Chapter 7: Chapter 7: Impasse

Vanian Year 1104

 

Castle Edelhardt boasted a magnificent library spanning two floors.

 

It was so vast, in fact, that it had to be housed in a building completely separate from the main keep. The ravenry tower spiralled upwards from the library, and was connected to the main keep through a covered bridge that spanned the upper bailey.

 

Under the high vaulted ceiling were two storeys of bookshelves brimming with every kind of military scroll, journal, treatise, and tome. The antique smell of old parchment permeated the air, and high walls of ancient volumes blocked out any sunlight from entering. Instead, two hanging candelabras took the sun’s place, and any dark corners yet left untouched were illuminated by standing sconces.

 

Time and time again, Marianne would see the bookkeepers gliding between shelves like ghostly wraiths, swords at their hips as they patrolled eternally vigilant for any who may intrude upon the sacrosanct hall without permission. Even Marianne was not allowed to carry any books on her own, instead they did so for her and chained the books to the trestle tables in the centre of the library.

 

Sometimes, she imagined that a library was more of a vault than anything else. A vault that contained more wealth than the coffers of any castle may ever have, built up upon generations of successive lords and ladies expanding the amount of knowledge and words within.

 

It was even a little humbling.

 

Currently, she was scouring the treatises and manuals written by previous Edelhardt lords in order to familiarise herself with the tenets of battle and strategy. Marianne had insisted that her talents were better suited for stewardship, but Lord Conrad had thought otherwise.

 

“We have enough copper-counters here, girl,” he scoffed, “I need swords in hands and minds honed for battle. You’re an Edelhardt, and I’ll be damned to hell before I let an Edelhardt pretty their fingers with fiddling ledgers!”

 

“Welcome to the frontline,” he finished, “If you do not wish to get replaced too early, then best start learning how to be useful!”

 

That was many days ago, and she haven’t seen neither hide nor hair of him since. And whether her granduncle implied death on the field of battle or execution due to gross incompetence, Marianne did not know. And she most certainly had no intention to find out. 

 

Words and unfamiliar terms swam before her eyes as the ink seemed to bleed together. She prided herself on her ability to learn, but perhaps warfare wasn’t for her. Battle after battle were recorded in the annals of yellow-brown pages, and they were all the same - the same tactics, strategies, the same embellishments. Unlike the dull, straightforward language she was used to in her manuals on finance, the authors of military treatises seemed to write them like novels.

 

They used the most esoteric and troublesome words, and Marianne daresay it was most needlessly done. How was she to understand how to command the proioxis and palioxis of battle if she did not know what they were? 

 

Marianne palmed her face in irritation.

 

“You appear to be troubled, my lady.”

 

“I beg your pardon?” Marianne hastily lowered her hand, hoping no one saw her breach of conduct.

 

There was a bookkeeper standing on the other side of the table - a young, clean shaven man dressed in long robes. His dull golden hair seemed to glimmer in the candlelight.

 

“Forgive me,” she said, “I am trying to familiarise myself with all manners of martial conduct, but I cannot seem to grasp it.”

 

The man’s eyes widened, “Oh no- pardon me! When you requested military manuals we appeared to have made a grave error in judgement. You see, you are currently reading Reicher and Caroline manuals.”

 

Marianne flipped over to the cover and read the title; Chronicles of the Third Quraysh War, by one Friedrich von Edelhardt. 

 

“Is there a problem with them?” she asked as she stood up.

 

“Northern authors tend to write for personal honour and glory,” the bookkeeper smiled apologetically, “Or write fodder simply to fill the shelves of their patron. What you are looking for are southern manuals, especially those written in the days of the Empire.”

 

The man produced a cast iron key from the depths of his sleeves and deftly unchained her books from the table before stacking and setting them aside.

 

“Please, allow me to rectify our mistake,” he beckoned for her to follow him.

 

Marianne was led to a dark, tucked away recess of the library, one locked away by a wrought iron gate. The bookkeeper produced another key and unlocked the gate, which screeched painfully as it swung on its rusted hinges. The bookkeeper made no wasted effort heading straight for a section of the shelves and pulling out two tomes, each visibly thinner than the ones on her table.

 

“This is the Strategikon, penned by Empress Nike the Third,” he placed the treatise in her hands, and Marianne held it venerably, “One of three translated copies in Reicher.”

 

Even she, who has never cared much for the ways of war, knew who Empress Nike the Red was. Marianne even daresay there was a single person in all of Vania who did not know her name. Best known for being the only Victorian emperor not blessed by the divines, Nike brought the Victorian Empire from near-certain collapse to the peak of its power. Some even say she even sailed an army to the shores of Gehenna - the first and only person to do so.

