Chapter 60
How many men makes an army?
On queen Oriculus's adorable face there was no trace of malice. The childish appearance was maintained by eyes that scanned the surroundings with that curiosity typical of youth. Small, delicate hands that grasped the glass gracefully, drumming on it almost as if that sound were a sweet, amusing melody. A porcelain doll would have conveyed the idea of fragility with less accuracy.
At first glance, at least.
Behind the innocent look, lay the trained eyesight of a hawk of prey, hiding under a veneer of indifference and naiveté a maniacal attention to every smallest detail, ready to make every mistake an advantage for the future.
Being small did not mean being stupid, and growing up in a nest of vipers like a royal court had sharpened the senses to override falsehoods; the teachings of phony smiles and gracious praise had imparted the most important of lessons: trust no one.
Antilene watched Draudillon in silence as she waited for her to finally decide to open the tiny mouth.
"So... What are you going to do? It's been a couple of days since you arrived..."
The half-elf fiddled with a tuft of unruly hair that was falling over her forehead. The two women were alone in the room, an apartment reserved for members of the nobility visiting the Draconic Kingdom's capital, now only available to the elf queen.
Nothing interesting was happening outside. Nothing that had prompted Antilene to leave that comfortable refuge where she had cultivated the pleasant art that was idleness.
In the outside streets overlooked by the palace terrace stretched the dying vitality of a people resigned to the inauspicious fate plotting in the shadows. The men and women, little ants who filled those narrow spaces and bustled through every alleyway and every crumbling building, had given up basking in the sunlight, walking with their heads lowered and their few possessions tightly clutched, dreading greetings with neighbors, fumbling at every corner, out of dread of what the darkness might conceal.
Birisia, the capital of the Draconic Kingdom, was a city of death still inhabited by the living.
"I haven't decided yet... It would be best to start with an estimate of the enemy forces. I'd rather avoid going back and forth across the nation, so you should try to get them all gathered in one place."
Draudillon was the type who liked to drink when the agitation kicked in. The naturalness with which she brought red wine to her lips would have impressed even the most frequent patrons of the worst taverns. Just one sip, and the liquid was gone.
"According to the latest estimates, we're talking about tens of thousands of demi-humans..." Still, the alcohol did not impair her ability to think rationally. A frowning eyebrow to express disappointment and a furrowed brow to preserve an image of concern. A tone of voice that was meant to express apprehension, yes, but also veiled respect. "I don't presume to doubt your abilities, Lady Fouche, but we should not be reckless."
The hem of her dress slipped over her legs in what was almost a bow, subdued only by the memory of their respective positions. One of them was the host, and the other the queen, at that precise moment. The issue was to determine who was who. Antilene found that all-too-tuned devotion annoying and out of place; it did not matter how much necessity dictated it.
"Ten, a hundred, a thousand. What difference does it make?" Approaching Draudillon, the half-elf felt uncomfortable at how much taller than her she was. An infant of forty and a teen of almost two-hundreds. The two had something in common, after all. "Take a sword, and strike me."
Draudillon, still a child, distanced herself. The unreasonableness of that demand could only be grasped by those who had learned codes of conduct, etiquette, and even gallantry inside out. "I don't think I understand. Why should I hit you?"
Antilene drew a orichalcum sword from her bag and handed it to her, without explanation, simply pointing to her chest.
"It's a demonstration."
The queen hesitated in holding it, and showed more hesitation in hurling herself at the half-elf. But she did so, with unexpected impetus. Justified perhaps by the glare with which she was being urged?
"The sword..." The orichalcum bended, in contact with Antilene's skin, who remained unfazed, while Draudillon rubbed the aching hands.
"See? The workmanship of this weapon was first-rate, but to me it's like being hit by a pillow. A particularly soft pillow."
This was not enough to convince the queen, as was to be expected. Otherwise she would not have deserved the crown that rested on her head and the title that defined her persona. "I am not a warrior... And the demi-humans will not be one puny woman..."
