True to what he said, Ferron spent the next few days haggling with the coalition over a final price. Valentin silently sat and watched the nobles exchange verbal blows that would have intrigued even his father. In sharp contrast with his straightforward and brutal fighting, Ferron employed more deftness to his negotiations.
On the morning of the fourth day, Ferron reached a corner that he could not reasonably stall from. The nobles finally relented and opened up their purses to the mercenary. The offer was too generous to reject in good faith. Eight thousand silver eagles up front with an additional two thousand if completed swiftly to satisfaction. It was an offer far beyond the initial proposed by the coalition and Ferron grinned on his way out of the tent.
The Armée had not been idling while their leader engaged in verbal warfare. The deggan tirelessly sent out their forces to patrol the lands around the town to gather information and root out any rogue warriors left in the woods. Some Marche warriors were captured and interrogated with little results. Yet, none had yet been able to claim the prize.
Ferron waited patiently in camp for the remaining six days. From Valentin’s perspective, the man spent the time in leisure without any traces of the urgency that he had instilled in his deggan only a few days prior.
Valentin, with nothing else to do, was encouraged to spend time with the children of the coalition. Ferron insisted it would do well for his growth to expand his social network. These children could very well be the ardent allies he needs in the following generation.
The children brought by the coalition’s nobles were between ten and fifteen cycles old. Those that were younger were not seen as suitably old enough to be taught strategy and those above fifteen were considered old enough to possess responsibilities within the war effort itself. Instead, these youths caught in the middle of that range were made to just sit and watch with their parents.
Back home, when he was younger, Valentin spent many events with the children of the other esteemed members of Tiarna Lunoult’s inner circle. Those interactions were usually the rivalries of their parents made miniature. Valentin was no exception to the bickering and snide comments that mimicked words he overheard from his parents.
It wasn’t until his parents encouraged the boy to get along better with Cecile Orelle and other daughters of important regional clans did Valentin begin to understand the true aim of these get-togethers. Jeanne, too, was assuredly given ample time to develop a companionship with Vincent Lunoult. He surmised that this likely occurred for Louise as well and, if he had not been forced out of his home, would have found himself betrothed to one of those girls.
However, in the camp, he was the ward of notorious mercenary, Ferron Martelle, and a member of a well-known clan from a major city. Out of all the children that he would interact with, he was of the highest esteem. It was the noble parents of these children that spurred their offspring to interact with this new boy.
The only child that could claim to rival Valentin’s pedigree was Ferris Celfor. Yet that was the boy that wished to meet Valentin most. When Ferron and Valentin approached Tiarna Celfor’s tents, the young boy immediately hastened in the direction of the two. A pair of warriors followed the tiarling closely.
“Ferron, Valentin, I was hoping that you’d accept my father’s invitation. I’ve been looking forward to talking to you,” Ferris said excitedly, grabbing Valentin by the arm.
Ferron quickly abandoned Valentin and moved to find Tiarna Celfor. Valentin huffed in displeasure but allowed himself to be led to a small area by the shade of a tree. Several cushions surrounded a wooden board covered in pieces. Two of the older kids were in the midst of a match. They took turns positioning their different pieces and discussing gains and losses after rolling several dice.
The majority of the other kids intently watched the two square off and patiently waited for their turn to come next. Some briefly took note of Ferris’ return and the introduction of Valentin before returning to the tense match.
A climax was quickly reached when the boy of the pair rolled a high total on a decisive dice roll and the girl conceded.
“What rotten luck,” the girl spat petulantly. “You know that I was in a superior position.”
Her opponent grinned, happy that he snatched victory from the clutches of defeat. “Sometimes luck is all you need to win a battle. Our new friend may have much to contribute to that idea.”
The children turned their heads to look at Valentin. Many of them had seen the boy several times by now while he stood with Ferron during the negotiations, but this was the first time meeting him without his imposing guardian.
