Broken Laurels [Original Fiction Contest - The Emperor and the Fool]

Halibel Lecter

Well-Known Member
#1
“Murderer!”

Erik turned to face forward, ignoring the screed from his right. At the woman's raised voice, tinged with urgency, he'd instinctively jerked his head to the side to listen—only to be greeted with a snarl, her face twisted with rage and flushed with indignation.

“A wolf—” He stalked away as quickly as possible, but her words pierced the cacophony of noise from the market's stalls, “—leading a pack of wild dogs!” Fortunately, after a few more steps, her voice was swallowed by the wash of other sounds in the busy street—but the damage had been done. People who had been enraptured by the price of tea a moment before now turned and glared at him, revulsion washing over him in waves as each new section noticed their neighbors to the aft getting angry. Children peeped out from their mothers' skirts, eyes wide with fear—who knew what they'd been told by the fireplace about the grizzled old wolf? Maybe they were afraid he would swallow them whole. The spiked steel plates fastened over his mail reflected their jeering faces back at them, but it seemed to do little good. They must have been too taken up with the plates themselves to notice the portraits, or maybe they were busy looking at his sword and missed themselves entirely.

Erik reached up and pulled his visor over his eyes with a sigh of frustration. Through the grate, bits of the market flashed by in his peripheral vision: swatches of linen dyed with the spices piled up in brass bowls just to their side, piles of fruit and lumps of wool, wooden bowls spun from unlacquered wood—the fruits of the nation he'd been off protecting. In his haste to visit said nation's leader, he'd gone straight from campaign to capital, neglecting to take off his armor; he now recognized this for the mistake it was.

As he neared the castle gates, fortunately, the jeers and vitriol faded off to grumbling, then finally, poisonous stares that he could feel but not see. Despite not understanding the concept of an army, it must have occurred to them that hassling a general in front of his own subordinates would be a poor idea. The guards, to their credit, opened the gates for him on sight, and he barely had to break stride. Once they closed behind him, Erik was left alone inside the yard, hard leather soles drumming a steady rhythm on the slate path as he marched up it toward the castle's front steps. It had been a long time since he'd been in a quiet enough place to hear footsteps—they were swallowed on the battlefield the same way they were in the market, forced out of his perception by screaming men and horses and the ring of steel. The palace was so unusually peaceful compared to a campaign that it was almost unnerving—no matter where he was in the capital, it seemed to have no love for him. As he climbed the steps, more guards took notice of him and a few disappeared, no doubt running to alert the king to his presence.

The castle's doors were shaded by an overhanging roof many yards long, supported by huge stone columns. They would stripe the polished floors this evening, but for now the shade was solid and cold, wisps of cool air seeping in through the chinks in his heavy armor. Erik lifted his visor, glancing around at the familiar columns and the thick walls beyond, their decoration blurred by shadow. Approaching them sharpened the lines and colors, for the moment before the doors were opened to allow him inside.

While the shadows remained as dense as ever, Erik felt the temperature jump as he stepped inside, going from sunlight to torchlight. The doors creaked closed behind him and landed with a heavy thuk, as if they were joints being forced back into a socket. He frowned at the visual, nearly missing the servant striving to keep up with his aggravated pacing.

“Sir? Oh—sir—”

Erik blinked and turned toward the voice. “Yes?”

The servant—he was either very young or already a eunuch—began to fidget in place as his eyes dropped to the floor. “Y-You are recommended by o-order of the king, his highness, to wait within this hall to receive an appointment. Milord. Sir.”

“...an... appointment?”

“Yes, milord—to speak with the king.”

Coals of indignation began to hiss in his stomach, heating his blood. “When have I ever needed an appointment to speak with the king?”

“I-I—er, well—you see, milord, th-the king sent word that a-all visiting... visitors should w-wait to be given an appointment, sir...” how the man had made it this far into the conversation with dry breeches, Erik couldn't fathom. He was trembling by now, and had to swallow between his sentences, working up his nerve to speak. “S-So as a visitor—er—an esteemed guest of the king... um, you would of course be recommended—”

Erik closed the distance between them with a single stride. “Do you know where the king is right now?”

“N-No milord, I mean—yes, yes milord.”

“Good!” He leaned in. “Now—I'm going to go to the king's receiving room and wait for him. You are going to go to find him, and tell him that General Isenghast is here and would like a word with him. The campaign he ordered just ended, and I am here to give him my report on it; I will not wait out in the front room like some peasant coming to ask for a reprieve from the tax collector. Do I make myself clear?”

The servant merely nodded. Erik jerked forward a span and the man screamed outright, running from the room in a panic. Satisfied, he walked on, this time motioning for the doors to be opened.

Never in his career had he been stopped at the foyer, the same as would happen to any commoner—just thinking back to it made him angrier, and he was still seething as he commanded that the doors to the receiving room be drawn open so that he could go inside. His first order of business was to throw himself and his greasy mail into a fine velvet chair, waiting impatiently for the king to arrive.

Dust from their most recent campaign still clung to his boots, sifting off onto the imported carpet. Normally, Erik would have been careful, but for now it gave him a sort of satisfaction to damage all this finery with his armor. They brought it all back from the northern coast, anyway—by all rights, this chair and that carpet were half his to do with as he saw fit. He'd been the one dragged along on the premise of presenting all three branches of the royal family—but as usual, nothing had gone to the Black Laurel but a measure of gold for his “trouble”. Trouble! He'd spent a month steaming and sweating in overwrought silks, drinking hot tea in the middle of the summer with a bunch of thieves and brotheliers, and all they'd deigned to call it was “trouble”—rendering it somewhat akin to walking down to the kitchen for a plate of bread. Trouble. Trouble, his lily white—

“General?”

