‘We have received new evidence that suggests Horyd Coeden hired an assassin to murder Cardinal Peace. There is record of a transaction made when he was first incarcerated at Reiol Palace’s dungeon, before being transferred to Drengai dungeon. To withdraw the expenses for the purchase, the transaction was signed by Ladratta Masarn, a known close associate of Horyd, and a fellow advisor of the King. It is unknown who carried out the assassination, but there is increasing suspicion on Chadau Honnen.’ - Excerpt from a letter sent to a member of the Lafant family from an unnamed source, secretly written by Gwyth Thien of the Intelligence Service, January 1263.
———
“What happened?” His implication left unvoiced. A hint of an uproar emerged from the officers behind, but they were quickly quelled by Cythraul’s tangible authority.
“I fell.” She replied, glaring up at him.
“You challenged Arian, right?” Cythraul ignored her previous statement, his eyes trained intensely on her. Rupert opened his mouth, wanting to deescalate the growing tensions. However, Cythraul pounded his chest with a fist, stopping him from intervening.
“Yes, sir.” She responded.
“Why though?” Cythraul asked.
“Because I had to. Someone needed to question his loyalties, but no one was doing it.” She grew in strength with each word. Cythraul’s eyes flickered when she mentioned ‘loyalties’.
“Even though you knew what it would result in?” He continued.
“That was a miscalculation. Yes, I knew there would be a retaliation,” she raised her hand to quash Cythraul’s judgement, “though I didn’t think it would be so violent.”
“What did you expect?” Cythraul questioned.
“My optimistic, though conservative, estimation was that they’d find a way, within army regulations, to beat me severely. But that they would leave me generally unharmed - something which could be healed,” she shook her head. “A more pessimistic, but liberal, estimation was that I would be exiled, sent back to Pentref to my family on dishonourable discharge. That they’d use my offence to disgrace my family, which would continue to scale with its consequences.”
A pile of straw was blown with the wind as she finished her assessment.
“Instead, they paralysed you,” Cythraul shook his head. “Your assumptions would have been right if you were playing a game with people that had wits. Instead, they chose to throw the board in your face. That tells you as much as you need to know about them.”
She looked at Cythraul in his eyes, her gaze questioning his intentions.
“I was interested in your motives, that’s all.” Cythraul concluded. He reached out, gently placing his hand over the space above her chest. A red thread formed from his palm and entered her heart.
An image of a candelabra appeared in his mind, his own portrayal of the Wick. There were no flames, nor any wax. Just an empty, golden candelabra. He tested it with his Malevolent energy, battering her Wick with it. But there wasn’t a response. He increased the efficacy and concentration of his energy, and finally there was a change.
The slight formation of wax appeared, forming a sliver at the base of the middle candelabra’s branch. He continued to poor his energy into her, revitalising her Wick that had been neutered. He constructed the basic framework of a new Wick, then withdrew his energy and looked into her eyes.
“You should be able to channel once more, now the damage has been fixed.” Cythraul nodded at her. She gave Cythraul a stunned expression, before turning her concentration onto her Wick. She didn’t respond, even after an extended silence.
“What is your name, girl.” Cythraul asked, breaking the silence.
“Hanabl… Hanabl Cadarn.” Hanabl responded shakily.
“I have a task for you, Hanabl. I’ll find you before I leave the star fort and inform of you of what I want to be completed.” Cythraul said, turning on his heel to leave.
“Are you done here?” Rupert called after him.
“Yes.” Cythraul picked up the young girl, who was staring blankly into the horse’s eyes, mounting her onto its back. He rode away through the avenue that they travelled on to the northern barracks.
Rupert strode to the front, his back rigid, facing his officers. As he looked over them, remembering their nigh extinguished Wicks, the molten fire that erupted with his dispute with Dinol heated up once more like smoldering white coal.
“Your conditions are unacceptable. The treatment that you have each received has been subpar, and is frankly intolerable. I destroyed a brigade of Berserkers on my return from Glaer monastery today. Once they arrive at the fort, you will each be given priority to their remains over myself. I will send a messenger to inform you when that will be. In the meanwhile, a new barrack overseer will be installed.” Rupert announced.
The training officers remained stone faced, though expectation flickered within their eyes. That was enough for now. He would stay with them, temporarily overseeing their training until he was called upon by more important concerns of the army.
