The aftermath of the battle seemed like it was nearly as much work as the battle itself.
His soldiers had searched among the fallen for the wounded, both from his forces and those of the enemy. There had been many, almost too many for the army to carry with them when they left. Those who had slight injuries were given enough treatment to help them walk and move on their own. Those who were worse off were piled into one of the few remaining carts, in the hopes that they could last long enough to reach doctors elsewhere.
They also had to bury the dead, a task that Matt at least felt he could use his magic to help with. There were far too many bodies on the field, and it took the entire rest of the day to gather them all. The snow was so stained with blood that it seemed like the entire battlefield was a pool of frozen crimson. He wondered how long it would take for it to melt away or be buried under fresh snow.
Matt dug the graves for the dead, both for his own people and the soldiers of the Alliance alike. Casualties had been high, even among his victorious banners, and the butcher’s bill for the Alliance and rebel forces was barely worth thinking about. Hundreds of lives had ended on that field, to the point where it would take weeks for his Kingdom to replace the losses. He only hoped that the Alliance would be just as hard pressed to find new soldiers, and that the remaining rebels in the Copper Hills would finally lay down their arms.
His generals hadn’t been spared from harm, either. While Captain Snolt had been untouched, Gwelfed the scout had been wounded. Captain Rugord had been severely hurt, to the point where he had to be dragged from the field by his men. Lady Einreth and Magrave Karve had both been wounded as well, though not nearly as badly. With Karve it had been a close thing. If the arrow had struck just a short distance to the right, Matt would have needed to replace his newest Margrave already.
The search for survivors among the corpses slowly revealed the scope of the disaster for the enemy. It was clear that the majority of the forty banners that had faced him had been wiped out or captured, leaving only fragments to scatter to safety. Of the ten banners of militia, two of every five militiamen had escaped, and had usually done so by throwing down their weapons and running for their lives. Matt had no doubt that they would either resort to banditry in the Sortenmoors, or simply returning to a farm somewhere rather than challenging his rule again.
Every single Leaper had been killed or captured, and only a single banner’s worth of Defiants had managed to escape out of four. The loss of those soldiers almost guaranteed that Teblas’ rebellion was over, even if the leader himself hadn’t been discovered with three different Goblin swords driven through him. Matt had buried him with his men, in a space of the field just in front of the dead town of the Forks, something he thought Teblas would have appreciated.
None of the Elven Prancers had escaped either, and as Snolt had reported, the Princess Kelthar had been found dead in their midst. Lady Mourine, Third Heir to the Order of Ravens, had been found dead among the corpses left by the Murdersworn, of whom only parts of two banners had managed to retreat. Lord Onless, one of the princes of the Onyx Clan, had been killed among the Crossguard by a Vulgar blade, though at least two full banners of his Dwarves had retreated intact.
Lord Thur’sen, a nephew of the Head Sorcerer of the Circle of White and leader of the Stormcallers, had been found dead as well, full of Shadow Hunter arrows. His Wizards had managed to withdraw with half their number dead or captured. The Mistweavers hadn’t done better; the Winterknights had ridden two thirds of them down, and Lady Shelsan, princess of the Greymark Circle, had died as she fled.
In the end, only one of the Alliance’s leaders had been found alive. Prince Dorran, third heir to the Order of the Lion, had crawled out of the pit to the south, a Frost Elf spear in his side and his warbuck slain. A pair of Frost Elf Skirmishers had found the Knight and brought him in. He’d been lucky. Three quarters of the Knights who had charged into the hole had been killed or captured, and most were in much worse condition than he was.
Matt had immediately wanted to interrogate the Knight, but he’d restrained himself. The doctors would need to do their work, and his magic would ease the burden on his soldiers. Even with the power within him muted to a mere rumble, he could still Tunnel out portions of the earth, breaking through the ground to create the graves for the men and women who had given their lives here. It was terrible, unending work; by the time the last of the corpses had been identified and brought, the light had long since faded from the sky and he was working by torchlight.
