The next few hours were a weary rush of activity, as his soldiers shouted their newly taken prisoners into order and searched among the fallen for the wounded. Friend and foe, all were given the chance to survive by the healers among them, who worked to apply tourniquets, to clean and bandage wounds, and splint broken limbs. Those who had not been lucky enough to survive were laid in a separate place, where Matt ordered them to be buried or burned. He tried hard to turn a blind eye to those who were obviously as intent on recovering valuables from the fallen rather than looking for signs of life.
Once that work was done, Matt turned his soldiers loose on the enemy camp. The shouts of victory were clear despite the distance as his troops looted and burned the abandoned tents of the enemy, taking what they wished. Those who had remained behind, guarding the prisoners, stared at the sight glumly. Matt sent them a message that they would receive a portion of the plunder, something that seemed to cheer them up well enough, though the prisoners were no happier about it.
It was already afternoon by the time the looting and scavenging were done, and by then, Matt felt like he had run a marathon. How had he grown so tired just supervising a battle?
He shook his head and started Nelson forward again. It was finally time for him to meet with Captain Morteth. Given how much the Imp had been crucial to his plans, it would be good to see the soldier face to face.
As he was riding through the mess of the battlefield, looking for Morteth’s personal banner, Captain Snolt rode up to him. The captain was wounded; a bandage had been wrapped around his middle, and another covered a gash on his forehead. He wavered a little on his Warg, but the captain still saluted. “My liege!”
“Captain.” Matt nodded to the Goblin, quietly happy that the man had survived. “You did well today. I was worried those Wizards would overwhelm us. How did you get the chance?”
“The Hunters, sire. They have plenty of illusion and concealment techniques, so they helped us slip past the enemy cavalry and make our charge.” Snolt paused, touching his bandages lightly. “Not that the Wizards didn’t fight back. We’re only lucky those ones on the mounts ran so quickly.”
Matt frowned. “They ran?”
“Just about as soon as they could, sire. It was like they were just waiting for the opening to go.” Snolt shook his head. “Just cowardice, maybe. Though I did notice the Knights weren’t the same as the Griffons. All the same, they got away mostly clean and their friends are still here.”
He filed that information away for a future. A division in the Noble Races would be something he might be able to use. “Still, well done, captain. Get your wounds seen to, and be ready. We’ll be returning to the capital soon.”
Snolt saluted, and Matt gestured for him to withdraw. The captain did so, withdrawing towards the medical tents, which Matt took as a good sign. Maybe the man had finally slaked his bloodthirstiness. Time would tell.
He noticed a pair of Orcs walking nearby and realized he recognized one of them. “Sargent Nikles! Is this your brother?”
“It is, sire! Maben, this is the King.” Nikles bowed low, followed suit by the Orc next to him. Nikles’ brother was shorter than he was, but much stockier. He seemed a little stunned at being introduced to royalty, but the salute the Orc gave was steady.
“It is good to meet you, sire. My brother has had much to say about you.”
“All good, I hope?” Matt smiled, and touched the hilt of his mace. “Sargent Nikles has been kind enough to teach me something of the sword, though I think I’ll stay with the blunt weaponry I am used to.”
Maben gave a cautious smile of his own. “Yes, sire.”
Nikles laughed and threw an arm around his brother. “If you’ll excuse us, my liege, it’s been a while and we need to catch up.”
Matt gestured in understanding, and the Orcs turned aside. He continued his ride, seeing Morteth’s banner at last. It took him only a little longer to pick his way across the bloody battlefield to where the Imp waited.
The tent was not an overly decorated one, looking far closer to a simple soldier’s shelter than a nobleman’s resting place. Morteth had apparently ordered it moved from his former camp so that he could set it up closer to the spot where the prisoners were being kept, or so Matt had overheard from some of the other soldiers. It showed a remarkable amount of foresight, though he wondered if the orders had stirred up some discontent among the ones forced to carry them out.
As he carefully dismounted from Nelson, one of his lifeguards took Nelson’s reins. Another two dismounted with him, their boots crunching heavily in the snow. He nodded to them as he approached the tent, where a single Orc stood watch outside.
