“It’s really a sight to see so many men move with one purpose.” Baron Luxfeld said, taking a drag of his cigar and spewing sticky, heavy smoke. Luckily, he knew better than to do it toward Count Pollus, and so Jeremiah was spared having to hold his breath. The fat man had the odious habit of purposefully breathing smoke toward the servants just to make them cough.
“It will be good for Hetnia. I thought people would learn something from the Incursion, but it was too clean this time. A good war will forge the new generation into something decent.” Baron Langley replied, one hand smoothing his mustache. He was very proud of it and used expensive creams and perfumes, at least according to Mary Rose, the man’s personal servant and Jeremiah’s occasional partner for a romp in the hay.
Count Pollus stared down at the thousands of men running drills, shouting orders, and training into something that could face the rebellious army moving unimpeded through the south. The man had hard grey eyes, and no hint of warmth escaped him. His skin was sallow, mostly thanks to an old battle wound from a demonic worshipper that couldn’t be adequately healed, especially since it had taken the healers weeks to get to his position. Jeremiah knew the story by heart, having been forced to listen to the man tell it to his sons in an effort to teach them the world wouldn’t always be fair.
It hadn’t worked. The two men were frivolous and weak. But as always, being the sons of the most powerful man in Hetnia - technically, the Duke had greater authority but never left Mellassoria - had its perks. They would never want for anything. At least, apart from their father’s approval. That, they’d yet to receive.
“We were blessed with an easy Incursion and a powerful Hero this time. Something had to go wrong.” The man growled. He was always extremely pessimistic, taking every occasion to remind everyone around him that things could and would go badly. His silver hair was cut short in a military buzzcut, and he wore a simple, if very expensive, enchanted uniform, signifying his rank as the High General of the Kingdom’s Southern Army.
image [https://i.postimg.cc/bYZF96BD/persimmon0-old-man-Count-Military-regalia-short-silver-hair-har-d7be94c2-782d-4278-930c-a28a45e62c7c.png]
“He’s powerful, sure, but not enough to take us on. That means he’s either stupid - which I doubt - or too angry about his girl’s death.” Baron Langley might have been a bit of a narcissist, but at least he wasn’t an idiot. Jeremiah thought it was pretty obvious neither option was the correct one, but some people liked to think that all their enemies were incompetent. Given how few hours of rest he was getting lately, if it helped them sleep at night, he might have to try it himself.
“Bad bit of business, that. The Hero should always be integrated before they get a big head. Allowing him to keep running around with his people, spouting his otherworlder rhetoric… It was bound to end badly.” Baron Luxfeld agreed, drinking some Summertime wine from Lantea and taking a drag from his cigar. The golden chalice he held alone was worth as much as a good suit of plate armor.
“That is the one thing that makes me wonder how much of this was planned.” The Count interrupted, hard eyes going from one of his advisors to the next. “He was always very loud about his ideas of freedom. They never took root, so the Royal Court didn’t see the need to censor him, but it should have been enough to understand he wouldn’t be content with a pretty wife and some land.”
“You think he always intended to raise in rebellion?” Langley asked, narrowing his eyes.
“It’s not the kind of thing I’d expect from someone that direct, but it could have been a ruse from the beginning. It wouldn’t be too unbelievable to hold back, considering he was called into a new world without notice.” Luxfeld added.
Jeremiah thought there was a decent possibility the Hero had just gone mad, having fought the unending tides of the Void for four years after losing everything he had ever known. But that smacked too much of wishful thinking, and he hadn’t gotten to where he was by allowing himself to believe nice lies.
No, he’s a cunning enemy. He allowed himself to be exiled to make everyone’s guard drop and struck when he should have been at his weakest.
“Whatever the real reason might be,” The Count finally said, “We still have to deal with his insurrection. As far as we can tell, his desire to free all slaves is genuine, which makes him more dangerous. A pragmatic enemy is smart but predictable. A true believer is an entirely different problem.”
Noticing a subtle gesture from the man, Jeremiah hurried to refill his glass with deep, rich red wine, resealing the bottle with his magic the moment he had finished pouring.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
It was a ridiculously expensive way of keeping drinks fresh, considering how much an Expert like himself could sell his time for, but having been assigned to the Count as an adjutant, it was part of his duties, and he had long since grown accustomed to the excesses of the aristocracy.
“Do you foresee any problem in culling it, then?” Luxfeld asked, much more serious now that the idle speculation was over.
Count Pollus snorted, much like an angry bull, but didn’t lash out at the man like he was known to do to anyone who asked stupid questions. Being one of his most trusted advisors had some perks.
“If he’s foolish enough to meet us on the field, we could be done in an afternoon. We’d lose many elite fighters to take him and his witch down, but we’d solve the problem.” Unsaid went that the Count didn’t expect Leonard Weiss to be that stupid.
Despite delays and significant opposition by indolent nobles who wanted to monopolize the duchy’s resources now that the Incursion was over, the Southern Army Group was a force to be reckoned with.
