WanderingLeaf
patreon
Iron Kingdom B3Ch9: Warning Signs
🕑 Added 2025-01-02 15:00:01 +0000 UTCEarly the next day, partway through his rounds, a messenger from the sentries along the south walls came to get him.
Matt cut his inspection tour short and rushed to the wall, wondering if the Alliance had come early. Instead, he found something much, much worse.
“They say they are refugees, sire.” Creps seemed incredulous of the idea; Matt supposed that there probably hadn’t been many people wanting to take refuge under the Red Sorceress. “They claim that they are trying to escape from the tyranny of the Order of Lion’s Roar and want refuge.”
“Have we searched them?” Matt stared out over the bridge. There was a small camp of people on the other side, resting amidst a cluster of carts. They didn’t look like soldiers; in fact, they mostly seemed to be made up of children and the elderly. He couldn’t count them accurately, but there had to be dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.
“No, sire. We didn’t want to open the gates, in case it was a trap of some kind.” The Captain of the Fourth Foot shook his head. “They haven’t tried to rush the walls, but they did send a messenger to speak with us. I don’t know if we can trust what they said.”
Matt grimaced. Slipping an assassin into the Sortenmoors by using refugees as cover seemed like a possible trick the Alliance could use, but Matt didn’t believe that was the case this time. It was too obvious, and it might have made other peasants unsettled to see some of their own abandoning the Order’s cause.
Part of him wanted to turn the refugees away. Whatever pressure had driven them here would be reduced if he started taking on the burden of providing for these people. Turning them back would make them the Alliance’s responsibility and make it that much harder to wage a war on his Kingdom.
At the same time, he could see children moving among those wagons—and whatever lines he’d already crossed, Matt had not warred on children.
He thought for a moment longer, and then nodded. “Send a messenger to request that one of them come to speak with me. I’ll hear their petition and then decide.”
Creps bowed and then gestured to another soldier on the wall. Matt watched him for a moment and then turned back to look out at the makeshift camp. He just hoped that he wasn’t making another crucial mistake.
“M-my name is Horsend, my lord. I am a peasant, my lord, nothing more.”
Matt nodded slowly. He was careful not to make any sudden moves; the Knight in front of him seemed to be terrified. He wore the rough clothes and sun-worn skin of a farmer, not a warrior, and even though he was a Knight, Matt doubted he’d get far if he tried anything. There were four lifeguards standing around him, after all, and another two on either side of the chair where Matt was sitting. Captain Creps was there too, though he stood back by the door. Beside him stood Melren, who had also decided to attend the meeting, and the Imp’s eyes were sharp as he studied the peasant in front of them.
The Knight looked around at the armed men and swallowed. Then he continued, though his hands shook as he spoke. “W-we wish to be your servants, my lord. We’ll submit to whatever oaths and terms of service that you require. We can serve faithfully, my lord, I swear it.”
Matt studied the man a moment longer, wondering if the nervous sweat on Horsend’s face was because of how peasants were treated in the Order of the Lion’s Roar, or his own reputation. Maybe the rumors of his success had turned him into some kind of malicious demon in the Knight’s eyes, because he had so far refused to meet Matt’s eyes, aside from one terrified glance as the lifeguards had escorted him in.
Finally, if only to ease the man’s terror, Matt spoke. “May I ask why you want to live in my Kingdom, Horsend? Your people are at war with mine.”
Horsend nodded, a swift, nervous jerk of the neck. “Y-yes, my lord. I know.” He paused, licking his lips. “We have no choice, my lord, but to beg for your mercy. We either serve you, or we see our families die.”
Matt blinked. He glanced at Melren, who shrugged. “The war between our people is not one that I wanted, Horsend. Your rulers declared it on us, and they are trying to conquer our lands. I do not want to threaten you or your families. Your children will not be killed by my men.”
The peasant’s expression went slack with relief. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you.”
