Valkyrie's Shadow

The Paladin of the Holy Kingdom, Part III: Act 1, Chapter 1

The Paladin of the Holy Kingdom, Part III: Act 1, Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Under the light of a full moon, a swell of fog rolled into the port of Vigo, billowing over the breakwater and inundating the piers. The fog washed over the wharves and swirled into the city streets, transforming the landscape into an archipelago of apartments scattered upon a ghostly sea.

So empty…

It was all so empty. The piers; the wharf; the city streets. To be fair, it was an hour past midnight, but the day would only show how drastically things had changed from a mere year before.

The Merchant fleet – the lifeblood of Vigo – was gone. Every vessel in port for that season had been taken by the Royal Navy to keep the Demon Emperor’s Demihuman horde from spilling over the narrow isthmus that connected the north to the south. Barely any of the ships had returned, though the broken bits of their wreckage still washed up on the beaches every day.

Their shipyards remained silent, for the mighty forests that once carpeted the peninsula had long been hewn. What they didn’t immediately use was still cleared away as they provided shelter for Demihuman raiders. With Roble half in ruins, even the wealthiest Nobles could scarce afford to import wood from Re-Estize as the bulk of their resources had been rallied to keep the north from collapsing outright.

Not that most minded. Aristocrats loved nothing more than to be recognised as crucial to the country, after all. An honour and a privilege and all that.

“One would think the world is coming to an end after witnessing an expression like that.”

Marquis Miguel Bodipo’s gaze focused on his reflection in the window. Though only a few months had passed since the war’s end, it felt like years to him. His hair was now more grey than blonde and the creases lining his face had doubled. The changes were not due to days of celebration and merrymaking.

“That may not be too far off from the truth, Vigo,” Miguel replied. “Something is wrong. Terribly wrong.”

“Old purple did pass on last month,” Count Vigo idly worked a poker in the fireplace. “Half of the south is still in mourning. You served him as a page, didn’t you?”

A page, and then a footman. He almost made the senior staff before his own father passed on. It was all so, so long ago.

“As did you,” Miguel turned away from the window. “The both of us owe him more than we could ever hope to repay. More than our fathers, Old Purple made us the men that we are today.”

Honour. Service. Loyalty. For so many, the late Marquis was the foundation upon which the south built its prosperity, educating so many of the country’s scions during their service in his household. Miguel was of the mind that without Old Purple, the Holy Kingdom of Roble would have been wiped off of the map decades ago.

“That sounds suspiciously like a preface to something, my lord,” Count Vigo arched an eyebrow.

“Don’t ‘my lord’ me,” he grunted. “But yes, you’re not wrong. I didn’t come calling just to drink the night away.”

He reached into his coat, producing a fistful of papers. The seal that once held them together – which bore Old Purple’s sigil – hung loosely from a ribbon still attached to the cover page. Count Vigo took the papers in his hand, leaning into the firelight as his blue eyes scanned the page.

“I can only pray that my mind stays this sharp before I go to the gods,” Count Vigo said.

“So, you’re in agreement?”

“How could I disagree? That fool on the throne would have us all drown in this…initiative to keep us afloat. The signs are clear for those who have the eyes to see them.”

Miguel settled onto a couch in front of the fireplace with a sigh.

“But how many have the eyes to see them?” He asked.

“The important question is how many have the eyes to see them that matter,” Count Vigo said. “All of Old Purple’s pupils should, which may as well be half of the southern nobility. But the Duke is still outraged over Caspond’s arbitrary ascension and, to be frank, so are we. Any challenges to the ‘recovery measures’ issued by Hoburns are guaranteed to be framed as an effort to undermine Caspond’s legitimacy by the parasites who support him.”

“Yet, if we don’t do anything,” Miguel said, “those parasites will only continue to get fatter at the expense of the country itself.”

“You and I would not be speaking right now if there was a clear and simple solution.”

Count Vigo took a seat across the table from him, gently setting the letter from Old Purple down between them. Miguel’s thoughts turned bitter as his gaze settled upon it.

It was the will of a dying old man who continued to worry for his country more than himself. He had no idea how many months or even years Old Purple’s final exertion had shaved off of his life. He also had no idea how to lay his old mentor’s spirit to rest.

“What about the Temples?” Count Vigo asked as he idly swirled his glass of red.

