Sora

The Three Kings
Chapter 1
"Whispers of Treason"

The Crows
Spring, 1458
“Brother Moresby,” Grand Inquisitor Rede bowed. “I… am afraid that I must share with you some concerning details regarding the conduct of our sworn brothers.”

The second High Inquisitor raised an eyebrow.
“Is it related to the Abbotsford massacre, perchance?”

“Indeed it is,” Rede sighed. “I have sent a letter to Archbishop Westcote, to seek his help in this affair, but it would seem he is abroad in Sora and not present. Therefore, Dicun, I ask that you take five inquisitors and visit the site of the Abbotsford incident, as well as any other villages the rogues may have razed, to gather evidence.”

“And what if we apprehend these… out-of-line inquisitors?”

“Then that will be at my discretion, not yours, brother Moresby. Will you accept this request?”

“As you ask, brother.” Dicun bowed and left the room.

-

“I, High Inquisitor Richard Adenstone Crow, of the Church of Adunia, ordained by the Archbishop of Westernoste himself, do sentence this heretic and blasphemer to death!”
Crow cockled madly as he cut off the head of another man, in a village some miles away. “I do sentence the hamlet of Bell’s End to death by sword and flame! None of you are clean of blasphemy! None of you are untainted by sin! So go now and die most painfully!”

Again, the villagers screamed and fled as Crow’s inquisitors swept through the hamlet, slaying those that tried to flee. As they had done in Abbotsford villagers were driven inside their houses and had the thatched roofs set alight. Piles of books were thrown on a pyre and burned.
Those that were spared, post-mortem, from impalement were instead unceremoniously laid out along the sides of the road, which started at Norbury and ended at Borass, for all travellers to see as a reminder of the Inquisition’s blood-thirst.
Soon enough my superiors will be forced to step down because of my actions, should they remain hidden, Crow thought with a wicked smile.
But his musings were disturbed by the arrival of a man driving a cart, who leapt down and walked past the bodies Crow’s men had piled along the sides of the road, still warm.

“Halt! Who goeth there?” An inquisitor levelled his blood-soaked sword at the man. “Are you in league with these blasphemers?”
“Hardly,” a familiar voice said. “No, no, I was merely following the men who I invested all my effort into making Inquisitors.”
Archbishop Westcote removed his hood.
“I don’t suppose you spared some wine and food from this village you burned, no? It has been quite a long journey on the way here.”

Crow threw him a bundle of cured meats, bread and a small flask of wine, wrapped in a blood-smeared canvas bag.
“Say, Archbishop, what of Grand Inquisitor Rede?”
“What of him?”
“He is making moves against me, no? Sending men to investigate our doings in Abbotsford?”
Westcote frowned.
“I was there merely a day ago,” he said, brushing grime off the rings on his fingers, “A group of inquisitors were there, and they did not recognize who I was, and thus let me pass unbothered; they were taking down bodies impaled on stakes and searching for evidence. I suppose they are the fellows you have been looking for?”
“Yes,” Crow said flatly. “They’re the ones. Who was their leader?”

“I do not know. One looked like they were dressed in the red and silver of a High Inquisitor.”
“But that is impossible,” he spat. “Dicun Moresby is in Ileans. What other High Inquisitors are there?”
“No others. Perhaps my eyes deceived me. You will have to leave soon,” Westcote motioned to the burnt-out hamlet, “Or they will be on your trail. See to it that you do not leave any incriminating artefacts about for your pursuers to find.”
“As you wish. And how has the business with Cardinal Merton been going for you, Archbishop?”
“Poorly, I must admit. Merton has ingratiated himself with the high echelons of nobility here and in the papacy, too. He holds about as much sway over the Inquisition as I.”

Crow scowled. "Either way. I need Rede disposed of."
"I do but have an idea," he said. "Keep doing what you are doing. Burn villages. Kill the people. Massacre heretics. Make more public shows of violence. Grand Inquisitor Rede will be forced to answer for these travesties. And if he cannot catch your posse, then he will be forced to step down in disgrace."
The inquisitor let out a mad cockle. "With pleasure, my friend! Any... recommendations?"

"Hmm.. Friar's Grove. It's a day's ride from here. Population of fifty, but it's a busy hub for trade coming north to Norbury. Your crimes will spread like wildfire!"
"Har har har!" Crow beamed with sadistic amusement. "So I shall. You are heading to Norbury too, I take it?"
"For a meeting with Lord Southerling," Westcote replied. "It was supposed to be three days ago, but owing to an urgent matter at home, he put off the meeting by two weeks. I am but enjoying a slower route of travel through the country."

