The intervening hours seemed to blur as the usual post-battle chores commenced. Treating the wounded and the dead, enemy and ally. Each in their own way. Before a disciplined evacuation of the slowly collapsing rift. Out at last into the fading sunlight over a brown, demon-scarred plane. But even scared, it was good solid earth with a star-speckled sky overhead. Here and there, bits of green poked their way up through the demonically corrupted surface. Life finding a way despite hardship.
A message of hope amidst the devastation. Though one he hadn’t the energy to appreciate. Still in disciplined marching formations, they trooped back through the towering forward fortifications. Earthworks, deep trenches and piled high embankments reinforced and topped with wooden or occasionally stone fighting platforms, stretching as far as the eye could see, generously spotted with stone hillforts and even a few full curtain-walled fortresses.
Though those were not for the likes of the Band. They split from the imperial troops with good, if exhausted, spirits and with a trio of imperial trumpets sending them off with a few lines of a lilting parade ground melody that had his men picking up their feet and straightening their spines that extra inch. Peacocking their way back all the way through the gates of a hillfort, under the standard of an impaled greater demon skull on a Sarrissa Spear.
Then, with the gates closed behind them and no eyes to see, the men collapsed. Camp followers rushed quickly to help them out of armor, treating minor wounds and giving them the briefest of washes before pouring them into the closest bed.
There was nothing so exhausting as a victory well earned.
Not even defeat.
________
Ethan trotted his horse forward, blurry-eyed but fully armed and armored. You didn’t leave fortified rooms without either. And while both were clean, they bore the evidence of the previous day’s work in dents, scuffs and a few full-on notches. These were not uncommon conditions; his armor was a tool for battle, not a parade ground frivolity. But it was usually a bit harder to tell. He could have used a few hours of the blacksmith's attention and a fresh coat of lacquer at the very least. Especially today.
Needs must, when the Emperor’s herald summons you, you go. And go Now.
Guile and Andrew backed him, equally tired, but no less deadly for all that, with eyes searching the planes around them for threats. Demonic taint made the already deadly wildlife that much more exciting. Chaotically corrupted beasts could become nearly anything. From barely living rabid weaklings, to wraiths that could kill or spread plagues with a touch and everything in between.
He let out a breath in relief, though a quiet one under his breath, as they passed through the fortress gates into the imperial compound. Without a word, his men split off toward a surprisingly large detachment of noble bodyguards, in three dozen different sets of heraldry, a riotous set of colors to enliven the more dismal stone lines of the fortress. Off to the side stood another two dozen in the simple burnished armor of a warband. A good sign that.
His own men swiftly joined this batch, slapping gauntleted hands to a few hands and shoulders while giving a cold shoulder to a few others.
He hid a snort as he dismounted and handed the reins to a waiting groom’s hands. Not even Guile would cause trouble under the eyes of a fortress full of imperials.
Probably…
He hoped…
He let out a soft sigh and pushed the matter aside. No time for that now. A full twenty guards, fully armed and armored, stood in front of a set of gilded and carved double doors. Even before he reached them, he could feel the unapologetic wash of a dozen different Inspection skills, checking him for weapons, corruption, enchantments and if he had a rabbit up his ass for all he knew.
He started to pull his sword, sheathed still, from his arming belt, only to be stopped and waved through. He didn’t know whether he should be honored or insulted. Was his simple sword and dagger no threat here? A likely case, considering this lot was at least Tier 3 and the ones inside, the emperor’s personal bodyguards, no doubt made them look like children. But not having had the dubious pleasure of an imperial audience before, he couldn’t say.
At least he wasn’t here to be punished if he was allowed to keep them.
Probably…
He hoped…
The doors opened wide and he stepped through into a crowd, only to be quickly snagged by an imperial steward and directed off to the side, separate from the nobility, of course, but still in very good company. He gave a quiet salute to a few friends and comrades, and echoing his own men outside, pointedly ignored a few bastards as well. Though he did give Aldur, an old enemy of his family, but in an odd back handed way, one of the best men he knew, a respectful nod.
