Chapter 31: Honor vs. Justice: the Ultimatum

Sir Alistair Morrison, once hailed as the noble savior of the Dark-Water Depths, had until recently been known merely as the “cousin of Peter IV,” the king who had brought humanity to its knees and engulfed all of North and South Bastia in death, war, and unrest. It was a dirty association, and it stained him like red wine on a white shirt. But even that was preferable to the moniker he had most recently been bestowed: coward.

It sickened him. It filled him with misery. Even the association to his unfortunate familial connection with the late tyrant-king was preferable to being regarded as a man lacking in honor and bravery. It rankled him in ways little else could. To besmirch his reputation this way…he could dare not imagine a more insulting, devious attack on his character. And yet, however contrarily, it was all the predictable result of his own actions. For he had known this would happen, and he had chosen this path in spite of it.

I had to do this, he thought to himself. What else could I have done? What other way was there?

With his hands folded behind his back, he glanced out of the large, rectangular windows in his office atop the highest building in Shadowfall Coast. The city was still in economic recovery from the last war, yet in good times and bad, it never lost its charm. The sun having just risen, he watched as, off into the distance, large fishing boats headed out for the day, while workers all along the docks stood by with trucks ready to load up yields as other boats returned from late-night expeditions. This, as early-morning commuters began their trek to the centermost district, where the majority of the city’s office complexes awaited them.

Though most of buildings in Shadowfall Coast were not nearly as tall as those in Varda’s Lair, Tomb of Fire, or even the Whispery Woods, the inherently less-dense nature of Shadowfall Coast made it so that a park filled with beautiful flowers or a large playground for the children was never more than a few miles away from any one point. For all the economic turmoil, the people of Shadowfall Coast took a unique sort of pride in their city and their culture. And it was this very same pride that caused Alistair the single-greatest moral dilemma he’d ever faced in his life.

“Sir Morrison,” Major Baxtra said to him. He was an older man with short, buzz-cut hair and a sharp, pointed, and humorless face. At his side was a white-and-gold rapier designed more for ceremony and symbolism than combat. He wore a military coat adorned with various medals from his years of service.

Alistair turned around and faced him, his armor clinking with each movement. Although highly uncomfortable, Alistair found that keeping it on most of the day helped to inspire confidence in those who served under him. Thus, his silver, laminar armor remained a permanent fixture of his appearance, covering him from head to toe.

“Yes, Major Baxtra? Do you have something to report?”

“Indeed I do.” He shifted as though uncomfortable. “It’s…it’s what we expected. It’s a missive from the Royal Roses.”

With a sigh, Alistair waved him in, and following a slight bow, Major Baxtra approached his desk. He then handed Alistair an envelope containing the official seal of the Royal Roses: a blood-red rose with a bleeding thorn. Tearing it open, the words contained within were virtually identical to the email he’d received only a half hour prior. Thus, tearing it into several pieces, he crumpled it and threw it into the trashcan to the right of his desk.

“Two weeks, huh? That’s what they’re giving us?”

“I’m afraid so, sir. They say…” Major Baxtra’s words cut off.

“You can speak freely to me.”

“I prefer not to repeat such vile words, sir.”

Alistair forced a smile onto his lips, though it was not easy given the sting of his enemy’s accusations. “In truth, I already know exactly what they say. They say that I am a coward. That I have chosen to use my people as a human shield. That I have violated the ‘Sanctity of Human Life Accords’ and that I am going to be directly responsible for plunging North Bastia into the so-called return of conventional warfare. Correct?”

“Well, that’s…that’s the gist of it, sir.”

“And what do you think?”

“S-sir?” Major Baxtra seemed caught off guard, and he stirred as though uncomfortable.

“I want to know your honest thoughts on the matter. You will not offend me. I ask only for your sincerely held view.”

His lips pursed for a moment, Major Baxtra eventually nodded and said, “I don’t believe you’re a coward, sir. Your decision is not the one I would have made, but I understand why you’ve made it.”

“Truly?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t lie to you…sir.”

The Royal Roses had been really stepping up their public attacks on his character these days. They accused him of sheltering multiple battalions inside of the city and refusing to meet them in open-field combat. They accused him of gathering the Guild of Gentlemen’s highest-leveled defenders and likewise barricading them inside the city. And thusly, they concluded, that he, Sir Alistair Morrison, had done these things due to his cowardice—due to his inability to meet a noble death on the field of battle or surrender himself with dignity. Sadly, all but the last of these accusations were correct.

He had gathered together the bulk of his guild’s strength, and he had placed them inside the city in outright violation of the accords. He indeed refused to meet the Royal Roses on the field of battle for a fight he would most certainly lose. Yet it was not due to some lack of bravery or the certainty of death. It was not because he or his guild were desperate to cling to power. No, it was for one reason and one reason alone: the people of the city.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Even despite the hardships that the Guild of Gentlemen had bestowed upon them, the people of Shadowfall Coast, much like the Tomb of Fire, were uniquely loyal to the Guild of Gentlemen in a way that was unprecedented in the history of Galterran guilds. Unlike the Plains of Mist—which would likely fall to the People of Virtue any day now—or even the Whispery Woods, those who lived Shadowfall Coast or the Tomb of Fire would never, under any circumstance, submit to any rule other than the Guild of Gentlemen.

If not for this one fact, Alistair would have already made his way onto the field of battle and died a warrior’s death. He was not afraid. He would gladly do it; in fact, he craved the opportunity. But in so doing, he would condemn the people of this city to their end. They were too stubborn. They would resist, and they, a bunch of Ones, would be crushed. Their weapons would be useless against their leveled foes. They would be stomped on like insects while their bullets bounced off the chests of their targets.