Erik looked up. He'd gotten so lost in old anger that the source of the new had walked in unnoticed, coming over to turn his head like a bird listening to a cat's cry. Ernst straightened his robes and raiment carefully, his curious expression softening as he put himself to rights, until it was one of distracted calm—Erik reasoned from this change that he must be slightly less interesting than a length of translucent silk. “Hello. What brings you to the castle today?”

“...well, your highness, we've just returned from the jungles to the west. The orcs proved to be a formidable enemy, but we have re-established our borders, and fortified them with—” He paused when the king raised one hand, as if silencing a particularly excited child.

“Lovely. I appreciate your effort, General—”

“My name is Erik. You know my name. I'm not sure if you've forgotten, highness, but we happen to be related.” While he didn't quite outrank the king, he was no simple officer. All this dismissive behavior was just fuel on a fire that started in the market—the coals of which had been keeping for a while now. “Or have court affairs robbed you of your famed memory?”

He'd been hoping for anger or at least scorn—but there seemed to be no change in the king's hazy expression. “Of course not, General. My memory is perfect, as always.”

“Alright. Then you must remember why you sent your armies forth in the first place.”

“Of course. We were facing an enemy we knew nothing about.”

“...yes, I suppose you could phrase it that way.” He sighed and began all over again with his report. “We now know something about the orcs, having met them in combat. Our borders are secure, and at present, walls are being built in the olden style along the border, due to the orcs' lack of battering engines. They excel at climbing, however, so the walls are high and straight.” Erik paused for a moment to ensure the king was still listening. “...the villages affected by raids are being rebuilt by local civilians. Crops are late into the fields, but a harvest is still expected this fall.”

Ernst blinked at him. “A harvest? What do they grow down there, beside the jungle?”

“Lumber. Cotton. Sugarcane and flax.” He made an expansive motion with one arm, as if gesturing to miles of fields. “Up until the jungle treeline in the west, and the mountains to the south, the land is very flat. A third of it is fallow, but all the rest is farmed, with very little hunting ground.” Finally, he was showing some interest. Erik felt the last of his anger begin to ebb. “The peasants there round up their harvests early, and they arrive at the capital usually just before the first cold spell.”

For all this, he was rewarded with a nod. Ernst adjusted his crown carefully to make sure it hadn't slid forward too much in the excitement.

“Again, lovely news. A brilliant victory. Give my regards to your lessers.” He paused for a moment as if trying to solve a riddle, then smiled at Erik and asked, “Will that be all, General?”

“...yes, highness.”

“Wonderful. I believe you know the way out. Should you have any further concerns, please do not hesitate to make an appointment with the man in the foyer. He will be happy to arrange a time when we can meet.”

“About him—how long has he had that duty, exactly?”

“Hmm?”

“How long have you been making your visitors stand about in the front chamber like they were here to come before you on the throne? When I last left for my campaign, heads of the family were encouraged to call on you—not on some simpering eunuch with a weak bladder.”

“Oh, has he done that again? The poor man. He just gets so nervous, you know... he can't help it, really.”

Erik resisted the urge to glare. “No. No, never mind that. How long have you had that rule in place, highness?”

Ernst blinked. “Oh—since you left, I suppose. It wasn't long after that Herman brought it to my attention, you see, that true men of power place a high value on their time. If someone must wait to see you, obviously you are a powerful figure.” He smiled. “I have to admit, it is a bit tedious, making appointments for everything. But a king should act like a king, of course.”

“Of course.” Of course this was Herman's doing. The man stood so wholly on ceremony that his heels hadn't touched soil in twenty years. “Did you have any further questions about the campaign?”

“The what? Oh—no. No, but if I do, I will be sure to send a servant with the word for you.”

Erik nodded, by now nearly out of words. This was not the king he left to go south, but at present he didn't seem with himself enough to explain. “Then, I will be taking my leave of you.”

“Lovely. It was a pleasure seeing you, General.” Ernst nodded at him, smiling blankly. His eyes closed as his chin came down, a gesture he couldn't remember the king using before. Something told him it would be useless to ask about it, however. He rose slowly from the chair, following his own dusty footprints out of the receiving room to the foyer.

Fortunately, this time the room was empty, echoing with no sound besides his heavy footfalls on the way out. The army's encampment was just outside the castle walls, and inevitably, his men where working their way through the city by now, bereft of their armor and carrying their small daggers, sampling the comforts of home. Their leader, on the other hand, was already beginning to pine for the open country.

He hated to admit that anything the Golden Laurel said could possibly have sense in it, but they did seem to be right about one thing—none of his branch seemed to belong in a castle. They could and would, if the time came, of course, but Erik for one had no love for the capital, much as it hadn't any for him; it was full of useless people worried about useless things like accumulating fine silks and bathing in scented tinctures. He had no patience for any of it.

With all the growing the capital had done, it was a long, loud walk out to the encampment, one made slightly better by the stream of happy subordinates going in the other direction. Erik didn't begrudge them their time here, wouldn't have been able to even if he tried to work up to it. He couldn't: they had worked hard, fought hard, and then come trudging back home, knowing that they would be welcomed with kicks and curses if they should come through the city walls in uniform. However they wanted to repay themselves for all that was fine with him, especially since they were barely provided a wage over their rations, any way.

Back in his own tent, with a mug of warm ale and no armor or weapons weighing on his frame, he finally had a chance to relax and think about the campaign, now that it was all entirely over. It would likely be largely unknown in the capital, if the way Ernst reacted was any indication. The Black branch would, hopefully, receive some extra coin to hire new recruits, replenish its equipment and horses, and other incidentals, and after a few months, the orcs would figure out how to climb sheer stone, and they would be doing this again. Hopefully, by then, their king would be more interested in the state of his borders than the state of his own wardrobe—but Erik wasn't holding out much hope.
 

