Horizon of War Series

Chapter 74: Forgotten Tome

Chapter 74: Forgotten Tome

Forgotten Tome

Audrey, Eastern Mansion

Two weeks after the battle, Lansius discovered he could exert force with his left wrist again. The physician was confident that the bone had mended, noting that the recovery was faster and better than they had hoped. Many, including Audrey, believed his quick recovery was due to the precious duck egg, a notion that humbled Lansius.

On the mansion’s upper floor, Audrey watched as Lansius tested his recovered hand, practicing with an ornamental halberd.

The thin tunic Lansius wore revealed lingering bruises from the last battle, reminding Audrey of how he looked atop his horse when he proposed to her after the battle.

Feeling her cheeks flush, she pushed the memory aside; otherwise, her face would turn completely red. Although she usually didn’t fret over small matters, the pressure from her upcoming marriage now felt very real.

Everyone she encountered, from servants and guards to peers and even supper guests, reminded her of how fortunate she was. And Audrey agreed with them.

Luck had led her to Lansius, an unassuming foreign man from Bellandia who had risen to fame by proving himself exceptional time and time again. His ability to command, lead his domain, and win wars even from disadvantaged positions seemed almost divine.

Thus, she understood that her time with Lansius was fleeting. As he continued to rise in power, he might engage in a politically advantageous marriage. Despite her status as his consort, Audrey knew she was merely low nobility.

Deep inside, Audrey was perplexed by Lansius' insistence on marrying her. She suspected it had something to do with his softhearted nature. After all, he did have a background as a teacher or scribe. However, reflecting on his accomplishments made her realize that no mere scribe could have achieved what Lansius had done. His strategic acumen in battle was almost surreal, as if he had been trained for war.

But how could one learn about this?

As a squire, Audrey had been taught how to fight, but few people were ever taught how to win wars. She had asked Lansius about this once, and he’d told her he learned it from books.

Heh, what an answer... But no matter. The origin of his abilities doesn’t bother me.

The results were as clear as the sun. After the Battle of Korelia, even the usually arrogant knights openly admired him. His knack for strategy and leading battles was gaining recognition—such fearsome abilities housed in a man who was, in person, so gentle and caring.

And to think I was going to wed him.

The thought made her nervous, and the flashes of adult conversation between Felis and Hannei that entered her mind only made her more uncomfortable.

“Audrey?”

Lansius’ voice startled her. Since Margo was out on an errand, they were alone on the upper floor. Lansius was scribbling something, while Audrey was peeling a costard fruit. “Y-yes?”

“Why are you looking at me that way?” Lansius squinted his eyes.

“Uh, oh… Nothing, I’m just wondering about… your hair, yeah,” Audrey made up excuses.

“Huh, what about it?” he asked.

“Well, there are a few strands of gray.” She had noticed them some time ago but never told him.

“Really?” He sounded mildly surprised.

“Yeah, let me pluck one for you—”

“No, no, let it be. I like grey better than this… black,” he said, trying to pull a hair strand into his line of sight.

“Mm... I actually find black to be great,” Audrey remarked.

He opened his mouth agape. “No way, you’re jesting?”

Audrey stifled her chuckle while putting the knife down and arranging the sliced fruit on a platter. “No, it’s the same color as my horse’s mane, and I love it.”

Lansius obviously thought differently because he suddenly came closer and hugged Audrey from behind.

“Euehh?!”

“Why are you comparing my hair to a horse’s mane?” he protested, tickling her waist.

Audrey burst into laughter, breaking free from his grip. As payback, she picked up a slice of costard from the table and shoved it into his mouth.

“A bit sour,” he muttered, chewing.

“Well, everything has its season, My Lord,” Audrey replied.

“Umm, how was your meeting with Lady Felis?”

“Urgh,” Audrey groaned.

“As I expected,” he sighed, well aware that Audrey had little interest in learning the duties of a lady-in-waiting.

“It should be better next time, I’m going with Cecile.”

“That’s the spirit,” Lansius commended.

Feeling a bit cheeky, Audrey said, “I’ll suggest to Felis that you join the class. Your manners seem to lack polish lately, My Lord.”

“Urgh,” Lansius groaned and changed the topic. “Anyway, speaking of Cecile, do you think she’s really interested in Calub?”

“Of course, it’s a good match. Cecile has status and land, while Calub has wealth and power.”

“But what about love?” he asked cautiously, as if the word were fragile.

“Mm... That should be fine. She’s pretty and blonde; he’s educated, courteous, and in his prime. Many people have introduced their daughters to Calub, you know?”

“Really? But nobody offered me—”

Unconsciously, Audrey stared at him. He looked startled and averted his gaze.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to,” she blurted out, quickly looking for an excuse. “You have two blondes wandering around the castle and sleeping in your bed. I doubt anyone would dare to compete.”

