Flammenschwert
East Nicopola, The Five Peaks Mountain Range
On the same day that Lord Avery launched his assault to retake Kapua, Sir Servius, the Condottiere of the Gray Skull Legion, headed to Skodra, his home base. He came back empty-handed. Victory had been denied him. The war in the mountains had ground to a standstill. Every climb was perilous and fiercely defended. Yet that was not the worst of it. The week before, after grueling skirmishes, his men had discovered a fortified city carved into the mountainside. From captured smugglers, they learned it was only one of many, with greater cities hidden deeper in the range.
It was beyond what they had expected. Somewhere within the Five Peaks Range stood mountain strongholds where thousands dwelled, rivaling Korimor or even Korelia in size. That knowledge revealed the gulf of power between them, and Sir Servius understood that pressing further would be suicide.
Still, stubborn as ever, he attempted a siege, hoping to claim a city as his foothold. But the fortress was carved from living rock, its walls fused with the cliff so that only one narrow approach could be contested. The rest of the city and its second gate lay beyond reach, supplied and reinforced without hindrance. The campaign had turned grim, the situation worsening with each passing week.
The longer he waited, the better supplied the defenders became, while his own numbers thinned from exhaustion and common maladies brought on by the harsh mountain conditions.
More pressingly, he was running out of time. Harvest had come to East Nicopola, and he needed to rotate some of his men home to tend what meager crops they had. Food was scarce, and with so many refugees joining them, the supplies from the villages in Umberland could no longer sustain all. Thus, despite his promise to Lord Lansius that he would crush the smugglers, he now saw it had been nothing more than a boastful claim.
He had not known his enemies, a mistake that would haunt him.
Thus, in humiliation, he sent hawks to the Shogunate, explaining the situation and his decision to halt the advance and instead strengthen his hold. At the very least, he could block the smugglers’ main route westward into Nicopola. He would not surrender his hard-fought gains, paid for with the blood of his men.
On his way to Skodra, Sir Servius found the fields shorn clean, the scent of chaff and earth still heavy in the air, a promise of good bounty from the land. This success belonged not only to the farmers but also to the laborers and other skilled hands. After the devastating strife between the natives and the immigrants, so much land had been destroyed that returning folk could only shed tears at the sight of the ruined countryside. Of all that had been lost, the most vital was the damage to the irrigation. Repairing it demanded much effort and laborers who understood the craft. They had toiled since spring and through summer, and fortunately, the result was remarkable.
He also saw people gathering fruit from the few orchards that had survived. Each was now treasured, and fences had been built to keep them safe. Seasonal vegetables were being harvested as well, bringing hope for preserved food and pottage to last through winter. The few breweries that had survived had also begun their first production of Nicopolan ale, more bitter and earthy than any other brew.
It was a gargantuan effort, and with so many cities, towns, and communities raided clean from the conflict, everything needed rebuilding. Common tools were scarce, many farming implements had been reforged into weapons, and beasts of burden such as donkeys and mules were in short supply, many having been slain during the famine. With the harvest season in full swing, they now required storage places, as countless barns and granaries had burned or destroyed.
While work and harvest were underway, the three villages in the Umberland mountains continued to thrive. Their population had grown into the thousands, for many Nicopolans, scarred by war, could not bring themselves to return to the ruined countryside. They found comfort instead in the Umberland highlands, where half-breeds roamed and protected the realm, giving them an uncommon sense of order and safety. Under Lord Beatrix’s support, one of the villages had grown into a small town, complete with traders, barbers, taverns, and inns. Around it, smaller hamlets had taken root wherever the soil was rich and water ran close.
With so many hands, the three villages had become the Gray Legion’s most reliable source of food. Carried down by horse and mule caravans, this season they brought sacks of rye, turnips, and hardy mountain beans. The quantities were not massive but steady throughout the year. Through those same caravans came salt, farming tools, fur coats, and leather goods, trade from Umberland and the greater Lowlandian lands.
Not all horse and mule caravans returned with trade goods. Most mules were purchased for labor, while dozens of draft horses were gifted by the Lord of Umberland and the Shogunate as a gesture of support and goodwill.
