Chapter 161
Shroud of Monarch
Tiberia
As night settled over the large encampment, the rich glow of lanterns illuminated the inside of a large tent. There, the usual sternness of military life was all but dispelled. Every evening, the soldiers gathered around a makeshift stage where two young squires performed an exaggerated reenactment of their king's first, famously unsuccessful attempt at horseback archery. The crowd roared with laughter, even as His Majesty sat among them on the same dirty carpet.
More absurdly, he stood up, jokingly defending himself, and even threw ale at the performers, who jumped and mockingly bickered like toddlers, much to the men's amusement.
There was no hatred, only the fluidity of the scene as His Majesty sat down again, feigning fury while the men around him struggled to contain their laughter.
Someone brought him a simple wooden stool, and the king happily used it, making him stand out amongst the crowd. But it was a brutal setup for the next performance, where the squires depicted how the lord was balding, and every hairstyle he tried only made him look more comical.
The crowd roared and gasped for breath. The king made it worse by standing, frowning, and humorously caressing his receding hairline.
Many in the crowd could withstand this no longer and escaped, crawling out from the tent as their bellies hurt from laughing. It was a challenge, as many crowded around the tent to catch a glimpse of this cheap and crude entertainment.
Suddenly, the king burst out from the tent, saw the crowd, and put on a serious face. Turning to his escort, he exclaimed, "Make sure they all paid. I don't get mocked for nothing!"
The crowd burst into laughter as the King of Brigantes was escorted back to his tent.
Despite all the open mockery, the men respected him. They knew it was all just an act to relieve the men from their boredom and fatigue. Because of this, he was well-loved. For the Northerners, this man was every bit fit for kingship. He had freed the Northern people and conquered his way to the very heart of the Imperium.
...
Gottfried
A wrinkled old man with a straight back and good posture walked into a lavish yet sensible tent. Many eyes from knights and squires followed him. He merely squinted to keep his monocle in place.
"Good morning, old man!" Gottfried greeted the old mage from his seat. "Care to share breakfast?" he offered, as his squire and servant quickly pulled up a chair and brought out a silver plate.
"Your Majesty, that's not necessary. Forgive my intrusion, but your presence is required," the old man insisted.
Gottfried was puzzled, but the old man continued cryptically, "The weather is changing."
"Can't be that bad, can it?" Gottfried expressed doubt but noticed the old mage's anxiety. Without further questions, he wiped his hands on a cloth, slapped his simple hat over his baldness, and said to his guests, "Please continue without me."
A few of them rose, about to follow. "You don't need to. It might be nothing," he added lightly while tossing his empty cup to his servant, who caught it easily.
In heavy escort, Gottfried and his entourage headed toward a cluster of bigger tents. His own tent was not the biggest, as he preferred not to make it easy for assassins to target him, having survived several attempts on his life.
While walking, Gottfried remarked to the old man, "Of all the things that could happen, yours is the one I least expected."
"Something absurd is happening," the old man blurted out. "Something totally unexpected."
"It can’t be that bad," Gottfried tried to reassure him, but a chill wind blew past them, stunning everyone.
"It's chilling," said the leading knight, a Northerner with long blond braided hair, to the old mage, who nodded back. "That's why I'm urging Your Majesty to come."
"Are your men slacking?" another knight asked with distrust.
"On the contrary, we're doing everything we can, but it's not effective."
"Calm down. Let me be the judge of that," Gottfried waved them off and picked up his pace, smiling easily. While alarmed by the unexpected weather, he took it like a bad joke and maintained a carefree attitude. To him, nothing really mattered much—not the conquest, not his kingship, not even the Imperium.
From his youth, Gottfried had found great satisfaction in becoming the people's enabler, starting with his siblings, then his parents, his House, and finally the Northerners. He saw the will of the people as the universal goal, something that required no external validation.