Halibel Lecter

Well-Known Member
#2
New recruits began arriving early the next morning, not long after the long, low notes of signal horns faded off into the countryside. At first, a few of them slipped into the camp unnoticed, casting about for the place to join the ranks—nervous things, their constant clumsy mistakes muffled by ragged quilted armor, faded with time and worn threadbare around the edges. Eventually one of the veterans, Suma, called for them to come over to him, and a crooked queue formed behind him, folding into a loop when he was trying to be heard over the din of everyone at work in the camp.

Erik passed by them unnoticed on his way to the healers' tents on the quiet end of the camp, none of them showing the least bit of recognition—a good sign, since most of the people who kept track of nobles' faces had no place in an army. By the time he made it to the tents, the nearby city was already starting to wear on his nerves; if they weren't still busy gathering more materiel and working out their plans to return to the border, he would have been happy to order everyone to move right then and there—but at this point, mobilizing would have to wait another day at least. He'd made up his mind to fill as many of the hours as possible in camp, and stay out of the city walls if possible; paying a visit to some old friends would take up at least some of that time.

The tents were quiet, so much so that Erik ducked in slowly, trying to keep his armor from moving and clanking against itself. Fortunately he didn't have to go very far; the closest person to the flap of the tent looked up at him with recognition; she seemed to be the only one awake.

"General...?”

The voice always changed first; after so many years he was no longer surprised, but at first it had been a shock. What was once a battle cry waiting to be unbound had weakened until he could barely make out the words this far above the speaker. Still careful of his armor, he knelt down, the better to hear her.

“Bow Isal. Are you well?”

Isal smiled. “Almost.” One pale hand reached up toward him, opening to reveal a small arrowhead. “I made this so far. By the time we get back to the border, I should be able to use it.” The surface had been carefully honed, more like a blade than the rough arrows common to the army. Erik let her place it in his palm, turning it over—all the time careful of the edges.

“This is very... different,” he said finally.

“Yes. It's made not to tear at the flesh.”

Erik looked away, forcing his eyes to move to the wall of the tent—if he didn't they would jump down to the linens wrapped tightly over Isal's arm, the clean rags hiding an ugly wound that had started with a barbed orcish arrow and ended with coals being heaped over the sutures to make sure she wouldn't bleed to death.

“...I see.”

After seeing her in action so many times, the effortless aim, the total stillness as she waited for the call to fire—even after serving for some time as a general, the sheer amount of damage wrought from that one wound had made an impression. The pain and shock had been so great that she'd fallen from her post, a steep drop of almost two dozen cubits; she'd been ferried back to the healers' tent that day and hadn't left it since.

“It should go right through any armor, except metal like you have—oh—sir!...”

Erik blinked and looked down. He'd closed his fist over the arrowhead without thinking, and it had bitten into his palm, a few drops of blood leaking sluggishly from the narrow cut.

“...very sharp. That should do nicely.”

She blinked at the wound, looking from him to his hand with her brows furrowed together. “I'm sorry, sir—I should've said not to hold it like that, but...”

“I don't think I'd have heard you in time.” He cleaned the arrowhead off and set it back in her hand, carefully so as not to drop it against her palm. “I look forward to seeing it in action—more than just on your commander, though, alright?”

That seemed to ease her nerves. Isal smiled at him. “Of course. It should do much more damage when it's got up some speed first.” He nodded agreement.

“Then I expect you to report to me when you're well enough to shoot it—understood?”

Her voice seemed to even out a bit. “Yes, General.”

Erik started to change the topic—the way Isal used to chatter all the time, he could well imagine how she felt with no one but the sleeping wounded for company—but before he could get the words out, a commotion outside the tent drew his attention first. He reached down to clasp her hand, but his legs were already stretching when he let go.

“I should see to that.”

“Good luck, sir.”

Erik nodded and ducked out of the tent. He'd have to come back later and consult with some of the officers lying on the opposite end, once they had a chance to wake up. At the moment, there seemed to be more pressing matters—a crowd of soldiers had gathered near the middle of the camp, and as he came closer to the edge of it, he could hear his men questioning someone, but making out the exact words was nearly impossible. As he came to the front of the group, someone recognized him and pointed him out.

“This is our leader. Is he the one you want?”

Apparently, they had been questioning some visitors, a small group of elves that turned as one to look him over. Erik recognized them that far from visiting their homeland, but none of them looked familiar.
They sized him up, seeming mostly to recognize the make of his armor over his face—it was the same as theirs, although where his was heavy and dented, theirs was newly made out of thin mail, attached to small fitted plates that had been smoothed to deflect a blade out and away from the body. Their leader had half plate similar to Erik's, and carried a heavy shield. A long blade was sheathed at his side, at least twice the size of his subordinates'. He could barely see the hilt behind a curtain of extra mail: broad and wrapped with hide to improve the grip.

“Yes—I believe so.” the one with the highest rank nodded to Erik carefully. “You are the leader of the Black Laurels—the Isenghast family, is that right?”

Erik nodded. “Indeed.”

“Then you are the one I am looking for.” He stepped forward, and the other elves moved around him—they must be personal guards, Erik realized, as they settled into formation, watching all around. “I am Alois af Dalirheimr, the elven ambassador to the Laurel kingdom. We have some matters to discuss.”

Erik nodded and swept one hand toward his tent. “Good to meet you. We can discuss everything in my quarters,” he said, leading the group over and into the tent. The ambassador took a seat opposite him, putting Erik's trunk between them and resting his wrists on the scuffed lid. His guard took up positions near the door.

“Now, these matters of yours...?”

Alois nodded. “Indeed. Your army just returned from Aryavarta, is that right? I understand you had some contact with the orcs there.”