Their bands had competed for three generations now, and while that made him an enemy, it was an honored one. As reliable in his own way as an old friend.
He’d still kill him, given a chance. But he’d mourn his passing too.
Not like Carmicle, the treacherous pimple-faced bootlicker. That horse’s ass had never met a face he’d not smile at, nor a back he hadn’t measured a dagger for. He’d not mourn his passing. Might even dance a jig on the grave!
Taking his place, towards the middle of this assemblage of bandsman captains, he took a breath and began to practice that most military of skills.
Patience.
Time passed as the doors opened every now and then to admit another few nobles, or a band captain, till the room started to feel a bit stifling with the familiar sweaty metal and rust scent of well-used armor.
An iron-shod staff struck the floor, a crashing, booming sound that instantly silenced the quiet din of muttered conversations. Then it struck again.
And again.
One strike for the low noble, knights through counts, two for the High, dukes and princes, three for the Emperor Himself, may his light ever shine on the fiefs of Aclela. Doors opened behind the throne up on the raised dais, and a stream 5th Tier Praetorians streamed in, resplendent in gold on black tabards over master crafted, gilded and enchanted to the gills plate and mail.
A thin line of them filled the top of the dais, then took a synchronized step down, then another. Standing on the floor and leaving a clear view as the Emperor strode in. It was the eyes that you saw first. Blue and glowing bright enough to fill the room and leave nothing else! Everything else seemed to fade away as he stared into them. Then those eyes closed and suddenly the word resurfaced.
The emperor was sitting down, and with his eyes closed, he was clearly an older man, hair gone completely grey, but not thinning. Considering the man had long been emperor when his great-grandfather had first taken Imperial coin, it gave weight to the legends about his level. Despite an age that he couldn’t even put a number to, there was yet power and even vigor in the larger-than-life figure sitting at ease before them. The rumored Tier 10 whose bountiful wisdom had seen their people through what could have been, perhaps should have been, another apocalypse. And if legend was to be believed, kept humanity alive through the last one too.
His care-worn face remained sharp and commanding above a regal, pure golden tabard with armored bracers and boots sticking out and around it.
Then the eyes opened again, and it became impossible to do aught but listen.
“The war is at last over. And Victory is ours.” He ground out slowly, calmly. Then paused, “You may cheer.” The eyes closed, revealing a face with a true smile beaming down beneficently on them.
The crowd erupted!
Screams and rhythmic cheers fought with each other as noble dignity gave way to the truest kind of existential relief. True happiness united them, mixing together with weariness and a glut of overripe hope. It was a heady brew, and one he was unashamed to partake in. Cheering and whooping as loud as the rest! The revelry lingered in the air for over a minute, and would have continued for who knew how long, then a hand was raised and the eyes opened to silence the room.
“Let the heralds go forth and declare three days of revelry paid from the imperial coffers. This is a time of bliss, and all who fought may join.”
“But we are not the commons. Regrettably, We have work to do.”
“Now it comes to Us to do as a Liege should. Exalt the valiant and discipline the cowardly and the shirkers. This brings us to the meat of today’s audience. Let Count Gundahar approach.”
The crowd parted and a count in a torn red on green surcoat, missing an arm and with visibly red bandages on the stump limped forward. His head held high and while pain graced his face with deep lines, there was no weakness in his iron-faced expression.
“Three greater demons struck Count Gundahar’s line together under a smoker’s cloud. Shattering the line and threatening the entire left flank. The Count stopped that threat personally. Charging the breach with his two sons, six knights and his personal bodyguard beside him. They held for 15 minutes. At the price of an arm, a son, five of the six knights and all of the bodyguards.
He paused, and his left hand raised, then making a fist, struck down upon the armrest, in time with a massed stomp. Then the hand rose again, and the hall stuttered slightly. Then every foot stomped for the new duke.
