Responses:
Laxard: Oh if only it were ever that simple.
Jajo Camello: It was purely so that they could focus more on their precious space marines, which pissed a lot of people off, myself included. Also chaos is more than just random my man. Chaos is the manifestation of all mankind's worst instincts, from anger to fear, to lust for sensations and power. It's all of these negative thoughts and more given physical form through four reality tumors that make up the chaos gods. If you're still new to the lore though then don't worry, chaos will get a better explanation in the next chapter, and even then what I just told you doesn't do the description of chaos any justice.
Sancus the Inquisitive: Me too my man…me too.
NoobStyle: Firstly, fuq Age of Sigmar. Secondly, don't you worry. I've got something special cooked up for Mannfred when I get to his pale ass.
Zerkill: Yes, fuck the End Times. You could say this fic was partially motivated to give something of a better ending to that.
King Louen Leoncur thought that it would be a good day. A day where, after receiving such good news that all would be well.
…
After all, things were finally looking up for his beleaguered nation. It wasn't long ago when he could feel the weight of his crown when several threats began to rouse themselves all at once. Even the mightiest nations wouldn't be able to handle beastmen, green skins, the undead, and northerners all at once, and yet to his pride, Brettonia still stood firm.
To his greatest relief was news that none other than Duke Bohemond had been able to defeat Kemmler's successor, a foreign man named Lyle Spolleta in a pitched battle. While he hadn't been able to completely decimate the undead army, he'd nonetheless maimed the undead host, reportedly sending them scurrying back to Blackstone Post, with Spoletta's fate as of yet unknown. Add to the fact that apparently a beastmen horde had been dashed upon the walls of Karak Ziflin and that the Red Duke of Mousillon had yet to have success in breaking out of his borders, then it would seem that all would be well and handled.
Sadly that left the norscans in the north, and as of right now, King Louen realized he may have made a mistake in not rallying more reinforcements to throw back these chaos-worshiping raiders.
As of now, King Louen felt his blood pumping through his body, his limbs tired and worn from what felt like hours of fighting as he fended off strike after strike from a Nurgle worshiping norscan chieftain whose mere scent could make lesser men faint.
Men screamed and died around the King of Bretonnia, both peasant and knight alike, as they desperately fought for their lives near the northern coast of Corroune. Norscans of all shapes and sizes, along with skin wolves and ice wolves, tore into their ranks and horses with reckless savagery that could make even an ork blush.
The battle didn't start so bad. At first, it was manageable as King Louen, with the help of his trusty hippogryph Beaquis and a squadron of pegasus knights managed to harass the norscans on their ships as they arrived on the shores to be met with spears, arrows, and devastating cavalry charges. Even as more and more norscans arrived and managed to secure a beachhead, Louen was not worried. They still were slaying Norscans by the dozens, which soon became the hundreds, with lowborn and highborn cheering at their victories.
Those cheers became more muted when even more longships arrived over the horizon, even as Louen slew more and more norscan champions, warriors, and berserkers personally with blood staining the grass of his homeland.
The real trouble came when wolves of all types began to pour from some of the landed longships. Everyone who had ever known Brettonia would know how their fabled cavalry was the true heart of their armies. Unfortunately, with ice wolves pinning them down with their speed and skin wolves tearing into their horses, it was up to the peasant infantry to try and hold fast against the more savage, experienced, equipped, and skilled norscans.
It was never even fair for them.
Louen and his pegasus knights tried making dives to tip the battle back in their favor. Still, even they were limited in what they could do once expert javelin throwers started making life especially difficult for the Brettonian air forces. Matters became so dangerous that Beaquis took a javelin to his wing, forcing him to land without his natural grace. This left King Louen falling unceremoniously and haphazardly on his side, slightly twisting his ankle. To be honest, he was more worried for his feathered companion in that moment, only breathing a sigh of relief when Beaquis managed to avoid falling too hard to cause any more serious injury. Unfortunately, his skyward companion was in no shape to fight or even flight at that point, leaving the King to make the unusual decision to fight on foot.
The fighting truly began in earnest after that, and even with the blood of Gille and the power of the Lady flowing in his veins, King Louen was not immune to fatigue. Highly resistant, yes, but no man was invincible, even with the blessing of his nation's lovely goddess. He personally slew Champion after Champion and it was after finishing his eighth duel of the day that Louen realized his unavoidable mistake.
King Louen thought that by utterly obliterating the previous raiding parties that, he would send a message to any other Norscan tribes that any attempt to raid his lands would only be met with their own decimation. In the past this would have worked. Now, it seemed that such action only emboldened them as if they welcomed the challenge. To the Royarch of Bretonnia, it appeared as though the norscans were even desperate to sacrifice their lives to prove that they were worthy of the dark gods that they worshiped, further evidenced by the sheer size of this raiding party.
The peasant line was barely holding. Louen was impressed that they had been holding for as long as they had, especially considering that they all had been fighting for hours, with sweat and blood covering almost every inch of their bodies on the hot day. Men lost limbs, others lost lives, and not even the vaunted knights were immune with their high-grade armor, especially with the skin wolves literally chomping at the bit to gorge upon their flesh, snarling and howling all the while.
