Chapter 274: The Hidden Rise

Chapter 274: The Hidden Rise

The Hidden Rise

Canardia Castle

Inside the Lord’s study chamber, a rhythmic sound lingered in the air. It was midday outside, the sun shining strongly, yet an unmistakable snore made Margo and Ingrid, who were working at a different table in the opposite corner, smile from their places. The three had been reviewing records when the Lord dozed off in his newly designed padded chair that could recline. It was one of the few inventions he had personally overseen in his spare time.

Despite the rebellion, his crew of carpenters and smiths had remained largely unaffected. The delivery of this reclining chair was a testament to their continued trust in the new Lord of Midlandia.

By now, the Lord had gathered a considerable workforce of elite carpenters, smiths, and craftsmen capable of turning his designs into reality. It seemed Canardia was on the cusp of another wave of invention.

In good spirits, Ingrid and Margo worked on, unbothered by the steady rhythm of his snore. If anything, they were pleased to see the Lord sleeping peacefully. After all he had done to protect the city, fighting until his armor was drenched in blood or even disguising himself to spend hours in a dungeon as an interrogator, his snoring was of little disturbance to them.

The sturdy door opened slightly, and a tanned woman in brigandine, her face familiar to them, stepped inside.

With the caravan, Lord Robert had brought many personnel from Korelia, but to the staff, none were more welcome than Carla. One of the original squires from the Korelia days, the female swordsman trained by the Lady herself, had been left behind to recover from static shock suffered during the last assassination attempt. Now, despite other wounds she had taken, including one from Umberland, she remained formidable and bold, a match for any average knight and among the rare few with the experience to face even a half-breed.

With Sterling taking on more duties and nearing knighthood, there were vacant posts to be filled, and the return of a trusted face was more than welcome.

Carla sat down across from Margo and Ingrid, the small table between them, and whispered, "Is the Lord still having nightmares?"

Margo smiled but shrugged. Even with a familiar face like Carla, he was not comfortable speaking of the Lord’s private matters.

Carla did not need an answer; the shrug was enough. "I hope the little one has not kept him awake."

"No. The Lady will not let the child’s crying trouble him," Ingrid replied. Then, glancing up from the parchment she was reading, she asked, "Have you seen the young lord?"

"Just from afar," Carla said, her expression softening into a smile. "I am looking forward to seeing him up close."

Ingrid nodded and was about to return to her work when Carla produced a letter. "This just came from the Hawk Meister."

"Where from?" Ingrid asked.

"The seal bears the mark of the Lord of Dawn," Carla answered.

"Lord Avery," Ingrid muttered, a flicker of dread crossing her face. She knew the grim tidings from the far west. Their ally was currently facing another war against an unknown claimant who styled himself the King of Nicopola.

Carla set the hawk letter on the fine oaken table. Ingrid studied it for a long moment before turning to Margo. Without a word, the squire rose and went to fetch their trusted scribe. The hawk letter was too small and cramped to read with ease, thus requiring a rewrite. Normally, a hunter guildsman sworn to an oath of confidentiality would handle such tasks, but dealings with Lord Avery were far beyond the scope of routine correspondence.

...

Lansius

Inhaling a sweet scent, Lansius awoke from his slumber. His eyes drifted to the ceiling, and as he recognized it, a calm ease settled over him. The sleep had been so deep that it made him forget where he was or what he had been doing. Now, he felt truly refreshed.

He blinked several times, leaning forward as the spring in his new reclining seat eased him upright. The motion was smooth but still too springy for his liking, and it lacked a locking mechanism. Even so, it would serve well enough for the first batch to be displayed. It might bring in a few sales, and if buyers found it too strange, he could always gift them to his many allies.

His gaze wandered across the chamber and found Audrey, draped in black, a baby cradled in her arms and a sword belt at her hip, complete with the sheathed blade. She looked especially smug.

"Look, Papa is sleeping at work," she said with a blooming grin. By chance, little Lans opened his eyes for a moment before nestling back against his mother’s chest. Barely a few days old, he looked endearing wrapped in fine, soft linen.

"How is Daddy’s little boy doing?" Lansius asked, gently patting the baby's thigh.

The boy kept his eyes shut and gave only a small wriggle in her arms.

