Arcane Mercenaries: Insurrection, page 23
Ez’s voice pierced the battle fog from somewhere on the periphery, her words distorted and indecipherable through the ringing that filled his ears. Unable to summon his StarTouched abilities, his body refused to repair the damage.
The knight pressed in, scrutinizing Grant for any chinks in his defense. Grant had decades of combat experience and spent countless hours training in Alenann, honing his skills to fight without the aid of his StarTouched abilities. His fluid, unorthodox style, free from the confines of conventional techniques, made him an unpredictable adversary that could confound even the most seasoned warriors. He was a formidable foe as long as he could keep his fury in check.
Grant caught the knight off guard and launched an aggressive forward attack. His sword defied the knight's defenses and scored a line across the man's waist. The protective mail turned away the blade, but the knight’s shield dipped slightly in response.
With a reverse blow, Grant drove his sword’s pommel into the man's visor. The unexpected impact caught the knight off balance, the force of the blow warping the metal around his face. Grant followed through, hammering the knight's helmet with his blade. Chips flew from the sword’s edge, but the impact twisted the helm to the side, blocking the knight’s view.
The tide of the battle turned swiftly as the disoriented knight stumbled back, struggling to adjust his skewed helmet. Grant swung his sword like an axe felling a tree, battering his opponent’s shield until its leather straps snapped.
Grant kicked away the bent steel device and drove the knight backward toward the gatehouse. The pummeling blows didn’t end as the knight put up a frantic defense against Grant’s assault.
“To the death, yes?" Grant's voice was a low, threatening growl.
"Perish, spawn of darkness."
Power flooded through Grant’s veins, intensifying as he put more distance between himself and the discarded shield. Revelation danced through Grant’s spirit. The shield was the key and the secret to the knight’s confidence.
Grant chose mercy in the end, granting the knight a swift end. The clatter of armor against cobblestone rang through the air as the Knight of the Star crumbled.
“Satisfied?” Grant asked the remaining knights.
The female drew her blade and readied her shield. Grant swung his blade toward the new threat. Before she could cover even a couple of steps, a thunderous crack of a musket resonated throughout the courtyard.
She collapsed face-first onto the cobblestones, a solitary musket wound to the head.
Turning to the remaining knight, Grant declared, "The sun has risen, and the prince's offer has expired. We'll give you a head start to deliver the news to your Order - they are exiled from Ismore."
The Arcane Mercenaries maintained their distance from the fallen knights' gear, their gaze fixed on the retreating figure of the last member of the Order.
42
SUBTERFUGE
Grant stood alone as the shadows retreated before the rising sun. The elite of Ismorian society gradually dispersed from the courtyard. He hadn't anticipated applause or cheers for his martial prowess, but the silence that met his victory was disconcerting.
The harsh truth of the prince's champions dispatching two church representatives stifled any potential celebration. A handful of spectators approached Grant to grasp his hand. Most glanced at the fallen bodies before exiting via the side gatehouse to reconnect with their entourages.
He was self-conscious as he sheathed the ruined blade. Chips and rolls marred the surface beyond any future repair. He should toss it aside and grab one of the knight’s blades, but the watchful gazes scrutinizing his actions held his hand.
Grant moved away from the fallen knights and watched Ez finish her reloading.
She gave him a sympathetic smile and slung the musket back over her shoulder. “You did what you had to do.”
“We did what the church wanted us to do,” he said.
“It was an impossible situation, Grant. Dominick would be in chains if you were lying there instead of these knights. He wouldn’t have beaten either of them.” Ez stood only two paces away. “We get to fight another day. Like we have for over fifteen years.”
Grant harbored no love for the church and its doctrines. The Order of the Star was the newest weapon in Wallner’s arsenal, and the cardinal unleashed it in Ismore against Catrin, Grant, and Ez. These knights would wield their Gornick-powered weapons and deliver untold devastation against StarFall’s survivors.
The lingering vestiges of fear in the eyes of the remaining spectators were a testament to these apprehensions. While they believed in Dominick and eagerly anticipated his reign, an association with the StarTouched foreshadowed complex political and religious trials ahead.
Dominick was the last to approach Grant and Ez in the empty courtyard.
“Thank you,” he said, gripping Grant’s hand. “Catrin taught me to surround myself with people better than me. You showed me why that was true today.” The young prince looked at the bodies. “I’m glad you came back to Ismore. I didn’t know you grew up here.”
“Megenland,” Grant said. “My father was an officer in the navy, but the sea didn’t call me.”
“I didn’t have a calling to be a prince or a king, either,” Dominick said with a grin. “We’ll make something out of you yet.”
“You’d be the first,” Ez said. “The man’s impossible to work around. Broody, reflective, and too darn quick to take on impossible odds.”
Dominick chuckled. “I can see that.”
“The church will excommunicate you and your closest advisers,” Grant said, not feeling the mirth they shared. “I should have seen this coming when those knights walked into your hall.”
“It was too late when they walked in, Grant. I put my head in the trap's jaws, and only your quick action saved anything I have left,” Dominick said.
He was remarkably talkative for a young man about to have a new campaign on his hands against those loyal to the church.
