The Barons' War
Copyright© 2025 by Lumpy
Chapter 22
Port Belmar, Lynese
“ ... and thus, the concentration of authority, while perhaps appearing autocratic to the uninitiated, is the bedrock upon which effective governance rests,” Lord Agravaine continued as he paced before the hearth in the relative warmth of the mayor’s commandeered study. “Without centralized control, without the swift and unwavering application of Imperial law, the provinces descend into squabbling fiefdoms, vulnerable to internal decay and external threats. The emperor’s will must be paramount, unquestioned...”
He paused, glancing pointedly at the figure slumped in the high-backed chair near the window. Baudric IX, Emperor of Lynese by the grace of his father’s sudden death, looked less like a paramount ruler and more like a sullen schoolboy enduring a tedious lesson. The youth, barely twelve, stared out at the gray, choppy waters of the harbor, his fingers idly tracing patterns on the arm of the chair. He offered no response, no sign he had absorbed a single word of the First Minister’s careful exposition on power.
Agravaine suppressed a sigh. Molding the boy would take time, patience ... and a firm hand. He had secured the throne for him, but the real work of shaping an emperor, his emperor, had only just begun. He opened his mouth to resume his lecture when a polite cough interrupted him.
An aide, clad in the simple gray livery of the Imperial household staff Agravaine had brought from Valemonde, stood hesitantly in the doorway.
“My Lord First Minister, Your Imperial Majesty,” the man said, bowing low. “Forgive the intrusion, but Count Jacher, Viscount Miran, and Count Sojar are without. They request an urgent audience.”
Agravaine’s lips thinned. All lords from the plains. Predictable. While their lands didn’t directly border the troubled region, they were the closest regions of population aside from the areas around Dawnstar Lake, which had much less peasantry to levy. He’d known there would be some discontent as he began pulling in conscripts; he’d just hoped it wouldn’t come as soon as this. Urgent, they said. He could guess the nature of their urgency.
“Must they?” he asked, the question rhetorical.
The complexities of war and succession were taxing enough without having to soothe the ruffled feathers of provincial lords worried about their harvests and their hides.
“They seemed most insistent, my lord,” the aide said, looking like he very much did not want to argue with his betters.
Agravaine waved a dismissive hand.
“Very well. Show them in,” he said before turning back to the young emperor. “Observe, Your Majesty. See how lesser men are ruled by fear and short-sighted concerns. Learn to distinguish genuine counsel from base panic.”
Baudric merely grunted, not turning from the window.
The heavy paneled door opened again, admitting the three nobles. Count Jacher, a practical man whose weathered face spoke of years managing estates rather than courtly intrigue, led the way. Behind him came Viscount Miran, paler and slighter, and finally Count Sojar, broad-shouldered and blunt-featured, as dull in personality as he was in style.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” Jacher began respectfully. “Lord First Minister.”
“Count Jacher,” Agravaine acknowledged coolly. “Viscount Miran. Count Sojar. An unexpected pleasure. What brings you so far from your lands in such ... inclement weather?”
The first snows had begun to fall, although it would be much worse in the coming months.
“Necessity, Lord First Minister. We come bearing the concerns of our people, concerns we feel must be laid before His Imperial Majesty and his council.”
“Indeed? Speak freely. The emperor values the counsel of his loyal lords.”
He studiously ignored the emperor in question, who looked like he could care less what these men had to say.
Count Jacher looked to his comrades and then said, “My lords, the army assembled outside this city ... it is vast. Larger than any host gathered in living memory for a campaign within the empire’s borders.”
“A testament to the emperor’s resolve to restore order and reclaim what is rightfully his,” Agravaine interjected.
“Perhaps,” Jacher conceded, “but its makeup gives us pause. The bulk of this force, Lord Minister, consists of raw conscripts. Men pulled from fields and villages, in massive groups. We understand the need for numbers, but the latest levies, they strip our provinces bare. My own lands, many villages stand half-empty of men fit to work and the bailiffs report growing discontent.”
Agravaine let the silence stretch for a moment. “Discontent among the small folk is regrettable, Count, but hardly unexpected in times of war. It is the price of security. As for the levies, they are a temporary measure. Once Rendalia is pacified and the traitor Isolde dealt with, the men will return home. The empire’s strength must be demonstrated decisively. A swift conclusion serves everyone’s interests, including your tenants’.”
“Lord Agravaine, there is a more immediate danger,” Miran said. “Darktide is upon us. The Maw opens. Our coastal provinces, particularly the southern stretches of Seyar’s lands and my own, rely heavily on local militias for defense against incursions. Those militias are now severely depleted. The very men who would stand watch on the shores, who know the bolt holes and the warning signs, are here, hundreds of leagues away.”
“The Maw is always a threat, Viscount,” Agravaine replied. “But the imperial garrisons remain in place along the coast and should be sufficient to guarantee security.”
“Sufficient? Forgive me, but garrison troops are often unfamiliar with the local terrain, the specific beasts that crawl ashore from our waters. The militias are our eyes and ears, our first line of defense. Without them, should a significant breach occur, the losses could be catastrophic. Entire villages could be wiped out before word even reaches the nearest garrison. We face the prospect of devastation at home while our men fight here.”
“I understand your concern, but the threat from the Maw is perennial, Viscount. We manage it every year. This year will be no different. The garrisons are adequate for known threats. Furthermore, the swift success of this campaign will allow the levies to return home long before the worst of the Maw season reaches us, and the stability of this victory will bring an end to internal conflict with it. Patience, my lords. The emperor provides.”
