[Rough Draft] Interlude XIV: Defender of the North Tower
Colonel Tybalt of Bastiallano’s northern border patrol stared grimly at the bloodied bandages left behind on the straw floor of the hospital tent. He could hardly come to terms with the message the sergeant, who served under Captain Arlo, had conveyed before dying from blood loss. The two covenless witches who had carried the injured knight to the border to deliver the news of Bastiallano’s defeat stood awkwardly in the corner of the tent. Tybalt’s officers, Captain Anton and Captain Leland, remained silent behind their commander, awaiting his instructions.
“Unforgivable,” Tybalt growled as he clutched the hilt of his sword. The scent of death and the sting of Arlo’s betrayal warred against his already mounting concerns that lay just beyond Lafeara’s northern border. “And the Duchess?”
The covenless witches exchanged looks and shook their heads. “The last we saw of her was well before the Royal Banquet. Her Grace and the Covens were determined to bring down the Pope and liberate the kingdom.”
Tybalt grunted. As starved as he was for civilization and gossip on the border, he was aware of the chaos that had followed the Dowager’s succession of Bastiallano Duchy to this Duchess of Winter.
‘A young and inexperienced girl takes over half the kingdom’s military force and manages to start a rebellion and a holy war.’ Given these circumstances, Tybalt could almost sympathize with Arlo’s reservations. ‘But to betray and slaughter our own only to hand Bastiallano’s Fortress over to a foreigner.’
The tent flap opened behind him, letting in the pale morning light as a scout entered, snapping a hasty salute before leaning into Captain Anton’s ear to deliver his news. Anton dismissed the scout and then cleared his throat as he stepped forward. “The Ventrayna General has sent yet another messenger to request a meeting.”
Tybalt drew in a sharp breath and groaned in annoyance. “Their intentions are obvious. They want to request permission to cross the border.” He turned to face the two officers with a sardonic half-grin. “But my orders are to hold them here until the Duchess arrives.”
“Their messenger also stated that if you do not come to them, they will come to us.”
The Colonel arched a brow, then shook his head as he exited the tent. “See to it our guests—” he gestured back to where the covenless witches shifted uneasily, “—are given food and drink. Then let them go on their way.”
“And the Ventrayna General’s request?” Captain Leland pressed as the scout jogged along behind them.
Tybalt’s hazel-green eyes shifted to where the dark line of Emperor Arius’s witch army covered the peninsula that marked the border of the witch nation territory.
‘What can six thousand possibly do against nearly twenty thousand?’
The Colonel turned sharply, forcing the officers and scout to divert around him. “Send the bastard an invitation to tea. Let’s hear what he has to say first.”
“You want to invite him here?” Anton glanced from the organized camp around them to the mass of armor witches less than three miles away.
“No!” Tybalt snapped as he spun on his heels, fumbling with his tobacco pouch, wishing he could drink instead. “Set up a tent midway between him. I’ll meet this General in one hour.”
“Alone!”
“No!” The Colonel pointed his pipe over his shoulder at his Captains. “Send Lieutenant Lyall over to assist me. He speaks better Ventrayna than I do, and he’s a half-witch. Who better to sniff out a trap?”
***
General Farrell Tyrell offered the Lafearian Colonel a condescending smile as he rode up to the single canopy set up under a towering white bluegum tree. He dismounted leisurely and guided the coal-black Andalusian stallion behind him as he sauntered towards the waiting seat and the minimalistic tea table set for two.
“General,” Colonel Tybalt greeted as he rose from his chair. The Lafearian’s right arm shifted toward the General before jerking back as if rethinking the offer of a handshake.
“A beautiful morning,” Farrell responded as he secured his stallion’s reins to one of the tent posts. His dark ebony eyes shifted to the officer who towered behind the Colonel, who avoided the general’s gaze entirely. “This is my first excursion into the southern kingdom. It is so very—green—and wet.” The pureblood pulled off his riding gloves and tossed them on the simple white tablecloth before taking a seat.