"It doesn't matter. The only way they can hurt me is to find someone on my level, or a team of slightly inferior individuals. But if there really was, there wouldn't be a Draconic Kingdom to protect at this point. Of course, caution is never too much."
There could have been a reason why the beastmen had not pulled out their trump cards. And, according to Sunlight Scripture reports, even a Dominion Authority could not have guaranteed victory. On the other hand, the Black Scriptures had had no trouble clearing the area in the past.
"To hear you talk, everything is so easy... Forgive me, but I find it hard to believe that decades of problems can disappear with so little effort." A rift in the mask. The queen had given way to the frightened little girl, giving coherence to the image she projected. "No one is invincible, and even the heroes of legends can perish for something foolish. A particular poison, a fulfilled prophecy, an ignored love. Even those who ruled the world in the distant past had to learn to be simple inhabitants of it."
The dragon's blood wept with melancholy in that seemingly so fragile creature. Antilene, who carried in her veins the poison that had eradicated her ancestors, noticed an unpleasant irony in noticing how, in the end, it was she who had come to Draudillon's aid. A centuries-old grudge could turn indifferent with the passage of enough nights and days.
"You are right," agreed the half-elf, without dwelling on unpleasant memories. "I alone will not be enough. But not for the reasons you think." Near them was a small table, on which sat a glass and drinks brought by the queen herself. Antilene poured herself some grape juice. Sweet, but with a bitter aftertaste that stuck to the palate.
"What do you mean?" Doubt crept over Draudillon's features. Very well. Doubt was the bread of the believer, so the scriptures read.
"One little elf destroying a nation of demi-humans alone... Such news cannot circulate freely in order to avoid unpleasant repercussions. First, we will need heroes to whom we can grant credit and honor."
As had been done in the Union, but on a grander scale. The war between the Draconic Kingdom and the beastmen was a conflict that had now been going on for years. Simply creating a hero out of thin air would not have been enough. Something more was needed.
"The two of us have different priorities, obviously. In any case, there are flocks of heroes who might be suitable for such a project..." Draudillon stroked her chin. The smooth, perfect skin slipped between the tiny, soft fingers. "It could bring benefits both in cultivating new talents and keeping out unwanted invaders. On the other hand, a champion of renewed fame entails challengers who will try to steal his glory..."
"Exactly. So a champion alone will not be needed. Demi-humans will only have to be afraid to approach these lands. But what do monsters fear?"
Draudillon took a few moments to be able to think, before the realization broke through to her with a swift and swift stroke. "Goblins fear orcs. Orcs fear trolls. There is always a hierarchy... And at the apex there are only creatures... That never don't mean…?"
It didn't matter which stories were taken as reference, the conclusion always included an epilogue that was already established. To enter the myth, the hero had to face the embodiment of what was right, or what was wrong. The personification of greed, or wisdom. The details changed, but not the substance.
The Six Great Gods had done that. The Eight Greed Kings had done it. The Thirteen had done it, and with them countless others. Each legend shared a common element.
"This is the realm of the Dragon, isn't it? And there's a dragon right here in front of me."
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"Absolutely not!" That mighty shout would have imposed itself on a large crowd. In a throne room with only three people, however, it was quite out of place. "I could never allow that! If anything should happen to you, queen Oriculus, not only could I never forgive myself, there would be no future for this entire kingdom!"
Every window had been sealed, just as closed was the large door leading to the hall. The guards had been dismissed, and the officials excused. Under these conditions, it was difficult to determine from where that icy wind that brought a hostile cold with it was blowing.
"I know how you feel, but we have no other choice. These are the conditions of Lady Fouche... I must go to the front with her, and convince everyone that the eventual victory was my doing."
"Too dangerous! When has anyone ever heard of a queen leading troops? I would understand if you were able to defend yourself, but in your condition..." The man continued to adjust his glasses, which kept slipping repeatedly on his nose from too much sweat. Of the two, evidently, he was the drama queen.