How could he abandon these people to such a fate? Though obstinate, they were loyal and prideful. And if the cost of protecting them was to be labeled a coward and a progenitor of the return to conventional warfare, then so be it. Deep below the city were stores from centuries ago, where anti-missile defense systems and surface-to-air batteries still existed in functional form. If the Royal Roses truly intended to besiege the city, then he would be ready for them.

Two weeks, huh?

That was how long they’d been given: their ultimatum. Just two weeks. If they did not surrender or march to battle in a mutually agreed upon field within that time frame, the Royal Roses claimed they would begin a siege of the city, in which potentially hundreds of thousands of lives could perish.

But more than that will die if we leave.

At the root of it all was the influence of Peter IV. So wildly detested around the world, he was still beloved in the Tomb of Fire and Shadowfall Coast. Here, the people believed in his message; they agreed with him that human beings were superior and should be treated as such. They despised the Dwarves, whose superior gadgetry had put so many of their own factories out of work. In all of Galterra, only those from the former capital city—the Tomb of Fire—and the citizens of Shadowfall Coast still cherished his memory.

They will never surrender. They will die. Especially to a guild like Royal Roses.

Despite being a cutthroat guild that occasionally behaved more like a criminal enterprise than a ruling body, the Royal Roses had a bizarrely sympathetic stance towards non-human races. They frequently welcomed, Orcs, Dwarves, Goblins, and even those contemptible Lizard Folk with open arms. Anyone who they found to be useful they embraced wholeheartedly. If surrendering to the Royal Roses meant non-humans would be allowed to freely enter Shadowfall Coast, then just about every man and woman in this city would sooner die than acquiesce. Even knowing it meant certain death, they would pick up their rifles and fire on their new leaders, and it would end in a bloodbath unlike anything seen in half a century.

“How long until our reinforcements from the Plains of Mist arrive?” he asked.

Major Baxtra curled the bottom-right portion of his lip and made something of a half-grunt, half-groan. “Not for another three weeks, sir.”

Since the writing was on the wall in the Plains of Mist, Alistair had ordered a slow, covert withdrawal of some of the higher-level forces stationed there. His plan was to have them proceed primarily on foot in plain clothing and then break up into much smaller groups, which would then separately navigate their way to Shadowfall Coast. It would take time: more time than they had.

Unless something changed soon, they would be in for a losing battle. Even still, it was one that must be fought: conventionally or otherwise.

****

With a yawn, Zach approached Angelica and gently placed his key down on the bar counter. Despite having slept until noon Galterran time, he was still so exhausted and weary. He was also the last to wake, as both Lienne and Rian were apparently seated at the same round table as last night, and both were waiting for him.

From the raucous sounds of singing, dancing, and cheering, one would never guess that it was only noon local time. It seemed this place really was the same at all hours of the day or night. It was just as crowded as it’d been the night prior, too; Zach did not recognize a single face in the crowd of merry adventurers.

“I’m guessing Mr. Oren and the others left already,” he said aloud, speaking to himself.

Nevertheless, Angelica answered him. “Yep!” she said cheerfully. Oddly, her clip-on cat ears actually wiggled, which made Zach question if they were actually clip-on at all. Upon closer inspection, he was now leaning towards them being a genuine bodily feature.

Angelica raised her finger, her expression beaming with happiness. “Fluffles left me a message for you, Zach.”

“He did?”

“Mhm, mhm! He said he loves you, he’s still your cat, but he hasn’t seen his ‘daddy’ in a while so he wanted to join him for some leveling in a dungeon. He said that as soon as he’s done, he’ll come find you, and that he’s not abandoning you. He also said that he really loves chicken and tuna, and that if you miss him, you can show it by having some for him when he returns.”

Zach smiled. “I’m just happy he’s doing something he enjoys.”

In a way, Zach was glad the cat was off leveling, as he hated to think that hanging around Zach had impeded Fluffles’ progress. Sure, he might’ve been just a cat, but he was a still an adventurer like the rest of them, and he probably didn’t want to remain stuck at level 47 forever.

Taking a seat next to his two friends, he asked, “Should we get some breakfast or just go?”

Only Rian turned his head to look at him; Lienne was busy scribbling something down with one of multiple colored pencils on a blank sheet of white construction paper. He wasn’t sure where she’d gotten the paper or the supplies. But he did recall that she loved art, so he wasn’t surprised to see her doodling an honestly shockingly realistic sketch of the tavern’s stage, where an almost perfect, uncanny recreation of the five men currently singing together filled the sheet of paper.

“I think we should save our points,” Rian said. “I’m down to 410, and we ate a lot last night.” He slapped his belly. “I could also stand to lose a few pounds.”

Zach grinned. “Hey, you said it, not me.” Then, with a quick gesture at Lienne, he asked, “Where’d she get the art supplies?”

“Angelica gave them to her. Said she loves art and would be honored to hang a sketch of her tavern on the wall. The more I see her, dude, the more I’m convinced she’s really sentient.”

“She certainly seems it.”

Zach stretched his arms and yawned, then rubbed his eyes. As fatigued as he was in the moment, he knew that as soon as he walked out of the door and made his way to B3, he would become wide awake whether he wanted to or not. Even still, he could really use something to help him shake off the morning grogginess.

“How much do you think they charge for coffee in here?”

“Five points!” Angelica called out, somehow overhearing them from the counter.

Zach smiled at her. “Can we have three cups please? All on me.”

“Three cups of the best coffee you’ve ever had, coming right up!”

As Lienne finished her illustration and Rian and him made small talk, Zach braced himself for whatever was about to come next. He was grateful for this reprieve, but he also knew not to take it for granted; there was no telling how far or how much they’d have to endure before they found a way back. It was time to continue their journey to the boss, and with that, Zach hardened his resolve.