"So I see. I shall be off, then. But not before-" Crow pointed his burning torch at a building, and tossed it inside. Shortly after, several barrels of black powder detonated violently from within, and the building collapsed in on itself.

"You have a vendetta against that building, or what?" The archbishop turned and began to leave.
"Oh, no, my dear fellow. It was merely a brothel."

-

The Half-Lion
Spring 1458
"I shall depart on leave for the next month to my ancestral home of Weldon," King Edward announced. "Until then, I shall require someone to sit the throne for me."
"It would be my honour, your grace, to rule in your stead," Lord Florian knelt at the base of the throne. "House Southerling-"
Edward nodded. "Your request is noted."
Lords Rosby and Bolton stepped forward, and made similar requests.

"Hm. Lord Southerling, Rosby, Bolton, I thank you for your requests. Lord Rosby shall rule in my stead."
The court erupted in token applause.
Lord Southerling swallowed his rage and bowed deeply.
That ingrate...

"One month," Lord Southerling whinged as he exited the room. "One month to entrust to me, his half-brother, and instead he gives it to Lord Rosby!"
"At least it wasn't Lord Bolton," Lord Bainbridge brushed dust off his billowing satin cloak. "His daughter was stuck down by consumption, and since then he's fallen out of favour."

"I see- what?" Florian turned sharply. "He has?"
"Y-yes," Bainbridge shrugged. "He has. I hear Lord Rochand is most displeased, too, after his fishing rights were given over to the Coles."

"Hm. Noted."
As he strode away towards his quarters in the palace, Lord Southerling's mind was already churning away at another plot, plans within plans.
I shall sway Lords Rochand, Bolton and Bainbridge to my cause. If Edward neglects to favour me again, then I shall launch this plan of mine. The Inquisition is already a fine ally, Richard Crow a stalwart pawn. Archbishop Westcote a powerful setpiece, Lord Bainbridge a fool but his farms useful, and together, we shall build this new Adunia...

He shut the door to his quarters, and pulled a drawer out from under his bed; and he spread papers and maps over his desk.
Yes... yes. I shall manipulate both Church and nobility to turn against the Florents... and I will build my dynasty... alas, but I first must extend my influence at court. I shall have to bring in more men-at-arms.

-

"Lord Rosby," Southerling bowed. "I have a favour to ask of you."
"Hm? Yes, do tell," Lord Rosby accompanied him as the two strode to the dining hall later that evening.
"I shall have to bring in more men-at-arms from Norbury. My servants are facing increasing crime in the city and I should be most displeased if a family heirloom is stolen and lost in the maze that is Westernoste."

The regent considered for a moment, deliberating.
"You have three hundred men-at-arms here already, do you not?"
"Indeed. But I have five hundred servants and two hundred more attending to duties in the city full-time."
"Hm. I see no issue with it. You may bring in another two hundred men-at-arms to attend to guard duty in the city, so long as they are supervised by the Commander of the City Watch, Sir Mace."
"Thank you, Lord Rosby." Lord Southerling parted ways, and departed for his seat in the great hall.

"Ah, Lord Bolton," He took a seat opposite Arthur Bolton, the patriarch of his house. "I trust you have been doing well?"
Lord Bolton waited some moments, as a servant set down a platter of roasted legs of ham, and pitchers of red and white wine.
"..Not too well, Florian," he finally admitted. "Produce has been poor this year. I believe I've fallen out of his majesty's favour."

"My condolences. Have the taxes been harsh on your estate? I've lost some money this year."
The two fell silent as more servants came forth and set down plates stacked high with warm rolls, and tureens of gravy, and meatballs dyed gold with saffron, swans and pheasants still encased in reddish-brown crisp skins, glazed with sauces.

"...Alas, I have. Fifteen hundred guineas." Arthur downed a goblet of wine. "That is all which I have lost."

"Three hundred for me. I shall see if I can persuade Lord Rosby to lower the tax rates for us, Arthur."

"Please do," Bolton sighed. "You shall have my eternal trust if you do."

-

The Exile
Summer, 1458

The Sorans were rapidly approaching, Beaumont remembered. They had caught a ship back to the safety of the Holy Soran Empire. To meet with a mysterious figure from Adunia that they knew only as the Middleman.

The tavern in which they stayed was packed to the brim- barmaids moved about barking in Chulian and Helianthian and all the regional dialects of the continental confederation, and the scent of alcohol and meat wafted out from the kitchen.
"Beaumont. Prince Aigredoux." A deep voice called, as a man wearing a brown cloak took a seat at their table, helping himself to the food they had purchased.

