Uldred did not appreciate change, for she found much comfort in routine and sameness. At least at this point in her young life, things unfamiliar to her caused her to feel a nauseating discomfort. So, therefore, you can surely imagine the ice wave of shock that had washed over her when she heard the distant chattering of dozens of men echoing down from the front hall of her ancestral home!
Soon the hinges of the eternally-shut door to her quarters creaked open, and a face mostly obscured by long, unkempt bangs peeked out to peer down the hall. Her eyes immediately fell upon Hemsley, who had been just about to knock, with the slumped form of old Belfort still propped against his back. He froze where he stood as her cold gaze pinned him in place.
“What?” She demanded, and somehow with that single word was able to convey the chaotic torrent of her current emotions.
Hemsley opened his mouth to reply but found that he could not bring himself to speak, so he simply pointed down the hall towards the ballroom, where the men had started to set up their camp.
The passage of only a few moments saw Uldred, clad in only a simple white sleeping gown, dragging her heavy black-iron sword behind her in a hand by its pommel as she made her way towards the source of the disruptive commotion. Her countenance was not one of a noble Lady set on calmly resolving a dispute, but rather that of some dreadful, lumbering creature bent on defending its cave from an incursion of noisy pests! The two servants winced as the tip of her great sword dragged against the carpet lining the hall and pierced through it to the stones beneath, damaging it terribly and producing a horrible metallic screech as she advanced.
Meanwhile, the assembled men from Wiffeld were sitting upon the cloths and cushions they had brought, clumped in small groups about the fine marble floor, conversing idly as they sipped from wineskins and tore into dried meats and fruits from their packs. But it was not long until their keen ears began to pick up the foreboding, approaching sound of something metal being scraped heavily across stone, and their muttering conversations fell silent to listen to the sound coming from the top of the ballroom staircase. When their flinty eyes turned up to observe the source of that awful sound, all of their faces paled and mouths fell agape as one.
For up at the top of those grand stairs appeared the very apparition of dread! A woman, who was much too large to be real, stood there draped in nothing but a thin white gown, with long, stringy hair that fell over her face like a mask so that only a single, piercing violet eye could be seen. She then let the tip of the massive black Flamberge sword she carried strike violently against the marble floor, cracking the stone with a sound that boomed across the enormous room like a thunderclap.
A heavy, silent atmosphere fell over the room as the men found themselves frozen in fright. None of them even dared breathe in that moment, perhaps hoping that if they did not move a muscle they would not be perceived by this monstrous apparition, and its terrible wrath would fall upon the others instead.
“Who dares?” Asked the woman in a voice suffused with a steely calm, but which was so resonant that it seemed to effortlessly fill the room, echoing dramatically off the polished stone.
Nobody said a word in reply to her, for her presence was so intimidating that none could find the courage. But as her grip tightened upon the hilt of her sword and the leather wrapping it creaked audibly, the Elder and leader of the group finally gathered his composure enough to step forward.
For once his stoic and confident demeanor had crumbled into a mask of fear, no different from the rest of his men. But as he recognized the swordswoman, and realized that she was not some vengeful spirit that haunted the Castle Petrice, his face once again settled into an unpleasant frown. He was far too old, and had been angry for far too long, to be cowed by some overgrown Noble-born child!
The Elder stepped forward, past the petrified throng of his terrified men, and climbed a few steps to get a little closer to his head-of-state before he spoke.
“I am Crawford, Elder of the Village of Wiffeld. We are here to put an end to the new Count’s tyranny!”
Uldred remained where she stood at the top of the stair, eerily still, and did not reply.
He stolidly continued. “That Lord Borney of Coronton has hired thugs from Otkorn as soldiers to extort what little money and food his people have saved, all under the guise of new ‘taxes.; The same taxes that your Count came to peddle to us weeks ago, and was set straight for trying to swindle us… Or so we thought!”
Again Uldred did not move a single muscle in response, and the Elder’s anger only grew as he felt a mounting, intolerable feeling of disrespect. Emboldened by this righteous indignation, he made his advance up a few steps more.
“Now these ruffians are roaming the countryside, harassing villages deeper into the territory, brazenly and violently robbing people in broad daylight! They must be stopped; this all must be stopped!”
He continued further up the stairs as he spoke, until he finally reached the top, mere feet from the stony figure of the Countess. “--And it starts with that husband of yours!” He spat out, jabbing an arrogant finger directly at her.
There was another long moment of quiet after this. The Elder squared his shoulders and stood tall and strong, his lips twitching upwards with the urge to break out into a smug smile, quite confident in his feeling that he had given this young upstart a good what-for. But suddenly, a great hand appeared before him and shoved his chest with a terrible strength, and he was abruptly thrown from his feet!