“What about them?” Miguel snorted, “As always, they hold their traditional stance of supporting the Holy King.”

“Even when it means that their ‘traditional stance’ supports radical nonsense?”

“You know how the Temples are. They insist that they’re only concerned with the spiritual well-being of the country.”

“Did you tell them that our current course will turn the ‘spirit’ of the country as black as a Demon’s heart?”

“I did.”

Count Vigo’s hand stopped.

“You did?” He frowned.

Miguel smiled slightly, imagining the Bishop’s reaction if he had.

“Not in those exact words. I did politely explain how things would play out, however.”

“And?” The Count leaned forward in his seat, “What did they say?”

“I was chided for my lack of faith.”

The younger nobleman threw back his head as he exploded into laughter. It was a helpless noise; a hopeless sound that only exacerbated the depression blanketing the room.

Miguel didn’t feel that he was much different from the average person when it came to his faith in the Four Elemental Gods, but as a Noble, he found it difficult to accept that the gods would appoint a representative who seemed to be adamant on a setting a course that would shipwreck the entire country. While he also wasn’t very impressed with the late Holy Queen, she at least respected the traditions of their country and ascended to the throne in a proper manner. She was also highly popular amongst the common folk, which made the life of the aristocracy that much easier no matter how much the aristocracy disliked the fact that their liege lord was no ‘lord’ at all.

Caspond, on the other hand, had ascended to the throne with barely any support. To make things much worse, he was a foolish populist who enacted ill-conceived and short-sighted policies. As a Marquis, Miguel was well-acquainted with the man, but his captivity under Jaldabaoth’s minions had transformed him to the extent that he may as well have been a different person wearing the Caspond’s skin.

That being said, it all served as proof that he wasn’t fit for rule. Past traumatic experience was no excuse for present-day incompetence and his court lacked the talent to counterbalance it. Perhaps he and his supporters expedited his ascension for that very reason, which, if true, only contributed to the Holy Kingdom’s dire situation.

“But what other choices do we have? The Duke?” Count Vigo scoffed, “The Admiralty? The next fleet will come in ahead of the autumn storms, but they’ll have been out for three years on the gyre. I feel like throwing up whenever I think about their reaction to all this when they finally sail into port.”

“We still have at least one good candidate coming in with that fleet,” Miguel told him. “And what they witness may serve to spur them to action. The most important point is that the Holy Kingdom has always chosen its kings. Kings do not choose themselves as Caspond has. Everything he has done and everything he is doing weakens the moral and legal fabric of our country and drags us closer to becoming a festering pit of absolutist tyranny.”

“Do the people even care?”

“The people must be made to care. They don’t see what we do. They don’t have the means to. This responsibility sits directly upon the shoulders of the aristocracy.”

“And blame will be directly placed upon us if we try. You know as well as I how people are.”

Miguel sent a sour look across the table. Count Vigo’s only response was a smirk and a shrug. The mire that the Holy Kingdom was rapidly sinking into was a difficult one to crawl out of.

At the centre of the whole problem, of course, was Caspond. Regardless of whether he was a total idiot, hopelessly idealistic, or twisted by his experiences during the war, it all boiled down to the same result.

Upon his coronation, Caspond embarked upon an economic crusade that sought to bring all of the Holy Kingdom’s productive potential together for a monumental, unified effort to get the country back on its figurative feet. It was to be a war against the dark future that the country faced in the wake of Jaldabaoth’s invasion. There was no sacrifice too great for the sake of victory.

Caspond didn’t phrase it in those exact words, of course. The message that the criers delivered to the far corners of the country was one that appealed to the values of the mostly-rural population. In times of disaster and crisis, communities came together in order to survive. Helping others in times of need was the right and proper thing to do. In accordance with that spirit, the Holy Kingdom would come together to pull itself out of a mess that it never asked for and did not deserve.

And nearly everyone hopped on board. The people; the Temples; even some of the Nobles. Caspond’s proposal was an appeal to common sense…but common sense was often nonsensical and it was also possibly the worst way to think critically about anything.

The common folk could be forgiven for thinking that way. They weren’t raised to rule and the lives that they lived didn’t grant them the insight to see too far beyond the immediate realities of their existence. Expecting them to was about as reasonable as expecting a Noble to know how to fashion a suit of armour or take care of a herd of Lanca.

