“I thank you for granting me this gracious opportunity to speak, my Lord Count!” Said Salza Lengarson, rubbing his hands together as he bowed respectfully. “I… simply had a question arise in my mind as I listened. A thought came to me, if you will. As all here are surely aware, a spell of misfortune has recently befallen the County. Food and coin are short, but winter is close. Lengar worries for the well-being of its neighbor in the cold months–”

“--Your point being?” Boomed Uldred, cutting him off from what seemed to be the beginning of a long speech.

“...Of course. My apologies, Countess, I do carry on sometimes.” He demurred, and then his ever-shut eyes peeked open for the first time, revealing intense lime-green irises that were trained directly upon Niklas.

“I simply wondered: How ever were you planning to implement these… plans that you have described without the use of harsh taxation, forced labor, or some other such exploitation of your people?”

The expectant collective gaze of the crowd turned back upon Niklas as one, and he could only grit his teeth and hold his upright posture steady. The visiting nobleman continued his performance, reaching into his coat and retrieving a scroll of vellum which he then unrolled, letting his eyes glance down upon its contents every now and again as he spoke.

“Cobbling roads, the introduction of new agricultural practices and tools, reinforcement of local infrastructures... the official annexation of the Road of Benedict?”

Niklas’ eyes widened further with every policy the man recited. How does the heir to Lengar have the details of my proposals..?

Lengarson continued, his voice taking on a faux-concerned, mocking lilt as he went on. “These are all very expensive proposals, I am sure you are aware that there is simply not enough currency within the entirety of Petrice to put these into practice within any reasonable amount of time!”

Once again, the crowd was beginning to rest unsure, untrusting, and hostile gazes upon Niklas as the man from Lengar seized control over the emotions of the crowd.

“Even my distinguished Father, Count Lengar himself, a man notorious for his wealth, would have difficulty financing all of these proposals. The entire thing seems quite… immature.”

At that, many judgmental glares were turned upon the group from Thuud, who stood their ground for the most part, but did move to stand ever so slightly closer together. Finona cast a concerned and pleading look towards Niklas, who returned it with a guilty, resigned expression, powerless as he was to rectify this situation.

“What does he mean..?” Growled Uldred then, catching his attention.

Niklas looked back at her then in surprise, realizing she must have been unaware of what the majority of his ideas were up until this very moment. She had been largely uninterested in them, and even upset when she heard his initial plan to re-introduce taxation to the territory, so he had not gone out of his way to show her any further details.

“You plan to sacrifice my people and insert us into that utterly stupid and fruitless conflict?”

Niklas looked between Uldred and the ever-increasingly riled-up mass of her subjects, nervously stammering out a hasty response.

“Uldred please we can discuss this-”

“No. We shall discuss this now!”

In desperation, he turned his gaze outwards to search for any ally he could find amongst those present. Finona and her friends had been subdued, and even Lady Merida looked upon him with incredulity after this most recent revelation.

“People, people, please!” Called Lengarson again, interrupting the tumult of growing outrage. “I was simply asking a question, I did not wish to see such hostility directed towards your good Lord Count!” His voice feigned concern, but since all eyes yet remained on Niklas, he did not bother to repress the victorious grin he wore.

“I would be loath to see a well-meaning and ambitious Lord, who is not so dissimilar from myself, deposed due to my foolish bumblings! Surely we can find a way to settle this confusion more… amicably.”

Niklas glared at the man with as much malice as the masses were directing at himself. Everything had been going smoothly before he had stuck his nose in! It was not as if he had claimed that his proposals were all things that would definitely be implemented in Petrice, much less all of them at once in a short amount of time. They were merely ideas that he had developed and written down to show others, and in doing so receive their honest feedback. But there was no way he could possibly explain all of this away now–the entire body of the Moot was at his throat, and even the other Lords looked ready to give their verdicts at any moment.

