Lieze’s warped reflection stared back at her as motes of firelight bounced from the greatsword propped up against the stone wall. Up until that moment, the weapon had been Helmach’s sole ally in a world committed thoroughly to betraying him at every turn. But in the wake of his timely death, it had been reduced to a slab of metal dazzling the eyes of anyone wandering into the room.
“The Briarknight will put this to good use.” She muttered, “A blade has no master besides its wielder, and neither does it harbour the petty grievances of men. If only we could all aspire to become so affectless and wicked.”
“By the Sages’ beards, Lieze - are you incapable of letting your guard down for one spare moment?” Marché replied, “Stop gleaning the secrets of the universe from a length of steel and sit yourself down.”
For the very first time, the vomit-inducing stench of rot within the hideout was masked by the scent of something quite delectable. Thanks in no small part to Alma’s efficient arrangement of the cult’s thralls in the Crypt, one could finally wander the granite chambers without feeling the need to empty their lunch onto the floor - at least as far as the lowest stratums were concerned, in any case.
“Forgive me if I don’t recall every last one of my commands, but…” Lieze swept the room with her gaze, “-I can’t say I remember ordering you and your disciples to spend your free hours sprucing up what’s supposed to be the headquarters of our crusade against the kingdom of man.”
As she and Drayya worked into the evening perfecting their Briarknights, Lieze couldn’t help but take note of the strange deliveries that had been worked into Marché’s shipments of thralls from Saptra. It began simple enough: chairs, tables, dressers; furniture with purposes suited to the cult’s needs. But soon after, Lieze noticed the trend of ‘usefulness’ beginning to fade away, and an obsession with luxury flowering in its place.
“A clock, I understand. It’s a useful thing to have around. Wardrobes - not what I would have prioritised, but I can see the logic.” She listed, “But cutlery? A toilet? Beds? Have you forgotten that those wagons were paid for with my well-earned gold, to transport thralls?”
The chamber above the alchemy room was transforming into something worryingly close to a living room. Were it not for the puddles of primeval water dripping from the ceiling or the echoing which served as staunch reminders that Lieze was, in fact, still standing in a cave, she could have sworn she’d just barged into someone’s private abode.
“Well, what else were we to do?” Marché placed a platter down on the table sitting in the centre of the chamber. One golden-brown half of an unlucky hog slept peacefully on the silver plate, “Now that we have a foothold in Saptra, we can loot the homes of the deceased for whatever supplies we need. We are flesh-and-blood humans at the end of the day, Lieze. We eat, sleep, and shit just as often as any royalist does.”
“Where did you get that pig?” Lieze tilted her head, “Where did you cook it?”
“I’ve had some of the men set up a spit over the campfire outside.” He explained, “As for where we found it - who knows? It was probably a stray someone picked up from one of the farms Drayya burned to the ground.”
“-And now we enjoy the fruits of our labour.” From the other side of the table, an eager Drayya rubbed her palms together, “Maintaining an army is more than simple strategy, Lieze. Every wise commander knows that heading a reliable supply network is half the battle.”
“Yes… though I’m not so sure that undead armies suffer from the lack of one.”
“I’m not kidding about, Lieze.” Marché felt the need to insist upon his argument, “It’s too dangerous to be sending our necromancers in and out of the city for supplies with how the Church has been acting. We’ll end up starving if we don’t consider our own wellbeing.”
“Yes, yes… I understand the point.” Lieze crossed her arms, “But did you really have to waste your trips back from Saptra on bringing beds back to the hideout instead of thralls?”
“A man can only be expected to sleep on beds of straw for so long.” He summarised, “Now sit down and have something to eat.”
She didn’t try to hide her disappointment at being made to emulate the thoughtless life of a serf. Twenty years and more of living among the necromancers of the Order had left her apprehensive to taste the cooking of anyone but herself. Drayya seemed positively delighted by Lieze’s awkwardness as she pulled a wooden chair up to the table.
“Seeing you acting like a human being instead of a genocidal maniac is quite the rarity. I thought you’d abandoned every ounce of humanity in your teenage years.” Drayya said, resting her chin in her palms, “You could try to be the slightest bit proud of just how much we’ve managed to accomplish here.”
“I’ll be proud once not a single soul remains in this cursed world.” Lieze replied, “Matters of emotional expectation don’t interest me in the slightest.”
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“-So you say, but I know well that you’re a more sensitive girl than you let on.” Picking up a knife and fork, Drayya eyed the succulent flesh resting on the table, “A warm meal is one of life’s greatest pleasures, Lieze. I’m surprised you aren’t happier that we’ve finally moved beyond frogs and snakes.”
“The very notion of ‘pleasure’ is a poison to our ideals.” She argued, “In order to achieve true enlightenment, we must strive to move beyond these-”
“Be quiet and eat, for the love of all that’s good!” Drayya interrupted, stabbing her knife into the air, “This is the benefit of roping in necromancers from the city, you see - most of them have skills beyond raising thralls and wreaking havoc.”
