Horizon of War Series

The Pact of Silent Blades

Midlandia

As Bengrieve heard the news from the Capital, Sir Stan and the two captains watched him closely. His complexion turned pale as he settled into a hastily repaired wooden chair. Unfolding the letter, his eyes clouded over, and he stared blankly at the ground, his lips muttering gibberish—an unusual departure from his typical composed demeanor that alarmed the other men in the room.

The three exchanged glances, and Sir Stan approached Bengrieve. "Talk to us. What's causing your angst? Weren't we expecting this?"

Clenching the letter in his fist, Bengrieve answered, "No. I did not expect this. Not like this." He was still processing the news. "It can't possibly fail. What are the chances that Gottfried failed to take the Capital, and instead, a bunch of armed peasants did?"

Distraught by his words, Sir Stan urged, "I think it's time for you to reveal the plan. Don’t leave us in the dark. Midlandia and everyone are at stake."

Bengrieve stared at his cousin and the two captains. They had all been loyal followers of his house, and their doubts about his plan stemmed from their professional roles as military officers, not out of self-importance. "Originally, I had calculated that the Capital could withstand anything except an imminent attack from Gottfried," he began.

"But now, not only has it fallen to angry mobs, but it was also plundered clean. The Palace and the ministries were destroyed. Worse, Duke Alvaro also arrived."

"There's an indication that the Duke will not hold it," one of his captains interjected.

Sir Stan and the captains, hearing about all this for the first time, traded concerned glances.

"I was expecting Gottfried to take the Capital. I know he had powerful men in the Palace; he only needed to show up. Once he paraded his troops, they would throw open the gates for him and celebrate his arrival like a hero."

The three could only listen carefully. Rarely had they heard about the dealings behind the shadows.

"Gottfried isn't ambitious, but he would be compelled to take the seat. His people want it. So, he'll attempt to rule and, with the Dukes and us to worry about, he'll resort to finding the middle ground. That means appeasing the Sages. He's likely to allow the ministers to sort out their own rivalries. He'll turn a blind eye to the massacres within the ministries as the Sages blame each other for their corrupt nature. However, he would be a fool to trust the remaining ministers."

Bengrieve's gaze drifted into the distance as he continued, "Even those who supported him will eventually lace his food with poison that'll slowly degrade his health in a few years. Or, they could have one of his sons do it, in exchange for the Sages' support for the Northern Throne. Whatever the outcome, it would be a boon for Midlandia. But now..." He paused, rubbing his forehead. "'Now, everything is a mess."

Sir Stan raised his brow. "I'm still at a loss," he admitted. "Whether it's Gottfried or the rebels, the Capital is finished, and no Great Entity has awoken to shoot fireballs in defense of the palace. So, we have no issue."

"Indeed, My Lord," his captain agreed. "Isn’t the most important issue whether the Emperor is alive or not? Now that the palace is razed, we can finally be free and bury this Imperium facade."

"No," Bengrieve replied firmly. "Now that we no longer have the Sages, we can't let Gottfried take the capital."

Sir Stan frowned, and so did the other two.

"Don't you get it?" Bengrieve asked. "Without the Sages, Gottfried will rule. He'll lay claim as the successor, probably by marrying someone he claims is the daughter of the Emperor. Then he could take the regency as Prince, and his son could eventually become the 4th Emperor. And with control of the entire Northern Province, Arvena, and Tiberia, his House has a significant chance of succeeding."

Sir Stan stroked his chin, his gaze now steady and sharp. "Now that you mention it, his taking the throne and the capital seems dangerous for us."

"That much is certain," Bengrieve confirmed. "Midlandia and Elandia’s strategic positions are threats to his rule. He'll grow wary of us who could strike at his veins and jugular, either Tiberia straight to the Capital or Arvena, his biggest shipping port to the Northern provinces. It's only natural for him to try to find excuses to eliminate us as soon as he is ready."

The three nodded, their expressions grave as they considered the bleak prospects.

Bengrieve kept quiet. He loosened his tunic, his mind racing to formulate a new plan.

Sir Stan knelt next to him, drawing his attention, and spoke, "You can't fight this alone."

"I have you and the army in Elandia."

"That's not what I meant." Sir Stan maintained his gaze. "You need outside help, an ally."