Unfortunately, that didn’t stop them from having an opinion on subjects in which they were unlearned. What a properly educated and experienced Noble would see as measures to amend policies that would inevitably lead to ruin would be perceived as evil acts of corruption by the masses.

The result would be the same if they did nothing, for Caspond had turned the entire affair into a competition. Individuals, communities, and even entire fiefs were measured against one another according to their ‘contributions’ to the country. The most productive were rewarded with various prizes that ranged from money to hereditary titles.

As any Noble who had ever financed a contest for a town fair would expect, the entire country was incentivised to pursue the metrics that qualified and quantified those contributions to the exclusion of all else. And, because those metrics had become a part of everyday life, every man, woman, and child started to define themselves by them.

It went all downhill from there. There was no end to the stupidity he witnessed. Never mind stupidity, crime rates had gone up twenty-fold in a mere month and problematic behaviours were becoming normalised. One could feel the spiritual and moral corruption that was taking hold of the country.

Yet, Caspond continued to insist that it was the correct course. The Nobles that made up his initially shaky following continued to support him and were rewarded for carrying out his witless wishes. Instead of seeing a social problem rooted in a set of ill-conceived policies that exploited Human nature and brought out the worst in people, the Temples instead chose to chastise their congregations for the sinful behaviour that resulted to little or no effect.

“Then,” Miguel said, “knowing how people are, where do you think our best chances lie?”

“The Duke,” Count Vigo replied.

“That’s not the answer I wanted to hear.”

“You already knew what the answer was.”

Miguel rose, frustrated by their lack of options. He paced around the room before stopping once again before the window.

“What about the Holy Order?” The Count asked, “They may be affiliated with the Temples, but they’re also charged with upholding justice. With what’s happening all over the country, they should know who stands on the side of righteousness.”

“Their new Grandmaster can’t be trusted. He’s too lukewarm. The sort that would rather seek compromise than stand up for his beliefs.”

“There are other Paladins that we can turn to.”

“Who? The Pink? I’m certain he was passed over for Grandmaster precisely because his austere character would be an obstacle.”

“Which means he’ll naturally be on our side. The White, as well.”

He snorted.

“I admit that she may have been useful before the invasion,” Miguel said. “But the war has changed her as much as it has changed Caspond. She’s nothing more than a thug in shining armour, now.”

“A thug with principles,” Count Vigo noted. “Or would you rather have that monster stay under Hoburns’ control? She may wield a holy sword, but, in her hand, it can take the heads of good men as easily as it does evil ones.”

“You’re right about her having principles, but, if we bring her in too early, she’s likely to charge off prematurely, waving that holy sword of hers around and ruining everything.”

His angry sigh filled the air. The conversation was sounding more and more like a prelude to the last thing he wanted to see.

“In that case,” Count Vigo said, “the Duke.”

“The Duke,” Miguel agreed reluctantly.

He looked back out of the window, sending his gaze past the misty harbour to the open sea beyond. A storm was coming for the Holy Kingdom. In what form it would manifest, however, he still could not tell.

“Antonio Cohen, the Count of Cohen. His wife, Martha, the Countess of Cohen.”

Antonio Cohen waited precisely four seconds before stepping past the herald and into the Royal Court of Hoburns. It was a splendid summer day, with the wind carrying cool air from the hills near the capital past the marble columns of the balcony to refresh the courtiers within. His gaze passed briefly over those courtiers, taking an inventory of allies, enemies, and other interests.

Most were allies. Through no small effort on his part, his faction had gained unquestionable influence over the court. The faction, once known as the ‘progressives’, were now more commonly known as the royalists. Through their leadership, the Holy Kingdom would rise to levels of greatness never seen before in their corner of the world.

He ignored the cold stares of his few opponents clustered around the room, walking proudly to the base of the dais at the head of the great hall.

“Your Divine Grace,” he said as he genuflected before the throne.

“Lord Cohen,” Caspond Bessarez, the Holy King of Roble, smiled down at him. “You may raise your head. We pray that good tidings have brought you before Us.”

“The stirrings of unrest outside Kalinsha has been quelled,” Antonio rose and reported, “and the labour camps have been restored to order. Fortunately, damage to infrastructure and industry has been minimal and the local overseers are confident that they will be able to make up for the losses in production.”