“We’ve also heard troubling reports from the front,” Sojar said. Rumors of the assault on the Chansol River defenses and of heavy losses. If too many of the levies are lost, we will never get those men back, this spring or any other.”
Agravaine’s expression tightened imperceptibly. That was the one place where his arguments were their weakest. They’d been forced to fall all the way back to the coast in order to regroup and bring in more conscripts. It was a black mark on the start of this new dynasty, and one he’d sooner ignore.
Sojar pressed on. “These men, these conscripts, they are not just soldiers, my lords. They are farmers, woodsmen, fishermen. They are needed for the winter preparations, for the clearing of fields, the mending of tools. Come spring, they will desperately be needed for the planting. Our stores are already desperately low as much of it was confiscated by the Sidorians last year. They left some for us to eat, but what we would have sent in as taxes was taken, so the taxes were then taken from what remained, leaving the people in a dire situation. I am not sure if we can survive another winter.”
Agravaine was not pleased that the count had managed to slide blame from the Sidorians stealing what was essentially their tithe to the Crown, and passed the blame to the Crown when that tithe was still due. But now was not the time to put the count in his place. The transition to Baudric’s new rule was unsteady, and he couldn’t afford to upset too many of the nobility.
“Yes, the engagement at the Chansol was ... an unfortunate setback.”
“Count Sojar,” Agravaine began, choosing his words carefully. “War demands sacrifice. Sometimes, the price of progress is paid in blood. The losses, while regrettable, were not crippling. More importantly, our winning and taking back that province is critical to our long-term survival. If Sidor remains, even if they follow the treaty, one day, another man will sit on the throne who might not honor those words, and Sidor would be in a good place to invade us again. If that were to happen, where would your lands be then?”
He paused to let that sink in. “Victory is not merely desirable. It is necessary. Every measure is being taken to ensure a swift conclusion to this campaign. The resources of the empire are focused here for that very purpose. To falter now, to withdraw or reduce our forces out of fear, would be to dishonor the sacrifices already made and invite greater chaos.”
“But the hill people? Now that they have risen up against us, surely that makes them more dangerous as well?”
“It does, but it also presents an opportunity. The traitor played a desperate hand, bribing the savages to join her side. It was unexpected and, if looked at in the right light, a cunning move. It even momentarily swelled the enemy ranks and stiffened their defense. But it was also a mistake and, ultimately, I think it will cost her. Those creatures are unreliable allies. They fight for plunder, not principle. They are as likely to turn on their supposed masters as they are to follow orders. And that alliance has every chance of actually turning to our advantage.”
“Advantage? How?” Jacher asked.
“They will fight and bleed in open combat, where they are untested and untrained, instead of hiding in caves and striking out when opportunity allows it. We have wanted to get our hands on these savages for more than a hundred years, and now they have delivered themselves to us. We will whittle down their numbers while taking back Rendalia, and every savage that falls on the Chansol is one less bandit raiding our lands next season. If fortune really favors us, they might exhaust themselves to the point where, once Rendalia is secured, our victorious army can finally sweep through those damnable hills and cleanse them. End their menace for a generation, perhaps forever. Think of it, the borderlands pacified, trade routes secured.”
He could see the thought gaining the interest of all three of the nobles. They had all lost trade and even some homesteads to the rampaging savages. The thought of that scourge being gone was something they had only dreamed of until this very moment.
Agravaine tried to keep the satisfaction of finding some part of their self-interest he could exploit from his face.
“So you see, my lords,” Agravaine concluded, trying to sound reassuring. “While your concerns are noted, they are premature. The situation is under control. The campaign proceeds and Rendalia will be brought back into the Imperial fold, the traitor will be punished, and His Majesty’s authority firmly established. Trust in your emperor. Your men will return, the borders will be secured, and the empire will be stronger for it. This unpleasantness will be concluded before your fears of Maw or famine can possibly materialize.”
The men grudgingly accepted that. Which meant, now Agravaine just had to find a way to make good on his pledge.
Lynesian Plains, Lynese
Sergeant Merevenh climbed the narrow stone steps of the watchtower up to the small landing where Tujonh stood watch, his crossbow leaning against the wall beside him.
“Anything?” Merevenh asked.
Tujonh shook his head. “Quiet as a crypt, Sergeant.”
“Good.” Merevenh continued his ascent, checking each post as he went.
Their tower stood as the furthest northern outpost in the chain of defenses along the eastern coast, guarding the empire from the creatures that emerged from the Maw. Built of rough-cut stone with walls fifteen feet thick at the base, it perched on the southern edge of the Dead Man’s Hills.
In the eight years Merevenh had served at the tower, he’d killed his share of Maw spawn, twisted things that walked on too many legs or flew with wings of leather and bone. But this season had proved mild. Only two minor incursions since it started, and both of those included only the smallest of the creatures. He was glad he didn’t serve at one of the southern towers closer to the Maw, where they faced attacks almost nightly.
“Count your blessings, not your boredom,” his father had told him before he joined the home guard. The old man had lost an arm to a Maw beast twenty years past, but still swung an ax with his remaining one when the winter wood needed chopping.
Merevenh found Corporal Davenh cleaning his sword in the third-floor armory.
“The new ones settling in?” Merevenh asked.
Davenh sheathed his blade. “If you call pissing themselves through the night at every creak in the timbers ‘settling in,’ then aye.”
Merevenh snorted. “Recruits always start that way. Remember your first night?”
“Fair point,” Davenh admitted. “But this lot’s greener than most. I swear, every year they get younger.”
“I think maybe it’s that we just keep getting older.”
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