Something still didn’t seem right. Matt couldn’t help a frown, not that Horsend had lifted his eyes to see it. “Have any of my soldiers threatened you, Horsend? If so, I was unaware of it.”
Horsend shook his head. “No, my lord. They haven’t—I mean…” He shook his head a second time, and then, cautiously, he lifted his eyes to meet Matt’s. It was like his head was being weighed down by a gigantic burden, but he did it anyway.
“It’s the taxes, my lord, and the draft. One was bad already, but the other on top of it… it was all too much. We couldn’t bear it.”
Matt blinked. An uneasy feeling had gathered in the back of his mind. “Tell me.”
Horsend blinked. His eyes went a bit vague, like he was looking into the past. “They came a few weeks ago. Told us that we needed to do more for the sake of the realm. Every household had to contribute twice their yearly tax, and every family needed to send at least one person with them to go back to the capital.”
Dread coiled in Matt’s stomach. He motioned for Horsend to continue, and the man seemed to force himself to continue. “We did our best, my lord. The winter had been hard, but the harvest before had been plentiful. We did our part, and my brother went with them, along with a good number of others. All was well, and then the next week, they came again. And again.”
Horsend looked down, and this time, a mixture of anger and desperation tinged his expression. “My younger brother went too, and my three cousins. The last time, they nearly took me, if my sister hadn’t volunteered in my stead. And the taxes stripped nearly everything bare, my lord. Even our seed corn was nearly gone, and with half the village missing kin…”
His fists clenched, and his next words were nearly a growl. “How did they expect us to continue on? My children would have starved, my lord. Our only choice was to leave. To seek safety. Your Kingdom is not our home, my lord, but your people still eat. They even say some of them are free. I could not stay in the village, not when I knew that any day now, those bleeders could come again. Not for my family.”
The Knight raised his head again, and both hope and dread fought for dominance in his eyes. “Please, my lord. We’ll do anything. Please.”
Matt heard the raw appeal in the man’s voice and fought down his immediate response. He forced himself to think through the implications of the information, striving for a dispassionate analysis. It was hard, even harder than ignoring the rumbling power of his Source within him, but he managed it. Barely.
The Alliance was going even farther than he’d realized. A draft wasn’t something the nations of this place usually relied on for combat; untrained peasants were nearly useless against real troops, especially when those troops had magic they could use. Stripping villages of supplies and people had to be an act of desperation, one that had been forced on them by some pressure that Matt didn’t understand. Had the Oath forced them to it, or had they always planned to go this far?
Either way, the situation did not look good. If they really had gathered that many resources, then in the short term, the Alliance might actually manage to gather the kind of army that could breach his defenses. It would cost them, of course; famine was almost a given in their future, if they were leaving their fields barren and their populace to starve already. Even if the Alliance won the war, they’d be suffering the price for the victory for generations to come.
Worse, however, was the picture it painted of the war’s future. If the Alliance was willing to be so brutal and uncompromising to its own people, what were they planning on doing to his Kingdom if they got the chance? Matt had heard the promises and threats of extermination, but they were much more real now. Pain stabbed at his head as he wondered what kind of madness might be happening to the Leaffall Orcs in the Copper Hills at the moment, behind the lines of the Alliance’s soldiers.
He rubbed at the bridge of his nose for a moment and then turned his attention back to the matter at hand. Accepting the refugees was not a very appealing option. He’d be trading a lot of food and other supplies to take in a group of people who could very well stab him in the back once the Alliance’s armies arrived. Worse, he’d be giving many of his critics back in Redspire—and maybe even closer by in Bridgeton—ammunition they could use to say that he was ignoring the burdens of his own people to sympathize with the enemy. If he turned them away, they’d make the situation worse on the other side of the border and give his enemies headaches for a change.
Yet he couldn’t make himself say the words. Matt knew all the rules of statesmanship, all the cold-blooded calculus that many encouraged leaders to embrace, but it felt entirely wrong to rely on it at this moment. After all, if all he cared about was power, then the freeholders would still be slaves and he’d already be twice the tyrant his enemies accused him of being.
