Chapter 200
The Banner of Tomorrow
The capital city of Ethernia had been growing rather distressed in the past several weeks. What started as distant rumours and fancy tales that seemed entirely divorced from their reality were now very stern and deadly stories that were being passed around every day. Those were stories of a rebel army marching south, an unstoppable machine incapable of losing, toppling over one county after another.
The city was no longer able to dismiss the rumours as fancy tales from the lands far away, especially after the news arrived earlier in the morning that the rebel army was only thirty miles out from the city. There was nothing stopping it from marching forward as the Kingdom’s army was forming within the city itself, ready to meet the invaders on the open Plains of Ashana, a stretch of grassland north of the city.
Every so often, there would be murmurs sweeping the city about this or another warrior who made a name for themselves in the past wars descending upon the city and heading toward the palace. There were even rumours spreading that the vaunted Spectres of Ethernia, a Legion of grizzled warriors that usually stayed away from the civil conflicts as they specialised in ghoulish warfare, has been commissioned to be a part of the anti-rebel army.
Bars and taverns, as they usually do, became the hubs of all the stories, whether they were real or false or somewhere in-between, and the latest one was that the rebel army was being led by the Sixth Prince Valen Desdor, a boy who was believed to have died. While the rumours remained unconfirmed, just the speculation itself of them had many swivel their heads toward the Palace with questioning gazes.
The Royals remained tight-lipped all throughout, with nary an official word beyond the reassurances of safety. It was almost as though those in the Palace lived in an entirely different world, one that had nothing to do with the concurrent reality.
The strange tales continued, however; it wasn’t only the dead Prince that was the point of interest. Supposedly, a lot of former star-level figures of the Kingdom had decided to stand behind the banner of rebellion–a name that most of the capital-natives gasped at the loudest had to be the former Knight of the Order, one that was supposed to inherit the Chalice and become the Supreme Head of the Royal Army, Ser Avaneau. Furthermore, there were rumours that the decorated General Staun, after being soundly defeated by the rebel army, also turned coat and joined the Prince’s banner.
Other names were tossed around, too, each carrying the weight that had many people gasp. There were even mystic tales that the Prince had an Exorcist and a Prophet by his side, doing his bidding, though few believed those. Both Exorcists and Prophets, and especially the latter, were beyond prideful creatures who would never kneel before anyone but Gods. The chances of them supporting an ordinary Prince, one that was even discarded by his own family, were close to zero.
Even so, the very fact that those rumours existed showcased just how the tales around the Prince were spun–how much weight they carried, and how heavy the words spoken into the reality of things were. The army that started out in the far north, beyond everyone’s eyes, in the wretched domain of winter that most considered the land of the dead, was now close to the heart of the Kingdom, seeming winds of gods pushing their sails southward.
Within the Palace there was a hall–a tall and round and vast hall decorated by the paintings of every former Supreme Head of the Royal Army dating far back into the Kingdom’s history. The official name of the Hall was the Hall of Light, though most simply called it the strategizing den as this was where most of the major, Kingdom-influencing decisions were made.
Currently, all seats around the rectangular, marble-made table were filled, twenty-four in total. There was constant ruckus and conversation, with folk old and young often talking one over another. Heading the table were two figures stationed on its opposite ends–the first was King Wyvenul who was sitting leaned back, his eyes half-closed, the golden crown on his head crooked.
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Opposite of him was the current Supreme Head of the Royal Army, a decorated veteran of six wars, and one of the few men on the entire continent who could remotely keep up with the King’s prowess, Vvyera Yon, a sixty-six year old man sporting white hair and beard, both groomed to perfection, who never looked away from the King, his gaze piercing. All of the world would cover beneath it, but the King appeared indifferent, as though he was being looked at by a petty child.
“Silence,” nearly half an hour into the incessant bickering, Supreme Head Vvyera spoke out. It wasn’t a shout or a roar–he spoke in a normal tone, but it was more than enough for the entire hall to drop dead silent, so much so that a pin falling would sound like thunder.
“...” it grew heavy, for no one dared speak–and all the Supreme Head did was stare at the King who appeared half-asleep.
“Is this your reply, Your Majesty?” It was nearly five minutes later that the Supreme Head spoke out, finally causing the King to shuffle his gaze to the side and look at him.
“To what?”
“Today is not the day you can act a fool!” the Supreme Head slammed his fist into the table, causing it to rumble. “There is a rebel army at our doorstep!”
“There have been rebel armies at our doorstep before,” the King replied simply.
“Not like this, and you know that well enough. These aren’t some farmers with pitchforks or disgraced soldiers trying to exact revenge. This is an army, Your Majesty. A fully-equipped, well-trained, disciplined army led by men and women that stood as pillars of this Kingdom for decades! The citizens are beginning to question why people so loyal to the Crown would join the traitors!”
“... you have been holding back a lot, old friend,” the King spoke after a short moment of silence. “And your eyes tell me you are holding back still. Speak. These halls are meant for truth, after all.”
“Very well. I shall speak,” the Supreme Head said, taking a deep breath. “Do you even care any longer?” The tension was palpable, and nobody else dared speak–even if they were prominent figures themselves. This was between two men who could shake the Kingdom by their lonesome, after all. “For years now, I have excused your nonchalance, both to myself and others. I have woven stories in my head and with my lips that still paint you as the benevolent and grand King that you were. But I am running out of stories, Your Majesty.”
“You were never much of a bard, to begin with,” the King said, sitting up straight. “Do I care, you ask, Vy?”
“...”
“As you were honest with me, I shall be honest with you,” the King’s tone suddenly switched from a boorish, relaxed one to the stern, regal, unmatched. The atmosphere around him changed, and a figure who would stand on the mound of corpses returned. “The Kingdom is rotten. Its people are rotten. Of nineteen of you in this hall, eleven have conspired to assassinate either me or one of my children. Of thirty-nine noble houses, only two remain wholly loyal, while the rest sell their loyalties to the highest bidder. I could have fought back, aye. But what would that entail, old friend? Beheading half the Kingdom’s nobility? Inducting Marshal Law for years on end? No. It would not have fixed anything. People have lost loyalty and faith in my lineage. And, in equal measure, I have lost faith in people. As I said–rebel armies came before, and we have faced them before. You will have your war and I will have mine. And considering the self-interest of everyone that’s infested this holy land, if I don’t achieve absolute victory, the Kingdom will fall. Not because the rebel army is stronger than the Royal Army, not because they have better equipment, not because they have more men–it’s because they are fighting for one cause. And here? Lambart here wants to use the war as an excuse to promote his nephew into the Cornistace. Arnold over there wants to use it to annex some of the nearby Barony, namely the plot housing the gold mine his spies uncovered.
“And even you, old friend,” the King said, smiling suddenly as everyone felt their backs pour out in sweat. “Are you fighting for me? For the Kingdom? Or are you fighting to maintain the position that you have? We are scattered, as in mind, so in spirit. We are not a single army, but a band of mercenaries each fighting for their own little dream. I never quite understood why it happened, but I can at least take comfort in knowing that it did not begin with me. Let the army come, old friend. We will face it as we have had many armies before. If we achieve victory, we shall celebrate it with meat and liquor and pretend things will be perfect from then on. And should we lose? Well, then it was simply meant to be.”
“...” the hall was thrust into a beyond uncomfortable silence as nobody, not even the Supreme Head, dared look at the King directly, all their heads bowed down.
“There is little else for me to say,” the King stood up from the seat and headed toward the exit. “I shall face whoever their spear is. And you shall face your own battle. Let us hope for a victory, and pray for their defeat.”