"...Yes, you," Beaumont nodded. "Good to see you today." Henri remained silent, staring at the newcomer warily. "Good to meet. I suppose I should call you the middleman?"

"No need." The figure took off his hood, revealing a man with a mane of golden-brown hair and green eyes.
"The name's Morenchard. Lord Paul Morenchard of Alteonia. I used to know your father quite well, my prince."

Beaumont inhaled sharply.
"Are you not still a lord of Adunia?" He snapped. "What do you intend here?"
"I still am," Paul sighed. "My defeat in the civil war resulted in the Florents stripping my house of much of its lands. Half of it was confiscated. I will not pretend to serve the Florent usurpers if I could reinstate the Rochenand dynasty on the throne of Adunia."

"And what would you contribute to my cause?" Henri asked. The boy's sapphire eyes glimmered with interest.

"I have six thousand men-at-arms and three hundred knights at my command. I also have contacts in the Black Spears mercenary corps. Combined, that is an army of thirteen thousand at your command should we recruit the Spears."

"Very well." Beaumont rose from his seat. "We shall retire at night. Once we are on the road northward for Ileans, we may talk in privacy. Come, Prince Henri."

The three rose, and parted ways for the night, and the entourage of the group scattered too; Lord Morenchard and Captain Beaumont took up lodgings next to Henri. But Henri's slumber was far from peaceful.

He dreamt of burning fields of wheat staining the sky red, a layer of corpses lying on a hillside. A tall, fair-haired man wearing ancient Guesmandic armour looked down upon him from atop a throne of skulls and spears, and cackled.
"So this is what remains of my dynasty? A boy?"
The spectre of Lord Jacques de Rochenand shrieked with derisive laughter.
"Mercenaries and empty promises! Soon, my boy, you will find out how shrewdly the lords of Adunia make their plots. You shall be enchained, trapped and put down like some wild beast. There is no respect or fame awaiting you on that rain-blasted island. Merely conniving wretches and simpering fools."

Lord Rochenand then transformed, into a bloated corpse laying upon a dais. Funeral-goers shrank away in disgust, and the bishop supervising the funeral hymns retreated from the room holding his hand over his mouth.

"You will not die gloriously, boy. You will be flayed and paraded through that blasted Westernoste like any prisoner. Heavens forbid, they torture you beforehand."

Visions of ages past flashed by; men fought and screamed and died on a thousand fields in Adunia, for the throne, for glory, for gold or for vengeance.

"I was a fool, a blasted fool, for thinking I could empower my own Duchy by invading Adunia. Instead I have brought this plague-nation upon the world, a blight to all. It consumes away, and consumes away, and scours the land dry of resources. The Adunish's greed is infinite! And their pettiness just as bottomless!"
1066. King Aethelred Merclass, of Adunia, stood behind his lines. The Guesmandic knights pressed in tightly on his huscarls. For a moment, the old king was about to draw his blade and join the fray, until an arrow flew through the air, and caught him through the eye. He gasped, and fell back.

His lords fled the moment he hit the ground.

"See how King Aethelred's bannermen abandoned him so, so swiftly... I hung his corpse as a banner of war until the stink was too much. The same fate awaits you, boy, if you do not eliminate your threats. Prince Richard Florent... is similar in age to you. I predict that he will be the main adversary to your reconquest.

Henri's visions changed to a tall boy, with auburn hair and grey eyes, and a narrow face. Atop his head sat the seven-spiked silver crown of Adunia. But then his face contorted and warped into the leering smile of an empty skull.

He woke, gasping for air.
But he was still in the tavern, and light was streaming in through the window.

-

The Three Kings
Chapter 2
"Conspiracies Afoot"

The Devout
Late Spring, 1458

Inquisitor Moresby could have retched at the sight of the great massacre before him.
The inhabitants of Friar's Grove lay dead, run through by swords and spears, piled together in one grotesque mound at the centre of the hamlet; all the houses and sheds lay in a mound of debris, burnt and ransacked. A great willow tree imported from Tejosia had been felled, blocking the way out of the settlement. Behind his group, a growing line of traders amassed, who rushed forward and then back, gagging and weeping at the sight of the atrocities before them.

Along the side of the road through the grove, more bodies were hung from makeshift gibbets, unclothed; the traders who had been passing through at the time of the massacre had not been spared. The only building that stood was the village chapel, branded with a great cross painted across its front doors. The assailants- the rogue inquisitors, he thought- had been thorough in their murder.

