Photo by Nathan Mcgregor on Unsplash
Outside Clavieras
Morning finally came to the rocky path out of Clavieras. Roderic woke groggy after one of the two deaf servants shoved him several times. Even in sleep, his hands had remained chained. He had tried to argue before, but the deaf men never listened. They simply pushed him onward.
He sat up and felt the cold at once. He wore only the worn tunic he had been captured in, along with the coarse wool given to him in his cell. Sleeping rough in the open had drained what little strength he had left.
The morning sun felt as if it were trying to blind him.
Roderic sighed heavily. One day of freedom, and already he missed the comfort of his prison.
“Fuck you all!” he cursed as loudly as he could, knowing the two wouldn't care.
“I don’t want to go to Nicopola. Tell your masters they can send their wives and children there. Better them than me.”
The two servants cared nothing for his words and busied themselves packing their small tent and kicking dirt over the fire.
Roderic groaned, but then something caught his attention. He turned toward Clavieras, where the city still stood against the morning light, its walls and towers visible along the rocky heights. From within them, several dark columns of smoke billowed high into the sky.
At once, the sight lifted his spirits. He laughed and pointed at the smoke with his chained hands.
“Look! Look!” he called. The two gave no response, but Roderic was too pleased with himself to care. He kept laughing toward Clavieras.
“The militia is coming to free me!” he declared with all his heart, then broke into laughter again.
One of the servants simply handed him a cup.
Roderic, still unable to believe his luck, drank it down in one gulp. The water refreshed him at once.
“You shitheads tried to cast me out,” he shouted toward the city. “Now reap the fire you sowed. Hah, the men must have remembered who the better leader was.” He coughed. “Me. Roderic!”
He coughed again, too excited to keep his breath.
“Exiling me to Nicopola. You bastards were in far over your heads.” He could not stop laughing.
Then he turned to the two servants and cursed them boldly. “You mutes are going to die. The militia will come looking for me. I’ll slay you both and roast you in pits like goats.”
His tirade broke apart as his coughing grew worse, turning harsh and incessant.
He drank from the cup again and only then realized the water tasted bitter.
Immediately, his face twisted in horror. He turned toward the two servants, who had already moved away from him and were watching with blank, weary expectation.
“Bastards!” Roderic cursed between coughs.
His mind screamed poison. He shoved his fingers into his mouth, trying to force the water back up, but nothing came. He had been too thirsty.
The coughing worsened. His throat grew dry, itchy, and painful. He lurched to his feet and ran, no longer caring whether the servants would catch him. He ran toward Clavieras, hoping to find militia men searching for him.
Coughing and stumbling, he kept going. He needed water and antidote.
Before he realized, he retched and vomited a yellowish-red bile onto the stones. The taste of blood filled his mouth, and fear drove him harder. His body turned slick with sweat, heat rising.
Behind him, the two servants followed at a careful distance.
Roderic gasped, his breath raging in his chest. His heart hammered so violently that blood began to spill from his nose. Heat flooded through him. Sweat broke across his face, neck, and back, soaking through the coarse wool as he staggered toward the smoking city.
At last, his breath failed. He could run no farther and sank to his knees on the rocky ground.
With ragged breath, he shouted to the sky, “Ancients!”
He coughed.
“I was betrayed. I haven’t fulfil my destiny.”
Another cough tore through him.
Then he saw movement above the gatehouse. The banner was being lowered, its cloth dragging and folding in the wind as it came down from the pole. For a moment, the battlements stood bare. Then another banner rose in its place.
It climbed slowly at first, pulled hand over hand, before the wind caught it and snapped it open above the stone.
Roderic stared and recognized it instantly. The blue and bronze of Lowlandia.
Realizing what he was seeing, blood burst from his mouth. He collapsed, trembling on the rocky ground.
His lips quivered while his eyes remained fixed on Clavieras. Now the smoke carried a different meaning. The unmistakable banner of the Black Lord fluttered hard in the morning mountain wind.
That image burned into his eyes as Roderic lay in agony, half-conscious, consumed by pain and thirst, bleeding from every orifice, just as the Elders had wished.
His mouth was still trembling feverishly when one of the two servants approached carefully.
When the servant was certain Roderic could do nothing, he raised his walking staff, which looked more like a cudgel, and brought it down on Roderic’s head. The blow nearly cracked his skull. The servant did not hear the sound of it. He was deaf, so he struck several more times.
Roderic was beaten to death without honor, as he had once beaten many of the unfortunate women he kept as slave concubines.
Only when blood gushed and pooled beneath the head did the servant stop.
In the distance, the smoke over Clavieras finally began to fade.
