The walls of Grensfield were pitiful. No more than eight feet high and less than half that in thickness, they were of clean dark gray stone that contrasted with the light blue sky above. They were not shabbily built, the mage admitted to himself. Defensible, when the time came. And the time would come, and sooner than he’d like. But compared to the walls of Highharrow they were lacking.
Lukas Merveillo gazed at the stonework again and grimaced. It is no wonder the oracle is beside themself, he thought.
“Send for Baron Licester and tell him that Lukas Merveillo has arrived and wishes to speak,” he told the guards as he rode to the portcullis. Closed, as was good sense. Behind Lukas stood twenty carriages and more than two hundred men armed to the teeth, almost half of them horsed, and another hundred camp followers. Even many of the camp followers bore armor of their own, stolen from the victims of their ambushes. They could not storm the city, of course. Not without Lukas’s intervention. Still, it was only good sense to barricade the city at the sight of such a group.
Atop the portcullis wall the guards murmured amongst themselves, then eventually ceded to Lukas’s demand. Frustrating as it was, now he could only wait for the baron to order the portcullis raised and gates opened, a matter that would take some time.
Lukas did not enjoy waiting. Waiting left only time to think, and of late Lukas’s thoughts could only turn to the war.
He did not enjoy how the war was turning out, though he would be the last to say it. Their initial victory against Viscount Whitmore had been proof enough to convince the uncertain nobles in Hilva to engage in full war, proof that they could win, given time. His magic made it so. The oracle’s magic made it so.
Yet that had been the end of their good fortune. Pursuing the Viscount’s army was a foolish move, but Baron Licester could not be tempered.
“They have tasted blood and now run like cowards. And you tell me not to pursue?” the Baron had said.
“Then at least stay,” Lukas had begged. “Stay in the city and send knights in your place. Your presence is necessary, the oracle said as much.”
A lie. Keeping the Baron’s incompetence away from the war itself was Lukas’s only interest, and Grensfield was as far from the war as the Baron was like to get. The man had no friends in Hilva, despite years of trade with the kingdom, and so would find no comfort in the kingdom. The issue, of course, was taxes. Trade between Hilva and the Empire proper required voyage through Licester, and so the Baron had placed a tax on all goods migrating through his territory. A tax that was several impera too high.
But the Baron had his uses, prime among them his barony. Licester was the perfect staging area for an invasion; naturally fortified by monster ridden woods to the north and south, it was the singular bridge between the two nations. And acquiring it had been deceptively easy. Lukas had only to promise the Baron additional lands, as well as raise his noble status to that of duke. A false promise, though the Baron would only learn that once it was too late.
And the fool had only smiled dumbly at Lukas’s words, no doubt enamored with the idea of increased wealth and power, oblivious to his nature as a mere pawn in Lukas’s scheme. Many men behaved the same when it came to the oracle. It was a misunderstanding of the oracle’s power, a form of willful ignorance. Easier to believe in the impermanence of the future, that the future could be changed in some way.
But it was not so, Lukas knew. The future was as set in stone as the past, the ink of the story of life having dried long ago. The oracle could merely read ahead and see what the Gods have planned for them.
“Raise the portcullis! Open the gates!” a familiar voice called out. A feminine voice, and one that reassured the mage.
The gates opened to reveal a line of knights on the other side, headed by Rowena. Her face was sour, though it eased as he approached.
“What news?” she asked. She turned her horse and fell in beside him as they road down the cobbled streets.
“Mixed tidings. Victory all along the Imperial Roadway, but there was trouble in Coalben. Another knight sent to kill us.”
“I see this knight failed.”
“Fail, yes, but not before his soldiers killed some fifty of my men and blew the city’s gates to pieces. There were two mages in his group, not much better than common battle mages. But their power suddenly rose during the fighting. Enough for one of them to hold me back as the others escaped.”
“Dead, I presume?”
“The mage, yes. And most of their men. But the others escaped, including the other mage.”
“What of the knight?”
Lukas grimaced and pulled at the golden chain hanging about his neck—gold, not dragonbone, nor steel-of-heaven, a fact that irked him still.
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“Alive still. Duke Baerncaster’s knights apprehended him, but he won a trial by combat, I’m told.”
It was Rowena’s turn to grimace. “I…had not expected them to utilize such a knight,” she said.
Neither had he, in truth. The Duke’s knights were among the greatest in the empire, discounting those of Imperial stature. To kill one was a grand feat.
“It is quite confusing. They did not know his strength somehow, I think. Otherwise they would have given him more soldiers, more mages. What he had was a paltry force.”
And not worth our time, he thought. He should not have confronted the knight’s men, should not have suffered such a disgrace. He was Lukas Merveillo, third son of a duke and the greatest mage in all Hilva, and to have miscalculated so irked him to no end.