They had, before he had arrived, pulled two wagons across the gates to the village, and blocked one of its exits; then, the other, had been sealed by a felled willow. And so the inhabitants had been left helpless.
A lone body floated in the lake bordering the village, face-down, peppered with arrows.
"God have mercy," he heard one of his inquisitors whimper. "I think I'll be sick."

"Search the village," Moresby barked. "And you lot!" He pointed to the traders gathered behind him. "Dig some graves!"
Hurriedly, they complied. Red-and-black robed inquisitors brushed through charred rubble for evidence, and the merchants took shovels from a ravaged storehouse and began digging.

As he was scouring through the ashes of a house, Moresby felt his hand graze up against something cold, and hard. He closed his fist around it, and drew it from the cinders.
It was a golden cross, like the one worn by an Inquisitor. On its other side were a pair of initials worked into the metal.

R.C

Useless, he thought. There were too many people he knew whose names formed the initials R.C. Richard Crow. Robert Crown. Ren Carroway. Robin Cowe. Roland Cowe. Rohan Cole; another set of triplets, bearing various names beginning with R, and bearing the family name Claw. All suspects in this investigation.

Then, his horror intensified as he realized that the culprit and his minions would not have been more than a few hours' ride ahead of them when they had arrived. But it was dusk now, and the cleanup of Friar's Grove had only concluded.

They could be anywhere. En route to burn another village, even. He had not uncovered anything remotely useful, save for a pair of initials that narrowed the pool of suspects down to some nine individuals, none of whom he mildly suspected of perpetrating such atrocities.

"Hurry, men!" He motioned to his inquisitors. "Hopefully we shall catch the culprits before nightfall."
But he knew, even as he rode past the smouldering pile of wreckage that was formerly a wagon, that there was no chance; the Great Traderoad, which had previously just been one trail, branched off into five different roads leading to various smaller towns and ports, circumventing the stretch of fen known as the Shrikemoor.
The culprits could have fled down any one of the five roads; or all of them, or simply vanished into the lonely expanse of the Shrikemoor; or, even, have waited in the forest behind them to slip out of sight and return southwards.

He spied a trail of hoofprints, leading on into the distance; two dozen total.
Twenty-four horses. Probably around twenty-four inquisitors. But it was too dark to see now, and the party were forced to brandish torches as they staggered towards the nearest village, a league away.
-
Indeed, Crow had fled into the Shrikemoor.
For he was born to a family that made a living hunting and foraging in its lands, he thought smugly. No sane man would venture out here unless they had an innate understanding of the land. And he knew, from experience. His father had left a trail of unnoticeable markers leading towards Norbury, circumventing the busy roads. Markers in the form of red granite stones, ever so inconspicuous.
"Follow me," he muttered, as his men led their horses through the reeds and heather. Two days, and he could slip onto the Mummer's Road, a far less-congested trail leading to Norbury. "Mind the markers."

They had made off with a large amount of loot from Friar's Grove. Enough to last them three days, among the twenty-four of them; cured sausages, edible plants, mushrooms, cheese, bread and water, along with a half-dozen hares and small waterfowl.

Three was a precaution, he mused. If the moor was particularly foggy the next morning, they could not progress, for the thicket concealed hidden holes on which a man could twist his ankle, stones that could break one's toes if stubbed particularly hard, and often the odd hunter's trap, a large pit smothered with leaves and branches.
It was a dark night. They were on a hill, overlooking one of the branches of the Traderoad to the left below, with a high stone ridge to their right.

One of his men abruptly slipped on a loose shrub and slid down the hillside, cursing; another two went down after him and grabbed ahold of him right before he went plummeting over a sharp incline.
"Watch your footing, you fools!" Crow snarled, proceeding onwards. He tested the ground underfoot with his left boot; firm. Then, shifting his weight forward, he moved his right leg. This long process consumed much of their time.

"There is a village below, brother," one of his lackeys pointed to a cluster of dim lights and smoke rising from chimneys below. "Shall we raid it?"
"No," he said. "Our goal is to move unnoticed to Norbury. We shall rest once we find a suitable clearing."

-

Moresby had arrived in a village named Goldwater, and promptly met a figure he thought he would never meet.
"Dicun," Grand Inquisitor Rede nodded, framed in the light coming from a tavern. "Out investigating?"

"Yes, sir," he bowed deeply. "I bring bad tidings. The culprits massacred a third village; seventy people were killed. I have reason to believe there were twenty-four of them, and one culprit bore the initials R.C."

"R.C." Rede's expression grew austere. "High Inquisitor Crow is in Westernoste attending to his duties, I believe; but when he returns, you may ask him to aid you in this investigation."

"So you don't suspect him?"