“I know!” Said Lengarson, raising up a finger in a parody of sudden inspiration. “If the Count simply… swears upon his honor to never again speak of these costly and unreasonable ideas, that would be enough, wouldn’t it? Surely that would put all of your anger and worries to rest!”

The smug triumph that shone in his lime-green eyes in that moment seemed to bore right into Niklas’ soul.

“Just swear that you shall keep everything the same as it's always been–that's all it will take! And then for the rest of your days you will be able to comfortably maintain your position as the Count. There would be no need for anything so unpleasant as… ‘punishments.'. Just as long as you promise to all of the people gathered here today that Petrice shall operate just as it always has. It’s an easy solution, don’t you think..?”

After this conniving but convincing performance, there was not a single pair of eyes in that courtyard that wasn’t looking at Niklas. Uldred, Lady Merida, Finona, Crawford... No, every single soul waited in tense silence to hear what Niklas would say next.

Niklas, though, stood paralyzed before them, his mouth slightly agape and his eyes as wide as dinner-plates. His mind raced so fast that it felt like his blood was caught in a rolling boil. What should he do? No matter what he said now, he was utterly damned. By the looks on the faces of the present Lords, if he said anything other than ‘Yes,’ or did anything but swear here and now to put an end to his ambitions, he would be immediately deposed. If he was sent packing back to the van der Leigh territory he would be forever branded a failure by his kin, and mocked forever after. Or he could defy Lengarson’s insinuations and remain here as the Count of nothing; an impoverished shell of a territory. He would live off of bland porridge and used, watery tealeaves until his death, all while enduring the worst torture he could possibly imagine–being unable to enact change or improve anything around him, despite having an ingenuitive mind that was always hard at work churning out new ideas and possibilities for change.

Looking down upon all of the people present for the Moot, the greater part of them shared a thin and starved appearance. Their hands were rough with callouses, and many of them limped, or held their arms with an awkward stiffness, or bore scars at various stages of healing. They were the result of lifetimes spent performing backbreaking work–work that he knew did not need to be so difficult that it left them in such a state. He thought of that crying mother he had witnessed kneeling over her child, who had been so brutally murdered by Monsters, and for whom he could do nothing but bear witness to her grief… No, that did not sound to him to be a proper way to live. It would not bring about a peaceful and easy future, but rather a living Hell.

“Uh...”

Yet no matter what he felt, he could not find a way out of his current predicament. As this first noise left his mouth, all those who were seemed to hold their breath, so as not to miss what he would say next.

“I, uh…”

“Swear it!” Demanded Crawford.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“...”

“...Just say it, already.” Lady Merida prompted him in a low voice, kneading at the center of her brow with her fingers.

“...”

He opened his mouth again, just as he had been directed, except no words came out. He glanced over at Uldred for one final time, but she only returned his look with a glare filled with the utmost contempt. For some reason–even though she had never approved of any of this business in the first place–it was her hostility, out of everyone’s, which pained him the most to see.

His posture sunk dejectedly as Niklas lowered his head before the crowd, almost as if an executioner’s axe was about to fall upon his neck. He took a deep breath, let all of it exhale slowly through his nose, before finally opening his mouth to deliver his answer.

“I-”

But just then, an unexpected cry arose.

A commotion had suddenly sprung up from around the area of the portcullis of the outer gate, where Lady Merida’s Stoppridge Militia was currently stationed.

A young man in a Stopprigde gambeson came running into the courtyard, waving his arms to get the attention of his Lady.

“Lady Merida! My Lady, you must come at once!”

“What is it?” Merida called back in a flat tone, as she was exasperated by her man’s unruly behavior during this very serious matter.

“Lady Merida, what is happening? This is most improper!” Cried Elder Crawford as he marched over towards her, obviously upset to have been interrupted during what was sure to be his moment of triumph.

The Lady Mayor furrowed her brow at the man as he approached. “You will not refer to me so casually! You do not know your place, Elder Crawford.” She chastised him, causing him to halt in his tracks, clearly surprised.

