Chapter 275: The Scent on the Wind

Chapter 275: The Scent on the Wind

The Scent on the Wind

East of Canardia

Amid the oppressive midday heat and the steady drone of cicadas, beneath the shade of a field tent, the Captain and his staff lay sprawled in slumber, bellies heavy from a hearty meal. From a brass censer, the apothecary’s incense curled in pale, twisting threads, its rich, musky fragrance seeping into every fold of cloth and every breath they drew. The vapors worked deep, loosening muscles, softening thoughts, and lingering in the air long after the last wisp of smoke had faded.

The apothecary himself was present, unwilling to appear suspicious by avoiding the very incense he had prepared. Yet he sat farther from the group, nearer the exit, savoring the scent but mindful of its potency. His blend carried beneficial medicinal properties, yet it was also dangerously addictive.

Once certain the men were asleep, his thin smile faded. He turned away and sat facing the breeze, letting the wind clear his nostrils of the musky scent. Even so, a faint haze still clouded his thoughts. He gazed out across the plains, empty and endless, and a sigh escaped him.

He was the most skilled incense maker in the region, capable even of cracking the recipe of the powerful imported drugs from the Eastern Kingdoms. That had drawn the monastery’s keen interest in him twenty years ago. Since then, he had produced many more potent incenses.

And yet here he was, in the middle of nowhere.

Ultimately, he felt his talent went unrecognized. He was not considered important enough to travel with the main group returning to the monastery. Instead, he had been relegated to the rear guard. He knew this was a throwaway force meant to lure the Lord’s men away from Saint Candidate's column.

"Twenty years of service," he muttered bitterly.

He was sick of marching. Even when riding in the carts beside the cargo, there was no pleasure in wasting days beneath the sun with only a humble straw hat for shade, watching weary faces struggle to keep pace, and now and then catching the stench of horse manure.

But he was not without a plan. Ever since the Saint Candidate had left him, the sting of her decision had driven him to take his fate into his own hands. He began by using a different blend of incense during the meals shared by the command staff and men-at-arms. It was far less potent than what he had once prepared for the Living Saint’s army, but it was enough to make a strong difference. It gave the commanders a cocky edge, filling them with stubborn courage and unshakable confidence, yet leaving them clear-headed enough to think and decide.

At the same time, he ensured the Lord’s column would catch them, guiding the staff into a drug-fed sense of superiority and addiction to halt for rest every now and then. If the Monastery would not recognize his worth, perhaps the Black Demon would.

From all he had heard about the Black Lord, the apothecary was certain the Lord would value his knowledge. After all, he had seen what his fearless troops could do in battle, and he was sure such a Lord would want an army like that fighting on his side.

As he walked on, a sudden flash split the distant sky, followed by a sharp crack of light. A gust of wind swept past, carrying the heavy, raw scent of damp earth.

***

Lansius

The sun drifted westward, casting long shadows that marked the midafternoon. Around the castle, the staff, having finished their scheduled cleaning of chambers, corridors, courtyards, gardens, and other maintenance tasks, turned to preparing the fortress for the night ahead. Dry linens were gathered, fresh candles placed in the chandeliers, and firewood restocked beside the fireplaces. Once again, the kitchen came alive. The cooks and their assistants, rested after the midday meal, began kneading dough for bread, simmering soups, and marinating meat.

Around this time, hunters would normally return from the Lord’s hunting grounds, bringing pheasants, rabbits, or even deer. But today, at the Lady’s request, it was the fishermen who arrived, carrying freshwater fish from good fishing streams well beyond the city.

As the cooks inspected the catch and other fresh ingredients, smoke rose steadily from the chimney while the kitchen readied a feast for the Lord, his guests, his retainers, and all who lived within the walls.

While technically they cooked for the feast in the Great Hall, the quantity had to be sufficient to feed everyone. Food from the Lord’s table would also pass down to the squires, ladies-in-waiting, pages, guards, servants, maids, stable boys, and young recruits. Leftovers would be given as alms to the needy around the market, while scraps and waste would be used to feed the livestock.

