. They cannot fight on empty bellies. If nothing has been prepared, then you had best make haste.”
Not wanting to embarrass himself further, the gate commander rushed to sort things out. He ordered his men and the bondsmen under him to start cooking at once.
“Cook anything. I don’t care what. Just set aside some of the good food for the officers, or we’ll be in trouble,” he ordered. “For the rest, make gruel.”
Still, it would take time. The gatehouse only had enough room to cook for two dozen men at once. Thus, he sent word to the other gatehouses, spreading the panic there as well.
Below, more groups of men gathered, speaking lightly with the first group. From their scoffs and grunts, they likely had the same intention.
The gate commander dared not speak with them again out of embarrassment.
He simply had not prepared for this.
Usually, guardsmen ate wherever they were stationed. They either cooked for themselves, had servants do it for them, or simply walked to the nearby stalls around the market or the larger junctions. It had never occurred to him that today he would be responsible for feeding a few hundred men.
Despite the chill mountain wind, sweat gathered beneath his helmet. If the officers and clansmen went hungry, he would be the one they blamed. Worse, his rivals would remember this when the time came for him to press his claim as the Elder of his clan.
“Get more men to help with the cooking,” he instructed.
Seeing his men’s confused looks, he added, “Drag the spare cauldrons out and light a bonfire on the battlement if you have to. Just cook something.”
Then he turned to his servant. “Take my pass-token. Use the nearby tower gate, then run to the house and have them bake as much bread as they can.”
His men did as they were told.
Meanwhile, another group arrived below with several captives in tow. One of them, dressed in striking green beneath his ringmail, called up urgently, “Gate commander.”
The gate commander returned to the window. “Yes. What do you want?”
“We brought important captives. The commander wants them held here. Will you open the gate for us, or should we wait?”
“Did you bring the captain’s pass-token?”
“That’s why I asked. It’s still chaotic down there. I imagine others will bring it soon.”
“Others...?” Before the gate commander could ask further, he saw another group approaching with carts loaded with goods covered in canvas.
Before long, the leader of the new group came near. “Report. We’ve brought the food supplies.”
“Food supplies?” the gate commander muttered, more to himself than anyone else. Immediately, he felt relieved. If anyone demanded to know why the meals were late, he could blame the delay on the supplies.
Without waiting for an answer, he turned to his men. “Open it, and by the Ancients, help them unload.”
The men rushed downstairs and opened the inner gate to the gatehouse. Then they helped unload the carts.
As they did, the men with the captives entered as well, and with too few men on hand and too much already demanding attention, everyone was too busy to care.
Besides, there was nothing suspicious about them. The clothes beneath their ringmail and brigandines were brightly colored and decorated in the Clavieras style. Even their sword straps and belts were made in the Mountain fashion, with finely worked fittings, just as one would expect. The men themselves were pale-faced and mostly clean-shaven, the mark of good birth in Clavieras, of men who had never needed to work the fields.
Another six slipped inside, helping carry the food upstairs. Then, ten followed, saying they had come to take the officers’ meals.
Upstairs, the gate commander was too concerned to care about proper procedure. It could wait. His reputation and future were on the line.
His clan held little power in Clavieras and drew most of its strength from other cities. They did not deal in smuggling, so money was always tight. He needed to hold on to this position. Otherwise, his standing in the hierarchy would slip, and his clan might well choose his rival cousin as the next Elder.
“Get the cheese. Don’t bother slicing it. Throw it in and stir hard,” he instructed as his men began cooking on the battlement.
Then he turned to the other side and ordered, “More firewood. It’s only gruel. A little char won’t make it taste worse.”
“Commander,” one of his men called as he drew near.
He turned, his face weary, but before he could respond, his man reported, “The officer with the prisoners requests your presence.”
The gate commander stepped closer and lowered his voice. “What does he want?”
“He says he has learned something important and needs your counsel.”
The old officer nodded slowly. It could be important. Thus, he headed downstairs toward the holding cell. He had no servant or guard at his side, but that did not trouble him. He was surrounded by guardsmen, and there was still no sign of the enemy. Not even carts carrying wounded had arrived, which meant the riot was practically over.
On the way, he slipped a small pouch from his sleeve and drew in a pinch of its bitter contents before hiding it again. At once, the fog in his head seemed to lift, his mind sharpened, and his mood improved.