"Of course not," Rede snapped irritably. "He has been a loyal member of the Inquisition for almost a decade and an outstanding Inquisitor."

"I see," Moresby sighed. "I would like, if possible, to gather all Inquisitors with the initials R.C and interrogate them."

"That will be a challenge." Rede shrugged. "Three are abroad on business, one has gone to the mainland, and the others all occupied."

"Then if you will, could you attempt to gather all those individuals?"

"Of course," the Grand Inqusitor nodded. "I shall see what I can do. But it is late now- hm?"
He glanced up towards the hills, where a line of torches- twelve long- crawled its way across the ridge.

"Say, what's that?"
Moresby silently counted the torches. Only a dozen, he thought. The inquisitors had twice that number. But what if they were carrying one torch for every two men?

He silently dismissed that suspicion. From afar, they did not resemble inquisitors; they were clothed in simple tunics, it seemed.
Just a group of shepherds.

Just a group of shepherds. A group of Inquisitors, dressed like shepherds.
-

The Half-Lion
Summer 1458

A roar of voices filled the feast hall, low in the bowels of Westernoste. In truth, the hall was a large storehouse, emptied of its contents for the summer, with two long rows of tables laid next to each other.

"To Lord Southerling!" The men of the City Watch cheered, gorging on roasted onions and slabs of venison, flamed capons and sausages, bread and butter, salted ham and jellied eels, and pike and trout poached in mint sauce. This feast had been paid for entirely from Lord Southerling's coffers. He, along with Commander Mace Sloane, sat at the head of the hall, at a high table alongside the officers and captains, laughing and joking as servants of House Southerling moved among the mob, pouring the guardsmen modestly-expensive wine from mainland Ileans.

All of the City Watch's buildings had been decked in black and gold banners, giving off a sense of gaiety, and all two and a half-thousand of the guards had been replaced by Lord Southerling's guards, six hundred-strong, and the guards of Lord Bainbridge, five hundred-strong.

This was better fare than they would ever eat in their lives, and they knew it. While a band hired by Commander Mace played at the side of the room, the servants made a second round, laying out dishes of turnip stew, mushroom tarts, veal chops, shellfish in pepper sauce, mugs of beer and ale, and bread rolls.
"This is an unexpected courtesy," Mace mentioned, as Lord Southerling leaned back and began reading through a pile of letters set at his feet. "How much did you spend on this event, my lord?"

"Only one thousand golden guineas," Lord Southerling replied. "The feasts at the palace cost twice that amount for a similar amount of diners."
"Only one thousand-" Mace laughed. "My friend, one thousand golden guineas is worth ten years of my wages. If only I had that money to spare!"

"Perhaps you may," Southerling smiled. "House Sloane... is it not? Vassals of House Rowe. Perhaps... I could elevate you to a seat in the Convention, and you may as well eat like this every day."

"Hmm."
Lord Sloane's expression did not change, but his eyes grew greedy. "Perhaps you could... perhaps you could."
"Excellent."

They finished the feast in silence, and when Commander Mace was poised to leave, he turned.
"I shall see you at court, Lord Southerling."
Florian smirked, and sat himself down in the deserted hall, and began to write a letter directed to Lord Rowe, concerning the promotion of one of his vassals.

A week later, the two-and-a-half-thousand strong City Watch began sporting golden lions, stamped on their leather-and-mail cuirasses, shimmering with crimson thread.

-

"By acclaim from Lord Giles Rowe, and with approval of the Northern Warden Lord Florian Southerling, here is a proposal to admit House Sloane of Moonstream and Lord Mace Sloane, also Commander of the City Watch, to the status of Landed House. They are to be awarded lands from the town of Stonebank to the eastern bank of the River Wynham, and to seize control of all lands and properties within these boundaries! All in favour?"

About fifteen lords raised their hands; Lord Florian was oozing with charisma when he had made his appeals, and most of them had found his case valid and did not hesitate to earn the third-most-powerful Lord of Adunia's favour. A majority.

But then, four more lords raised their hands in favour. Nineteen, out of twenty-seven. A solid majority.
"I shall now hear objections to this proposal." The speaker slammed his gavel. Edward VI had not yet returned from his summer vacation.

"His lordship intends to elevate a minor noble house to the Convention?" Lord Carroway raised an eyebrow. "I could understand why, perhaps distinguished service, but if anything- House Sloane was founded only ten years ago by Lord Rogar Sloane. It is too young a house."

"Lord Carroway's appeal is heard." He sighed. "Any other objections?"
A long silence fell over the room. While many lords agreed, silently, to Carroway's objection, but they were too cowed by Lord Southerling's influence to speak.

