TSA: 008 - Noble Schemes​

It appears to run in the family, I’m afraid.​

{Excerpt}​

Shortly after the Great War in the year 1512 S.T., legendary alchemist, Lucien Damevar stumbled upon the explosive properties of black powder (a combination of saltpetre, sulphur and charcoal) while seeking the cure to an unknown ailment plaguing his only child. The Ivonnian alchemist wrote in his diary an account of the substance, saying; "After heating together the saltpetre and carbon of charcoal with sulphur; smoke and flames result, so much so that the crucible broke and with such a loud noise that the scholarly men of the Sanctuary all fled in fear."

Initially, firepowder, as it was known, was used for fireworks within the walls of the kingdom of Verum, but under the influence of other great scholars and craftsmen of the Sanctuary of Scrolls, the substance soon found its way into warfare and weaponry, quickly becoming widespread throughout the kingdoms of Udoris. Pottery grenades were among the earliest weapons to incorporate gunpowder, followed by cannons, which consisted of wrought iron strips placed over a cylindrical wooden core. And hammered over these were heated metal hoops. The cannon was then heated to burn out the core and fuse the wrought iron. Packed with black powder and iron projectiles, these devices had great range, hence were quick to replace traditional siege weapons.

The discovery of Blackpowder proved pivotal in the reformation of Udorian politics, strategic thinking and warfare, changing life in Udoris as we know it.

...

Excerpt from Jintao Downey's book on Alchemy - The Greatest Elixirs.​

{END}​

​

• [23.13.1623]​

Khule.


WHAT many seem to overlook is that for as many futures you put up in flames there are countless others waiting to be discovered; an eternity of possibilities.

These were Sean’s thoughts as he slowed his horse into an easy trot, he and his men riding down the main road through Khule’s shanty town. He listened to the horse’s breathing slowly quiet, the animal slowly regaining its composure from the long and arduous ride. It was a great horse, to be sure—with great stamina and composure in battle. It wasn’t Aden’s Black Betty which he had always coveted, but it was still a great horse.

As Sean, his retinue of knights and the rest of his baggage train rode down the road, the commonfolk observed them curiously. He knew news of their arrival had probably already spread to reach those in the upper echelons of the county but that was to be expected. They were a rather large and distinct group after all.

The town’s walls and bastions were visible from a distance. The structure itself was quite imposing, many times the width of the equally ancient Faywyn Keep. Its earthen walls that extended to surround the town’s main body were covered in ivy. Beneath its ramparts were large arrowslits—the kinds one would expect to be armed with deadly ballistae that could spear unarmored men through the torso five hundred yards away. The foreboding defences extended along the shoreline mirroring Gema’s gulf, protecting the town from any seaborne assault; cannon placements spaced equidistantly surveyed the horizons on alert for hostile naval incursions.

Khule was a residence fit for a legendary warlord. Or, better still, a knightly prince, Sean thought. Or in this case, a particularly wealthy duke much unlike his honourable father. To be fair though, the Lormats did have a heritage almost as old as the kingdom of Quilton itself; also very much unlike his honourable father.

The earl and his procession came to a stop at the foot of an Outwork, the thick iron bars of the portcullis barring entry into the town. At the top of the bastion was a line of guards warily watching them from above and armed to the teeth.

Dismounting, Sean carefully approached the wall with his hands raised.

“What do you seek, stranger?!” one man, the most well-adorned knight amongst the rest, shouted from the top of the wall.

“I am Sean of house von Grifenburg!” Sean shouted back, “I seek an audience with Lord Tristan of House Lormat, the third Lion of Khule!”

Atop the wall was a brief flurry of activity. Sean could feel the nervous energy wafting from the men gathered behind him, but he ignored them as he waited patiently for what came next.

“You will come with us!” the knight said a few moments later. “Alone!”

“Agreed!” Sean complied easily, turning to return to his horse. Slowly, the iron gate was raised and even before it was halfway up armed men had already gathered at the other side.

“All of you will wait here till I return. Drake, you are in charge of the men, make sure they keep to themselves and not cause any trouble.” Sean said before riding through the Outwork and over a drawbridge across a massive moat. The setting sun glinted off the emerald waters that filled the trench. Inside, the town appeared as the embodiment of affluence.

It was a bustling centre of commerce and culture, filled with elegant buildings and more than a few finely dressed denizens. The streets were lined with ornate buildings, their facades adorned with intricate carvings and delicate stonework. The shops lining the streets were filled with fine goods, and the smells of exotic spices and perfumes hung heavy in the air.

As Sean rode by, merchants and artisans noisily plied their trades. The sounds of horses' hooves and the clatter of carts rolling over the stone and pebble roads echoed through the streets, intermingled with the chatter of townsfolk going about their business. At the centre of town stood a grand Keep, the towering spires of its citadel visible from every corner of the town, a testament to the power and wealth of its ruler.