His stance was noble, held with such conviction that the reasoning behind actions and even the outcomes themselves mattered little to him. To Gottfried, results were merely the culmination of efforts. Failure, loss, or defeat were simply byproducts, not endpoints. He firmly believed that if one wanted to ride a horse, then one should ride properly and ride well. Whether he arrived late or not at all was beside the point.
He even believed that just as the death of his close supporter held as a hostage did not diminish the value of his victories, his triumphs similarly did not validate his cause.
As they arrived at a grand looking tent, Gottfried’s entourage quickly formed a perimeter, bolstering the guards already there. Inside, the tent was uniquely designed with a wide ceiling opening at the center, beneath which nestled a massive colorful crystal on a sturdy cart.
Around this great gemstone, a dozen mages were positioned, some standing, others sitting. Typically, only a few chanted at a time, but now, almost all of them were chanting, seemingly in desperation.
Gottfried called lightheartedly to one of the mages, whose sister he had taken as a concubine, "What happened?"
"Your Majesty, something is happening. Without reason, the weather is changing," the younger mage reported with great concern.
"Not only that, the change is too fast and this is impossible," the older mage added, his monocle almost slipping if not for his quick reflex.
"Mm, what could cause such a thing?" Gottfried asked, stroking his chin.
"Something that cannot be challenged even by tens of mages working together..." the younger mage muttered.
"There is none that could," the old man stated firmly, yet his tone was filled with doubt and fear.
Gottfried was piqued. "Then this is more than an abnormality, a freak weather?"
The older mage answered, "From the start, we expected some unpredictable issues due to the scale of this operation, but something like this—"
One of the mages who was chanting suddenly lost his footing, and three apprentices immediately rushed to tend to the man.
Gottfried and the rest noticed how pale the fainted mage was. He counted five mages being tended to at the corner on makeshift beds.
"What happened to him?" a knight asked.
"He's overtaxing himself," the young mage answered, while the older one urged, "Your Majesty, we're holding the weather as best as we could, but you must understand that winter is coming."
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Gottfried said nothing, more curious about what caused this than the consequences.
"But there are more than thirty mages in here, not to mention the apprentices," the knight said, his voice tinged with frustration. "Surely you can alter the weather like last time?"
"You know, it's possible that the Capital finally decided to send their Royal Mages," Gottfried mused, drawing everyone's attention.
At his assertion, his cup-bearer, a childhood friend and confidant, pointed out, "I doubt the Capital would march the Royal Mages, especially when over a quarter of the bureaucrats wanted to switch sides."
"Indeed, not to mention an equal number were taking bribes." Gottfried nodded at his charming yet modest friend. "But if it's not them, then who?"
The two mages exchanged glances uneasily.
"Your Majesty, I'm afraid there's no point in that line of reasoning," his cup-bearer suggested.
"He's right," the knight spoke, then gazed toward the mages. "How long will the good weather last?"
The older mage replied, "I'm afraid four days is the best we can do. Maybe even less."
The knight glanced at Gottfried, who then instructed the old mage, "Do your best. Perhaps I need to remind you that this campaign was solely enabled by your suggestion that you could delay winter long enough for us to achieve a breakthrough. I even paid handsomely to acquire that great gemstone."
The two bowed their heads in embarrassment.
Gottfried gazed at the old mage with a smirk on his lips. "Make sure to give it your best; otherwise, I might just approve the Countess's wishes."
The old mage's expression turned sour, his monocle digging into his cheek as he muttered, "Anyone but her."
"You too," Gottfried warned the younger mage. "There are many Northerners who would want a mage as a husband or son-in-law. I can always match you with the highest bidder."
"We'll do our best," the younger mage pleaded, sweating profusely, as Gottfried and his entourage left the tent.
As he stepped outside, the cup-bearer asked, "Do you think you can conquer that city in just four days?"
Gottfried shrugged. "The Military Manual says that taking a small, well-defended city will cost more than a thousand lives for a paltry result. It advises leaders to avoid attacking such cities. Even starving them out isn't an option due to their naturally small population. However, we've proceeded with this approach because we had no other options."