Lansius chuckled again and rose from his seat, feeling his back warm despite Ingrid’s magic keeping the air in the chamber cool and well-regulated. "How long have I been asleep?"

"You should take some more. I doubt anyone will mind," Audrey replied warmly.

"No, I still have things to do, right, little Lans?" But the boy only answered with a soft, indistinct murmur.

"You sure you do not want a duck egg? They are cooking spiced duck egg broth for me," Audrey offered.

"I will pass on the offer," Lansius replied with a faint smile. "But make sure it is not too spicy. It might leave traces in the milk."

"Yeah, I know. It's barely spicy. Midlandian cuisine is not exactly rich with spices."

Lansius nodded, making a mental note to ask Valerie about a curry recipe. All he knew of curry came from using instant curry blocks. His gaze shifted toward the corner where a round table had been set for his staff to work. There, beside the chairs, stood Ingrid, Margo, and Carla, a familiar face now back among the team. Next to them stood the pair of senior and junior scribes. The sight made his gaze sharpen.

Noticing it, Audrey remarked, "Letter from Avery."

"What is it about?"

"Tidings from Nicopola."

Lansius caught the weight in her tone, but kept to his priority. "Any word from Sir Harold?"

"A hawk from Krakusa has arrived. They have captured almost everyone on the list, and a few have confessed, eager to receive pardon for their families."

Lansius furrowed his brow. "Indulge me. What kind of pardon?"

"Omin suggested that well educated family members willing to live as commoners be made teachers for life in Korimor or Ordu Khan."

He found the arrangement acceptable. "And if they are not?"

"Exile to Corinthia," Audrey replied flatly.

Lansius nodded. Lord Avery had expressed his intention to place the barony of Corinthia under the shogunate’s protection, knowing he lacked the manpower or talent to govern a distant barony while Nicopola remained in great turmoil. The deal was yet to be finalized, but the trusted skald, Sigmund, administrator of South Hill, was already in Corinthia, dealing with the aftermath of the last battle.

Without another word, Lansius chose to face Avery’s letter head-on, unconcerned if it would ruin his refreshed state. He strode to the table, where the staff straightened and greeted him in unison, "My Lord."

"Before I read it, are there any words from our forces in Three Hills?" he asked the staff.

Ingrid replied, "Only the regular ones from Sir Morton. Aside from their last battle against the mountain people, there has not been any major movement."

Lansius nodded, then turned to the old scribe, asking, "How bad?"

"The letter format is a bit odd. Possibly due to urgency," the old scribe remarked.

Lansius was piqued. With Audrey at his side, he said, "Read it for us."

The chamber grew silent. Everyone turned their attention to the scribe.

"We are under attack. Stop. The fake King of Nico brought twenty thousand men. Stop," the scribe read, doing his best to voice the letter exactly as written.

Lansius’ eyes widened. He recognized the pattern.

Did Avery know about telegrams...?

But he forced his attention to the real predicament.

"We have less than two thousand. Stop. We are attacking. Stop—"

"Hold on," Audrey interrupted, her brow slightly furrowed. "You mean they are under attack?"

The old scribe looked just as puzzled but said, "There is more, My Lady."

"Continue," Audrey said, the child in her arms giving a small, restless wriggle.

"We are attacking. Stop. They cannot get away from us. Full stop."

The final words erased any doubt about Avery’s commitment to attack twenty thousand with less than two thousand.

Lansius, Carla, and Ingrid each drew an involuntary breath, knowing it was madness, if not suicidal.

Two thousand attacking twenty thousand…?

"My Lord, there is still more," the scribe remarked, surprising everyone.

"Go on," Lansius said.

The scribe continued, "If I fail. Stop. A big if. Stop. Slim chance. Stop. Consider all of Dawn Barony part of your alliance. Stop. Support my granddaughter’s rule. Stop. The red-haired one. Stop. You can build airships all you want. End of message."

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Lansius and Audrey exchanged glances, while some of the staff rubbed their chins or pressed fingers to their foreheads in thought.

Before anyone could speak, Lansius said, "Have the aviary and the hunter guildsman tend to the hawk and examine it. I doubt it came directly from Nicopola. Find out how exhausted it is and determine where it originally flew from."