"I am still the protector of this realm, and of the people who inhabit it. This form is only an appearance, my dear Magone..." Queen Draudillon rested her palm on the trusted advisor's shoulder, gentle in her understanding and at the same time firm in her decision. "If I can guarantee the salvation of just one of my subjects, I have a duty to put my life on the line. In any case, we can no longer go on as we are doing. You know it, as do I."
"Yes... I know," Magone lowered his head, unable in shame to sustain the gaze of the one he had sworn to serve. "But this is a wager, your majesty. And the stakes are too high."
"Even if the chances are low, we have to try." Draudillon's placidity was undercut by a certain agitation, which showed itself in frantic impulses in the ceaseless adjustment of posture on the throne.
Indifferent to the all-too-lowbrow spectacle, Antilene interjected herself into the discussion. "There was very recently a queen who won a war all alone. And I am living proof of that, if I am not mistaken. Or would you have something to say about that, dear prime minister?"
Like many men, Magone's tenacity faltered with a single whisper. Unlike many of his kind, however, in retreating, the prime minister did not just walk away from the half-elf, but stood between his queen and that perceived danger, trembling legs not withstanding. "Perhaps for you, who are a fighter, the idea is exciting. I can smell the blood on your fingernails, and the stench of corpses coursing through your whole being."
A compliment that did not flaunt too much courtesy. Some, poor fools, might have called it an offense.
"Magone! This is not how we should treat an honored guest. Take back immediately what you have said..." Even Draudillon's wrath was not enough to make him retract those words.
Not that there was anything to portray in the first place. The truth was an insult only to those who could not face it.
"Your Majesty. If capital punishment awaits me for what I say, I will not hesitate to put my life in your hands. But I beg you, do not listen to what this woman says!"
Was it not arrogance to think that one's life was an appropriate bargaining chip for every predicament? An arrogance that was not detestable, in any case, since it stemmed from sincere loyalty.
"Easy, easy. No one would be so bold as to put on a pike the head of a vassal so loyal as to show his dissent. Isn't that right, Queen Oriculus?"
Draudillon nodded, agreeing with what the half-elf said, the blue eyes fixed on the first minister. "Magone, I am grateful for the care you show me. I beg you, however, not to let affection alone cloud your judgment."
"Your Majesty, what would happen if Lady Fouche were unable to protect you? For all we know, there might be demi-humans capable of defeating even her."
An all in all reasonable objection, but one that focused on the tree instead of the forest.
"If there really were, certain doom is what awaits you anyway. At least you would have the warning that will allow some of your people to escape as far away as possible."
Magone didn't demur, "A nation does not run itself. The people need their queen to guide them." Such a small man, and he would throw himself into a pit full of vipers at a mere nod from his queen. In any case, too much loyalty could be a negative trait when it clouded judgment.
"True. But if there is no nation to rule, and no people to lead, what is the task of a queen? A queen plans taxes when there are people who can pay them. A queen settles urgent matters, when there are quarrels to be resolved. A queen plans the economy, moves armies, appoints judges and officials. All this, you will agree, can only be done when there is a foundation on which the kingdom can stand. Our foundations? They have been collapsing for years now. We are not on the edge of a precipice, but we are crashing into the ditch of a cliff. And when we notice the hand trying to catch us before the fall, we cannot flinch."
The queen forced herself to remain steadfast, monolithic, while the country she represented collapsed under the weight of an evil that could not be eradicated. The gold of the crown was dull, almost as if even its shine had been tried by years of suffering, and the luster it emitted was only a distant memory, now only a forgotten tale.
Magone bit his lip, looking for the right argument to retort. Plentifulness did not always go hand in hand with reasonableness. "The nobles will protest. There will be confusion and agitation. There may be riots and mass exodus if the common people fear for your lives."
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Antilene, who had observed the people of the Draconic Kingdom from afar, could not help but wonder if that grayness was also present on the faces of the nobility, of the soldiers, of the officials, of those who were supposed to be the finest. She saw it, after all, in Magone's tired pupils and Draudillon's dull smile, who stubbornly tried to mask thick blanket of fog with makeup and perfume. A meager consolation that equality could only be achieved in misery.
