Chapter 160: Frost Against Fire

Chapter 160: Frost Against Fire

Frost Against Fire

Midlandia

A thick scent of incense permeated the chamber, an exotic aroma derived from precious agarwood known for its therapeutic qualities. Without being overwhelming, the rich scent soothed nerves and eased anxiety for both the host and the lone guest. This was a meeting of great importance, where issues that couldn't be resolved through letters were discussed in person.

Sunlight was allowed to penetrate only a small spot on the wooden floor, providing just enough light to navigate the room yet insufficient to reveal their faces. The atmosphere was thus brooding, but the guest, who arrived last night, deemed it necessary. He preferred the place to be intentionally dark as a precaution, despite being on the second floor of a private manor amidst vast lands.

Sounds of steps from outside alerted them. The host, a charming and well-dressed man, quickly approached the leather-clad door and opened it to a slit. His men whispered from outside.

The lone guest kept waiting on a long bench with a soft seat. His reddened eyes were ever watchful, and his broad shoulders tensed, making him look more like a fighter than a spy.

Silently, the host closed the padded door and turned to face the guest. "It’s been done," he said to allay the guest's inquisitive gaze. "Tomorrow, forces from eleven baronies will march toward Lubina City to support Sir Reginald's nomination. They have the backing of thirty-four knights and nearly two hundred cavalry."

"A large show of forces... merely for a distraction," the guest commented dryly.

"It is extravagant," the host concurred as he returned to his seat. "But Sir Reginald insists on no bloodshed, and this is the only way..."

"A complete show of power," the guest mused.

"Do you think it'll work?" the host asked.

The guest looked at the dark ceiling and inhaled the rich scent of agarwood deeply. "It should paralyze the city and Lubina Castle. Then again, you have little to fear. The Lord of Midlandia seeks only to live as he wishes."

"The problem lies with the guards and close entourage," the host revealed while pouring himself spiced wine.

"They'll fall. There's only so much they can do if their lord lacks resolve."

Nodding satisfactorily, the host then asked, "What's his problem, anyway?"

"Aside from being spoiled?" the guest let out a derisive snort. "The man wants a carefree life in his villa and vineyard. Also, he knows that Bengrieve is using his House as a puppet, and he doesn’t want that. His noble heart desires a clear conscience."

The host listened but reserved his judgment, asking instead, "Do you think we can keep the bloodshed to a minimum?"

"I deal in information, not probabilities," the guest replied, refusing to speculate.

"Fair enough," the host raised his goblet and drank.

The guest turned to the darkened window momentarily before returning to meet the host's gaze. "Have you really told Sir Reginald what he’s up against by sending threats to Korelia?"

"I have," the host looked troubled by the question. "There’s no point in bringing it up now. The messenger has probably reached Korelia."

The guest slumped his head despite his thick neck. "I had high hopes for Sir Reginald. But this... This is a huge mistake." For the first time since last night, he shot a murderous gaze toward the host. "It's madness, do you hear me?"

"I-it's best to focus on Bengrieve—"

"You're mad to think anyone can manage Lansius after Bengrieve!" the guest's voice was full of scorn. "Haven’t you read the reports? Don’t you see how impossible and brilliant his victories are?"

Calming himself, the host took another gulp of spiced wine.

The guest wasn't finished. "For a nobody to dominate Lowlandia, breaking the squabbling lords and uniting them in just one year... Sir Reginald and you; you're all fools to let this happen. The repercussions will be severe."

Frowning, the host's face turned sour as he paced in circles. "Surely there's something we can do. Could his grand tales of victories be mere fabrications?"

The man chuckled, his broad shoulders shaking. "You think the Lion of Lowlandia was conquered by mere rumors?"

"He’s Arvenian, like his wife. Can't we hold his lord or family hostage?"

"I doubt he has that much loyalty toward Arte of Arvena. As for his family, I know Bengrieve is attempting something to that effect, but I've found nothing."

The host shot a questioning gaze.