"No objections save for Lord Carroway," The speaker struck his gavel again. "Nineteen votes in favour to one in objection. House Sloane is to be elevated to a Landed House and instantly assume control of the lands encompassed in their affirmation!"

The next morning, Lord Mace Sloane, this time the patriarch of House Sloane, entered the court, to looks from the other nobles. His son followed, bearing a banner, gold-and-black.

-

"Your majesty," A courier from Westernoste bowed deep before King Edward. "Your half-brother Florian Southerling has elevated a house of minor nobility to Landed House in the Convention."

"Hm?" Edward briefly glanced up from the table, where he, and his brother Lord Morgen, were playing at war with hundreds of small hand-carved wooden models. "He has? So what. I've elevated and demoted many a noble house the past few years. Let the fellow play at politics! What is one noble house's allegiance to six on my end?"

"Um..." The courier bowed, and began to retreat from the room. Perhaps he would refrain from bringing up the matter of Lord Sloane's two and a half-thousand City Watchmen bearing allegiance to his house. Clearly, the king was not interested.

The man left the patio, as King Edward pushed a row of small wooden pikemen forward.
"I'll attack your mercenary line," he was heard to say, followed by a sigh. "Roll the dice."

But even as Lord Morgen rolled his dice and cursed at the low score, taking his models off the board, Edward's mind lingered on his half-brother.
Hmm, he thought, as he absentmindedly moved a group of little cavalrymen towards his brother's end of the board. Perhaps I should begin making counterplans of my own. He is too entrenched in Norbury and the north. I know that Norbury is due for an infrastructural revamp. I shall loan out builders, and he has no option but to accept- this shall bankrupt his House for the next five years.

"Your king piece is dead," his brother pointed out, at Edward's model surrounded, in a throng of cavalry pieces. "I win."

-

The Outcast
Summer 1458

Lord Morenchard had led Henri and his entourage through the gates of his manor. The Morenchard estate remained plentiful, and no one seemed to think anything of the young, blonde-haired boy in the very image of Jacques Rochenand passing through.

He felt a mixture of elation, at returning to Adunia, and of disappointment. He had honestly expected more of this fabled kingdom which he was to inherit the throne of, wrest the reins of power from the hated Florents. But it was, much to his dismay, no different from the kingdoms he had stayed in exile.

It was the same type of nation as others. The same stench of feces, the mud and roughly-ploughed fields, the same cottages inhabited by the same peasants and the same stone keeps built by lords almost indistinguishable from each other.

"We will be hosting the Crown Prince, Richard Florent, for dinner," Morenchard had whispered to him. "By order of the false king Edward Florent. I shall give you the moniker of Anton Neige. Just a village boy who I am taking as my squire. I would recommend you maintain that disguise, your grace."
They returned, some hours before Prince Richard was set to arrive, according to the servants.

Almost immediately, the guards from Henri's original flight eastward had vanished into the barracks caked in mud, sweat and grime, and returned bathed, well-rested and arm in arm with Lord Morenchard's guards, laughing and making vulgar jokes in Ileanian. Beaumont vanished into the barracks, too, and returned in the same condition holding a fresh pitcher of beer.

How foolish of them, Henri thought. His mind was weary from the journey west, but he could understand one thing. This would never end. Even now, he could envision the wars to come. With the Florents, that hated crimson lily-flower.
He sighed, and sank deeper into the bath, disappearing among the suds. And he, the thirteen-year-old boy, was meant to lead an army of mercenaries to reclaim Adunia? While other children of his age were merely concerned with whether to join the army or attempt to take an apprenticeship.

For once, he craved a simpler life, where he could spend the rest of his childhood enjoying life in its cruder pleasures; drinking, fighting, and whatever else. Instead, his childhood was to be purely about a war of conquest.

Outside the latticed-glass window, the sun vanished over the horizon, cloaking the countryside in darkness. The courtyard was filled with guests- Crown Prince Richard had arrived.

"Lord Morenchard," Richard smiled. "I trust you are doing well?"
"Of course, your grace," he replied, bowing deep. "By all means, tell your lord father that I send my regards."
The prince merely nodded. Though both of them approached with a casual demeanour, they were all exceptionally tense. Richard felt the weight of all the eyes on him, the crown prince. Lord Morenchard stiffened, fearing the worst by the boy's tense attitude.

Had his ruse been discovered? His fingers tightened on a dagger concealed in the hem of his robes. All the bystanders seemed horribly oblivious to the mounting tension. At any moment..

