Vanian Year 1105

 

The vast doors of the great hall yawned open, and Marianne strode through them with utmost confidence - Jadwiga cawing loudly upon her shoulders, as if heralding her entrance.

 

She could feel the wayward stares of some of the greatest, most powerful lords and ladies of the Solar Alliance upon her, and gooseflesh crept across her skin like an infection as she held herself before the weight of their judgement. And yet, none of them said a word, for she could tell just as many were fixing their looks upon the golden eagle upon her shoulders as they were upon her.

 

Falconry was not so uncommon across Vania, but only one people has mastered taming the magnificent golden eagle. Marianne knew, then, that Jadwiga would be what gave weight to her words - as long as the bird was with her, Marianne’s voice would be heard.

 

She clenched the missive in her fist.

 

Marianne locked eyes with Élise de Constance and Wolfgang Schönbein, finding ample relief in their gazes. Both looked wholly out of place standing in the middle of the hall, with their bloody physician robes, ungroomed fur and exhausted faces. 

 

She pushed past them, striding right up to the feet of the pedestal, and knelt.

 

“Meine Damen und Herren!” she pronounced, offering the letter to the lord, “Urgent news from the battlefront! The Kurt Kolordu has engaged a second plague-bearer host, numbering at least two-thousand score men! They are requesting reinforcements forthwith!”

 

A pensive silence filled the hall, and the stench of fear and disbelief hung thickly in the air. Marianne shared their sentiments, for this new campaign has come nary a moon after the last - and if it weren’t for Jan Pasha’s host, it would’ve arrived at their unprepared feets much sooner.

 

A servant lifted the letter from her hands and passed it to Lord Conrad with a bow.

 

“Forty-thousand,” someone spoke desperately, “Does that not mean they are running out of men to fight as well?”

 

“Where are they coming from!?” Bascot the Bastard’s heavy tongue pounded against her ears.

 

“They are not moving through the Marches,” Marianne pushed out, “I have demanded word from our chartarques, not a single of them have spotted a host any size close to that number. From Jan Pasha’s letter, we can assume that this host is attempting to stay hidden from our eyes.”

 

“The Marches is a single corridor bound by mountain and sea,” Karl One-Eye stated, “We have built signalhouses and chartarques all across the land to inform us of any advance, how could they stay hidden?”

 

Marianne swallowed thickly.

 

She could feel their piercing gazes on the back of her neck, and she knew they wanted answers. Answers she didn’t have, yet ought to - as the messenger. She had been in Nordenstein for less than a half-year, and yet they expected her to know how the demon host was bypassing their pickets. It was gravely illogical, but Marianne knew fear made madmen of even the most sane - she of half their penchants too.

 

“The depths of the Red Land must not be underestimated,” a soft, gravelly voice spoke, “The Red Lady holds her secrets, and as her servants it is our responsibility to hold and protect them.”

 

“Lord al-Menfi!” Lord Conrad raised his voice, “Are you saying you realise the enemy’s scheme?”

 

“We all do, my lord,” Maslama al-Menfi replied, “The foothills of the Crown Mountains are scarred with countless cragged vales and wadis, carved out by ancient icefloes and rivers. While many lead to nowhere but sandstone, there is but one large enough to accommodate an army of that size - we know it as the Ailuros’ Lock. The last time an army marched through it was seven centuries ago, by the great al-Mansur.”

 

“...How long will it take for them to march through it?”

 

“The travail is long and arduous,” he said, “Those who are not familiar can find themselves lost within a maze of sand. And the Red Lady does not forgive. Give me a light-footed force, and we can race them to the exit.”

 

To hold the exit, and buy time with blood until the main army arrives.

 

“Then we move to meet them!” as-Saffah blustered, “We shall take all our cavalry ahead while the main host marches with all haste! Locking them in a mountain pass will be much preferable to meeting them on the field, or worse, in a siege.”

 

The man was a truly dreadful sight, having survived the Battle of Jabal Bayk with one less arm and half a face. It was said that when he engaged the demon general’s bodyguards, as-Saffah was thrown from his mount by a frightful cat-beast with a coat of flames. His face was terribly mauled that the man could barely be recognised after the battle, even as he boasted of killing the beast by stabbing it in its throat with a knife - which warranted the loss of his right hand.

 

Abbas as-Saffah was bleeding so profusely after the battle that the field surgeons feared he wouldn’t make it without immediate action. In the end, the surgeons held a torch to his face and burnt his wounds shut, melting the right side of his face together into a blasted visage of reddened, scabbed skin. The man’s right eye was fused shut entirely, along with the extremities of his mouth - forcing him to slur his speech. Along with his prosthetic steel arm, Marianne daresay the man appeared more demonic than the demons themselves.

 

“Are they even looking for a siege?” Marianne stared at the ground, “Sabir al-Mansur did not.”

 

“They are,” Lord Conrad lidded her argument, “We cannot afford to believe otherwise. The very fact that Jan Pasha knows where their host is entails that their supply lines are fragile. They must take Nordenstein to reopen their logistics, which means they hope to catch us off-balance and vie for a short siege.”

