214
Day by day, the ranks of the Balto Militia swelled.
Driven to their breaking point by hatred of the Imperial Family, young men joined the insurgence in droves. Within a few short months, a massive force had formed, rivaling the Northern Noble Alliance itself.
It was the inevitable consequence of years of indiscriminate looting and brutal subjugation at the hands of the Imperial Army.
“Filthy traitors!”
Driven into an ignominious retreat by wave after coordinated wave of Amasec townspeople, the Crown Prince hurled his helmet to the floor in a blind rage.
Varkas looked up from the dispatches on his desk.
Haggard from days of relentless skirmishing, the Crown Prince was screaming as he kicked a low table across the tent.
“I will flay those vermin alive and string them across the capital like banners! I’ll tear their eyes and tongues out while they still draw breath, hack them to pieces, and scatter them as manure across this cursed dirt! Just wait, you mongrels!”
Varkas leaned back against his chair, waiting in cold silence for his cousin’s frenzy to burn itself out.
At last, as if the fire had guttered, the prince—having battered every piece of furniture within arm's reach—collapsed into a chair.
Seeing this, Varkas gave a curt instruction to the attendant hovering pale-faced by the entrance.
“Do not just stand there. Pour His Highness some chilled wine.”
“I want none of it! Get out!”
The Crown Prince shoved aside the attendant who had hurried forward to take up the flagon, turning a venomous glare on Varkas.
“How can you sit there so placidly? Does my humiliation amuse you?”
Varkas offered no answer, merely reaching for the goblet on his desk.
As the rim touched his lips, Gareth shot up, tore the goblet from his fingers, and hurled it into the far corner of the tent. He leaned in, towering over Varkas with bared teeth.
“Answer me. Are you laughing at me?”
“Your Highness has chosen the wrong target for his wrath.”
Varkas held his gaze, his face an impenetrable mask.
“Is this how you welcome the man who rode all this way to clean up your mess?”
Gareth stiffened, registering the quiet threat beneath the words.
Varkas gestured toward the opposite chair with a tilt of his chin.
“Sit. We must discuss our next move.”
“Mighty words. I suppose even the Crown Prince looks small to you now that you have been named Commander-in-Chief.”
Humiliated by his own instinctive flinch, Gareth curled his lip in a sneer.
Varkas’s voice dropped, flat and heavy.
“I said sit.”
Veins corded on the Crown Prince's neck as he glared back, but in the end he dragged the chair back and sat.
Varkas unrolled a map between them, speaking in measured tones.
“From this point on, your direct vanguard will fall back to the rear. Confine your forces to encamping southwest of Amasec and severing their supply routes.”
“You want me to scurry back like a coward to avoid commoners?”
“This rebellion is the fruit of your own excesses. His Majesty wishes to avoid inflaming the North’s hatred for the Imperial Family any further.”
Gareth’s face flushed dark crimson at the rebuke. He slammed his fist onto the table.
“Are you daring to pin this on me?”
Varkas neither conceded nor argued, proceeding without a hitch.
“If the Crown Prince, the future ruler of this Empire, massacres the townsfolk of Balto, the rancor will never heal. If Balto is ever to be reclaimed, His Majesty decided someone else must soil their hands in your stead.”
“And you are the butcher chosen for the task?”
Gareth scoffed openly.
“And I suppose you accepted the supreme command out of pure, humble devotion to me?”
“Naturally,” Varkas replied smoothly. “Though my cousin seems bent on straining that devotion to the breaking point.”
· · ·
“If my presence is unwelcome, say the word. By your command, I will gladly turn these reinforcements back toward the east.”
Gareth ground his teeth until they seemed on the verge of splintering.
A suffocating quiet dragged between them. At last, the Crown Prince snarled through locked jaws, “Fine. I will heed your instructions for now. But since my men are being sent to the rear, your results had best be absolute.”
He shoved himself to his feet and strode out of the tent.
At daybreak, Varkas reorganized the ranks and tightened the noose on Amasec. He had no intention of forcing an assault.
After isolating the city completely to prevent the rebellion from spreading like rot, he established a fortification to the north and dammed the Luden River, cutting off its flow into Amasec.
Diverting a river of that scale consumed an astronomical sum in magical catalysts and powder, but the tactic was decisive.
According to the spies embedded within the walls, fractures were already widening among the citizenry.
Records seized by the Imperial Army when the city was first occupied indicated that enough grain was hoarded inside to endure half a year. Water, however, was another matter.
Deprived of water, they would be forced to hoist a white flag within a month. All that remained was to wait until the cornered rats launched their final, desperate charge.
Varkas encircled the perimeter of the gates with layered cavalry, preparing for the inevitable sortie.
Several weeks passed. An unexpected visitor arrived at the camp.