"The trail's gone cold," the guest clarified. "Either he got to them, or they're already dead."

"Then there’s no point in discussing Lansius now," the host said dismissively. "We'll have a better opportunity for that later. Right now, it’s Lubina and then Cascasonne."

Exhaling noisily, the guest stopped pressing the issue.

The host approached the table, and at this close range, one could appreciate his finely tailored tunic and extravagant silken coat, despite the dimness of the chamber. He poured spiced wine from a silver pewter into a polished goblet. "Even if Sir Reginald started poorly, he can mend his stance later. Midlandia is rich, and we can offer wealth to placate a growing warlord."

After ensuring the color in the silver goblet hadn’t changed—a habit from his profession—the guest drank deeply and then reluctantly nodded to the host. "I suppose we can buy Lansius."

"Good thinking. It might be a good deal. He can keep those Lowlandian lords from marauding our border." The host regained his confidence. "And if he can’t be bought, we can send assassins."

"The hunter guild might prove hard to convince. However," the guest paused before revealing, "I know that Bengrieve has sleeper agents in Korelia."

"Then poison is all we need to send," the host said, his tone disgustingly cheerful.

Meanwhile, the guest allowed his strong body to slump into his soft seat. He didn’t urge or dissuade and preferred to change the subject. "Earlier, you asked about dealing with Bengrieve?"

"Tell me." The host dragged his chair closer and sat down.

"Our best bet is to proceed with the winter plan."

The host nodded with a thin smile at the corner of his lips. "I shall make it happen."

"Sell your soul to Saint Candidate Nay if you have to," the guest said ominously.

The host stood up. "I'll sell myself to her if I have to. For equality."

Still slouching, the guest looked at him disinterestedly, his lips parted as if mocking. "As long as 'equal' means I'll keep the title and the land you promised."

"You shall have it. Great merit warrants great reward."

The guest's lips turned firm, his shoulder muscle tensed as he said, "Keep your word. I don’t betray my benefactor for silver and copper."

***

Francisca

This morning, the court of Korelia welcomed messengers from Midlandia. As a squire to Sir Harold, the unofficial Champion of the Lord of Korelia, Francisca was permitted to join the court. However, to avoid drawing attention, she chose to observe from a secluded corner along with other staff members. From there, they listened to the brief exchange of pleasantries, and she noted that the guest spoke of no gift—signifying questionable intentions.

"It's a long journey from Midlandia," Lord Lansius spoke, his tone guarded yet nonchalant, as if the matter held little importance to him.

"We bring a message from Sir Reginald, the future Lord of Midlandia."

The claim stirred murmurs among the audience. Francisca met Cecile's gaze; the two were in the front row of the secluded corner. Next, they heard the messenger's confident stride, likely as he offered the letter, but the Lord commanded, "Read it."

In front of everyone, the messenger broke the seal and read:

"To the powers in Korelia,

As per our last correspondence, we have extended our courtesies in a noble enterprise to quell dissidents and bring order to the realm. We have set forth considerable expectations and offered a generous sum to secure your intentions. However, we have yet to receive word from Korelia. We find this lack of enthusiasm most alarming, if not a distinctly unwelcoming development. Surely, there must be some misunderstanding.

Unless the rumors are true that the power in Korelia is merely a henchman of Sir Bengrieve? We would not wish to believe so, lest your esteemed achievements in securing the city become the subject of mockery.

We expect a swift response from you.

Be advised that we cannot afford the same generosity in times of crisis. Please convey your honored words before winter. Otherwise, we are compelled to secure your cooperation by any means necessary. Soliciting your allies' cooperation, as well as a personal visit to the south bearing all the banners of Midlandia, is not beyond our consideration.

"When your son is old enough to marry, I'll probably be as old as a grandmother."

"Then you'll become my child’s other grandmother," Cecile said warmly.

Unexpectedly, Francisca's face lit up with happiness. "Looking forward to that," she replied tenderly.