“It’s fine weather,” Tybalt replied with an amicable smile. There was something in the older man’s tone and the furrow of his brows that suggested he was ill at ease.
‘I can hardly blame him, given the army that stands behind me. The poor mortal would likely faint if he saw what else we brought with us.’
“Would you like some tea?” the Colonel continued, gesturing to the officer behind him, who moved forward to grasp the teapot.
“Actually,” Farrell raised a hand before gesturing to the saddle bag on the black stallion. “I brought some wine which is more to my taste. Perhaps the Colonel would care to enjoy a more robust drink with me instead.”
The Lafearian blinked in apparent surprise, then glanced towards the tip of the wine bottle that peered from beneath the saddlebag’s flap. “I—I’m afraid that would be improper. An officer does not drink while in uniform.”
“Ahh!” Farrell smirked as he rose gracefully to snatch the bottle loose, then carried it back to his seat. “But surely there are exceptions to every rule, even those imposed on the military.” The pureblood ignited the scented ropes, which sealed the clay mold to the top of the bottle. The cap heated as it expanded and quickly popped free, allowing the aroma of the rare liqueur to slither free.
“I’m afraid I must politely decline, but do make yourself comfortable,” Tybalt remarked, the corner of his mouth twitching with agitation as he swallowed the obvious thirst in his eyes, which clung to the General’s wine bottle.
“Are you certain? This is Caligo wine. The drink of emperors and kings.” Farrell filled the teacup before him, then extended the open bottle towards the Colonel’s empty glass. “You can consider it an act of diplomacy if you wish.”
“Diplomacy?” The Lafearian scoffed. “Perhaps we should get to the reason why you asked for this meeting, General.”
The pureblood arched a brow, shrugged, and set the bottle down as he leaned back in his chair. “I had hoped to share a drink as friends while explaining our reason for being here. Our kingdoms are still allies, after all.”
“No offense, General. But the force you brought with you hardly implies a friendly visit.”
“Ahh, yes. I can see why you’ve misunderstood.” Farrell took a sip of wine and smacked his lips in appreciation. “My mission is twofold. Per the negotiations between our sovereigns, I have brought troops to enforce the northern towers which separate Lafeara from Tharyn.”
“Ah—” Tybalt appeared to stumble over his words for a moment. “You’re referring to the western tower. But surely—even then—twenty thousand is a bit much.”
“Of course,” Farrell smiled before taking another sip. “The remaining seventeen thousand under my command serve as protection for our Crown Prince.”
“C-Crown Prince?!” This time the Colonel turned noticeably paler as he grasped the empty teacup tightly. “I—wasn’t aware—”
“The Emperor has sent his son on a mission of diplomacy to congratulate your King on his succession and ensure that all goes smoothly in the coronation of Queen Eleanora.”
The Lafearian’s porcelain tea cup clattered against its saucer as the General’s gaze returned to the open wine bottle between them.
“Please, allow me,” Farrell murmured sympathetically as he lifted the bottle and filled the Colonel’s cup to the brim. After an initial jerk of surprise, Tybalt wasted no time sampling the aromatic liquor and emptied the cup, suggesting he was not unfamiliar with a strong drink.
“I’m afraid your request—may prove rather difficult,” Tybalt began numbly. “We can hardly allow Ventrayna forces to enter Lafeara while his Holiness, the Pope, remains within our border.”
“Yes, we can see your dilemma. Which is why the Emperor’s son has chosen to leave ten thousand troops at the border under his sister, Princess Aurelia’s command.” Farrell held back a laugh as the Lafearian hazel-green eyes nearly bulged from his skull at the mention of not one but two members of the Ventrayna royal family. “Five thousand will be sent to secure the western tower, and the remaining three thousand will travel with the Crown Prince on his visit. A more reasonable number, I’m sure.”
The Colonel nodded slowly and cleared his throat. “Her Grace—Duchess Kirsi of Bastiallano—has asked that we—you—wait for her arrival before entering Lafeara.”