“They have new weaponry,” Grant said, toeing the broken shield. “Designed to thwart our powers.”
“The shield?” Dominick crouched down, gently placed his hand along the rim, and flipped it over. He cocked his head to examine it. “I don’t see anything.”
“There’s a scientist who’s been experimenting with StarTouched abilities. He pulled vials of blood and found a way to give people temporary powers. Whatever we can do, whoever holds the vials can do as well,” Grant said.
“Intriguing,” Dominick said.
“Terrifying,” Ez said. “He harvested blood after creating a disease to incapacitate us. Those vials were the start of his experiments.”
“Now he can craft something to put in weapons and armor?” Dominick asked, still fascinated by the shield.
“Appears so,” Grant said. “That’s why they weren’t afraid to fight me. They thought they could balance the odds by suppressing my abilities.”
Dominick stood up and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Appears the church guessed wrong.”
“We’ve fought for over fifteen years and have a few tricks from every battlefield. The church’s soldiers are second-rate, although these were some of the better ones,” Ez said. “We’ll need to integrate our efforts with your archers and bodyguards and make approaching you more difficult than ever.”
“And we need to consider your compliance with these ancient customs,” Grant said. “The church will use them against you.”
“We have to stand for something, Grant,” Dominick said. He wasn’t discouraged by the bodies or the empty courtyard. “People tire of political theater and assassins in the night. We have to do what’s right, even when it hurts. Otherwise, we’re no different than those we want to replace.”
Grant agreed with the young man and admired his tenacity. Dominick would need every ounce of optimism in the coming days.
“I’ll see you two for dinner,” Dominick said. “I imagine we’ll have quite a few empty seats.
“He’s a good man,” Ez said as she watched him return to the palace entrance. Dominick chatted with servants and guards on the way back, ignoring the fallen church officials in the courtyard.
“You feel anything different about these shields?” Grant said, examining them more closely. He rested his foot against the rim and found he could summon a trickle of power.
“It’s not permanent,” Ez said, feeling the same. “Something they have to apply before battle? Curious.”
“We file this away and order the smiths to destroy these shields. Wallner might not know his new weaponry has a short lifespan.”
“You think that’s why I survived the crossbow bolt?” Ez asked as they walked toward the duke’s workers.
Grant nodded and said, “I also look forward to talking to Catrin again.”
Dominick's prediction about a sparse gathering for dinner proved accurate. A third of the grand hall remained empty as numerous nobles expressed their apologies. While some excuses held merit, Grant speculated that many were reconsidering their oaths.
Unfazed by the empty seats, Prince Dominick personified the quintessential host. He mingled with his steadfast nobles, toasting over glasses of wine. The young prince was an expert at navigating social gatherings, ensuring each attendee enjoyed personal interaction with the future king. His talent for seamlessly transitioning between groups without leaving anyone feeling neglected was commendable.
The aristocracy needed to see a confident leader, prepared to steer them beyond the conflict with the church. Dominick rose to the occasion.
Throughout the evening, Dominick's staunchest nobles approached Grant to commend him on his duel. A few even ventured to offer advice on the subtleties and decorum of personal combat. Grant responded with polite smiles. Despite their lack of battle scars from years of the Mage Wars, their well-intentioned gestures affirmed their trust in Dominick and his chosen champion.
However, it was the others who garnered Grant's attention. Some turned their backs as he strolled through the halls, while others shot disdainful glances that could make even a seasoned courtier crumble. Grant was not bothered by their avoidance or contemptuous looks, but their loyalty concerned him.
Snippets of conversation reached his ears, with the less loyal nobles predominantly discussing the StarTouched. One noble ensured Grant overheard his diatribe against Catrin's counsel and Grant's martial prowess, declaring it was not the Ismorian way and that Dominick was sure to instigate a new conflict with the church.
Others questioned whether the StarTouched would be the ones to place the young prince on the throne. Such discussions were abruptly cut short when Grant came within earshot, but their sidelong glances and hushed words were ample proof.
The coming days required Dominick to tread lightly, and Grant couldn’t afford further missteps. He wished he knew the queen’s spies making their rounds in the somber hall. There was no doubt in his mind that she would be privy to every detail of the day’s events by the following evening.
43
POLITICS
An undercurrent of tension overshadowed the following night’s banquet, darkening the mood with worries of the civil war expanding to include the church. Dominick was still the consummate host but wore a mask of strained cheerfulness. His smiles didn't quite reach his eyes, and worry lines etched his youthful brow. Despite the unease, his charisma ensured the guests felt cherished, and the kitchen staff outdid themselves, presenting a feast worthy of a royal court.
The steward, ever the diplomat, suggested that perhaps it would be prudent to suspend the elaborate receptions, citing the need for Dominick to focus on the impending tasks of governance. His words, couched in respect and concern, bore an underlying question: how much longer would Dominick continue to occupy the duke’s palace?
Most of the duke’s army and mercenaries gladly switched sides to the victorious prince. Their interest lay not within the palace walls but in the timely payment of their wages and the promise of future triumphs. Most would not be concerned with the growing animosity between Dominick and the church.
