Day 336, 09:15 AM
“Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.”
― Michael Corleone
“You want Uncle Vat to lead the army together with you for this campaign?” Manny stares at me with disbelief, Victory sleeping in a crib next to our bed.
I nod. Having the potential traitor within neck-breaking distance while facing a king who wants us both dead seems like a good way to handle potential backstabs. Vatten knows me well by now, he knows my abilities, and he knows that pulling something while within arm’s reach is tantamount to suicide.
“I would also like to take all the mercenaries and followers of questionable loyalty with us.”
Manny stays silent for a few moments.
“You wish Uncle Vat to be there in case things get out of hand while leaving trustworthy people to guard me and Victory.”
That’s a great explanation, even correct if you ignore some excess words. Blunt almost says it aloud, but I’m minding my mouth, and I clench my teeth at the first sign of my jaw opening without me willing it open.
“What?” Manny asks, no doubt hearing my teeth squeak.
“You are so smart,” I say, and she stares at me.
“You were about to say something vulgar, am I correct?”
I nod. “Your boobs are massive. I can’t wait to drown in them.”
She rolls her eyes, but a smile sneaks onto her face. “Thank you for being considerate last night and sleeping in a different room. The nanny minded Victory, and I am well rested. You may join me in bed tonight, if you wish.”
I shake my head and squeeze her hand. “You need time to heal, and I have little self-control.”
Her smile disappears.
“You have no self-control if you have to say that aloud.” She slaps me on the forearm with her handkerchief. “Mistress Annica said no marital activities for at least two weeks.”
Damn! And there I was, planning to mow the lawn and check strange noises in the attic in the middle of the night.
“I am leaving in two weeks, as soon as Vatten’s forces arrive to reinforce Eaglegord. Best to intercept the king’s army before they conscript too many soldiers.”
Manny stops breathing.
“Manny?”
“Right, you cannot tarry.” She blinks the tears from her eyes and tries to keep her voice normal, failing utterly.
“I just thought—” She clamps her mouth shut.
“It’s all right. I don’t want to leave you here either. Depending on how things turn out, we might not see each other for two months, but it could be years if we besiege the capital. Who knows, maybe we get a lucky break, like with Arangel’s nephew defecting and opening the gates. If we kill the king on the battlefield—”
Manny shakes her head.
“Basson will not expose himself, nor will he lead a campaign in person. He is too old. Crown prince Corvein lacks reputation and the only reason Basson never passed him the throne is because Corvein has never done anything noteworthy. Strangling a rebellion, defeating you, and hanging me is the kind of merit he needs to ascend to the throne.”
I’m not surprised. It’s obvious the king wouldn’t arrive in person. Basson is seventy-eight, and even the fifty-six-year-old Corvein might have sent his son to go out campaigning, if he was the one wearing the crown.
“I thought about it, but I can’t take you with me. You would need to ride in a carriage, and take Victory with you, but a carriage would be too vulnerable. A detached enemy force or traitors could easily overpower your guards and hold you hostage or worse. I’m not willing to take the chance.”
We’ve already been through this and let alone my grim thoughts, Manny’s not willing to spend months locked up inside a cramped carriage, and she ain’t riding or marching together with me postpartum.
“I am going to miss you. Even though I hated your guts yesterday. Do you know how heavy Victory was yesterday?”
I have no idea. She looked chubby and healthy enough.
“Over twelve pounds. Mistress Annica said Victory is the biggest baby she has ever delivered.”
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Wow. I take a moment to recall my kids’ birth weights, and they were all around seven, seven and a half pounds. I think. Too much time has passed since then. Too many things happened and went south.
“Are you all right?” Manny asks.
“Fine. Just realized I’m having trouble recalling facts from my previous life. But, yeah, we have one massive Victory on our hands. I hope we repeat the feat.”
Manny shudders.
I clear my throat. “What I mean is I Hope my campaign is a massive victory, and I get back home to you soon so we can make Victory’s younger brother.”
The words escape my mouth before I realized Blunt was in charge.
Manny stares at me with a didn’t-you-hear-what-I-just-said look. I can’t really imagine what she had gone through in those thirty-odd hours.
“Maybe next time you give the birth on full term at the latest?”
“Get out.” Her voice is identical to that of a maker of inferior boots I met a year ago, and I do the same thing I did back then; I leave the room.
***
Frostend 6th, morning
“Enter,” viscount Glorian Hassel answered the soft knock on his study’s door, and his eldest son stepped inside.
“You wished to see me, Father,” the twenty-seven-year-old with chestnut-colored hair said. The young man was tall, with a heroic square chin and bright, intelligent eyes.