This entire war has been a miscalculation. Reliance on the oracle was his undoing, he was certain of it. Years of cultivating the oracle’s power had led him to great heights; he had served as the court mage for the last three kings of Hilva, had developed magic granting invisibility, and had set this war in motion, all in the desire to be granted the respect he deserved. Yet now when he followed the oracle’s guidance it was not a joyous victory that he was rewarded with, but strife.
Mindlessly, he found himself running the cold gold chain between his fingers once more. It was an honor for any of the Magehead to wear a chain of gold about the neck, yet for Lukas it was only a reminder of the ire his colleagues showed him. Time and again he had been refused the rank of councilor. Councilor, when he should have been Custodian.
They stopped outside the manor gates. Guarded by five soldiers wielding spears, the gate was thick black iron that twisted and weaved to portray the image of a flying eagle. Contrasting with the gate was the manor itself, a disgustingly grandiose building of pearl white that stood nearly seven stories tall and thrice as wide.
“Has he been up to trouble?” Lukas asked.
Rowena opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. She stared at the manor, worried. “He wants to fight,” she said.
“As always.”
“Perhaps it is time to let him?”
“Soon,” he said. “The oracle has decreed it so.”
And has also decreed the fool’s death.
“That will make him more manageable, then.”
Lukas and the knights entered the manor alone. Most of his men would be in the city proper, dispensing their goods at the various warehouses. The rest were left outside just beyond the gates.
The manor interior was the very image of the gaudy hunter. In every corner and along every wall stood a taxidermied beast of one kind or another; bears, lions, deer, and monsters of every kind. And above each was the weapon that killed them, gilded with gold and mounted to the wall. One particular beast, a crablike monster with fungal growths all across its shell, stood as the centerpiece in the main hall. A grotesque thing, it was all Lukas could do not to gag at the sight of the creature.
It was harder, however, to keep his rage in check at the sight of the Baron.
Descending the staircase with easy steps, Baron Harold Licester smiled a deceptively charming smile that suited the sharp, masculine angles of his face. His suit was pure white with accents of cloth-of-gold that matched the full golden blond hair that sat atop his head. A man in the prime of his youth, the Baron was a head taller than Lukas and nearly twice as wide, all of it muscle.
“Lord Licester, how good to see you.” Lukas greeted him with as wide a smile he could muster, struggling to hide his contempt. The Baron played at being a warrior, and Lukas Merveillo had no use for such antics. Muscled as he was, the man had never killed a beast himself. The ones decorating his hall were purchased from contractors, often with hefty bonuses. An easy thing for a man as rich as the Baron.
“Lukas, it is good to see you well! How goes the war?”
“It goes well, my lord. All according to the oracle’s divinations.”
The Baron brightened at that. “Good, truly, though I must admit that I grow weary sitting in my manor. I am not a man made for peace. Tell me, Lukas, has the oracle said when I will join the fighting?”
Lukas nodded. “Soon, my lord, and sooner than you may think. The city is to be besieged some time soon.”
The Baron was taken aback by his words, a flash of confused anger passing over his face. “Besieged? Who would dare? When?”
“I do not know, my lord. Before summer’s end, I’m told, but the oracle has not seen any of the finer details.”
“But we will win, yes?” he asked. “I cannot see how we could not. More than ten thousand men-at-arms stand ready to defend our walls, with a hundred and fifty mages to back them up and more than fifty knights ready to slaughter any foolish enough to make it into our walls. And then there is you, of course.”
“And then there is me. Fear not, my lord, our victory is certain,” Lukas said.
If only it were the truth. He had little doubt that they would be victorious, but the fact of the matter was that the oracle had been eerily silent regarding the results of the battle. It would be a momentous victory, it was prophesied, though Lukas could not help but wonder for whom.
“Then we must make preparations. You said you do not know when? Ah, it matters not, we will be ready regardless. Is there anything else you need of me? If not, I shall be drafting a plan with my commanders.”
Lukas raised a steady hand. “There is but one more thing, my lord. The oracle will be coming to Grensfield. On the morrow, no less.”
Baron Licester smiled brighter than ever before. “On the morrow, you say? The oracle will have whatever is desired, from the finest room to the finest food and the finest clothes. And armed guards, of course, as many as need be. Is there any gift that should be given? I am not entirely knowledgeable of Hilvan customs.”
“No gift,” Lukas said, “merely solitude. The oracle’s gift is a fickle thing, you understand.”
“Ah, certainly. Then solitude it shall be. None shall disturb them.”
“Good,” Lukas said.
“If that is all, then I shall be with my commanders.”
As Lukas watched the Baron saunter off with an extra pep in his step, his mind churned with thoughts of the future. This war is not turning out at all as I had hoped.