“With the better, we must also deal with the bitter. Duke Rembert, approach.”
A very different man strode forward, confidence in his practiced stride, but perhaps a bit of hesitance in the set of his shoulders. His gleaming mail was unmarred and unmarked, his eyes gleaming with energy; he stood out from his war-worn former subject like a bouquet of flowers hanging from a rack of maces. “The breach occurred under your liegeman, but you did not act. You waited while the count bled.”
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“Your Majesty, I pro-“
The light in those blue eyes brightened till nothing else remained, then closed to leave a pale and silent, shaking duke. “You played politics in a war zone and risked Our defeat to do so.” The left hand raised again, but open and palm down this time. It clapped softly down, and every open fist struck softly to their chests for the no longer duke.
“Your lands will be assessed to raise the new duke, YOUR new duke, Gundahar of Peachridge. Now begone from my sight, Baron Rembert. Two hundred and ten years ago, your ancestor fought and died saving my life, your family was in turn raised. Else, you would not have left these halls alive. That debt is now paid.”
The eyes moved on, from a broken, twitching man. His rank-based class and the free points it had given him, stripped away. Classing down was one of the worst pains known to man, and the twitching, shaking wreck of the once duke could barely stagger down the aisle.
No hand helped him.
No one so much as met his eyes.
He was beneath contempt, and if he wanted his sons and daughters to keep what was left of his title, he’d have to pass it on. And soon. Preferably by solo challenging a rift. He was done; it only remained to be seen if he had the courage to die well.
“Baron Heartwell approach.” The left hand raised and crashed down as a fist a single time. “Well done. Your valiance greatly contributed to breaking the left flank. Additional battle merits have been noted.” Merits that could be converted to coin or goods from the Imperial Coffers.
“Baron Hildimar …” The hand raised and struck.
Mostly as a fist for valiance and effectiveness on the field. The emperor had been watching, and his eyes saw far more than any had expected. Though no more dukes were made nor demoted, several lesser nobles lost rank to an open hand.
A count became a baron when his troops broke, though only after losing half their numbers. The failure was not just for his men breaking, bad luck and heavy casualties could break even fine men. He was demoted for the lack of training, the lack of proper equipment and the general lacking quality of those men. This was what caused the high casualties in the first place.
By far the most pathetic was an incompetent younger son. He failed to keep the arbalesters supplied with bolts. A simple task that he somehow managed to bungle. By being lazy and stupid rather than actively cowardly. He simply screwed up a job given to one who little was expected of already. The open hand fell and removed him from the line of succession. A red-faced older count looked on, furious and humiliated by this useless child. He had other sons, but all would suffer by association.
His own fault really. He clearly knew the kid was useless or he’d not have sought the cushy back-line job for him. Now his failure to discipline, raise or hide his child was visible to all. A lesson Ethan made a point of. A man wasn’t just judged by his actions, but also by his heirs.
Then at last, what felt like hours later, the last noble stepped back and the emperor’s eyes turned to the Bandsman Captains. Freezing them, one and all.
“And now We must deal with you. I have thought long and hard on this subject. The empire cannot afford, now that the war is over, for large amounts of armed, trained, valiant warriors to run loose without honest work for their blades. Something must be Done, and I will Do it. Approach, Marcus, son of Thancmar, of the Highport Spears. You have served valiantly, you have bled for me, as has your father, and his father before him. And I find this noble.”
The left hand raised again, and made a fist, pausing to allow the nobles to get over their shock, before crashing down and shaking the chamber. “You have 250 odd men under your banner? Imperial Baronet Marcus, you will take fief on our borderlands and may raise 5 knights from your Band in defense of the empire. We give you a labor legion as peasantry. May your house ever ward the empire's border and gain honor in the doing. A steward will instruct you in the privileges and responsibilities of your station. Prospective fiefs will be made known you and tomorrow, after due consideration, you will choose.”
“Approach, Lucianus son of Junius. –“ A fist rose and fell.