***

Omin

As the newest retainer to the Lady of Korimor, Omin felt the need to prove himself. He worked hard and diligently, observing details that only someone with experience in leading a realm could discern. With competent talents so lacking in Korelia, he believed he had a fair chance to secure a high office.

After handling documents from Korimor, Omin was now focused on a different task: addressing the weekly needs of Korelia. This task clearly came not from the Lady but from the Lord.

So he wanted me to give a second opinion?

With the glow of lanterns illuminating his chamber, Omin pondered the myriad records before him. Even at a glance, he knew that, aside from wheat, charcoal and firewood would also need to be imported from other regions.

Thinking that the Lord would want to test him on where to source it, Omin compared the records before murmuring to himself, "To whoever can supply it the cheapest."

However, from the looks of things, if Lord Lansius' project of planting windbreaker trees found success, it would also pave the way to produce more firewood locally.

"Ominus," Hilda called softly.

"Yes, dear?" Omin paused his work, turning to her. Despite her steely gaze, his wife had a soft-hearted nature that she often concealed as it would have been seen as unbecoming of her stature.

"I'm really happy that you decided to stay in Korelia," she said, sitting close to his chair at the corner of the bed.

Grasping her hand, Omin felt a reassuring warmth. "I believe that's what the Lord and Lady wanted of me. Despite clearly needing my expertise in Korimor, they have yet to trust me fully," he said, while omitting the part about being overworked and that he was the one who chose to follow the Lord and Lady to Korelia.

"Trust is earned, dear. It's not something you just ask for," she reminded him gently.

Omin smiled, though tiredness was evident on his face. Looking at Hilda, whose long brown hair was covered with a simple black linen veil—the color of the new House Korimor—he asked, "Have the manor staff treated you well?"

"Yes, Lady Audrey might seem scary on the outside, but she's quite caring. Several times, she has sent her retainer to inquire about the manor and whether the boy or I lack anything."

Omin nodded. He recalled the first time he went to this manor, nestled between Korelia and South Hill, and found it scenic and orderly. "She's good-hearted, just wronged and has had a hard life," he said with a hint of bitterness.

Hilda looked at him with an understanding smile. "Every time you speak of her, you seem ashamed or embarrassed."

Omin looked at her. "It's because of my father. What he did to her family was utterly sickening."

Hilda rose and wrapped her arms around Omin's shoulders to comfort him. "I heard the lord of the city once said when he was in the mountains of Umberland, that: He's not a man who blames someone for their brother's mistakes."

Omin was amused. "He should be," he commented. "Anything less, and I'll be disappointed in him."

Hilda giggled. "Oh, Ominus. I'm so glad you're with us tonight. Can you stay for long?"

"Just for two nights, I'm afraid. I don't want our new masters to grow suspicious." He then added, "If you want, I could find a house in town."

Hilda shook her head. "That's not necessary. The money is better off for our son's future."

Omin recalled something and said, "I read there's a plan for officer's housing in the city, perhaps if you don't mind living in a smaller house—"

"I do," she replied without hesitation. "I'll shoulder my part, but promise me that you'll also do what you can to tie ourselves to the Lady's House. Do it for our son."

Omin smiled. He felt fortunate to have someone like Hilda at his side. "I'll do it for you, our son, and myself," he reassured her. "Retirement doesn't suit me at all. I want to achieve something grand for our House, so people will remember me for my deeds, not my failure."

***

East Tiberia

In the utter darkness before dawn, the commander of this city, endearingly nicknamed the Bald Eagle, sat alone on a wooden chair atop the ramparts. His vigilant gaze sweeping the horizon, while many of his exhausted sentries had succumbed to sleep. Even his selected personal guards were sprawled across the stone floor, asleep.

The situation had become so desperate that the old and wounded were now used as night watch—and the Bald Eagle was both. Despite his meticulous full plate armor, he was battered and had broken his ankle, barely surviving thanks to his men's valiant rescue during a rush on the battlement he defended.