“What of Our people?”

“We have endeavoured to keep casualties to a minimum,” Antonio replied. “The shortfalls in labour have already been accounted for.”

The Holy King cast his gaze downward, shaking his head sadly.

“We will see to it that prayers are offered up for those unfortunate souls,” he said. “But unrest of this nature…never has the Holy Kingdom experienced such a thing in its history.”

“We live in unprecedented times, Your Divine Grace,” Antonio noted. “The ignorant masses are simply confused with the loss of those who once led them. Rest assured, the course that you have set will see us safely through the troubled seas before us.”

King Caspond seemed to take comfort in his words, nodding slowly.

“Speaking of troubled seas,” the Holy King said. “What of the new shipyards being raised North of Kalinsha?”

Antonio remained silent for a moment, considering his response. The shipyards themselves were still being constructed, but…

A report must have reached him about the complications in the east. There’s little to gain in attempting to conceal the issue.

“I must regret to inform your Divine Grace that there will be delays,” Antonio said. “Not only in the construction of the shipyards themselves, but also in the commissioning of new vessels.”

An angry murmur rippled throughout the court. Not only were the new shipyards supposed to provide work for thousands of Roble’s citizens and the tens of thousands who supported them, but it was also a crucial industrial facility that was meant to offset a major disadvantage. Namely, the true purpose of the shipyard was to increase the power of the Holy King and his supporters against the southern Nobles who opposed both his ascension and his policies. The south’s industries were untouched by the war, and the side with the larger navy ultimately dictated the fate of the Holy Kingdom.

“This is untenable,” one of Antonio’s allies visibly seethed. “Coercion in all but name!”

Antonio shuddered at the memory of the black rider that appeared with the Sorcerous Kingdom’s ridiculous demand. The official treaty with the Sorcerous Kingdom recognised a two thousand square kilometre strip of land beyond the wall as part of the Holy Kingdom’s holdings. Then, just as the work to develop those holdings had begun, they demanded that the Holy Kingdom cease.

Never mind infringing on the rights of a sovereign state to govern its own territory, the demand itself was utterly nonsensical. All of the plans that hinged on the development of their new frontier were thrown into disarray, including the construction of the northern shipyards and their future operations. He could only think that the Undead country was trying to curtail the Holy King’s – and, by extension, the royalists’ – power in some unfathomable bid to manipulate their country.

“The ink on the treaty with the Sorcerous Kingdom has barely dried and they’ve already altered the deal!”

“We can only pray that they do not alter it any further,” King Caspond sighed. “The Sorcerous Kingdom continues to sustain Our people with their generous food aid, so we cannot afford any friction with them at this point. If anything, this is further reason to ensure that Our policies are carried out with all haste. As for the issues with the shipyards, rather than rage against that which we cannot control, let us discuss solutions.”

“I propose that we focus our efforts on the northeast,” Count de Silva, one of the more vocal members of the royalist faction said. “To the wilderness that lies between us and Re-Estize. The Sorcerous Kingdom can hardly say anything about that.”

“But what will Re-Estize say?” The King asked.

De Silva let out a derisive sound.

“According to my sources, Re-Estize can barely keep its heartlands from being overrun by bandits and worse. Travellers say that the lands halfway to E-Robel have been allowed to grow wild and are infested with Goblins and Ogres.”

“Besides,” another Noble said. “They didn’t lift a finger to help us when Jaldabaoth invaded, despite knowing of his evil. We owe Re-Estize nothing!”

“Hear, hear!”

“They cannot claim land that they cannot control!”

Antonio scanned the faces in the court. It was not just his allies that held those sentiments.

“So my Lords say,” King Caspond said, “but does that not also apply to us? We are hardly in any state to wage another war.”

“Another war is hardly required,” de Silva scoffed. “Goblins and Ogres are no threat worth mentioning. My son, Reynaldo, commands a company of strong, reliable men who made names for themselves during the war. The Sorcerous Kingdom’s demands have robbed him of his efforts along the wall, yet Reynaldo still tirelessly works to uphold the order of the kingdom. He will gladly conquer the northern wilderness by the will of Your Divine Grace.”

A calculating silence filled the throne room. The court was unanimously in favour of the proposal to gain control over the wilderness along the highway to Re-Estize, so the question now was how it would be accomplished and, more importantly, who would claim credit. Count de Silva had made the first move in his characteristically audacious manner, but there was no way the proposal would stand as it was.