After several turns through the passage, he reached the holding cell.
Among the men gathered there, he spotted the young man wearing striking green beneath his ringmail. The color was expensive, and to wear it into battle was a bold statement. Aware of that, the commander chose to be cordial. Even in his later years, there were too many faces he did not know, especially among the high-ranking servants who served in distant branches and had only returned to Clavieras because of the war.
“You requested my presence?” he asked.
“Ah, yes. You may find this interesting. One of the captives seems to know the true mastermind behind this riot.” His tone was calm and articulate, with a trace of a Three Hills accent that marked him as a servant rather than a true clansman, though his face was even paler than the commander’s.
“Who is it?” the older man asked, eyes narrowed.
“Someone we did not expect,” the young man answered grimly. “Someone close.”
The gate commander’s eyes widened. “Close? You mean someone inside the clans?”
The young man gave a grim nod. He paced once, as if measuring the danger, then stepped close and gripped the older man by the shoulder. His voice dropped to a whisper. “This could bring us either great fortune or great misfortune.”
The older man held his gaze, trying to piece together what the young man was getting at.
“Which Elder do you trust most?” the young man asked. “Can you arrange for us to meet him?”
“Give me the name first.”
“It’s not just one name,” the young man said. “It’s a list I’ve memorized, and I trust no one else with it. This could start blood feuds among the great clans.”
The gate commander fell silent, thinking.
The young man leaned closer. “The Elder might dismiss it. They always prefer to settle these things among themselves. But at the very least, we’ll earn gold and favor for bringing it to him first.”
He let out a sharp breath and said, “Keep the gold. I want no part of this. Go through your own clan, not mine.”
Sighing, the young man said, “My clan will bury this news. They are cowards. I would sooner align myself with a bolder clan.”
The older man stared at him in disbelief. “You’re seeking another master?”
“And what if I am?” the young man meeting his gaze without flinching.
The older man said nothing. He only looked away. More than the issue at hand, something about the young man bothered him. He was too articulate, too sharp, and there was no haze in his eyes, which meant he did not take opiates. The thought stirred envy in him, along with a grudging sense of inferiority before such hard discipline.
“If I fail, I risk my own clan. If I succeed, I will remember your help. How about that? Just get me an audience.”
The gate commander was tempted, yet hesitate.
With a shrug, the young man turned to his men and clapped his hands. “Pack up. We’re moving out.”
“You’re leaving? For where?” the gate commander blurted.
The young man glanced back at him. “A chance like this comes only once in a lifetime. Perhaps the commander at the other gatehouse is more willing to listen.”
“Hold,” he said. “You were saying the commander wants me to keep the captives here, then leave them in my care.”
The young man snorted. “Do not be greedy. That will not work.”
“Humor me.”
“The captive I speak of is already dead.”
The older man turned toward one of the cells and saw a dead body lying on the straw mats. From the look of it, the man had likely succumbed on the way here.
“Are we done here?” the young man pressed.
That finally stirred him. The gate commander caught the young man by the arm. “You misread my intention. Since it has come to this, let me try to arrange something.”
“That’s what I thought.” The younger man flashed a smile. “Now, in the meantime, can we get something to eat? We’re starving, and we cannot have the other captives dying of hunger.”
The gate commander snorted as he turned away. “Everyone is hungry. What am I running, a food stall?”
As he disappeared from sight, the men he left behind traded tight, knowing smirks.
***
Market District
The city’s force, nearly five hundred strong, had killed no fewer than forty-three men who tried to escape upstairs. Certainly, more had died below, choked by the green miasma. In such tight passages, the alchemists’ concoction was at its most potent.
With the situation seemingly under control, several dozen guards began dragging the dead aside for identification. Judging from their clothes and footwear, all appeared to be slaves.
“All this effort just to kill fifty slaves,” the senior guard said, obviously displeased.
“You sound just like my favorite Elder,” their leader quipped.
That drew a few rough laughs from his staff.
As the men began to relax, with no further reports of a slave riot, a commotion rose from the rear.
Their leader turned. “What is happening back there?”
Before he could send anyone, his captain pushed through the crowd and approached. “Men from the gatehouse have arrived, carrying meals for the troops. For us as well.”
“Meals?” The leader frowned. He had arranged for none, and he had not expected anyone to cook for them.