Then the trumpets blew, signalling the start of the feast. The two nobles parted ways, and began walking to their ends of the table respectively.
And Henri, along with fifty of the Lord's squires, and thrice that amount of servants, took a deep breath and prepared to exit the service corridor in which they had been stood, bearing food and drink.

Call to Arms:

(Late 1461)

All the king's generals, all his knights, his fleet captains, and all the lords and ladies were assembled in the court. A few had been permitted into the council room. Notably Admiral Vargas, Lord Velasquez of Bretor, Duque Juan of The Argenrich, and General Saez. The king sat at the end of the table.

"Your majesty," said Lord Velasquez. "You've summoned us all here, from all corners of your realm. Would it be so audacious to assume we are here to discuss a rather important issue?"

"You'd be correct, my lord," King Alfonso replied. "There's a war going on in neighbouring Ileans. Adunia has invaded. Rozaire has invaded. Our northern neighbour, from across the Golden Bay, stands alone."

"What does this have to do with us?" Duque Juan said.

"Nothing, as of yet. But I want it to. You see, Ileans is one of the greatest centres of trade in the west. What's more is that I hear their queen has consented to a marriage to the Straton dynasty. If we can garner favourable relations with the kingdom, we can benefit twofold. Firstly, by means of their expanded trade routes and, secondly, by means of strengthening ties to the most prestigious dynasty in all of Altruzia; and, by God, do we need both those things."

"And you seek to garner these things through war?" Lord Velasquez said. "Surely a peaceful method is more desirable. Marriage, perhaps?"

"Marriage may yet come. But, for that and war, Lord Velasquez, they are both of the same nature; that of blood. For war, we'll come as a gallant ally, whereas with marriage, a beggar."

"It will take some time to prepare our armies, your majesty." The General said with a bow of the head.

"How early do you predict?"

"No earlier than January 1562."

The king hesitated and stroked his pointed beard. "Our kingdom is far removed from much of the fighting and our navy is greater than all of the warring parties. Would it be possible to wage a war by sea by the end of this year?" He turned to The Admiral.

"You want to commit half of our forces whilst the other isn't even ready?"

"Yes."

"Then... it would be possible. The navy has been at full strength for a good while now, owing to your majesty's dedication to exploration."

"Very well. Admiral, prepare the fleet."

The Admiral stood up and bowed. "It will be done."

"Lord Velasquez, Duque Juan, you will rally your retainers. General, I want the Hermandades on our side."

Each man got up and bowed and pledged their allegiance to the king's plans.

Once they'd left, the king penned a letter to Capitan Roldan and requested his company's service for the coming campaigns too. After this, he left his council room and addressed the court. He declared his intent to them and, there, to the resounding cries and the upthrust swords of all the king's men, Ciercegon prepared for war.

The Three Kings
Chapter 3
"Ruminations of Betrayal"

The Three Kings
Chapter 3
"Ruminations of Betrayal"

The Coming Storm
Summer 1458

Lordsport was ablaze and wreathed in ruinous smoke. For a year now the self-proclaimed Corsair Kingdom, a wandering fleet of some one hundred and thirty ships, had been loitering around the Teorain, idle.

Now, their fury descended upon the most remote town of Dun Isle. In the initial attack, the forces of House Rochand had been caught overwhelmed and unready, and had been obliterated, sent running for the hills. The town of one thousand souls burned, its citizens either murdered, taken as slaves, or fled, and raiders dressed in the dark-grey fish-like scale mail of the Corsair Kingdom went house to house, looting and stealing with impunity.

Thump-thump!
Lord Reaper Bedivere Storm revelled in the spoils of his conquest, at the injury he had caused the great realm of Adunia. As he walked, his iron-shod boots thudded against the ground. All those present stood to attention, and along he walked, a herald of chaos. His mane of black hair flowed freely in the smoke-winds of the burning town, looking like a ghost with his pale skin and milky-blue eye.
Thump-thump!
He diverted his gaze to the nearby caves. Passages hollowed out by the moving of the seas, the locals had said when he had visited the town in disguise to survey the area for a raid.

And hiding places for the soldiers of House Rochand.
Thump-thump!
Two dozen cannons stripped from his ships' decks pummelled the entrances to the caves, bringing them down. All three hundred men-at-arms were in the process of being sealed away in the caverns, forever. An ingenious idea, he thought, devised by himself.

In the centre of the town, the mayor had been forced onto his knees, and bound by the wrists, surrounded by the burnt-out shells of the town hall, courthouse and granaries.
"You won't get away with this!" the old man raged, as Storm approached him, sword drawn. "Once King Edward gets his hands on your sorry scalp he'll feed you to the f*cking crabs!"