His rule needed to be about more than simple control, and the war needed to be about more than just survival. This world needed an example to show them a better way.
Matt stared at Horsend. The decision was now clear in his mind; he wouldn’t be turning children away to starve, not when he could avoid it. So how to justify it?
He heard the doors open, and Tanniven strolled through. Something about the Elf’s casual grace simply irked him at times, but at that moment the Voice could have very well been an angel for all he cared. Matt smiled.
“Voice Tanniven. Welcome. I will speak with you in a moment.”
The Elf blinked and then bowed slightly before standing to one side. He looked curiously at the Knight, but said nothing. Matt looked back at Horsend and continued.
“Horsend, it pains me to say this, but I cannot offer you and your countrymen shelter behind our walls. In a war, there is too high a cost for such things, and I will not risk the safety and homelands of my people by giving you protection and comfort. Our circumstances are too tenuous, and our struggle is too desperate, to take that risk. I am sorry, but our Kingdom is for those noble houses and freeholders who have bled for it.”
Despair and defeat swept across the Knight’s face. He made as if to answer, but Matt held up a hand. He turned to where Tanniven was waiting. “Voice Tanniven. Was there something you needed from me?”
The Voice had grown very, very serious now. He looked from the Knight to Matt. “No, sire. I had just wanted to see what was happening.”
“I see.” Matt nodded slowly. He looked back at the Knight. “Horsend, this man is the Voice of the Sortenmoors. He represents the freeholders of this place, and stands for their interests. Tanniven, can you explain how you came to be a freeholder?”
Tanniven blinked. He frowned slightly. “I was made one thanks to the terms of the proclamation you sent, my liege.”
Feeling only a little impatient, Matt gestured for him to continue. “And the terms of that proclamation were?”
“Any serf could become a freeholder if their noble lord gave them the chance.” Tanniven’s confusion had increased slightly. “Those who owed service directly to the King were freed immediately. Those who…”
The Elf trailed off, and his eyes narrowed. He looked at the Knight, and then back at Matt again. “Those who pledged to fight for the Sortenmoors were also made freeholders as long as they served for one year. Those who served for two years, and fight for the Kingdom as a whole, gain freedom not just for themselves, but for their family as well.”
A silence fell, and Matt smiled. Tanniven nodded slightly, his eyes suddenly flickering with mischief. “Was that accurate, sire?”
“Yes, Voice Tanniven. It was. Thank you.” Matt turned his attention back to Horsend, who was looking back and forth between the Elf and Matt. Some fragile ray of hope was starting to break through the confusion and grief on the Knight’s face.
Matt cleared his throat. “As I said, Horsend, I regret I cannot help you. Please express my condolences to…” He stopped as Horsend went to one knee.
The Knight’s legs seemed to tremble beneath him, and his face was pale, but determination still filled his eyes. “I swear to defend your Kingdom, my lord. For two years. I swear it.”
Creps’ eyes went wide with shock. “Wait. He can’t—”
Matt held up a hand, and the captain cut his protest short. He looked back at Horsend. “You understand what this pledge means? You may be called to fight against your own countrymen. Your cousins and siblings might face you across a battlefield, and if you turn aside, you will be tried as a traitor for it. There is no compromise on this path.”
Horsend blinked rapidly. Then he swallowed and nodded. “I understand, my lord. It won’t be easy, but I understand that. I want this.”
Creps stepped forward, his hands clenched at his side. “Sire, may I speak?” Matt gestured for him to go ahead, and the Imp captain went on in a voice laced with anger. “This man is not a servant of your Kingdom. He’s an outsider, and one from a place that would see us all dead. Will you now make him a freeholder, an equal alongside others who have been loyal?”
“If he serves our Kingdom, then he is all of our equals, Captain.” Matt saw the man start to respond, and he held up his hand a second time. “I know the efforts that you and your companions have made on behalf of the Kingdom. The sacrifices of the true and brave will not be forgotten—but I will not ignore any who commit to help us. Where they come from matters less than what they will do when they are here, does it not?”