Matt glanced at the guard and then strode forward. The Orc seemed to be about to speak up, but he took one look at the lifeguards and thought better of it. Instead, he tapped a small chime attached to the entrance, as if to warn Morteth of a visitor. Matt smiled a little as he stepped inside.
He found Morteth waiting for him in a chair behind a low table with a map of the area spread across it. Captain Vumorth was there as well, her armor still scorched from a near-miss by a Wizard’s lightning bolt. She seemed caught between worry and defiance as she stared back at Matt. In response, he simply nodded to her, and turned his attention to Morteth himself.
The Imp looked almost like a less-refined version of Lord Torth. They shared the same brilliant green cats’ eyes and a similar purplish coloring to their scaled skin. Where Torth had been thin and wiry, however, Morteth looked squat and well-muscled, almost like a reptilian chimpanzee. It was a comparison that fell apart as soon as Matt saw the intelligence in the man’s eyes, however. No ape had ever been that deviously clever, which was probably a good thing for his ancestors.
“Captain Morteth. It is good to finally meet you.”
Morteth’s eyes went to Vumorth. She nodded slightly, and he rose from his chair and bowed. “The honor is all mine, King Matthew. Your continual efforts on behalf of my men and myself have preserved my life and my people.”
“All my brilliant ideas, if that’s what they were, wouldn’t have worked half as well without your bravery, dedication, and sacrifice, Captain Morteth.” Matt stepped forward, extending his hand. “Among my people, shaking hands is an expression of trust and friendship.”
“So I have heard.” Morteth’s lips twisted into a kind of wry smile. Matt noticed what seemed like dozens of small scars lining the Imp’s skin. How long had this man been a soldier? He grasped Matt’s hand and shook it firmly. “You honor me again.”
Matt laughed a little. He stepped back a little as a lifeguard brought in another chair for him. “Well, get used to it. If you keep doing such good work, I’m going to have to give you all kinds of titles in thanks for it.”
He fell into the seat, gesturing for Morteth to retake his own. “As it is, I’m already having to search for another way to reward a Defender of the Realm. Do you have any suggestions?”
The question seemed to take the captain completely off guard. Morteth looked at Vumorth again, but she seemed just as shocked as he was. “I’m…not sure what you mean, my liege.”
His obvious confusion nearly provoked another laugh, but Matt managed to keep it to a smile instead. “I’m asking how I can thank you for your work, Captain Morteth. I do have some ideas of my own, but I’d like to hear your thoughts first.”
Silence followed the question, slightly different this time than the one that had come before. Morteth and Vumorth looked at each other, their expressions equally unreadable. They had to know the question was a trap; neither of them was so idealistic that they wouldn’t see it. If Morteth asked for more military authority, he would be seen as trying to solidify power in the army, which could be used to usurp the throne. Asking for more land or political power would reveal the same kind of ambition, from another angle. Even just demanding a place of pride during the coming victory parade could reveal disloyalty by looking for a chance to gain fame and appreciation among the people. There were very few things Morteth could ask for without placing a knife at Matt’s throat.
Yet asking for nothing would be just as suspect, of course. Morteth had performed exceptionally well; some measure of glory and reward was due. If Morteth refused to take that reward from Matt directly, it could be taken as a sign that he felt no loyalty to the throne, and didn’t want to take anything from a king that he didn’t respect. Either way, the captain could easily present himself as a threat to Matt’s authority. Of course, he could have already become a threat; Matt had just dragged the possibility kicking and screaming out into the open.
Morteth had to have thought through all those possibilities, as the silence stretched on. When the captain looked back at Matt, his expression grew firm, perhaps even obstinate. Matt forced himself to relax back into his chair, ignoring the throb of pain that radiated out from his chest. The decision had been made.
“Sire, the favor I ask is one that some might find…objectionable.” The captain raised his chin slightly. “I will accept whatever honors and responsibilities you see fit to grant me, but what I truly wish is a personal boon.”
Matt raised his eyebrow, hoping that his heart wasn’t hammering hard enough in his chest that the Imps could hear it. He gestured for Morteth to continue.
“There is a family of Ashrock Imps that lives in a village to the south.” Morteth glanced at Vumorth, who had stirred slightly. When she went still again, he continued. “I wish for them to be granted titles of nobility and a small patch of land. Where the land will be is unimportant, as are the titles.”
