Chapter 8: Chapter 8: Impasse

Vanian Year 1104

 

“Silence,” Lord Conrad spoke quietly, but all noise faded like an ebbing tide nonetheless, “Lady Elisabeth and Jan Pasha, you have returned. I hope you have found your venture successful?”

 

In response, the two leaders upended their sacks - and dozens of black heads tumbled onto the stone ground. As if swung at by hot iron, the men sitting at the surrounding tables flinched away, fearing they would catch the plague by merely being in the heads’ vicinity. Marianne was of half the same mind, and she imagined she would’ve done the same - if she weren’t hemmed in by all the knights standing around her.

 

The demons were a frightful folk, with all their sable skin, puffy lips and wide noses. Their hair was coiled like small snakes, or thick like tree roots. Their ashen eyes stared widely into the void, black ooze seeping out of their necks and into the stone.

 

“As fruitful as can be in this barren land,” Elisabeth glanced around with hawkish eyes, “Now, what is this I hear of abandoning the war?”

 

A man in colourful, flowing robes stood up. And though he wore armour, it was as flowery as his features, a far cry from the saintess’ worn plate. Marianne had to doubt it had ever seen battle.

 

“Saintess Elisabeth!” the man spread his arms, “Surely you’d understand? This is a direct charge from King Armand! We have been here for over a decade, and the line hasn’t budged. Now that the Demon King is dead, sure we aren’t needed anymore!”

 

Neuchatel must’ve informed all the nations of the Solar Alliance of the new situation, Marianne realised.

 

“Fremin, you bloody fool!” a man on the opposite side of the hall rose to his feet, “The line hasn’t moved because they are not able to push us! Five-thousand men have been awarded to you by the charge of your king! Another ten-thousand belong to Touraine! Once winter passes, the demons will return - and should they find our numbers lacking fifteen-thousand men, what do you suppose will happen!?”

 

“I shall not hear it!” Lord Fremin slammed his fist against the table, “Nordenstein has proved infallible - and even without us the banners of Schwerin still command twenty-thousand! Kazimierz another five-thousand cavalry! Saintess, you must convince them!”

 

Marianne glanced around, spying many faces intensely tracking the balance of the argument. They were silent, she noted, instead waiting to hear the outcome - mercenaries. Men and women who care for their lives as they do their coin. Should fifteen-thousand Carolines simply up and leave, the mercenaries might just follow in their steps, no matter who was paying them.

 

She had a thought- they might just still be fighting because of a figure like Saintess Elisabeth who they could rally by. If Reichenau was bankrupt, then how much better could Schwerin be faring? The mercenaries must be fighting on the promise of coin, especially if promised by famed figures like Lord Conrad and Saintess Elisabeth.

 

“I am the Countess of Forcalquier,” the saintess glowered, “My master is Queen Henrietta of Joyeuse! What does it say of Touraine and Auvergne that they have lost faith before we have!?”

 

The Kingdom of Joyeuse was much smaller than Touraine and Auvergne, Marianne remembered. Joyeuse was once equal to its neighbours, but the previous king only had one daughter and heir - Queen Henrietta de Loire. Upon her ascension, the border lords of Joyeuse swore fealty to the neighbouring kings of Touraine and Auvergne instead of her - for according to Caroline Law, women weren’t permitted to rule. 

 

When Queen Henrietta attempted to restore order, King Armand of Auvergne and King François of Touraine sent their armies to the turncloak lords to protect them. In the end, Queen Henrietta was forced to acknowledge the lawless annexation of her lands - forcing Joyeuse into the rump state trammeled between Auvergne and Touraine.

 

“Lord Edelhardt!” she proclaimed, “Has there been a raven from Lorient!?”

 

The old lord leaned forward on his throne, “There has.”

 

“And what does it say?” 

 

Saintess Elisabeth spoke with nary a waver in her voice, such was the absolute trust in her liege to make the right decision. Marianne wished she could have that manner of confidence in her own liege.