“We've returned from our western borders with Aryavarta. After the orcs attempted to take some of our land for themselves, we had to secure them against further invasion.”

“I see.” He paused, glancing around the tent. “Your king had little to say on the matter—surely as the leader of his army, you would know more. By securing your own borders, you mean to say you drove the orcs back into the jungle?”

Erik nodded. “Yes. We put walls up just beyond the treeline; they're still being built. Once we've restocked, we'll be going back to guard the borders while construction takes place.” He nodded toward the west. “It should take some months, because of the height of the walls. What part of this is of interest to the elven lands?”

“Your part, General.” Alois stretched one hand in the opposite direction, toward the castle. “There are elements of the royal family with a strong dislike for orcs. It is in our best interests to make sure these opinions do not inform the nation's defense force, and its actions in the west.”

“Well, you happen to be in luck, then. I don't have a strong opinion on orcs, and the only one informing my army about its actions will be me.” Erik watched his response, trying to understand what the man was doing here—what possible stake could the elves have, either in this kingdom or in Aryavarta? It made no sense. “Does that answer your question?”

“Indeed—it puts much to rights. We would hate to have to intervene on anyone's behalf, if something happened that we could not tolerate; that would only cause more problems for everyone, don't you think?”

“...yes, adding people to a situation often has that effect.” Erik said slowly, nodding in time. “I'm glad to have put that to rights for you, Ambassador.”

“Yes—thank you for your time.” Alois brushed himself off, nodding. “We will meet again, of course; but, for now, there is no need for further discussion. Good day.”

“...to you as well.” As the group left the tent, Erik watched them, but didn't bother following. They seemed to know where they were going, right back to the city. What had caused all of that, he couldn't fathom; and knowing Ernst, he could count on the king to have just as many answers as he did at the moment. Of course, according to them they had visited the king first and, predictably, gotten no help. He took out a map and opened it over the trunk, flattening the scroll out to look it over.

In the southwest, just below the continent with the elven lands, was his own land, with their kingdom in the middle. To the west, Aryavarta, the orcish jungles, ran from their own borders to the sea, and to the south, the jungles gave way to the mountains of Siaren, with its ancient rivers and sheltered valleys. Of all the places on the map, why were the elves so concerned with a near-impenetrable jungle, one with no resources he could name? It made no sense.

If they were looking for good land, it was over in the other directions; and if they were looking for a race that was easy to exploit, the orcs were a very poor choice. Every room in every orcish village, according to what he'd heard, was dedicated to their goddess Kali—from their temples, with yards in the middle for fighting amongst the clerics there, to the home of the village chief. Kali, the terror of the battlefield, and the mother of the orcish race, or so the legends said about her. The orcs' devotion to her, it was often said, was what drove them to war so readily and so often. For his part, Erik had always just counted it as one more reason to spend as little time around them as possible.

“General? They've gone.”

Suma was leaning into the tent. Erik put away the map, looking up at him in mock sadness. “So soon? Ah, tragic day. I may have to start keening and tearing my hair. Fetch my mourning clothes.” He paused, thinking back to when he'd seen them headed for the city. “It took them quite a while to get out of camp, then. Were they lost?” he didn't see how they could manage that with the tents spaced as far apart as they were. Besides, they hadn't looked lost when they left.

“No—they were just having a look around.” Suma reached up to pull on his ear, trying to make it long like an elf's. “It is very important to us to understand the Laurel Kingdom and its branches.”
Erik laughed. “How strange. You know, when we traveled to see them, they made a point of not explaining a thing. We took in a performance once, and at the end, everyone was inconsolable—crying, you know. Neither one of us, me or Ernst, had the faintest idea what was going on.”

“What about Minister Aurelion?”

“Oh, he was over next to the courtiers, leaking like a linen mug. I suppose either he had seen the thing before or someone had explained it to him.”

Suma nodded. “At least they've gone. We should be ready to leave tomorrow at daybreak.”

“Good!” Erik grinned at him. “That's the best news I've had all day. I'll be ready tomorrow, then.” He peered into his trunk, making sure everything was in order.

“...sir, are you going to see the king again before you leave?”

Erik looked up at him, shrugging. Suma had been in the service nearly as long as he had; over the years they'd gotten to understand each other, to the point that this wasn't unusual, coming from him. “Truly? I wasn't planning on it. The last time I went he sent out a servant to make sure I had trouble getting an audience with him—then he acted as if he'd never even heard of the attacks that we went to put an end to. He said we went because we were fighting an enemy we knew nothing about.” Erik shook his head. “I don't know that there's much else I can say to him, or get from him, and he's already provided us with more supplies.” He stepped toward the flap of the tent. “How are the new recruits?”

“Recruit, sir.”

Erik groaned, shaking his head. “Oh, no, again?”

“I'm afraid so. They came along wanting to go and win titles, and when I explained that we'd be guarding villages for most of the time, all but one left. But we had two men come and buy commissions.”

“Ah, well, I suppose that's something.” Erik smiled. “They'll be back, next time we come into the capital. This city will start feeling small and close; then they'll be back to join.”

Suma shook his head. “That I don't know. I haven't seen anyone come back from the last time we were here. Seems they all like it here in the city.” He frowned. “But we always have a good bunch of new recruits—just these last few stays, it's been one or two.”

“We can get along with our current numbers...”

“Of course, sir. But it seems strange that all a sudden we have hardly any new blood coming in.”

Erik nodded slowly, thinking back to the marketplace full of jeering people. “Maybe they've just lost their taste for war.”
 

Halibel Lecter

Well-Known Member
#3
“The people of the Laurel kingdom will never lose their taste for war.”