***
Clavieras
The banner of the Blue and Bronze basked in the morning light, fluttering against the wind above the gatehouses and the Stone Citadel, marking the end of the bloody night. With the old banner gone and a new one hoisted high, it was finally clear to the mountain people that their proud city had been conquered.
What had first seemed like a riot or purge had now revealed itself fully as a surprise attack by the Black Lord’s army.
After just two days of disturbance, the richest city in the Five Peaks had fallen without even a single day of siege. It was an embarrassment, a fiasco, a humiliation. Not even their ridiculously expensive walls and the Stone Citadel had worked against the invader.
Yet the survivors could only think of what fate would befall them. The city was shrouded in fear. Everyone barred the doors of their homes, hiding from persecution.
Outside, hundreds of bodies littered the gutters and streets. The scars of fighting marked every part of the city. The towers and gatehouses were awash with blood, for many of the guards had fought to their deaths. The clans fared no better. Their Elders had failed them.
But the worst had fallen upon the slavers.
When the Citadel fell during the night, the Black Bandits, guided by freed slaves, attacked the remaining slaver compounds in the city. With the surviving clansmen and guards already overwhelmed, the slaves revolted in the streets. Armed with swords and spears given by their new allies, they stormed the compounds and set them ablaze.
The freed slaves gladly did the dirty work of hunting and killing the clansmen who had profited most from abusing and selling them to the highest bidders.
Farkas and his Black Bandits did not interfere, except to keep the fire from spreading too far. He only sent his men to protect the women and children from the worst of it. There was one incident that almost ended in tragedy, but a half-kin intervened just in time. Not even the rioters wished to face a half-beast.
Now, as the sun rose higher, Clavieras had fallen under the Black Lord’s control. Armed patrols had been sent out, bolstered by dozens of selected freed slaves to help restore order. A few patrols were aided by half-kin, their presence enough to curb the remaining clansmen’s worst impulses.
The last of the remaining guards had either been killed or had surrendered. Only a few had managed to escape the city.
Commander Farkas chose the largest gatehouse instead of the Stone Citadel as his seat of command. His staff remained wary of the vast, largely unknown Citadel complex.
He walked along the battlement with a half-kin leader beside him, discussing the guards who had fled the city.
“We allowed them to flee so we wouldn’t have to fight as hard inside the city,” the half-kin explained. “It’s hard to know how many are still willing to fight, and our numbers are not exactly plentiful.”
“A good decision,” Farkas agreed. “Better to let them out into the open. Many of my men can ride, and there should be more horses available.”
“My sisters are already on them. They only need the signal whether to take captives or kill.”
Farkas pondered for a moment. “Take hostages if they can. But those who fled are of little importance. We have an entire city to gather information from.”
“I shall relay it,” she said, then whistled. Soon, another half-kin approached and received her order.
“Be sure to let your brothers and sisters get some rest. We’ve been at this since yesterday,” Farkas advised.
“We had plenty of sleep yesterday before the night action,” she reassured him.
They continued to walk along the battlement until a cold gust struck their faces. From where they stood, the city opened wide beneath them. Both and their escorts stopped.
The city of Clavieras was enormous, larger than Korimor and more populous, with taller walls and more towers. It had every chance to grow even larger. The only limit was likely grain, for the mountain terrain provided little water for farming.
“The sky and wind here are like those in Umberland City,” the half-kin sister commented as the breeze blew past them, “or the mountain heights where my kin were born.”
Farkas gave her a warm nod, quietly fascinated by his Umberlander ally.
Below, he saw a column of men marching toward the gatehouse. They were the ones who had breached the Stone Citadel and extracted their lone agent. Farkas went down to receive them.
Soon, the lieutenant leading the column saw Farkas and his escort. “Hail, Commander. We brought you a fine victory,” he reported with a weary but bright grin as the column halted.
“A bloody one,” Farkas replied, feigning dissatisfaction.
“A victory nonetheless,” another insisted. “And no small one. We slew hundreds, twice our own number.”
“Brother,” Farkas said, holding his stance, “achievement is not measured by how much blood you spill.”
“No,” the man answered, grinning despite the grime on his face. “But it is undeniably a mark of courage.”
“Or of a crazed fool,” another added, drawing laughter.
Farkas snorted. He could not hold it in any longer.
Seeing their commander break, the men erupted into wild laughter. The Black Bandits, officially the Skirmishers, had hungered for a true achievement since the beginning of the year. Now, at last, they had won a prestigious one.
The plan had been made in haste and bordered on madness, but Farkas trusted his men. Few knew it, but traveling skalds and troubadours carried a strange kind of courage. A daring mission did not daunt them as it might have daunted others.