The cup-bearer nodded and stopped asking, not wanting to seem influential.
Despite that, Gottfried continued, musing, "We're going to lose a lot of Inglesians and Arvenians, but it's not like we plan to keep many of them."
The knight beside them looked uneasy and spoke, "Shouldn't we prepare to leave? We only have four days."
"Why? Would their deaths bother the Great Brigandia Chief?" Gottfried asked.
The knight exhaled noisily. "At first, they meant nothing to me. But some have become like brothers in battle."
"Then save those you want," Gottfried suggested. "March them out today; you have my permission." He then teased, "You know it would be easier if you just became my minister, or took the formal position as an Earl."
"Bah, what use is the Imperium's title to me? I'm the chief of minor Brigandia, and that's enough," the knight said.
"Then, my Sir chief of minor Brigandia, what are you planning to do now? Preparing for retreat?" Gottfried quipped, prompting a stifled chuckle from his cup-bearer.
Turning to the cup-bearer, the knight remarked, "You'll see that the Northerner troops are well-equipped and well-suited to march in the snow." Then, to Gottfried, "We'll be with you until your eventual retreat."
Gottfried chuckled, then looked up to set his eyes on the besieged city. "Nothing is set in stone. We shall see if the Inglesians and Arvenians can winter in this city, or perish in the coming winter, along with my hopes for a quick victory." And then, despite the precarious situation, he couldn't resist quipping, "Do you know what they named the commander in that city?"
"Bald Eagle?" the knight furrowed.
"This will be the fight of the balds!" Gottfried remarked enthusiastically.
The solemnness and seriousness of his entourage shattered as they stifled their laughter while marching.
***
East Tiberia, Besieged City, Commander Bald Eagle
As the odd young woman had told him, the weather indeed turned colder. Despite his certainty that magic was involved, Bald Eagle said nothing and told no one. Instead, he simply introduced her as his latest caregiver, citing his injured ankle.
With that excuse, he shared his office with the person who introduced herself as Sagaria, a hat maker's daughter from Centuria.
But the commander wasn't merely trusting his instinct; he harbored some fear that Sagaria might be a fell beast due to her unnatural abilities. Thus, while she was resting in the guest chamber, the old man, limping, moved toward his chest, the only belonging he was able to keep with him during this botched campaign.
Inside, he found an inconspicuous silver necklace encrusted with a small milk-white gem. It was a gift from his uncle, and the rare gem was supposed to change color when near a mage. Moreover, it was believed to turn ochre in the presence of a fell beast.
It had proven its effectiveness once with a female Hunter, who revealed she had the gift of magic. Bald Eagle clutched the necklace and limped toward Sagaria’s quarters; however, there was no reaction even as he touched it to the door. After a while, he sighed with relief.
He limped back to his chair only to hear a knock at the door, and his squire, with his left arm and wrist bandaged, entered. "Sir, the enemies are preparing for their assault," his voice was shaky with mixed emotion.
"Then help me with my armor," Bald Eagle said while watching his guard enter.
The personal guard, his stern face scarred and clad in battered full plate armor, said, "Sir, with your injuries, it's best to leave the fighting to us."
"You can lead us from here. We'll relay the news to you," the squire suggested.
"I can sit somewhere safe, don't be dramatic," Bald Eagle insisted. "What kind of commander leads a defense from the safety of his chamber?"
His guard and squire were about to respond when the guest door opened. A fair-skinned young lady with a beautiful face walked in. "I apologize for interrupting, but the commander's injury is no longer a concern."
Her statement piqued their curiosity, and they immediately looked at the commander's ankle. Bald Eagle tried to flex it and discovered it was no longer painful. He had been limping to avoid pain, not realizing it had somehow healed. Glancing at Sagaria, he said, "I just realized it hasn’t hurt like it used to."
"Are you a physician?" the guardsman asked urgently.
"Hold on, she’s resting and—"
"I’m not a physician, but I can mend wounds since I'm good with needles," Sagaria said, despite the commander's attempt to protect her.