"Lansius," Bengrieve uttered the name that now felt so pleasing on his tongue.

The baronet whispered, "I know you have his mother and sister."

Bengrieve stared at him questioningly. Their identities were a secret.

"I've been with a few maids, and they've been quite talkative under the blanket," he stated, without a hint of shame.

Bengrieve shook his head weakly. "It seems I've underestimated you."

"You assess your peers well, but you often overlook those beneath your station," Sir Stan rebuked.

Bengrieve exhaled deeply, his expression one of regret. "I will take your words to heart."

"You better," Sir Stan remarked as he stood up. Turning to the two captains, he said, "Let's wait for more news before we decide anything. Rushing is meaningless if we're going in the wrong direction."

"No," Bengrieve interjected firmly, prompting the three to look at him. He rose from his seat and declared, "Stan, you'll stay. I'll ride back to Elandia. I'll find a way to prevent Gottfried from marching to the Capital."

Sir Stan's shoulders tensed. "You're going to do what? Battle the King of Brigantes?" His words were devoid of jest.

"No, that’s stupid and reckless," Bengrieve retorted firmly. "I believe there are ways to sway him to stay put in Arvena."

Sir Stan nodded, but his expression remained cautious. "What exactly do you want me to do here?" he asked. "I can't possibly take your role. I'm a poor speaker."

"Free Cascasonne," Bengrieve replied firmly, bracing himself for the inevitable verbal tirade.

The veins on his cousin’s forehead bulged. "We don’t even have three hundred! They have at least ten thousand,' Sir Stan exclaimed. 'I’m not going to risk my limbs in a losing battle."

"Stop acting like a spoiled child," Bengrieve countered sharply. "You can win this. Just stick to the plan I’ve laid out for you."

"Against such gargantuan forces, I’ll need more than just plans," Sir Stan insisted.

Bengrieve looked at the two captains, who showed their somber agreement, clearly aligning themselves with Sir Stan's position.

"Fine," Bengrieve snapped, his lips curling in displeasure. "As you wish, I shall beg and ask the Lord of Korelia. Let's hope he'll be happy with adding Toruna to his fief."

"Oi, oi, not my land. Give him Reginald's," Sir Stan smirked, clearly amused by Bengrieve's change of heart.

"My lord," one of the captains stepped forward. "Even if we involve the Lord of Korelia, may we know your plan for Midlandia?"

"Of course," Bengrieve said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Now, listen carefully..."

***

Korelia

It had been a week since news of the fall of the Imperium first spread. City officials confirmed the news and decided to publicly mourn the passing of the Ageless One. As a result, a somber mood enveloped Korelia. Taverns closed early, as did several of its newest entertainment venues, and the streets saw fewer people. Everyone understood that they were witnessing a catastrophic event that would be remembered in history.

Never in their wildest dreams had they imagined they would live in an age where the Ageless One perished. Fear gripped everyone's hearts as the Imperium sailed into the shadow of the night, never to return.

Despite being taught by the Ageless One himself not to believe in prayers, the city, at the people's behest, built an altar so that citizens could light candles, burn incense, and pray for the Third Emperor, the Imperium, and peace.

The Lord and Lady, along with their retinue, also paid their respects. After seven days, the altar was incorporated into the newly built gatehouse, enshrined so that travelers could pay their homage.

While the commoners worried about the future of the Imperium and whether their way of life would be affected, the Lord's council was in an uproar.

Lord Lansius had entrusted Lord Robert and Sir Omin with the task of writing letters to their neighboring lords to inform them of this calamity and seek their response. Meanwhile, he wrote five letters himself, one each to Lord Avery in Dawn, Lord Beatrix in Umberland, Servius in Nicopola, Sigmund in South Hill, and Dietrich in Korimor.

With only two hawks available and most neighboring lords not employing a Hunter Guildsman, most messages were carried by the usual horse-relay system.

While many were still in mourning, life, as always, moved forward. As farmers returned from their fields and shepherds tended to their flocks, a different rhythm began to pulse from the west. As the planting season drew to a close, thousands of nomads descended upon the region, their arrival heralding the start of their annual homage.