The earl could not help but experience a sliver of dread at the thought of his fate should things go south, trapped as he was in the heart of another’s domain. But Sean did not consider himself a coward; he steeled his heart, pushing the dread that clouded his mind out. Soon he was ushered into a large chamber and made to wait, standing, under the supervision of four armed knights decked in steel armour.

About twenty minutes later, Lord Tristan appeared. The duke was a large man, possessing one of the burliest builds Sean had had the privilege of seeing. He dwarfed even Lord Aden, who was considered a monstrously built man with his towering stature and corded musculature. Draped around the lion’s massive build was a luxurious woollen coat, its silken surface littered with delicate embroidery.

Calmly, the older man made his way to his seat. This he did without so much as a cursory glance at Sean until he was seated.

“So you are that rumoured orphan bastard Aden picked up a few years back, uhn,” the duke said, his tone languid. “I always wondered why he would choose a mudblood over his true-born son, regardless of how useless he may be, as his heir. I guess I see it now. I must laud you boy, you have guts, to even for a moment, consider coming here today.”

Sean smiled, suppressing the cringe that threatened to emerge on his features. “You honour me with your words, Lord Tristan,” he said.

“That is not surprising,” the duke replied, unimpressed. “Now get on with it before I have my men throw you out for wasting my time.”

Sean’s smile shuddered as he suppressed another grimace. “As possibly the last living Grifenburg,” he began, “on both my household’s and vassals’ behalf, I wish to forfeit our fealty to the Algrian crown and instead pledge our allegiance to you, Lord Tristan, and join your ranks as your vassals.”

Slowly, the duke sat straighter, leaning forward to peer down at Sean from his elevated seat. “...Last living Grifenburg, eh?” he asked after a moment of silence. “Selling your master’s heritage for cheap at the first signs of trouble? I always knew you mudbloods couldn’t be trusted with anything. Very well, I will consider your proposal. What about the lands?”

“All yours to do as you see fit… Lord Tristan,” Sean replied, his smile finally turning brittle. “This as well as the yearly tribute that formerly went to the Crown.”

The count sat still, staring blandly at Sean. “...What do you truly want, boy?”

“A vassal of my father, the Heras, rebelled, forcing me and a handful of our men to flee Algrim. My beloved brother, dead at their hands. I want Count Hera’s and his entire household’s heads as recompense. Also, I seek your protection for the rest of my men and my father’s remaining vassals. That we may shelter under the enduring shield that is your banner. I also seek to be invested with the title of Count; Count of Faywyn to be specific, My Liege.”

The chamber was dead silent as Lord Tristan considered Sean’s words. Several moments went by before the duke suddenly rose to his feet, drawing his sword.

“Kneel,” he commanded. Sean obeyed. The duke placed the blade on the earl’s right shoulder. “By the power vested in me,” He began, “Lord Tristan of house Lormat, the third lion of Khule, I name you Count Sean von Grifenburg, Lord of Faywyn and Lord Vassal of House Lormat. You may rise.”

“...Thank you, My Liege.”

“My people will settle you and your men in. Come this week's end, we would begin preparation. After the winter ends, I shall retrieve Heras's heads for you and issue an audit affirming your new title. Now, get out of my sight, you deplorable beast.”

“...Thank you, my lord,” Sean replied, his smile fragile as he rose to be escorted out of the chamber, leaving the duke and his stoic guards behind.

***​

Faywyn.



The atmosphere in the chamber was stifling as all sat around the table, sombre. The earl, seemingly ignorant or impervious to the tension in the air, sat serenely at the head of the table where he read from a codex, mumbling inaudibly under his breath. The young lord’s index finger tapped rhythmically on the book’s leather-bound spine, his expression, musing.

Lancelot looked around, meeting the pensive gazes of Sers Carter, Drevos, Mannon and Turiel. Directly across from him, Sir Carter looked up towards the ceiling, his lips pursed and hands clasped dourly on the table before him. To the earl’s left sat Steward Robert, the family butler. It was easy to forget the steward was there, at least until the moment you needed him during which he is, again, suddenly the second or third most important person in the room. Alas, such was the power beholden to the Master of Coin.

There was a soft knocking on the door. "Come in," the earl said, placing a bookmark in the codex as he set it aside.

"You summoned me, My Lord?" Ser Justin asked as he walked into the chamber. His garment stuck to his skin, still wet from perspiration. The ever-resourceful knight must have been ushered directly here upon arrival from his latest assignment. Lancelot could have sworn that even Lord Aden himself did not trouble the young knight anywhere near the extent to which the earl was going.