The young squire beamed at her, while the guard added, "Please visit the infirmary; a lot of people need you," he repeated, his voice growing more earnest, "a lot of my dear friends need you."
The commander asked, "Are you sure? The situation in there is not for the faint-hearted. There's a lot of blood and gruesome wounds."
Sagaria nodded without hesitation. The commander then said, "Then I'll accompany you there myself before heading to the ramparts. Bless the Ancients for your skill set."
...
Sagarius
The commander and his men escorted Sagarius, who claimed to be Sagaria, to the infirmary. She was surprised to find the entire corridor transformed into a makeshift hospice. Injuries of all kinds surrounded her: many men were losing limbs, others had deep wounds, and some suffered from blood diseases.
"Are you okay?" the squire asked her gently.
"I'm fine," Sagarius responded, then turning to the commander, "You can leave me here."
"Are you sure?" Bald Eagle asked.
She nodded. Watching her, Bald Eagle instructed the squire, "If she's not feeling well, escort her to her chamber."
The squire seemed reluctant, clearly wishing to be at the ramparts fighting, but Bald Eagle's stern look silenced any complaints. "That is an order."
He nodded, and the commander turned to leave. Just before departing with the commander, the guardsman pulled something from his pocket and handed it to Sagarius. "Please, they're all friends of mine. Help them," he said. With that, they left, leaving Sagarius and the squire with the wounded.
In her palm, Sagarius found four gold coins, a golden ring, and a gemstone. She nodded and bowed deeply, maintaining the demeanor expected of a hat-maker's daughter.
"Best if we get started," Sagarius said to the squire, who replied, "Let me get you to the physician or his assistants, they must be resting. Mind you, they work late every day."
They walked down the corridor, which was lined on one side with wounded men lying on canvas or straw mattresses to protect them from the cold stone floor. Morning light barely penetrated the area, and the air was heavy with the smell of iron and a thin layer of incense, which did little to mask the putrid stench of urine and other wastes. The corridor was filled with the sounds of heavy, laborious breathing, muffled groans, and occasional cries.
As they walked, Sagarius began to softly chant, needing to focus all her faculties to perform a mass healing rite.
She sang the song taught by Mother, revered as the wisest Ancients. Though inaudible to those around her, everyone in the corridor gasped as an inexplicable feeling washed over them. Even the squire paused in his tracks, overwhelmed, and fell to his knees. The grunting and crying around them ceased as if everyone was experiencing a profound change.
The song itself had no magical properties; it was merely a lullaby. Yet, Sagarius used it to tap into her psyche and unlock her source of power. For the first time in ages, one of the last high elves in this world fully embraced her gift of magic.
Yesterday, when she manipulated the weather, she did not even tap into her source. She simply exchanged the fertility of the surrounding forest to restore the weather. But to rapidly heal and mend so many required a vast amount of magical energy. An equal trade for such a feat might turn the entire area slowly into a desert.
Soon, the wounded began to shed tears of joy, no longer bound by pain and feeling revitalized. Dozens stood, discarding their bandages as their lacerations and deep wounds healed. Bones and joints were mended, and here and there, people tested their newly healed limbs. Those who had lost limbs felt no pain, and individuals suffering from blood diseases found themselves completely cured.
No one could pinpoint what had spurred this miraculous healing, but the squire, hearing an ancient melody from her, crawled toward Sagarius' feet, clutching them gently. Soon, realization dawned on everyone: she was the likely source. In awe and gratitude, they knelt before her.
Sagarius sighed, yet a smile was on her lips. "Do not show gratitude to me," she warned. "For I will order you to die for the Imperium."
"Then, we will die many times for the Imperium," said a dashing young knight who had been in a coma, but declared dead due to limited medical knowledge.
The people who saw the knight shed tears of relief; the knight's body had been washed and was waiting for burial. Yet, he was now standing with them, in the full vigor of his youth.
***