WE ONLY REALIZED THAT THE GOLDEN LION and Prince Philippe had fought a battle when we started to encounter the first scattered, bedraggled units of Vestonian soldiers fleeing in our direction along the road. Such units were all that remained of the once-mighty army of the Dukes de Bauffremont and de Gondy.
Within a few days, I managed to get a decent idea of what had happened by piecing together all the bits and pieces these refugees reported to . Once again, the Golden Lion had demonstrated to the whole world that he was one of the most invincible and fortunate commanders in all Mainland.
Mind you, it seed to that in this particular battle, luck wasn’t really the most significant factor at play. Marshal di Lorenzo had won the battle thanks to his sharp, calculating intellect, as well as a level of organizational skill that was frankly phenonal by the standards of this world. If I was wrong about that... Well, then I don’t really know what else could explain the completeness of his victory.
The more I learned about Marshal di Lorenzo, the more clearly I ca to understand that if he and I ever t on opposite sides of the battlefield, both sides would end up paying a high price in blood, no matter which of us ca out the victor. In the depths of my soul, I was actually glad that we had sohow managed to avoid one another so far.
And judging by the fact that he had obviously decided to avoid and fight the Dukes’ army instead, I felt confident that Marshal di Lorenzo was probably one of the very few people in my new world who took completely seriously. At any rate, he didn’t seem to be itching to et on the field.
After carefully studying all the reports I had received, I ca to the conclusion that the Golden Lion didn’t rely consider more dangerous than the Dukes; he had actually used my tactics against them during the battle.
After all, the Dukes de Bauffremont and de Gondy placed their bets on their cavalry, just like both of the di Spinolas. Fully in keeping with the spirit of warfare in this world. Admittedly, so of the surviving nobles who had been present at the pre-battle council of war told that one of the Vestonian commanders had suggested a pretty effective plan for fighting the Atalians who were dug in along the vineyard. A certain Count de Poitiers, who had been a Marshal under the previous King, had made several very sound observations. He had been laughed out of the tent in response.
Well, I thought... Those gentlen certainly aren’t in a laughing mood anymore. The army had been destroyed. The wagon train was now a trophy in the hands of the Golden Lion. With such plentiful supplies, the Atalians would have a much easier ti on the journey back to their own lands.
Nobody knew what had happened to Prince Philippe. Most likely, he was a prisoner. Nobody knew anything about the Dukes either. So were confident that both of them had been killed; others, that they had been taken prisoner. Long story short, the picture was one of utter confusion.
The fact that the Golden Lion had decided not to wait for our army to arrive, and had instead set off down the southern track toward Atalia, beca clear when we arrived at the scene of the recent battle. The field had already turned into an abode for scavengers. Just how much of a hurry Marshal di Lorenzo was in beca obvious when we realized that he hadn’t even stuck around long enough to give the bodies of the fallen Atalian legionaries a proper burial. I made a ntal note when I learned about this: it was yet more evidence that the Golden Lion’s thods were radically different from the norms that prevailed among the rest of the aristocracy.
He was cruel, calculating, and utterly unconcerned with generally-accepted rules and norms — the kind of opponent that demanded unflagging vigilance at every turn. He would stop at nothing in pursuit of his goals.
After arriving at the battlefield and setting up a temporary camp about a mile away from the field itself, I called a council at which all my commanders were present, along with the Bergonian and Vestonian nobles — including so of the new arrivals.
Thanks to the latter, Marquis de Gondy’s unit had grown quite considerably. They didn’t see as one of their own, for obvious reasons, which ant that the Ruler of the South’s son (who, as they all knew, might officially be acclaid the new Duke de Gondy at any ti as news continued to trickle in) beca a sort of rallying point for the newly-arrived nobles — and not just those of his father’s vassals who had survived the defeat, but a lot of the Duke de Bauffremont’s people as well.
“Our duty now is to follow the Atalian army!” Soone from the Marquis de Gondy’s entourage thundered vociferously. The Marquis had been in a very gloomy state of mind ever since news of the battle had arrived. The uncertainty, all the unknowns around his father’s fate... It clearly scared him quite a bit.