"Yes," Levi replied, snapping Lancelot out of his thoughts. The young lord gestured to an empty seat beside Ser Drevos, “Ser Justin, please, have a seat."

"We don’t have much time on our hands, so I'd rather not waste it," Levi continued as Justin made himself comfortable. He leaned forward into his seat, resting his left cheek on his palm which was in turn supported by the armrest underneath his arm.

“Bycrest is under Hertalean occupation. His Majesty, the king, has most probably been taken hostage, and my father whose location is currently unknown might also be in custody; or, worse, dead.”

Lancelot frowned.

“I will not coddle anyone in this room,” the earl said. “He is my father, yet I have already steeled my heart in preparation for the worst. You ought to as well. Doing otherwise would be unproductive. A pointless waste of time and effort.” Of that the earl spoke nothing more, ending the topic on a dismissive note. Instead, with a small smile, he asked. “I hear there have been quite a few disgruntled voices amid the knightage about my most recent decisions?”

“It’s nothing serious my liege,” Carter replied hurriedly.

“Relax, Ser Carter,” the earl said, “I am not so unreasonable as to restrict the thoughts and opinions of my valued men. I called you all here today first to clear any doubts you might have. This way you may assuage the rest of my men on my behalf. It’s the least I could do in return for their faithful service. Please, go ahead. Now is the time to air any grievances that might be had with me.”

The room fell silent. For a moment Lancelot feared none might take the earl’s offer, but then he noticed Ser Mannon straighten in his seat.

“...My Lord,” the man began, his gaze flickering to meet the others, “I see the need for more skilled men, but isn't it risky to have knights from Mallowston train the militia? Several knights, myself included, have doubts as to why you would permit even a few of them access to any weapons, regardless of how crude, at all.”

“Well, first let me correct that,” Levi replied, “of the knights of Mallowston that decided to cooperate in exchange for better treatment and a chance to buy their future back, a large majority have been tasked simply with training the militiamen how to read and write, a task that is quickly starting to prove daunting for most. The few that have been chosen to train the militiamen with weapons have already been properly screened by Sers Lancelot and Carter. Those men are only tasked to duel the trainees and always under the strict supervision of at least two of our own who, in turn, are fully armed.”

“I heard about that, My Lord,” Justin spoke up. “The lessons on literacy and arithmetics you arranged for the militiamen, though? Many find it baffling that you would expend resources to have peasant rabble educated. Also, there is the monthly salary you intend to pay to these men as well as that ‘pension’ thing you mentioned. They already get free food three times a day. I don’t see the benefit in giving money to men who would eventually die on the battlefield or desert the moment events turn unfavourable.”

Lancelot nodded, looking towards Levi for his response. Oddly enough, as the young lord’s gaze travelled across the men gathered he looked… disappointed. For some reason, it felt like the earl had some expectations they had as a whole collectively failed to meet.

“...I want you to ask yourselves this question,” Levi began, “What would make a better knight? An uneducated man who would be useless outside of charging at an enemy in front of him or a learned one who would be able to effectively lead his lessers into that battle?”

The table fell silent. Then the earl spoke again.

“You still don't see it?” he asked. “I expected more but I guess it can't be helped,” he added in a soft murmur.

“...You want us to train militiamen who would be able to lead others into battle?” Sir Mannon replied with some hesitation.

“No,” the Earl replied, sounding mildly exasperated. “I want you to train militiamen who would be able to train others to lead their lessers into battle. We’ve discussed this before. Forming a knightage of loyal men takes years. Years we do not possess. The militiamen would be our only source of power for a long while unless we resort to hiring expensive, unreliably, and utterly unruly mercenaries. I truly don’t care how inferior you think the militiamen are in comparison to proper knights; in a batch of four hundred and fifty men, I want to believe at least forty would prove competent enough to somewhat fill in a knight’s role in battle.

“Think about it, why else would I insist on granting them monetary favours for their loyalty? Monthly salaries would mean working for me would guarantee a better life for themselves and encourage them to strive harder to become better soldiers. Pensions would guarantee a stable life for them even after they are dismissed should they suffer crippling injuries; it would also ensure their families do not starve should they die in battle.”

The chamber fell silent. Even Robert who was the most resistant person to the idea of giving out money sat silently beside the young lord with a pensive look on his face.

"Are there any other questions," Levi asked with a small sigh. One could easily glean the disappointment that lingered in the young lord’s tone. At this, Lancelot felt a sliver of self-doubt bubble in his heart.

How had he failed to see what a boy half his age had in one glance?

“If there are none,” the young lord continued, “let’s move on to the main agenda for today. Count Josh’s forces at Norcastle would be returning next spring. With me here,” the earl placed a small slip of paper on the table, ”is a letter I had Gilbert write which would be sent by pigeon to his father shortly before the first snow. It contains details of Gilbert’s supposed conquest of Faywyn, the heavy losses he suffered during his siege of our walls, as well as fears of a revolt amongst the common folk who remain loyal to the von Grifenburgs.

