“Here you are, your highness.”
Prince Verde solemnly accepted a plate of food from Mercator. His appetite stirred as he smelled the cooked fish, and he struggled to hate the people that prepared it for him.
King Claymore already had his meal in front of him and was digging in without pause for ceremony. This was the third evening already that they were forced to live off the land, so the warrior king had been working hard for each meal.
“Your majesty, report!” a voice called from outside the tent.
The king looked up from his plate with his mouth stuffed full, and Mercator was quick to pick up on his cue. “Speak, soldier,” the old man replied.
“The harpies’ scout has returned.”
Mercator glanced at the King for his opinion and then called back, “She may enter.”
Soon, a wrinkled old woman with feathers mixed into her hair and large brown wings stood uncomfortably close to Verde. He had never seen a harpie up close before, but he found them instantly more unsettling than Orcs for how uncanny their resemblance to humans was in all the wrong ways.
The monster eyed their food. “You’re eating fish? Ratatik likes fish.”
King Claymore raised a brow and picked up what remained of his meal by the tail, tossing it to the creature. She snatched it from the air and swallowed it down, bones and all, like a beast. Then she smacked her lips vulgarly.
“Mm. Clean fish. Salty.”
Verde couldn’t help frowning. They didn’t have enough food to feed themselves, let alone share with the harpies. Not that those bird women were suffering. He remembered hearing about a discussion that fell through the other day: Claudius wanted the harpies to spare them some rations, but the bugs and other random garbage those monsters were eating wasn’t fit for humans.
“How was it at the other camp?” Claudius prompted, resting his cheek on his fist.
“Ratatik saw. Other humans cooked a paste over the fire until it was hard and ate it.”
King Claymore frowned. “If they’re making hard tack, they must have flour.” He sunk into thought. “Well done. You can go now.”
The harpy left and Claudius stood up to pace the tent. “So, the Andorin side has gotten their supplies in. Judging by how much time has passed, they must’ve only just arrived. Which means one of two things is about to happen…”
As the king paced near the prince, he snatched his plate away and shoveled what was left into his mouth. Verde’s indignant “Hey!” was soundly ignored.
Claudius spoke after swallowing most of it, “Either they’ll pay the ransom to get you back as soon as possible, or they’ll deliberately starve us and then try to take you by force.”
Verde stiffened and sent a wary glance up at the King. “… You know my stance,” he said carefully.
“Right, of course. I’ll still accept peace if you get the chance to propose it. But I can’t bet my men’s lives on your men coming to a convenient conclusion. If the ransom doesn’t come by tonight, I’ll lead a raid team to steal their supplies in the morning.”
After scarfing down the rest of his meager meal, the king left his tent to make some preparations for either case.
Back in the tent, Verde hung his head. He wanted to think his kingdom would immediately try to rescue him, but the ransom complicated things. If he was in Claymore’s shoes… he would also try to rob the enemy while he still had the strength to do so.
As his mood dipped further, Verde suddenly felt warm steam near his face and an appetizing smell entered his nostrils. He glanced to the side and saw the old man, Mercator, offering his plate.
“What are you doing?” the prince asked, dumbfounded. “Didn’t you hear your king? You might be starting a raid soon.”
Mercator smiled amiably. “I’m an old man, I don’t eat much anyway. Besides, whether or not your kingdom decides to buy your safe return, it seems like a hearty dinner is on the horizon for me. You’re still growing, eat.”
Without another word of protest, Verde took the old man’s plate and forced himself to eat.
***
Vyra stretched her stiff muscles out as best she could in the cramped underground tunnel.
This Orvas guy is more ruthless than I expected, she half-complained half-praised in her head.
For three days, he had had in his possession more than enough grain to feed his men and buy their prince back. And he did nothing but sit on it all, deliberately starving the enemy.
After all, there was no guarantee that Claymore would uphold their end of the bargain. If negotiations deteriorated, it was better that they be strong and the enemy weak.
Still, Vyra knew the time was nigh. At noon, a shipment finally arrived from their homeland, along with orders from King Andorin to rescue his son. She eavesdropped on the conversation in the tent above her while hiding in the dark.
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“It’s time to make our move,” Orvas declared. “The other side must’ve predicted how long it would take us to gather new supplies. If we hold out for any longer, they’ll just come over here and steal from us.”
“Prepare the wagons!” He commanded. “And gather the men. Half to escort the shipment, half to hide in it, and a team of our best to rescue his highness, just as we planned.”
Vyra’s smile widened and she turned to retreat up the tunnel.
***
Long before the ransom from Andorin arrived at Claymore’s camp, Vyra did. There was no reason to fix a strategy that wasn’t broken, so she had made a new tunnel for herself under the opposing king’s tent. King Claymore wasn’t the type to issue orders from a static position, but her main mission this time wasn’t to eavesdrop.
Like hell she would trust Andorin’s defunct forces to rescue Verde safely at this point. She had to be there to make sure.
The only regrettable thing was that she could hardly see any of the show from down here. Vyra pressed her pointed ear to one of the earthen walls and used Trill to help her interpret the vibrations running through the earth.