Farrell’s smile faded as he lifted the wine bottle to refill both their glasses in turn. “I’m afraid we will have to decline such a request.”
“But—”
“As I said, this wine is a gift meant to be shared among friends.” The pureblood raised his wine with a mocking smile before clinking it against the Colonel’s teacup. “It can also be considered a last gesture of courtesy to a condemned foe.”
Tybalt gripped his cup tightly as he leveled a warning glare at the pureblood. “Meaning what exactly?”
“That you can’t stop us,” Farrell replied with a predatory-like smile. “And it would be a shame to waste so many lives over a pointless delay.”
“We—we would not ask you to wait long.”
“Colonel.” The pureblood shook his head solemnly. “Please understand. The first arrow we see, the first sword or spear pointed in our direction—” A faint hiss emitted from the teacup clasped in the General’s hand as the porcelain glass darkened beneath a ball of flame that wrapped around Farrell’s fingers. “It would be most unfortunate if an insult to the Crown Prince were to change the Emperor’s mind regarding Lafeara’s position as an ally.”
The Colonel watched in grim silence as the porcelain cup crumpled into a melted mass before disappearing in a puff of vapor in the pureblood’s grip. The General whipped his hands on the silver handkerchief, then pulled on his riding gloves as he rose to his feet.
“Thank you for the drink, Colonel,” Farrell murmured affably as he flashed the pale Lafearian another diplomatic smile. “Now, if you could give me an answer, I’ll be on my way.” He watched patiently as the Colonel did the math and then finished his drink.
“Would you—” Tybalt cleared his throat hesitantly, though by now Farrell could only assume his throat was burning from the Caligo wine, “—could the timing of this visit have anything to do with the presence of the Divine Heir.”
“Ahaha!” Farrell shook his head ruefully. “I suppose I should have expected as much from the Defender of the North Tower.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully as he stepped back to untie the black Andalusian. “I can’t deny we share a certain interest in his Holiness’s current location.”
“Then perhaps, you should take more than three thousand soldiers with you on your journey to the capital.”
The General maintained a neutral smile as he scratched the stallion’s neck reassuringly. “Go on.”
“If—and only if the capture of his Holiness is of importance to your Crown Prince,” Tybalt continued as he rose from his seat to meet the pureblood gaze firmly. “Then perhaps you might consider a brief detour to Bastiallano’s Fortress.”
Farrell’s dark ebony eyes widened in surprise before he furrowed his brows in confusion. “The Pope—is at Bastiallano—Lady Kirsi’s Duchy?”
The Lafearian offered a bitter smile as he leaned across the table to grab the open wine bottle. “Thank you for the gift. I have one for you in return. It is only a rumor but can be easily confirmed.”
“You are certainly full of surprises,” Farrell replied with an amused smile. “By all means.”
“I received a report, just moments before our meeting, that the Saint has appeared in Lafeara—and King Nicholas has been deposed.”
***
“Was that wise?” Lieutenant Lyall murmured as they rode back from the now-empty canopy. “Surely they will invade now.”
“The enemy of your enemy is your friend, Lyall,” Tybalt replied grimly as he eyed the open bottle of wine in his right hand. “At the very least, we can avoid dying and use these witch bastards to reclaim Bastiallano. Her Grace might even consider forming her own alliance with this Crown Prince—whenever she reappears.”
“But would they stand a chance? Against the Saint?”
A deep thunderous roar echoed across the peninsula behind them, startling the Colonel’s horse, who skittered anxiously while Tybalt gripped the reins and his Caligo wine tightly. The pair turned stiffly to glance in the direction of the Ventrayna army, their eyes widening, mouths dropping open in silent fear and awe at the giant crimson reptilian beast that soared through the clouds above them with another deafening, reverberating cry of doom.
“Fuck—the gods—was that a dragon?!” Lyall sputtered as he all but fell from his saddle.
Tybalt took a long swig of wine and closed his eyes as the witch liquid burned down his throat. “Something tells me those witch bastards will be just fine.”