The Royarch knew he needed to end this, and there was no swifter way to blunt the ferocity of a norscan raiding party than to slay the man leading it in the first place. Though he had faith in Brettonian arms and faith, it rent the heart of the head of Bretonnia to see so many of his men of all breeds die such ignoble deaths. Plus, every man that survived today could help thwart the threats of tomorrow.
I must end this before the line breaks. We could still rally, but the cost would be too weighty for my tastes.
Thankfully it did not take Louen long to find the chieftain. Never mind how tall the man was, he was hard to miss with the chaos-dwarven-forged armor covering him from head to toe, along with stray green tentacles writhing from the visor of his helmet. The halberd that he was using to fell even the mightiest Knights of the realm made him a terror to all as Louen marched toward him.
Before he could pounce on the norscan chieftain, who boasted aloud to all about how the Lady had abandoned them, the Royarch was intercepted by a scarred yet beastly skin-wolf and an exalted champion, covered in bronze armor, who nearly decapitated the King if not for the sound of his blade whistling in the air.
"The wolf will sing my praises when I bathe in your blood southerner!" The Champion jeered, not letting up his assault and forcing Louen to backtrack to keep an eye on the skin-wolf who lunged forward with fangs and claws.
The King attempted to counterattack with the Sword of Corroune, but both of his foes backed away only to lunge in and resume their attack, once again putting Louen on the backfoot.
Thus a deadly dance ensued, with Louen forced to defend with his shield for the most part and having little time to return any attacks. Add in the fact that these were some of the most deadly combatants to be found in Norsca, and Louen was becoming worn down by the dual attack, which only served to waste time that his army desperately needed for him to slay the raiding chieftain.
Every second turned precious, and the Royarch felt it as sweat dripped down his brow. He shoved his shield into the helmet of the Exalted Champion in one instance and knocked it off to reveal the pale-faced and balled, scarred head of the Champion. Seeing some vulnerability, Louen swung his sword to make a quick kill only to grunt in pain as the Skin-wolf clamped its jaws on his arm. While his armor prevented his flesh from being pierced, the sheer pressure was getting to his bone.
Curse these northerners and their misbegotten Gods!
Realizing that he wasn't going to brute force the issue, Louen realized he would have to resort to less…knightly options after smashing his shield into the face of the Skin-wolf, forcing it to release his arm.
Louen knew the Lady would disapprove of what he was about to do, but he was sure that she would disapprove of him dying and Brettonia being at the mercy of these Dark God-worshiping fiends, especially since almost all of his knights were far too tied up at the moment to lend any aid.
With this in mind, Louen focused back on the fight, keeping an eye on both of his opponents, focusing particularly on the exalted Champion, who was smarting from losing his helmet, who made a mighty overhead cut from his sword.
Parfait!
Normally Louen would have misdirected such a blow to launch a vicious counterattack, but this time, he used his shield and feigned as though the power of such a blow knocked the King off balance, acting as though he was losing his footing.
The Skin-wolf smelled blood and lunged toward the Royarch, its jaws aiming straight for his throat.
Then with the speed that only someone with the blessing of the grail could pull, Louen snapped his sword upward, impaling the sword of Courrone in the jugular of the wolf, stopping it dead in its tracks, its red beady eyes wide in pain and shock.
With strength that no mortal man could possess, Louen spun around, swinging his shield and smashing away the exalted Champion who tried to intervene and twisting his sword to effectively and ruthlessly decapitate the Skin wolf, its body and head falling with dull thuds onto the grass, it's body twitching sporadically, yet uselessly.
From there, it was no longer a fair fight for the exalted Champion. Tired as Louen was, the Royarch was still too much to fight head-on.
The Champion was now in Louen's previous position, forced on the defensive, as Louen, with a roar of effort, unleashed a flurry of blows with his shield and sword, relentlessly assaulting his foe in every direction possible. The Royarch's strikes were so fierce that the shield of the Champion was being bent and rent in directions it shouldn't, and every time a piece of the Northerner's armor was struck, he grunted in pain from every dent or cut that was made.
Knowing what would happen if something didn't change, the Champion tried suddenly pushing forward, thrusting his sword into the King's jugular, only for Louen to side-step the attack entirely and swing his own sword down, cutting through armor, flesh, and bone at the elbow.
The Champion only had a moment to stare at his stump uselessly before the very same sword that made him left-handed sang through the air once more, decapitating him before he had the chance to let out a curse.
The King let out a sigh of relief. With those petty distractions now finally out of the way, he could finally turn his attention back to-
An explosion of pain blossomed onto Louen's face, black spots flittering in his vision, realizing he could no longer breathe through his nose. The King of Brettonia was knocked backward, his balance undone from a powerful blow. His vision was hazy, but he recognized the Nurgle-tainted chieftain standing over him with a clenched armored gauntlet covered in blood. The King tried bringing up his sword, but the chieftain was faster, stepping onto his arm and pinning him to the ground.
"A shame." The chieftain chuckled, raising his halberd high above his head, the blade of it aimed right at his prey's face. "You tried so hard, only to fail as all who reject our Grandfather's blessing will. Don't worry, however, your Highness! When I am finished, your body will become more beautiful and worthy with his blessing!"
Louen tried to fight. He tried smashing his shield against the man's leg only to realize he lost his grip as he fell. He had no leverage, no room to maneuver, and not enough stamina to turn such misfortunes away from his person.
He had failed.