Finally, though, it was done, and the last of the dead had been laid to rest. The rebels he buried east of the town with Teblas. Those of the Alliance he placed to the south on the field, laying them to rest together.
His own dead he buried west of the town, in a place that the battle had not touched. Almost five hundred of his soldiers—his soldiers—lay in a place that the war had not spoiled, because their bravery had turned the enemy back. He felt he owed them that much.
Then, when the last of them had been given their place, Matt turned and staggered back to their camp, which lay just north of the town still. Their journey home would begin in the morning, but he still had work to do. It seemed he would always have work to do now.
He found Prince Dorran half-asleep, his senses dulled slightly by the medication the doctors had given him.
Though pale, it did seem as if the captured Knight would live. The doctors had been cautious about their assessments—apparently stab wounds of this type were difficult to treat and predict—but they believed his natural toughness and armor had saved him the worst of the injury. There had been other scrapes and bruises, but their main concern had been the impact on the Knight’s mind. Apparently, the battle had left him in a deep state of shock, one that could only be worsened by the pain and grief the prince had to be feeling.
Matt had thanked the doctors for their warnings and then gone to speak with one of the last leaders of the enemy left alive. He needed to know if this battle would be the end of the Alliance’s attempts to destroy him, or if there would be other battles like this one. There was a delicate, fragile hope in his mind that his enemies could be convinced to give up now.
Dorran was lying in a cot, staring off to the side. He seemed dazed, though by pain or shock, Matt couldn’t say with any confidence. The prince didn’t react when Matt stepped into the tent, still looking at the cloth of the tent without apparently seeing anything.
When Matt cleared his throat, however, the prince jerked as if he’d been stabbed again. He looked in all directions, as if anticipating assassins coming from every angle. His fingers twitched for a sword that had been lost with the majority of his men, and he started to sit up before he twitched with pain.
Then his eyes finally fell on Matt, and Dorran half-fell back into the cot. His eyes were wide, and his breathing grew shallow. “You.”
Matt inclined his head gently. “Prince Dorran.”
“You’re a monster. We should have had you, should have driven you before us. How did you do this? How are you so strong?” The words were a whisper, delivered with the kind of paralyzing fear that would have had most people gibbering nonsense. Matt tried not to hold it against him; he doubted he’d be much better off, if his plans hadn’t worked out and his army had just been obliterated.
“Have your wounds been treated, Prince Dorran? Are you lacking anything?” The prince stared at him, as if unable to believe that he was hearing correctly. Matt repeated the questions and the prince shook himself, like a dog ridding itself of water.
“I am fine, King Matthew. Your sawbones were… adequate.” A hint of Dorran’s royal upbringing reasserted itself. It was the kind of lordly contempt that Matt had expected from an heir to the throne, which showed that there was a prince somewhere in there, despite the battle shock.
“I apologize we lack some of the things you may need. Our resources here are limited.” Matt gave him a thin smile. “We were not expecting such a difficult fight here.”
Dorran laughed, though he flinched with pain afterward. “Well yes. That was rather the point. For all the good it did us.” The prince shook his head. “So, will you execute me now, King Matthew? Or will you wait until you have dragged us back to the seat of your dark power?”
Matt frowned. “Who said anything about execution? Has someone been threatening you?”
The Knight snarled at him. “Do you think I would join you? I am a Knight of the Order of the Lion. My soul is pure and honorable. I would never turn against my friends.”
Increasingly baffled by the conversation, Matt frowned. Was this something caused by the medication, or the shock? Or had the Alliance been spreading some kind of propaganda about him to encourage their soldiers? “What are you talking about? I am not going to kill you unless you try to escape, or ask anything else from you that you don’t want to give. You’ll be kept in the Tower of Blood until you’re either ransomed or the war ends.”
His words seemed to have little effect on the Knight. Dorran glared at him through the haze of his own pain. “Our war against you will never end, monster. You’re unnatural, an abomination. Our Alliance will purge this land of both you and your collection of creatures, no matter what we have to do. You and your Kingdom will be destroyed!”