His staff was quick to comment. “The gate commander must be trying to gain favor.”
Others chuckled, and one muttered, “Cooking for hundreds. I didn’t know the old man could be that persuasive.”
“We older men have foresight, you know,” the senior guard boasted, prompting more chuckles.
“Indeed. Quite unexpected,” the leader admitted, sharing their sentiment. He turned to the captain. “Arrange for a hundred men to rest and eat first. Then rotate them.”
“At once.” The captain saluted.
Faced with such a welcome surprise, the first hundred men eagerly went to eat, then the second. The clansmen, hearing there was food, cared little for order and joined in as well, as troublesome as ever.
Hungry as they were, they ate the still-hot gruel beneath whatever shade they could find from the searing sun.
It was only gruel. Bland, still a little hard, and slightly charred, but it filled their bellies.
With nothing coming up from the underground passage, the officers withdrew to a nearby compound. At the last moment, they accepted an invitation and abandoned the meal brought from the gatehouse, finding it unappetizing.
The host knew several of the guests by name, and gratitude had made him generous. He laid out what he had left in his stores. Salted meat, goat cheese, coarse bread, stewed onions, even dried fruit and watered wine. Considering the situation, it was a fine afternoon banquet.
Amid the soft playing of the gittern, the senior guardsman leaned closer to his leader, unease creeping into his voice. “I think, once the miasma clears, we should send a rescue party down to the lower garrison.”
The leader nodded. “That is my intention. We need to learn their fate. Hopefully, they survived and merely barricaded themselves.”
That settled the issue. They resumed eating and drinking, easing nerves that had been tense since dawn.
As they feasted, they received no reports of any riot, strengthening their belief that the crisis was truly over. Soon they began to ask for wine, and the host was only too pleased to oblige, already imagining how he would boast to his rivals in the market that he had treated the men who put down the riot.
Beyond the compound walls, the sun lost its strength as it journeyed westward over Clavieras.
While the officers basked in their triumph, the men outside faced a different misery.
After eating, some men felt their stomachs begin to twist. At first, they tried to hold it in, but when the cramps sharpened, one by one, they broke away. To their surprise, the nearest privies were already crowded, as were the cesspits behind the buildings. Before long, men were even squatting over the drainage ditch beside the wall.
Those who were not affected laughed it off. They readily blamed bad water from the well, or too much food eaten too quickly after the fighting. Some even blamed the miasma, since many had inhaled traces of it when the wind changed direction.
Meanwhile, the three hundred clansmen simply vanished from the site and returned home, thinking the job was done and driven by the growing need to ease the pain in their stomachs.
Nobody bothered to report it to the officers, who were still enjoying themselves in the nearby compound. The commanders were in no hurry to surrender the authority given to them, nor the privileges that came with it.
***
Stone Citadel
The sun had long gone down, yet the thirty-five Elders of Clavieras remained inside the Stone Citadel. Age and fatigue were beginning to show. Two were under treatment, while five, censured for taking part in the last coup, had been barred from attending. Two others were missing, presumed dead in the riot. No one mourned them. At best, the Elders were uneasy allies. More often, they were bitter rivals. Old as they were, each cared only for his own clan.
They had just finished their supper, cooked by their own servants, for they trusted no one else, when word came that the gatehouse commander sought an audience. Thinking it was the latest report on the operation against the rioters, the Elders gathered in the hall.
But instead of a messenger, a young man in striking green doublet entered, followed by two guardsmen carrying a body covered in linen.
“We don't want to see a dead body in here,” one Elder complained at once.
Another followed with open irritation. “Why is that even here?”
“Elders,” one of the guardsmen said as they lowered the stretcher, “this man claimed to have evidence of foul play behind the riot.”
“Foul play?” balked the Elder with the greatest influence, his silken robe rustling as he stepped forward. “What do you mean by that?”
The young man was hard to place at a glance. His pale face and finer clothes suggested either a high-ranking servant or the son of another clan. “Yes,” he reported bluntly. "This riot was orchestrated by none other than Roderic and his clan.”
Surprise swept the hall.
One Elder was quick to point out, “But he was already exiled.”
“We purged his clan and four others,” another snapped.
A third turned sharply to the young man. “Is this his revenge?”
“It is most likely,” the young man answered.
“Is the militia involved? They must be in this,” one Elder muttered through clenched teeth, angered that his suspicions might have been right all along.