"I don't see what's different from normal. It has been our daily routine since I came to the throne." Draudillon tenderly embraced the prime minister, and despite the fact that she was still in her young form, there was no doubt who among the two was the adult consoling the worried child. "If I can leave the court with a light heart, it is because I know that you will do everything necessary to keep my absence from being felt too much. After all, it was because of your work that things have been able to work for so long."
Magone, in breaking away, took off his glasses so he could rub his eyes more easily. "Your Majesty jokes far too much. Compared to your sacrifices, my contributions were of almost no impact." Then, turning toward Antilene, he bowed so eagerly that she felt his knees crack under their weight. "Lady Fouche! If you want to execute me for my insolence, I beg you to wait until the end of the war. Once the Draconic Kingdom is safe and I have found a worthy successor you may do with me as you wish. I implore you to protect our beloved queen to the end!"
Antilene dismissed him with a simple wave of her hand. "If you're quivering with the urge to pull your head off, that's none of my business. Rather than waste your time in spurts of martyrdom, help us baste a perfect performance."
"What Lady Fouche means is that we must find a way to guarantee me credit for the eventual victory," explained the queen. "After the victory, there will be many questions."
"Tactical genius? A glow that makes the hearts of those who resist shine? Tears that move the enemy to commotion?"
"Nothing so pitiful. It will be a massacre. Dear prime minister, your beloved queen will make the blood flowing in her veins boil. It is time to awaken the dragon!"
The man looked first at his queen, then at Antilene, puzzled. "The queen had explained to me in the past that in order to use ancient dragon magic the price to be paid in souls would be exorbitant. What has changed now?"
"Practically? Nothing," Antilene moved closer to him so that her bright smile could be a source of reassurance. He flinched, probably because not accustomed to such cuteness. "That's why we need to find a convincing excuse. Why did Queen Oriculus, who could have destroyed the invaders in the blink of an eye, took so long? And what prompted her to act at this very moment?"
"We could say that the magic used required an enormous amount of mana to accumulate, and it took me years to be able to use it," Draudillon proposed. "Or, alternatively, that there are particular conditions that are only now being met."
"I don't know. It might work if our goal was only the present. But we also have to think about what will happen next... Ideally, whoever decides to attack the Draconic Kingdom in the future would think about it more than once. And with such restrictive conditions we would only risk endangering you, Draudillon. After all, following that assumption, it would be enough to eliminate you quickly so that you could not cast this hypothetical destructive magic."
The difficult thing about politics was to be able to find not only the perfect solutions, but to cast them in an overview that would treasure the lessons of the past and be able to predict with adequate effectiveness the reactions of the future.
'All in all, pulling one's head off is not such a detestable prospect now,' Antilene thought. The virtue of brutes was far easier to exercise than that of strategists. To excel in both was what was required of the half-elf. Could the Gods have piety on them.
"So what?" Magone asked. Judging by his expression he was not very convinced of that plan.
Antilene walked around the empty hall, looking for inspiration. It was irritating with how hard it was taking her to get there. The tapestries on the walls, and the stained glass did not provoke suggestion, and every bit of her imagination was consumed in search of something that had a vagueness of meaning.
"It's simple," she said, after more than one deep breath. "We will say that someone or something made you able to use your sleeping power. An awakening that happened in a place steeped in magic, or an ancient weapon found in a hidden cave. Everyone loves stories like that."
It was not unusual for some beings to develop extraordinary powers late in life. That was what happened to the leader of the thirteen heroes after all. Genealogy and Draudillon's illustrious ancestor would make the lie even more feasible. Moreover, it was a great hope for those who still had confidence in their growth.
"It might work, but we should also be able to create a proper justification."
"That will come when the time is right," Antilene clapped her hands, happy to have that matter settled. The most exciting part was yet to come. "If there's nothing else, I'd say we can start the preparations."