 

“The Demon King is dead,” Lord Conrad quoted, “Strike while the iron is hot, and drive them out of our lands.”

 

Whispers broke out in the Caroline side of the hall, while the Reicher lords banged their fists and flagons against the tables in agreement.

 

“Damn that wench!” Lord Fremin snarled, “She doesn’t know what she is talking about! We have not seen our families in years, is she so heartless as to deprive us of that!?”

 

Saintess Elisabeth’s eyes flashed, and her hand snapped to the hilt of her cavalry sabre. Her retainers immediately unsheathed their blades - only interrupting themselves when they realised they had acted too early. Marianne warily eyed all the half-borne steel around her, their edges glinting wickedly in the firelight, and the faces of their bearers set in grim determination.

 

“Careful now, Lord Fremin,” Elisabeth warned, “That is my mistress you speak of. Another foul word from your mouth, and I shall rid you of a tongue.”

 

Lord Fremin rose to his feet, “Then shall we duel? I am certain that you would accept, for the sake of your liege’s honour.”

 

The knights around her shifted at the challenge, but stayed their swords. Marianne realised that Lord Fremin was confident, as was those around him - the man must be quite the swordsman. 

 

“There will be peace in my hall,” Lord Conrad’s voice was soft, but booming all the same in the silence.

 

“...Forgive me for this dishonour I have done you, my lord,” the saintess released the hilt of her sword, and her knights sheathed their blades.

 

“As expected of the Old Lion,” she could hear Jan Pasha murmur, before declaring, “Good Queen Henrietta speaks much sense! Should the Demon King be dead, then the demons must be in chaos! We must take advantage of their confusion, and strike!”

 

“I do not doubt your courage, Jan Pasha,” Lord Fremin spoke through gritted teeth, “But that is foolhardy at best! We have tried that before, if you would recall, and we lost thousands to the summer storms!”

 

“All I hear are the mad mutterings of a craven, would you not agree!?” the Reicher man from earlier stood again.

 

He wore the colours of Windsheim, and Marianne recognised had the black eagle of Leyen on his tabard. The House of Leyen were a comital family on Schwerin’s border with Reichenau, and they had passed through their lands on the way to Nordenstein.

 

“If you wish to leave, then do so heavens damn you!” the Leyen shouted, “We can hold our own just as well - but do not expect the honours of being in the Solar Alliance should you turn tail!”

 

Raucous cheering erupted from the spaces around him, while the faces of the Caroline lords grew ever more disgruntled. 

 

“Do not be so hasty, Sir Leyen,” Lord Conrad’s grim voice cut through the noise, “The Caroline kings have been gracious in providing us the coin to keep this castle standing, to pay for our hired men, and to keep you fed. Without them, we would have been done in many years ago.”

 

A tense quiet fell over the hall like a thick fog as both sides of the aisle stared down the other side. Inwardly, Marianne was in turmoil - the death of the Demon King was supposed to end the war, but instead it was seemingly causing more discord within the human realms than the demon realms. She half expected someone to point her out as a member of the party of the ones who created this issue in the first place - but it never came. 

 

Either Neuchatel never made public the names of those who killed the Demon King, or that they simply didn’t include her. Whether it was one or the other, Marianne could’ve wept in relief nonetheless. No one seemed to notice her hidden away within the saintess’ corps, and that was just as well with her.

 

Suddenly, the doors swung open behind them and a red-faced man rushed in with Sir Gaston close behind him.

 

“Milord, milord!” the man cried, gasping with exertion and waving a missive.

 

He tripped over a protruding cobble and fell to the ground, but picked himself up without hesitation. As if he didn’t even notice that everyone was staring at him, he forced his way through the gathering in the aisle - Marianne narrowly avoided him by stepping out of his way - who were too surprised to even resist.

 

“My- my lord!” he knelt before the throne, “C-Colours flying to our south! Auvergne marches west!”