“I wish people knew that you three have taken over my bed and exiled me to the dog house,” he sighed.

“Dog house? Why do dogs need a house?” she asked.

He waved his hand. Sometimes Lansius used phrases that were completely foreign to her.

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“Well, at least I have you...” he flirted, grinning.

“Yes, My Lord, you have me. Just make sure to feed me properly,” Audrey quipped.

“Roast meat for tonight, my dear?” His tone was so refined it made her snort with laughter.

The soon-to-be-wed couple savored each moment, aware that peace had become a luxury commodity. They had yet to receive a report from the punitive force led by Hugo, Sir Michael, and Daniella to Korimor. Even with the speed granted by the newly-formed dragoon regiment, the campaign could still end in disaster.

Moreover, Sir Harold had conveyed unsettling news gathered by Sir Justin. Utilizing his emerging black market intelligence, the Marshal reported that the border war was turning against the Imperium. The number of refugees was growing, and the threat of a massive famine loomed larger than ever.

The Imperium had never seemed so fragile, and the unrest could soon reach Korelia. No place was truly safe.

***

Midlandia

A hawk descended onto a perch atop a tower in the estuary, its majestic wings fully extended for a moment before it landed gracefully. The birdkeeper swiftly offered food and water to the majestic creature while removing a small tube from its leg. The tube contained a brief letter from the Hunters Guild.

As the sun dipped low, it cast a reddish hue on the chateau’s curtain walls. For the inhabitants within, this signaled that the day’s training and studying had come to an end. Now, it was time for supper.

In the Great Hall, Lord Bengrieve addressed his two-hundred men-at-arms and almost an equal number of staff. Meals were first brought to him for selection; then they were offered to his guests, his second in command, and so forth down the chain of command. Any uneaten food was collected as alms for the poor.

For Bengrieve, supper was mainly a social event—a time to engage with his retainers and guests. Consequently, he ate sparingly, mainly partaking in simple snacks, fruits, and customary drinks.

Only as the evening deepened did Bengrieve have his dinner. Usually, he ate alone, disliking small talks and preferring the quietness of the night. Tonight, however, since Sir Stan was staying over, he invited him to join.

Besides Bengrieve’s family, who were currently out of town, only a select few were privy to this occasion.

“I heard a hawk arrived this afternoon,” Stan said, sipping his mead.

“It’s from the Guild. A representative will arrive tomorrow,” Bengrieve replied.

Stan nodded, swirling his goblet to aerate his mead. “We should send support to Korelia,” he said. “Otherwise, we may have a disgruntled agent on our hands.”

Bengrieve chose not to respond, focusing instead on carving his roasted veal with a fennel and rosemary sauce, accompanied by green beans and brown bread. The meal was simple but hearty, reflecting the lessons his father and grandfather had instilled in him: how to eat, how to maintain his physique, and how to choose a noble spouse for more than just her lineage.

Unperturbed by Bengrieve’s silence, his steward—an older-looking man in an impeccable wine-colored tunic—approached and interjected, “My Lord, a messenger from My Lady has arrived. She asks if you would like her to come to the chateau.”

“What do you think?" Bengrieve inquired of the steward.

“While a child’s education is paramount, I think a wife should be with her ailing husband.”

“Very well, invite her and arrange a suitable escort. We wouldn’t want anyone to take her hostage.”

“Certainly. Shall I also arrange for assistance from the Hunter’s Guild?” the steward asked. He was well aware that nobody would dare to hurt her, but capturing her would not only tarnish his master’s reputation but also destabilize the province.

“At your discretion,” Bengrieve replied. The steward nodded and left the table.

Stan shifted topics. “What are your plans regarding the succession fiasco? Eclipse Castle is in an uproar.”

Bengrieve’s face turned a bit sour. “Let them be. I care not who is the new Lord.”

“You sure?” Stan asked while lobbing roasted almonds into his mouth. “They may be powerless, but they can hinder your plan.”

Bengrieve exhaled deeply. He had much to ponder, particularly concerning the likely demise of the Emperor and the state of the Imperium. Secret letters from Lord Gottfried had even arrived, attempting to coax Midlandia into neutrality and promising beneficial support and coexistence when the Imperium fell.

As the crisis of the millennia loomed, Bengrieve’s colleagues were undermining efforts with their petty rivalries. “It’s painful to see people in power acting so foolishly.”

“That’s why you should take the lead,” Stan suggested while munching on a pudding.

The host clicked his tongue. He detested being paraded in front, losing his ability to observe from the sidelines. Behind the shadow of someone else, he could spot threats that would go unnoticed if he were bathed in the limelight.

“If you don’t want to, then you need a new figurehead. They have no other son, bastard, or cousin,” Stan commented, referring to how the easy life and decadence had destroyed the Earl House’s bloodline.