"My Lord, are you suspecting it was sent from somewhere closer?" Ingrid asked.

"Something like that," Lansius admitted.

Audrey then asked, "What will you answer?"

"I'm not sure about the political aspect," he said. "But I have Lord Robert, Sir Michael, and Sir Omin to discuss this with."

Audrey commented, "I doubt Omin will care about issues from so far west."

"He may not, but Avery is our bulwark against another enemy at our flank. That is why, regardless of the Shogunate's answer, I shall provide assistance."

"Do you want Sir Morton to help like last time?" Audrey asked.

"That is a possibility," Lansius said, wishing he could bring the mountain campaign to an end. The fighting against the smugglers had tied down a significant portion of his forces.

***

East of Canardia

Beneath the cloudy sky, three thousand weary souls trudged eastward without fanfare or a single banner. Their pace was slow, their steps unsteady, and their faces hollow with exhaustion. Though they claimed to fight for the people of Midlandia and the Living Saint, to everyone else, they were rebels. Villages emptied at the news of their approach. Walled towns and cities barred their gates. There was no trust, no welcome, and no aid.

Even among themselves, they knew their situation was pitiful. Most had never marched in their lives, yet now they were driven on a forced march over great distances. The weight of shield, spear, and gambeson drained their strength, and many had discarded what they could, even prized items taken from the dead. Worse, many had only thin foot wraps and worn everyday shoes, their soles frayed before they even reached Canardia.

They muttered curses at their commanders, for they had been promised a siege and, indirectly, the chance to loot and enrich themselves. Instead, they were forced to flee in haste after a single night of fighting.

Yet in truth, the choice had been their own.

The order from Sir Hohendorf and the Saint Candidate had been to continue the siege of Canardia. But when first light broke after that fateful night battle four days ago, all could see the thousands of bodies lying scattered and stiff in the dew-soaked grass, spread across three separate killing grounds. After witnessing that grim and sickening scene, none wanted to challenge the Black Lord. Whatever their commanders tried to say, no one listened.

Even the most ardent believer among them could see that the Black Lord’s army had torn through the rebels that night, annihilating a force more than ten times its size. It was a colossal disaster, and none were willing to linger and learn what the Black Lord’s next retribution might be.

With the dead lying so thick and so vivid in the morning sun, no amount of honeyed speech could persuade them otherwise. Their trap had been foiled, their ambush broken, and their great rebel host destroyed. Thus, they forced their leader to flee.

Sir Hohendorf's captain yielded to the men’s demands and withdrew from Canardia, unwilling to risk a mass desertion. Now, they were playing a rear guard action to cover Sir Hohendorf and the Saint Candidate’s elites, who had been retreating eastward in secret since the capture of the Great Gemstone. Knowing their mission to capture the Black Lord had failed, they sought instead to present the gemstone to the Living Saint, hoping she could use it to change the tide of the war.

But for the lowly rebels, trudging along the hard, dusty roads with frayed shoes, all that mattered was getting away. Whether they spoke of it or not, most in that column wished to never face the Black Lord again. It needed no great insight to see that defeating him would take a rare genius of war. Ordinary lords and nobles could bring nothing against him but the slaughter of their own men.

With morale shattered by the aftermath of the battle, many had thought to flee on the first morning. But over three thousand stayed on because of the guarantee of food. Ironically, their bellies were full while on the run. Their baggage train was laden with grain taken from their farmland hideout. It had been meant to feed the entire rebel host for the duration of the siege, but now it was being carried away instead.

Daily meals was the only thing holding the column together. Without it, more would have deserted long ago.

It was the fourth day, and their situation was not improving. The sun was high but still far from midday when the troops demanded another halt. Many had blistered feet from poor footwear, and others were hobbled by aches and pains after walking such distances for days.

"Why are we resting? Who approved this? We need to keep the pace until we reach the valley," the young common-born but promising group leader said as he approached the captain’s staff.

The captain, acting commander himself, was supervising his aide pitching a simple tent for them to rest. He heard the young man but did not turn to look at him, merely grunting in response.

One of the staff, an apothecary in his mid-forties who held considerable influence, gave a displeased snort. "We can afford this rest. The men need to restore their spirit."