And all of Bretonnia shall bleed for my failure…Forgive me my Lady, I was not worthy. Or perhaps I was, and time has beaten me as it has any man.
The chieftain let the blade hang above his moment for a beat, savoring in the despair that showed in Louen's eyes as much as he tried to hide it.
Yet the moment he tensed his arms to bring his halberd down, a bolt of blue energy suddenly struck the ground before the Nurgle worshiper, forcing the chieftain to scramble backward in shock.
Realizing that he was now free, Louen backed up as well, unsure what to make of this blue bolt of magical energy before him and suddenly changing to the color gold.
Soon the golden hue began to dissipate, and in its place stood what appeared to be a young man wearing some strange and foreign-looking clothing. He had long, unkempt blonde hair and a stained white shirt that strangely seemed too small for him, given the form-fitting muscles that made him look lean and mighty in all the right places. On his lower body were a pair of cargo shorts while wearing socks and sandals on his feet.
Curiously he was also carrying a sword in his left hand that seemed to quite literally burn with a holy fire that Louen knew only the Lady herself could bestow, making this young man's appearance all the more confusing.
The newcomer turned his baby blue eyes to Louen, his mouth shaped in an 'O' while his eyes were wide. He then turned to the nurgle-worshiping chieftain who also seemed to be at a loss as to what to make of this foreign-looking young man.
Is he from the mysterious land of Cathay, perchance?
Suddenly letting what Louen quite frankly thought sounded like a girlish shriek, the young man screamed, lifted his sword, and swung downward at the chieftain while trying to back away from the monstrous and pox-afflicted man.
The chieftain raised his halberd above his head sloppily, not expecting such a quick and sudden move, only to be met with shock when the sword bisected the weapon in half.
That shock would turn to nothing, as the blazing sword continued to descend downward, cleaving the chieftain's helm and head in two while, still somehow, someway still cutting downward, all the way down the chieftain's body until it reached his stomach.
Letting go of the sword and falling backward, the oddly dressed youth gaped as the body he nearly cleaved in two suddenly was lit on fire, as if the substances Nurgle had filled this man with acted as the perfect kindling, causing him to fall backward and wreathe, signaling the death-knell on the man who dared to raid Corroune's shores.
Most of the soldiers participating in this battle managed to gaze upon this site, including the raiders who had been combatting the peasants on the front line, almost frozen in shock at how quickly their chieftain had been slain by what looked like an oddly dressed peasant.
For the first time since the battle began, the norscans wavered, and King Louen Leoncur was all too quick to take advantage.
Standing up swiftly, and lifted his blade above his head. "Their chieftain is dead! Butcher these heathens in the name of the Lady! Send them to their dark gods in pieces!"
Had the norscans rallied, they could have still inflicted monstrous casualties on the Brettish army. Alas, it was not meant to be, for as savage as these raiders could be, they had better options in life than to fight a battle they no longer had the confidence they could win. Even the skin wolves had wisely, quite literally, turned tail and run since they could sense the despair overcoming the army before anyone else.
It didn't take long for a route to overtake the raiders, who wanted to live another day, and in turn, raid another day, with the knights of Bretonnia and its misbegotten peasants all too eager to give chase back to the longboats. Some raiders were fortunate enough to reach them. Many not so much as they would find themselves dying on foreign land.
Sighing at yet another hard-fought victory, King Louen Leoncur turned to the young man who saved his life, who was staring at him bug-eyed. "Young man. I know not who you are or where you hail from, nor how you appeared at this very moment. But you have my deepest thanks for saving my life. If it is in my power, I will grant you a boon of whatever it is within my power as-
"Your King Louen Leoncur…Royarch of Bretonnia." The young man spoke with disbelief as if he was struggling to believe his own words.
Louen hid his own surprise at how this man knew who he was…then again, he was wearing a crown atop his head, so it must have been an educated guess. Regardless before the conversation could continue, the King's savior started falling backward, his eyes rolling into the back of his head, leaving the Royarch of Bretonnia to scramble and stop his fall.
It seemed the work of a King was never done.
…
"To the sons of Bastonne!"
Bohemond's cheer was met with the raucous cries of the many knights within his great hall, many raising mugs with red faces and wide smiles.
"To King Louen!"
Another cheer, this one louder than the last.
"To the Lady and the victories she guides us to!"
Gerome Dubois wished he could share in the enthusiasm of his countrymen, but it was merely a show at this point. He just couldn't match the fervor of those around him when his thoughts constantly thought of home at Gisoreux. Of his wife and innocent daughter. Thinking of whether or not they were even still alive.
Even now, the wine that Gerome was nursing lacked the punch that he was looking for. It couldn't help him forget his own weakness and the fact that the Bastonnian army had been unable to find and kill that bastard Spolletta.
Not that it would have helped his family and people. For all he knew, his wife and child would be lucky to be dead. He'd seen first-hand what happened to those who became experiments for necromancers, including becoming ghouls or writhing masses of flesh for horrid constructs. Yes. He'd first demand Lyle what he'd done to his family, and if he found his answer lacking, he'd gut him personally.
It was a great shame that he couldn't contribute to the battle a few days ago. Alas, he wasn't as fit then as he was now. The trip from Castle Artois, to Castle Bastonne was an arduous one, especially by himself. He nearly killed his horse on such a hellacious trip, yet thankfully Bastonne's knights had found him and nearly mistook him for a questing knight, such was the sorry state he was in.