“My son will go, as well,” a Noble from the royalist faction stepped forward. “In addition, House Palmela pledges two thousand men to this cause.”

“House Maia will match House Palmela’s pledge!” Another royalist said.

A low din filled the air as dozens of royalists raced to present their commitments. It wasn’t long before an army twice the size of the one sent by the south to aid the north during the war was in the works. A smile slowly spread behind Antonio’s expressionless mask.

We have them now.

“For shame!” A Noble from the conservative faction roared, “Your naked avarice is made plain for all to see! Where were all these men when Jaldabaoth was rampaging across half of the country?”

Antonio wanted to laugh out loud at the man’s foolishly naive words. Why would anyone in their right mind cast valuable resources into a Demon’s hellfire? It was precisely because he and his allies had withheld their forces that they could do what they were doing now.

“It’s not as if we could leave the south open to invasion,” Antonio offered a calm, reasoned response. “Now that the threat to our lands has passed and things have stabilised somewhat, is it not obvious that we would have more men at our disposal?”

“Still,” another Noble from the conservative camp said, “the Crown cannot accept those pledges. This is not a matter of national defence – we are expanding the holdings of the Holy Kingdom and the lords who made these pledges have no legal right to do so.”

The man’s allies loudly voiced their agreement. The royalists remained silent, putting on expressions that looked more hurt than angry.

It was a valid argument. Or, rather than an argument, it was simply the law. The only Nobles permitted to expand the borders were those of the remaining marches in the south, but they had bled themselves dry during the war supporting the navy and then sending their armies north. They were in no position to match the commitment of the royalist faction.

“A compromise, then,” King Caspond said. “We will dispatch the Royal Army for this campaign. In their absence, the men pledged by our loyal lords here will uphold order.”

“But, Your Divine Grace…”

“This is the optimal solution, is it not? The numbers pledged triple what the Royal Army currently has available, which will address our severe manpower shortages across the territories. The pledged men may not be in active service, but they have all served in the past and should all be familiar with policing duties. Meanwhile, I do not believe we need so many men to conquer the northern wilderness and sending soldiers that are still sharp will be far more efficient than sending those who haven’t handled a blade in years.”

“It is as the Holy King says,” Antonio nodded. “This is an efficient solution that more than satisfies all parties. For what reason would any reasonable man hold reservations against it?”

Antonio returned the withering looks levelled against him with a mask of genuine confusion. The conservatives couldn’t do anything more than that – not without starting a battle that they were woefully ill-prepared to fight.

“Then, it is settled,” King Caspond said. “By Our will, the Royal Army shall be dispatched to tame the northern frontier. Marquis Bodipo will serve as the commander-in-chief of the expeditionary force.”

After the details of the expedition were reviewed and the Royal Court was adjourned, Antonio only stayed behind for the bare minimum that decorum demanded before returning to his carriage.

This is just too perfect.

“You said that Caspond had changed,” Martha said as the carriage rolled past the prime estates of the capital, “but can war transform a man so entirely? It’s almost as if he’s been replaced by a slightly clever commoner.”

“What does it matter?” Antonio replied, “Nearly everything he does plays right into our hands. He has undermined what little authority he gained upon his ascension to the point that he’s entirely dependent on us to keep him on the throne.”

“A fool to stand above all others,” Martha yawned. “Calca was certainly idealistic, but her brother is just a banal and boring idiot.”

He agreed with his wife’s assessment, but, again, that didn’t matter. What mattered was that more and more power was falling into the hands of his faction. The most recent decision by the Royal Court only served to incalculably amplify that power.

The Royal Army had been sent out of the country, replaced by forces loyal to the royalists. Any residual resistance to the Holy King’s new economic policies would be crushed and the increased manpower would result in improved order and productivity. Taxes could be more efficiently collected and it would all be thanks to forces who answered to the royalists. The way that the crown rewarded performance meant that the vast majority of the benefits would go to men loyal to their faction.

Martha leaned against his shoulder, pressing her breast against his arm.

“With the way things are going,” she purred, “perhaps we should make two or three more sons.”

Antonio wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulders, a smile crossing his lips. It would only be a matter of time before they would become the true rulers of Roble.