The request was so grave that Matt found it hard not to sound incredulous. “You wish for them to be a part of the nobility? Why?”
Morteth’s lips twisted. He glanced at Vumorth one final time and then looked away. “I respectfully decline to answer, sire.”
Matt stared at the Imp, his mind running through the possibilities. Technically, as King, Matt had the power to ennoble anyone he chose. It was a risky thing to do, however. First, creating a new family of nobles could be seen as a strike against the existing nobility, especially from a clan that had been traditionally suppressed. Undermining the nobility was something he normally had no problem with—that was half the reason the freeholders existed, after all—but going too far would provoke the existing nobles to rebel, even more than they already were.
At the same time, if this favor was all that Morteth was asking for, it meant that the captain intended to stay loyal. Matt had offered him the chance to ask for more, and if he denied the Imp his help now, he would turn a possible ally into an immediate enemy. Given how competent the man was, could Matt afford to have him turn against him? Which would be worse, the discomfort and envy of a few nobles, or the hatred of a respected general?
He frowned, leaning forward a little in his chair. “You are correct that many would find your request unusual, Captain. If you do not want your reasons known, would it still be acceptable for me to announce that it is a favor I was giving you? That is to say, is this a boon that you would want publicly known?”
Morteth blinked, his stubborn expression lessening slightly. “I…believe so, sire. It would be fine if they know it was me who made it possible.”
“Then it will be done.” Matt reached forward to tap the table. “Please let me know the names of the Imps involved, and I will send the announcement as soon as we reach Redspire. I would do it sooner, but I think the declaration and lands would be better chosen at home.”
The tension in the room abruptly flowed out of them, like water spilling from a breached dam. Morteth slumped back in his chair, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. “Thank you, sire. You have my gratitude.”
Still mystified by the whole affair, Matt shrugged uncomfortably. “Save your thanks until you hear what else I have planned for you, Captain. Or, I should say, Marshall.”
Morteth’s head came up. His eyes opened. “Marshall, sire?”
“I’ve decided that you are due a promotion.” Matt smiled. “Currently, as I understand it, you were given command over your current forces mainly due to your command over Greymouth. Aside from that, you only have the immediate command of the Third High Guards.”
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Morteth nodded. “Yes, sire, that is accurate.”
“Well, now I am giving you command over every banner guarding our eastern border. You will have the personal authority to organize and direct their actions, aside from whatever commands I give them, for as long as they are stationed on this front.”
The Imp suddenly sat up straight, astonishment written across his scaled features. “Sire. All of them?”
“All of them.” Matt continued in an easy voice, as if he hadn’t noticed Morteth’s shock. “Your noble title will be adjusted as well, to that of Margrave of the East. It will help you navigate the need to override other nobles when they object to your orders. If it is not enough, then communicate any issues you might encounter to me, and I will handle it.”
Morteth’s mouth opened and closed repeatedly, as if he was having trouble finding the words. When he finally managed to get the words out, he sounded half-strangled. “I—I am honored by such trust, but I do not—”
Matt waved the attempted protest away. “You’ve more than earned it, Marshall. In addition, I’m going to have your troops join us for the triumph in Redspire, and you’ll be able to add Guardian of the East to your titles. Do you have any questions, Margrave?”
The Imp seemed too stunned to keep up, but he managed to shake his head. Matt nodded to him and continued. “Now, I feel we should also honor the troops who fought with us as well. Choose five men who demonstrated bravery or wisdom during the fight, and we’ll give them an Award of Valor. I’ll be choosing five among my forces as well.”
Morteth nodded mutely, and Matt stood. He reached out his hand again, and the commander stared at it dumbly for a moment. Then Morteth’s brain appeared to catch up, and the Imp threw himself up and out of the seat. He clasped Matt’s hand a moment later, shaking it a bit more roughly than he had the first time. Matt gave him a confident smile. “It will be good working with you, Margrave.”
The Imp’s mouth worked for a moment in silence. “Y-yes, my liege. You have my thanks—”
“And you have mine. Now, I’m sure you are busy. I will leave you to it.” Matt straightened up, giving Vumorth a silent look. The captain blinked in surprise and then came to attention. He let go of Morteth’s hand and then strode out of the tent.