“It has been some time, Lord Shearkan.”
Varkas, who had been studying the besieged city from the parapet of a watchtower, turned toward the voice.
Several hundred horsemen bearing lances tipped with emerald pennants were riding up the rise.
The burly man at their head called out with boisterous ease.
“No—I suppose it is His Grace the Grand Duke now.”
Recognizing the face a beat late, Varkas furrowed his brow. It was the second son of the Duke of Bluestone, one of the premier houses of the North.
Varkas walked down the wooden stairs and approached him.
The man dismounted and offered an affable hand.
“We crossed paths once at an imperial banquet long ago. How have you fared?”
“It has been a while.”
Varkas accepted the clasp briefly, his eyes assessing.
House Bluestone currently held leadership over the Northern Noble Alliance in the wake of House Heimdal’s fall.
Why was this man, who should have been at Dolakan Castle overseeing the peace negotiations, standing here?
Reading the silent question in Varkas’s eyes, the man lowered his voice cautiously.
“I bring a proposal on behalf of House Bluestone. May I have a moment of your time?”
Varkas held his gaze, probing for intent, then signaled toward the center of the camp.
“You may enter. Only you and a single guard.”
The man’s smile faltered, but he gave a resigned sigh and bowed his head.
Varkas led the way past the palisade toward his headquarters.
The command tent was stark, stripped of everything save the barest necessities for survival. Varkas went inside, sat behind a rough-hewn tactical table, and indicated the stool opposite him.
Having cast a wary look about the entrance, the man sat in silence.
“Speak your proposal.”
A flash of irritation touched the man’s features at the sheer bluntness. He had clearly not expected such cold economy.
Clearing his throat, he let out a mild complaint.
“A rather spartan welcome. Surely you can offer a guest a cup of wine?”
“I will decide whether you are a guest or an intruder once I have heard your terms.”
A weary breath escaped the man at the unyielding answer.
“Very well. To the point, then. This is…”
He reached into his breast pocket, drew out a compact letter, and laid it on the table.
Varkas arched a brow.
“What is this?”
“A personal missive from my elder brother, Duke Rowin Bluestone.”
Recognizing the Bluestone seal pressed into the wax, Varkas broke it and unfolded the parchment.
The aged sheet contained an audacious plea: an entreaty to put forward Lady Anastair, legitimate daughter of House Bluestone, as Crown Princess.
A thin, cold smirk brushed Varkas’s lips.
“Absurd. Even if the Northern Noble Alliance has bent the knee back to the crown, the fact remains that you aided and abetted Heimdal’s treason. And now you expect me to install the daughter of a traitorous house as the Crown Princess?”
“There is no other way out of this quagmire.”
The man wet his dry lips, speaking with calculated care.
“Your Grace knows as well as I that the mood in Balto is a tinderbox. To smother the flames, the Empire must show it can embrace the North with grace. What louder declaration could there be than raising a true daughter of northern blood to the seat of Crown Princess?”
He stopped, watching Varkas for any sign of agreement.
Varkas offered nothing, merely tilting his chin in a silent prompt to go on.
Stung by the cold arrogance, the man leaned forward, his palms flat against the wood.
“At this rate, the war will drag on for years. The only reason the peace talks have stagnated for six months is that the northern houses have no guarantee their standing will survive. If Anastair takes the mantle of Crown Princess, that suspicion evaporates overnight.”
Varkas drummed his fingers on the table, looking down at the Duke of Bluestone’s letter.
It was an enticing proposal. It was also, beyond doubt, the most pragmatic solution available.
The sole hurdle was whether Gareth would ever swallow such terms.
A dull ache throbbed in Varkas’s temples, and he pressed two fingers against his brow. Taming that madman would be no simple feat. Still, if he could handle the fool correctly, this wretched campaign could be ended in a single stroke.
If fortune held, he might even return to Raedgo Castle before spring.
His fingers tightened on the parchment.
“Very well. I will advance this. On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“The moment the betrothal is sealed, the Northern Noble Alliance must lead the vanguard to crush the rebellion.”
“That is…”
The man’s expression hardened into stone.
Varkas pressed him without mercy.
“We cannot afford the sight of imperial soldiers slaughtering northerners any longer. It must be your own hands that put down the rebels. That is the price of the Alliance's fealty.”
· · ·
“Refuse, and I will not take this petition before His Majesty.”
After a grueling pause, the man answered in a subdued tone.
“Understood. I will carry your condition back to my brother.”
He stood, extending his hand once more across the table.
Just as Varkas reached out to take it, the sharp wail of a war horn tore through the air outside.
Varkas snatched his blade from the table and threw back the flap. Beyond the canvas, a chorus of thunderous cries erupted.
“Enemy sortie! They're attacking!”
END