After all, who could be more fearless than a man raised on heroic tales, who had spent half his life singing of glorious deaths, and now found one waiting within reach?
“Duster,” Farkas called.
A flamboyant man in dashing green stepped forward, a flute already tucked into his sash, though no one was sure where he had gotten it.
“Exemplary result,” Farkas said. “If you wish to join the SAR, I’ll be glad to recommend you.”
Murmurs of approval rose, followed by rough praise from the men.
“Gratitude, Sir,” replied the man born Duster the Younger, son of a humble feather-duster maker from South Hill. “I’ll take that recommendation, but for now I’ll stick around. I sense more opportunities here than in Midlandia.”
His answer drew a wave of praise from his battle brothers.
“That green clothing looks good on you. You should keep it," one suggested.
“Aye, I’m going to keep this, but I’ll need a tailor to make it fit,” Duster replied.
The man next to him quickly quipped, “Better wash it first. It stinks like rotten onions.”
Everyone laughed.
Only when the banter faded did Duster report, “Commander, I took a clan leader. An Elder, if you will. He’s being treated right now, but he wishes to meet you to discuss the city’s surrender.”
Farkas nodded. “Bring him to me as soon as he’s ready. We can’t let the city burn to ash.”
An older man with a bandage over a wound on his face asked, “Do you think we’re going to stay for long?”
“Better a city as a staging ground than in the jungles of Three Hills,” Farkas replied. “Or have you missed the mosquitoes and insect bites already?”
The men snorted and chuckled.
Amused, the older man muttered, “I’m going to miss the peace, but I’d rather finish this campaign so I can go home to my family.”
His words were met with a chorus of agreement from his brothers.
Farkas replied, “Brothers, as we learned from the captives, these mountains are vast and crawling with smugglers and slavers. I doubt the Lord will allow us to return with only half the work done.”
Nearly every man in the column nodded, acknowledging the situation.
“However,” Farkas added, “I do not believe the Lord will task his Skirmishers to hold a fortified city like this. Our skills are wasted on guard duty. I have already sent an immediate request for reinforcements, and I’m sure once they arrive, we’ll have enough breathing room to pursue our original artistic endeavors, with flutes and gitterns.”
That earned him spirited laughter from the column.
“As long as we hold this city and the underground passage, things will surely improve,” Farkas continued. “Let’s trust the Lord and the Lady.”
Satisfied, one of the men turned to the column and raised his voice. “For the Blue and Bronze!”
The rest took it up at once. “For the Blue and Bronze!”
When the cheer faded, Farkas turned to the lieutenant. “Before you rest, I need you to find our men in the underground tunnel. Go carefully, and bring help. They’re likely going to need it.”
“Leave it to us,” the lieutenant replied despite his fatigue.
The faces of the men around him tightened at the thought of their battle brothers underground. Even exhausted, they could not abandon their comrades to the dark.
***
Korelia
In the early winter of 4426, upon Lord Bengrieve’s petition and in the absence of authority from the Capital, Duke Louis of Tiberia raised Lord Lansius to the rank of Count of the Imperium. Lady Audrey, as his wife, became a Countess.
With a single decree, Lansius had leaped from baron, past viscount, and into the ranks of the high nobility.
Yet none of it mattered as much as the simple fact that he still woke at all.
The previous night, he had to be roused five times.
By morning, he felt groggy, his head aching, worn out before the day had even begun. Still, seeing another morning felt like a blessing.
Audrey propped herself on one elbow and looked at him with tired but cheerful eyes. “Morning.”
“So I’m still alive,” he muttered.
“It’s not that bad,” Audrey encouraged him. “It’s like raising a baby, really.”
Her words made him pause. “That's true...”
“Yes. Waking every two or three hours is nothing. Tiring, but mothers do it all the time. You’ll be fine.”
Seeing her so bright in the morning, Lansius could not help but smile. She was trying to make his condition seem ordinary, so he played along, knowing there was no use letting fear cripple him.
“Promise me something,” he said.
“Yes?”
“If I fall asleep and never wake again, squeeze my head between your thighs and let me suffocate. That way, I’ll die happy.”
“By the Ancients. Lansius,” Audrey blurted, breaking into helpless giggles.
“Is that a no?” he asked, trying not to laugh.
“Of course it’s a no.” She tried to glare at him, but the smile ruined it. “I’d be terrified.”
Lansius chuckled.
Feeling drowsy, he closed his eyes again, but then asked, “How is Gilly? I haven’t spent as much time with him as I wanted these past few days.”
“Our boy has almost learned to sit.”