“We’ll make the scoundrel pay!” Another nobleman seconded his comrade.
“And we’ll drink from Atalia’s teats while we’re at it!” A mirthful bass voice chid in from the opposite corner of the tent. “Northern Atalia is totally unprotected!”
That last phrase drowned in a multitudinous roar of encouragent before whoever said it could even finish speaking. The gentlen aristocrats from the Marquis de Gondy’s entourage had obviously gotten carried away. My people, however — along with the Count de Leval — were watching the whole circus with unconcealed disdain.
Gradually, the shouts and martial exclamations mutated into a rapturous outpouring of praise for the Marquis de Gondy, who still looked utterly lost and confused. It was one thing to act upon the instructions of a powerful father; it was another thing entirely to take responsibility for a whole Duchy (and for one’s own decisions) into one’s own hands. The bootlickers around the Marquis were already regaling him with tales of his future as the commander who conquered Vestonia’s greatest enemy.
According to Vaira’s reports, the Golden Lion’s wagon train was a separate topic of conversation among these very sa noblen. If the survivors from the battle could be believed, Marshal di Lorenzo was bringing a staggering amount of wealth back into Atalia with him. Basically, the nobles were stamping their hooves with impatience, demanding to be allowed to avenge their countryn’s shaful defeat — a process during which, of course, they would also be allowed to ravage a wide swath of seemingly-defenseless land.
For my part, I watched it all unfold with a slight sense of wonder. A re two or three days after a battle that (by my approximate reckoning) had killed at least 70% of Prince Philippe’s army, these slick-talking young noblen were already planning a glorious march into Atalia.
When the noise finally died down, the Marquis de Gondy finally turned to look at . For the first ti since we had known each other, I thought I saw a flicker of hope in his eyes. He obviously had no idea what to do, or how to react to the crushing weight of responsibility that had recently slamd down onto his shoulders.
“Monsieur,” he said as he turned to , trying to restrain the note of anxiety in his voice. “Do you agree with what was just said?”
“What part of it, exactly?” I asked.
“Do you agree that we should punish the Atalians and conquer Northern Atalia?” He asked patiently.
“Monsieur,” I said. “I find it difficult to judge other n on what they feel their duty to be. If you believe that you must punish the Atalians and invade their lands, all I can do is wish you the best of luck.”
“Do you an to say that you don’t consider it your duty to smash the remnants of the Golden Lion’s army and conquer part of our enemy’s lands?” One of the “new” nobles inquired acidly.
“My duty is to comply with the will of my King,” I snapped back. “I was assigned a very specific task: to take control of the Margraviate de Valier. And I still haven’t seen that task through to completion yet.”
“I can only hope His Majesty will forgive the delay,” the Count de Leval chuckled to . “After all, you have quite a good excuse. You’ve conquered Bergonia for him.”
Encouraging smiles appeared on the faces of my commanders, and (I couldn’t help but notice) on those of several other Vestonian nobles as well.
“As for Atalia and Marshal di Lorenzo,” the old general continued as he turned to face the Marquis de Gondy, “you are, of course, at liberty to pursue him if you like. But I doubt you’ll have much success. Please don’t think I an any offense to yourselves with these words of mine, Monsieurs. It’s just that I have many years of experience, and that experience tells that even if you manage to assemble an army of sufficient size, you simply won’t be able to get it into Atalia. Even if you do, nothing good will be waiting for you there.”
“What do you an by that, Monsieur?!” One of the young barons shouted indignantly.
“The Count de Leval is trying to tell you that pursuing Marshal di Lorenzo and his legions would be suicidal,” I said. “Thanks to this war, there are virtually inhabited villages left along the southern track. That ans there’s nowhere to stock up on supplies — which, by the way, are lacking even NOW. I really don’t understand how you intend to wage war if you can’t even feed your army.”
A dissatisfied murmur began to fly around the tent.