"We can't afford to stall, not until we reach the valley ahead. The Lord's men could be behind us with light riders. We must press on," the young man insisted, drawing many eyes from the thousands resting their weary legs. Most did not care and drifted toward the wooded area a short distance from the road.

The apothecary only shrugged and turned away, while a tall, muscular man-at-arms tapped the young man on the shoulder and nudged him aside.

"Captain, surely you understand. We can't rest here. Do not let the staff fool you into using the men's weariness as an excuse to rest—"

The young man's outburst was silenced by a strong slap to the face that sent him reeling a few steps back. His aide rushed forward, but four men were already upon him, beating him briefly before dragging him away.

Thousands saw but gave no heed. No one wished to listen to a man arguing against midday rest. They had been walking for days, and all believed they deserved a halt.

"Do not interfere," the apothecary told the panicked aide, a boy no older than fourteen, before stepping inside the ornate red tent already prepared for him. He had no intention of standing another minute under the full sun.

"Youngsters, too full of vigor," the captain remarked from his seat on the thick, soft carpet as the apothecary entered.

"Can't blame them. They are fearful of the Black Lord," the apothecary replied, lowering himself into a seat with a soft grunt.

"The stories glorifying the Black Lord only make our youngsters spineless," one of the staff said as two others settled under the field tent.

"Nervous sheep," another muttered as they unpacked what they had taken from the baggage train. With the stores so heavily laden, there was plenty to choose from. For today’s midday rest, they had picked vegetables stored inside earthen jars, honeyed fruits, salted meat, hard cheese, and spiced wine.

"That man is not as capable as they claim," the captain said in a calm, disinterested tone as they began laying out their meal on the back of a shield covered with clean linen. "For all the talk of his genius, we almost caught him that night. A pity he was lucky enough to slip our snare."

"We are blessed to still have a confident leader among us," the apothecary replied, and the others murmured cheerful agreement.

"Meister, would you mind burning your sweet incense for us?" one of the staff asked, leaning forward with a hopeful look.

"Only if the captain wishes it," the wise-looking apothecary said with a faint smile.

"Have I ever said no to that exotic scent?" the captain replied, his tone eager and pleased. The remark drew soft laughter from the group.

Their rise to prominence had come when the original second-in-command, Sir Bielstein, was blinded by an eye injury at the start of the rebellion. Truthfully, many among them were inexperienced, but Sir Hohendorf had no one else with the courage to act as rear guard.

Outside, their aides set up a fire to heat bread as the staff desired, unwilling to eat it cold. Meanwhile, the rest of the army merely lay down where they could and chewed on bread and leftover cheese from breakfast.

When everyone had found a place to rest, the camp settled into stillness. It became a strangely peaceful end-of-summer midday, somewhere between towns and villages. Only the chirping of distant birds and the persistent drone of cicadas filled the air.

Many were asleep beneath the shade of trees. The only restless ones were a group of two hundred who demanded their leader be freed. The commander’s guards refused and tried to drive them off, but the group merely sat facing their leader, who was bound to a cart wheel as punishment.

One by one, the guards lost interest and left them be, taking turns to rest.

As their attention slackened, the young leader, who had been feigning sleep, suddenly opened his eyes and whispered to his men, "Go. Run east toward the monastery. The Lord's men are coming. There is no hope here."

"Meister, will you not lead us, as you led us to safety that night?" asked the nearest man, athletic and clad in ringmail.

"I will find a way to escape," he said, rubbing the sting in his cheek from the earlier slap that had left his gum bleeding. His chest and stomach burned from the blows he had taken.

"But Meister—"

"I will find a way," he repeated.

By now, the guards had taken notice, but seeing the men only talking in low voices, none of them had the will to enforce anything. Being just as weary, and with no trouble stirring, they cared little what happened to these men and rested beneath a nearby trees, where the pack horses lazily tore at the grass.

"But to desert from here? Wouldn't that cost us our salvation?" asked a bulky man, a true believer, his voice edged with concern.

Another with a similar mind added, "Even without Sir Hohendorf, we still have plenty of brothers in arms."

"Yes, we have three thousand, likely equal to the Lord's entire host, and we have plenty of food," the young leader replied. "But war is not decided by numbers alone."

His men leaned in, sensing he was gathering his thoughts to explain.

"Isn't this place a little odd to you?" the leader asked at last.

