002 Triming weeds (Patreon)

Trimming Weeds

{Excerpt}

In the year 1409 S.T., the king of Ivonne, Stefans Zoroaster led an army southward through the Alps to conquer Syrii. The Ivonnian invasion of Syrii marked the beginning of a new phase of Udorian politics, during which the twelve kings of Udoris fought and invaded each other—with the lost tribes as their reluctant pawns—in a delusional bid to unify Udoris under one crown.

For the next 40 years, the dream of conquest was pursued by every Udorian king, all believing that the road to supremacy was open and paved with easy victories. Rulers of that era lived by strict codes of chivalry and adopted new techniques of diplomacy and warfare to satisfy their lust for glory and dynastic power. With the ability to command vast quantities of men and resources, they became the true masters of their domains and broke free of the shackles imposed on them by the Faith of the Six. The war grew bloodier, ending the lives of thousands, with Udoris slipping further into a state of debilitation destined to last several years. Although this did not go without benefit: The war also led to many new changes in Udoris' political and military structure. The Udorian states adopted means of diplomacy free of the Band of the Six's intervention, first evolved by the Algrians as well as the Tequilan practice of using resident ambassadors, who combined with the gathering of intelligence by fair means or foul to gain the advantage over their enemies. In the art of war, the Verumittes were innovators in the use of mercenary troops, siege artillery, naval blockades and bastioned fortifications. They were already the best in Udoris by the end of the war, rivalled only by the Ariens in the northeast. The Ariens developed the Immortals, a sometimes suicidal elite infantry unit that combined the most effective military tactics and weaponry of all other Udorian states with their undying loyalty.

Thus, old and new ways were fused in a bloody crucible known to many as the Great War; an unforgettable event renowned for shaping the Udoris as we know it today.

In the near destruction of the autonomy of Udorian politics due to the war, the invasions ended the previous state system and the Band's absolute monarchy, giving rise to the present system that now shapes Udorian views today. By the end of the war, the Udorian states had reduced in number from twelve to seven seeing the demise and annexation of the kingdoms Crotha, Lunao, Syrii, Hogan and Witeron thereby concluding the great conflict.

...

Excerpt from the remnants of Ahoth Dan's notes regarding the Great War.

{END}

• 12.13.1623

Windy Fir Woodlands.

A SPLATTER of crimson and a raising blade. A head flew, drawing a bloody arc through the air. With a dull thud, the headless body fell, blood pooling quickly underneath and soaking the dried autumn leaves maroon. Vlad watched frozen as the fiendish killer, a knight of formidable stature, lowered his raised longsword, viscous blood dripping down the blade.

"Pl-please, mercy," He stammered fearfully. His gaze flickered towards the two women seated on noble steeds a short distance behind the demon. Much to his dismay, Vlad grimly realised he was the only one left alive. The rest of his guards and accomplices either lay dying or dead in murky pools of their blood and entrails. Fear overtook his reasoning. He turned tail to run but slipped on the decomposing foliage. The dull thumping of boots crept closer behind him and he rose only to slip once more. Then, suddenly, searing pain tore through his chest. Looking down, Vlad could see the tip of a sword piercing through his upper torso, impaling him.

Before the pain could fully set in, the blade was pulled out and the young bandit prince rolled over, gasping through his blooming agony to face his would-be murderer. No hint of emotion to be seen in the demon's eyes even as Vlad could feel his blood slipping through his fingers as he tried vainly to stem the flow. The viscous fluid flooded his lungs, drowning him as he lay there on the forest floor. The demon could probably also see this given how nonchalantly he sheathed his blade after wiping it clean with an errant leaf, a hint of emotion finally appearing in his gaze.

Disdain.

The fiend stoically glanced around at Vlad's fallen associates before turning around. "Pardon my unsightliness, Your Majesty, Your Highness," he apologised, bowing towards the two women overlooking the scene. "Hmm..." One nodded as she avoided staring at the brutalised bodies, visibly disgusted by the sight of their dying or dead forms.

"Who were they?" The other asked, appearing much more mature and composed. To the first, she was probably an elder sister, aunt or mother given the similarities in their features. Fair-skinned, blond hair and ice-blue eyes.

"Common bandits," The demon said. Offhandedly. "The stupid things were hunting us for sport. Let's go, Your Majesties. We cannot camp here anymore, I suggest we find someplace else to set up for the night."

And so, Vlad watched as the fiend of a man—clad in armour the colour of night—mounted his steed and rode off, leaving him to drown in a growing pool of his blood.

***

• Five hours later.

Under the shadowy light of the setting sun, Aden stoked a fire. The forest was abuzz with the silent hum of life. Far off in the distance, one could hear the faint sounds of chirping birds preparing to roost for the night, the whirring noise of katydids singing, and the rustle of rodents in the canopy above. Outgrown roots, rotten ferns and fallen leaves crunched underfoot as the duke busied himself with the arrangement of his and his charges' temporary dwellings; nighttime was steadily approaching.