For a moment, it looked like Creps would argue further. Then he grimaced and stepped back. “I understand, sire. We may not have the equipment here for them, however. We are using most of it to arm the Irregulars that are gathering here.”
Matt smiled. “Then perhaps we can put our new volunteers to a different use. Melren.”
His advisor had been watching the proceedings with an idle, if interested, eye. Now he jerked upright in surprise. “Yes, my liege.”
“You may have a group of recruits ready for your experiments, depending on the reaction of Horsend’s friends.” The Knight’s expression grew worried, and Matt speared him with a steady look. “Of course, as a new recruit to our cause, he has no opportunity to refuse to participate. Not if he wants to prove his loyalty, correct?”
Horsend’s shoulders slumped, and Matt turned back to Melren. “I want you to get started immediately with whoever we can take in. You can train them in the mornings and evenings, when I am not occupying your time. Is that acceptable?”
Melren hesitated. He looked vaguely panicked, as if Matt was rushing him into something. “I… suppose sire. I will do my best.”
“Good. That is all I can ask.” Matt turned back to Horsend and rose from his chair. “Welcome to the Kingdom of Iron, Horsend. Go and tell the others in your camp what the situation is, and bring your children back with you. Along with whoever else might join you, of course. After that, be prepared to work hard. We have a long road ahead, together.”
Horsend nodded. His voice was hoarse as he answered. “As you command, my liege.” The Knight shoved himself to his feet; he seemed unsteady as the lifeguards escorted him out. Melren and Creps followed, with the captain exchanging a few harsh words with his former social superior. Tanniven was the only one who stayed, along with the lifeguards in the room.
The Elf was studying him with a curious expression. “That was an interesting performance, my liege. May I ask why you presented the choice that way?”
Matt nodded slowly. Relief at having found a loophole for the refugees had washed away the pain of his headache for the moment, and he was feeling somewhat less reluctant to talk as a result. Besides, what would be the harm? “Because it needed to be his choice, not my demand. When he thinks back on it, I don’t want him to believe he was compelled to fight for his freedom. I want him to know he chose it, and be glad for the chance.”
Tanniven raised his eyebrows. “A clever ruse, I suppose.” He glanced at the door. “Do you think they will fight? That they will remain loyal?”
“People have sworn their loyalty with far more finesse and then tried to kill me. Multiple times, in some cases.” Matt shrugged. “If they fail to live up to their word, they’ll learn the fate of what happens to traitors. If they do, then we’ll have won something more precious than any food we spend on them.”
The Elf nodded. He glanced at the doorway one more time and sighed. “Then for the sake of our Kingdom, I hope you are right about this, sire. Otherwise, we might not live very long to regret your choices.”
Matt stretched slightly and winced. The wound on his arm wasn’t as bad, but there was still weakness in his fingers as he flexed his hand. “That’s the story of my life, Voice Tanniven. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more work to be done.”
Tanniven bowed, and the lifeguards fell in on either side of Matt as he made his way out the door. The mantras were waiting for him, after all.
With Melren abruptly occupied, Matt returned to his own personal study of the mantras. He spent most of the day on them until dinner, before walking down to one of the small training spaces after he ate.
His arm had been feeling better lately, and he figured it was past time that he started to train himself again. He felt close to finishing the first part of the foundation for his second Source, but the combat drills that Melren had been suggested before Bridgeton seemed like they might be just as important, regardless of what a second Source might offer him.
The few soldiers remaining in the practice yard saluted to him as he passed. Most of them looked apprehensive or curious, but he ignored them and went to where one of the armorers had left a pile of weapons in a spare barrel. Matt fished around inside until he found a mace that seemed similar to the one he had carried before. He could already hear a voice that sounded like Gorfeld claiming that he needed something more fit for a king, but for now, the simple length of steel and leather would do fine.