A gust of cold met him as he walked back into the embrace of winter. He made his way over to where the lifeguards were still holding Nelson. There he paused, making a subtle show of adjusting the warbuck’s saddle and reins. When he turned back, Captain Vumorth was there, still standing at attention.
The High Guard captain still looked mildly stunned, but some of her calm, professional expression had returned. She did not quite seem to meet Matt’s eyes. “My liege.”
“Captain Vumorth.” He glanced towards the tent, but neither the guards nor Morteth himself had approached. “I wasn’t exactly surprised to see you with the Margrave, but some notice would have been helpful.”
“I apologize, my liege.” The captain’s voice was formal. One who hadn’t been watching for it might have missed the slight unsteadiness in it. “The…Margrave is my uncle. I had thought to take the opportunity to catch up with him.”
“I see.” Matt filed that information away for future use. He wondered if Gorfeld had been aware of it, or if the steward had simply thought it was beneath notice. “Can you tell me the reason for his request, then? I respect his desire to keep it private, but I dislike it when I do not understand the people I depend on.”
Vumorth shifted slightly, her expression now growing acutely uncomfortable. “The family he has asked you to favor…I grew quite close to one of them.” She looked away, the hue of her skin growing a bit bluer. “An actual relationship would not be possible due to our positions.”
Matt studied her for a moment, the pieces clicking into place. “Ah. I see.” He looked away as well, realizing how foolish it would have been to deny the request. If he had, then he might have had another enemy right next to him, ready to strike. “Say no more about it, then. You’re dismissed, Captain. See to your troops.”
She came to attention and saluted. Then she stalked away through the snow, her face still a deeper blue than normal. Matt watched her go for a few strides and then turned back to Nelson. He couldn’t help but chuckle a little. Even in this strange place, people had the same fallibilities. At least he hadn’t set himself in their way; perhaps by the end of the whole catastrophe, Vumorth and her lover would be able to turn out all right.
Time would tell.
It took until late in the afternoon for the butcher’s bill to be finished.
In the end, it was Captain Karve that brought it to him. Matt didn’t know if it was because the Orc held the least fear of him, or if the other captains were simply under the impression that the Eighth Spears had some kind of special arrangement with him. He’d already heard some of the men referring to the banner as the ‘Iron Eighth’, so perhaps it was the latter. Hopefully, it wouldn’t encourage Karve to do anything…ambitious.
Not that the Orc seemed anything but steadfast and reliable. He bowed from the waist, only approaching Matt’s desk after he was acknowledged. “The estimated casualties, my liege.”
“Thank you, Captain.” Matt accepted a piece of parchment and sighed as he looked over the figures. “Did we find Hethwellow? Or did he get away?”
“He was found, my liege.” Karve’s blunt face showed traces of grim satisfaction for a moment. “Their would-be king was killed in the fighting. I believe a farmer’s pitchfork struck him through.”
The absurdity of the statement forced a laugh from Matt despite his attempt to hold it back. “You’re joking. One of the Irregulars?”
Karve nodded. “From what we can tell. Not many of them survived, so I cannot guarantee which one did the deed.”
Matt felt his humor vanish. Out of four banners of Irregulars, nearly half of them were dead, and another quarter lay wounded. Whoever had managed to solve Matt’s personal grudge was likely burned or buried by now.
He shook the guilt and grief away. “Do your best. Whoever managed it has earned an Award for Valor, live or dead.”
“It will be done, my liege.” Karve waited as Matt read through the rest of the report, his patience an interesting compliment to the lifeguards that were standing on either side of him. The Orc’s expression didn’t change as Matt set the parchment aside and put a hand over his eyes. His voice, however, showed the barest trace of concern. “My liege? Are you well?”
Matt peeked out from beneath his own hand. “I am as well as can be expected, Captain. Do not be concerned.” He looked back down at the parchment and closed his eyes again. The Irregulars were not the only group that had taken casualties. Almost all of the banners under his command had taken a beating, with most of them having nearly a quarter of their number dead or wounded. Morteth’s troops had been less heavily punished for their participation, but the Imp had reported critical amounts of fatigue among his men, along with a terrifying lack of supplies. If the chase had gone on for a couple more days, Morteth’s men might have been fighting on half rations.