"One thing," Magone raised his arm as shyly as a schoolboy who wanted to ask an awkward question. When the half-elf gave him permission to speak, he said, "You would need someone who can protect Her Majesty in case you are too busy with other matters, Lady Fouche. No one can be in more than one place at the same time. This is the only condition I make to give my assent."
Antilene sustained that fearful, yet unyielding look. Although he had reason on his side, it had taken courage to stare at her with such intensity. The half-elf's opinion toward the prime minister shifted to a more favorable one.
"You are right," she sighed, acknowledging defeat. "Do you have anyone in particular in mind? It would have to be someone trustworthy, and able to keep his mouth shut. If I am not mistaken, there is a very famous adventurer in your employ. Could we try asking him?"
"No way," unexpectedly, Draudillon rejected the proposal with ferocity and... disgust? Was there some past that should not be delved into, or was it just a blunder? "Cerabrate and the Crystal Tear are indispensable at the front. Withdrawing it for my personal safety could send the wrong message to those few adventurers who are still willing to fight on credit for us."
Draudillon's experience as ruler shone through with such considerations, for Antilene could never have been aware of such delicate balances. No one would have been able to deny that the Draconic Kingdom also managed to endure because of such brilliant leadership.
"Your Majesty, this also makes Stronoff ineligible for the task."
Gazef Stronoff. The half-elf had a vague recollection of the warrior who had achieved considerable fame in such a short time. She would have liked to meet him again, to be able to form an opinion more relevant to reality.
The little queen lowered her head, prey to an unexpected melancholy. "You are right... It would be inappropriate to recall our hero..."
"Is there no one else available? Does the Draconic Kingdom have only two individuals who can bear the title of hero?"
"There would be someone. However..."
"However?"
Draudillon looked away, directing her gaze toward an unknown horizon. "It will not be easy to convince him."
Antilene clutched her shoulders. After all, she had been the one who had taken charge of the future of that broken kingdom. There was no turning back now. "Tell me where to find him."
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Inns were the perfect places to hold a meeting.
The tacit agreement that underlay between owner and customers fostered the serene and peaceful atmosphere where personal interests could align with various business deals. As long as one was ready to discuss peacefully, everyone would ensure that any negotiations would be conducted in full politeness and the most cordial serenity.
If tones became more heated, on the contrary, two simple alternatives were presented: a door leading outward, so as to leave out issues that could not be resolved by mere words, or one could make acquaintance with any bright personality who had decided to accept that implicit social pact. Masnadiers, criminals, and workers, however, were unaccustomed to the gallantry of the ballrooms and tea salons of the nobility, although many of them had entered them more than once to settle certain matters that could hardly be dealt with in the light of day.
"Are you comfortable here, my lady?"
Antilene had waited at the table to which the innkeeper had led her. To call it a table was far too generous. There were pieces of wood present in the nearby forests with better workmanship.
More than half an hour had passed since the time set in the appointment before anyone had addressed her. Evidently, her conception of punctuality was different from the one common in such places.
"The milk is spoiled, and the fruits rotten. I feel more stares on me than a priest in a brothel, and the background music is less pleasant than the yowling of a horde of cats in heat."
Red eyes that zeroed in on her peered deep. The man to whom they belonged sat a few feet away, on a stool that could remain whole under that minimal weight only by some divine intervention.
"My lady, I can tell you're not from around here. No one would talk like that, except to give themselves an air of the world, which, unfortunately, is absent." The man's scarlet hair moved, lulled by the countless drafts that penetrated the falling walls. He too, like the half-elf, accompanied his speech with a glass of milk, which he savored with relish. "Goat's milk. It's a rarity in these parts lately. I wouldn't be too picky. People around here are simple, but proud. They may misinterpret what was a simple observation about the food."
Antilene looked around. The half-elf counted at least a dozen different individuals keeping an eye on her, five so blatant as to be in plain sight, five more shrewd in their caution. It was unlikely that there were any others, but she remained prepared to be amazed.