However, the Legion knew they could only hope for one last caravan in late fall, as the Three Villages and Umberland as a whole needed to preserve their stores for the coming winter.
...
East Nicopola, Skodra City
Returning to his battle-worn castle, its halls still modestly adorned, Sir Servius wasted no time in seeking the latest reports. He needed news of the situation in Kapua. It was a shame his Gray Legion could not send reinforcements when the city was under siege. Now, he could do little to help recover it. All he could manage was to send fresh recruits to the border to deter any incursion into his own region.
More concerning, with each new report from his cities, Sir Servius learned to fear the rise of the Nicopolan Kingdom. Even under his watch, it had grown in popularity among the locals. Everyone loved the idea of a Nicopolan-born king, especially one who looked competent and carried himself with authority. People naturally longed for such a figure, someone who embodied power, protection, and inspired a sense of grandeur. With the Imperium in ruins, many among the younger generation believed destiny was calling, and the banner of the new kingdom seemed to shine brighter than that of the Gray Skull Legion.
It was near treachery that people so easily forgot who had fought, protected, and fed them through the hardest seasons, only to now dream of bowing to another warlord. Worse still, the new kingdom had already struck their allies, the Dawn, yet most youths found no fault in it.
To them, the Dawn folk were untrustworthy, and many believed the barony should be annexed rather than left independent.
Sir Servius was aghast when he received the report. While his men fought and bled in the mountains, his own citizens had fallen in love with another kingdom.
“What should I do with them?” he asked his advisor and confidant. The words were spoken beneath the dim candlelight of his council chamber, with only the two of them inside.
“It is only natural for the youths to praise the new fashion,” said his advisor, a man nearing sixty, his face carved deep with the lines of hardship and long years. “It is built on willful hope and fancy, but the older men are wiser. They will not forget your leadership in their time of need.”
“But the youths will rise to power. If they throw their support behind the new kingdom and conspire, then what can I do?”
“I believe the Lord of Dawn will not stand idle,” the advisor said. “He will try to retake Kapua.”
“I am aware of it, but even if Lord Avery succeeds, I doubt the new kingdom will simply collapse. Even if the king dies, there will be others to take his place.”
The advisor did not answer at once, and the silence allowed Sir Servius to mutter, “Perhaps the Gray Legion’s banner is not catchy enough.”
“Sir, there may be some truth to that sentiment,” the advisor said after a pause.
The Legion leader frowned. “Should I change my banner then?”
“Not quite,” the advisor replied. “What I meant is the young men do not see joining a legion as promising. It is too mercenary, so to speak.”
“Of course, that is the point. But what do you suggest?”
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“I mean, just as the king claims a kingdom, why do you not claim something yourself?”
Sir Servius stared at his advisor, who raised a hand to calm him before continuing, “What I mean to say is, you can use the barony instead.”
“The barony?” Sir Servius exhaled deeply and leaned back in his chair, weary to the bone. “I know what you mean. What we have now could even be worth a viscounty, but where is the Emperor to make me a baron? Do you suggest I find some ex-baron’s daughter and marry her? By the Ageless,” he muttered, lamenting, “if that is the case, I hope we find a widow. I do not wish to scare the young.”
He thought of himself, his crippled leg, his missing hand. He could not bear the idea of terrifying a young woman into marriage. Besides, he was already married, and to take another wife would jeopardize his family.
“There is no need to take such a drastic measure,” the advisor said, then continued, “In one of the letters from Midlandia, the illustrious Lord Shogun—”
“Bless that man.” Sir Servius interrupted. Ever since the assassination and rebellion, he had come to fear Lansius’ mortality more than his own. Many among the high-ranking shared the same dread, realizing just how vital the man was to the stability of the realm. All of Lowlandia, Midlandia, and even much of Nicopola rested upon him being alive and in command.
“He has declared a new title for his retinue. He named it the Banneret.”
Sir Servius nodded, already understanding the idea. Like himself, Lord Lansius had come to grips with the same problem. There was no one to raise him higher. With only a baron’s standing, he could have knights, esquires, lieutenants, and captains, but nothing higher. “And your suggestion would be?”
“You are formally his knight,” the advisor replied. “It would be only proper to send your lord both gifts and praise. I will prepare a letter to nominate you as a Banneret, along with a seat in the Shogunate.”