———
Darkness had descended upon the fort; the sun had been confined behind the horizon. The natural light of day was long gone, though artificial sources took its place. Pockets of orange torch light illumined the city against the dark backdrop of the sea-like night sky. It preserved some activities of the day, while creating some anew under the night.
As if jealous of the liveliness of the star fort, upon the planes, a distant wave of crimson fire roiled. It rippled towards the bastion with malicious intent, seeking to break against its walls, testing its might. Dark silhouettes watched it from nearby, hiding their movements within the shadows cast upon the world by the night.
Inside a brick building, Rupert and Cythraul sat down before a fire, listening to a report from Cyffre. Oak armchairs held both men firmly, and a table was positioned at an angle equidistant between the two men. Rupert’s hand reached for a bottle of wine and poured its red liquid into two glasses.
Three sets of armour, with weapons of different varieties, neatly sat in the corner of the room, held by wooden stands. Just across from them stood Cyffre, and within her hand were a stack of papers that she carefully sorted through.
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She had returned from her tasks and had compiled a report that detailed the information required of her per command, and from the events that had transpired since their previous meeting. She began reading once more to the two nobles.
“The first item of agenda concerns the nearby Praeteritum brigade. The scouts sent back a report from the conflict between Delish prisoners of war and the Berserkers. I would like to note that the Berserkers did not suspect that the Delish forces worked in conjunction with us. We sent them marching southwards from a point just north of their temporary encampment by the lake. The Berserkers assumed that they were isolated case, not noticing the scouts nearby.” Cyffre turned to the next page.
“I assume that we haven’t had any casualties?” Rupert asked before she started speaking once more.
“We were fortunate as there were no casualties in any of the scouting units. The scouts made sure to arrive to the battle late and leave early, using the combat as a distraction.” Cyffre responded.
“Now, onto the results of the conflict. It went as expected. The neutered Delish prisoners of war were decimated by the Berserkers, and there weren’t any survivors. However, because of sheer numbers alone, they were able to force the Berserkers into casting Malevolency, and our scouts were able to detail which spells were used. The primary spells cast were fire Malevolency, similar to our Honnen family, though weaker. That is, the spells themselves are weaker. Not their Channeler’s weapons nor their reserves.” Cyffre continued.
“To be expected.” Cythraul nodded.
“Well of course, that is to be expected. It is rare to find any spell as well formulated as ours, which serves us nicely,” Rupert took a sip of wine. “However, you suggest that their channeler’s weapons and reserves are better than expected.”
“Indeed. We believe the chieftain, that Dinol reported on earlier, has just passed the threshold of a Marquis now. The other three chieftain are equivalent to Earls, while most of their barbarians are equivalent to Knights. All of which are weakened by the quality of their spells, but are strengthened by their outstanding reserves and Channeler’s weapons.” Cyffre turned to the next page.
“They have a brigade of 550... One the equivalent of a Marquis, three to Earls, and 546 to knights…” Rupert rubbed his chin. “It will be tricky for only one legion to deal with tonight, but it is manageable. Cythraul, are you interested in taking out their Marquis chieftain?”
“You said that the chieftain has passed the threshold of Marquis,” Cythraul faced Cyffre, “but say that his spells are weak. What made him pass the criteria to be considered a Marquis?”
“The Berserker in particular’s Malevolent reserves are outstanding, just below that of a Duke. While limited by his spell casting, he can still channel spells of tremendous destruction; his Channeler’s weapon balances this inadequacy out. These working in tangent do not bode well for us, for he can cast far more spells than we’d like.” She explained.
Cythraul sipped his own wine and nodded in response as he set it down on the table.
“Good. We shall proceed as we have assumed so far, the preparations are already in place.” Rupert said.
“Of course, Lord Rupert.” Cyffre replied, taking a stack of paper, smaller than her own and passing it to Rupert. “I have finished compiling a list of those within the nepotism faction.”
Cythraul grabbed it from her hand before Rupert could accept it. Rupert gave Cythraul a glare, but he ignored it.
“For someone who says they hate politics so much, you were quick to take on work that is considered deeply political.” Cythraul lambasted Rupert, his own personal retribution from the previous smack down. Rupert shrugged, a sheepish expression on his face.
“Marquis Arian, and Marquis Tasai… Earl Gelis…” Cythraul continued to read out a string of names, all of whom were in the upper echelons of Rupert’s army.