Dorran almost shouted that last sentence, and Matt rocked back on his heels at the hatred in the words. He was familiar with the history between his Kingdom and the members of the Alliance. Just like everywhere else, it had been a cycle of wars, raids, and assassinations that went back centuries, with all the bad blood that legacy entailed. At the same time, Dorran seemed almost… frantic about his desire to see Matt’s people destroyed. How were they so much more dedicated to it than the Noble Races or the Coalition had been? Hadn’t they all had the same bloodshed and feuding between them?
Matt shook his head as he thought it over. Any thought of making an immediate peace was gone now; even if the Alliance was shocked by their losses at the Forks, they seemed dedicated enough to continue fighting. It meant once the rest of their forces arrived, he wouldn’t be looking at a simple clash the way it had happened with the Noble Races. He’d be fighting a continual, grinding war of attrition, one that would have him wading through the blood of friend and foe alike in search of a solution.
It was not the way he wanted things to go. As he’d said at the start, he had no reason to war against these people; it was only their own hardheadedness that had even begun the conflict in the first place. At the same time, he had no intention of just lying down and letting the Alliance butcher their way through his lands. His people deserved protection, and Matt would give it to them.
He stared down at the prince, watching as the anger and determination faded from the Knight’s face. Uncertainty and fear were starting to creep back in, as if Dorran was wondering if he had pushed too hard and guaranteed himself an execution after all. Matt smiled, and Dorran’s face went so pale that he almost seemed to have started losing blood again.
“We will be releasing a member of your army on parole to carry a message back to the Alliance. It will have the names of all the prisoners we’ve taken, as well as the state of their wounds.” Another expression of confusion crept across Dorran’s face, but Matt continued before the prince could respond. “You are the only leader of the army that survived here. If you wish to include a message for your father, or for the Alliance as a whole, you are free to do so. We’re going to read it before it goes, and if it contains harmful information, we’ll edit it, but you can at least send word home that you’re alive and healing.”
Dorran nodded slowly, as if unable to believe what he was hearing. Matt waited to see if he would respond, but then he continued as the Knight remained mute. “I’ll send someone with parchment and a quill. Give us the letter by the time the sun rises, and it will go with the messenger. After that, you and the other prisoners will go with me to the Tower of Blood in Redspire, until some kind of truce can be found.” He made a mental note to rename the prison; the rest of the world might view him as some kind of evil overlord, but he didn’t need to give them free propaganda material like that. Besides, the name just sounded ridiculous.
He turned to leave, but Dorran spoke up just as he lifted the tent flap. “Did…did anyone else…?”
Matt looked back, and for a moment, pity filled him. Even a royal prick like this idiot didn’t deserve this kind of news. “No. I’m sorry, but you’re the only leader who survived. The others all died.” He saw the stricken look on the prince’s face and turned away. “Some of your army made it to safety, but I don’t know how many of them were wounded, or how many supplies they had.”
He waited for a moment longer, in case the prince had more questions, but Dorran simply lay in the bed, his eyes going distant with grief. Matt stepped out of the tent and back into the night. The next day, the return to Redspire would begin.
Leaving the Grim Hollows was just as agonizing a process as entering it had been.
Luckily, one of the roads that led from the Forks arced up to the north towards Redspire in an inconvenient, meandering sort of way. It was still the quickest way back to the capitol, and it would be best if the army reached Redspire as soon as possible. Shadowfen might have been slightly closer, but the center of the Kingdom had more doctors available, and would be able to house their prisoners better.
Besides, after such a terrible week, Matt was looking forward to just being home.
So they set out to the north, following a snow-littered cart track barely well-defined enough to be called a road. His soldiers were still exhausted from the battle of the previous day, as well as the work afterward. Matt could sympathize; even his magic seemed to be at a low ebb as he led Nelson north. Things were not helped by the snow that began to drift down from the sky during the second day.
Each night, Matt helped with the burials again. Death had not stopped when the battle was over. Between the cold, the effort of the journey, and the ever-present predation of disease, they kept losing more and more of the wounded as they walked. The side they had served did not matter; Knights and Wizards, Goblins and Orcs, Dwarves, Elves, and Imps; all of them faded and failed along the trail.