The legion leader stroked his chin for a while before speaking. “This still will not make this place a barony.”
“What you are going for is the youth, Sir. They care little for formal matters. What they want is to become esquires and knights, not mercenaries.”
Hearing that, Sir Servius snorted, finding it absurd yet also true. “Do you think with becoming Banneret, I can make my retinue into knights?”
“At least you can make a squire an armiger.”
“That will do just fine,” he muttered, knowing that while the Gray Skull Legion’s banner was not as popular, the Blue and Bronze was another matter. Everyone had heard of the Black Lord and his exploits in both war and peace. To become part of his extended domain would be far more appealing than serving in a mercenary band.
It felt absurd to him, for Nicopolan tradition had long bound them to the mercenary’s path, yet the younger generation no longer wished to live as hired swords. “How times have changed,” he muttered.
His advisor merely smirked but offered no comment.
“Then prepare the letter. We shall review it first thing in the morning.”
“Of course, I shall prepare the materials to make you the third Banneret.”
“Third? There are already the first and second?”
“Yes, the Lord Shogun is implementing his reforms at a rapid pace.”
“What a man. If only he were here,” Sir Servius muttered, rising to his feet and limping toward the door. His advisor followed close behind. They stepped into the corridor, speaking of other matters, a guard escorting them, when hurried footsteps echoed from behind.
The guard turned but spotting his comrades, and challenged, “What’s the rush at this hour?”
“Legion Leader!” the man called out, breathless, paying no heed to the question as he stopped before them.
Sir Servius felt the urgency in his tone. “Yes? Do you have something for me to hear?”
“A report, sir. A caravan has just arrived.”
“This late at night?” Sir Servius frowned, knowing it was already past midnight, unease creeping in. It could be a smuggler’s plot. Had his defenses been exposed?
The advisor stepped closer, demanding, “Are you certain? We already received our autumn caravan. They couldn’t have returned this soon.”
“Meister, this caravan bears the flag of Blue and Bronze.”
“Blue and Bronze?” Sir Servius blurted out, his confusion deepening.
“Yes, Meister. Our patrols have already counted and escorted them. They have half-breeds among them. They said they were caught in sudden rain on the mountain pass, but the half-breed guiding them urged not to rest, warning of possible raiders from the smugglers.”
The Legion leader and his advisor could only exchange glances with each other.
None could guess what the Lord Shogun had in store for them with his phantom caravan. Judging by the situation, it was unlikely to help much, yet they knew that a beggar could not be a chooser.
The night deepened in Skodra, while hundreds of miles to the west, Kapua burned.
***
Kapua South Gate
One hour after midnight, the city lay bathed in the glow of fire and ember. Acrid smoke smothered the streets while the wind carried ash in slow veils, dusting all in a fine white coat. Amid that pale haze, the red fire burned fiercely against the city’s silhouette. Its orange tongues leapt high, and the screams of those who tried to flee broke the will of anyone still thinking to remain at home. As the flames crept into new quarters, panic spread, and all knew they had to run.
Soon, the streets were choked with camp followers, and native townsfolk pressed together without order. They knew it was not a common city fire, not when the castle itself was ablaze. On the eastern side of the city, the castle continued to burn. Its towers loomed in black shape against the glow, and its charred banners proclaimed to all who saw that the kingdom had fallen.
New-made esquires, merchants, and peddlers, mothers clutching infants, men-at-arms who had deserted and hidden themselves in plain clothing, and servants with bare feet all marched toward the gate. Some were blackened with soot, others with white dust clinging to their hair. Each clutched what little could be carried in a desperate bid to escape the fire and whatever else that would come.
Because everyone knew, a kingdom did not fall in peace.
The scene was horrific because it was architected that way. The arson had been laid with care, set in strategic places meant to terrify the city as a whole. Less than a tenth of Kapua was burning, yet it appeared as if half were aflame.
The avenues choked with panicked shouts and ragged breaths, the roar of flames behind them driving all forward.
But the gate remained shut.
A hundred men of the gate garrison stood in a locked line of spears and shields, blocking the desperate crowd from the entrance.
