Chapter 3: Chapter 3: Pivot

Vanian Year 1104

 

Marianne had shared her concerns with her companions, but Prince Julius firmly held onto the good faith that Reichenau was still standing.

 

Yet when they came into view of the traditional border fortresses that guarded Reichenau’s former boundary with Bryneich, they saw the Crescent Alliance’s quartered shields flying high above the parapets. It was a truly dreadful sight to behold, for it was well known that Reichenau fielded some of the most professional foot soldiers on the continent, only second to the vaunted Victorian Legions. Indeed, as they approached, Marianne could discern a discolouration in the fortress’ walls, indicating that they had been recently rebuilt.

 

“We go around it,” Prince Julius firmly ordered, “And make our way to the new frontline.”

 

“But what if-”

 

“Reichenau has not fallen,” the prince gritted his teeth, “We departed three years ago. The walls of Neuchatel are impregnable, the city sits on the banks of Lake Angeln, and we are blessed with bountiful fields to our west. Three years is not enough time to make this kingdom fall.”

 

“We should at least take a road such that we have an escape if necessary,” Marianne reasoned, “The Kingdom of Edeyrnion is to our north, and they are blessed with natural fortifications, it is highly unlikely that they have fallen.”

 

“...Fine,” Julius relented, “But we make all haste for Neuchatel.”

 

In the end, the prince’s unyielding faith in his kingdom guided them well. Two days later, the walls of Grenzmark greeted them on the horizon. Rays of sunlight shone through a gap in the clouds, gleaming down upon the battlements and creating a halo of light that could be seen from afar. The Reichenau schwarzkreuz fluttered proudly atop the stone towers, flanked by half a hundred other banners, of every allied nation, army, and general. 

 

From Marianne’s hazy knowledge alone, she could make out the rose-entwined sword of Fierueux, the fleur-de-lys of Lyonesse - and above them all, the blazing sun of the Solar Alliance. A city of canvas and campfires stretched across the plains, protected by high wooden palisades and staked ditches. 

 

Reichenau has not fallen, and Marianne felt an insurmountable shame in her heart for even doubting so.

 

“It appears that they have sent people to welcome us,” Sir Lucien noted, reigning in his steed.

 

Marianne sighted a group of riders approaching them, kicking up a great cloud of dust that obscured their form and numbers. Nor did she recognise the standard that they held aloft, for it was a terrific thing seemingly woven from hair and not linen.

 

“Horsehair standards,” Margareta’s eyes widened, “Only Kazimierzi use them!”

 

“Of course,” Lucien smiled weakly, “In these grasslands, they may as well be masters of the field.”

 

Within the moment, the horselords were upon them. She had to admit, they cut a striking figure - riding upon saddle-less horses with their luxurious silk tunics overlaid with animal furs. It seemed that for all their mercantile wealth, the Kazimierzi still held true to the time when they were equestrian tribes. The lead figure wore a strange headpiece, what she made to be vast linen strips wrapped around a conical helmet into an onion-like shape.

 

“Hail!” the man roared, “I am Mızrak Cieszmir Pasha! Who goes there, you are Reicher folk!?”

 

The men spoke in thick, accented Reicher. And as if to force his question home, the man drove his riding lance deep into the earth at their feet. Marianne counted two score horsemen in all.

 

“Your Highness,” Margareta muttered, “Pasha is the highest ranking title in Kazimierz, and only a hundred of them exist at a time.”

 

Nodding shallowly, Prince Julius drove his horse forward.

 

“I am Julius von Montmollin,” he proclaimed, “The Third Prince of the Kingdom of Reichenau!”

 

There was a brief pause, and one of the horses snorted. Then, the Kazimierzi exploded with raucous laughter, and Marianne could see Julius’ ears redden even as he tried to hide his displeasure.

 

“Reichenau’s Third Prince is but a nursling!” Cieszmir Pasha laughed, “Still suckling at his mother’s tit! Do you think us fools, prince?”

 

Even with only the back of the prince’s head in her vision, she still knew that he was taken aback simply by his silence. Truly, they all were - for it was news to them all that the Queen Consort of Reichenau had birthed a new prince in the years they were absent. But more importantly, for this child to be the third prince, it meant that Julius has been disowned from the royal family.

 

“Nay! I am the Third Prince,” Julius insisted, “I bring proof of my station, does this sword look to be one of a mere knight!?”