She heard wheels rolling in the distance. At least three wagons, weighted down with goods and men. They stopped at the edge of camp.
Shouting. A tense, intermittent back and forth.
Then, activity: crates being unloaded and dropped onto the soil; footsteps moving away from the camp and then returning much heavier. More shouting back and forth.
Claymore’s forces had brought the crates into their camp. Captain Orvas was probably demanding their Prince’s return and being told to wait while they checked the food.
They suspect it, but they brought it inside? Do they think the crates might be full of rocks or poisoned food? Vyra pondered it and reminded herself to lift her expectations of Claymore’s King. No, he means to surround whatever enemy might be lurking inside.
Which meant he’d command his men to test the crates with spears soon. But that was fine. She had listened in while Orvas trained his men to escape their crates quickly. Most of them wouldn’t miss their timing.
… There was a period of tension and low activity, and Vyra pressed her ear closer to the wall in anticipation.
She felt one baritone voice rumble through the soil, and before most of the spears could find their marks, countless men roared as they escaped their hiding places. She heard bowstrings twang, spears plunge, and swords slice and clang. Metal and men roared for dominance, and the sound waves grew muted by new moisture seeping into the soil.
Is this what they call “poetry in motion”? She reluctantly pulled her ear away from the wall and looked toward the earthen ceiling above her.
Claudius Claymore was out there, and the regular archers were armored with magic metals, so Andorin didn’t have as much of an advantage in the melee as their skills would suggest. Their numbers were inferior too.
Vyra’s puppet army could fail. She could accept losing this game, but she could not accept breaking the promise she made to Prince Corinth.
Using magic, the Orc Lord tunneled up through the floor of the King’s tent in one fluid motion. She blinked dust off her eyelashes and took in her surroundings: the second prince, tied to a wooden post; an old man who looked like a noble’s attendant.
Without a moment to hesitate, breathe, or even pass a heartbeat, Vyra’s oversized fist found the old man’s throat, crushing even his lower jaw in the collateral of her abominable grip. With clever manipulation of sound, the odd crunching and squelching noise didn’t extend outside of the tent.
But the heavy smell of blood soon would.
Vyra dropped the mangled corpse and shook most of the blood off her hand, extending the clean one toward Verde.
He flinched back in terror, eyes like an owl’s and heart pounding like a rabbit. “W-what have you done?” he said, aghast.
Vyra raised a brow at the unexpected reaction. “What, were you growing fond of your captors? That’s a dangerous disease, you know. Come along, you’re being rescued.”
She took his wrists and pulled him along. Not only did the human’s meager resistance affect nothing, she even pulled the stake he was tied to out of the ground.
“N-no!” Verde shouted. “This isn’t right! That old man was a good man! I was going to negotiate peace after the kingdom paid my ransom!”
Vyra briefly stopped her feet. She faced the prince and adjusted her grip, removing the ropes around his wrists and tossing them to the side.
“Countless men are dying to save you right now. If you don’t escape soon, your kingdom won’t have the footing to negotiate anything.”
She forced his chin up so he would meet her eyes, leaving bloody smudges on his skin.
“Now stop throwing a fit. You’ll feel more like thanking me when you’re back safe with a belly full of food.”
Verde’s mind finally seemed to catch up to the situation, and he stopped resisting. He still didn’t look happy though.
“As soon as I’m back in command, I’m calling a retreat.”
Vyra smiled. “What a coincidence, that was Captain Orvas’s plan as well. Now come.”
She led the prince back through the tunnel she had made, which exited at a point close to where the rescue team was planned to pass.
“Congratulations on miraculously escaping alone in all the chaos, your highness,” Vyra said, “The rescue team should be here soon.”
She then abandoned the Prince for the sky. After confirming that the rescue team was fast approaching and soon to pass this way, Vyra allowed herself a little indulgence and went to watch the battle in the camp.
“Oh… Oh!” the Orc Lord’s eyes widened to better take in a beautiful sight. The mud was stained red, and crates of golden wheat dotted the battlefield. In the midst of a complex skirmish of swords, spears, and bows, one man wielded the former in a dance of sheer power.
His sword was nearly the size of a smaller man and fully capable of bisecting one. It flashed through some of the few existing gaps in platemale like it was drawn to them, and lighter-armed opponents directly lost limbs. It wove around as many blades as it had to to block and counter no matter how many surrounded its wielder. And when the enemy was foolish enough to make distance, Claudius Claymore effortlessly switched to using his bow, popping heads like watermelons.
He’s better than I thought he would be… a lot better!
Vyra covered her mouth and swallowed girlish giggles down her throat. Her three eyes misted over with sheer joy.
What an outstanding warrior-king. So this is my opponent…
I absolutely must be the one who stops his heart from beating. The ecstasy of trampling his kingdom to ruins and drying his bloodline with the wetting of my blade… I cannot wait. Claudius Claymore, are you tired of fighting against pitiful humans? I’ll ease your boredom and give you a fight worth dying for.