“No one leaves without the King’s command!” the lieutenant of the gate shouted, stubborn as ever for the tenth time.
The spears and shouts scared and stopped people at first. But as the city burned, the crowd grew, and patience wore thin. There were many families of esquires among the crowd whose husbands or sons were part of the military, and many of them began to shout challenges. Soon, the mass swelled to nearly a thousand souls. Children’s cries made the scene all the more frantic.
Faced with such opposition, the men began to plead with their lieutenant to let the people pass, warning that it might end in disaster.
“No,” the Centurian-born lieutenant shouted in defiance. “That is what they want. We have the Ghost locked inside the city.” He turned his gaze to the crowd and barked, “It could be hiding among them, trying to flee after burning the castle. We will not let them pass.”
Yet the situation spiraled out of control quickly. People began pushing, and scuffles broke out. Many were tackled to the ground. Some were quickly restrained, but many more launched attacks on the guards. As the women and children backed away, more men surged forward, and the scuffle turned into a brawl.
“Push them back! Push them back!” the lieutenant shouted. Without an order, he would not yield the gate, even if half the city burned.
But his men, most of them Nicopolans, refused and stood down. This allowed the crowd to isolate the forty or so Centurians. Weapons were drawn, and the situation turned critical.
Suddenly, a group of men appeared from inside the gatehouse, having walked the length of the wall.
“What is this insubordination?” demanded a man in a flush brigandine, his armor bright and neat as a dozen of his men rushed to the scene, forcing the crowd to step back.
“Captain!” the lieutenant saluted the King’s confidant. “They wanted to escape the fire.”
“A mad request. Deny them!”
“I have—”
“The west gate has opened itself!” a shout came from the crowd.
“I will deal with that problem,” the Captain shouted back. “You lot are to return to any place not yet burned.”
“But the castle is burned!”
“Yes, I see. And what is the problem with that?” the Captain challenged back.
A wave of confused shouting rose from the crowd. “That is not a common fire.”
“Undoubtedly. Some cowards have caused the accident. An arson, and we are working to—”
“They already opened the West Gate for people to flee. Why can’t you do the same?”
His men shouted sharply, “Do not cut the Captain’s words!”
The Captain stepped forward and addressed the crowd. “Listen, you shameless cowards. A burned castle does not mean the King has fallen.”
“And even if he falls,” another man in heavy armor, decorated in an eccentric manner, added as he walked from behind, “another will take his place.”
“Preposterous! Who are you to say that?” one man in the crowd shouted, quickly gaining murmurs of support.
[Silence!]
Many in the crowd stepped back, gasping, as if struck by something unseen. Some blinked rapidly, others drooled, faces contorted, and knees trembled.
“You don’t have to, Sir,” the Captain said, his tone cordial toward the man in heavy armor.
“But I am the Royal Mage, and it is my duty to fulfill my King’s wishes,” the man replied calmly before turning to the crowd. His voice turned cold. “All of you should return to your pits, or your guts will fill the gutters.”
The crowd cowered in fear. Even the esquires and deserters knew they could not stand against the King’s Mage Knight.
But from among them, one man raised his hand. “A question then, Sir.”
The Royal Mage frowned. “Who dares to ask?”
The lieutenant grew even more aggressive, demanding, “Who are you to speak, and by whose authority?” Then he barked orders to his men. “Get him!”
Yet the tall man in a cloak did not move. Instead, a younger man stepped before him and said, "My master is the First Banneret, the Bane of Lubina, and the Champion of Kapua—"
“That’s not necessary.” The tall, mysterious man gently pushed his squire aside with one hand. The crowd parted for them, eyes wide and mouths agape, murmuring over what they had just heard. Even the armed men sent to seize him froze as they realized who he was and saw the noise-deadened black armor beneath his cloak.
“My name is Morton.” The air burst outward in a violent swirl, blowing cloaks, kicking up dust, and making the torches flicker wildly. Men staggered under the sudden howling wind as the man formed a translucent shield on his left arm and drew a long, wave-bladed sword. “I speak under the authority of the Lord Shogun of Midlandia and Lord Avery of Dawn. For those who do not stand down, well met. I am your executioner for tonight.”
***
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