Moseny leaned back from the table, looking satisfied with himself. The other nobles were silent, glancing at each other through the still air of the receiving room. Ernst raised an eyebrow as he leaned forward, catching Moseny's gaze.

“So, you don't believe we will ever have peace?”

“No—but just look at the wonderful benefits of that, my lord. The economy thrives when something threatens it from beyond the gates. Anyone violent enough to consider the military can spend their life mired in martial bliss, and none of them stumble into positions of true power, with a few notable exceptions...” his gaze dropped to the places on the furniture and rug where the servants had tried in vain to clean any lingering traces of Erik from the upholstery.

“But we've just finished our last war.” Inmoter gestured to the map on the west wall. “The orcs of Aryavarta were our only remaining enemy on the continent; with them gone, we will be free of threats.”

“You think they won't breach that wall, eventually?”

“...wall?” Inmoter looked confused. “I was told the orc problem was solved. Is the army not moving to rid the world of them for good?”

“No—no. We are not going to kill all of the orcs.” Ernst waved one hand as if to clear the idea from the air. “We simply want to keep them out of our own kingdom.”

“...and you think that you can do that with a wall.”

“The General said it would be just the thing. It will be specially constructed to keep them out.”

Inmoter looked as if he wanted to protest further, but simply went quiet, shaking his head. Ernst nodded as if to close the matter; he had had almost enough of the Gold house's lapdogs biting at him, trying to urge him to dislike the Black house simply because they weren't merchants. He had spoken directly with the General about his house, not so long ago; his opinion would not be swayed by speaking to the court about it instead.

After a moment, Moseny cleared his throat. “My lord, if that will be all on the subject of the Isenghast family, we have much more pressing matters to discuss.” He withdrew a small swatch of cloth and placed it in the middle of the table. “This cloth is fetching the same prices as imported linen from Esalya, but just look at the threads that make it up. They are obviously of inferior quality—surely you can see how many loose fibers are coming out of the threads?”

Ernst blinked. He picked the swatch up and looked it over carefully, nodding despite being unable to tell a difference between it and the edge of his sleeve. “Ah. Yes, this is... very...”

“It's a disgrace!”

“It's something, alright.” Inmoter said, giving Ernst a flat look. “Your majesty, surely this trivial matter is much too far beneath you to deserve your notice. It borders on insulting that it would even be brought to your attention, when clearly this is a matter for his guild...”

“My guild does not have the necessary legal powers to make any changes that would improve this situation. We cannot set prices for imported goods—only the White house can make those laws, and the King is its leader.” Moseny shrugged. “If house Aurelion had more autonomy, we could take care of disputes like this without bothering the king, but as it stands, we must bring these problems to the ruling branch.” This seemed to shut Inmoter down, for the time being, anyway.

Ernst looked between the two of them, sighing. Their meeting was clearly winding down, with some of the other nobles quietly excusing themselves and slipping out. These two, however, were determined to stay to the last word, bickering... as usual.

“This is a matter of economic stability, my lord.” Moseny gestured to the cloth again. “I urge you, for the good of the people of this fine kingdom, to raise tariffs on cloth.”

“Will that cause them to produce better cloth?” Ernst asked, blinking. Maybe he just didn't see the progression? This happened occasionally, and once his advisers had explained the exact concept to him, all was well.

“No—but it will make it so expensive to sell the cloth that for most of these merchants, sailing over to our continent from Esalya will cost too much. If they cannot make a profit, they will stop coming, and local artisans can have the run of the market.” He nodded, seeming pleased with himself for thinking of such a far-reaching idea.

“But don't the merchants bring other things besides cloth in their holds?”

“Ah, of course, my lord. You do not need to tax those, unless you feel that our own citizens should have the advantage over foreigners who have come all this way to introduce their foreign goods into our markets...”

Ernst blinked in surprise, leaning forward. “Of course, our own citizens should always come first.”

“Ah, then we find ourselves in agreement, my lord.” Moseny smiled. “I propose that my lord raise any tariffs that our fair kingdom enforces. And may I remind you that some goods can be imported without the merchant paying any tariff at all.”

“—and may I remind you, my lord, that those goods are things like dyes that are only grown and rendered in the north, or fruits that would not grow in our kingdom even if they were enchanted from the first.”

“What difference should that make? They should have to pay to sell to our citizens.” Moseny smiled. “Is this not sound logic, my lord?”

“But what they're selling is not found here. They have no local competitors.”

“Again, this should have no bearing on whether they should pay for the privilege—”

“—unless, of course, it drives them away from our markets. Considering how many remedies we buy from out of the kingdom, that would indeed be tragic...”

Ernst sighed. “Al—alright... all right, thank you both for your comments...”

He made another motion as if to clear the air, looking between the two glaring men as they tore themselves away from arguing to look over at him. “I will consider your remarks and take some time to contemplate this. Thank you again for coming and speaking to me.” He tried to copy Moseny's curt, final nod, but ended up bobbing his head agreeably as he tried to shoo them out. “Ah, you may go now.”

“...thank you, my lord.” Moseny gave one of his nods and stood. Inmoter stood up quickly and bowed, not to be beaten to the door.

“Of course. Please do not hesitate to bring any further thoughts to my attention...”

“Oh, you don't need to worry about that, my lord.”

“Good, good. I will see both of you at the next meeting.” He watched them leave, dropping heavily into a chair once they had gone. “I get no rest, I suppose.”

* * *


“The army never gets its rest,” Erik muttered, staring out at the lines of soldiers arrayed near the wall. Ragged lumps of stone rose up from worn dirt, serving as landmarks in the deepening night. The battle had started in the evening; after marching down to the village, morale was beginning to flag, and the army had begun tiredly setting up camp, only for a gap of low wall to be breached by the orcs.