 

Lord Conrad all but leapt off his seat and snatched the letter from the messenger’s hands and ripped it open. The entire hall waited with bated breath as the old lord read the message- before tearing it apart into shreds and throwing it into a brazier. The Lord Edelhardt collapsed in his seat, palming his face tiredly.

 

“Auvergne has abandoned Grenzmark,” he said wearily, “And Touraine must be following close behind them. A hundred score men had just marched past Kreuzung, and the column stretches leagues.”

 

Marianne’s heart plummeted to her stomach. Then what about Reichenau? 

 

“T-Then what of Reichenau?” someone echoed her thoughts, “They are already pushed back, and Grenzmark is not Nordenstein!”

 

“...We best bloody well pray they survive,” Lord Conrad stood up and began walking away, “Fremin, get the hells out of my castle. And someone clean those damned heads off my floor.”

 

The old lord left through a side door, and slammed it shut behind him. The sound lingered with a sense of finality, and as it began to fade so did the men in the hall begin to disperse. Even with the limited understanding she had of the Caroline tongue, she could make out disparate discussions of their coming march home.

 

“...All of you, go get some food and rest,” Saintess Elisabeth finally said, “I think we are quite done for the day.” 

 

“Madame,” the knights bowed, and began wandering away.

 

“You lot too,” Jan Pasha sighed as he sat down on a vacated bench.

 

“Efendim.”

 

A small group of servants quietly entered the empty hall and began cleaning up the demon heads on the floor, stuffing them into stacks using thick leather gloves that ran up to their elbows.

 

“Burn them,” Saintess Elisabeth ordered, “We wouldn’t want the plague spreading, do we? And please prepare some food for us.”

 

The saintess then turned to her, and Marianne unconsciously shrank back under her piercing glare. 

 

“Sit, eat with us,” she said, “You as well, Gaston.”

 

Marianne was forced to sit next to Jan Pasha, and she discreetly edged away from the wolf head on his shoulders - she swore she could spy a string of drool dripping from its teeth. Glancing around, she saw a familiar figure near the entrance.

 

“Sir Arwin, come join us!” she waved him over, deciding that he would suffer with her.

 

Soon, servants had lined their table with a small feast - thin leek soup in wooden bowls, black bread and pork pies. Platters of meat and blood sausages, and chilled winter wines to wash it off. 

 

At first they ate in relaxed silence, mulling over what had transpired not a few minutes ago. But as Marianne sliced a sausage apart, she realised that this was the perfect opportunity to familiarise herself with the new world she lived in. There was only so much she could learn from books and dusty old tomes, and here she was eating with two people closest to the heart of operations in Nordenstein.

 

“What will the mercenaries do now?” she gathered her wits to ask.

 

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“The landsknechts will remain,” Gaston replied with little pause, “They respect the Lord Edelhardt too much to abandon the line, and many have fought under his sons’ banners before. The routiers on the other hand… they are a bit more fickle.”

 

“Old Talbart will remain,” Saintess Elisabeth tore off a piece of bread, “His company is known for honouring their contracts. Little Meschin, Bascot the Bastard, and Robert Lesparre are all paid by Lord Edelhardt, and they can be persuaded to stay. That’s a little under eight-thousand men. The rest - nearly ten-thousand - are on Elancourt’s and Lyonesse’s payroll.”

 

“Will they still support us, if they are pulling their men back?”

 

“They bloody ought to,” Jan Pasha grunted, “Or the Savoisians will not be pleased. I hear even the two Victorias have put their quarrels aside to fight the demons - even if they aren’t in the Solar Alliance.”

 

“I reckon even the western Victorians alone have enough manpower to thoroughly convince François to continue fighting,” Gaston said, “And Savoie will certainly allow their legions to march through their lands to do so, maybe they’ll even send some ships back to blockade Lyonesse.”

 

“The Savoisian fleets are tied down battling the demons for control of the Ruhigesee,” Elisabeth sighed, “And the demons are said to have marched right up to the River Fimbria, and that the Victorians can barely hold them back.”