“Perhaps you were just favored more by the Great Spirit,” Valentin replied flatly, much to the amusement of all children save the loser of the match.
“Hello, my name is Jonas Hosinth,” the older boy greeted. “The sore loser is Adelaide Barston, the two younger children here are Emma Gehain and Quinten Revelle, and that aloof broody boy back there is Ortaire Forstier.”
“Nice to meet you,” Valentin replied cordially. “My name is Valentin Guerros of Verbosc.”
“Yes, Ferris has not stopped talking to you since Tiarna Celfor complimented you and said that you have already seen combat,” Adelaide said, regaining her composure after victory was stolen from her. “He’s been fretting over whether you would ever deign to speak to us lower nobles like some pining love-struck fool.”
“Do not exaggerate,” Ferris protested with pout. “My Bloodstone Ceremony is this year and I wanted to meet someone a cycle older than me that is already campaigning. And don’t pretend that none of you were interested. I’ve seen you all watching.”
“Guilty as charged,” Jonas admitted. “I was interested in the stories he could tell.”
Adelaide and Ortaire dodged the accusation and did not respond. The two young children stayed quiet and watched the conversation volley from person to person. Their mouths were occupied by a tray of baked goods that sat between their cushions.
“Have you played Seren’s Strategy?” Adelaide asked curiously.
Valentin paused for a moment to formulate his lie. He had never heard of the game before, however, would it be strange if a child of a reputable warrior clan did not engage in war games? It certainly would.
He concocted a lie to spare the suspicion. “Unfortunately, I have not. My clan believes that only experience in battle can train a strategic mind. If you are willing to teach me, I will play.”
Ortaire scoffed quietly while Ferris looked at Valentin with more admiration than before. The other children seemed to readily accept the explanation and the boy felt relieved.
Jonas nodded sagely, “It’s true that it pales in comparison to the real thing. Most use it as a pastime nowadays. Allow me to teach you how to be an expert player in no time.”
“No you don’t,” Adelaide said. “I don’t need another strange schemer. Allow me to teach you. And while we do, you better tell us an interesting story.”
Instead, the pair of them taught Valentin the rules of the war game. Each unit had values of weapon and armor strength with cavalry having the most offense and heavy infantry having the most defense. Every turn you had a set amount of actions that you could use to move or attack. Different parts of the map had different modifiers to your rolls and there were modifiers based upon matchup and formation. The numbers proved difficult to memorize, but Jonas graciously offered his notebook of tables to allow Valentin to look up.
He won neither of his first two games, to the surprise of none. Jonas neglected to tell him a critical rule, much to Adelaide’s annoyance, while the girl easily dispatched him through a well-informed arrangement and execution.
The game itself was interesting, yet cumbersome. He could see that depending on the map topography and what pieces each player elected to use as their military might, the combinations and strategies were endless. However, the turn based nature of the game sanitized much of the breakneck pacing of battles he had witnessed firsthand and allowed for far more control over their regiments.
All the while, Valentin told the children around him about the ambush he encountered the day after the rout of the Merciless Curs. He spoke of the countless traps that covered the path and the severe weather that descended upon them. He did not embellish his story and spoke of his near death experience and killing of the distracted warrior with somber accuracy.
“The story of Ferron’s victory over the combined forces of Marche and the Merciless Curs would have been much more triumphant, but I only watched that battle from my horse,” Valentin conceded.
The older quartet of the assembled children were morbidly transfixed on the story, with Adelaide almost making a critical mistake during their game due to it. Even the quiet Ortaire took great interest in the grisly details of battle.
“A friendly piece of advice, Valentin. When you tell that story next, you should embellish it a bit to make yourself look a bit better,” Jonas advised.
“I doubted any of you would have believed me if I had bragged,” Valentin confessed.
Jonas laughed, “You have me there.”
“I would have believed you either way,” Ferris protested. “Will you be returning tomorrow?”