Amid the busy rhythm of the castle, the Lord's study chamber remained mostly serene, broken only by the steady stream of reports being delivered. Strangely, the baby seemed to rest more easily with the murmur of voices around him, as if the constant hum of conversation was a lullaby.

The bailiff had already reported that they had caught nearly two hundred rebels and Saint Candidate sympathizers from the populace. Those of little importance were sent to the western camp to work as forced labor, preparing the mass burial grounds and other dirty tasks. The more dangerous or influential agents were kept in the city dungeon.

Sir Omin was the last to leave, having consulted on the matter of Nicopola and entrusted with preparing the upcoming victory ceremony.

As was their tradition, House Lansius delayed its celebrations, unwilling to be caught off guard while the enemy still lingered.

Moments after Sir Omin’s departure, the door eased open to a narrow slit. A guard peered in from the corridor, his posture hesitant. "Excuse me," he said in an unusually careful, near-whispering tone, as if gauging whether anyone inside, or the baby, was asleep.

"Yes, what is it?" Audrey answered in her normal voice, making it clear he could speak freely. The baby in her arm stirred faintly, half awake.

"My Lady, the lookout in the gatehouse reports seeing Sir Harold returning with the SAR, his escorts, and dozens of carriages."

"Acknowledged," she replied.

The guard gave a small nod and eased the door shut.

Audrey and the staff still present turned their eyes to Lansius, who was sketching a plan on a wax tablet at his desk. He replied, "Let the bailiff handle them. I do not want to see these nobles or hear their excuses. If there are cases to hear, the bailiff can bring them to Sir Harold. He knows what to do."

"Do you mind if I question some?" Audrey asked, rocking the baby gently.

"Yes, I mind." Lansius met her eyes. "Stay away from bad influences."

Audrey smirked faintly before quipping, “A shame. I, too, wanted to write a manual for interrogation.”

Ingrid, Margo, Carla, and the scribes exchanged soft snorts and smiles, recognizing her praise for Lansius’ disguise work two nights ago.

Lansius chuckled. In truth, he was rather proud of that job. He had not expected it to succeed, but without giving a practical example, no one would have believed the method could work that well. It was based on the approach of Hanns Scharff, a famed German interrogator from the Second World War.

Scharff, a Luftwaffe intelligence officer, was known for his unconventional, non-brutal methods. He relied on empathy, acting as though he were the captive’s best friend. In casual, informal talks, after convincing the prisoner that he already knew everything and was merely passing the time or doing his duty, Scharff could draw out information. A bored soul would often speak freely about subjects they knew well, especially when they believed the interrogator had already secured that knowledge from another source.

How Lansius extracted information without spilling a drop of blood was now the House’s secret interrogation technique.

The door opened again, and this time the guard reported, “My Lord, Lady Tanya, and the maids are here for the baby.”

“I shall be there in a moment," Audrey answered.

The guard closed the door. As was the rule, they did not allow the maids into his study for fear of information leaking. He had permitted Tanya to enter, but she refrained when others were present.

Audrey turned to Lansius. “Then, I will see you at supper."

“Is everything good?" he asked.

“There is nothing for now, and I have plenty of help,” she reassured him, then left to breastfeed the baby.

Aside from the yellowing of the skin that required morning sunlight, there were the usual troubles with infants, such as insect bites, heat rash that stole his sleep, or a stomach ache from an awkward feeding. Audrey also needed postnatal care.

While Lansius was mostly inexperienced with such matters, he knew a thing or two, but the women, led by the old nanny and Mother Arryn, trusted their own ways and followed the traditions they knew best. He did not mind, knowing Valerie was with them and that Audrey would consult him if anything truly required his attention.

As the guard closed the door, Lansius and his staff resumed their work.

The two scribes sat with Ingrid, poring over stacks of records. Contrary to what most people imagined, the backbone of a well-run army was not daring charges or heroic speeches, but the mundane grind of record keeping. Alongside the book of merits were logs for camp maintenance, food expenses, training costs, purchase lists made by the commander, the approval process itself, and performance evaluations. It was not just armor or medicine. With their numbers growing, they needed more boots, socks instead of simple foot wraps, and enough shields to replace those broken in battle.