The palace grounds transitioned from nightly celebrations to the steady hum of governance. Dominick was more than a charming host and became a leader with a domain to manage. The sprawling dining area was transformed back into a proper throne room. Dinners became intimate affairs held in a smaller adjacent room, allowing the main hall to resonate with the matters of state.
The first petitioners to seek an audience with Dominick were a trio of local mayors. Their entrance into the hall’s grandeur was tinged with awe and trepidation. Hat in hand, they surveyed the room, their eyes wide at the opulence and artistry starkly contrasting their humble towns. Courtiers watched their entrance with rehearsed smiles, and Grant found himself second-guessing the wisdom of the steward's counsel.
Dominick was not his predecessor, Duke Ardwick, but the difference was not yet apparent to these humble mayors. They proceeded up the carpeted path toward the makeshift throne, their steps slowing as they approached Dominick’s bodyguards. The steward whispered the importance of genuflecting to the prince.
“I understand you have concerns about the gatherings at Ardwick Castle?” Dominick motioned for the mayors to stand.
“Yes, your grace… I mean your highness. Of course, no, not the castle,” the first mayor stammered through his words. Duke Ardwick must have been a distant, demanding liege.
"Let's forego the formalities," Dominick began, his voice laced with sincerity. "What seems to be the problem, if not the castle?"
"The lands, my lord," the middle mayor responded. "The troops have tents on our fields, and it's nearly time for spring planting."
"I've been informed that we're compensating the farmers generously for their lands," Dominick countered, casting a fleeting glance towards his advisors for affirmation. A subtle nod confirmed his statement, and he continued with renewed assurance.
"But we can't fill our bellies with gold come winter," interjected the last mayor. "Our livelihood is tied to those fields. We’ll give the payment back as taxes."
A growing boldness replaced their initial timidity as they voiced their fears to the new ruler. Their concerns were valid. If the duke reclaimed the lands, their fields would be barren and their coffers emptied.
Dominick understood their predicament. "We have no intention of fortifying Ardwick Castle. We plan to complete the muster and march toward Llynmond. The army will have vacated your fields in time for spring planting."
Grant absorbed the news, his mind racing with the implications of sharing the kernel of their plan with the mayors. Tension ran high in their planning sessions. Nobles and senior officers clashed over political and military strategies. Dominick's forces numbered nearly twenty thousand, with a thousand knights and nobles forming the heavy cavalry, while infantry and archers filled the ranks. But their formation was fragile, unable to withstand the force of enemy knights charging or the impact of a cannon blast.
The queen's armies were formidable, backed by a robust navy. Dominick knew all too well that their ragtag forces weren't enough to mount an assault on the capital. Many, including Grant, suggested a different strategy—seeking out Duke Ardwick to force his surrender, changing the dynamics of the war. Lacking the military might to impose his will on the queen, Dominick needed to leverage his growing forces to apply the appropriate political pressure.
Revealing a version of their plans to the mayors was a cunning move, as the queen's spies lurked in every village and within the ranks of their swelling army. Ordinarily, Grant would approve of such tactics, but in this case, they didn't have a concrete plan. The promise to the mayors could easily backfire, but they left pleased by the guarantee of their new liege.
Throughout the afternoon, Dominick navigated a sea of minor issues with a charm and thoughtfulness that belied his youth. He made decisions with clarity and firmness. Dominick had honed these skills during the civil war, leading a shadow government in opposition to the queen. The experience now served him well as he stepped into the light, establishing his authority as a respected regent.
He extended due respect to the nobles, and his clear, decisive responses reinforced his position on the throne. Dominick's gentle yet firm touch with his subjects was a stark contrast to the distant and frosty queen, who resided a mere hundred miles away yet never showed her face.
With the political affairs under control and no immediate military threats, Grant felt it safe to leave Ez in the throne room to guard against potential assassins. He needed time to stretch his weary legs and rejuvenate his spirit. His instincts drew him towards the stables to check on Hope, yet a nagging feeling pulled him in another direction. It was time to visit Catrin.
Grant devoted countless hours at the bedside of the Mage of the Mists, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The queen may focus on Dominick, but the church would undoubtedly relish a successful attack on the powerful StarTouched mage. Grant took these threats seriously, his vigilance the same as protecting Dominick.
The room was bathed in a serene light, filtered through the sheer curtains that framed the expansive windows. Nestled within the grandeur of the canopied bed, Catrin appeared like a child. The colored sheets swathed around her added an unsettling contrast against her pallor, and her hands folded over her belly looked like she was lying in state, ready for her funeral. Yet, her chest’s rhythmic rise and fall was a reassuring sign of life.
Grant removed his sweat-stained hat and drew up a chair beside the bed. He retrieved his book from her bedside table, flipping it to his bookmarked page. His teacher's instincts wouldn't allow him to mar the precious tome by cracking the spine or dog-earing the pages.
A whisper, barely audible, drew him from his reading. "I heard it was a good fight." Catrin's voice, weakened yet distinctly hers, surprised him. She hadn’t spoken since her injury, and her eyes remained stubbornly closed.