Of course, their condition paled compared to the condition of the prisoners. Not only had Hethwellow’s troops already been on half rations, sickness had been spreading through the camp thanks to Hethwellow relying on some food taken from Greymouth. Apparently, the fool had just ignored the fact that the stuff had been contaminated, with predictable results among his troops. Half the Elves were apparently ready to faint by the time they had taken the field. Only the Dwarves and the Knights had been anything approaching healthy, and even they now seemed spent.
As a result, he had hundreds of Elves, Dwarves, Knights, and Wizards who were either wounded or starving, who he now needed to drag home to Redspire. Hopefully before any more of them managed to kick the bucket. Luckily, his own supply train was still intact, or the whole mess of troops might have been put on short rations before they made the walls.
Matt dropped his hand and opened his eyes. The situation wasn’t going to change just by him ignoring it. It was time to get things moving.
He looked over at Karve, who was still waiting for him to respond. “Thank you Captain. Tell all the men that they did well. Have them bury the fallen; I know it is a lot of work, but they deserve our final respects.”
Some part of his bitterness must have leaked through, because the Orc’s face tightened. “They gave a warrior’s sacrifice, my liege. They gave their lives, but you made sure it was for a brighter future, instead of some nobleman’s pride. This time, the sacrifice has meant something.”
Karve fell silent, as if he had used up his allotment of words for the season, and Matt watched as the Orc struggled to regain his prior stoicism. Clearly, the Captain of the Eighth was far more dedicated to the Kingdom than Matt had expected. More importantly, he seemed to feel far more loyal to Matt’s new regime than he had to the old rulers. A promising sign, as long as he never found out that Matt was only going to be here for a short time.
Matt paused, feeling an unexpected flicker of uncertainty. He was only going to be here for another handful of months, right? Why would he feel conflicted about that now?
He forced himself to focus, mentally shaking off the feelings of disquiet. “I know, Captain. I only wish that so many of our brothers and sisters in arms had not needed to make that sacrifice.” Matt waved to the blood-soaked battlefield beyond the tent walls. “At least their work today will lay the foundation for our peoples’ future. Thank you for reminding me of that.”
Karve’s eyes seemed to shine for a moment, and a smile worked its way across his unwilling features. He saluted, his back straightening with perfect discipline. “Thank you, my liege, for giving us—all of us—a chance at something more than mere war and conflict. We will not let you down, no matter what.”
Matt gestured for Karve to withdraw, feeling another pang of grief and guilt as the Orc withdrew. Would Karve be so enthusiastic for a king who only wanted his time here to be temporary? For a man that had deliberately traded the lives of the Irregulars for the chance to trap the enemy and win the battle? How many more sacrifices would Karve and others like him endure before they finally turned on Matt?
He shook his head, trying to banish those feelings again. He had too much to do to waste time on feelings of inadequacy or fraud. It wouldn’t help anyone, least of all himself, if he hesitated too long on the mistakes or choices of the past. Better to continue forward, and worry about what would come next.
It was hard to shake the feeling that whatever the future had in store for him, it was going to be a lot harder to deal with than this campaign had been.
Thirty thousand people made more noise than Matt had expected.
It had taken three days for his exhausted forces to make their way back to Redspire. They’d marched back through the woods, and then along the snow-choked roads, dragging both prisoners and loot along with them. The wounded were carried or limped along under their own power. Matt had not pushed them, willing to let his supplies run down rather than lose people on the road. There had been a handful that had faded and fell, something that had pained him. Each grave on the roadside tore at him; the fact that they had survived the marching and fighting, only to die now, seemed like mockery.
He'd expected another interested, but small, reception when they had arrived. What waited for his troops within the gates, however, was beyond anything he could have expected. It seemed like the entire population of the city had lined up along the roads. They were packed along the route, shouting and cheering as if they wanted to shake the snow from the rooftops. The cheering and shouting were so loud that he had trouble hearing Snolt laugh next to him; his captain seemed genuinely exuberant despite the pains of his own wounds. Matt could see the rest of his soldiers smiling and laughing as well, their steps growing lighter and easier along the cobblestones.