If he hadn't been a known lord of Bastonne, then he doubted anyone would have believed his claim. Thankfully Duke Bohemond had met him personally some years ago at a tourney and miraculously backed his claim.
He'd done everything he could to try and convince the duke to strike out in Artois and save his city, and in turn, saved his loved ones, but the duke didn't even have the chance to consider his words when word of the undead army moving in on the the the Beastslayer's land.
It took the firm words of Boehmond to stop Gerome from joining the host, for he knew as much as the landless lord himself knew he wasn't fit for battle. He could barely lift a sword from malnutrition at the time, and his legs ached from the constant riding he made to even get here in the first place.
And while he was happy to look around him and see the jubilation of victory from his fellow Brettonians, he couldn't help but be concerned at how Lyle had supposedly escaped. He knew from the damage that gods-damned foreigner had done that someone like that wouldn't die easily. If Kemmler lived as long as he did, then this most definitely wasn't outside the realm of possibility.
Aurelie…Bernadette…if you still draw breath, hold out for me, please. May the Lady watch over you both.
"Makes you wonder how that foreigner caused such damage beforehand." A knight to Gerome's left snorted deep into his cups, and his cheeks flushed. "Truly, Duke Bohemond has no equal. Or maybe it's us Bastonnian sons that have no equal!"
"Must be that those in Artois have no equal either." A knight across from Gerome chortled. "Don't think any other dukedom could fall quite as well as they did."
A ripple of laughter peeled through the table, and it took no shortage of will from the sole Artoisian to not shove his gauntleted fist into the drunken faces around him. That was another thing, that he had to contend with off the battlefield. Nobody outright insulted him, yet snide back-handed comments were all too commonplace for him to deal with among his 'fellow' knights. Though they were all sons of Bretonnia, it didn't change the fact that he was from Artois, and had been among the first to lose in combat to Lyle and his Barrow Legion. Even worse, he fled from the battlefield. Twice.
Plus these were Bastonnians who were bragging, who were arguably amongst the most arrogant of all Brettonia. So high was their opinion of themselves that even Bretonnian peasants had a certain arrogance that their counterparts lacked, which made it hard to converse with these lot without Gerome losing his temper outright.
Such a disgrace was something that even now Gerome was struggling to live with, especially with the insults and thoughts of his family.
It was the lattermost thought that was only holding him together.
Sadly, the comments continued. "Little wonder those forest dwellers fell so fast, when their lead by the likes of the late Duke Chilffroy…among others."
"May the Lady rest his soul."
"Of course! He was still a son of Bretonnia…as fool he was-
Gerome felt his temper flair but was surprised when it was not his fist that slammed the table but the fist of the duke himself, who was staring balefully at his own knights. "Duke Chilfroy did not have the luxury of being a grail knight like me. Had he been one himself, I've no doubt he would have been blessed with a victory like me on that day. Take care your tongue doesn't sully him any more than it already has, knight."
Said knight sputtered a quick apology, going back to his cup along with a few others who didn't wish to get such a verbal lashing like him.
Gerome wanted to thank him but held his own tongue. He knew Bohemond wasn't doing it for him but his former liege lord. The landless lord could tell the duke held little respect for him, and the only reason he came to any kind of defense was because of the respect the Beastslayer had for Chilfroy despite not being a grail knight himself.
Suppressing a sigh, Gerome could only wonder if he would feel better if the duke would verbally chastise him as his fellow Bastonnians did to assuage his guilt for all he left behind.
The tense atmosphere that had settled over the long table had suddenly evaporated when a familiar sight he'd become acquainted with was moving toward their general direction. It was a young lady wearing the yellow and red colors that accentuated the elaborate dress of her family's house.
Louise De Bastonne. A niece of Bohemand, who treated her like a daughter. While Bohemond broke out into a grin at the sight of his niece, the duke's smile faltered when he saw her contrite expression.
I swear on the Lady it must be little Emeric again.
When she eventually made it to her uncle's side, Bohemond's smile had all but faded as he asked the dreaded question. "Let me guess…sick again?"
"His stomach aches."
Bohemond frowned fiercely. "Again, he denies his duties?"
"His stomach does, yes."
"And you allow this?"
The teen girl rolled her eyes openly. "I'm not his mothers, uncle. I'm only relaying the message."
"If he's that obsessed with burying his nose in books, he could at least tell me himself."
"Ah, but then what use would you have for me, uncle? To stand and look pretty as the rest of the maidens?"
That was another thing that Gerome had noticed due to his extended stay in the duke's castle. The odd family dynamics that Bohemond had, with his son being anything but a fierce warrior and the Beastslayer's evident displeasure at this notion.
One would think with you sharing the blood of one of the fiercest and most chivalrous grail knights that had bested countless that, you would do your best to at least follow in his footsteps. Not Emeric, though. Gerome could count on one hand the number of times that he had been able to see the wispy, willow-bodied, long-haired boy that was both shy and cantankerous when it came to human contact. Not attractive traits that one would see in becoming a future Duke of Bastonne.