 

The prince drew his sword and grabbed it by the blade, before offering it to the Kazimierzi. Cieszmir Pasha took the sword and inspected it closely with a keen eye, taking particular note of the hilt and guard. 

 

“Cieszmir Pasha!” one of his followers said, “That is the Montmollin crest on the hilt!”

 

The horselord eyed the prince carefully, as if still disbelieving. However, he still flipped the sword over to return it back to Julius grip-first, before wrenching his lance out of the ground.

 

“It is a mighty fine creation nonetheless,” Cieszmir Pasha declared, “Come, let us take you to the castle, Third Prince. If you are not who you say you are, then your countrymen can take your head!”

 

The horsemen deftly surrounded them with masterful control, before escorting them into Grenzmark. The settlement was once a small castle town, but since the war began it has turned into a vast military hub with the sole purpose of fielding the tens of thousands of soldiers brought to the eastern frontier by the Solar Alliance. Just riding through the settlement, Marianne realised that it was more military encampment than town.

 

All the original residents have been relocated or fled further west, and replaced by soldiers and their families, as well as countless camp followers. Never before has there been a war that lasted so long, so it must be natural that traditional stratagems have been turned on their heads.

 

Inns and lodges have been requisitioned into barracks, and guilds into administrative centres and staff houses. Warehouses were used as supply depots, just as the talents of local merchants into supply officers. Jewellers, silversmiths and goldsmiths were retrained as blacksmiths and farriers, their sole mission to feed the insatiable beast of war with iron and steel.

 

Women spent their days weaving banners and sewing clothes for their husbands, sons and brothers on the frontline, and children ran through the streets waving missives and dispatches. Every facet of life had been geared for war, and to Marianne, it was a most terrible thing to witness. Because after two decades, this lifestyle was now normal for those who lived here.

 

As a noble, Marianne felt as if she had failed.

 

Entering Grenzmark Castle, they had their horses taken away before they were guided to a chamber near the top of the castle. Upon entering, they found it to be the lord’s solar, turned into a council chamber. 

 

“Lord Grenzmark!” Cieszmir Pasha marched into the room, “Marshal Kleiber! Look alive, we have found Julius von Montmollin!”

 

Cieszmir Pasha pushed the prince forward before the eyes of the chamber, and in an instant over a dozen hard gazes honed in on Julius’ figure. Admirably, he did not falter under the pressure, instead smoothly offering his sword and bowing.

 

“Lords, I am Julius von Montmollin, as Cieszmir Pasha says,” he took it in stride, “I offer my sword as proof.”

 

An attendant swiftly took the offered sword and passed it on to the man at the head of the table, who Marianne supposed was Marsal Kleiber. He was a large man, with sunken yet sharp eyes and a vast moustache. 

 

Upon receiving the blade, the marshal took one glance at the hilt before releasing a deep sigh. A most unexpected reaction. 

 

“And who are the rest of you?” he asked tiredly.

 

“I am Lucien of Elancourt, my lords,” Sir Lucien bowed gracefully, “A wandering knight that His Highness has generously taken on for his noble quest.”

 

“Hildegard of Remscheid, my lords,” Hildegard curtsied, “I have been bestowed the honours of Saintess by the Court of Cardinals.”

 

“Marianne von Edelhardt-Schönau, my lords,” she followed the saintess’ lead, “Of the County of Schönau.”

 

“Marianne von… Edelhardt?” Marshal Kleiber stared at her strangely, “You are… no, no.”

 

“Pardon, my lord?” she asked.

 

Suddenly, Marianne realised that the council’s attention had shifted from Julius to her. She felt like a rat under the scrutinising stares of all the old generals and lords in the room - but she was still of sound mind enough to notice that she was only so interesting to the Reichers in the room. Indeed, she noted that the Kazimierzi and Caroline officers seemed just as puzzled as her.

 

“...Tell me,” Marshal Kleiber said, “What was this mission of yours?”

 

“To venture to Gehenna and defeat the Demon King, my lords.”

 

Shocked silence enveloped the room, and air felt so heavy that Marianne found it hard to breathe. Swallowing, she stepped forwards.

 

“I am surprised to find that you didn’t know, my lords,” she wetted her lips, “I had known that the King had not sanctioned the prince’s mission, but at the very least he had informed you?”

 

“N-No…” another man stumbled on his words, “We know nothing of the sort. My lady, Neuchatel had told us that you-”

 

“Enough, Lord Grenzmark!” Marshal Kleiber snapped from across the table, “My lady, apologies for the Lord’s inconsideration.”