 

“That’s ancient news,” Gaston downed some wine, “For all we know the demons have already taken Proioxis. I do not envy the Victorians - the dragon-kin are said to be able to spit fire and smoke and bring down castle walls in only a day.”

 

“Enough of that,” Jan Pasha dismissed the rumours, “What about you, little lion? All men here have a story to tell, most of them are uninteresting - riches or glory and the like. But you, you must have quite the tale.”

 

Marianne stirred her thoughts as she wondered what to say. The truth? Perhaps not. But secrets have a tendency to be uncovered sooner or later, and if these people were to be comrades Marianne would have to entrust her back to, then perhaps it would be best to be honest. She glanced at Arwin, who met her eyes before averting his gaze. 

 

Trust your own judgement, he seemed to say.

 

“I was betrothed to the Third Prince of Reichenau,” she started.

 

“Isn’t the Third Prince a mere babe?” the saintess asked.

 

“There was another,” Gaston corrected, “Prince Julius - or the Prince Who Ran, as he is known here. You ran with him, didn’t you?”

 

“I did,” she swallowed, “We were the ones who brought the Demon King’s head and sword back to Neuchatel.”

 

A silence followed. Marianne expected the worst.

 

“...By the divines,” Jan Pasha laughed, “That was you? You must’ve been mere children when you left!”

 

“That was so,” she agreed, hiding her surprise, “When we returned, however, we found out that Neuchatel’s explanation of the Prince’s disappearance was that I had seduced and absconded with him. As it were, they refused to pardon me still, and thus I convinced my lord father to exile me in order to clear his name.”

 

“A filial daughter!” Jan Pasha praised, “If only my own daughters could be like you… killing Demon Kings and all. Well, one must work with what they have, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

The horselord patted her shoulder, “Especially now, when that is more true for all of us than ever… maybe one day you will return to Neuchatel a hero, and spit in your lord’s face!”

 

“I’d… rather not, my lord,” Marianne smiled awkwardly.

 

She carefully pulled herself away, and focused on her dinner once more. Saintess Elisabeth was strangely quiet, Marianne realised, and she glanced upwards to see the saintess scrutinising her oddly.

 

“Is there something, my lady?” she asked.

 

“...Did you see anything of note in Gehenna?” the saintess questioned, “In Babel, perhaps? Anything that could help us win the war.”

 

“I apologise, my lady,” Marianne shook her head, “I was mostly in the mind of staying alive more often than not… and we shied away from cities mostly, so I doubt I know anything of use.”

 

“I see,” Saintess Elisabeth smiled, “That is rather unfortunate, but none can fault you for it. Killing the Demon King is already quite the magnificent feat.”

 

“You honour me, my lady.”

 

Marianne forked a slice of sausage and brought it to her mouth before chewing on it. Of course information about the demons was important, she berated herself mentally, she should’ve paid more attention to the mannerisms of the demons. Even the littlest thing could help the Solar Alliance emerge victorious…

 

Wait, how did the saintess know the Crescent Alliance’s capital was Babel? Marianne had only discovered the capital’s name and location thanks to a kind slave who had learned the demonic tongue. 

 

…No, she was being too unreasonable - her nerves have frayed ever since she arrived. Marianne glanced around the table, and noted that nothing seemed amiss among their expressions. Had they perhaps not noticed?

 

Or they already knew the demonic capital, she reasoned, it has been seventeen years since the war began - many demons must’ve been captured and made to talk. Seventeen years was more than enough time to learn the demonic tongue, if the human slaves in Gehenna were anything to go by. Indeed, Marianne was being unreasonable - they must’ve already known.

 

“Wasn’t there a saintess that accompanied you as well?” Arwin asked.

 

Saintess Elisabeth widened her eyes in surprise, “Was that so?”

 

“Saintess Hildegard,” she confirmed, “I believe she is to marry Prince Julius, if she hasn’t already.”