 

“I concur with the lord,” Lord Antoine said, “They only have forty-thousand men, they are attempting to steal a march around the fortified Marches, and they do so even with all the risks that come with. The enemy is desperate, and our position is not as terrible as we feared.”

 

“That is wishful thinking and we all know it, old man,” the Bastard scowled, “The Saintess ought to had the will of the divines at her back! And look how we turned out.”

 

A heavy weight began to set again at his words, but Marianne couldn’t afford to let that be the outcome.

 

“What other choice do we have!?” she abruptly shot to her feet, prompting Jadwiga to caw in alarm, “The horselords risked their lives to slow down the second host this much, are we just going to let their sacrifice be in vain!?”

 

“Then send that bird off and call for their return!” Bascot slammed his fist against the table, “Their sacrifice has bought us the time to fortify! We can no longer risk our men with uncertain action, not after the Saintess’ mad stunt! You ought to sit down, girl, just because you won us one battle does not mean you know better!”

 

“I do not, but at least I am not trying to lose us the war!” she rebuked furiously, “No, I say we meet the enemy’s wager with one of our own!”

 

Bascot the Bastard nearly rose from his seat, but was stopped by one of his fellows grabbing his shoulder. Jadwiga screeched - a loud, piercing shriek that bounced off the walls and shook the windows in their sills. Those sitting closest to her clapped their hands over their ears, and Marianne herself imagined that she could feel her own ears bleeding.

 

She ignored the wetness in her ears and spun around, scanning the faces within the great hall.

 

“The enemy have thrown their cards onto the table, this is their final play,” she insisted, “We must respond with our own! I say we only send a token force to hold the Ailuros’ Lock, while the combined army marches against Weißentreu!”

 

Weißentreu was a fortified town directly north of Nordenstein, raised on the southern bank of the River Sirhan to act as the first line of defence against any northern attack. In the early years of the war, Weißentreu played host to over a dozen battles, sieges, and counter-sieges as both the Solar and Crescent Alliance vied for the important stronghold. Currently, the town was in the hands of the demons, as it had been for half a dozen years.

 

If the demons were truly undermanned - which they had no reason to not believe so - then it was finally time they ought to retake the initiative.

 

“...Then why must we send a suicide force to control the pass?” a voice grumbled, “Every fighting man in Nordenstein, the longer the city could hold.”

 

“Because it would raise a mask over our actions,” Lord Antoine rapped against the table, “If they make it here and find the city unmanned, they would find something amiss. We are responding to them with a wager of our own, and forcing them into a dilemma; when they find this token force, they will know we have uncovered their plans. However, we will also be admitting that we were only able to send a small vanguard to make it in time to stop them.”

 

“And they will have to decide between breaking through as fast as possible to meet our phantom host on the field, or risk a disastrous retreat back out of the Ailuros’ Lock. Either way, they will suspect nothing until it is far too late,” Maslama al-Menfir finished, “It is a masterful stratagem. However, it would only be worth the blood if we can take Weißentreu.”

 

"Well," someone muttered, "What else do we have to lose?"

 

"And who will lead this delaying force!?" the Bastard glared at her, "You, girl!?"

 

"If I must," Marianne did not falter, "Then I shall gratefully accept this charge."

 

"No," Lord Conrad's voice was hoarse, "I shall not allow you to go riding to your death."

 

Marianne spun around in indignation, "My lord-!"

 

"With all due respect, my lord," Lord Antoine spoke up, "The Lady Edelhardt is here because - like every one of us - she has resigned herself to this war. We shall only leave this front in death, or in victory. There is no need for your caution."

 

“A hundred score men,” Maslama al-Menfi urged, “All the men I have, and all those under Lady Maria’s banner. We shall leave as soon as ready.”

 

Lord Conrad sat on this oaken throne, face set in a dark brood as he deliberated over his next words. 

 

“Begin marshalling the combined army,” he finally rasped, “Lord al-Menfi, Lady Marianne, prepare to sortie at once.”

 

He spoke as if it were an order. And perhaps, in an earlier time, many would bristle at his tone. Because the Solar Alliance was one of equals, and none could boast leadership over so many men, kingdoms, peoples. But Nordenstein was a lion’s den, and either out of respect or fear, there was an unspoken belief that the lion would have the final say. 

 

“Sir Gaston, begin levying the city into a civilian militia,” he continued, “I entrust you with the defence of Nordenstein, and in my absence you shall take my seat.”

 

And there was a reason why the lion was respected. 

 

The entire hall rippled like a disturbed wasp nest, and Marianne could find no little disquieted faces peeling away. Those who would have dared speak out against the decision were forcefully deadened at the implication. Because no matter how old or weak, Conrad von Edelhardt was still the face of the northern front.

 

“My lord,” Sir Gaston choked, “You cannot possibly be-!”

 

“And sit here while our armies fight, win or lose?” the Old Lion growled, “I will march against Weißentreu, and if I fail to take that fortress - I will present mine own head to King Otto myself.”

 

“...As the lord commands.”