“Approach, Gebahard son of Ascelin –“ The fist rose and fell.
Then it was finally his turn. “Approach, Ethan, son of Bertram, of the Cultane’s Horns. You have served valiantly and what’s more, wisely. The Horselords followed your lead in the charge. A rare honor. Your class and skills as a Strategos are traits We have rarely seen in this generation. You have fought and bled for Us. As did your father, grandfather and great-grandfather before you. And I find this noble indeed.” The hand raised and the fist fell, striking both the armrest and the now Baronet Ethan’s heart.
Nobility. The dreams of his family for generations, at last, made true. Only decades of discipline kept him still and straight-faced.
“You have 190 men?” Where even limitless joy did not shake him, this made a small wince grace his face. A wince, those blue all-seeing eyes did not miss. “Is that not correct?”
He drew breath, but one did not lie before even a partial deity. It took raw force to get the words out before those glowing eyes. More force than even a suicidal cavalry charge, the thought suddenly popped into his head. A wrong idea, but it was hard to feel that way now, “147, your majesty, after yesterday’s work.”
The crowned head nodded, sympathy but no pity showing briefly in his glowing blue eyes. Strangely, that helped. The Emperor, he understood. It would not stop him from ordering those bloodied, pell-mell charges again, even knowing what it would cost. But he did care. For the empire first, but also for its people.
“Imperial Baronet Ethan, you will take fief in borderlands and may raise 5 knights from your Band in defense of the empire. We give you a labor legion as peasantry. May your house ever ward the empire's border and gain honor in the doing. A steward will instruct you in the privileges and responsibilities of your station. Prospective fiefs will be made known to you and tomorrow, after due consideration, you will choose.”
“Approach, Malger, son of Patronius –“
As he stepped backward, the Emperor's continuing words seemed to come from farther and farther away. They had done it. Nobility at long last. For him and his closest men, for a knight was still noble, even if it was a faded sort of nobility. But more, an Imperial title! A remit directly tied to the emperor’s house, free from a duke or count's interference. A solo command on the edges of the known world. It was…
Wonderful.
____
“- so you see, as an imperial baronet, the courtesies you must show to a senior noble are quite different. You must be aware of both, but the chains of command that bind you lead directly to the Emperor. Most fiefs will give up this designation after a generation or two. If not sooner. The support offered by a close-by Duke or Count is hard to undervalue. As is the pressure they can bring. Direct military action against you, without grievous insult offered first, is an act of treason against the Emperor.” Suicide, Ethan supplied not bothering to interrupt.
“But insults can and have been contrived. Not to mention the more clandestine approaches. Economic warfare and even plain banditry, which is of course beneath the dignity and would never be countenanced by any true noble,-” he rushed to say with a twinkle in his eyes, “-bares no such stigma. If -”
“-the knight positions you were granted are an imperial gift. The baronet class rider allows for 2 knights alone at the first level of the Vassalage passive, and will add an additional knight every four levels. In effect, you will need to get it to 24 before you gain a sixth knight. Notice I said slots. Not knights. Should a knight die honorably beneath your banner, his family retains the title and the right and obligation to fill it with a qualified claimant within a year. If they fail to do so, with several complex exceptions, the title and the lands that go with it revert to you. Then -”
Ethan nodded, making mental notes as the man attempted to distill a lifetime of assumptions, behavioral patterns and laws into 4 hours. An impossibility of course. And one that would have to end soon.
“-and that brings us to-“
“If you please, Master Rainer.”
“I, ah, cannot claim that title, Your Lordship.”
“And yet I give it you, for you have clearly mastered your role. And while I hope to do the same someday with your help, that day cannot be today. I would see the fiefs available while there is still time to consider them. Preferably in a portable form.” The men waiting deserved a chance to see their future and to celebrate it with him.