All at once the men and women scattered across the marble floors leapt up with a start and scrambled to amass at the base of the stair, their arms outstretched to catch the Elder as he fell from the second story landing in a great arc. When he collided with the group, it was with such a force that it caused most of them to topple to the ground in a great pile of sprawled bodies! It was only then while the throng was attempting to set themselves to rights that the Lady’s voice rang out once more, her words enunciated slowly and clearly, but dripping with disgust.
“In the history of Petrice, never has there been such an insubordinate and disrespectful intrusion into the Castle of my family. Never!” Uldred called down from her perch to the sprawled subjects beneath her.
“I care not for what you do, I offer you burdenless freedom. You may wait for the Count to arrive… Outside. In the Courtyard.”
Quickly and wordlessly the terrified men began to gather their things and file back out of the room and down the hall leading to the Castle doors. But the Elder still glared up at Uldred from the ballroom floor with an insulted and defiant expression.
“We shall wait in the elements, then, but do not think you can avoid this for much longer! The Moot has already been called, and the other Elders and Lords are on their way here.” And with that said he limped slowly after his men and out of sight.
After all the troublesome intruders had finally departed Uldred sighed deeply and her entire posture relaxed into a slouch. She turned to look back over her shoulder, and Hemsley gasped as the movement caused her heavy bangs to part and reveal the gruesome, ruined skin of her face. She ignored his reaction entirely and relayed her command.
“Prepare my armor. I will make sure that our guests do not misbehave any more than they already have.”
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
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“There it is!”
Nayantara jutted a finger out to point towards the peaks of the towers that were just now beginning to creep into view over the top of a distant hill. A few hours more would see them stood within the City of Coronton, with a small yet proud Castle at its center. As their party crested the the top of the hill and peered down towards the entrance of the city some miles off they were greeted with a pleasant birds-eye view of the place. It had clearly been built to accommodate its surroundings, with its tall outer walls becoming a round, oblong sort of shape. This was a land of large hills with long and gradual embankments, which was quite different from the area around Castle Petrice where the hills were smaller and steeper, not unlike rippling waves stirred up by a strong wind.
After a brief moment spent taking in the view the two travelers continued their trek down the decline that eventually led to the main gate of the city, but as they drew closer Niklas felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand on end as the atmosphere became strangely heavy. The area surrounding the gatehouse was filled with the clamor and bustle with many different small crowds. There was a short line of folks waiting to get in, their backs and mules laden with crops and goods to sell within at the markets, and also a long and inscrutable line leaving the gate, their backs burdened with many large packs and other luggage. Just exiting from the gate’s portcullis was a swarthy man wearing the tabard of Coronton, and he led a line of miserable, downtrodden-looking fellows whose feet were bound with clinking chains. Farther off, Niklas watched where a singular man was kicked and struck by three more uniformed soldiers before the poor soul fell to his knees and produced a purse-pouch from his belt that was quickly snatched away by his tormentors.
“This place is far worse off than I had feared…” Niklas mumbled in a shocked daze, to which his companion only grunted in reply.
The two of them then took their place in the entrance line behind the farmers and their carts, where they waited for a good deal of time as the men preceding them spoke with the guards and paid their tolls. Their patience rewarded them with opportunities to witness more disturbing and unsettling scenes. A man barely older than Niklas himself, clad in naught but tattered trousers, sprinted past the exit queue only to be tackled harshly to the mud by more of those thuggish soldiers. A woman prostrated herself before an Officer and pleaded to him with words that were unintelligible due to the distance, but the man simply waved his hand dismissively and she was promptly picked up and dragged back deep into the bowels of the city, wailing and sobbing the whole way.
Niklas gulped audibly at what he saw from his mounted seat, and Nayantara reached up and placed a warm hand on his leg to comfort him. Finally the line moved and their turn arrived. Niklas kicked Chestnut’s sides a little and she placidly trotted up to the group of five rough-looking men who were handling the gate’s entry toll.
“Ten silvers.” Was all that the soldier in the front said to them, extending a hand expectantly.
Ten?! Niklas thought with a start. For simple entry into the city? Those farmers must barely be making a profit, even if they sell every last scrap of what crops they could produce!
Reaching down into the pouch on his belt, Niklas then retrieved not a handful of coins but an aged wooden stamp, its body carved from fine mahogany and its head of scarlet rubber embossed with the symbol of the House of Petrice. The sallow and half-toothed soldier peered down at the thing, having obviously not received enough education to recognize it.
“...What the devil is this?” He asked with clear confusion.
Niklas squared his shoulders and straightened his posture as best he could while sat atop his horse. “The Count of Petrice requests entry to Coronton. I am on important business to see your Lord Mayor Borney.”
All of the gate soldiers, as well as Nayantara, looked up at him then with startled expressions. “You are the Count..?” Asked the man who still held the Seal of Petrice, voicing the thought that he shared with everyone assembled there.
“Aye, and it would do you good to let me pass.”