No one answered, but many glanced across the rolling grassland toward the line of forest near the road. The land opened wide in all directions, and though one could see for miles, nothing was unsettling about the view.

"Do you feel your calves are tighter and more sore than usual?" the leader continued.

Half the men nodded in agreement.

"Have you noticed any villages or hamlets along our way here? Do you think it's normal not to encounter one in a good stretch of land like this?"

The men exchanged glances. Some murmured, but none were willing to interrupt.

The leader finally said, "You might not realize it, but we are on a hill."

His men did not nod. Most did not understand the implication, and the man in ringmail spoke up. "But isn't a hill good for defense? If the Lord ambushes us, we can see his forces approaching from afar and set our defense."

"I'm sure the commander thought the same," the leader replied. "As you said, it is open plain and easy to spot an approaching enemy. But tell me," he paused, naturally drawing their attention, "how is the water in your waterskin?"

Some of his men began checking at once, but one answered before the rest. "It's low."

Slowly, his men exchanged uneasy glances.

"We have not replenished since yesterday," the leader explained. "And those men who scurried to the forest will not find any streams. As I said, the scenery may deceive you, and it has been a gradual climb, but we are on a hill."

"Then?" his aide prompted.

"How long can you fight or run without water?" the leader asked. At that, the group fell tense, some holding their breath. He added, "I tried to convince the commander to force march to the valley ahead and find water there. But alas..."

Without looking at him directly, the man in ringmail suggested, "Meister, give the word and we will go together."

The leader let out a long, weary sigh.

The aide suddenly spoke. "All my life, I have watched Meister work hard to succeed, yet everywhere he goes, he only finds fools who do not recognize his talents."

Several of the men who had followed him sighed, knowing it to be true.

"I'm at my road's end," the leader said bitterly to the two hundred he had cared for since the start of the conflict. "The monastery is the last. If this too does not yield fruit, then there is no good left in this world."

"Meister," his men murmured in sorrow. Many were moved by this young man, drawn to his hard work, his genuine care for people, and his intellect.

"You are still young," the man in ringmail remarked. "Look at me. I have yet to give up."

"I know," the leader said. "But if we run away even from here, then where else is there to go?"

His words settled heavily among his two hundred men. They had joined the rebellion against Bengrieve, thinking it was their time as commoners to rise. Yet even in victory, Lord Reginald had given them no position, merely tolerating their presence. When the army was defeated, they were forced to flee from the new ruler. They had then joined another rebellion, this time siding with the Monastery. If they abandoned it as well, there would be no other faction to shelter them.

Without noble blood or backing, they couldn't claim the status of hired swords and would be treated as roaming bandits.

"Run. Go now," the leader urged again, sweat trickling from his hairline as the sun climbed toward midday.

Most did not budge, but a few dozen began to step away, giving a nod to the leader and their comrades before wandering east. Not all were equally attached to this leader; some had only joined a few weeks ago. Instead of concern, the guards felt pleased, thinking the men were giving up and looking for a patch of shade.

They had gone close to three hundred paces when movement came from the west. A man stood up and noticed it. More followed, turning their eyes toward the western horizon.

Far away, dots and specks of brown, black, and white shifted in the distance. They were too far to make out clearly, but there were many of them, and they were moving. The shapes wavered in and out of sight, half-hidden by the shimmering haze rising from the sun-baked soil.

There were murmurs as a few men gathered, but they kept their voices low and careful not to draw attention.

"What do you see?" a guard asked, still sitting in the grass with his back against a tree, brushing ants from his sleeve.

"Something moving," his brother-in-arms replied, bare-chested, his sweaty gambeson and tunic laid out to dry in the sun.

"How many?" the guard asked.

"Hard to tell," the man said, not sounding worried.

Another rose, took a long look, and muttered, "I cannot see anything."

"Yes, it is gone now."

"Might be travelers?" another remarked lightly.

"Or a flock of birds," the first guard replied, then quickly lost interest. With three thousand armed men, it would take a sizable force to bring them down.

Like the guards, no one else dared carry the report to the commander, who lay resting inside his tent. The rest of the army sprawled beneath the shade, lulled by calm winds and the searing midday heat, unaware the storm had already begun to gather on the horizon.

***