It was with this group of children that Valentin spent the remaining days of Ferron’s ten day guarantee. He steadily improved his skills in Seren’s Strategy, trying out different combinations of forces and strategies. By the end, he was able to evenly match Ferris and Ortaire but never managed to outmatch his teachers.
They did not only play war games. The children were always ready to boast about the culture they had experienced. Adelaide talked endlessly of a play she saw in Corvello while Ortaire subtly bragged of learning to write poetry. Valentin was fortunate that he could talk about Euna’s song, which once again impressed the children. He had not quite appreciated how popular such a performance was at the time, but all the other children were jealous of his private showing.
It was through these conversations that Valentin felt revitalized about the world. There were things to do and see that existed beyond the scope of fighting. In that way, he was grateful towards his friends of circumstance and spent their remaining days with gratitude.
Finally, Ortus rose over the tenth day since the Armée du Corbeaux had joined camp. As the ball of fire shone light upon the town of Etrineux, warriors of both sides were roused from their slumber by the pounding staccato of war drums. Those that peered over the tops of the palisades or crawled from the opening of their tents would see that there was already an army assembled before the iron studded wood gates.
At the front of them, off his horse, stood Ferron Martelle with his warhammer in hand. He stood with a casual pose, basking in the infant light of the morning.
“Rise, warriors of the coalition,” Ferron ordered to the soldiers that scrambled out of their tents and war horns blared from within the town.
Tiarna Celfor burst forth from his tent, still adorned in his evening robes. The undersides of his eyes were wrinkled and discolored from sleep deprivation. Alongside him was Marshal Valun, already in her full armor.
“Ferron, what are you doing?” Tiarna Celfor demanded with tremendous annoyance.
Ferron glanced over towards his employer. “I’m taking Etrineux.”
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“Yes, but,” Tiarna Celfor blustered. “This isn’t what we discussed. They are still well supplied and morale is high.”
“Allow me to demonstrate my value, just tell your soldiers to follow my lead without question.”
The warriors of the coalition quickly donned their armor and assembled with the Armée du Corbeaux. Hundreds of warriors amassed before the gates in a mixture of excitement and confusion to watch what the reputable warrior, Ferron Martelle, would do to take the Etrineux. Their noble patrons watched with interest and annoyance from the peripherals of the congregation, far away from the range of javelins and arrows.
Ferron approached the gate alone to take the center of attention from both sides of this war. He swept his cloak to reveal the raven embroidery sewn upon it. His voice boomed unnaturally as though his vocal chords were empowered by favor. It vibrated armor, shook the trees, and rang in the ears of everyone around. Yet, it did not feel as though he shouted. It was more akin to a speech given by a higher power, a voice that emanated from the inside of your head.
“Warriors of Etrineux, your Tiarna has perished. Many of your countrymen have died to slow our advance to no avail. You are outnumbered and surrounded, left to starve and dwindle away. It does not have to be this way. If you swing open your gates and surrender the heirloom of Arven and the rest of the Marche clan, you will be spared.”
Ferron’s words echoed through the forest and through the homes and hovels of all that resided within Etrineux. Some of the warriors atop the palisades hurled obscenities at Ferron but the man did not react to the verbal provocations. He had stated his terms and now awaited a response from those that retained power.
Time passed tensely after Ferron’s announcement, warped by the anticipation of all those that stood witness. It was, of course, unreasonable to expect an expedient answer when the demands had dire unspoken consequences. However, that did not stop those that stood around at the barred entrance to the town to express their impatience towards the slow response of the defenders by rattling their spears and taunting the defenders within.
Eventually, a man’s face crested the spikes of the palisades and looked down upon the mercenary that stood before their gate. While he was not helmeted, the glint of his armor shone in the lights of the morning.
His voice rang similarly to the way that Ferron had spoken and, if not for the display shown earlier, would have startled many.