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By the end of the third day, as they finally broke free of the Hollows, Matt had stopped thinking of the Battle of The Lakeland Forks as some sort of grand victory. It was something he had survived, and something that far too many others had not. The rest of the army seemed to disagree; even as they buried their comrades, they were already speaking of his role in it as some kind of divine intervention. How could they not see what his rule had cost them?
Even the very name of the battle started to shift. Instead of being called after the Forks, some of the men began to call it the Battle of Seven Princes, as if the presence of those seven would-be royals was more important than the hundreds they had sent to their deaths. It frustrated him, but Matt knew he was never going to be able to order them to stop using the name. Instead, he just did his best to ignore it and forge ahead along the road as it widened and the tangle of the Hollows faded away.
They made better time out of the Hollows, and the calm farms of the Spirelands were some welcome relief. In some places they passed by farming towns, where the people came out to cheer on their conquering defenders, and jeer at the prisoners that had fallen into their hands. Others in those towns watched with anxious eyes, as if they still did not trust the men and women under Matt’s command.
On the fifth day after the Battle at the Forks, Redspire itself finally came into view.
The sight of the city was like a breath of fresh air. Snow or not, war or not, it was as if the capitol had in a very real way become home to him. Matt sat atop Nelson as the army moved around him and studied what he could from the hilltop.
He could see the city still bustling with activity. The snow was light that day, and so the falling flakes didn’t quite obscure the smoke rising from cookfires. His troops were joking and laughing among each other, heartened by the promise of warm beds and strong drinks ahead. Those who were clinging to life seemed to gain new will to endure, as the chance to reach the doctors of the city drew near.
Not all of them made it, but Matt sent a messenger ahead for the city to prepare for his arrival. He wanted treatment for the wounded, beds in the garrison for the weary, and a triumphant welcome for the army as a whole. They had earned it, after all.
The people of Redspire welcomed the army home with as many murmurs as there were cheers.
Perhaps it was the awareness of how many fewer soldiers had returned. It might have been the presence of so many more surrendered prisoners; they had just managed to rid themselves of the last batch of useless occupants of the Tower of Blood after all.
Or perhaps it was just the grim expression that Matt couldn’t manage to change this time. He knew that the victory had been important, and that the sacrifices were necessary. If he had lost, the Alliance would not have spared his people, or celebrated any less.
All the same, it all seemed to be ashes in his mouth as he looked around. His last victory had been the end of a war. This one only really announced the beginning of a new one. One that promised to be far worse than the last had been.
He marched with his troops to Victory Square, where he could already pick out his advisors waiting for him. Gorfeld was once again standing beside the fountain, along with Melren. Lord Torth and some of the other members of the Great Council stood beside them, along with the bulky form of Voice Girtun.
His attention was drawn to two other figures that he hadn’t really expected there. Paralus was waiting, standing a little apart from the other members of the group. Matt couldn’t think of a reason for the ambassador for the Western Coalition to be there, but he hoped it was not a sign for future troubles between him and the other nations. The Alliance was already promising to be enough for him to deal with for the time being.
Tanya was also there, dressed in a warm gown and coat that shielded her from the falling snow. Her dark eyes were fixed on him as he dismounted, and he gave her a weary nod. She responded by stepping forward, meeting him halfway before he had crossed to the group. Matt was taken off guard when she actually hugged him, at least until she whispered in his ear.
“I’ve already built a Fire foundation for my next source. Try and match that, cowboy king.”
He grunted, shocked a bit out of his grim outlook. She drew back and gave him a brilliant smile, and then stood to the side as he approached Gorfeld.
The steward bowed low. “My liege, welcome back to Redspire.” Once again, he took a golden chalice and dipped it in the fountain. Matt accepted it and tried not to look at the hateful statue that was still mounted above the stone and water. “In celebration of your victory, and in honor of all those who have laid down their lives in our defense, I offer you this drink from the waters of our home.”