“Further,” I continued, raising my voice to silence the noise. “That’s how things stand right now — once the Golden Lion’s legions have made their way down the track, there won’t be anything whatsoever left for you to scavenge. But even if you sohow manage to make it to the Atalian border, you’ll find an extrely hostile population that’s been forewarned of your coming. They’ll be locked up in their cities, fortresses, and castles, together with all their provisions and anything of value. And just in case you need reminding, winter will be here soon — that ans cold, frostbite, and all the diseases that love to strike armies at the most inconvenient tis. Plus, the Golden Lion won’t exactly be sitting on his hands while you invade. I’m sure he’s already planning a warm welco for any uninvited guests who follow him over the border. That, basically, is what the Count de Leval was trying to tell you.”
“Exactly,” the old general confird with a nod of approval.
“Well then, what do you propose?” Marquis de Gondy.
“I have nothing to propose to you,” I shrugged. “You’re perfectly at liberty to do whatever you see fit.”
“You an you’re just going to leave things as they are?” The Marquis sounded baffled.
“If by “things,” you an Atalia and Marshal di Lorenzo, then yes,” I replied. “Especially since my people and I have plenty of work to do in Bergonia as it is. His Majesty is expecting so decisive actions from us. We’re under obligation to take control of all Bergonia’s major cities. To establish law and order in them. Otherwise this place will descend into chaos and confusion.”
The noblen listened to the first half of my speech in gloomy silence, but by the end they had perked up considerably. Indeed, I could already see excitent on so of their faces — excitent at the prospect of plundering Bergonia’s leaderless towns and cities. I decided to disabuse these people of any such notion imdiately.
“If you’re hoping for advice from , Monsieurs, I’m willing to give you so.”
With that, I paused and cast a slow, heavy glance around the room. So of the nobles t my gaze calmly; so looked back with defiance in their eyes. But there were also so who hurried to avert their eyes.
“My earnest recomndation is for you all to return to your hos,” I said firmly. “I’m sure your families are already at their wits’ end. Very soon, things are going to start getting rough in Bergonia. I’m already receiving reports that groups of bandits and marauders are stalking the roads. I intend to deal with this problem quickly and harshly. As part of that, all the main roads will soon be patrolled by units of n from the mountain districts.”
Judging by the sour looks on so of the nobles’ faces, they had heard my warning loud and clear. As for those who decided to ignore that warning... Well, we could always send so werewolves to teach them a lesson. True, it would be the last lesson they ever learned. Nobody would have much sympathy for marauders and robbers. Regardless of their social origins. Noble bandits, common bandits — they would simply disappear without a trace
The Count de Leval was already working on distributing troops into garrisons throughout Bergonia’s cities. He was perfect for the task, having done similar work in the past. For my part, I was planning to do a tour of all the major cities in Bergonia (including the capital, of course) and conclude agreents with the municipal leaders similar to the ones I had made with the authorities in Gondreville and Conterne.
Carl III, who was basically left without an army, wouldn’t be able to establish full control in Bergonia for quite so ti. In fact, it would probably be a long ti before there would be ANY centralized power in Bergonia. For the ti being, it would be the leaders in the cities (and the councils of elders among the mountain n) who would carry the real weight of authority.
Those elders, by the way, had already co to with a suggestion that I should simply take control of the whole country myself. But I had refused this suggestion, and asked them not to make any similar suggestions ever again.
First of all, I had no intention of wasting valuable ti sorting out the entire country’s problems. Second, sorting out those problems was bound to be a bloody process; that seed virtually inevitable. I had no desire whatsoever to be involved in anything of the sort. Third, I had other plans for my last life anyway.
Long story short, the whole idea of a struggle for the throne... Well, I simply wasn’t interested.
First and foremost, I wanted to make it to my Margraviate. I would have to decide what to do about the Citadel. I knew its forr owners would probably be coming to with an offer to buy it back before too long. If not, I could always sell it to soone else. I didn’t want to keep it for myself. Sure, it was useful as a base during warti, but maintaining a complex like that long-term after military operations were over would be ruinously expensive.
Even as it was, I had so considerable expenses to bear in my new lands. All the rtonians, as well as many of the mountain n (mostly the true gifted among them), had expressed a desire to move to the Margraviate de Valier permanently. So of the Vestonian legionaries had approached with similar requests.