Now pointedly ignoring Crawford, she then turned her attention back to her man. “This had better be important, soldier. You are interruption a--”

“--With all respect, my Lady, you must come at once! This is…” and he trailed off, obviously unsure of a way to put his thoughts to words, though he emoted wildly with his hands in a vain attempt to communicate.

Lady Merida sighed then, but nodded nonetheless. “Alright, alright. My Lord, my Lady: it appears your attention is required immediately.”

Niklas could have wept then, as this fateful interruption had freed him from the reaping scythe of Death, at least temporarily. He all but sprinted down off of the elevated position he had held above the crowd, with Uldred easily marching along behind him with her much longer stride. Together with Lady Merida, the three of them walked across the courtyard until they reached another set of stone stairs, these leading up to the top of the Castle’s battlements. As they steadily climbed, and the horizon began to come into view, so too did an astonishing sight. Lady Merida was first to spot it, and her mouth fell open most inelegantly. Then came Uldred, her violet eyes bulging with disbelief behind her mask, and last to ascend was Niklas. As he crested the final stair-step and slowly approached the crenels he was greeted by the sight of a long line of horses or mules pulling many assorted carriages, carts and covered wagons, which in their numbers stretched all the way back up the road for a mile!

“What in the Hells..?” Lady Merida wondered aloud in her disbelief. Meanwhile, the crowd had also shifted across the courtyard and over to the gate, all the better to gawk and gaze in amazement at this most unexpected and grand arrival.

Riding along beside the caravan in perfectly-spaced rows were a troupe of mounted Knights, each of them adorned in gleaming plate armor and who wore tabards dyed a rich emerald green and embroidered with golden accents. Several of the knights carried tall flags as well, their banners adorned with the familiar symbol of the van der Leigh Barony. One particular Knight, who rode at the head of the caravan wore a particularly fine dark-blue cape draped across his right shoulder, spurred his horse forward, stopping just below the battlements upon which the young Count stood. He then lifted up the visor of his Barbute helm and raised his voice in greeting.

“I am Knight-Captain Glorifeld of the Kinghts-van der Leigh! I am here to oversee and secure the delivery of foodstuffs, livestock, and monetary goods to the Count and Countess of Petrice!”

“Glorifeld!” Niklas called down in a delighted tone. “You old bastard! It is very good to see you again!”

“Language, sir–you are a Count now!” The Knight-Captain called back jokingly, although his face did not change from its stern expression. “And it is ‘Ser Glorifeld,’ by the way.”

An excited Niklas all but sprinted back down the stairs, turning back several times to usher Uldred and Lady Merida to follow after him, both of whom exchanged looks of confusion as they made their way back to the ground level. The crowd, which was now quite thoroughly congested within the portcullis, still parted quickly around the small Count, and they all looked just as shocked and confused as their Countess did as he darted ahead. As the three of them crossed outside of the boundary of the Castle walls, Glorifeld dismounted and marched over to meet them, dropping to one knee most respectfully before Niklas.

“My Lord--” He began, only to be interrupted.

“--No no, enough of that! Come on. Up!” Exclaimed the Count, taking the man’s hand in his before pulling him insistently back to his feet. Once he was upright again, Niklas kept hold of his gauntlet and began to shake his hand most vigorously.

“...You honor me, my Lord.” Was all that Glorifeld could say in response, bowing his head then and placing his hand over his heart.

“What is all of this?” Lady Merida wondered aloud as she looked about them in amazement.

At that, Ser Glorifeld turned back over his shoulder and put out a hand to gesture towards the caravan. “The good Baron van der Leigh sends his most humble congratulations to the Countess of Petrice for her joyous marriage to his youngest son, the Lord Count Niklas.”

Lady Merida spun her head around then, now looking to Uldred for some sort of explanation of the situation, but her niece only reflected back her own expression of wide-eyed bewilderment in response. The other woman was quite obviously just as confused as she was.

“It is a… dowry?” She asked, returning her attention to the Knight-Captain.