“You who trespass upon our ancestral lands have no rights to make demands and threaten the honest people of Etrineux. We will not give our possessions that Tiarna Celfor, in his madness, assert belong to him. Nor will we send to you the clan of our Tiarna to watch you butcher in our street. Begone now before our petition to oust you forcefully reaches High Tiarna Poten Martelle. Even if you starve us, our empty bellies will feel full when we watch you all perish outside these fortifications.”
To those that were observant, they would have noticed that Ferron's stance shifted upon the utterance of the High Tiarna’s name. He swung up his warhammer and pointed it to the point in the fortification where the man stood.
“Who is it that I speak to?” Ferron requested of the man opposed to him.
“Marshal Bon Gerrant of Etrineux,” the man responded. “I know you as well, Ferron Martelle, the man who believes himself to be a tiarna.”
“If you know me,” Ferron began, taking a step towards the gate. “Then you must surely be aware of my deeds and exploits.”
“Not another step!” Marshal Gerrant ordered. “Or we will have to respond with hostility of our own.”
Ferron took another provocative step towards the gate. A lone warning javelin descended from the heights of the palisade and sped towards Ferron. The man swiped his armored left arm across his body, striking the javelin before it found its target. The projectile splintered into pieces and sprinkled the dirt behind him.
The Armée du Corbeaux began to slam their fists against their armor and the butts of their spears into the ground. A low, rhythmic chanting echoed from underneath their faceplates and filled the air. The warriors of the coalition followed the cadence set by those before them until a deafening clamor drowned the town in sound.
“Have you heard of Saffin? Trelles? Mor Jere? Chūnqiáo?” Ferron asked as he retained his distance to the gate. “Do any of these places spring with familiarity within your mind?”
“I have not heard of the places that you list,” Marshal Gerrant admitted.
Large arcs of lightning coursed over Ferron’s armor. It crackled and sparked over the metal in a chaotic dance. Ferron’s warhammer shot sparks towards the palisades with loud bangs. The cacophony behind Ferron rose to even higher volumes as the warlord summoned his favor. Drums rumbled beneath the chants and chest beating to drive the sounds in harmony in support of the warlord.
“When I ask this question to the next town I besiege, Etrineux will join that list.”
Tiarna Celfor and the coalition seemed to scream at Ferron to order him to cease his plot. The sounds did not pierce the clamor that surrounded the warlord. They dared not approach him and the favor that coursed around him.
Ferron lowered his faceplate and his stance, pulling his hammer behind him as though he was soon to swing. He was still at least two hundred paces from the gates. Favor intensified and everyone was transfixed in equal measures of awe and terror of this display of power, of blessing, of rightness. An unnatural bluish glow flickered behind the holes of his face plate.
“Open the gates and survive or I will rip this town asunder!”
“Do not waver!” Marshal Gerrant screamed from atop his palisades.
Valentin had to cover his ears to spare his hearing as the noise became near unbearable and his ears screamed with a high pitched noise. Is this the power that he would be able to conjure if he continued to harness favor? While he felt bubbly at the prospect of one day reaching those heights, he was now aware of the gulf of effort he had to put on to reach those levels.
Even through covered ears, Valentin heard Ferron’s next orders. “Follow me through the path I blaze for you.”
Ferron sprung forward at tremendous speed towards the gate, covering the distance in only a few seconds. As soon as the warrior moved, the entire mass of warriors sprinted after the favored leader. Frenzied by the display that they saw, they howled and brayed and chanted of their impending victory.
Before Ferron struck his hammer against the gates of the palisade, Valentin saw a crack of light open between the large wooden doors. By the time the warrior reached the gates, he had slipped through to the other side and the gates swung open for the entry of the invading warriors.
Marshal Gerrant screamed something incoherent and disappeared behind the palisades. By the way he held his weapon, Valentin assumed that he had not given the order to open the gate. It was the frightened hearts of those that saw that they were outmatched and wished to live. Their Tiarna was already dead, their city besieged, and their forces outmatched. There is no dishonor in capitulating to those that are favored more highly than oneself. It is the natural way of this nation and the realm of humanity at large. These people were subservient to the Marche family because they held more favor and now they buckled to Ferron for the same reason.
