Volume 3 - CH 2.1

Felicia’s bosom was aboil.

Not once could she meet her brother.

Apprised of his absence by the men at Balasthea, Felicia thought then to pay a visit to his abode in Arbel. But there, too, did her search turn up naught. Why, she even whiled away the evening in the hollowness of his home, waiting for his return. And return he did, if only in his sister’s reminiscences of him.

Where could he possibly be? To this moment were the Fiefguardsmen laying their lives on the line, that the people of Arbel might endure in peace. Yet aface the rigours and sacrifices of the soldiery, what was her brother doing, for his part?

Felicia bit her lip, barely able to leash in her ire and annoyance for her bumbling bloodkin. Yet a bloodkin he still was, and not before having a word with him did she dare make the journey back home. For in spite of her misgivings for him, she knew all too well that to abandon him was a blunder beyond all mending. In fact, it was this very realisation that had roused her to action and brought her to the far march of Ström, all to enquire and know her brother’s mind.

But the days of his absence wore on. No less than half a week wheeled by, during which Felicia had taken lodging in the fief-burgh. Today was no different: his residence seemed yet void of its rightful resident.

Felicia rounded the bend on the road to his home, thinking to have a closer look before heading off to visit Balasthea once more. And there, she at last found someone on the premises—many, in fact. Fiefguardsmen they were, standing guard about the porch of the residence.

An ill augury gripped her heart at once.

“Pardon,” she said to them, “what’s the meaning of this?”

♰

“…No… inconceivable…”

Within the wide spaces of the margrave’s office sounded Felicia’s voice. Frail though it was, it echoed clean and clear through the stifling stillness. Many lips were pursed shut: namely those of the Fiefguard leadership, so gathered, too, in that wrung room.

And before them all was the margrave himself, sat at his great desk. Thoughts and more thoughts thudded in his head, whilst his cheeks and brows were bent in, as though a bitter bug had burst in between his grating teeth. Oh, bitter indeed, for in a short span had he received many a report, each either most ill or ill-mending his miserable mood.

The very first had come from a Fiefguardsman, freshly fled from Hensen. His most pained word: “defeat”. Not long thereafter came a courier from Balasthea. His stab of a message: “the fort has fallen.” But that was not all, no, for sighted amongst a Nafílim delegation was the acting commandant himself—the ill-bred and misbegotten ungraced, Rolf Buckmann!

The hours following found the margrave grimly ungiven to ordered thoughts. And as if the chaos could not be any more mired, there came another man with a tumult of a tiding. Morten was his name, a footman of the fort, and his words brought new winds to the storm: that the Fiefguard had not failed at Hensen. Why, it was only feigned to appear that they had, and by whose hand but Rolf the rapscallion! That ungraced! There he was, working in the weeds with the Nafílim! Plotting to trip a trap upon the Fiefguard as they funnelled through the baileys of Balasthea!

An unexpected turn, no doubt. But the margrave now had a hard choice of moves to make, each buttressed by reports of two opposing “truths”: of whether his precious Fiefguard was victorious or utterly vanquished. The decision weighed dearly on him.

“‘Inconceivable’?” to Felicia he said, bent with burden upon his chair. “What exactly, Brigadier? The failure of my many men? Or of your brother, who is like to have bedded with those beastlings and brought Balasthea to its knees?”

“Why, the latter, Your Excellency,” she answered. “No folly could befoul a Man so, that he be moved to mete treachery upon his own kin. Wayward may be that brother of mine, but lost to love of our foe? I should think not.”

“And yet lost be his wits to Man’s mighty wisdom,” the margrave countered. “We’ve spoken of this, have we not? Your brother detests the very divestment of the Nafílim, my dear Brigadier.”

“B… but…” she stammered unto silence, scarce able to debate the point. For somewhere deep in her heart, she felt that—though to do so is most preposterous—her brother might just be enough of an eccentric to treat with the Nafílim.

“Your will, m’liege?” asked a Fiefguard commander.

The margrave rubbed his chin. In actuality, this matter merely pretended at complexity, for it all boiled down to two choices. In fact, it might as well be but one and a half.

Were it true that the foraying Fiefguard had fallen at Hensen, then it meant a hundred score soldiers were snuffed from the margrave’s military. Not with sudden frailness could his remnant men ride to meet Rolf’s challenge. What was left to him was little, then, save to stand fast, speedily replenish his ranks, and mount a desperate resistance.

But what of the contrary? What if his mighty men were, in fact, triumphant at Hensen? Then it was woe that would await them on their return, with Rolf the wolf ready on the pounce. About the men would the gates of Balasthea be shut, with showers of arrows and magicks as their homecoming welcome. An assault inescapable, but not a fate inevitable—were the margrave to accept this scenario as truth, then he had but to sortie his men at once and rout Rolf before the triggering of his trap.

Accept the uncertain doom of his men, or avert their other doom soon and certain to come. In the end, it was his station as margrave that left Aaron Ström with all but the latter choice.

He had reason enough. The martial milieu of late found mightier momentum in the charge of Men. The advantage, then, was adamantly the Fiefguard’s—thus it was folly, an affront to reality itself, to fancy so fearsome a force having met its end at the enfeebled fólkheimr.

“Sally the soldiery,” the margrave spoke at last. “Go—bear down upon Balasthea, and break Buckmann and his beastly braves!”

Such were the lord’s orders. And sound they were to any right mind, not least to the leaders gathered in the room, who, receipt of the margrave’s mandate, then all filed out of the office.

Only, Felicia yet remained.

In the midst of the shuffle, she turned to the lord.

“Excellency, pray lend me leave to march, as well!”

The margrave’s gaze narrowed. “A bloody dagger hides in your brother’s hands, Brigadier. Yet still you see not its sanguine gleam? My eyes see his fingers for a foe’s, thus no friend nor family of his ought be given chance to join the charge.”

“Nay—my eyes wish only to see the truth, Your Excellency,” Felicia insisted, “of whether my brother has kept his bonds… or cut them altogether.”

Not so could he be rotted to his deepest reaches. Not yet was he withered of all worthiness. Belief was still his to deserve.

But were it so that his betrayal be true…

Were it so that his wits be broken beyond all repair and redemption…

Were it so that devilry be his new indulgence, that he would dare set his sword upon his family, his former fiancée…

…

Myriad emotions now haunted Felicia’s mien.

Feelings of fierce frustration, of wishing dearly to spare her brother a dire death, of… oh, the many sentiments storming in that heart of hers. Many, yet muddied, missing all distinction and description.

The margrave stared on at her. A glint was in his eyes—the cold light of intrigue.

“…Very well, then. Your leave is lent,” he relented. “But marching is all you shall do. This battle be ours and ours alone to wage, Brigadier Buckmann.”

Almost gasping, Felicia then curtsied. “Of course, Your Excellency.”

And so was decided the sallying of the soldiery from Arbel unto Balasthea, with Felicia to follow the Fiefguard’s file.