Stolen story; please report.

While he could let them purchase supplies on their own, he knew it would lead to ill-equipped troops who might be more inclined to loot just to obtain proper equipment.

Ingrid, the scribes, and the army of clerks wrestled with that problem almost daily, especially after a battle.

Meanwhile, Carla stood by the window, watching the castle grounds below. With Sterling taking on a greater role, she would now serve as his shadow.

Lansius and Margo reviewed reports from other cities about the rebellion. Nothing appeared suspicious, but it would be foolish to dismiss them outright.

“My Lord, would it not be better to invite Sir Michael back to your side?” Margo suggested as Lansius shifted his gaze between parchments.

“Why the sudden suggestion?” he asked.

“Because he is far more capable in this matter,” Margo replied eagerly.

Lansius smiled. "There will be a restructuring, but even so, you must still improve your skills. Continue."

"Yes, My Lord." Margo exhaled softly and went on reading the report.

Lansius never trusted his own eyes alone. He always relied on another to read the letters and catch anything he might have missed. Each report came in two parts: one from the city or town administrator, and another from the scribe on duty. For strategic cities, there was often an additional supplement from the Orange Skalds.

The skalds...

Lansius exhaled slowly. He opened a drawer and took out a parchment showing that his network now numbered roughly five hundred personnel. Only two hundred were true agents; the rest were recruits who had no idea about the Orange Skalds, yet still drew stipends from his coffer.

Despite their size, they had somehow failed to detect such a massive riot and rebellion.

It was a reminder of the unpredictable nature of intelligence, especially when facing covert opponents like the Monastery or clandestine nobles of Krakusa. Still, he knew he needed a stronger hand to organize the Orange Skalds. He had terrific field agents, but no one with the leadership to manage them. What he needed was a spymaster.

The name Sigmund, the skald, came to mind, but he was needed in South Hill and now in Corinthia. The fact that South Hill’s nobility had not rebelled was proof that he had been the right administrator for that post.

The other possibility was Dame Daniella, but she was injured and tasked with overseeing the bank project.

Meanwhile, his brave bannerman now served as chief bailiff and had drawn other talented men from his group.

Lansius had Sir Michael of White Lake, a capable intellectual, but the one-eyed man was not truly part of his inner circle.

Another candidate was Farkas, the Korelian. Like Lansius, he had started from the bottom and possessed keen battle sense, but he was still too junior in rank.

Lansius sighed. That left only Sir Omin, yet he would not trust him with the post of spymaster. The role was too critical to place in the hands of a former opponent.

Ideally, Sterling should take the position. He had a calm and calculated demeanor, but despite serving as their attaché for a time, he showed little interest. Sterling was more of a chevalier like Dietrich or Sir Harold, one who rode into battle rather than sent agents to gather intelligence and sift vital truths from mundane reports.

If only I had someone I could trust with my family’s life, educated, and good at finding lies.

Lansius’ eyes widened. How had he never realized it before? What he sought had always been close at hand.

“Margo,” he called.

“Yes, My Lord.” The squire looked up from his parchment.

“Can you summon Francisca for me? She should be nearby.”

“Certainly.” The squire gladly rose and went to the door.

Half-breeds were almost always educated, having read scriptures from a young age. Francisca had long been at his side, had proven her loyalty, and possessed a literal nose for lies. Moreover, she was not attached to any noble house but his own.

Suddenly, a flash lit up the window, drawing everyone’s attention.

"A storm is brewing," Carla remarked, turning toward Lansius. "Shall I close the window and the curtain?"

"Let us wait a little while," Lansius replied, his gaze fixed on the shifting sky. It was the first rain at the end of summer. Most would welcome it as a relief from the heat, but traders saw it as the close of long journeys. Farmers, too, knew the danger. If the rain fell too hard and for too long, it could flatten the grain or sour the fields before the sickles ever touched them. Harvest was only two months away.

***

East of Canardia

Almost without warning, the first rain of late summer swept across the hill and the plains below. It came hard and sudden, drenching the three thousand men who had little shelter. No one had expected such a downpour with another month of summer yet to come. Ill-equipped, the rebels scrambled beneath trees or anything else they could find, clutching at blankets or layers of wool to shield themselves from the wind that battered the land.