Valentin stood with a small handful of warriors meant to protect him along with the nobles of the coalition and their own contingent of guards, including Marshal Valun. Their faces were a mix of awe and rage.
“What was he thinking?” Estelle Forstier brayed. “He was going to destroy the town if they had not surrendered in time.”
“Yet here we are, victorious and without sacrifice,” Tiarna Celfor responded, seemingly calming down from his initial bluster and confusion.
Horses were brought for the nobles and Valentin and the two parties rode into the surrendering Etrineux once preparations were made. Spears and swords and hammers were piled around the entrance of the town and abandoned, likely cast aside by the defenders to keep their spirits in their bodies. Warriors were tied together and guarded by several of the coalition's soldiers. The captured soldiers had their boots and gloves removed, partially to disarm them further and partially to humiliate.
One of the prisoners that sat tied to their subordinates was Marshal Gerrant. The steadfast speech of the Marshal seemed to melt away once the majority of his force surrendered beneath him. He offered the passing nobles a look of derision and spat at the ground between his mud-caked feet.
“Traitors,” he muttered to the nobles that ignored him.
In the center of the town, the coalition’s warriors invaded the residence of the Marche clan. They forcefully drug out the residents and their servants. Many of them were grabbed by their hair or wrists and violently removed from the building. Jeers rained down upon them by the invading warriors. The evicted clansmen were made to stand barefoot in the square outside. Many of those well-dressed individuals were either advanced in age or children not yet of age for a Bloodstone Ceremony.
Ferron stood in the square and quietly watched the raid unfold impassively. His face appeared to be haggard after the severe effort he expended in his charge. Upon seeing the mercenary, Tiarna Celfor and the rest of the coalition leaders rode towards him.
“Ferron, you made a gamble without consulting me. If your little scheme had failed, this town would be engulfed in flames. I would not have given my forces over to you so willingly if I knew that was your plan.”
Tiarna Celfor’s admonishment of Ferron fell flat to the observing Valentin. The relief on his face outweighed the words he spoke in rebuke.
“A threat is only valuable if there is reason to believe it. There were no other alternatives to deliver you a clean and expedient capture. They would have not opened the gates for me if there was even a scrap of doubt in our determination,” Ferron responded with a shrug, seemingly able to see the same thing Valentin did.
“And you believed that such a daring ploy would work?” Forstier asked with a tone of incredulity.
“Of course I believed it would work, my life is favored,” Ferron answered with a confident grin.
A pair of deggan with bright yellow tinctures strode towards the leaders of the coalition and dropped to one knee before their tiarna. Surprisingly, a smattering of fresh blood stained the surcoat of one of the warriors.
“Tiarna, a small force has barricaded themselves in a fortress behind the residence. We believe that Ciele Lucie Marche, Harald Marche, and other key clansmen and vassals are inside. We tried to break in by force but were repelled with several casualties.”
“Begin a siege of the fortress. We will try to burn them out of the fortress and decapitate the head of the resistance,” Tiarna Celfor responded with an annoyed tone. Despite his admonishment of Ferron, the lord enjoyed the idea of a quick and decisive victory.
“Tiarna Celfor,” Forstier said. “I think it would be better to enforce a surrender of the surviving Marche clansmen, Harald especially, now that his father’s death has made him the new Tiarna.”
“All the more reason to end him now,” Tiarna Celfor implored.
“I would agree with you, Tiarna,” Ferron interjected. “If this coalition has any desire to control a town and not ruins, you would be wise to not violently reignite the flames of war that I have doused for you. If Forstier’s thoughts align with mine, then it will be highly valuable to gain their surrender to completely pacify Etrineux.”