Almost as surprising as the numbers of people were the differences he could see among them. There were nobles there, isolated amongst their guards and standing out in their fine clothing, but the majority of them were holding up sheathed daggers, a sign of the newly made freeholders. The ones holding up the weapons shouted all that much louder as he drew near them, a level of fanaticism on their faces that shocked him. Had he returned in the middle of some kind of riot? From what he could see of the faces of the nobles, he wasn’t the only one worried about it.
The crowds were being kept back by the Irregulars who had stayed in the city, though they looked like they could barely contain themselves from rushing in. There were some who jeered and booed as the prisoners staggered past them, but Matt had made sure to surround them with units of Spears that warned the crowds back from swarming the defeated Knights. Further back, towards the end of the column, he could already see the crowds collapsing in behind his troops, following after them.
Up ahead, he saw a small group of people standing ready in one of the market squares. Matt blinked as he looked at the place. He remembered the well that had been in the middle of the intersection. It had been a simple, crude thing, built from rough stone and worn bits of wood and rope.
In its place was something…new. It looked like a fountain, shaped from smoothed grey rock. The center of the fountain was a small pillar of the same kind of stone, with small openings that allowed water to spill out. On top of that pillar was a statue of a figure in armor, one forged from iron. How much metal and time had they wasted building it? Who had they even…
His jaw dropped a little as he recognized himself in the thing. It was bigger than he was, but it had the same stance, and a copy of his mace was laid across its shoulder. The thing wasn’t wearing his helmet; instead it had the crown of Redspire on its brow. They’d also made it with one arm upraised, as if in victory.
Matt hated it immediately.
Still, he gritted his teeth and smiled, still waving to the roaring crowds around him. Somehow, he was going to have to find a way to have the thing melted down. He’d just have to do it when nobody was paying attention. Give it a few days, or maybe a week or two. No time at all, really.
Girtun and Lord Torth were both waiting for him, and both looked insufferably pleased. There were others there, too. Representatives of the Low Folk, another smattering of nobles from the Great Council. Paralus was there as well, standing a short distance away. His expression grew a bit pained when he saw the prisoners coming along, but Matt ignored the ambassador. There were even a handful of servants from the castle that he recognized, though they seemed more nervous than anyone else.
In front of all of them, however, was Gorfeld. The steward was smiling as Matt approached; the soldiers ahead of him spread apart to give him room to get through to the ones waiting for him. He rode Nelson forward for a few moments and then pulled short of them. For a heartbeat, he forced himself to grin up at the statue, and then he dismounted. “Gorfeld! You have a surprise for me.”
He wasn’t able to keep the edge out of his words, but Gorfeld’s grin just broadened. “Yes, my liege. Welcome back to Redspire, and congratulations on your many victories.”
The others all murmured an echo of the words as the crowds grew briefly quiet, and Matt tilted his head to the side in surprise. Then a miraculously clean Parufeth stepped out from the bunch, holding a golden chalice that was probably worth more than everything Matt had ever owned.
Matt watched as the Gnome dipped the cup into the fountain and then turned to hand it to Gorfeld with a grin. The steward’s smile was blinding at this point, and a sense of wonder started to break through Matt’s fatigue and irritation as the Imp offered it to him.
“In celebration of your victories, sire—over all our enemies, whether rebels, traitors, invaders, or something more. We offer you this first drink of fresh water from the depths of the Great Cistern, as a taste of the new future you have brought us.”
Matt took the cup, feeling a little numb from surprise. They’d finished a fountain already? He’d thought it would have taken so much more time, with the ground frozen. Parufeth had to have worked like mad to get it done. How had they…
Gorfeld leaned in, his smile turning conspiratorial. “I promise you, my liege, it does not taste at all like Warg shit.”
The whisper broke the dam in Matt’s mind. He threw back his head and laughed. Then he pulled off his helmet and handed it to Gorfeld. Turning back to the crowd, he raised the cup to them. “To the future of our Kingdom!”
As they once again roared in triumph, Matt raised the cup to his lips and drank deep. For once, the future tasted good.
Refreshing even.