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As was their custom and to honor their oath to Lord Lansius, the tribesmen rode and camped on the verdant western plains. They brought wide carts with their yurts, and thousands of goats, horses, and sheep, bearing gifts of fine horses for the Lord of the City.

The Lord and Lady welcomed them on the plains outside the city walls. A large crowd, including many recent migrants to Korelia, watched in awe as these majestic creatures were presented, their strong limbs and impeccable shapes gleaming under the sun.

The Lord, dressed in a nomadic-style tunic, greeted the nomads with a warm smile. Batu and his brethren, along with the elders, reciprocated the honor. Many were still deeply fascinated by how this unassuming man with black hair had united Lowlandia and brought significant changes to the region.

After the initial greetings, and with no inclination for theatrics or time-wasting, the tribesmen proceeded with the annual exchange. Lansius, Batu, and their retinue observed as the men showcased the fine Lowlandia horses. Smaller than destriers or stallions, these horses boasted incredible stamina, were easy to care for, and could thrive on the sparse vegetation and limited water of the Great Plains, making them suitable for warhorses.

In front of the gathered crowd, Lord Lansius called out, "Before I accept these gifts, I must ask openly—have these horses been seized in any conflicts or raids?"

"No, My Noyan," the tribes answered firmly and proudly. "All have come from grateful tribes."

"Does accepting these horses and goods cause any grievances among your people?" Lord Lansius continued.

"No, My Noyan," they assured. "It is our pleasure to present these gifts."

"Then I accept this trade," Lord Lansius declared, ushering in two days of festivities. These included sumptuous feasts, meticulously arranged gift exchanges, and robust celebrations of alliances. After the festivities, the highly anticipated horse market of Korelia finally commenced.

For the following week, Korelia hosted its largest horse and livestock market of the year. Breeders, knights, and guildsmen from across the region converged, each seeking animals with the finest traits. They engaged in spirited bargaining, exchanged goods, and negotiated deals, all in the pursuit of profit.

As the Lord had intended, this strategy allowed the nomads to gain capital directly, bypassing the dominant local intermediary horse traders. Consequently, the horse traders were compelled to shift their focus to warhorse training and breeding rather than acting as mere middlemen.

For the nomads, this newfound capital enabled them to purchase land and houses in Korelia, educate their younger generations, engage in trade, start farming, or open workshops.

Lord Lansius hoped this approach would prevent conflicts between the sedentary and nomadic communities from escalating. He wanted to forge strong, lasting bonds between them because he knew the alternative would be too painful to bear.

***

Lowlandia

Morning light filtered through the shattered windows of the abandoned manor east of Korelia, casting long shadows across the weathered stones. Two groups of four, clad in soundproofed black brigandine and helmets covered in black canvas, gathered amidst the ruins, their breaths visible in the crisp air.

The silence of the early dawn was punctured by the mechanical sound of rapid-fire crossbows as they unleashed bolts toward crudely fashioned wooden targets propped against the crumbling walls. The first group, having eliminated the wooden targets, climbed the stone staircase while the second group moved to secure the first floor.

In the largest chamber of the manor, once a grand hall, the second group moved swiftly from one corner to another. The echo of crossbow fire melded with the scrape of boots on debris-strewn floors. Each man loaded and fired with practiced ease; their new weapons were a source of confidence and pride.

Suddenly, the relative orderly progress of their exercise was shattered. As they almost secured a seemingly unremarkable small chamber, the door they kicked swung back with such force that the first man was launched to the floor. From the door, a seasoned knight and a man-at-arms stormed the room.

As they fumbled with their crossbows, the two trainers pounced on them with wooden maces and swords, delivering swift, punishing blows. The clash of wood on armor echoed as the four men were taken down.

"Don't clump up and never forget the steel at your side!" barked Sir Harold, the lead trainer, as the group failed to land any shots on him with their training bolts. The rapid-fire crossbows, even in their infancy, were so effective that they had led to an overreliance, causing the men to lose their awareness.

Breathless and bruised, the men from the second group stood ready, nursing their pain and fatigue. Soon, the other group joined them from the upper floor, similarly bruised. Francisca, the half-breed, was escorting them.

"One knight, one man-at-arms, and one half-breed—just imagine if you were also facing a mage," Sir Harold lamented.