Matt nodded and turned to raise it to the watching crowd. There were cheers, but they seemed faint compared to the roars that had welcomed him the last time he had returned to Redspire. Then he drank it and handed the cup back to Gorfeld. He made sure to keep his voice low. “We have much to discuss, Gorfeld.”
“We do, sire. As soon as possible.” Gorfeld’s eyes shifted towards Paralus, who was still watching the celebration in silence. “As you say, there is much to discuss.”
“Again, congratulations on your victory, sire.” Gorfeld paused, his expression serious. “I know it may not have felt like an accomplishment, but your losses are less than they would have been if any other monarch would have been in command. Our people are lucky to have you as their King.”
Matt shrugged, trying not to let his grief and sense of foreboding overwhelm him. The fatigue of the past few days was not helping his focus. “Then I guess you didn’t choose all that poorly after all, Gorfeld. Though I wouldn’t mind if you decided you wanted the job instead.”
His steward glanced at the lifeguards, but they didn’t stir at Matt’s limp attempt at a joke. Gorfeld sighed and shook his head. “No, sire. I think I’d rather have you lead us through the coming storm.”
“Then I suppose that I’ll stick with it, then.” Matt shook his head. “What do I need to know?”
Gorfeld nodded. He stepped forward and handed over a stack of parchment, as well as one sealed envelope. Matt set them on the desk of his study and looked up in curiosity. His steward nodded towards the envelope and gestured to the seal of wax impressed over it. “Ambassador Paralus indicated he wanted it sent directly to you, sire. His instructions were to deliver it to you personally. He only gave it into my care when I made an oath to not interfere with it.”
Something about those instructions seemed suspicious to Matt. He didn’t know if this world had the equivalent of anthrax or mailbombs, but he decided to open that particular envelope with some care. Setting it to the side, he picked up the first of the parchments instead. “An announcement from the Alliance?”
“Yes, sire.” Gorfeld seemed to brace himself. “It arrived the day before the Battle of the Seven Princes. They’ve declared the Copper Hills a member of their union and have committed to defending the Leaffall Orcs against our aggression.”
Which meant that the Alliance would already be moving troops into the Hills through the southern border. The invasion he’d feared since the start had already begun, and the battle at the Forks had only been the first strike. “Send a warning to Morteth. He needs to not get too deep into the territory without reinforcements, especially if the Alliance already knows he is there.”
“Margrave Morteth was sent a message the day we received the announcement, sire. I believe he should have heard it by now.”
Matt nodded. Hopefully Morteth wouldn’t push his luck. Just maintaining the mountain passes would give them a solid defensive line to keep the Alliance from moving in, but actually invading the Hills would need more than the forces that Morteth had available. He had no idea where he was going to find those reinforcements at the moment, given the losses he’d just taken and the other battlefields he faced, but desperate times required desperate measures.
The next parchment held something a bit more encouraging. Parufeth was reporting that the work on the sewage system was virtually complete; in fact, a good portion of the public latrines were already hooked into the pipes. His foreman projected that the last of the work would be finished within the week, at which point the work crews would be ready for the next building. Attached to that statement was a note scrawled in Gorfeld’s hand that stated the stench was already fading near most of the various buildings throughout the city, and that disease appeared to be at an all-time low.
He looked up, unaccountably touched by that fact. For a moment, he struggled to find a firm tone of voice. “So it looks like the construction is going well.”
Gorfeld nodded, a knowing look in his eyes. “Yes, sire. Though I will repeat my warning about our decreasing treasury. Between the work on the Maiden’s House, and the projected expenses—”
“The Maiden’s House? That’s what she called it?”
His steward winced at the disbelief and frustration in Matt’s tone. “Actually, sire, the people have been referring to it by the name. I don’t believe that Maiden Tanya has encouraged anyone to use it. The building has only the basement floor finished, but it is progressing as well. The report is on the next page.”
Matt looked over the words, and then quickly set it aside. Predictably, the very next piece of parchment showed expenditures, and the rapidly vanishing amount of coin in his vaults. Projections were now looking like they would last until the end of the next summer, but that was only if some disaster didn’t happen to the tribute payments from the east.