Baron Reese, the rtonian leader, had inford that he had decided to send part of his unit back to the Foggy Isles to bring his rtonians’ families to join them, and to inform the other Glenn clans that there was an auring in the world once again. The smile on Baron Reese’s face as he told all this suggested that my Margraviate’s population would probably be increasing significantly before too long. It seed like a full-on migration of peoples. At one point, I felt so overwheld that I actually lowered my head into my hands in despair. Even by the most modest estimate, I would be bringing about 3,500 people with into my Margraviate. If not more... And all those people would need housing, as well as all the other necessities of life. And I still didn’t really know what was waiting for there...
On that note, the council concluded, and I left the main command tent. Already, I had no doubt that all those nobles who had been so vociferous in their praise of the Marquis de Gondy would be eager to visit over the next few days.
As I stepped into my tent, I found that Aelira and Vaira were already waiting for . I had sent them to trail the retreating Atalian army, together with a small unit of shapeshifters.
“So — are they leaving?” I asked as I sat down in my chair.
“Yes,” nodded Aelira. “You were right. The Atalians have no intention of fighting us.”
“I don’t think Ricardo di Lorenzo will be back here any ti soon,” I nodded. “We’ve thinned out his ranks pretty considerably — the fanatics even more so. I wouldn’t be surprised if we hear that the current King of Atalia has t an untily end. The Golden Lion will be focused on internal affairs in his own country for the next few years at least. Did you get a chance to check his prisoners?”
The last question was addressed to Vaira, who had been ordered to get as close to the Atalian force as she could.
“Yep,” she nodded. “It was easy.”
“What’d you find out?” I asked.
“As you suspected, Prince Philippe is in their hands,” replied Vaira. “Together with his uncle.”
I wasn’t really all that happy to hear that the Duke de Bauffremont was still alive. I had already started hoping that the war would take care of that particular headache for . But de Bauffremont turned out to be tougher than I thought.
“Did you hear anything about the Duke de Gondy?” I asked.
“No,” the efirel shook her head; then, a little sheepishly, she added: “I’m not totally sure, but...”
“What?” I asked.
“I think I caught a scent on the wind — it was the very sa first-born who used to hang around outside your castle.”
I snickered. The lutine was losing her touch. Although you could never be totally sure with that particular first-born. Actually, she might have clocked my spy entering her camp and revealed herself to the efirel deliberately. Either way, I thought — I wouldn’t be surprised if she pays a visit soon.
“Well done,” I nodded to Vaira; she was frowning, but she perked up imdiately when she heard my praise. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” replied Aelira. “When we reached the spot where the Atalians had their temporary camp, so of the Golden Lion’s soldiers were waiting for us.”
“An attack?” I frowned.
“Nope,” Aelira shook her head. “They were flying a white flag, and they gave us this...”
My bodyguard held out a small scroll. After unrolling it, I ran my eyes carefully across the even lines on the page. They were written in the Vestonian language, in an elegant, confident calligraphic hand. Beneath the text was the very-familiar seal of the Duke di Lorenzo, together with a large signature that had been hurriedly scribbled onto the page. Everything suggested that the signature was genuine, that it ca from the Golden Lion, and that the text itself had been written by sobody else (most likely his secretary).
In his ssage, the Golden Lion suggested that he and I should et in person, without any witnesses. He also ntioned his hope that, as a nobleman and a man of honor, I wouldn’t attempt to take him prisoner or kill him at that eting. On that point, he would be satisfied with my word. His people would be waiting for my written reply in the sa place Aelira and Vaira had found them.
After reading through the ssage one more ti, I chuckled and shook my head. It seed virtually certain that a nobleman of the Golden Lion’s stature would have a bodyguard of strykers — potentially even including so avants — but that, for so reason, he felt pretty certain that they wouldn’t be a match for in a fight.
Or maybe it was a trap? That could very well be the case. The man was probably capable of just about anything. That wouldn’t end well for him if he tried it, of course. He didn’t know the full range of my abilities. Nor did he know about my fairies.
I had to wonder: what could he possibly want with ? I rubbed the back of my head, then let out a long breath and gave a quiet order:
“Call Gunnar in here... And have him bring paper and ink.”
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