Matt walked to a nearby area, massaging the place where he’d been wounded. The healers had been cautiously optimistic about his progress, but he decided he wouldn’t start out swinging the thing around yet. For now, he just wanted a familiar weight in his hand as he moved, and hopefully that would be enough.
He started through one of the training motions that Melren had taught him, moving as if he was avoiding an enemy that had attacked him. A flash of memory went through his mind, and he saw the Murdersworn looming over him again. Matt paused, momentarily frozen by remembered fear and stale panic. Then he forced himself to start again.
This time, he tried to focus more on forming the framework for his spells. If he’d been able to react faster, he might have done better at stopping some of the enemy before they reached him. A quick enough tunnel might have even stopped that prince from practically claiming his head. It wasn’t a question of power, of course, just concentration, practice, and control.
He continued to form and reform the spells for the burrow, the mudpit, and the shattering spell. All three were useful, under the right circumstances, but he still wondered how effective he could actually be with them. Each required so much time to prepare, and he always seemed like he ended up using so much power that it could endanger his own troops in close quarters. Was it just a downside of his magical strength that he couldn’t use anything smaller?
As the thought went through his mind, Matt paused. He examined the mental framework for the burrowing spell in the air ahead of him. Was there a reason it needed to be so strong? It was useful when he needed to manipulate the tunnel the spell created, and concentrating so heavily on a single spell helped out with that task. What if he didn’t want a bigger spell, though? Could he simply… alter the framework?
Matt let the framework fall apart and focused again. This time, he built the framework a little simpler, a little less flexible. He left out parts of it, or simply designed it with the purpose already in mind. Rather than a tunnel he could guide, he wanted a single tunnel that would create something closer to a pothole. A single, foot-long divot in the earth.
The result was a much simpler spell. It couldn’t bear nearly as much power, and even if he poured more into it, the thing would just overflow rather than doing anything more than he expected. Matt watched it for a moment and then tried to form a second one.
It was much, much harder than the first, but after a minute of concentration, he had a second, equal version of the divot spell in front of him. Both of them were ready to receive magic, and if both of them were a little shaky, they were also so much simpler that he felt like he could activate them whenever he wanted.
He moved through the motions again, mentally designing and deploying other miniature versions of the spell he knew. Before long, he had a few more customized versions he could use. The mudpit spell spawned something he called the slip spell, which he could use to create a single, slick spot on the ground nearby, and the shattering spell he adapted into something he called pocket sand, where he could change a pebble into a cloud of dust. They weren’t impressive spells, and Melren probably would have considered them clumsy tools, but at least they could be used at close range, without destroying half his lifeguards in the process.
Still moving, he continued to practice forming the spells, trying to make sure that he could reliably create at least two of them at a time. When he channeled the barest hint of power through them, he winced at how far off target they were. He’d need a lot more practice, but it was progress, at least.
When he finally went back to bed, Matt was covered in sweat, and his arm was aching, but he felt as if he’d finally taken a broad step forward. Determination filled him as he considered what he’d need to do over the next few days. The Alliance might still be coming for him, but he was ready for whatever they had planned.
He was sure of it.
Matt watched as the Knights in the practice yard sat and repeated the words of a mantra.
They were sweating as they spoke, clearly unused to the mental work of forming a Source. Some of the once-farmers had magic, of course, but they had created Sources of particularly poor quality, according to Melren. It had been the slow, halting, and inconsistent work of years for most of them to acquire those Sources, and none of them allowed the men and women access to anything more than a single paltry spell hardly worth the name.
It was the standard belief of the people of this world that their lack of magical talent was what made them Low Folk, and comparatively high magical power was what led to the rise of High Clans. Matt wanted to test that hypothesis. He’d wanted to establish a magic school of sorts for Low Folk, but he’d never had the chance or the luxury before. Melren almost certainly would have resisted him before now, but with the threat of the Alliance bearing down, and an ideal group of prospective students…
One of the farmers made a mistake, and Melren called for the entire group to halt. The High Imp lectured them for a long moment, pointing out the errors and the consequences of those flaws. Then he led them back through the mantra again, patiently guiding them through the words.