A few of their infantry had come streaming through first, followed by one of their disastrous mounts—some kind of a lizard, large enough to be ridden on, but not particularly fast. It was so heavy, and its skin so thick, that the thing was just now breathing its last, after crumbling part of the wall with its charge and charging directly into the infantry that had hurriedly arranged themselves to defend the camp. Gouts of blood must have still been pouring from the wounds in its neck, but he couldn't have seen them even if he had tried to look.

As it was, only the very nearest soldiers were visible in any detail, which meant that of his army, all he could see of his army was most of the Third Salvo and part of the accompanying Ranks placed to guard them from surprise attacks by the orcish cavalry. Just to his left, Isal had a single one of her bladed arrows ready to let fly, squinting into the darkness despite there being little hope of a clear shot. Most of the other archers had already put down their weapons, staring at the ensuing chaos and waiting for the order to move or aim. Their Chief was silent, reluctant to send them charging off of their ridge and onto level ground with the enemy.

Below them, there was a clear division forming in the crowd—a crescent of their troops had managed to press the orcs into a single salient right in front of the low point in the new wall. Without any more of their mounts, they were beginning to be pushed back, slowly shrinking from the human assault. Cheers went up from the infantry with every step back the orcs were forced to take, and he could hear the twang of bowstrings from the First and Second Salvos, both of them on the battlefield already and helping to drive the orcs further back.

“It looks as if they're pulling into the jungles.”

Erik looked up to see the Chief Bow leaning forward, his keen eyes picking out movements that even the general couldn't follow. “I see the orcs moving as one now; they must be getting ready to retreat...”

He trailed off, but Erik nodded, as did most of the men and women fighting under him. Some of them looked nonplussed about their spending the battle standing behind their own lines looking on, but most were too tired to have much of an opinion. Their Chief glanced back at them briefly, then his gaze settled on the battlefield again, tracking not only the movements but following the dips and crests in noise to figure out their sources. Orcish battle cries were an excellent way to judge how they were doing in the fight, and they had been slowly fading off during the battle until now they were few and far away.

By the time he noticed a figure running back toward their lines from the crush, they were already halfway between the human cavalry and the ridge where Erik and the archers were waiting.

“General, do you see that?”

“It could be a courier.” Erik stepped closer to the edge, raising his hand to hail them. “They may have news about whether the orcs are being pushed back, or their numbers beyond the wall...”

“Sir, wait. You don't know if that soldier is ours or not.”

Erik blinked, turning back toward the Chief for a moment before he looked back at the approaching figure. “How could he get through all those people, if not?”

“Orcs are small and agile, sir. Fleet, too. If one slipped through in the confusion of the melee, they could easily make it to you before they were noticed...”

He trailed off again as the figure came closer. Erik shrugged. “We'll find out soon enough, I suppose.” He raised his voice to be heard over the sounds of battle, nodding to the hooded man as he trotted up to stand before them, a yard from the ridge's steep edge. “You there! What is your business running away from th—”

Before he could get the rest of the question out, the air split with a battle cry so loud that most of the archers jumped.

”Kali-Ma, kuvyo koli!”

The figure, still screaming, turned into a spin that kept going even as it whirled closer to the group. His hood slipped off, revealing an orcish face underneath, grinning widely as the spinning lifted barbed weights and flickering, colorful silks.

Everyone leaped back from the orc—a suicide dervish, buying his ticket to life as an asura with a sudden, violent end. His silks were supposed to make him easy to spot, while the spinning weights did as much damage as possible. No wonder he had slipped through enemy lines and came straight to them.

“Sir, get away!”

“Kami-Ma, ku—gkkkk...”

The man dropped, several arrows sticking out of his face and neck. Erik looked from his body to the Chief Bow, smiling.

“You were saying?”

“I was... afraid we wouldn't have a clear shot.” He nodded, then gestured to his Salvo. “Good work, all of you. You should remember to collect your arrows before we reassemble.” He moved off to allow them in, watching as down toward the wall, the salient shrunk into the border established by the wall. It seemed the skirmish was dying down.

Erik glanced down at the dervish, now reduced to a very large pincushion. If he was an asura now, he certainly wasn't a handsome one. Carefully, he reached down to look at a particularly interesting wound—something seemed to have gone straight through the layers of hide armor, from chest to spine.

It was possible for a dagger to get up enough speed to drive its weight through armor, of course, but last he'd heard, no one in the army was issued those. They were a rogue's weapon. Judging by the amount of blood around the wound, it had done as much damage as if he had been stabbed. He turned the body a little as the archers began wrenching arrows out of it, carefully easing the weapon out by pulling on the end. What could have possibly—

“General?”

Erik looked up, blinking. Isal smiled at him pleasantly, then pointed to his hand.

“I believe that's mine?”

Erik smiled back, reaching up to hand it over. The blade shone in the low light, the shaft dyed an intense red from the orc's lifeblood. “Of course, Bow Isal. That was a very well-placed shot.”

“Thank you.” She slid the arrow back into her quiver, grinning sharply. “I'm sure he barely felt a thing.”

“Indeed. It must have been quick and painless.” He nudged one of the weights, watching it roll around and eventually get stuck in the turf, its barbs tangled in the grass. “...not that he was concerned about that, with regards to us.”

“To be fair, General, we aren't concerned with it either. But someone who is quickly dead does much more damage than someone who is slowly dead...” The Chief said, nodding at the blade wound. “This is not mercy—it is simply a very efficient way to kill.”

“...of course. Well, that is just as well.” He nodded and stood, looking down to where the army had begun erecting a temporary barrier to keep the orcs out for the night. “That is our concern, after all.”
 

Halibel Lecter

Well-Known Member
#4
“So, Ambassador, was this view worth the trip?”