 

“No…?” she said, “There is nothing to apologise for?”

 

“Now… since you have returned, were you successful in your venture?”

 

The mood in the room suddenly shifted to one of cautious optimism, and it looked as if it was the first time the jaded men were willing to hope against hope. Julius suddenly beamed, and gestured Sir Lucien to come forward. More than willing, the knight swiftly dumped a sack on the table, and ripped it open.

 

The sight of the Demon King’s head, preserved in salt, was revealed to the chamber. 

 

“...With no due disrespect, sir,” someone hesitantly spoke up, “But that could be any horned-head.”

 

“No insult taken, my lord,” Julius smugly said, “Sir Lucien?”

 

Lucien untied a plan scabbard around his waist and carefully laid the sword on the table, before drawing the weapon. Almost immediately, the blade seemed to drink in the light in the room, drastically darkening the chamber. Nearly four feet of exotic steel, simmering with blessings. The blade seemed to swirl in the darkness, as if it were made of solid mist, taking on many shades of white and black.

 

“The Demon Lord’s sword, my lords,” Sir Lucien proclaimed, “Please, take a look for yourself.”

 

As the sword was passed around the table, Lord Grenzmark stood up.

 

“And you there, behind Lord Cieszmir,” he pointed, “Yes, I see you. Who are you?”

 

Marianne glanced back, and saw Margareta and Marie subconsciously hiding near the door. It was understandable, only a moon ago they were slaves, and now they were before an entire room of nobles and generals. Upon the attention, Margareta pulled her daughter close to her.

 

“...I am the master of this castle, meine Frau,” Lord Grenzmark beckoned them forward, “Not a hair upon your head will be touched.”

 

“T-This one is Margareta of Olesnica,” she stuttered, “And this is my daughter, Marie.”

 

“And you have accompanied the prince?”

 

“Y-Yes, my lord. We were slaves to the demons, a-and His Highness’ party rescued us.”

 

“Slaves!?” the lord seemed outraged, “Those- those accursed beasts! Wait… your daughter?”

 

“S-She was born there, my lord, i-in Gehenna,” Margareta pulled her daughter closer, “Her father was a Caroline slave, he has long passed.”

 

“Born in the demon continent,” someone muttered, and like a shattered window it allowed the whispers and murmurs to flood in.

 

Margareta pushed Marie behind her, and Sir Lucien looked just about to speak out in their name. But before he could speak, Marshal Kleiber slammed his fist down on the table.

 

“Gentlemen!” he roared, “We are all military men here, let us not get carried away by inane superstitions! Frau Margareta is but a woman who has not seen her homeland in an age, and her daughter is but a child who hadn’t the blessing of being born under Mount Vanitas! We ought to do nothing else but welcome them home.”

 

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Lord Grenzmark banged on the table in agreement, “Aye, the Marshal has the right of it! Lady Margareta, I will prepare lodgings for you at once. But prince, I reckon that the demons have captured many of our countrymen, may we know why Lady Margareta in particular?”

 

“Her son sacrificed himself to grant us a safe corridor from the demon capital, my lord,” Julius bowed, “We owe him much, but all he asked for was that his sister could see Vania in his place.”

 

“And let it not be said that we do not treat the families of heroes as such!” Cieszmir Pasha declared, “Leydim, the men of Olesnica are blood of the Kazimierzi. Should you wish to return to your hometown, trust us to grant you escort! And should you find your child unsafe, remember that we are children of Gehenna, Kazimierz will always be home for you.”

 

“T-That won’t be necessary, Lord Cieszmir.”

 

Suddenly, Marshal Kleiber stood up, the Demon King’s sword in his hand. Leaving his seat, he walked around the table to reach the sword’s scabbard to sheath it, before wrapping up the Demon King’s head. 

 

“Page!” he called, “Parade these around the camp! Divines know the men need some uplifting news.”

 

“So you believe us then?” Julius asked.

 

“Indeed,” the marshal watched as a page took the head and sword, “I will send a raven for Neuchatel at once. I believe Lord Grenzmark will prepare lodgings for all your companions until they send a reply.”

 

“Pardon!?” Julius nearly shouted, “But we ought to return to Neuchatel as soon as possible to present the Demon King’s head and sword! The war is nearly over!”