"Lord Aden," Princess Iris called, her voice but a whisper.

"Yes, Your Highness?"

"My father,” she asked softly, a faint echo of pain in her voice, “what happens now?”

"His Majesty will survive," Aden replied without looking up, seemingly unperturbed by the princess' underlying emotions. “They might starve him, humiliate him, torture him, but he will be fine.” Aden knelt in front of the bonfire poking the flames with a dead branch, his light grey eyes reflecting the fiery glow. "His Majesty is more useful to them, alive; every pound of his living flesh worth its weight in gold; they will take due caution to make sure it stays that way. A dead king is of no value to anyone."

A foreboding silence befell the camp.

"I'm sure he is going to be fine,” Aden continued, in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Very few know how resilient His Majesty can be if he truly desires so; almost like a particularly stubborn patch of weeds if I might say so myself."

"You will not speak of the king with such levity." Princess Iris cautioned monotonously, not in the least amused. The duke simply shrugged in response.

"Leonard is a brother first before a king in my heart. My levity is proof of my loyalty and trust in his decision."

The princess fell silent in thought before sighing a moment later, clearly giving up.

"So, where are we heading now?" she asked.

"My fief at the border," Aden replied. "We will hole up there for as long as we can until we can find a way to salvage this situation."

"Faywyn?"

"Yes."

“Can we save him?” She asked.

“Hopefully. With time we can buy back his freedom,” Aden said before adding hesitantly,” though, I doubt I can afford a king's ransom. I will attempt to contact some of his more noble vassals to see what can be done. Hopefully, things do not deteriorate too much before then."

Another bout of silence

"...Thank you," Iris said finally.

"For what?" Aden chuckled, his tone mirthless. "This is my duty as a sworn knight, friend, and brother. I don't need that. If you truly want to thank me, please just try to stay alive and well. And take care of your mother," he added, looking towards the queen, Irina, who had curled up in her corner of the camp and silently cried herself to sleep.

"Still,” Iris insisted, “thank you."

"I'll keep watch. Go to sleep, your Highness, we have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow."

***

• The next day

Faywyn.

The Kaya, an edible fruit produced by a Kaya tree had been grown for hundreds of years by small peasant farmers in Northern Aries and in the northeastern region of Verum as garden produce; long before they were cultivated to survive in the rest of Udoris by Ivonian merchants. Typically round and ranging in size between two to three inches in diameter with a dense, sweet, purple flesh; one would be forgiven for mistaking the fruit for an unidentified apple cultivar. James surely did, munching contently on one, before remembering that apples, like many other things he remembered from Earth, also existed in Udoris.

A loaf of bread with a large cup of milk lay on a tray by his side. His thoughts wandered, contemplating the possibility that he was never incorrect in assuming the fruit was an apple cultivar in the first place; it could be and Udoris' crude imitation of a scientific community just hadn’t stumbled on the fact yet. Biting into the fruit’s crisp, succulent flesh, he observed Lancelot who sat staring back at him; dark circles adorned the viscount’s eyes, having barely had any sleep at all.

James turned to stare out the window, watching squirrels dart about in a tree not far from his window; a serene quietness, unbefitting of the ambient tension hung in the air.

"...Are you sure about this, Young lord," the viscount, Lancelot, asked, “I doubt this would work.”

“It will,” James replied blandly, his mind refocusing on the matter on hand as he bit deeply into his fruit.

"We only have seventy-four men left, My Lord. His Grace took the bulk of our forces to aid the king at the first notice of war; of what remained, more than two-thirds are dead or deserted following Sean’s mutiny. The Heras currently outnumber us nearly three to one.”

The viscount's eyes held a hint of uncertainty as he sat in front of James. “The slightest mistake in this plan could doom us all,” he said.

“That is why you will be the one in charge of this. I trust you can avoid making mistakes in such simple yet important matters.”

“This is in no way a simple plan, My Lord.”

"Then what do you suggest we do," James asked, his tone detached as he took another audible bite of the kaya in his hand. “The Heras will hound us to death the moment we honour the notice and leave the safety of this keep. I don’t remember Count Josh nor his son being chivalrous enough to respect a noble’s surrender. You can move your family to somewhere safer until this blows over if you are that worried, but I have no intention of changing my mind on this matter.”

Lancelot hesitated for a few moments before he sighed again, falling silent.

“Do you not trust me, Lancelot?” James asked, still staring out the window.

Silence.

“Lancelot?” James repeated as he turned to face the viscount.

Lancelot stared back at James, for several moments, before collapsing under the transmigrator’s blank gaze.

“When do we leave?” he asked wearily, clearly giving up on convincing Levi otherwise.

“Today.” James declared. "It's high time I paid these pesky neighbours of mine a visit."