“Five quality horses, ten heads of cattle, fifty pigs, fifty sheep, twenty-five hens, seventy-five pullets, twenty draft-animals…” Ser Glorifeld recited, as if reading off a list which he had dedicated to memory.

Every one of the Nobles collected felt their foreheads begin to perspire, even in the frigid morning air, as this man extolled the seemingly never-ending list of goods and gifts he had brought. It seemed to go on and on and on, with no end in sight.

“... seven handcrafted tapestries detailing myths of creation from the Artisan-wives Association of the Capital, twelve portraits of van der Leigh family ancestry, one handcrafted bejeweled breaking wheel from the Church of the Almighty in the capital, three bottles of century-aged wines from the Baron’s personal collection--”

Niklas put up his hands then, his head spinning from attempting to comprehend everything that was unfolding. “Th-that’s quite alright Ser Glorifeld!” He stammered. “I will just take the list for review once we enter the Castle.”

Ser Glorifeld nodded his head in acknowledgement. “I understand, my Lord. However, if you would allow me, I would like to remain here for a few days so that I might personally confirm the successful delivery of every item.”

Niklas sighed, but he wore a small, resigned smile as he looked over the man again. Ser Glorifeld was a Knight’s Knight, dedicating himself wholeheartedly to serving the van der Leigh family, as his forefathers had done before him. Four generations had served his family, and at least one more was surely to follow. But Glorifeld served all of his charges with equal respect, regardless of their age or standing within the family hierarchy.

Glorifeld was the only one, besides my dear sister, who would not discriminate against me in that place. He treated me the same as he treated all of the other members of the family, which made him something of a pariah there. I still recall the time Bruder had been beating me until Ser Glorifeld arrived and struck him so hard that he could not eat solid food for weeks!

“I suppose that would be alright. I shan't stand in the way of your duties, Knight-Captain.”

“Thank you for your consideration, my Lord. For now, I will personally deliver these to you.”

After marching back to his horse and rummaging through her saddlebags for a moment, the Knight-Captain presented Niklas with a small sword, along with several envelopes which were sealed with wax imprinted with the Sigil van der Leigh.

“These are promissory notes, my Lord, to be exchanged within the capital for a total sum of ten thousand silver pieces, two thousand electrum coins, and five-hundred golden sovereigns.”

An abrupt hush descended upon everyone within earshot of this conversation, as if the collective breath of everyone present there had been violently knocked out of them.

“... Besides that, a chest containing funds for your immediate usage, totalling five hundred each of golden sovereigns, silver pieces, and electrum coins, awaits within the carriages here to be delivered to your person.”

With a shaking hand, Niklas slowly, and oh-so carefully, reached forward and plucked the envelopes from Ser Glorifeld’s hands, treating them as if they might crumble into dust if he handled them too roughly. His eyes looked upon the sword that had been presented to him then; it was a cutlass, the sort of blade that sailors commonly wore. While it was a small weapon for a normal man to wield, it seemed to be just right for Niklas. It was exquisitely crafted as well, within a fine black leather scabbard, its silvery blade having been polished to a mirror-like sheen, while its gilded pommel was adorned with emeralds.

“This is a gift from your sister which has been customized specifically for your… unique stature. May it serve you well.”

For a brief moment the image of his sister’s smiling face flashed in Niklas’ mind, and in its wake a great surge of confidence welled up inside him! He spun on his heel to face the assembled forces that had, just moments ago, stood ready to witness his surrender: his Countess, the Lady-Mayor, the other assorted Nobles and Foreigners, and the crowd of Petrician subjects. With a dramatic flourish he held aloft those miraculous envelopes for all to see, for all the world like the champion warrior in a tourney brandishing his sword to win the favor of the spectators.

“Salza Lengarson!” He cried, watching as the man’s look of surprise fell into a glower of resentment as he was addressed. “You wished to know how I planned to fund all of my endeavors? Well, look no further!”