 

Marshal Kleiber wetted his lips, glancing back at the men at the table, before returning to the prince. The man mulled over something for a long moment, before releasing a violent sigh and scratched his scalp.

 

“prince, there is something you must know,” he said, “We do not call you Your Highness because you have been disinherited.”

 

“W-What?” Julius took a step back in disbelief.

 

“No one knew your intentions, prince, in fact we thought…” Marshal Kleiber glanced at her, “We were informed of another reason. After it became clear you weren’t returning, the royal family had announced that they had struck your name from their lineage.”

 

“W-Wait…!”

 

“As such, we must wait for new orders before making any actions,” he finished, “In the meantime, we will treat you as befitting your former station. Worry not, prince, I have faith that your family will restore you to your previous honours considering your achievements.”

 

With the wordless dismissal, they were guided by armed guardsmen to bedchambers in the towers of the castle. As they were escorted through the galleries, Julius’ face was warped in worry, while Sir Lucien was discreetly glancing at every detail in the castle. Margareta was clasping her daughter's hand tightly, as if worried Marie would drift away from her the moment she lets go. Only the saintess seemed to not have any worries.

 

After climbing up the tower, they stopped before a wooden door.

 

“Forgive us, Lady Marianne,” one of the guardsmen said, “But due to the army, we have a lack of lodgings… so we’d have to ask you to share your chambers with Lady Margareta.”

 

“That’s fine,” she replied, “It is understandable, you must have many lords and officers to accommodate.”

 

“Thank you, my lady,” the guardsmen stepped forward and unlocked the door.

 

Curtsying her gratitudes, she entered the room first with Margareta behind her. The bedchamber was sparsely furnished, with only a pair of featherbeds, desks and wardrobes. It was to be expected, all the more expensive furnishings have likely been sold off to pay for the war. Marianne wondered if all castles across the kingdom would be as such,

 

She was snapped out of her thoughts by the door slamming shut behind her.

 

“My lady,” a muffled voice spoke through the door, “We are the guards assigned to your protection. Please inform us if you need anything and we will provide it.”

 

“Yes… thank you.”

 

Marianne glanced around the room again, while the floor was polished wood, the walls were brick and the windows were barred. Then, she remembered that the doors were lockable from outside.

 

“This is a prison disguised as a bedchamber,” Margareta murmured softly so that the guardsmen outside couldn’t hear, but spoke Marianne’s thoughts nonetheless, “We are under house arrest, but they are too polite to say it.”

 

“That would seem to be the case.” 

 

Marianne began exploring the room, opening the drawers of the desks to find several sheets of parchment. Another drawer housed an inkhorn, as well as a quill. 

 

“I mean no disrespect, your lady,” Margareta said, “But you did something. Did you see how the Reicher lords were looking at you? And Lord Grenzmark…”

 

“Prince Julius was disinherited,” she said, “For a royal, there is no greater dishonour. For all I know, I am a criminal in the eyes of Reichenau.”

 

“Did Miss Marie do something bad?” Little Marie asked.

 

“Marie!” Margareta quieted her daughter, “I told you, the lady’s name is Marianne. Because she’s a noble, you have to say Lady Marianne. My apologies, my lady, I keep telling her but-”

 

“It’s fine. Marie is just fine, I consider it an honour.” Marianne smiled, “As for your question, junges Fräulein, that is something I must strive to discover.”

 

Marianne sat down at her desk, and placed the inkhorn and quill on the table, before setting down a fresh sheet of parchment. As the setting sun shone through the open window, so to she began to write. At first, her unpracticed longhand was utterly deplorable for an educated noble like her, so she abandoned the draft and ended up using the parchment to regain mastery over her script.

 

The second try was much more acceptable, and as she signed off and laid the manuscript out to dry, a knock at the door caught their attention.

 

“Dinner, meine Damen,” a voice called.

 

As Margareta hurried to the door, Marianne took the time to tear off the unused section of her manuscript and roll the inked section into a tight scroll no larger than her palm. After tying it up with string, she stood up just as the attendant placed a platter of food on her table.

 

“Servant,” she addressed him, “I would like to send a message to my father, would you take me to the ravenry?”

 

“To your father, my lady?”

 

“Correct,” she showed him her letter, “To inform him that I have arrived home safely, and is in the good care of your master. Are there any ravens to Schönau?”

 

“We have ravens to every holding in Reichenau, my lady,” the servant confirmed, “Please, there is no need to leave the room, I will bring your message to the ravenmaster for you.”