“Idiot! You must realise, you can’t send them to the gallows for this now, surely?” Cythraul slapped the paper held in his hand. “Yes, it is simpler… and a more effective deterrent at times. However, this is not occasion enough to kill half your officers. Politics and its manoeuvring is different from rebellion. It deserves to be treated as such.”
“I suppose…” Rupert began tapping his chair’s arm rhythmically. It rung out his frustrations. The room became temporarily silent.
“Permission to speak, if I may,” Cyffre asked, her head bowed. “Thank you, Sirs. A predominantly non-violent way of solving this is in the army’s interest, Lord Rupert. Sir Cythraul is right to suggest it.”
Rupert cocked his head, and she continued.
“Using violence to punish the officers would risk a drop in both loyalty and morale that would be unsalvageable. Worst comes to worst, it might push them towards rebellion.”
“They obviously valued their vested interests too highly. Their greed superseded their loyalty. However, we’re in a catch-22 situation. Our army won’t function without officers, and we need them despite their betrayal. Because of this, we need to punish their greed, and not their lives. Make them believe they escaped death and think that the punishment they received was lenient compared to the alternative.” Cyffre explained.
“However, we shouldn’t shy away from some form of physical punishment. There are ways to make them hurt without taking their lives, nor maiming them. This will act as an enforcement of the political punishment. In the case of Dinol, and his other compatriots that do oppose your tactics, I have included them within the list as a separate entity.” Cyffre concluded her evaluation.
“I understand. Thank you, Cyffre.” Rupert replied. She smiled in response, though a calculating glint flickered in her eyes. They fell once more into deliberations, which was broken by a bitter sigh.
“If you cultivate weeds, they choke the flowers. It seems there are more weeds than expected. And these ones are good at disguising themselves... Almost like chameleons.” Rupert shook his head in dismay, frustrated that so many of his officers were insubordinate.
He had given explicit command that those officers were to be trained. Yet, these aristocrats ignored him and raised their own to be loyal solely to themselves, outside of his command chain.
“That is an issue that stems from being a laissez-faire general, Rupert. Your leadership style is to let them fight it out by themselves, letting the strongest survive. Which, isn’t necessarily a bad thing, mind you.” Cythraul explained.
“Then how the hell should I deal with it? Even if I tried, I’d make a right pig’s breakfast of it! It’s best that I stay out of it, like you say, as a laissez-faire general.” Rupert responded aggrievedly.
“You’re entirely at fault for that. It makes you a rather weak leader as a general, for the role is more than just strategy. You need to learn how to manage your officers, even if you don’t necessarily do it yourself. I find it utterly foolish that you haven’t done so, yet.” Cythraul honestly criticised Rupert. Rupert was dumbfounded by Cythraul’s words, stunned into silence.
“If it becomes a reoccurring problem then you’re plain pathetic,” Cythraul waved Rupert into submission. “There is a solution to this. Give some core supporters around you the power to destroy or purge your problems before they even arise. Let them kill the snakes before they can constrict your neck. That will allow you to lead without dealing with army politics.”
“Thanks for the advice, but that doesn’t solve our current crisis!” Rupert shook his head bitterly, ignoring the repeated attacks on his leadership.
“That’s easy. We have something far more effective than making a few examples out of your officers.” Cythraul unfolded another sheet of paper before him, laying it flat onto the table.
“One of your officers made me this,” Cythraul pointed at the document. “It is the list of accumulated tasks that King Brenin ordered your levied army to complete before your return to Pentref. Ideally, each officer, and those under their command, would have these tasks allotted to them equally. Fortunately, we aren’t idealists. I have come up with a suitable rotation that favours the nepotists.”
“And how will that punish them?” Rupert looked at Cythraul sceptically.
“Divide and conquer, and you will unite. That is what this will do.” Cythraul answered.
Rupert opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the sonorous ringing of a bell. It echoed deeply throughout the star fort, and into the concealed planes. The Berserkers had neared the star fort, and the scouts had sounded the alarms.
They stood from their chairs and armed themselves with haste, though one chair toppled over behind them. Cyffre did the same, suiting herself in cuirass, cuisse, and greaves. She attached her scabbarded cavalry sword to her hip, prepared for combat.
Rupert was armed with a longsword aptly named Death, or Marwolaeth, and was suited in less armour, only steel breastplate. Cythraul wore a breast and backplate and armed with Sabre’s Rigour. They gave each other a final nod, kicked the door open, locked it, and ran to take command of the army.