 

“And this is the Problemata,” the bookkeeper handed her the smaller of the two treatises, “Penned by Emperor Invictus the Fourth. Written some three centuries later, the Problemata expands on the Strategikon with newer maxims. Together, I daresay they are the most valuable military treatises in the world.”

 

“I cannot thank you enough,” Marianne sincerely said, “Am I really allowed to hold these?”

 

“No,” the bookkeeper’s eyes were like flints, “But you can this time- for apologies sake, if nothing else. Once you are satisfied, please return them here in good condition.”

 

“Of course,” she assured profusely, “I will not let a drop of water touch them.”

 

“I feel ever more confident by your words, my lady,” he ushered her out of the corner and locked the iron gate behind them, “And a little word of advice; it is far more useful to be a master of one aspect than middling in all. Those who can master everything Nike has written are either blessed by the divines, or natural prodigies- so do not feel distressed should you not understand what you read.”

 

“I will keep your words close to my heart, sir.”

 

“Very good, my lady.”

 

As she returned to the main hall, she noticed the books on her table already being carried away by other bookkeepers. Before she could sit down and busy herself with her new materials, however, the library’s great oak door swung open and Sir Arwin stepped through.

 

“Lady Marianne!” he called, “It is time for your combat lessons!”

 

Marianne cursed under her breath, before turning around and smiling, “Forgive me, but could you bring these to me chambers? Thank you greatly.”

 

“Of course, my lady.”

 

After placing her books in the care of the bookkeeper, she followed Arwin down to the upper bailey. The courtyard was rife with the noisy clanging of steel against steel as the resident knights went about their drills. In the distance, dust was kicked up as horsemen used the jousting grounds to practise their charges using strawmen covered in old armour. 

 

Putting on her gambeson, she grabbed a blunt arming sword from the rack and began going about her drills against a wooden puppet. Arwin oversaw her training, and he was a harsh taskmaster - one not afraid to raise a hand against his lady if necessary. And indeed, Marianne was a poor swordswoman, at least in the eyes of professionals. Arwin and several other bypassing knights would regularly comment that she ‘fought like a Caroline.’

 

At first, Marianne accepted it at face value - she was taught most of what she knew by Sir Lucien, a Caroline knight, after all. It was only after a band of Carolines commented the same thing did she have the sense to ask what they meant. Most embarrassingly, it appeared that the manner of phrase referred to duelling. Duelling - or fencing - was a common pastime in high society, and considered a most useless skill on the battlefield, for the enemy would never come at you politely.

 

She had to wonder what manner of knight Sir Lucien was, for him to be so skilled in fencing. And now that she referred to her memories, Marianne starkly realised she had never seen the man fight more than two foes alone.

 

Arwin had explained to her, “The core principle of fencing is to target your opponent’s weak points, especially when they are wearing plate. A Caroline estoc and Reicher panzerstecher is thin and pointed, the perfect tool for slipping into the gaps in plate and punching through the mail underneath - but the amount of control necessary to be that accurate in the first place is nothing to be scoffed at.”

 

Simply put, Marianne was nowhere skilled enough to use her panzerstecher on the battlefield, where chaos ran amok and the ease of mind necessary to control the tip of her blade was hard to come by. Instead, she focused on spearwork and riding, since Marianne would be atop her horse most of the time. Thankfully, both Markusz and Hirzyk were most willing to aid her in her endeavour - and they spent much of their time hunting in the fields outside the city.

 

Arwin also insisted she learnt basic swordwork to at least put up a token defence should the enemy ever get within six feet of her - divines forbid. Marianne saw no reason to argue nonetheless, even if her days were filled with even more hardship than she could’ve imagined. Alas, this was the battlefront, and she knew what she was getting into when she made her fateful decision to come here.

 

But if there was something she was surprised by, it was the lack of conflict in the region. While everyday was a back-breaking endeavour to prepare for the inevitable enemy, said enemy was seemingly nowhere to be seen. In the half-moon she has been in Nordenstein, Marianne hasn’t heard of any battles or skirmishes at all.

 

To be truthful, she had expected a more bitter struggle.

 

Marianne paused in her swings to take a deep breath, and Arwin approached her to offer a gladly received wineskin. The water within was lukewarm, but refreshing nonetheless as it slid down her throat. Marianne had never tasted anything so delicious.

 

She took the time to look around, and noted that all the men around were clean-shaven, and whatever few female knights there were had cut their hair short. Short hair on a noble lady would make them the laughingstock of society, Marianne faintly thought, but these soldiers likely didn’t care. The women had to fit their heads inside their helmets somehow.