Ten thousand men, all Journeyman and above, marched in neat columns. Gleaming rifles adorned shoulders, fresh from the first new batches of the post-Incursion production lines. The screech of griffins, proud creatures with a wingspan of twenty feet and an agility in the air that even wyverns would have difficulty matching, boomed over the massive arming field.
And if all that isn’t enough, those things will be.
Hulking behemoths of ancient wood and magical steel, crafted by the best artisans of the capital over thousands of hours, enchanted with protections so robust they could crash into a castle and come out unscathed. The four massive King Vasily-Class airships sat moored at their land pier, being busily looked over by their crews.
They were the best weapons in the kingdom’s arsenal by a long shot. Armed with twenty-four 175Mu Cannons, divining arrays for targeting and wards so thick they could obscure the ship with their mere mana expenditure.
Some people had raised the possibility of simply sending the Air Navy to do its thing and bomb Alpar into a wasteland to ensure everyone knew what it meant to rebel. That had been rapidly shot down, as the mere expenditure needed to lift all four airships was enough to beggar a mid-sized merchant operation. To send them to the other side of Hetnia, unaccompanied by their escorts, was an expense and a risk that couldn’t be afforded, especially when the actual leader of the duchy would never write it off.
Still, they served as a potent reminder to Hassel’s citizens that they were safe. The airships had played an important role against the Void, as moving artillery allowed the city to hold until the Hero arrived and began to push back. They would serve once again should the unthinkable happen and this new rebellion grow enough to threaten Hassel.
Jeremiah had many reservations about building the King Vasily-class when they couldn’t be used for regular operations. In his mind, investing in a few smaller, less expensive-to-operate airships would allow for much greater maneuverability on the field. It was how the rest of the kingdom did things, after all.
But Duke Hetnia had insisted on his Air Force having only the best of the best. To try and cover some of the holes created by the limited range of the ships, Treon had been given its own King Vasily-class, straining the budget to its limit.
Count Pollus had been furious at the time. Everyone in the palace had heard his shouts of anger at the budget being plundered.
Jeremiah had merely been a cadet at the academy back then, and even he knew of that legendary row. But the Duke wouldn’t be moved from his position, and so Hetnia’s Air Force had the most King Vasily-Class ships beyond the capital and nothing else, rendering it effectively useless if not for the direst situations.
At least we have the Griffin Knights. They are a bit old school, but they work. Any army of regular soldiers is toast if a Battalion of them charges from the air. No amount of enchanted armor will protect a man from a griffin talon to the head.
“He will avoid us until he can’t anymore, and then he’ll make us pay as much as possible.” Baron Langley finally said, looking uncharacteristically grave, “I’ve seen the boy fight during the Siege. He has a viciousness to him. It won’t be enough to win, but he’ll make fighting him as unpalatable for us as possible so that he can keep raising levies and training them.”
The Count grunted in agreement, “His obsession with saving the slaves will give him enough men to throw into the meat grinder in a short amount of time. They will also be much more willing to die for him. How vicious,” He said that, but there was a grin on his face. His eyes seemed to almost glow in anticipation, and Jeremiah was forcedly reminded that this man had served for two decades as Commander of the Death Fort against the Western barbarians. He was steeped in so much blood he probably couldn’t see his hands.
“At least we know we shouldn’t face much interference from outside. Hammerfest is too entrenched with slavery to think about supporting him, and Brander is too busy with their northern border. The only ones who could afford aiding the boy are the Handriatic Union, but they are also our greatest ally in the south.” Luxfeld added thoughtfully. The others nodded, seemingly taking heart that the rebellion wouldn’t find fertile soil elsewhere.
If the Hero had been smarter, he’d have kept the slave-freeing on the down low to gather the southern states’ support, but since that was nominally the entire reason he was revolting, it wasn’t possible.
“We won’t get any help either,” Langley grumbled, “Garva is all too busy with the newest waves of barbarians dying upon the walls of the Death Fort, and as far as the others are concerned, the more of Hetnia’s citizens die, the better.” Even in such a private setting, the man was careful not to name names or imply the Royal Court was withholding support directly. You never knew when a Whisper was around to hear.
“It’d be humiliating if we needed them, considering the sheer disparity in power. The Hero might be a Champion, and his witch might be close, but history is full of Champions being felled by large numbers. His arrogance will be his undoing.” Luxfeld concluded, and the others didn’t seem to disagree.
Jeremiah was perfectly aware that within that statement was hidden the acknowledgment that they’d need to throw hundreds, if not thousands of lives at Leonard Weiss to tire him enough that they could kill him. But a Champion was a force of nature. It was the only way of facing one without having one of their own.
And given the Royal Court's tendency to offer massive wealth and titles to the sparse few who ever reached that level, there weren’t any to call upon.
Even in Mellassoria, there supposedly were less than five.
A lot of people will die to kill Leonard Weiss. But he will fall.