Of course, the very next report promised that steady income would be in decline. “The Noble Races have dissolved?”
Gorfeld nodded. “Our agents have said that the Knights of the Anchor formally left the union three weeks ago. Many of the other nations are also sending notice that they are considering withdrawal.” The Imp paused. “There are also reports of troops massing along their borders. I believe that before the end of spring, they will be at war with one another.”
Which meant that the ones still paying the tribute were going to suffer some inability to keep to the scheduled deliveries, if they didn’t cease to exist at all. Matt groaned softly and then turned to the next parchment. This one seemed a little better. “We sent an ambassador to the Western Coalition. They were well received?” Gorfeld nodded, and Matt continued reading. There had been Magistrates appointed and lifeguards assigned to them. The Council had proposed to send at least one wandering Magistrate to investigate and make sure that nobles had actually freed their serfs, in order to prevent fraud. It was a measure that Matt approved of, though he wondered how many of the nobility would be that foolish.
Then he reached the end of the page and grunted in surprise. “Voice Wokneth is dead?”
Gorfeld’s expression became one of sadness. “Yes, sire. He was found by his wife and sons. He passed away from old age. The Assembly is debating his replacement now.”
“Hopefully, they choose well.” Matt turned to the next page, which was a continuation of the report on the Council. “They gave Lady Einreth the title of Defender of the Realm?”
“As one of your commanders at the Battle of Seven Princes, they felt it was appropriate, sire.” Gorfeld smiled. “Though I understand she has informed the Council that she will refuse any appointment as a Margrave. Apparently she feels too dedicated to her Clan to accept the role.”
Matt snorted. It was a savvy move, especially since there were likely those who felt there were too many Orcs already at the Table of Margraves. It wasn’t like she couldn’t make her voice heard anyway, and he doubted that the rest of her Clan would dare defy her now, after the lesson he’d just taught them.
He made his way through the rest of the reports, seeing the same mixture of good and bad. There had been another riot in Redspire, close to when the announcement from the Alliance had arrived. Had it been due to cramped conditions and discontent, or some action on the part of the Alliance’s agents in the capitol? The soldiers had once again helped calm things, and the members of the Council had been surprisingly responsive to the crisis, which had been resolved quickly.
There had been some shortages of food, but the weather was soon going to turn. Spring was days away, according to projections, and with the warming weather would come a chance to renew the farms that had been lost or burnt. Grufen reported that the Frost Elves remained pacified, though there had been some requests for news of the banners sent to serve at the Forks. Hopefully, the new casualties wouldn’t undo Grufen’s efforts to keep the place peaceful.
More and more details emerged as he read. A disease breakout in Harvesthall, the center of the Hard Scythe Orc Clan. News of a vigilante group calling itself the Voice of the Sortenmoors, striking at various spots within that bloodbath of a region. Some rumors about predictions of the supposed Counselor, that forecast suffering and death in the Kingdom’s future. It all formed the picture of a land at the edge of a precipice, still trying to decide which way it wanted to lean. Would it come down on the side of peace and stability, or would they descend into chaos and civil war again?
Matt was still shaking his head over those thoughts as he set aside the last piece of parchment and then turned to the envelope again. A part of him was tempted to have the lifeguard open it, just in case some magical trap had been included. At the same time, Paralus had already learned the price of trying to undermine him, and he was especially wary of being linked to an assassination attempt. He wouldn’t have participated in something he believed would kill him, would he?
He pondered the question and then smirked. “Well, if anyone senses anything explosive in here, now’s the time to say.” No one said anything, though the lifeguard shifted on their feet, and Gorfeld took a long step back. Matt gave him a half-serious glare. “Really?”
His steward shrugged and smiled, and Matt turned back to the envelope. Moving carefully, he broke the seal and opened it, wincing a little as the stiff paper crackled.
Nothing blew up, which was promising. He drew out a sheet of pale, creamy paper, far finer than normal parchment. Magic sparkled from the page as he drew it out and read; the very words seemed to catch the light and shift slightly, as if to prevent anyone who was trying to read it over his shoulder.