Erik was gradually getting used to being “accompanied” on the campaign—at least part of it—by a gaggle of elves; he still wasn't sure, however, what to make of their interest in this war. To the elves' credit, he'd noticed a few of the huscarls, despite their original air of being bodyguards, limping back from the melee in the dark of the night, and bound up with cloth the next morning. He could only assume the ambassador had sent them to the front line, though the reason still had yet to appear. Meanwhile, said ambassador nodded and smiled.

“Oh, of course. It was a pleasure to see your army in action, General...” he gestured toward the army as it was today, the units scattered around the wall as they worked to repair and rebuild it past the low height that had allowed the orcs into their kingdom in the first place. “They are so well-organized, and yet, this—flexibility is intriguing.”

Erik nodded. “Well, we have very few career soldiers. Many of the men in our ranks now are earning their way out—once they've made enough, they'll probably leave, and return to whatever they were doing before they joined.”

Alois blinked. “...ah. Well, that would certainly explain their wide range of skills.”

“Is that different, in the northern lands?” Erik asked, blinking. When they had gone up, he could scarcely remember seeing any soldiers or officers, and any memories of the were faded with time.

“Oh, yes—very different. Ours are all career soldiers; when we raid, then they take some of the spoils, of course, but they stay. They do not leave and go home—when they come home, then they come out to the fields every day and march.” He gestured up, but although Erik followed his hand, he could see nothing but clear sky. “And when we travel, they stand in the sky and march there, as well. Every day, firing arrows, throwing spears, heaving the battering ram. They are always in practice.”

“That's admirable...” Erik nodded slowly. “It must take a great deal of personnel, then.”

“Yes. Being a soldier—to us, this is the highest honor.” The ambassador skimmed his gaze over the Laurel kingdom's standing army: skinny farmers in quilted armor that belonged to their next three fathers, lazy officers in haphazard, mismatched plate and mail, all of them streaked with dust and sweat from cutting and moving the heavy stone for the wall. The archers were exempt, perched atop high points in the wall, ever vigilant for another attack. As Eric followed his gaze, he noticed Isal straddling a thin stone about ten cubits up, dividing her attention between something in her hands—likely another arrowhead—and the forest shadows beyond.

Despite their skill, few of his soldiers were giving the war their undivided attention—even so close to the carnage, they were still very obviously culled out of villages. Many had never drilled in their life—let alone every day.

Erik shook his head a bit to clear it. For now, that was not a concern. They had no war to fight and no campaign to launch; his army being unequipped to invade and conquer was no boon to him, but at the moment it was only a bane to his pride. None of these would be going into the jungle, securing new ground, attacking the enemy—unless the enemy struck at them first. Farmers were well-suited to this kind of warfare.

He nodded to himself as if tucking the information away, then gestured out to the wall. “This is a fine idea—clever, too, with the smooth side toward the enemy. It would be hard to keep watch on anything easier to scale, but this one is a deterrent in itself. How high will it be, once you have finished construction?”

Erik shrugged. “We want it to reach over fifty cubits, but there are few quarries around here, and the local stone is very brittle. That is our goal, but whether it will ever grow that tall all the way around remains to be seen. At present, at least thirty cubits all around is what we hope to put in place as soon as we can.” He pointed to one of the high points of the wall, the one closest to being finished. “This part is two-thirds of the way done. We want the sides to be smooth, of course, to keep the orcs from scaling them, so carving the stones is taking much longer than we'd predicted.”

“Ah. You are, of course, an ally of the northern kingdoms, and we would be happy to offer our assistance...” He smiled. “Our mages can do amazing things with stone. Some have even studied the old dwarven texts; they could make you a wall as smooth as a looking glass, and as thick as you'd want.”
“Could they move the rock with magic, also?”

“Move it? They could cut it with a word and a look.” Alois grinned at him. “Very easy, magic. At least for us—and we are, as I said, glad to help with this wall.”

“You'll want to speak with the king about that.” Erik gave him an apologetic look. “We can always use help, of course, and I for one would be honored... but it should of course go to him first.” If the ambassador could get Ernst's attention off of his own navel for the time it would take to have that discussion, they might be able to get somewhere. That was doubtful, but a man could dream.

“Certainly. It wouldn't do at all to try and usurp from the king...”

* * *

“Karl, you are not listening to me...”

“Minister Aurelion has reviewed your thoughts duly prior to this meeting.” Moseny pinned him with a flat, exacting stare. “He has listened and considered all angles, and prepared for the discussion at hand. Have you?”

“Now, now, Moseny. That is no way to speak to the king.”

Karl looked over at him, smiling gently. Ernst felt marginally better—if he was smiling, he must be happy, and happy people liked to listen to their kings.

“I assure you, Ernst, I am listening to you... but you'll have to forgive me for voicing a different opinion than the king's... I do hope you'll stow your canes until I have finished enlightening you?”

As he paused, Ernst felt something just in front of his backbone tie itself in a large knot. He was not his father. Such opinions were—he welcomed them. Why would Karl compare him like that? He was not his father.

...was he? No, no...

“O-Of course. Please. I would love to hear more.” His voice felt printed, as if the words were written out rather than spoken with a real voice—but maybe it was just the choking sensation threatening to cut off his breath. “Please...” Ernst nodded, trying desperately to give an encouraging smile, “...continue.”

Karl smiled again. Good—he must still be happy. “Oh, if you're sure. I really am glad you will let me speak.” He was showing Ernst his palms now, hands open and relaxed, but despite their calm shape, all he could see was the dark lines running across them, scar tissue that pulled strangely as all the fine sinews moved beneath them, bending like worms that lived beneath Karl's skin. “You see, this is all so very important to me, Your Highness. This is why I take so much time to listen and research... it is only for the good of the kingdom.”