“All completely fictional of course,” Levi said with a smile as he slid the paper towards Ser Justin who picked it up, a curious expression forming on his face, “but Count Josh should be unaware of this, and upon receiving this letter would hurriedly begin preparations to return to Mallowston the moment the Strega thaws to defend his family and newly acquired territory. This would give us the element of surprise, and reduce the possibility of news of Mallowston’s fall reaching the Count, leading to him doing something rather… undesirable.”

The room fell silent again. “...What happens when the count does finally arrive, My Lord?” Mannon asked. “We would have to relinquish control of Mallowston fort if we are to properly defend Faywyn during a siege.”

“What siege?” the earl asked rhetorically, “I do not envision suffering a siege, but rather a decisive battle during which this blood feud is settled once and for all.”

“My Liege, you would have the militiamen face Hera's elite bannermen in battle?” Ser Carter asked incredulously. “Even if we outnumber them two-to-one I highly doubt our rabble army can best Josh’s army in open combat. It would be a slaughter”

Levi shook his head. “Not open battle,” the earl replied, “at least not during the first half of our engagement. The Hera bannermen are to return by ship, are they not? Between Mallowston and Faywyn we should be able to muster a few artillery without sacrificing too much of our defence, can we not? Well, we can move about ten or so guns to support the two demi-cannons at Mallowston harbour’s Martello towers. If we relocate our two remaining Sloops, fully armed with their minions, to Mallowston the number of guns we would control in the region jumps to thirty-two with each additional broadside. When the Heras arrive and attempt to dock at the harbour we can ambush them with these guns and either force them to disembark in a disorderly manner or engage in an artillery contest which they would be destined to lose.

“If Lord Josh wisely decides to disembark, most likely on the opposite bank, he would be forced to abandon their vessels and deprive his men of their artillery, supplies, as well as a convenient means of transport back to Norcastle to request aid from his allies there. Essentially in one move, we would achieve absolute gunnery superiority, force them into a battle without sufficient resources, eliminate a significant portion of the enemy, as well as force a defensive barrier in the form of the Strega between ourselves and their more experienced bannermen, allowing us to engage them via our vessels, on our terms. Should he disembark on our side of the river, a prolonged battle would be rendered unnecessary. We could simply just corral them to the riverside with calvary and mop them up with a few shots from our sloops’ swivelguns.”

“...That all good and fine, My Lord, but what is stopping Count Josh from just simply retreating down the Strega at the first sign of trouble?” Lancelot asked.

“Don’t worry about that,” the earl said, “Our friend Gilbert would once again volunteer his services towards aiding our cause. I have taken steps to certain of this. Josh Hera might be a cautious man, but I doubt even he would be callous enough to retreat with the threat of his family’s demise dependent on his continuous presence on the battlefield … Any other questions?”

No one spoke.

“Good,” Levi said with a lilt. “Now onto the next agenda. What to do about Towleigh?”

“...Towleigh, My Lord?” Ser Carter asked, a frown forming on his face. “...What do you suggest is the problem, My Lord?”

“The problem is trust, Ser Carter. Trust. Can we trust them not to attempt to repeat what the Heras attempted? Can we trust them not to enter alliances with external powers to scheme against us just as the Old Houses did at Bycrest? Across the border, we guard is Quilton, a kingdom with glaring ambitions to expand given their extensive influence in the mountain tribes' politics. Within the borders of this province, rebellion festers.

“Ricos and Towleigh are the two closest territories from which any sizable enemy force can be garrisoned. Given its status as a Quiltonian burg, Ricos would remain off-limits until we are forced to consider otherwise, but Towleigh must be brought to heel, either through dialogue or force.”

“Outright attacking a vassal would irreparably damage the von Grifenburg name, My Liege,” Lancelot warned. “I would advise against that.”

The earl laughed. “Why would I attack a loyal vassal of mine when I can just charge a disloyal one for treasonous behaviour,” he chuckled, waving his hands dismissively. “Gilbert would testify against them for aiding in his attempted insurrection during the public trials this coming week; The Timels would be found guilty with the entirety of Faywyn as witnesses. Once the issue with Count Josh is resolved, we would march our then-blooded army to their gates to force a negotiation regarding the matter. Hopefully, news that we subjugated the Heras over the winter would make them more pliant to persuasion. If not we would proceed from there to initiate plans to seize the town. Any questions?”

Silence.

“...If there’s none, I guess this meeting is adjourned then,” the earl said rising to his feet, “You are all dismissed. Robert, please follow me. I believe we still have some issues regarding the militia’s accounts to discuss.”