003 Dead or Alive

{Excerpt}

...This was a period of vigorous economic expansion. This expansion, in turn, played a major role in the many other transformations—social, political, and cultural—of the new age. By 1560, the population in most Kingdoms of Udoris had marginally increased after over a century of peace. The bonds within the kingdoms tightened, and the wheels of commerce spun ever faster. New commodities, many introduced by members of the Sanctuary of Scrolls, enriched material life. Not only trade but also the production of goods increased as a result of new ways of organising production. Merchants accumulated and manipulated capital in an unprecedented volume. Most historians locate this period as the maturing, or at least the beginning, of Eastern capitalism, during which capital assumed a major role not only in economic structuring but also in political relations.

Culturally, new values—many of them associated with the end of the Great War and the Reformation—diffused through Udoris and changed how people acted and the perspectives by which they viewed themselves and the world. But even as capitalism advanced from the east, the once-free peasants of Udoris slowly slipped into serfdom. The apparent prosperity of the century gave way in its middle and later periods to a "general crisis" in many Udorian regions. Politically, the new centralised states insisted on new levels of cultural conformity on the part of their subjects, for example, Aries refused to tolerate the major religious bodies, namely the Wanderers of Radafis, the Band of the Six Divinities—commonly referred to as simply as the "Band" or the "Faith of the Six"— and the Creed of the Twins. It also forbade the use of the common tongue, Morgar, by its dissidents, isolating itself from the rest of the world. Understandably, historians have had difficulty defining the exact origins of this complex century during Udorian development.

The century's economic expansion owed much to powerful changes that were already underway by the climax of the Great War. Later events radically transformed the structures of Udorian society—the ways by which it produced food and goods, distributed income, organised its society and viewed its dissidents. As a result of this revolution, organisations such as the Sanctuary of Scrolls and the Board of Commerce could thrive, leading to important discoveries such as the newly invented gunpowder siege weapons that gave armies greater fighting power, hence their nations a greater sense of security.

By the end of the century, Udoris achieved what it never possessed over a century ago: an unprecedented technological leap, accompanied oddly by an extended period of peace and political stability.

...

Excerpt from Jonas Diane's book on Udorian History- 'Our Origins'

{END}

14.13.1623

Mallowston.

MUCH like Faywyn, Mallowston could be considered an old town with a rather illustrious past. It was founded about a century ago from what remained of Fort Addens, an ancient stronghold saddled with the grave task of defending Algrim's northern border from Quiltonnian incursions via the Strega after the fall of Faywyn—at the time simply referred to as the Citadel of the North. The original fort—not designed to withstand cannon fire—had long been reduced to rubble by Verummite cannons smuggled into Quilton by contracted Luscan pirates. After the war ended, a newer, more capable fort was built; from which the seeds of the fairly prosperous town began to form.

James sat by an open window looking down at the common folk going about their daily life in the town below. He exhaled, eyes glazed over as he stared at bustling peasants, not a strand of wit between a large majority of them. Not unlike the droning masses from his memories, they were simple, blissfully ignorant things with a collective awareness equivalent to that of a doorknob. The door behind him opened and Ser Lancelot walked in.

"So?" James asked without turning around, seemingly recognising the man by his footsteps only.

"Better than expected, My Lord," the viscount replied as he stopped to stand beside him, gaze fixed on the bustle outside. "The Heras and their bannermen believe you are still holed up in the Keep. Hopefully, they will still be in the dark about our timely departure for a while longer."

James nodded, "and the rest of my men?"

"Ser Carter is struggling to get them out without alerting the wrong people," the viscount replied, "He mentioned in his latest message having to detain a few of our peasant townsfolk who could not be trusted to keep this under wraps. But, hopefully, he and the men should arrive tonight, all things being equal. Regarding the Heras, their preparations for their campaign westward are almost complete; a baggage train of merchants, whores, ribalds, barber-surgeons, and sappers, as well as a week's worth of food and gunpowder, has already been organised. Plans to supply a siege lasting up to winter via the Strega also seem to be in place. Landed knights governing the town's outskirts should arrive at the Keep from their various domains in a few hours where they will have a celebratory feast before they set off for 'conquest'. They intend to sail for Faywyn at noon tomorrow."

"A celebratory feast?"

"Yes, my lord," Lancelot said with a self-depreciative chuckle, "It appears conquering Faywyn seems to be an already foregone conclusion. Not that I blame them for assuming such…

"Are you certain about this, my lord?" The viscount asked after a brief pause, clearly still hesitant. "If this fails they will pick us off like crippled pheasants in an open field."

"Either we fight and possibly die trying," James replied calmly as he stared at an ox-wagon of hay wheeling along through the crowd below, "Or flee and hope the ever-ambitious, yet annoyingly cautious Heras let us have an opportunity at revenge. Our options are limited, I am just doing what I feel most comfortable with. I am no fool, Lancelot. There will always be circumstances when fleeing would be a much wiser choice. Sadly, this is not one. Do you desire for your wife and daughter to have to turn tail like wild beasts in the faint hope that we make it out alive with the Heras hot on our heels?"

Turning to look at Lancelot, James continued.

"I read once that the key to prolonging a peaceful reign is to either have a deterrent; one ruthlessly terrifying and horrible enough to frighten your adversaries into submission" —the transmigrator turned his gaze back to the imposing, century-old Keep crested on the hill in the distance. Expressionless— "or to possess the ability to put down the enemy at first notice with insurmountable violence and destruction. True peace is only achieved with magnanimity on one hand and the promise of swiftly delivered annihilation on the other.

"So, answering your question, yes Lancelot.