Ernst nodded, mute with shame. Karl—bless him—closed his hands and tucked them away, the scars temporarily out of sight.

“Surely, Your Highness understands acting for the good of the kingdom, even at the expense of oneself. Correct?”

“Y... yes?” He could not immediately see where this was going, but Karl would probably explain to him exactly why he was asking. Usually, he explained in due time, and all was well; but Ernst must remember not to doubt him any further. He was not his father. Never.

“So it would make sense—for any head of any branch of the family—to make such a sacrifice, for the good of the kingdom.” Karl nodded as if he was waiting for an agreement, so Ernst nodded back.

“Of course.”

“I suggest, then, that you turn your attention to the border of Aryavarta, where there is a problem in dire need of solving. It may be helpful for you to remember this concept of sacrifice during our discussion today.” As he gestured toward Ernst, meaning to emphasized the word sacrifice, the scar just above his wrist flexed and seemed to writhe.

“...a problem? But I just talked to Erik...”

“Yes, and my man informs me that he came in all fire and bluster, upset the receptionist, and left stains on most of the drawing room—which would explain how it must have completely evaded your notice, how he intends to solve the problem of these disgusting orcish raids by piling up stones and hoping they really are too dim witted to understand concepts like scaling things.”

Ernst blinked. A pile of stones? Erik hadn't said that.

“He told me they were building a wall...”

“Yes, a wall, with the nearest good quarry a day's journey away, and using your standing army for labor. A fine wall indeed.” Karl shook his head. “I can understand why his visit must have been quite upsetting, Highness, but that is no excuse to allow this ill-conceived plot to go any further. You must send word to Erik that there is no good in fortifying against the orcs. They must be gotten rid of.”

“Gotten rid of? But we barely have enough men to—”

“Barely enough? For a band of forest barbarians who live on whatever small game they can catch... surely, the army of the Laurel kingdom is more than sufficient.” He looked off to the distance, as if caught up in memory. His face grew pained. “Father always hated the army, as well. He was sure it was capable of nothing... always such a low opinion of our own fighting men.”

“That is not—I have no hatred for the army.” Ernst leaned forward, his tone growing insistent. “Of course, our men could easily take care of the orcs, but—”

“But what? What stops you, the king, from exercising your own free will?”

“I have already spoken with Erik about this.” He tried to keep his tone even. “It is settled, there will be a wall.”

“...Ernst, have you not been listening to our discussion?”

“I have! But Erik already—”

“He already what? Massed troops? Started them cutting limestone in the heat? Tell him to change his mind. If he truly is loyal to the crown, he will understand and make this sacrifice, as you would make one for the kingdom, as I would make one... this is an order from his own sovereign. Surely he would not refuse.”

“His refusal is not what worries me.” Ernst gestured helplessly, not as versed in shaping out his thoughts. “I have always trusted Erik and allowed him free reign with his men. He has never had to go back on an order—”

“Well, now he will.” Karl shrugged. “Is that so hard? Tell his men to throw down their pickaxes, and take their sabers up again—I for one think he will be happy. He likes war entirely too much. Trust me, Ernst... you do trust me, don't you...?”

“Of course. You are my most trusted—”

“I am. So—listen to me when I say that we must get rid of these orcs, to end the wars once and for all. For our kingdom—for its children, its childrens' children, who will look on the new arches of this castle as ancient. They deserve a life free from the horrors of the battlefield.”

“But Erik said the wall would end the wars.”

“Of course he said that. Someone who has no stomach for conquest has that man's ear. Why else would a general be directing a stone wall, instead of a column of fighting men?”

Ernst blinked. “You... think so?”

“Of course. Now, whether that is wrong or right I shall of course leave to you, but the fact is that as long as Erik is... indisposed, with regards to how he views the war effort, we should let wiser minds prevail and give him a bit of direction.” Karl smiled at him again, gesturing to a map on the wall. “Tell me, how do you think we would prosper with an entire coastline in the west? If the orcs were gone, we would have that for the kingdom—and this river, here, and all of that after the fact that the populace would be safe, once and for all.”

“We would have much more room, but the jungle—it's very dense, difficult to travel in...”

“It is, however, not immune to an ax.”

“...I suppose not...” Ernst frowned. “I must write to Eric. Immediately. There should be no delay... was there anything else to discuss?”

Karl shook his head. “No, milord—just, the small matter of these tariffs. I do so hate to bother you with them—but you are the one who must put them into writing.”

“Ah—alright. What were they for?”

“Oh... various things.” He leaned a little closer. “You seem tired, Ernst. I would never dream of taking up your time with something so petty, were it not a necessity. Perhaps if the gold branch had more of their own free rein, we could end these silly little requests? It must be so irritating for me—or my advisors—to come to you thrice in a tendays, quibbling about this or that law—if I could sign them into effect myself, we would never have that problem again.”

Ernst nodded slowly. That did seem very reasonable. “Of course. Feel free to do as you like.” He said, nodding with what he hoped was an encouraging angle.

“Thank you, Your Highness. I do appreciate the trust you place in me—it has always been a pleasure, ever since we were young, to know you have faith in me.” This time his hands, mercifully, stayed hidden with the palms facing down, and Ernst had never been happier to see a set of knuckles. One more supplication offered on those banded palms and he would have given the kingdom to have it never occur again.

“In that case, nothing further, Your Highness.” Karl smiled again and bowed out, Moseny following beside him and copying his bows—deeper, of course—apparently still piecing the whole conversation together, from the pensive expression on his face and his uncharacteristic silence. Ernst didn't blame him—if Karl didn't explain things to him, he would likely be pensive, too. He sat down at his desk, beginning his letter to Erik. Surely, this leap of faith was the right thing to do.
 
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