 

“Little Hilde, hmm?” Elisabeth mused, “I remember her from my time as a seminarian in the Tower of Shinar. She was a good girl, if a little too starry-eyed.”

 

“Seminarian, my lady?” Marianne asked, “You can become a saint that way?”

 

“Oh dear, no,” she laughed, “Do you know what makes a saint in the eyes of the Church?”

 

“By being blessed by the divines, I’d imagine.”

 

It was said that for every ten people, one was born blessed by a divine. However, they could go their entire lives without knowing so, for most blessings were subtle - superior strength, perhaps, or a sharper mind, depending on the divine patron. Only a few can boast invoking great miracles like healing and rain-calling - and those were usually noticed by the Church at a young age and taken away to monasteries to be taught how to command their abilities.

 

Then, for every one-hundred blessed, one was born blessed by numerous divines, and their gifts were more obvious. Those born blessed by more than three divines may as well be saints already - if they are noticed.

 

“To be a saint one must have a certain ability,” Saintess Elisabeth’s eyes glinted, “And that is to be able to attract more divine patrons after birth.”

 

“So one must learn how to seduce the divines, then?” Jan Pasha laughed, “And how many have you charmed?”

 

“Twenty-six,” the saintess answered, “Of seventy-two, it is only but a small number. Pontiff Aionios has fifty-three divine patrons.”

 

“That’s a little disingenuous, my lady,” Arwin said, “The greatest saint of their time is always chosen to be Pontiff.”

 

“Your words are needlessly kind, good sir,” the saintess japed, “I am perfectly content with two dozen. No… two-dozen voices in my head are more than enough for me, I cannot understand how the Pontiff stays sane with twice that.”

 

Marianne dearly hoped that was a jest, she couldn’t even begin to imagine living with another voice within her head. Her own was more than enough.

 

Be that as it may, she found that their conversation had sorely strayed away from what she intended. As she polished off her plate, Marianne decided to ask one last question.

 

“How long do you think it’ll take to win this war?”

 

Gaston shot her an amused look, “It is impossible to tell, my lady.”

 

“Agreed,” Jan Pasha set down his knife, “All that is certain; the next campaign season will decide the fate of this war.”

 

He took a deep breath, before standing up, “And we cannot give an inch of ground. For our sake, and for the sake of those behind us. I could really use a drink, right now…”

 

Jan Pasha bid them a good night, before wandering out the door. Shortly after, Sir Gaston mentioned something about returning to his duties and left as well. Marianne stewed in her own thoughts - she only has three years before her family collapses, maybe even less now that the Carolines have pulled out of the war. Three years - she needed the Solar Alliance to emerge victorious in three years, in a war that has stagnated for ten.

 

Marianne needed a plan, and she only had a single moon to create one. A traitorous thought insisted that it was impossible - the best martial minds of the continent couldn’t, what made her so confident that she, a mere girl on the cusp of maturity, could? Her only answer was necessity - she couldn’t fail here, not when her family was relying on her. It was her duty.

 

All Edelhardts are blessed by the Divine Haagenti, Jan Pasha had told her. Divine Haagenti, the Lioness that was borne aloft the Edelhardt banners. Feared and respected as the Lady of Dread, and as the Lady of Slaughter. 

 

Marianne would have to hedge her bets, and pray what Jan Pasha had said was true. She truly needed a miracle.

 

“You have a stake in this war-” Marianne flinched at Elisabeth’s cutting voice, “I will not press you, for all men are entitled to their secrets. All I ask is that you remember that there are larger things we are fighting for.”

 

Saintess Elisabeth downed the last of her wine and strode off, leaving her and Arwin alone in the empty hall. The servants were going around lighting up the sconces, Marianne idly noticed, it was getting dark.

 

“I believe I will retire to my chambers now,” she told Arwin, “I will see you tomorrow.”

 

“At dawn,” the knight agreed.

 

Three years, Marianne reminded herself as she made her way back to her chambers. 

 

Three years to win this damned war.

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