 

Furthermore, Marianne had learned that it will get blisteringly hot in the summer, which was the reason why the men had groomed their faces. Unlike the south, where some fur will keep their faces and neck warm, in the north a beard would only serve as a wineskin for sweat - a most vile image.

 

Even now, in the early days of winter, there was nary a snowflake to be seen. The northerly winds cyclically blew warm air south from the so-called desert continent in the north, turning the lands of the Quraysh into baking pans in the summer. Marianne supposed she should thank the Crown Mountains for shielding her homeland from the northerly winds, and for acting as a net to catch the colder southerly winds.

 

For now, winter here was as cold as summer was in the south. And already, many have warned her that the northerly storms would return in the spring, sweeping colossal duststorms across the sea and blanketing the north in sand. There was no shortage of stories of summer - tales of when the sun would glare across the land, baking men in their metal armour and scorching their skins black. Or of how the very sky will turn red with haze and men would trap themselves within their homes, lest the sandstorms rip their very skin from their flesh.

 

That was when the plague-bearers would attack, they said, for the heat would allow the plague they bear to foster and spread among their armies.

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Marianne was no stranger to embellishment - she had only not long ago learned a dear lesson of that sort - but even then she couldn’t help but eagerly expect the hellscape that the north would become in only a few moons. If nothing else, seeing these vast grasslands transformed into deserts would be a magnificent sight.

 

Suddenly, a band of horsemen thundered into the bailey, the whinnying of the beasts warding away anyone in their way. Like everyone else in the courtyard, Marianne paused to observe the commotion. They were Kazimierzi, for none shared their distinct bulbous head-wrappings and horsehair standards. She was only able to catch a glimpse of a banner flying a bounding white wolf upon a grey field before it was taken down.

 

“Jan Pasha!” Marianne’s eyes were drawn to Sir Gaston approaching the horsemen, “I assume you have returned victorious?”

 

“A keen eye, good sir!” 

 

Marianne unconsciously took a step back when she laid eyes on the man, for he was of a most fearsome appearance. Jan Pasha’s face was thin and fierce, and oily black hair tumbled down his back like a wild mane. The man seemed to be leaner than most of his men, though his frame was enlarged by the lamellar armour he wore - and the white wolf lounging upon his shoulders.

 

Is that thing alive? She thought with wariness, for its maw was fixed in a permanent snarl, and its eyes seemed to smoulder with hate. The wolf’s two front limbs hung limply, but she could spy the knife-like claws hidden away in its paws.

 

Jan Pasha dismounted gracefully, and in the brief moment his back was turned to her she realised with no small amount of relief that the wolf was merely a pelt. White fur was draped over the man’s back along with its hind legs, while its tail was thrown over the other shoulder. 

 

How savage.

 

As the Kazimierzi dispersed, another group of riders caught her attention - this time armoured in full plate, with their horses dressed in colourful barding. They flew a yellow cross cleché on blue, which she did not recognise, but knew was from the Caroline kingdoms. 

 

Almost immediately, lance fournies and squires raced across the training grounds to assist the knights off their horses, and take away their weapons for cleaning and repair. 

 

Jan Pasha grinned widely when he saw the knights, “Good hunting, Saintess!”

 

The knight captain lifted off their bascinet, revealing a womanly face with shoulder-length brown hair. Her eyes were the colours of the sea, an odd mix of green and blue that blended beautifully.

 

“I bring the heads of the plague-bearers terrorising these lands!” the saintess declared, her booming voice commanding authority,  “Where is the Lord Edelhardt!?”

 

“The lord has been busy as of late, Lady Elisabeth,” Sir Gaston replied, “Lord Fremin has been creating quite a fuss again, along with your other countrymen.”

 

“Again?” she scowled, “Does that witless mouth of his know any purpose other than inane quarrel?”

 

“I’m afraid he isn’t relenting this time, my lady. The lord has been trying to appease him for days,” the Burgmann sighed, “News has come from the Caroline courts while you were absent, and your countrymen have been rather emboldened.”

 

Interest was soon lost by the onlookers, and many returned to their own purposes. Marianne, however, still kept an ear open for them, even as she returned to busying herself with her swings.

 

“The faithless whoreson is still edging to return to the comforts of his marriage bed, eh?” she heard Jan Pasha say.

 

“A little more tact would be appreciated, my lord,” Gaston chided, “It is good that your sortie has borne fruit, but is there anything of import that must come to the lord’s attention?”

 

“Strange tidings,” Saintess Elisabeth replied, “My corps sighted a great smoke beacon from afar and raced to investigate. We found a village thoroughly marauded by plague-bearers, and the source of the smoke was a funeral pyre for all the residents. I duly doubt that demons would have the heart or honour to do such a thing.”