At first, many sat with shields held over their heads, but as the water soaked through, they let the rain pour down their faces. That day, many recruits learned the worth of a helmet and a neck guard, which kept the head and neck dry while its padding held in warmth, and how a wool coat over a waxed gambeson offered enviable protection against the storm.

As the men chattered their teeth, the Captain, waking to the steady drumming of rain inside his comfortable field tent, inhaled deeply, content. He could rest easy, knowing no battle would be fought that night. With the ground this sodden, no army could march.

Without a trace of guilt, he ordered his aide to prepare for dinner, fetching a portable stove from the cart to be set inside. It would serve for warmth, light, and cooking. His staff were all too pleased to hear it.

Aides in borrowed woolen cloaks scrambled through the downpour to fetch the stove and cauldron, while the rest of the rebels sat huddled beneath trees, shivering as the hard wind tore at them. Even the dry, hard soil had turned to mud.

Amid the battering wind, a dozen men still gathered around a figure once bound to a cart wheel. They had rigged a canvas overhead, and in the thunderstorm, not even the guards in their tents paid them any mind. By now, they had cut their leader’s bonds but stayed in place, unwilling to be labeled a renegade, knowing the punishment would surely be brutal.

With a lantern hung between them and the cart at their backs, they had managed to fashion a shelter despite the water flowing around their bare feet. On their leader’s advice, they had removed their shoes to keep them and the footwraps dry. They sat together on stacked shields, sharing them to keep their trousers and hose clear of the muck.

"At least with the rain, we do not have to worry about thirst," an older man quipped, prompting the athletic fellow in ringmail and a few others to chuckle.

Even their leader gave a short snort at the silver lining.

"Could this be a gift from the Living Saint?" the wide-girthed follower suggested with a genuine smile.

Despite some private reservations, none challenged him.

The leader, warmth in his belly from smuggled wine, said, "I must admit, this is a stroke of luck. Had we marched into the valley and camped there, we might have been struck by a flash flood."

"Such a stroke of fortune," the man in ringmail added quickly, unwilling to hear yet another praise for the Living Saint.

"Fortune is a powerful thing, but we must remain vigilant," the leader agreed.

Eager to listen to his stories, the older man asked, "Meister, why do you say fortune is a powerful thing?"

"While it might sound odd, fortune is the strongest force on any battlefield. A poor commander can still win if luck is on his side."

"Then," the man in ringmail countered, "why bother learning the art of war if luck is all one needs?"

The leader gave a faint smile. "What you say is true, but who can truly claim that fortune favors them? Can anyone here honestly say they would stop here instead of marching into the valley to search for a stream, trusting the skies to give you water to refill your waterskins?"

The men nodded in understanding.

Before the discussion could continue, the soft-bellied man remarked, "To pray for fortune is against the Saint's teaching."

His words drew subtle, exchanged glances from a few. Even the leader looked uneasy. The man was one of the Believers, a radical even among them.

Still, he had been with them since the very beginning, and none wished to cast him out. No one knew what had changed him. To their knowledge, he had not been cured of anything by the Saint Candidate or anyone from the monastery. Only a short time spent with the Believers had altered him and many of their comrades.

The man's eyes were often hollow and unfocused, and despite his calm appearance, he was prone to sudden bouts of violence when provoked. Any slight against the Living Saint could trigger it, which was why they rarely challenged him.

"Then at least we can rest our weary feet and sleep well tonight?" the man in ringmail said, trying to keep their spirits up.

"Indeed," the leader agreed, "as much as the wind and cold allow us to."

"At least my feet feel happy," the young aide said cheerfully, earning chuckles and grins from the rest.

"Once this settles down, we can expect a feast," the leader suddenly remarked.

Several men frowned. "A feast?"

"From where?" another asked excitedly.

The leader smiled. "Who can catch frogs? There should be plenty after the rain."