The soldiers exchanged baffled looks between each other before turning back to Niklas to scrutinize him with a thorough up-and-down inspection. This strange man called himself a Count, and yet his fine clothes were crusted with dry dirt, while he rode the back of a horse that could barely hold itself up, let alone a rider. They peered behind him and saw no carriage nor a crew of knights and servants to escort him. Only a foreign-looking woman stood by his side, and she looked even more a peasant than they did in their stained and worn tabards. The sallow man smiled and he held up the stamp in pinched fingers, eyeing the thing and it's fine make with greedy eyes, and he finally clicked his tongue.
“You know, it's not a good look, lad. Impersonating a Noble is a serious offense, one that carries a serious fine along with it!” He chuckled in dark amusement and the men behind him laughed mischievously along with him.
Niklas set his jaw and wore an unpleasant and serious look upon his face, steadying his horse as her knees wobbled beneath her. “That is the Seal of Petrice and it is completely authentic, as am I. You would do well to speak to your Lord if you are unsure of my identity, for he will confirm it.”
But that only drew another round of giggles from these men, who were already certain they had the right of it. “Look, lad…” Replied the sallow man once he recovered from his mirth. “... I’ll be merciful to you, cuz you seem like a good kid. Just pay the toll and I’ll forget all about your little ruse, as long as you leave this here with me.”
Niklas narrowed his eyes at the man’s condescending and greedy attitude. “That, sir, is the mark of Petrice. You would do best to honor it, and not to offend me further. This is your only warning.”
The sallow man’s demeanor fell from into an unpleasant scowl at that, and he clutched his free hand upon the hilt of his sword. “Or you’ll do what, boy?”
Niklas sighed, and looked down to where Nayantara stood at his side. “Huntress, please assist me in retrieving my stamp?” He asked with his best attempt at a voice filled with confident authority, but which wavered with a note of tentative uncertainty.
Up to this point Nayantara had been quite caught up in staring up at him with her mouth agape in surprise, but hearing him address her directly she seemed to come to, and her face broke out in a wolfish grin. “Right away, my Lord!” She replied, pulling up her sleeves and squaring her shoulders as she stepped forward towards the menacing brutes.
“What–” Began to ask the sallow man, before his query was cut off by way of a tanned fist delivering a quick and powerful blow directly to his nose! The muscular woman used her stepping-in foot to put such force into her strike that the man was fully lifted from his feet, and he spun around several times before falling limply onto the dirt like a flapjack!
“Oi!” Several of his fellows called out in alarm as they hurriedly yanked their swords from their scabbards. Nayantara quickly followed suit, and as they caught sight of the distinctively wavy blade a few of the men squealed in fright, and one of them was so terrified he fell to his seat!
“Flamberge!”
While the initial commotion and the ensuing violence had not drawn many eyes their way, for such events were unfortunately quite commonplace within Coronton, the sighting of a Huntress from the Old Fort caused a great hush to fall over the surrounding crowd before it then erupted into a chorus of curious whispers.
“Is that a Flamberge?”
“Monster Hunter–!”
“--must really be the Count, then!”
Niklas did his best to maintain a suitably Noble posture as the villagers and guardsmen looked up at him with expressions ranging between awe and resentment. Nayantara reached up to hand him his seal, which she had collected from the ground beside the unconscious guardsman. He inspected it closely, then blew on it and brushed off some dirt with his finger before he was satisfied.
“Shall I take the thief’s hand as well, sir?” Asked Nayantara, dutifully saluting him as if she were a House Knight. The other soldiers flinched and gazed down at their fallen friend in dismay.
“Nay.” Replied Niklas dismissively. “Hopefully, when he awakes, he will have learnt his lesson.” To which he heard some sighs of relief from among the thugs.
“What is going on here?!” Came a loud call from behind the gathered throng of onlookers. Arriving there was someone who looked to be a real soldier of Coronton, for his tabard was finely-made and well-kept, and he wore armor of steel on his shoulders and hands, as well as a shirt of chain beneath his clothes. “What is this?” He asked again.
“Th-they says he’s the Count, sir! Here to see Lord Borney!” Stammered one of the toll-collectors.
“Is this true?” The Coronton soldier asked to Niklas and Nayantara, who both nodded to him with serious expressions.
The soldier looked down at the limp, insensate body of the man who lay twitching on the ground. “And have you verified this?”
The other thugs looked at each other nervously, and one of them gulped audibly before he spoke. “W-well they showed us a stamp, sir.” And he gestured to Niklas, who held up the Seal once again for the soldier to observe.
“The Seal of the House of Petrice..!” Murmured the soldier with a surprised tone, his eyes growing wide, but he recovered his composure quickly enough and began to retake control of the situation. “W-well, right this way, my Lord! And get out of the way you imbeciles!” He ordered, shooing the lesser soldiers, who dragged their unconscious fellow out of the way of Niklas and his old mare as they went. “We humbly welcome you to the City of Coronton!”