 

“Oh no, it would be no issue if you escort me, yes?” she pressed, “You understand, this is a… sensitive matter.”

 

The servant looked aghast, “Are you implying something, my lady? I swear upon my master’s honour that your message will arrive in your father’s hands most safely. And so do I swear that it will arrive in your father’s hands as swiftly as the crow flies.”

 

The man offered his hand most expectantly, and Marianne saw no choice but to acquiesce and hand him the letter. Soon, the servant was out of the room, and she could see hints of the guards’ metal cuirasses as the door closed with a resounding thud.

 

“It appears your suspicions are well-founded, Lady Margareta,” Marianne murmured, “We are truly under watch.”

 

Three days later, they were escorted back to the lord’s solar. Since Marianne and Margareta had stayed on the lowest floor compared to their companions, they had arrived first. So Marianne took the opportunity to scan the faces of their companions as they arrived, to discern whether they were all treated the same. 

 

Saintess Hildegard arrived first, and Marianne found her to be quiet and untalkative. Later, she would find out that the saintess had spent her days praying in solitude. Sir Lucien, on the other hand, seemed quite disgruntled, yet remained wordless for the most part. They had met eyes, and the knight sent her a most knowing glance.

 

The only person who seemed pleased as they entered was Prince Julius, who strode into the room with an eager swagger.

 

“Your Highness,” Marshal Kleiber greeted, “We have received a reply from Neuchatel.”

 

Your Highness. Marianne already knew the contents of the reply, and so did everyone else too, from their faces.

 

“The King has ordered you, Sir Lucien, Saintess Hildegard, Lady Margareta, and Lady Marie to come before the royal court in Neuchatel to receive honours and rewards.”

 

What followed was silence, for one name was glaringly missing. Hers. 

 

“And what of Lady Marianne!?” Julius demanded, “She is my betrothed, and she has aided me most faithfully from the very beginning!”

 

Marshal Kleiber kept a straight face, but Marianne saw Lord Grenzmark and several other Reicher men silently wince behind him.

 

“Lady Marianne’s betrothal to you has been broken by the King’s order,” the marshal replied, “And she is not permitted to enter the royal demesne. You must ask your father the King for further answers, Your Highness.”

 

“This… this is most outrageous,” Sir Lucien laughed disbelievingly, “Has the Lady not been a most loyal woman for suffering the threat of death to be with her man? Is this how the Reicher treats their heroes!?”

 

“Good sir,” Marshal Kleiber said weakly, “I have no power here, you must ask the King for answers.”

 

“Then so we shall!” Julius declared.

 

“Miss Marie is not coming with us?” Marie tugged at her mother’s dress, “Then, I don’t want to go either!”

 

“That’s not good, Marie,” Marianne bent down to her height, “Don’t you want to see the King?”

 

“What King?” Marie returned, “Who’s King? I don’t want to see the mean King without you!”

 

Cieszmir Pasha laughed uproariously, “I like this one! Yes, no one should suffer such a grievous insult!”

 

“Please, Lord Cieszmir,” Lord Grenzmark sighed, “We all understand your sentiments, but you are still talking about our highest lord.”

 

“It seems that my daughter and I shall not accompany His Highness to the capital, my lord,” Margareta bowed her head.

 

“You shall suffer no one for it,” Marshal Kleiber replied, “We shall inform the Neuchatel of such.”

 

“Shall you head for Olesnica, then?” Cieszmir Pasha asked, “My offer still stands.”

 

“I-I think we shall follow Lady Marianne…”

 

“I will return to my father in Schönau,” Marianne quietly said.

 

“We will follow the Lady to her home,” Margareta finished, “I-I don’t think I have anyone left in Olesnica.”

 

“You should at least consider it, Lady Margareta,” she said, “I do not believe my father will be pleased with my willful actions, and you may not be spared of his wrath should you accompany me.”

 

“Indeed, and you betray your hometown so, my lady,” Cieszmir Pasha said, “You may find that family does not forget so easily. In the case that you may change your mind, I shall have two of my akıncı escort you.”

 

“You have our gratitudes, my lord,” Marianne curtsied.

 

“The Demon King’s head and sword shall be returned to you for presenting, Your Highness. And I speak for all of us when I say I hope your endeavour proves successful,” Lord Grenzmark stood up, and the rest of the room followed his lead, “May the divines be with you all.”

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