Matt shook his head. They might not be ideal candidates, but they were available, and willing. Melren had already admitted, in an occasional quiet moment, that the Knights were progressing far faster than he had expected, and his estimates for the completion of their new Sources were already shrinking by the day. The High Imp had started them on the foundation for Fire, seeing as that was the Element the Firebloom clan was most familiar with; Spring would be the next piece, followed by Mind.
They would have to be careful. The Fireblooms wouldn’t like the idea of sharing their secrets with Low Folk, freeholders or no. For that matter, most of the High Clans would probably move that much closer to rebellion if they heard. Fortunately, Matt could make sure that no reports mentioned the makeshift magic school, and he hoped that by the time the Council managed to find out about it, the new mages would have proved themselves on the battlefield as a reliable asset that they could not afford to do without.
Time would tell.
He watched for a moment longer and then continued along his morning walk. The Knights had been working for four days now, and Matt hadn’t actually been idle during that time, either. He’d continued with his own private lessons under Melren’s watchful—if tired—eye, and just the day before he’d completed the first part of the foundation. With Air complete, Matt had moved on to the mantras for Spring, with Melren’s enthusiastic encouragement.
His progress with the mini-spells was moving forward as well, and the other night he’d even managed to start swinging around his practice mace without sending raging floods of pain up his arm. If he ignored those random, impossibly painful headaches, then Matt was starting to actually feel optimistic about things.
After all, his scouts hadn’t reported any signs of a gigantic army moving on Bridgeton. The reports from the Sortenmoors were steadily improving; fewer and fewer bandits remained, while other groups of freeholders were rallying to the defense of Bridgeton. Creps grumbled about bearing the responsibility for training half a dozen banners of former serfs, but the captain seemed to find some of them almost acceptable as soldiers now, and each new arrival bolstered their numbers that much more. Even the reports from Morteth’s efforts were starting to sound better; the Margrave had managed to slow the onslaught of the Alliance in the east, and there were rumors that the enemy was having trouble organizing their advance. Perhaps they’d even start collapsing without him needing to fight another massive battle against them.
When the messenger found him just a few moments later, Matt tried to convince himself that he hadn’t just doomed himself. He was not successful.
The letter was written in Gorfeld’s neat hand. Matt thought he could sense the steward’s stress in the well-penned words, but it was possible he was just projecting.
The Western Coalition has sent word that there is evidence of raiding taking place among the villages of Wuranis and Simarenal. At the same time, the new head of the Hard Scythes Clan has claimed two villages on their border with the Elves have been attacked. Both sides are demanding your presence in order to resolve the matter.
I would not trouble you with this dispute at such a time, but there are representatives from the Coalition who threaten our peace treaty over this matter. As such, we await your presence in Harvesthold.
Your servant,
Gorfeld
Matt put a hand over his eyes. In retrospect, it seemed obvious that the Elves on his western border would choose now to cause trouble. His attention was distracted, and he’d pulled a lot of the troops from the western border to deal with other issues. If they didn’t have an official treaty, those nations would probably see an excellent opportunity to destroy the Kingdom’s western provinces.
Of course, he couldn’t allow that treaty to fail. He’d already gone through far too much to allow a bunch of bandits on either side to ruin the one place he had secured peacefully. Normally he would have trusted the dispute to whatever representative the Council sent to deal with it, but it seemed like Gorfeld felt like his personal attention was needed—and he trusted the Imp’s judgment, even if the guy was the reason Matt was stuck with the Kingdom in the first place.
Unfortunately, that meant he’d need to leave Bridgeton to his soldiers. He gritted his teeth at the thought, but it wasn’t something he could afford to risk. Matt reread the letter one last time and then set it aside. There was plenty he needed to do.
Comments
ParoxysmDK
Tftc. A lot of great story progress.