 

Marianne’s mouth felt dry as she watched the old lord struggle to his feet, the man’s cane clacking against the ground as he strained to find his footing. Lord Conrad appeared ever the elderly beast rising to protect its pride one last time.

 

“Lord al-Menfi,” he pronounced, “Considering your endeavour ahead, request whatever you wish of this castle, and I shall arrange it.”

 

Like giving a sick man one final gift before they passed.

 

“Your finest farriers,” was all the sick man replied.

 

Lord Conrad smiled thinly, “So be it. And you, Lady Marianne?”

 

“A length of rope that can encircle Nordenstein,” she replied, “And a cultist of the Blind Lady.”

 

“The Divine Morax…?” someone muttered.

 

“It will be arranged forthwith,” the old lord nodded, “Divines be with you.”

 

Marianne bowed before the great hall one last time, before making way for the doors. As she crossed before where Élise and Wolfgang were sitting, Marianne shot them an urging glance and signalled for them to stand. 

 

Maslama al-Menfi joined her side first, followed by his officers and retinue. Karl One-Eye also rose, along with his band of mercenaries. 

 

“You have a clever stratagem, I presume,” the Exiled Prince said, “With your rope and cultist.”

 

“The rope is to bolster our numbers,” she answered, “The cultist is for my nerves.”

 

“I imagine a cultist of Bathym would do much more for that,” he commented, “But we worship the Red Lady, so perhaps I shouldn’t say.”

 

Marianne idly nodded to the guardsmen stationed at the entrance. As the doors began to groan shut, the last she heard from within was Wolfgang Schönbein addressing the great hall. 

 

At the dawn of two days, Marianne stood outside the southern gate. Under the eyes of what must've been at least several thousand onlookers atop the walls, she watched as the demon prisoners were herded out of the Konzentrationslager by Karl von Epp’s landsknechte. Upon the backs of each was a heavy bundle containing the food and tents they would need for the journey, and their hands were tied to those around them by rope.

 

Many would die in the coming forced march, she was under no illusion, but she did not have the luxury to care.

 

“To bolster our numbers, you say,” as-Saffah rasped beside her, “I do not see how these demons will prove useful. A man forced to fight will be no more valuable than a quarter of a man willing to.”

 

“They won’t have to fight,” she replied, “Only die. With the combined army no longer in Nordenstein, I cannot find it within me to entrust them to the civilian authorities. We already gave them all a chance to live, these did not accept.”

 

Lady Margareta’s discerning eyes and ears had found around three score demons either willing to talk, or had useful information to be forced out of them. All were already in the care of Sir Gaston in the gaols, awaiting interrogation. While Marianne wished she had more time to give Margareta, it will have to do.

 

“Even the children?” Lady Silke murmured.

 

“...You can see out through that blindfold of yours, cultist?” as-Saffah asked.

 

“My eyes had been gouged out long ago, sir,” the blind woman twisted her lips, “I do not need my eyes to see injustice, for the Stone Scale guides my judgement.”

 

“They’re demons, woman,” as-Saffah retorted, before turning to her, “This one is supposed to ease your nerves?”

 

“All children are innocent in the eyes of the divine,” Lady Silke replied, “No matter from where.”

 

Marianne's eyes were drawn to the stone scale hefted upon the priestess’ back, and she wondered just how the woman would fare with such a heavy object - sacred or not. Perhaps it was not actually made of stone, only designed to look so?

 

It was unlikely, and Marianne decided that the reason Silke’s back had not broken was due to divine intervention. Divine Morax was known as the Lady of the Stone Scale, the Blind Lady. She was justice and judgement, and her most faithful cultists were known for gouging out their own eyes so that they would be impartial in any judgement they make, to be unmoved by even the most pleading faces. The stone scales they carried were sacred artefacts, and could not be moved by any material means, considering they were carved from a single rock.

 

The scriptures say that the Divine Morax resided in the bowels of Mount Vanitas, along the Divine Aiperos - the Lord Under the Mountain. The Blind Lady would sit before the doors of the banquet halls, judging all who would enter with her Stone Scale. Perhaps not the most warm of the deities, but Marianne thought that cold impartiality was far more reassuring to the fickle whims of most divines.

 

She did not answer, nevertheless, tearing her gaze back to Karl One-Eye’s men herding the demons into line like shepherds. At the head of the column were al-Menfir’s jaish al-zahf footmen, recently bolstered by new recruits. At the rear would be the tulay'a mutaharikkah cavalry, tasked with guarding the rear and hunting down any prisoners who would try to escape. There would be no baggage train, considering the haste of their march, and all men carried their own supplies - she was of no exception.

 

Feathers brushed against the side of her head as Jadwiga restlessly ruffled herself, and Marianne outstretched her arm to let the bird take flight. Soon, the golden eagle was upon the wind, soaring over the Marches towards the Kazimierzi host, wherever they may be.

 

A horn bellowed across the land, and the banners of the jaish al-zahf were lifted and flown. Landsknechte strode up and down the line cracking whips and shouting harsh words, forcing the prisoners to start marching. 

 

Marianne spurred her horse, and the tulay’a mutaharikkah silently followed.