"I am certain."

***

Bycrest.

Beneath the stone floors of the subjugated Algrian castle, down the twisted damp gullet that was the castle dungeons was an ominously torch-lit cell: Faint whipping sounds and suppressed grunts of pain rebounded in the otherwise silent room. At one end of this cell sat a blonde-haired, thickset young man of average height donning regal attire. He could be considered somewhat attractive with his piercing blue eyes and unmarred skin. But with an expression near-perpetually twisted in an annoyed scowl, his lacking noble charisma, one expected for a persona of his stature, became most apparent. Embroidered on his attire—right above his heart—was a crowned red-scaled dragon, proof of his esteemed status as a member of the Hertalean royalty. With his eyes closed as if in mid-slumber, an aura of boredom and frustration wafted off the prince's still form.

Everhard opened his eyes to glance at the deposed king kneeling before him. Submerged in the depths of blue that were his eyes was a hint of cruelty and rabid paranoia. The deposed sovereign, Leonard, stared back blankly even as a Hertalean knight whipped his bare back with a leather whip. After a moment of thought, the prince raised his hand to the soldier to stop.

"Where… is she?" Everhard asked dully, his voice conveying little emotion as he stared into Leonard's empty gaze.

The king remained silent still, ignoring him still. His stare remained blank and only the sound of his laboured breathing leaking forth from his chapped lips could be heard.

"...Where is she?" The prince asked again, receiving only silence and a blank stare in return. Everhard waited for a few moments before sighing as he shut his eyes, his tone heavily laden with frustration.

"Some men claim to have seen disbanded groups of your retainers fleeing southeast. If I didn't know better, I would have assumed your most loyal men had deserted you."

Silence.

"Your silence is foolish, Leonard. I know Iris is with one of them heading for one of your remaining vassals. Or, to one of the harbours along the southern coast, in the hopes of leaving the kingdom?"

The king's expression subtly flinched. In such an imperceptible manner that one would have missed the slip-up if they weren't attentive enough. The prince noticed though, a hint of a sneer forming at the corner of his lips, "I am not wrong?" he asked probingly.

More silence.

Everhard sighed again, his expression turning stony as he stared coldly at Leonard. The next moment he shut his eyes and leaned back in his seat.

"Still not forthcoming then?" he said almost inaudibly, "I guess we will continue to do this the hard way then, Your … Majesty. Proceed."

"Yes, Your Highness," The knight replied, immediately raising his whip to hit the king.

"Iris," Everhard muttered under his breath as the sound of whipping and the pained grunts of a fallen king resumed echoing in the cell.

"Where in the world do you think you can hide from me now?"

***

Windy Fir Woodlands.

Amongst the yellowing trees, decked in aristocratic garments faded due to one too many washes, a stout middle-aged man walked through the woods with a cold glint in his gaze. His bulbous head and relatively squinted eyes projected a feeling of ruthlessness and cold calculation. By his side, a tall, muscular man followed just slightly behind. Dressed in clean faded tunics and gambeson, his calm but condescending gaze made him appear to be one of the most dangerous kinds of miscreants that could ever exist in any world.

An educated one.

"Have you found out who killed him yet?" Reamus, the stout beady-eyed one asked, his voice conveying little emotion. Although his eyes reflected an insatiable urge for violence, he held his composure, as a leader should in front of his subordinate.

"No, My Lord, the murders' trails have gone cold. Someone in the group appears to have some experience in dealing with trackers." Outhor replied calmly. "But we did retrieve Ser Vlad's body. As per your command, sire."

A period of brief silence followed. Even the forest seemed to quieten, the natural sounds of critters in the woods nonexistent as a low, chilly wind rustled the canopy above.

"Outhor, did I ever mention I was once a noble Count?" the bandit lord asked, arms folded behind his back.

Outhor, of course, did not answer.

"I was ambitious," the bandit lord said, "but that proved to be my undoing. I lost everything, my wealth, my title, my family, all due to my foolishness. Only my nephew, Vlad, and I escaped when the Dark Gryphon came forth to collect the dues of my folly. The poor boy's father, my brother, sacrificed himself so that we may survive."

Reamus' expression remained level even as he said these words. He walked on towards a clearing at the end of the path. Outhor follows silently behind.

"Years later, here I am. The leader and founder of the Forest Wolves, the largest and most notorious bandit group in the entirety of Algrim. A fearsome menace to travelling merchants and townsfolk alike. It might not be the most glamorous title in the world, but in these forests, I am King. An undisputed sovereign... And yet, in the heart of my domain. In my fucking backyard! Someone murders my nephew, my last remaining family, escapes and remains at large despite my best efforts?!"

There, at the clearing, lay six corpses wrapped up in coarse cloth. Five lay in a neat pile and a sixth place aside. Almost reverentially. Silently, Reamus walked to the sixth corpse. As he pulled away the cloth wrappings sealing it, a putrid smell permeated the air, and the sound of large flies taking flight could be heard. But as if oblivious to the smell and revolting buzzing, Reamus looked into the corpse's eyes—an expression of abject terror still frozen in its gaze. The bandit's fingers ran across the corpse's cheek, its bluish skin collapsing underneath his pudgy digits. If one looked closely enough, a faint resemblance could be seen between the two.

Gazing into the pair of unfocused eyes with a gaze overridden with guilt, Reamus teared up for a moment before blinking, his frigid stare returning.

"Rest well, my son,' he muttered, wrapping the body back in its cloth. The stout man straightened himself, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared coldly out into the forest.

"Find them. Find the bastards that did this to him. And bring them to me…

"Dead…

Or alive."