Then again, in Gerome's eyes, he'd rarely ever seen the man talk to his son directly, almost as much as he dreaded the idea of doing so, or as if it was a waste of time, usually using intermediaries like his niece or retinue to communicate. It was odd for someone who took their martial duty so seriously, but the landless lord took great care not to say as much openly for his own sense of self-preservation.
Louise, however, had no such compunctions, which was also not very lady-like in the realm of Bretonnia. "This will only continue if you leave it like this."
"I've said all I can say to him," Bohemond grunted, tearing off the leg to a large boar. "Words are wasting my own air, much less his."
As if sensing the futility of a possible argument, Louise's lips thinned. "...may I go then, uncle?"
Looking affronted, Bohemond frowned. "Does my presence detest you so Louise?"
Louise chuckled behind a hand, shaking her head. "I only detest seeing my two favorite family members at such odds like this. Do you fault me for wanting fresher air? I don't judge you for treating paperwork like the plague."
"You could at least stay for the tale of how I managed to thrash Krell so soundly. You always at least stayed for those!"
Louise sighed theatrically as if in jest. "If I must! Though it seems many knights destroy Naggash's favorite monster, including you, Tancred, the King himself…"
Bohemond laughed uproariously. "I don't see you trading blows with this wight!"
"Perhaps I shall if you gave me a sword as I requested so many birthdays ago!"
This time many knights laughed at the jovial conversation happening before them, the tension before nothing more than a forgotten bad dream. Gerome could only find it in himself to join in half-heartedly, wondering if he himself had the chance to have such conversations with his daughter.
I never did spend much time with her…I swear on the Lady that if my fortune is good, that will change in a heartbeat.
The chatter entered a bit of a lull, with a livelier tone, mainly thanks to Louise's now permanent presence, thanks to a nearby tired servant fetching her a chair to chat with her uncle. It all left a bitter taste in Gerome's mouth, especially since all of Artois was still under the control of the Barrow Legion, even as they drank and ate to their hearts' content.
And Spoletta is still at large. So long as he draws breath I can never be at eas-
A servant suddenly rushed to the side of Bohemond, who seemed slightly peeved at his pleasant conversation being interrupted. The longer the servant whispered in his ear, however, the more that frustration faded in favor of shock and wonder.
"Are you certain?" He openly asked the peasant.
"Th-they're entering the dining hall as we speak, sire! Forgive me, the messenger who was supposed to tell you must have gotten mixed up amongst the duties of the feast and-
"Never mind that! Send them in! Quickly now! This is a momentous occasion!" Bohemond looked up at the ceiling with zeal in his eyes. "Even now, the Lady smiles upon my victory! Upon our victory!"
The peasant nodded, scurrying away, to the hall entrance, with everyone in Bohemond's vicinity unable to contain their curiosity.
"Will you keep us in suspense till the final hour, uncle?" Louise asked hotly. "Should I perhaps fetch Emeric after all?"
"If he didn't show up now, he won't show up at all. Never mind the boy, this is beyond him." Bohemond shook his head in disgust before smiling at whatever news he had received, standing up from his chair and walking to the front door.
"To all of my Knights, vassals, and men of high birth, those chosen to defend the realm of the Lady against all threats, whether they may be man, heretic, beast, or something else altogether…The Lady's fortune smiles upon us on this day and grants us the favor of finishing what I started not too long ago!" He then directed his voice directly to the guards of his great hall entrance. "Open the doors, and let in the prisoner!"
Confusion reigned within the great hall, even as the doors slowly opened, only to turn to shock and then a mix of jeering and cheering at sight before him.
First entered Lord Bastien, sitting proudly on his warhorse as he waltzed in like a peacock strutting his feathers, a grin on his face.
What truly stood out, was behind him. Sitting on a Unicorn was none other than the Damsel Yasmine, a more serene smile on her face, who had passenger riding with her. A passenger who seemed as though he had been thrown over belly first on the back of the unicorn with his hands and feet tied securely.
Gerome felt anger and shock at seeing it was none other than Lyle Spoletta, who also seemed to have a thorny green collar fixed around his neck.
The young necromancer looked wholly unimpressed by his situation.
Bastien gave a deep bow on his horse. "My lord, may I present you the Lichmaster of the Barrow Legion, the heretic, Lyle Spolletta! Along with the Damsel from Artois, Lady Yasmine! Without her, capturing him alive would have never been possible!"
"Well done, Lord Bastien, truly well done!" Bohemond's hands clapped throughout the hall, along with the cheers of many knights at this major accomplishment. "You've made your people and your family proud by halting this threat! I've no doubt that your father would be beaming with pride if he were with us!"
"Your words are too kind, my lord. I only serve the realm as all knights do. I only count myself lucky enough to happen upon this heretic as he plotted and schemed within my very village, licking his wounds to create a new army after you soundly thrashed him."
Louise couldn't help but move forward, her eyes looking curiously at the restrained necromancer. "That's the leader of the Barrow Legion?... he's…not as horrid looking as other necromancers you've captured, uncle."
Said necromancer grinned suggestively. "Why thank you, sweetheart, I try." Before he could fire anything else smart, Yasmine, whose legs were on the same side where Lyle's head was, intervened. She simply raised one of her bare feet, and smacked her heel into the side of his head. "Rude."
Yasmine shrugged. "Ironic considering what you just said."
"I was thanking the fine young lady for a compliment, not asking her out to dinner…yet."