Before Tiarna Celfor could deliberate and answer, a commotion from the Marche residence wrenched the attention of the conferring nobles toward the entrance. Several warriors lugged a large, cast iron stew pot from the bowels of the residence.
Valentin was confused why cookware evoked such strong reactions from the warriors of Arven. However, the feeling only amplified when he looked to see Tiarna Celfor stare at the pot with eyes similar to seeing a long lost lover. The lack of expression elicited from Ferron reassured the boy that he was not the strange one in the situation.
Their patron rode towards the triumphant warriors and quickly dismounted his horse. With a large grin, he placed both hands upon the cast iron pot and rubbed his hands with reverence. He touched the curvature with a gentle warmth that one would caress the stomach of a pregnant partner. The faces sported by the nobles around him were a mixture of perturbed and pleased, an odd color of emotion.
“It had finally been recovered. After all these cycles and all these generations,” Tiarna Celfor cooed towards the object. “Rejoice! Our ancestors will be overjoyed with the knowledge that we have corrected this long overdue injustice!”
The warriors of Arven cheered and chanted at the exuberance of their leader. They paraded the stew pot away from the residence and around the town. Their procession was something of a bizarre celebration to Valentin.
“We warred over a stew pot?” Valentin asked, attempting to mask his contempt for what he had witnessed.
“Well, yes,” Ferron admitted. “We went to war to retrieve some aged cookware. However, the stew pot is just a symbol of the conflict for regional supremacy that has been contested for generations. What the item was truly didn’t matter. These two clans determined that they could no longer coexist.”
Valentin watched those that stood barefoot in the chilled mud. Some looked beleaguered and resigned to the result, some were bloody from their rough eviction, and some were too young to comprehend what was occurring and clung to the relatives near them. However, the majority looked upon the exuberant procession with a deep and resentful disdain that chafed their spirits. Revenge flickered in their eyes and silent promises of retribution for the humiliation suffered silently passed their lips.
This emotion was not exclusive to those that stood in the square. Valentin could feel the aura of unwelcome pouring from every window and door of the denizens that surrounded the square. Malice and hostility were offered in generous portions despite their widespread capitulation to the invading forces helmed by their long standing rival.
Valentin did not believe that this day would bring about the decisive conclusion to the long standing hostilities between the two towns. His intuition told him that the ancestral war would reignite as soon as the forces of Arven returned to their homes.
“Has Tiarna Celfor achieved the peace he desires?” Valentin asked Ferron once the other nobles had rode to join the head of the procession.
“Tiarna Celfor cared not for peace,” Ferron corrected his ward. “If he wished for peace, he would have swallowed his pride and surrendered the past to his rival. What Tiarna Celfor desired was an annihilation of his enemies. Tiarna Firmin Marche has been turned to ash and Etrineux has been humiliated. Many who supported the ruling clan were butchered or betrayed and the Marche children are dead, missing, or captured. All that remain of his rival’s proud clan are those of the extended branches. It is hard to imagine Tiarna Celfor being anything but overjoyed at this result.”
Valentin contemplated his first campaign for a short time. It had run counter to everything he had read from books or was told in the passing story from Uncle Gilles. Where were the wars fought by heroes for prevailing ideals against tyrants? Where were the wars fought to end the suffering of others? Perhaps these sorts of wars had long gone extinct, destroyed when the Novesse were driven away from these lands.
“Is there such a thing as an honorable war?” Valentin eventually asked his benefactor.
Ferron gave a look of interest in the boy’s question. “All conflicts are colored by ego and desire. There has never been a war fought for purely selfless motives. How could there be? The Mother and the Great Spirit crafted us to be creatures of want and desire. We were bestowed with the ability to forge those desires from thought to reality. Even such a war as our Uprising was still stained with ego and desire. We aspired to be free from the chains of those that hated us for reasons beyond our control. And yet, after the last Novesse in all the realms of humanity was slain, we did not revert to the way that we were before our subjugation. Instead, we looked to subjugate each other.”