"You're right," she stroked her earring, almost an instinctive gesture. "Forgive my rudeness, messer Optics. As you may have observed, I'm not from around here."
The man laughed. It was a sympathetic laugh, one that exuded an unexpected joy, and that it had been coached to bring a sense of familiarity to anyone who would listen. Indeed, everything about Optics gave the impression that it was designed to make whoever interacted with him at ease. "My lady, there is no need to apologize. This is a gentleman's refuge. An emissary of the queen will be treated with full honors, I can assure you. I admit to being surprised. I was convinced that Her Highness had judged my fee too exorbitant for her pockets, yet when my contact explained that she wished to indulge my services I rushed, I admit, with the frenzy of the pet seeing its master again after a long time."
That shelter of gentlemen -and gentlewomen- stank to high heaven and led one to wonder if there were walls separating from the stables. It was not raining, so the drops falling from the ceilings could not have been simple water. The songs playing were obscene, and the atmosphere of feverish drunkenness mingled with the fat high-pitched giggles of the frequenters of that hovel.
Dragon's Breath, that inn was called, and one could not help but wonder if it was simply how much was left after a hellish blaze.
"I am glad of it. From what I've had the pleasure of hearing, your sword blade is the best the Draconic Kingdom has to offer."
Optics did not change his expression; it was only the twinkle in his eyes that made it clear he had sniffed out the deal. "I don't want to brag. The Holy Lord is also a first-rate champion. And although I have not had the pleasure of meeting him, Sir Stronoff is also described as an extraordinary hero." The slender body flexed, invigorated by a strange feeling of pride. "Of course, none of them could be as useful as I am for certain matters." His left hand slowly slid to the scabbard of a thin blade attached to his leather pants, up to that point kept duly in the background. Some men had a bad habit of wanting to show their blade too quickly.
"And what could you be useful in?" Antilene inquired, intrigued.
"Assassination. Kidnapping. Theft. Extortion. Even simple threats. Anything that a person as respectable and integral as our beloved queen would have no problem declaring indecent. If there is someone or something that needs to disappear, my services will ensure that all traces become only a distant memory."
How many of those shady deals had he entertained over the years? Yet behind the arrogance and complacency, the worker resembled more than just a carrion-feeding jackal. Rare talents like his, after all, were in demand everywhere. Why stay in the Draconic Kingdom of all places? For some strange love of his homeland? Highly unlikely. Like everyone, Optics carried secrets he did not want to share openly. This made him painfully ordinary.
"None of that," replied Antilene, as she tried to get a clear idea of the one before her. Other than his weapon, no armor to protect him, and the few magical items he carried were valuable, yes, but nothing exceptional. The doublet that covered him had streaks of silver, and the pants did not give the impression of being very worn. "Queen Oriculus has no domestic enemies. You should be aware. Her attention is turned to other dangers."
For a single, fluttering instant the elegance of the swordsman's movements were seized by uncertainty. The smile that gave nothing away became overshadowed by an almost imperceptible concern, and the posture -hitherto straight and soaring- curved. His head bridged the small distance between them, as he muttered a simple warning.
"Caution, my lady. Such talk can be frowned upon in certain circles."
Antilene, who had nothing at all to fear, merely raised her voice, curious about the possible reaction. "Is the king of swindlers afraid? I had intended that the Blazing Crimson team had gained its renewed fame mainly because of your skill."
Everything stopped. The music ceased. The people in the inn hushed. There was no need to turn around to realize that every eye was on her. Optics' cronies waited only for a nod before acting, as the hall began to fill little by little.
"It would be foolish not to," Optics regained his composure, signaling to his peers to stop whatever dastardly plan they were about to enact. Antilene was grateful that she had been spared an unpleasant inconvenience. "I had already been clear in the past, though. The extermination of demi-humans requires a much higher reward than normal. And that does not allow for compromise."
"I have many methods to be able to convince you."