"Must I kick you again, necromancer? Or shall I just tighten my collar?"
"Me personally, I prefer breathing, so I'll take the former...unless you're into that sort of thing, of course." He then shifted his eyes back toward Louise as best as he could, given his position. "If you want, you can join, princess. If I didn't know any better, I'd say I'm helping the hippy here burn off some steam."
Bohemond wasn't that impressed, while Louise looked flushed. "Keep such lecherous comments to yourself, Spoletta. Any more than that, and I will take lethal steps to preserve my niece's honor and innocence."
"I'd call you a white knight, but I feel the punch-line wouldn't be very effective here. Also, how are you doing, Bohemond? It's been a minute since we last saw each other, hasn't it?"
"I'm doing better than others, as I can see, Lyle. I did warn you I would prevail that day, did I not?"
"Yeah, you did." Lyle shrugged, seemingly taking the loss in grace. "To be fair, I kind of thought you Grail knights were all hype. Ah well. You live and learn."
"I'm afraid that you will not be living for much longer. You will live for a little longer than most prisoners with crimes as long and extensive as you, but your end will be final all the same. You will stay within the beast pit dungeon of my castle along with another of your kind before Yasmine here escorts you to your execution. There you will meet your end."
To Lyle's credit, he had little in the way of fear on his face. Though whether he felt it was anyone's guess. "Neat."
Many knights rumbled and grumbled at the flippant and arrogant necromancer before them, even in defeat, with many restraining themselves from calling for his head only because his demise was only a matter of when and not if.
Realizing he wasn't going to do anything else substantial from trading bards with the necromancer, Bohemond smiled toward Yasmine. "You have my thanks once more, damsel. Once again, you've ensnared another necromancer, ensuring they cannot utilizing any of their ill-natured magic. Those thorned collars are quite efficient in suppressing their magic and I can only imagine how much more useful they'll be in the battles ahead. And on top of this, your magic managed to sway the battle I had won a few days ago with your earth magic. For that, I will grant any boon you desire, that is within my power!"
Everyone clapped with joyous expressions on their faces while Lyle rolled his eyes at the extraordinary amount of fellating that was going on.
Curiously however, Yasmine just looked confused. "Assisted you in…battle?"
Blinking owlishly, the duke was perplexed by her tone. "Why yes! It was thanks to your earth magic with you summoning those roots from earlier that allowed as little losses on our side to be taken."
"...Duke Bohemond, I wasn't at the battle you speak of. I was still traveling the countryside."
A pregnant pause filled the dining room, leaving everyone, including Lyle, at a loss if the expression on his face was anything to go by. The question of who had used that particular brand of magic at the battle now hanging like a fog over everyone's mind. Bohemond couldn't help but ask Yasmine further questions about her whereabouts, the wonder as to who intervened on his behalf a pressing concern on his mind.
Gerome wasn't thinking about such petty matters, however. His eyes were focused solely on none other than Lyle.
The source of his humiliation. The origin of his hardship. The bane of Artois himself.
The ruiner of his family.
He'd heard rumors. Nasty rumors that he'd refused to acknowledge up until now, but with Lyle in front of him, they had become impossible to ignore. News of him razing his city and…forcing himself upon his wife and using his daughter for some heretical ritual. News that he had turned both his wife and daughter into undead to serve his whims as a reminder for those who would oppose him. News that he used their skin as covers for his new tomes.
News like this had been spread throughout Castle Artois. Inconsistent snippets, he did his damnedest to shut out.
Now, however…all he could see was red.
Gripping his carving knife from the long table so tightly his knuckles turned white, Gerome calmly stood up, stalking forward with everyone having eyes on Yasmine and Bohemond as they continued to talk about the battle she was not there at.
The landless lord didn't care. He had to know. He demanded to know.
Soon he wasn't stalking forward anymore. He was rushing forward, the whites of Lyle's eyes now becoming visible to him, the hackles and rage of Gerome rising.
He couldn't keep the roar or rage from his mouth, which inevitably caused him to be noticed and restrained by a couple of nearby knights, gaining the attention of everyone. Bohemond said something, but again, Gerome didn't care.
Eventually, as he struggled and strained against those who held him back, Lyle noticed him from the Unicorn, a wry smile on his face. "Well if it isn't Ser Flees-a-lot! How ya doin' Gerome!"
"What did you do to them, Spoletta? Speak to the masses what you did!" Gerome cried out, snarling, nearly breaking from those who held him back. "Let the world know the beast you are before the Lady judges you for the villain you are!"
"Well, you already know what I think of your Lady, so that would be a bit redundant if you ask me."
"Lord Gerome! Calm yourself, man!" Bohemond exclaimed, practically jumping out of his chair and stomping toward the commotion. "There will be justice for what has been done, but not like this, not now!"
"I demand to know how he did it! How he…he…what did you do to my family, you heretical shit! You rapist marauding ba-
"Okay, time out!" Lyle rolled his eyes, looking as affronted as he could on the back of a horse. "I'm gonna get this out of the way while I can. I've done nothing to your wife and child. The cruelest thing I've done to them is to prevent your wife from splurging money on the newest fashion trend that you Bretonnians most likely like to waste cash on. Your wife is fine, and your daughter's just wondering where you've been since y'know…you up and left them like the pussy that you are."