He opened his eyes. “Really?”
Audrey nodded, her face bright with a rare innocence, unlike her usual guarded calm.
“Then I’ll spend the day with him. I can’t miss seeing that.”
“Let me help you get dressed, then.” She rose first and offered her hand.
Lansius took it and prepared for the day.
As Audrey helped him dress, she asked, “So, my Count, what should we do with Lord Bengrieve’s offer? I’m sure the court will want to hear your decision.”
Lansius inhaled deeply and looked toward the window. “It feels like a noose has tightened around my neck, just a little more.”
“I can feel it too," Audrey replied.
“By accepting it, we recognize Duke Louis’ authority,” Lansius explained. “That renews our loyalty to the Imperium and breathes life back into it. And if he marches on the Capital or wages war on Gottfried, we will be expected to join.”
“That isn’t entirely bad.”
“Yes,” he admitted. “That part is not the danger. We are already inclined to join the war against Gottfried anyway.”
“It's blood feud,” Audrey said, tying his belt and finishing his dressing.
“Yes,” Lansius replied. “If someone like the Duke wishes to lead it, then I’d be more than willing to support him. However, there is another matter...”
He paused as Audrey began to change in front of him.
Morning light touched her through the window, soft across her skin, and for a quiet moment he felt grateful simply to be alive.
Usually, she had already dressed by the time he rose. That had always been their routine. Only now did he realize that she was still in her nightgown. Watching over him through the night must have taken its toll.
“I can feel your eyes,” Audrey said as she slipped into her formal attire.
“Pardon my eyes,” Lansius said with a chuckle. He helped her as best he could.
“You should choose a chambermaid to help you,” he said.
“Mm, but I don’t trust my Count with one more woman inside this chamber,” Audrey quipped.
Lansius snorted.
Now fully awake and in a better mood, Lansius headed with Audrey to breakfast in the private hall. It had been several hard days, and he had no wish to push himself further. He decided to spend the day with his family, limit himself to the midday council meeting, and perhaps take a long ride in the afternoon.
As Lansius took a light breakfast of spiced duck egg broth, which he still did not like much, a soft sound came from the adjoining chamber. It was a small, restless baby’s noise, half coo and half complaint, followed by the gentle murmur of a woman trying to soothe him.
A moment later, Mother Arryn entered with Gilly in her arms, while a nursemaid followed a step behind.
“Look who is here,” Mother Arryn said warmly. “Mother and Father.”
Audrey rose to greet her, while Lansius said, “Mother, please sit. Have you eaten breakfast?”
“Don’t mind me. I’ll eat after Gilly calms down.”
“Is he behaving this morning?” Audrey asked as she took Gilly from Mother Arryn’s arms.
“He slept after taking your milk, but not for long,” Mother Arryn said, carefully passing the child to her. “He has been playing with the nursemaid since morning. He seems to like the red and blue toys best.”
The boy twisted stubbornly at first, his round face scrunching in protest, still wanting Mother Arryn’s embrace. Then he saw Audrey and went still.
Somehow, even Gilly understood not to cross his mother.
Could he have seen the eyes?
It had been a long while since Lansius had felt the sting from Audrey’s eyes. She had fully mastered her magical sight, but against one mischievous boy, she might have let a little slip.
Lansius was not too concerned. In time, it might even build some resistance against such attacks. Perhaps an older Gilly would one day survive even a Medusa. After all, his mother was nearly as dangerous. A lichbane, even.
“Gilly, greet your daddy,” Audrey coaxed gently as she sat beside Lansius, allowing him to play with the boy.
Gilly paid him little attention beyond a glance. Then he turned back toward Audrey’s chest.
“Maybe he’s hungry?” Lansius ventured. A baby’s stomach was incredibly small.
“No. He’ll take a sip and then play with it,” Audrey said. “Better to wait until he’s truly hungry. He’ll sleep better afterward.”
Next to him, Mother Arryn was being served her simple breakfast. Even living inside a castle, with maids and servants around her, Arryn had never changed. She still preferred the modest food of the servants, saying it was the healthiest for her.
Audrey then carefully settled Gilly onto Lansius’ lap.
Lansius welcomed the boy, though Gilly looked entirely opposed to the arrangement. Then, just as suddenly, he decided to tolerate his father, if only because Lansius’ blue doublet had polished brass buttons that caught the light. For a time, the baby was fascinated by the color and shine.
Lansius touched the baby’s cheek, then his tiny hand, playing with him in a soft, foolish voice. “Now, who’s your daddy? Who’s your daddy?”
The nearly four-month-old baby was not impressed. Gilly knitted his very thin brows, as if he disagreed with everything Lansius was doing.