Since Lord Gottfried's arrival, they had withstood eleven grueling days of siege. Marking a shift from their earlier tactics of night attacks, the Northerners now launched their assaults at the break of first light. The fighting was relentless, with desperation evident on both sides.

This small city boasted no riches, but it was the gate to the Capital. Without securing it, the Northerners already stretched and taxed supply line in Tiberia would be compromised.

Yet, the defenders' situation was equally desperate. Promises of relief had never materialized; only a small patrol had shown up from the sister cities, but they were too few to challenge or harass the overwhelming Northerner army.

Worse, against all odds, the weather had turned for the better. There was no chill wind as before, and the air had a certain dryness. Tonight, he even wore his fur coat loosely. Despite his skepticism, he couldn’t help but recall rumors he had once heard from his knight master, that a group of powerful mages could temper the weather.

Against the odds, the commander smirked in the dark. "At least we don’t have a food problem anymore," he muttered to himself. The casualty rate was high enough that they had no more than ninety able fighters left, down from six hundred.

He wasn't disillusioned; he didn’t expect his men to be slaughtered to the last man. Once there were too few defenders, the people would push them to surrender. There were influential people in the city—wealthy merchants and landowners—who would gladly shift sides to Gottfried if they could maintain their assets. And word was that Gottfried was generous toward them.

The old man sighed, realizing he could only hold out for eleven days, far from the month he had envisioned.

He had to admit that his opponent was more than just a puppet of the Northerners, unlike the portrayal by the Imperium letters. Gottfried was highly capable, having effectively utilized men from other provinces to conduct the siege. Meanwhile, his superb Northerner cavalry kept everyone at bay. His logistical prowess was also clearly evident, keeping this large army well-fed.

Despite the failing situation, the Bald Eagle wasn't angry with anyone, not even with the one hundred sages who likely held back the relief force. He was wise enough to understand that political support was also a part of the fortunes of war.

His only regrets were the deaths of his many comrades, men he had rallied and encouraged to join the city's defense. They had all lost their lives. Even the young knight, whose company he had greatly enjoyed, had been slain, fighting to his last breath as his section was overrun—not once, but twelve times in the last four days.

The old man looked to the stars in the night sky and lamented, "If only I had more men to spare."

"Nobody can bring back the dead," came a soothing answer from behind.

The Bald Eagle turned but did not raise the alarm. He saw a slender young woman with long brown hair approaching the rampart's wall in front of them. He didn't recognize her and found it odd, as she had a unique charm that could make his troops fall in love with her easily. Yet, his instincts told him she was no ordinary. There was an unnerving calmness in her eyes, the kind one only gains through experience.

Following his instincts, the commander said, "I apologize for my ramblings. Whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?"

"I'm just a wandering hat-maker," she replied, quietly observing the darkness beyond the ramparts. Normally, one might think she was watching the opponent's campfires, but no, based on her focused gaze, he was sure she could see in the dark.

"Duly noted," he said before adding, "Please excuse my rambling again, but am I facing a Royal Mage?"

"Aren't you the commander?" she asked in return humorlessly without clarifying, her eyes still fixed on the enemy camp shrouded in darkness.

"Perhaps the Ancients blessed me today?" he wondered aloud, trying to coax a response from her.

"Perhaps," she replied indifferently.

"Will this city survive?" he asked plainly, as a dry wind blew across his face.

"I'm sure the people are rooting for your victory." She turned toward him, her eyes unnervingly calm for someone her age. "Please entertain a foolish youngster like me, what do you need to stop this war?"

Her tone was overly confident, almost as if she was a peddler with goods ready to be sold. "Winter, heavy snowfall," the Bald Eagle answered, unembarrassed.

"I see," she nodded, turning toward the sky.

The old man followed her gaze, but another dry wind blew into his face as if to instill some sense into him.

"There's still time before dawn. Best if you get some rest, commander." The woman approached him and adjusted his fur coat, whispering. "Also, best to have a woolen blanket ready. Can't have the defender of the Imperium got cold."

***