"You guys are also missing a crossbowman," Francisca added. Farkas, in his flat gray setup, stepped forward from the shadows, saying, "I think I had a clear shot to get at least two of you."

"Captain!" the men called out.

"Don't mind me; I'm just visiting," Farkas grinned.

The eight men's smiles broadened despite being battered. This resilience was what made them special. Unlike most, they did not complain despite the hardship because they were driven from within. They knew what they had signed up for and aspired to be part of elite groups, so no amount of complex and hard training could dissuade them. They felt they were on the cusp of achieving something phenomenal, something unprecedented.

So far, only four men had passed last year's grueling training. At least twelve were needed to form an effective detachment, with another four men as reserve and rotational backup.

They were mostly handpicked from the Black Bandits, famed for their skirmishing abilities. The battalion-sized unit had produced experts in unconventional warfare. After the events at South Hill, Three Hills, and Korimor, they evolved into a seasoned warband. They developed an innate understanding of disguise and stealth, learning that small numbers of highly capable individuals could significantly alter the battle situation.

Their success was not achieved blindly but under the guidance of Lord Lansius, who directed them with a concrete goal in mind. It was as if he possessed knowledge of what was achievable, leading them not out of mere experimentation but with a certainty that hinted at a deep understanding of such a group's capabilities.

Recruitment was by invitation only, testing the best candidates through rigorous physical and academic challenges. Their rewards included generous pay, a robust pension scheme, compensation for injuries, and some of the best equipment money could buy.

What motivated them most, however, was the pride of being the sharpest tip of the spear. They were the best combat-ready group in Lowlandia, receiving special treatment and preferential care. This included fully customized armor with velvet liners in their metal plates to reduce noise, the still experimental rapid-fire crossbows, warhorses from the Lord’s own stable, and even airship training.

At social gatherings, they also wore specially tailored tunics, which Lord Lansius and everyone involved in the project also donned whenever necessary, adding another layer of pride. Furthermore, they were exempt from mundane tasks, and outside of training, they were free to manage their own time, conducting additional training as they desired.

However, these privileges were reserved for those who succeeded.

"You are to scout, rescue, or kill a specific target within hostile territory," Sir Harold lectured the candidates. "Do it successfully, and you might prevent or end a major conflict swiftly, with as little bloodshed as possible. You’ll be hailed as heroes. But first, you need to complete the objectives and return alive. Now, repeat your creed."

"I am the sharpest instrument of the Shogunate," the eight men began. "I am the one upon whom the Lord Shogun relies to advance further, faster, and fight harder, both within and beyond his domain. Wherever he needs me, I shall arrive by horse, by boat, or by air. I will always keep myself mentally alert, physically strong, and morally straight. My conduct, how I dress, and how I care for equipment shall set an example for others to follow. I'll defeat the enemies by being better trained and better prepared. Surrender is not an option. Silence is preferable. Under no circumstances will I ever embarrass the Shogunate."

"Good," Sir Harold was satisfied. "Now march back to your hideout and reflect on it. We'll send random patrols, and if they spot your place, your group will camp further out."

Dismissed, the men began their march to their hideouts. The staff found their compliance and non-complaining attitude refreshing. They had to admit that the Lord’s insistence on recruiting not the strongest, but fit men with good intellect, proved to be a wise decision. These men proved easier to teach, emotionally stable, more resilient, and capable of thinking independently to improve their skills.

"Good luck," Farkas said, his voice sympathetic. They responded with smiles and a thumbs up.

"Aren't you being too harsh?" Francisca asked Sir Harold as they began to tally and reset the wooden targets.

Sir Harold smiled. "To tell you the truth, I'm proud of them. They've shown much progress in such a short time."

"Then why do we keep failing them?" Francisca asked without hesitation.

"She has a point," Farkas chimed in. "I think they're doing fine. I counted eleven targets, each with two bolts in the torso."

Sir Harold looked at them and nodded, signaling his agreement. "The problem is the task the Lord wanted them to excel at—frankly, it's near impossible. Imagine asking just eight or twelve people to infiltrate a town or castle, capture the leader, rescue a prisoner from a dungeon, or open the gatehouse for our advance party."

Francisca nodded, acknowledging the explanation. Yet Farkas, appearing unresolved, proposed, "If the issue is skill, why delay? Why not allow the candidates to try several more times today?"