From Chief Magistrix Reyalla Chel, Master of the Order of the Echoes, Watcher of the Void, Calm Warden of the Endless Sea and Eternal Sky, to King Matthew Irons, current ruler of the Kingdom of Iron.
He raised his eyebrow. At least Paralus’ ruler had a refined sense of style. Those titles didn’t seem to be idle ones, either. It would be worth looking into how she had earned them.
Shaking his head, he continued reading.
It is our understanding that you are an honorable man. I have the testimonies of our advisor Alerios the Mage, and our Ambassador, Paralus the Firebrand, to reassure us of this fact. Your efforts to bring peace to our lands have only confirmed their words. Even were all this not true, we owe you the deepest of debts, for saving the life of our son and heir, Carlen Chel, from the machinations of the Red Sorceress.
For this reason, I must inform you of grim tidings. The remnants of the army you broke in the Grim Hollows have returned to report the slaughter to the rulers of the Alliance. They see you as a monster, now, a threat that cannot be borne, and worst of all, one who has slain their kin on the battlefield.
Matt paused to pinch his eyes. He did not like where this was going, and the headache that threatened to come to life seemed to agree.
When he could, he turned back to the page, where the magic continued to flare and shift.
The rulers of the Alliance have all sworn, together with their Heirs, an Oath of Enmity against you. They will stop at nothing until you are dead, together with any allies and Heirs you might name. The whole resources of their Houses are marshalling against you, more than was already committed to the war. They will come for you soon.
Furthermore, they have resorted to treachery against us as well. Their emissaries to our lands staged an attack upon the Library of Echoes, and have captured both Alerios the Mage and much of his research. We cannot prove it was them, not enough to stir the rest of the Coalition in our defense, and we cannot recover it on our own, but it is our opinion that their guilt is undeniable.
Take care in how you face these troubles. Ambassador Paralus has been permitted to discuss what we will discover about their plans, but this assistance and warning is all I can give you. If asked, we must deny our support for you, but be assured that your honor and assistance will not be forgotten. Should you need refuge, we will offer it.
By our own hand, and with our authority,
Reyalla Chel
Matt sat back, running his eyes over the words again, trying to pull what meaning he could from the words. He made it through the letter a second time before it abruptly burst into flame.
He yelped, and half-tossed the page across the room. It burnt into flickering ashes before it even made it across the desk. Every small fragment of the page had utterly vanished in seconds.
The lifeguards had all immediately moved into action, reaching for weapons and looking around the room for threats, but Matt gestured for them to stand easy. Gorfeld had not reacted at all. Perhaps he had already seen a similar message before? His steward was staring at him in obvious curiosity. “Did you receive new information, my liege?”
“Yes.” Matt debated how much he should say. It was obvious he couldn’t publish an informal offer of alliance and help from the leader of the Order of Echoes. Trying to bring it into the open would only cause problems. The Chief Magistrix would be hurt by the move, and there would be almost immediate rumors that he was some kind of puppet being controlled from her throne—or vice versa. Better to leave things vague than to dive headfirst into that mess.
Gorfeld bowed slightly, still interested. “Good news, my liege, or bad?”
Matt shrugged. “That depends. How bad, exactly, is it if the Alliance rulers take an Oath of Enmity against us?”
Dead silence answered him. Gorfeld slowly reached out and braced himself against one of the chairs. The Imp slumped into it, his skin pale. Even the lifeguards seemed shocked out of their normally neutral stance.
He didn’t really need to have an actual answer at that point. Matt massaged at the bridge of his nose, feeling that headache returning. Spring was only a few days away, and it was going to bring storms unlike any he’d seen so far—but Matt had no choice but to face them. For the good of his Kingdom, and for the dream he had of a land free from war and servitude, he would see them all through the times ahead.
No matter what.
So instead of smashing his head into the desk like he desperately wanted to do, he forced himself to open his eyes and grin. “In that case, we have a lot to do. Let’s get to work.”