“Yes… and we’ll be in need of as many talents as possible if we wish to survive beyond the city walls.” Marché interjected, seating himself beside Lieze, “Alma believes she’s safe in her own home, but I wouldn’t risk lingering in Tonberg for too long if I were her. Nobody knows how thoroughly Alistair plans to search the city for any trace of forbidden sorcery.”
“Alistair…” Drayya muttered, “Who is that man, really?”
“I thought you wanted to enjoy a meal without having to worry about matters like these?” He replied.
“Lieze will find a way to inject plotting into the conversation no matter how fiercely we steer from the topic.” Drayya said, “It goes without saying that Alistair had Ricta’s trust - to such an extent that his betrayal came as a complete shock to the young king. But what position did he occupy before claiming the throne for himself?”
“He’s a Saint. Or, was a Saint, I should say - before he was king.” Marché answered, “Quite a privileged position within the Church, with authority surpassed only by the Dragon Priest himself. A handful of them survived Sokalar’s crusade, and no more than that.”
“Ricta seemed to imply that he was a representative of some sort.” Lieze spoke.
“He might have been. I know very little of the Church’s ways.” Marché replied.
“But why is he king and not the Dragon Priest? For how long has his ambition simmered that every guard in the castle capitulated to his will as soon as his goals were revealed? How did he quell the rioting and gain the city’s favour while having priests drag men out into the street to be publicly executed?”
Marché didn’t answer immediately, lifting a carving knife from the table to saw off the leg of the roasted half-swine. Plumes of smoke danced from its succulent flesh as Drayya eagerly held her plate out.
“We’d have died of starvation long ago if it wasn’t for the cook in our ranks.” Marché shredded the flesh as cleanly as he could, “He’s really quite enthusiastic about this sort of thing. Almost as enthusiastic as he is about necromancy. You really ought to try some, Lieze.”
“I would rather you answer my question first of all.” She replied.
“Hm…” While portioning out the meal, he considered his response with a complicated expression, “Well, I’ll be frank and say I’m not sure about the first two. But as for his popularity and legitimacy, the answer should be something you’re capable of working out for yourself.”
“How very frank. But you do have a point.” Lieze paused, “In the face of poor leadership, upheaval is always seen as a necessary evil in order to inspire change. But the fervent desire to force their combined will upon their masters often results in decisions made out of desperation, rather than honesty.”
“A member of the Order such as yourself should know better than anyone else that the average commoner barely understands the first thing about politics.” Marché hid his smirk with a mouthful of pork, “...And yet, it’s often those very same commoners who march down the streets with torches and pitchforks in hand to impose their ideals upon the gentry.”
“You’re saying Tonberg’s citizens are content with this?” Lieze asked.
“Content? That’s a strong word for it. But it certainly is a change they themselves demanded.” Marché answered, “Of course, we’re privy to a much darker truth, knowing full-well that Alistair has been planning his rise to power for an unbelievable amount of time. If a miracle can pull Tonberg back from the brink of disaster, its political climate will have shifted to the ethics of yesteryear, and the Sovereign Cities will again become a coalition of religious power.”
“The cities of man will not recover.” Lieze vowed, “Alistair is a child in the guise of a man, bawling with such ferocity that his devotees can be convinced only of victory. It is our responsibility to quell the hope rising up from this dying’s city’s belly.”
Helmach was dead. And in his place, a Briarknight more powerful than any man had been raised. Lieze could have resigned herself to defeat in the wake of Alistair’s ascension, but if anything, his self-satisfied regime only ignited her desire to bring Tonberg to its knees.
“...Now that we’ve given Lieze the impassioned speech she desires, can we spend the rest of the evening enjoying ourselves, perhaps?” Drayya interjected, “Tomorrow is another day.”
“Hah…” Lieze sighed, “Do as you please. But don’t let this brief respite distract you from your duties. We can’t afford to waste another minute plotting against Alistair.”
The pieces had been set. Lieze’s first few weeks in Tonberg had been a chaotic scramble for power and influence, but her goals were gaining clarity at last. No longer was she just another firebrand looking to destabilise the world, but a true threat to the continued existence of Tonberg. And as a threat, she would need to prepare for the absolute worst-case scenario.
The serenity of a quiet meal enjoyed in the presence of like-minded fellows was something she hadn’t experienced in well over a decade. The joys of friendship she’d cultivated in her innocent youth had been numbed by years of exhaustive research and training. Even as Marché and Drayya exchanged pleasantries, she found herself sinking into a void of loneliness, escaping into the darkness of her mind. She had become a conduit for Sokalar’s ideals, satisfied with little else but the realisation of his enlightened future.
If she could be allowed the slightest sensation of independence, then it was crystallised in her desire to develop ambitions beyond satisfying the whims of her father. There was no meaning to her existence beyond serving the Order as a convenient tool, but that didn’t mean she was incapable of striking out on her own.
The cult’s future was hers to decide. And, with the power of the scale in hand, she had every intention of spreading its influence as far as she could manage, no matter the repercussions.