Though nobody in the hall would have shed a tear if Lyle were to drop dead then and there, his words had an effect as glances and murmurs were sent toward Gerome's way. The landless lord's anger had been smothered a bit by the shame of that reminder, his teeth grit together as he glared at Lyle only for the meat of the necromancer's words to reach his mind.
"My…my family lives? How do I know you speak the truth?"
"My man, what do I have to gain from lying to you?"
"Perhaps a lighter sentence? Your life being spared?" Bastien asked atop his horse, sneering imperiously at the necromancer. "If you claimed that the sky is blue I would take a moment to consider your words, filth."
"I bet you'd probably consider for a moment if you heard your wife found a better stud than you, too, huh?" Bastien went red, moving to speak, only for Lyle to receive Yasmine's heel to the side of his head. "Hey, I'm just sayin'."
"Spoletta!" Gerome growled, trying to keep his emotions in check. "If you play with my feelings anymore than you already have-
"Look, I can have em' brought here if you want. In fact, if you let me go, I'd be happy to let her and all of the families of the other knights and nobles of Artois in my care sent here if your feeling as merciful as I am. Unlike other necromancers, I ain't all that opposed to starting family reunions."
The rush of elation and the possibility of this happening made Gerome's chest feel light. The seeds of doubt in his mind began to grow. Could Lyle genuinely be telling the truth? Could he truly see his family come out of his failings unscathed?
It all seemed too good to be true, with many knights' faces sharing in the doubt. Yet the possibility couldn't be ruled outright. After all, Lyle wanted to live from this situation as much as any man would, pious or heretical. Gerome then looked to Bohemond, who, for the first time since he'd met him, seemed at a loss at what to do.
If the Duke of Bastonne rejected Lyle's off-handed terms, it would be incredibly unchivalrous to put innocent ladies of high lords in jeopardy. On the other hand, if he were to accept, he would possibly be letting a heretic free. Either way, he could have something to lose whichever choice he made, and he clearly didn't enjoy the position Lyle had so casually put him in.
A lot of this was unprecedented because necromancers and other beastial lords weren't known for sparing the families of high lords whether Brettonian or Imperial. Most of their captives were used as food, sacrifices to dark Gods, or the Lady knows what else, leaving Bohemond generally at a loss at how to proceed.
The indecision seemed to stretch on for an eternity before Bastien, of all people, laughed pompously, actually annoying Gerome, considering that this was the safety of his family at risk.
"Do not give any weight to the heretic, my Duke. This man will lie about anything to save his own arse, and I even have proof of it."
Now Lyle was the one who was laughing in spite of his precarious situation. "That's fuckin' rich from a guy who couldn't be bothered to guard your own village against orcs and people like me."
Ignoring the necromancer, Bastien addressed Bohemond with nothing short of confidence. "My lord. When I confronted the necromancer on my land, he claimed that he was going to kill my peasantry and some orcs who had wandered by to grow his undead army anew after his humiliating defeat at your skilled hands. He boasted it while insulting my people with the most callous of words."
Considering his vassal's words carefully, Bohmond looked at Lyle, almost confused. "Is this true, Lyle? If my memory serves me correctly, you were rather cross with how Bretonnians treated their peasantry in general…was that a lie?"
For the first time, Lyle's smile faltered, his confident swagger not quite as apparent as before. He also seemed to be carefully chewing on his words before shrugging. "Well…I can't liberate everyone. That lot of peasants weren't all too keen on me 'liberating' them, so they didn't leave me much of a choice. Chose you, your king, and all you shiny-ass nobles over freedom, so as far as I was concerned, they were better as corpses than whatever the fuck they could have been."
Bastien nodded along, his grin growing wider as if he'd caught Lyle in a trap. He then turned his warhorse until he was now fully facing the entrance door, making a 'come-hither' gesture. "Bring in the peasants."
More confusion followed as two knights entered the room with two dirty peasants in front of them. Lyle's eyes widened, recognizing the slack jawed and bald peasants, respectively.
"These are Garold and Tobie. Two peasants from my village, your majesty, they saw and heard everything that this necromancer said and did…and more importantly, they can prove he's a liar right here, right now."
Leaning forward with curiosity, Bohemond gave a firm nod. "Speak your piece, peasants. What is it you would have me hear?"
The peasants, for a moment, looked at Lyle, who seemed to be turning white. Whether it was fear or anger, Gerome couldn't tell, but all he got from the response was a cruel smirk from the bald peasant.
"My lordship." the bald one spoke. "My name is Garold, and this is Tobie. This man has sown seeds of treason in our benevolent lord Bastien's land when he has done nothing but give and give in our times of need." His voice sounded humble and servile, as all peasants should aspire to be, in Bastien's opinion. "The moment this man entered our village of Riffen, he spoke of freeing the peasantry from the yoke of the nobility against the very thing the Lady wills. He spoke of tearing down and butchering nobles to the very last man, woman, and child and would stop at nothing until every peasant was 'free'."
Tobie nodded fervently, which was offset by his horrid-looking slack jaw. "It's true, I say, true! He made a point of not only threatening Bastien's family but your own Duke Bohemmond! He was spitting rage for his loss to you and swore revenge, and he nearly got away with it were it not for our mighty lord coming to save us from the orcs and undead!"