That made Lansius chuckle. It was nothing like what he had hoped for.
The nursemaid returned with a small bowl of very thin, smooth fruit purée.
“He can eat something like that now?” Lansius asked.
“He should be old enough to try a little,” Arryn said. “If we do not introduce it, he might become fussy with food later.”
Audrey tasted it first, then gently offered a tiny spoonful to the baby. Gilly seemed startled by the texture and held it in his mouth, unsure what to do with it.
“Ah, ah,” he babbled, flailing his little arms while Lansius tried to coax him. “Does baby Gilly like it? It’s sweet, sweet fruit purée.”
Audrey tried again, but instead of swallowing, Gilly simply let the purée slide out of his mouth and down his chin. Audrey caught what she could with the spoon and tried to guide it back in, but the boy only made a face and let more spill out.
Lansius chuckled at the baby’s antics. Even Arryn found it funny.
Audrey expertly guided the spoon past the flailing little arms.
“Perhaps My Lady should take him,” Mother Arryn suggested. “The purée might stain the doublet.”
“No, I don’t mind,” Lansius replied, enjoying the moment.
...
The morning gradually turned toward noon in small, quiet pleasures. They let Gilly take the center of the room, laughing softly at every stubborn movement and every little sound he made. Just as Arryn had said, when he was placed on his bottom, he could already sit without falling. And when he was laid on his back, he could turn onto his belly and push himself up, almost able to sit by himself.
“The boy is growing fast,” Lansius muttered once Gilly fell asleep in Audrey’s arms.
Even near midday, the place remained cool. Audrey had cooled it discreetly. If anyone asked, they could pass it off as the work of a rare magical gemstone.
Only after she placed the baby on the bed without waking him, and Lansius was ready for the council meeting, did they resume their talk.
“By accepting the title, we ultimately recognize the Duke’s authority,” Lansius said. “With the Capital in ruins and power left vacant, I fear Duke Louis may declare himself Prince.”
Audrey blinked. “A prince?”
Lansius nodded. “It might be different here, but where I was from, men in his position usually claimed to be prince first, then later declared themselves king or emperor. There is no fixed rule to it. Only one's ambition.”
She quietly nodded.
“When that happens, the Duke will want our support. But the problem is that we control more land than he does. Even if we win Arvena, the province belongs to Arte. So how can he call himself king while holding only East and West Tiberia?”
“You suspect a future rivalry?”
“Even if the Duke accepts it, his court will be tempted to undermine us. They will grow wary and suspicious simply because we are more powerful.” Lansius inhaled. “But that is not the worst part... If he becomes king, or worse, emperor, then he can demand our cooperation against the Northerners or the Western Nomads. I fear those distant campaigns will drain our strength until we are too weak to defend ourselves.”
Audrey’s expression darkened.
“Whether we win or lose, the king benefits,” Lansius said bluntly. “If we lose, our power is broken. If we win, the conquered lands fall under his authority. Either way, the new regime grows at our expense.”
The chamber seemed to grow colder.
Lansius forced a smile. “The head beneath the crown can never sleep easily while a stronger vassal kneels before him.”
Footsteps sounded outside the chamber, muffled but hurried.
Audrey turned toward the door. She opened it just enough to see Margo standing beyond the threshold.
“My Lady,” he greeted softly, careful not to wake Gilly.
“Something urgent?” Audrey asked.
“The Lord of Galdia has just received news,” Margo whispered. “The Imperium’s eastern border is under attack.”
Audrey’s eyes widened. Noticing the tension in her shoulders, Lansius approached and heard Margo continue.
“The Navalnian Empire has crossed the border. War has broken out in Edessa. More than a dozen cities have fallen.”
One year after the Capital burned, the eastern bastion that had guarded the Imperium for nearly seven hundred years was breaking.
With no functioning Imperium to answer its call, and Midlandia fragmented and no longer an ally, the Margrave of Edessa stood alone against a full-scale Navalnian invasion.
***
PS: Hope the chapter reads well.
I did ask about Roderic’s death before, but I think it is small enough to include in this chapter. It is also a good way to show the fall of Clavieras from the outside. The other mountain people should react in much the same way once they learn that Clavieras has fallen.
Oh, did you enjoy reading about Gilly? I tried to make it accurate. I’ve had quite a bit of interaction with babies, and most firstborn boys I’ve seen tend to act like Gilly. Daughters usually behave a little differently.😅
Finally, Lansius learns about the Navalnian invasion. What kind of future awaits?🤔
As always, gratitude for supporting Horizon of War! 💎💖🦆