The Blazing Crimson leader swallowed, having taken the hint. Only a glance had been enough to realize the abyss that separated them, but managing not to flee in panic was testament to his steadfastness of spirit. Or stupidity. "I don't doubt it, my lady. Assuming you are able to convince me by force, what then? In my work there is something inescapable, which no act of violence can erase."
"What?"
"Trust, of course. Workers are mercenaries first and foremost. And, unlike adventurers, we are not blinded by dreams of glory and honor. Compel me by force, and I assure you that I will flee at the drop of a hat the first opportunity I get."
And he signaled to take off his hat, even though he wore none. Antilene allowed herself a smile. "You're right. Listen to my proposal, then. And then I'll let you decide. Before you do so, however, I request that you tell your friends to leave us alone."
Optics tickled his chin, before standing up. Within a short time, only the two of them remained.
"Let's hear the proposal."
"It's simple," the half-elf tried to find a way to achieve comfort in that chair, but such a feat proved impossible even for her. "The queen is going to the front, and she needs a bodyguard."
Antilene had not finished uttering those words when Optics began to head for the door.
"Hey, where are you going?" She called him back, managing to get him to stop a few steps from the doorway.
"My lady, if you want to kill me, do it now. Because this is the craziest proposal I have ever heard in my years of honorable career."
As to be expected, putting a leash on a wolf was not as simple as a dog. First, it was necessary to make him understand that there was no difference.
"Why are you so sure of that?"
Optics took a few steps back, returning to an acceptable distance, but still close enough to the door to be able to duck out if necessary. As if it would change anything.
"If the wine has finally gone to Her Majesty's head, I greatly lament it. Nevertheless, I see no reason to sacrifice my life for a woman's suicidal instincts." It was not cowardice. The scales were simply unbalanced.
"No suicidal instincts," reassured Antilene. "Your presence will be merely decorative. A frill to show off on a new evening gown. The war will end soon, and we need just someone to stand by her majesty Oriculus in case of danger. In all likelihood, you won't even have to draw your sword."
"You seem to believe what you say, my lady. But to survive in this field as long as I have, information is as precious as water. And until a few days ago the war was all but on the verge of ending. Pray tell, what has changed now?"
"Me," said the half elf. "Now I'm here."
"My lady..." but Optics found nothing else to object to. It was as if every argument he could baste was dismantled even before it became reality, dissipated by the mere presence of Antilene. "A worker does not make his services available without proper compensation."
In the end, it was the only defense he had left. Was it money that made the man act? It could be called a foregone truth. It was not, however, complete.
"Currently, any auxiliary volunteer of the Draconic Kingdom can claim the materials of the monsters they defeat. A demi-human, depending on his or her race, can provide furs, claws, fangs or other body parts for resale to various fences. This is without considering various armors or weapons they may carry with them. Depending on the level of difficulty, then, the price may rise."
"Call it a bargain! It is the norm for any adventurer or worker devoted to the extermination of monstrous creatures. Even the corpse of a few chieftains is not worth the candle."
Yes, normally that rule was practically useless, given what was at stake. It was kept simply to guarantee at least a minimum for those who put their lives on the line for the defense of the Draconic Kingdom without nothing but a 'thank you'.
"I'm not offering you a handful. Agree to join this expedition, and I will give you in return all that would be rightfully mine, with just a small reserve."
After all, there was always a chance that one of the invaders might have one of the old world tears with them. Or some other relics too valuable to get in the hands of miscreants.
"How much are we talking about? At least to get an estimate," Optics, finally, showed interest. The opportunity was beginning to dawn on him. "A hundred, depending on the quality, could fetch a pretty penny. A thousand, if we want to exaggerate, could ensure a life of comfort for a family for generations. Of course, there is the time required to resell everything to be considered."
Of those issues, nothing really mattered to Antilene. Her response was a simple statement of fact.
"All of them."
"I beg your pardon, my lady... I don't think I understand. Can you repeat?"
"I'm saying that all the invaders will be exterminated by me."
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