“We must purge the militia!” another shouted, and the hall erupted into a loud uproar of angry voices.
Finally, the Elder in the dashing silk robe raised his voice above the others. “Young man, what evidence do you have?”
The man turned to the body lying on the stretcher. “The body.”
“You jest? The dead can't talk,” someone muttered.
“Oh, shut up,” another snapped.
The air grew heavy. Each of them feared the same thing, that younger men from their own clans might somehow be involved in this.
“Let me show you the proof.” The young man bent over the corpse and turned it to one side, exposing a gruesome, gaping hole in its back.
Those nearest stared in confusion. The cavity had been packed with clay spheres.
“What is that?” one asked, no longer able to hold back his curiosity.
The other Elders also muttered, wanting to know.
“This,” the man said, lifting one of the clay spheres for all to see with almost theatrical flair, drawing every Elder’s attention, “is none other than the Black Lord’s latest invention.”
“The Black Lord’s invention?” The very name struck fear into their hearts.
The man continued, “This vile weapon is used by his eccentric spies, the Black Bandits.”
Murmurs rose at once.
“I have heard of them.”
“They’re murderous lunatics!”
“Yes,” the man agreed firmly. “They often have no plan at all and simply make it up as they go. They are a dangerous lot, and I shall prove it to you.”
Drawn in by the smooth, bard-like manner of his tale, the Elders felt no suspicion when the speaker picked up another clay sphere and held it with both hands. “Behold, the Black Lord’s Green Miasma Mark Two.”
A few grew uneasy, but it was already too late. The young man hurled the clay spheres to his left and right, toward the places where the Elders stood thickest.
The Elders had not even begun to grasp what was happening when the clay burst apart with a sharp crack, spilling out hissing green fog.
The newly developed Mark Two did not need a fuse. Once the shell shattered, the active compounds inside mixed at once, producing heat and the desired effect with even greater potency. But it was not without complications. The mixture remained active only for a short time, which meant it had to be prepared no more than a day before use and handled by someone who knew exactly what he was doing.
But for a situation like this, it was perfect.
Panic and uproar swept the hall. The Elders began coughing at once, loud and raw, their breath breaking into ragged gasps.
“Guards!” one Elder bellowed desperately amid the frantic struggle for air.
Even without orders, the two guardsmen who had carried in the body lunged for the perpetrator. But he was faster. He flung another clay shell to the floor before them. It shattered, and vile smoke hissed upward. The guards recoiled at once, coughing and choking as each breath turned into agony, like drawing burning soot deep into their lungs.
The Elders tried to flee, but many stumbled and fell. Some slipped on the floor. Others, half-blind and choking, trampled those before them in their desperation to escape.
Several had already collapsed, overcome by shock, pain, and the sheer effort of breathing.
The lone attacker seized more of the blood-smeared clay shells and hurled them toward the entrance, then sank back into the thickening green haze.
Now the Elders were in full frenzy. Gasping in pain and agony, they shoved and clawed their way toward the exit. As they coughed and stumbled, no one noticed the man pull a bloodied goggled mask from beneath the cold body. Pressing it to his face, he took shallow breaths against the sharp, poisonous gas.
The faintest smile touched his lips.
Who would have thought that stolen clothes, information drawn from interrogation, the eloquence of a skald, and a face gone pale from so long in the cavern could carry him this far? Commander Farkas' plan had been theatrically mad, yet it had worked.
Once his breathing steadied, the Black Bandit who aspired to join the SAR drew his dagger.
One of the Elders, old, half-blind, and choking, yet still strong despite his age, stumbled straight into him.
Without hesitation the Black Bandit plunged the dagger into the Elder's chest.
The victim gasped in agony. “You... you dare do this to me?”
The man laughed, tore the blade free, and stabbed him again. “Have faith, clansman. The darkness has room for you all.”
***
PS: Surprise release. Hope you’re all happy!🔥
And no, I can’t do more than two chapters a week, lol. I’ll burn out. Next chapter is Friday as usual.🤭
So, the Clavieras arc is shaping up nicely and nearing its end.
If it isn’t clear enough, the killer in striking green doublet is not Farkas.😅
The winter arc is really close now. And after that, Sagarius the elf is finally on the horizon.
As always, gratitude for supporting Horizon of War! 💎💖🦆