Bengrieve pondered his options before saying, “I’ll just accelerate my plan.”

Stan grew serious. “I hope it’s not the one that’ll thrust me up.”

“I trust no one else. Of course, this ideally occurs after several more merits. If only you had Lansius’ achievements.”

“Oi, oi,” Stan protested but turned into a chuckle. “The man’s a war genius. Me, I’m just a lazy bastard.”

“But you’re the correct bastard for my plan,” Bengrieve delivered the joke with a flat face.

Stan chuckled and later added, “How about the Healers Guild?”

Bengrieve munched a rather large slice and swallowed it. Without looking concerned, he answered, “I’m going to censure them for their involvement in the succession issue. That female is wrecking a high noble’s household.”

Stan was much more guarded. “Despite her looks, Saint Candidate Nay is quite popular and well-connected.”

“Bah! It’s me that funded and directed the guild into this state; it’s not for her to abuse.” Bengrieve exhaled deeply to calm himself down. “In the end, everything is just a small hurdle. It’ll only slow me down, but won’t stop me.”

Stan sniggered. “Not even the Imperium?”

“Not even the Imperium,” Bengrieve confirmed.

Stan had nothing else to say. Next time, he would beg Bengrieve not to choose him as a puppet. It was inconvenient for a man who valued his freedom, and he knew others were more suitable for the job.

Instead of finishing his malty mead, Stan opted for fresh water in the silver goblet and drank it down. He had always thought the water at the chateau tasted sweet.

Soon after, the guest excused himself and marched noisily down the corridor, likely flirting with the maids. Bengrieve didn’t mind; if Stan took a concubine from his staff, he would be supportive. The fertility rate amongst the nobility was concerning enough that he even welcomed such an idea.

With his bastard cousin gone and dinner concluded, Bengrieve returned to his study.

The soft white glow from transparent quartz lights filled the room. His indoor garden, separated by large glass windows, was lit by lanterns placed at its corners and around the gazebo.

Feeling satiated, he settled into his couch and picked up an old tome, Elven Genealogy, which he had been reading since yesterday. Although he had consulted another book on the subject, he felt compelled to cross-reference an older source for certainty.

Resuming from where he had left off, Bengrieve continued to read the forgotten tome.

...

The second watch had passed, marked by patrols moving through the corridor. As usual, a squire entered the chamber and politely asked if the master needed anything. The staff’s specialty was a fermented, dried, and roasted black cherry drink, but today he wasn’t in the mood.

“Any word from outside?” he inquired, despite not wanting to hear any bad news.

“We’ve received no news from the Capital or anything else of importance,” the squire responded.

“That will be all,” he said to the squire, who bowed and left.

His primary concerns were the latest developments from the western border wars, which had sapped the might of the Imperium, as well as the influx of refugees and the threat of famine. Equally significant were troop movements around the Capital and any city lockdowns, as these could signal a move either against or in support of the throne.

Bengrieve could only assume that several high-ranking nobles also suspected the Ageless One was, in fact, an elf and likely dead due to old age. However, he understood that many would turn a blind eye to maintain the status quo.

Yet with Lord Gottfried only a province away from the Capital, the dynamics had shifted. The High Council and the House of the Imperium, represented by the Grand Bureaucracy, would be forced to reveal their hands. And when they clashed, Midlandia would be well-positioned to pick up the pieces.

No vassal east of the Capital was content with two decades of continuous special taxes levied to fund the western border wars—especially when corruption ran high and many elites profited from the conflict.

Many were disgusted by the situation but dared not raise their voices. They were left to shoulder these onerous taxes, which slowly drained the lifeblood from their provinces. The tax was calculated based on the amount of productive land under their governance. Therefore, any land building would incur additional taxes even before the new land turned profitable.

The situation was frustrating, and many had sought ways to reduce, delay, or avoid these burdensome payments. Behind closed doors, many eastern Lords admitted they saw no future with the Imperium. They felt they were being milked for taxes with nothing in return but an aging, archaic bureaucracy that required bribes to function.

However, each was waiting for someone else to make the first move, to bear the blood cost. The rest would prefer to switch sides or declare independence when it was safe and convenient to do so. Thus, Bengrieve paid little heed to their expressions of support, knowing full well that they wanted Midlandia to shoulder the blame.

Bengrieve glanced at the silvery ornament on his right wrist, a gift from a mage as a pledge of loyalty. Noting the positions of the long and short hands, he muttered to himself, "Nine."

He continued reading. After dozens more pages, Bengrieve finally stumbled upon something intriguing. One of the yellowing, thick pages detailed the characteristics of a half-race from the Belopoeica commune that had gone extinct in the second millennium. Notable traits included human-like facial features, non-prominent ears, and black hair.

“Another of the halves,” Bengrieve muttered, concerned.

***