"There’s a point to this," Sir Harold replied. "Lord Lansius believes that waiting wreaks havoc on people’s minds—constant waiting, the dullness, the restlessness, and the lack of sleep. That's why he included it as part of the training."

"Can't argue with that, but it still seems so demanding," Francisca said, tilting her head slightly.

"I'm convinced that the Lord has experience with such elite groups in his homeland, otherwise I don't know where he got that confidence and planning. He even structured it so that the group's official function is search and rescue," Sir Harold reassured.

"A pretty inconspicuous function for a group tasked with hostage rescue or assassination," she commented.

"Funnily enough, he often said that such objectives can be achieved through various means. That's why he purposefully made the training complex and hard; he wanted them to win through good tactics, not just by being better, but through trying new approaches, clever deception, or even outright cheating."

"Cheat?" Farkas’ tone carried a hint of amusement as he realized the possibility for the first time.

"Yes, it’s also part of the training. The Lord wanted them to think outside the box," the knight explained, similarly amused.

Farkas chuckled and then one of the veterans who worked with them as support and safety officers approached. "Sir, the second batch of trainees is ready."

Sir Harold looked at the sky and said, "Yes, send them in. Let's hope this batch also does not disappoint."

...

The training was repeated three times against three different teams and finished well before midday. Farkas wrapped his crossbows in leather before packing them in a canvas bag. Despite being prepared to shoot training bolts, he hadn't fired them today; there was no need. No teams had sighted him, which was worrying, but he hoped it would teach them a lesson.

"Care to join us for lunch?" Francisca asked.

"Unfortunately, with the tribesmen, guildsmen, knights, and prominent figures all in Korelia, I need to be where my agents can find me quickly," Farkas replied.

"Sir Michael and Sir Omin are quite competent, are they not?" Sir Harold asked, stroking his chin.

"They are, but they're not locals like me who know where to listen for whispers and talks on the streets," Farkas explained.

"True, one thing the Lord hates the most is surprises," the knight nodded in agreement.

Farkas was about to say something when Francisca asked first, "Is that why Lord Lansius asked me to send a letter, praising and asking Lord Beatrix for more of my kin?"

The knight looked at her, smiling. "No, he wants them as mentors. You see, most commoners in Korelia cannot read."

Francisca furrowed her brow. "I'm not sure why the Lord wants everyone to be able to read. I mean, for farmers, the common alphabet isn't really going to help them grow crops."

"Isn't it the same as how Kaen the Hero wanted your kin to be able to read and write, despite your ancestors feeling they had no need for it?" said Farkas.

"Indeed," but then her eyes widened. "Wait, how did you know about that?"

The acting captain of the skirmishers turned smug; he was no longer merely the innocent hunter-turned-lieutenant from Korelia, known for his tasty brown grains. His experiences with Sigmund, Dame Daniella, Sir Harold, Sir Morton, and Lord Lansius, coupled with the events at Three Hills, had transformed him into an effective agent, always listening, yet rarely seen.

"The scrolls," Francisca exclaimed. "You actually obtained and read Kaen's dialogue scrolls."

"It is my obligation to do so," he answered humbly.

"Now, I have more respect for you."

"Am I that threatening?" Farkas quipped, hinting that he understood that respect among the half-beast culture was derived from threat assessment.

Francisca laughed and turned to Sir Harold. "This man is dangerous."

"Being dangerous is good. Perhaps, I should study the scrolls from him," Sir Harold said, unable to resist a light tease.

"No, you should ask me instead," the half breed replied heartily.

"But you didn’t bring the scrolls with you on your travels," Farkas remarked ever so casually.

"H-how did you know that?" She was both flabbergasted and curious.

Farkas shrugged, eliciting a hearty laugh from Sir Harold. "But seriously," the native Korelian said in a much more serious tone, "for security reasons, I welcomed more half-breeds into Korelia."

His words surprised Francisca. "I hope you aren't naive enough to think that all half-breeds will be loyal to Lord Lansius."

"I'll accept that risk," Farkas stated. "Our Lord has antagonized the new House of Midlandia, likely wounding their pride or making them feel threatened. My sources believe there's a high chance they'll send assassins here even only to make a statement."

***

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