“Ah, of course, Your Lordship.” The slender man stood excitedly and bustled over to a desk, while Ethan pondered. The lack of musculature and an odd kind of bouncy grace scratched against his senses. It took him the few moments granted by the other man digging through a pile of scrolls to find the cause. It was trained grace, but a grace unmarred by the heavy weight of armor. The movements to exaggerated, an additional bounce, an arm-waving style of speaking that spoke of one unused to being equipped for war.
An extreme oddity in these times. Though perhaps only in the war camp. He brushed the concerns aside as the man returned, already unrolling a beast hide scroll, elegantly and offhandedly offering him the finest map he’d ever seen. Illuminated with art, color and many fine details. Even if those details were mostly of major features. A necessity on a map that encompassed the whole of the empire.
“-You may take this map with you. The red dots-” He gestured to a line of dots to the south, right across the blood line facing the Darken Forest. Ethan had to hide a wince. He knew the title would come with strings attached, but he knew better than to take that stretch at face value. It was prime lowlands, but there was a reason it wasn’t already settled. Goblin raiding parties were a regular affair on the existing villages farther north on the shores of Schwanensee Lake.
His hand kept moving, tracing its way to far north for a different bucket of trouble. Fertile fjords carved breaches in the great cliffs that overlooked the northern ocean. Beautiful, he’d heard. And defensible terrain to be sure. But they’d need that help to stand off the seasonal seaborn raids of the Frost Elves.
His hand traced west and north where a few passes reached into the depths of the Atlerest mountains, where… Actually, he knew very little about the threats from that direction. But it wouldn’t have been offered if they weren’t significant. “- indicate available fiefs. This scroll-” He offered another, far less impressive cylinder. Two wooden rollers wrapped in papyrus and tied shut with a simple tether. “- includes a brief overview of the conditions and threats each option entails. Along with a bit about the climate, crop selection, growing seasons and natural resources.”
“Now, this next is a trifle delicate, but should several baronets choose the same location, then they must bid battle merits to decide the victor. Those same battle merits can be used to purchase settlement cores,” Ethan kept his face still with an act of effort. That was indeed a generous offer, “and other rare and vital resources. This –” Another scroll was offered, beast hide this time, and nicely arranged on a single bone roller, though not illuminated like the map. “-is a list of your family's earned merits. It has been sealed by the Emperor personally, and as such is beyond contestation. To attempt to do so before others would be an act of disloyalty to your liege.” He stopped, giving Ethan a heavy glance.
Ethan waved it away. He was neither suicidal nor a fool.
“And finally,” he held up an incredibly ornate scroll, if a much smaller one. Barely a hand wide and quite thin on a gilded iron roller. “-an Imperial writ of passage. It permits and requires you to take armed men across the territory of other nobles on a mostly direct passage to your eventual fief. Without undue interference. Undo can be interpreted widely when you don’t observe the proper courtesies, of course, so take care. It also directs them to sell you provisions at the imperial price. This has, on occasion, been taken as a breach of those courtesies, though never in any official manner.”
Ethan accepted the final scroll from Rainer, but did not open it. He tapped it absently against his lip, then spoke. “My thanks, good Master Steward. Might I ask how long I have the privilege of your teaching?”
“The Emperor, in his benevolent grace, has remanded me to your hire and paid my wages in that regard for a season. Beyond that… well, let’s discuss it once we’ve taken each other's measure, yes?”
“Good, then would you care to meet me prior to the auction tomorrow? I would like your advice and company for the event.”
“Of course, Baronet Ethan, and I have a dispensation to travel as well, should you seek to get a head start on your competition.”
Ethan shook his head ruefully. If there were such a thing as a clue stick, he had just been struck with it. Nor was he fool enough to ignore an expert’s advice. Nor fool enough to need to be told in this case. The full war host of the empire would be travelling home soon. Early birds would find many worms, while the late would find a picked-over wasteland.
“I will expect you here at high noon then. That should give us several candle marks of instruction before the event. Good evening, Master Steward.”
“Good evening, Lord Baronet.”
___