The pirate lord merely regarded the man with an impassive stare.
"Too many times you people scream and swear of retribution from the crown. But where is King Edward?" He laughed madly. "I don't see him."
His arm lifted into the air, gripping his sword. Then, he brought the blade down on the man's head, and again, and again, and again, until the body fell at his feet mangled beyond recognition.

"Gather the men," he waved to his lieutenant. "We leave by sunset."

-
"The situation is most dire, my lord," General Sutherly bowed deep. "House Rochand is losing men. This... Corsair Kingdom has taken several islands offshore, and all but cemented their dominance around Dun Isle. The Southerlings and Bainbridges in Aldor have been complaining too of raids."

"Hm." King Edward sighed. He hadn't been back two weeks from his leave and already this pirate-lord was causing him no shortage of issues. "Send Lord Melbourne north. He should clear out these ruffians in no time. He is to gather one hundred of his men-at-arms, and two hundred from House Florent, and shall have ten ships at his disposal."

"But my lord..." Sutherly bowed further, straining his back. "The corsairs are said to have one hundred ships, if not more."

"Rumours, rumours," the king grunted. "No brigand has ever had more than ten ships. It shouldn't be a threat. But send fifteen ships, just in case. I have more pressing matters to attend to than mongrels playing conqueror up north."
He deliberated on the matter a moment longer.
"The swines have taken Stony Shoal, off the western coast of Dun Isle, have they not? It's an insignificant island, but I would not like to see them fortify it. I hear it is their stronghold. Order Lord Browne to take four hundred men, and twenty ships, and clear it out. That should be plenty."

The general bowed for a third time. "Yes, your grace."

-

The Half-Lion

The wake of the raid on Lordsport had resulted in King Edward deciding, rather sensibly, to replace the ranks of his council.
Lord Rochand was cast out in disgrace for his failure to stop the corsairs alongside several others, and now the thirteen nobles were down to eight.

"I am in need of new Masters of War, Grain, Laws and Trade," Edward distributed a pile of papers to his remaining advisors. "And a new grandmaster of the council."

He had, not in fact, removed so many councilmen purely because of a pirate raid, but rather, because they were Lord Southerling's allies, or at least friendly to him.
Lords Bainbridge, Rochand, Bolton, Cole, and Rowe were friends of his half-brother, and thus no friends of his.

"I name Lord Corbett to the position of Master of War," he picked the man from among the crowd. "Tomorrow, you are to move into the Council chambers upstairs."
He knew to keep his friends close... and his potential allies closer.
"Lord Steele," he motioned the second lord forward. "I name you Master of Grain. Lord Carroway, you are named Master of Laws, and Lord Montague, I name you Master of Trade."

The four lords bowed deep, and took up seats alongside the throne. Edward sighed.
"I am in need of a grandmaster for the council, and I understand that all of you are worthy of the position to some degree; I have considered this for hours on end, and it was no easy decision."

Lord Southerling, in the audience too, inhaled sharply. His mind had told him all he wanted to hear; that he would be named the second-in-command to the kingdom.

"Lord Rosby," Edward rose, and Southerling's stomach dropped. "I name you Grandmaster of the council."
The feeling built up slowly inside Florian, turning to full-blown rage, then more, then an indescribable fury so potent he felt as if it could incinerate that which it was directed at.

Long had he suspected that his half-brother feared or was suspicious of his influence. And it seemed that all his doubts were proven here.
He stormed out of the chamber as gracefully as his incoherent rage could allow him, and paused once he was out of sight in the main hall.

He had wanted to be king when he put the Casterpoole army to rout at the apex of the Brothers War. The common folk had lauded him as a saviour of the realm, but from his brother he had gotten no such sentiment. Merely a glance, and then he was given the symbolic status of Great House and put aside.

His mind lingered on the matter a moment longer, before he steeled his resolve. The north- the land known as Aldor- was well-defended and speared by the Shrikemoor: he who controlled the chokepoints to the roads around the Moor would, in turn, control the north.

House Southerling- of Aldric descent- signature violet eyes of Aldric ruling classes- former claim to the throne of Aldor before Guesmandic-Adunish conquest and occupation.

The Aldric people would surely kneel to him as king. But, Lord Southerling lamented, it would take years to prepare for the war effort. He would first declare himself King of Aldor, then once the south was taken King of Adunia.. binding the two realms together in an empire for the ages.

That would come later. Lord Southerling retreated to his quarters, and by candle-light began penning a letter of resignation. He would need time to ferment his plans.

-