 

Marianne paused, recognising the image. She inwardly flinched, realising that she had interrupted herself, and cringed as she awaited Sir Arwin’s berating once more - but it never came. Glancing over, she found the knight to be thoroughly engrossed in the conversation as well, likely realising the same thing as her.

 

“My askeri saw that too,” Jan Pasha pinched his moustache, “Though we did not investigate. A wandering soul with some heart, perhaps?”

 

Saintess Elisabeth shook her head, “The funeral pyre took up the entirety of the village square, it was unlikely one man could’ve done such a thing in a timely manner.”

 

Marianne shared a look with Arwin, before coming to tacit agreement - it was come time for dinner, anyway. After stowing away her sword on the rack and taking off her armour, Marianne cautiously approached the three people, catching on that they were still discussing the possible perpetrator of the funeral pyre.

 

“I beg your pardon, my lords,” she gathered her wits, “I hope I am not causing any undue trouble?”

 

Sir Gaston noticed her first, “My lady! How can I be of service? You look thoroughly frightful!”

 

Marianne pushed down a blush when she realised that she must be quite the mess, with all the sweat sticking to her skin - not to mention her hair must’ve been a rat’s nest by now! Nevertheless, she gathered all the noble charm and dignity she had left to not let the comment visibly move her.

 

“Nothing of the sort, sir,” she smoothly replied, “I simply caught wind of your conversation is all. I am Marianne von Edelhardt-Schönau, my lords, and I have only arrived a fortnight ago. I fear my party may have been the culprit of your discussion.”

 

“I see,” the saintess’ eyes softened, “It must’ve been a frightful sight indeed, bless your soul for arranging their funeral rites. The divines must look down upon you.”

 

“Afraid not, my lady,” Marianne smiled dryly, “I find myself thoroughly unblessed. I was simply doing what was expected of me, that’s all.”

 

“So you are the girl Altın-Kanat spoke of!” Jan Pasha offered a hand, which Marianne clasped, “It is a good pleasure indeed.”

 

“You’ve already met?” she asked in surprise, Marianne was still of the belief that they had just arrived in the city.

 

“We came across him in the city having a drink,” the pasha grinned, “So we joined him. One of his cousins is in my askeri, and recognized him on sight!”

 

“Wasting your time away with follies, are we?” Saintess Elisabeth sniffed, “And you, you are an Edelhardt?”

 

“Only of a minor branch, my lady,” Marianne nearly curtsied in her training clothes, but caught herself in time, “I- I was sent here by my lord father.”

 

“Well, anything to brighten the old lord’s mood.”

 

“Brighten?” she blandly asked, “I’m afraid that my granduncle has shown nothing but frowns in my presence.”

 

“That’s not just you, leydim,” Jan Pasha waved someone over, “The old lion only knows how to frown, ever since the death of his sons.”

 

Marianne choked, “I- I beg your pardon?”

 

“You had not heard?” the saintess looked apologetic, “The old lord had three sons, all of whom had died in battle since. His only daughter blames him for their deaths, and has sent herself away to an abbey many years ago. It is all a great shame.”

 

“They were all Edelhardts,” Jan Pasha received a large sack from one of his men, “Fine warriors, and even finer commanders. You must remind him of them, leydim, it is not your fault.”

 

“I… see,” she forced out her words, “I thank you for your kind words.”

 

“You are doing good work, from the look of you,” he grinned, “All Edelhardts are blessed by the Divine Haagenti - keep going, and you too shall command an army one day. Come, come, let us now disgrace our good Lord Fremin!”

 

“Then I shall excuse myself, my lords.”

 

Marianne prepared to back away, and Saintess Elisabeth’s gauntleted hand grabbed her arm before she could. She looked up to see the saintess looking at the elevated gate into the keep, her other hand holding a sack - one similar to Jan Pasha’s - that Marianne had strangely not noticed.

 

“You are an Edelhardt, and divines forbid an Edelhardt is not allowed anywhere in this castle,” was all she said, “You will come with us. Sir Gaston?”

 

The Burgmann sighed deeply, “I shall stand guard, my lady, and forbid any interruptions.”

 

“Good man.”

 

As Saintess Elisabeth dragged her with them, Marianne glanced back to give Arwin a pleading stare - but all she received was a helpless smile in return. She resigned herself to her fate.

 

Jan Pasha and Saintess Elisabeth barged through the doors off the great hall with Marianne in tow, and their many gendarmes and akıncı behind them - marching down the main aisle with confidence Marianne did not have, unmoved by the flying words and shouts bouncing off the walls.

 

And the first thing she heard-

 

“I will say it once again!” someone roared, “By the order of our master King Armand, it is time for us to return home! The Demon King is dead, our war is over!”

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