“Sit down, Bastian; we need to discuss several matters before you head out with the army today.”
Bastian obliged, and Glorian continued penning his letter.
“Can you tell me why the house of Hassel is sending such a large army to aid the king’s campaign?”
“Because we are seeking forgiveness for letting Manuella Eagleeye escape and for failing to capture her?” Bastian believed the question simple, a rhetorical introduction into a lesson his father had in store about duty, bribery, and evading punishment.
He was surprised when Glorian looked up from his letter and shook his head.
“You do know your sister had a baby in secret?”
“Yes.”
“General Blackstaff fathered the boy,” Glorian whispered.
Bastian gasped, his mouth open, but his father continued, voice filled with exhaustion.
“We tried to terminate Leandra’s pregnancy, but failed, and ultimately that boy was born. Leandra and her son are a secret, and as long as the king lives, nobody except us will know of this, but that means the Hassels have a connection with General Blackstaff. A strong connection. Knowing this, can you tell me what is the best outcome of this civil war between the crown and Blackstaff?”
Glorian did not doubt Manuella Eagleeye was a puppet, a political tool manipulated by the ambitious, mysterious, and eerily competent General Blackstaff. The man who crushed a knight with one arm while grievously wounded and suffering a fever. The man who killed count Arangel with a thrown battle ax, and conquered the Arangel family’s impregnable castle through political maneuvering.
Glorian observed his son frown and scratch his beard, gestures so obvious he would need to remove them if he ever planned on becoming a higher noble. And if Glorian’s gambit worked, Bastian would become a count, the first of his name.
“The best-case scenario is Blackstaff winning, us staying out of the conflict and later revealing his son? As for the worst outcome, Blackstaff loses, someone reveals his relationship with Leandra, and the king labels us traitors and exterminates us.”
“Close, but not quite right. Let us discuss the worst-case scenario first. The only ones who know about Leandra’s difficult childbirth are myself, herself, you, your mother, and the two slaves whose tongues I had removed before they started serving her. Your mother wanted to confine Leandra to the house of healing, but I was afraid she would say something stupid. So, I kept her in solitary confinement, under the care of the mute slaves. After Blackstaff’s victory, I gave Leandra a more comfortable room in the abandoned wing and threatened to gag her if she screamed or shouted. She’s still there, nursing the baby.”
Glorian spoke without guilt, like describing the clouds passing languidly in the piece of sky visible from his study’s window, before pausing for breath.
“The only way for the king to discover that baby’s origin is if one of us discloses it.” Glorian stared at Bastian. “And none of us is doing that. Leandra fears her child’s safety, your mother and I are not insane, and I am not like His Majesty. You are diligent, you have studied, and I plan to pass my duties to you when you turn thirty years old. If you revealed anything, you would be committing suicide. The worst case is the Eagleeye rebellion failing and you having to decide your sister’s and nephew’s fate.”
Glorian let the implication and the heavy silence suffocate his son. Bastian went pale, his face sufficiently horrified, assuring Glorian he was sane and that he understood the implied meaning.
“As for the best scenario you offered, again you are lacking decisiveness. Hugging a man after he is victorious and congratulating him will yield a lukewarm reaction. You need to take an active part in his victory if you wish recognition.”
Bastian had just recovered from one shock when his father’s words blindsided him. Glorian was hinting at treason.
“We have not received conscription orders, because we are not on the royal army’s path. That is why I’m sending you and our soldiers straight to Garagord. You should arrive a week before the king, or more likely, the crown prince, heads out. You are bringing two hundred infantry soldiers and five hundred mercenary cavalry. Because of the three mercenary companies, they will put you in the rear either as a reserve or to sweep up fleeing enemies.”
Bastian opened his mouth to protest, but his father kept speaking.
“It is an assignment of shame and one often reserved as a punishment for those not trusted enough, but too valuable to be used as a disposable vanguard. I have selected your troops carefully, forcing them into the decision. Your role in the final battle will be to wait and trample the loser when the time is right.”
Bastian tugged at his short beard, then gave a slow, unwilling nod.
“If we eliminate the king or the crown prince, the rebellion will spread and dissatisfied houses from all over Garacia will flock to Blackstaff’s banner. Crushing the royal army’s elites and their loyalists will pull some of the neutral houses into our camp.”
Bastian focused on Glorian. “Father, you are a genius.”
“I need to finish this letter. IF Blackstaff wins and you trample the king, give it to him. Otherwise, burn it without opening it. Keep the letter inside your shirt at all times. Do not take it out even once, you are not expected to bathe anyway.”