For once, they found themselves looking forward to a meal. Gruel, brown bread, and a small cut of cheese were enough to live on, but the fare grew dull after a while. Skewered frogs over the fire were a delicacy, especially with spices. The real problem would be finding dry firewood after such a downpour. They would likely have to steal some, but that was the least of their concerns. With the army in its current state, no records were kept, and every officer seemed to help himself.

They knew that even if they took some, no one would know who was truly responsible, as all feared inspection. And so, sitting on the stacked shields to keep them dry, they traded jests and imagined the smell of roasting meat. It was just a frog on a stick, but for dead-end rebels like them stuck in this sodden world, it was enough to make the thought of tomorrow worth having.

For a moment, the cold and the mud felt a little less cruel.

...

Meanwhile, downhill, under the weight of a raging thunderstorm, a group of thirty men marched across the mud-slick terrain. Rain hammered their thick coats and helmets, yet the gear kept them mostly dry as they trudged forward in the failing sunlight.

"See, see," said the group leader, a man with a gruesome slash wound across his face, to the master who had hired him, "my scouts never make mistakes."

"Then let us introduce ourselves," their master replied through the rainfall.

The group leader seized the man beside him and pressed a length of white linen into his hands. "Tie that to your spear."

"But the rain will soak it," the man protested.

"Then find another to hold it with you. I do not want to die by bolts," the leader said, giving him a firm slap on the shoulder.

They obeyed, moving toward a newly erected camp that had not stood there when they passed in the morning.

The thirty men advanced cautiously, boots sinking into the sodden earth with every step.

"Hey, Meister, do you think the Lord will truly forgive us if we deliver you to him?"

"You will have the money and his gratitude. He might even reward you," the master reassured him.

Hearing that, the man’s confidence grew. "Can I stay with you? I could use the incense now and then, for my aching bones."

"Of course. I shall supply you with finer goods once I am employed."

The group leader chuckled, happy beyond belief. How could he not? The meister had slipped him a dose of poppy milk, the same kind the Saint Candidate favored. Now the man was confident beyond measure.

As they neared the field of ordered tents, rhythmic thuds rose from the side, steady and heavy like the advance of something large and swift.

"Noises from the flanks," one man shouted.

"Form a circle!" the leader barked, and the thirty closed ranks with the ease of veterans.

Through the sheets of rain and rumble of thunder, two towering figures emerged, their forms shaped with lupine features. One stood upright in ringmail, sharp claws curving from its massive left hand, a bardiche gripped in the right.

"Greetings," the master called out. "I wish to defect."

"We wish to defect," the group leader corrected.

The two half-breeds formed a loose ring around the men. The first to arrive sniffed the air and said flatly, "You stink. Incense! You are the Saint's men."

"You must be the Saint's scouts," the other growled, the sound carrying over the storm.

"Patience, patience," the master said. "Bring us to your leaders. I have skills and information."

"The offer is not good enough," the first half-breed replied, tightening her grip on the bardiche.

"I have drugged the commander and his staff. It will make them debilitated by tomorrow, and you can attack with ease. That was my doing."

His words made the men turn toward him in shock. To surrender was one thing, but to poison was another. Still, the situation had not changed for them.

With a loud grunt, the half-breed motioned for her brethren to give way. "Bring that man to Sterling. I will handle the rest."

"You will not kill us, right?" the group leader asked.

"No guarantee," the first half-breed said, her gaze cold and measuring.

"Can I meet this Sterling and explain my worth?" the group leader asked suavely.

"He's not the leader."

The master’s rain-slick brow furrowed. "Then who?"

"That would be Camp Commander Karl." A thunderclap struck so close that some of the men flinched and ducked instinctively, but not the half-breed. She merely raised a hand to her ear, giving it a casual pat as if brushing away the sound.

"Then you should arrange for me to meet with him," the master said.

A smirk curled along the creature’s long lupine snout. "You have come to the wrong place."

The master hesitated, caught off guard. "What do you mean?"

"He's heading to your camp as we speak," the half breed explained proudly.

"In this thunderstorm? Uphill? Not even the horses would attempt it," the group leader said in strong disbelief.

The other half-breed let out a low, amused laugh. "He does not ride horses."

It was enough to silence them all.

***