Bohemond narrowed his eyes, his gaze hardening. "And the rest of the peasants, like yourself…were willing to go along with this?"
"They were cheering at the top of their lungs for your heads! They had forgotten themselves and how much they owed you, but we never did! Me and Garold always put our loyalty to you and the Lady! But, there was one chant in particular that served as their rallying cry! The cry to end the nobility as a whole and for us dirty peasants to rise in revolt!"
"That being…what exactly?"
It was Garold who said the words, his face feigning shame and horror. "They all chanted…' Make Bretonnia Great Again."
Silence reigned within the hall. Lyle was shaking in his bonds ever so slightly, his face apoplectic. Bastien was smug, but Bohemond looked furious. The nobles all looked angry, but there was another emotion that Gerome could see that he could sympathize with greatly.
Fear.
It was present in all nobles who ruled over their lessors. While there was little doubt that nobility would always be able to control and corral the masses as they had for generations, there was always the undercurrent of fear that ran in each nobles' bones. The mere idea of peasants demanding more than what they deserved was nothing new, and such outliers were dealt with ruthlessly.
But, if large groups of them got together to voice their grievances?
It was a dangerous thing and possibly more dangerous than any undead army that Lyle Spoletta could muster. Physical undead armies had been thwarted before, just like at Mousillon.
Hordes of unwashed peasants refusing to serve as they had for generations and lashing out against the nobility, however?
Sure, it could be dealt with in a vacuum, but Brettonia had no shortage of enemies. From Greenskins to Beastmen, to Norscans and Dark Elf raiders, if they had to deal with an internal insurrection on top of it, the social fabric that made up Brettonia could crumble like dust.
And it seemed as though many were thinking a similar line of thought. The Duke of Bastonne understood this all too well. "Make Bretonnia Great Again…Tell me, Lyle Spoletta, are you saying that Bretonnia is not already great and that it would be greater if the blood of all nobles stained the earth of the Lady's Lands? Nay. I do not even need to ask you. Those that survived your conquest of Artois and what you told me back at our previous meeting speak volumes as to what you believe."
A chorus of 'yays' broke out through the great hall, with surly nods agreeing with their Duke's words. All the while, Lyle continued to stare, not at Bohemond but at the peasants who looked smugly at the defeated necromancer. "I may be no great statesmen like many other dukes of the realm, or perhaps even my vassals, but I know evil when it is in front of me, Spoletta. You may claim to live by great morals, but in truth, your evil is an insidious one. You flaunt the law and will of the Lady in favor of 'freeing' peasants and causing chaos throughout the realm. It will not happen, not in my realm! Not while I draw breath!"
More cheers rang out from throughout the hall, but Gerome couldn't help but feel anxious. Sure, it was satisfying to see Lyle brought so low and for his demise to be imminent, but what would happen if he DID die? Would Lord Bohemond turn his forces to liberate Artois and save his family…or…
"Hear this and hear it now! In the coming days, I will muster the might of Bastonne and all of those who wish to have their names written down in legend. It's clear Kemmler's demise did not break the Barrow legion, and I will correct this problem once and for all, just as we should have raized Mousillon centuries ago! I swear to you, once our host sets out, I will do what no lord has done before. I will strike to the center of the Barrow Legion's power and raze Blackstone Post to the ground! This I swear upon the Lady!"
Deafening cheers poured out through the great hall, with many chanting the Duke's name with a raucous fervor that was difficult to match anywhere that Gerome had felt.
Yet now Gerome only felt a sense of helplessness and dread. A lot of time could pass between them sieging and razing Blackstone Post. Sure it could be done, but what could happen to his family before then? What could happen to the people that he had sworn to protect?
Too many things…far too many things. Say what you would about Lyle, but he at least seemed a tad more merciful than the average necromancer…but, what of the next one that would replace him?
His helplessness must have been visible because Bastien had dismounted and approached him personally. "Fear not, lord Gerome. A mutual friend of ours has informed me of the plight of your family and people-
"What of it!" Gerome gritted out as the cheers around them continued unabated. "The Duke's mind has been made, and I doubt there is little to be done of it! Why pick at open wounds!"
Bastien shook his head with a smile. "The Duke is as decisive as a dipped lance when it comes to battle, but when it comes to statehood…he can be… molded. And if you desire the chance to save those you value the most, I can bring you to someone who can mold our self-righteous Duke to make a detour to Artois…if you were to come with me swiftly. In case you have yet to notice, time is a precious commodity that you shouldn't waste. After all, I can only allow my mutinous subjects back at Riffen to go unpunished for their treachery for so long.
A/N: And just like that things go from bad to worse for Lyle and just about anyone associated with him. Such is the harsh reality that comes with living within the Warhammer universe. At least things are starting to look up for King Louen and the rest of Bretonnia. For those of you who wonder how the hell I suddenly managed to finish one of my longest chapters yet in such a short amount of time, the answer is rather simple: Coffee.
I'd never drank it in my natural life, but I came upon this fine cafe that opens up late, and I can't help but like the sweet versions of the drink. Once I get all wired up on the stuff, I make sure to bring my Laptop, because suddenly I'm writing more than I ever would on my Desktop. Fascinating stuff. Of course I make sure not to drink the stuff every day. Last thing I want is to become addicted to caffeine.
Anyways, let me know what you guys think in your reviews, and I'll see you next time!