Chapter 430 — They're Here

In the inner city of Boulder Fortress, a column of knights and soldiers in gleaming armor marched in formation down the broad town streets. Above the procession, the banner of Earl Pompey of the Holy Spirit Plains fluttered high in the air, its gold-and-crimson embroidery catching the sunlight in a brilliant, gorgeous display.

Sir Maqi stood upon the inner city wall, gazing down at the army as it advanced in column. Only after a long while did he speak softly: "I'm afraid this is the last of the reinforcements we can hope for."

"Better than nothing," said Viscount Carroll grimly, standing at Maqi's side. "Earl Pompey does understand, after all, what it would mean if this fortress were to fall."

The troops entering the city were not the royal knight brigade but Earl Pompey's private army. The arrival of this force meant that the earl had at last sensed the urgency of the situation from the ceaseless reports of late, and had made his decision.

Boulder Fortress stood at the edge of Earl Pompey's domain. Nominally, the land the fortress occupied belonged to the Pompey family, but in practice the fortress was under the direct control of the crown—even the soldiers within it swore loyalty directly to the king. The fortress had its own farms, mines, and mills nearby, and Earl Pompey bore no obligation to provision or support it. Yet it was plain that the earl well understood: should the Cecil family take the fortress, his domain would be gravely endangered.

Word that the Mystic Vein Sect "did not follow ancestral custom" had long since spread through the southern nobles sheltering in the fortress. Earl Pompey could not guarantee that the Cecil army would halt once it took Boulder Fortress, still less that the Cecil troops would not first plunder the surrounding lands to make up for their war losses. At first he had seemed convinced the Cecilians could do nothing against Boulder Fortress, and had therefore rested rather easy—but through Sir Maqi's exertions, he had at last sent his army in support. And this force was the only reinforcement Sir Maqi could draw.

"How much fighting strength these cosseted gentleman-soldiers from the Holy Spirit Plains can bring is entirely unknown," Sir Maqi sighed. "But as you say—better than nothing. At least they can work the catapults, or hide behind the walls and shoot arrows."

Viscount Carroll hesitated, then at last could not hold back the question: "Any new word from the south?"

"I sent three batches of scouts, disguised as merchants and hunters. Only one batch came back," Sir Maqi said, his face like still water. "All we can confirm is that the Cecilians are sending troops this way—but of conditions further south, we can learn nothing at all."

"So they haven't given up after all..." Viscount Carroll's heart sank. "They'll come sooner or later."

Looking at Carroll's ashen face, touched even with traces of dread, Sir Maqi could only sigh inwardly with helpless resignation.

He had immense confidence in the fortress he garrisoned. Though he had heard many terrible tales of the Cecil army from the southern nobles who had fled here, he still had faith in his fortress. In his view, these southern nobles were simply frightened out of their wits, so that the terror of the enemy had been magnified without limit in their hearts. Sir Maqi was a man who had seen many battlefields and understood such broken-spirited folk well; having filtered out the exaggerations in their talk, he had not been cowed by the Cecil army.

That did not mean, however, that he would grow careless about the threat to come.

The Cecilians would not be the "gods from heaven" the southern nobles described—but neither were they a force to be taken lightly. Facing the onrushing Cecil army, Boulder Fortress would surely endure hard fighting. By Sir Maqi's estimate, the Cecilians' "skyfire explosions" would not break the fortress's magical barrier any time soon, but the garrison had no means whatever of driving back Cecilians who could unleash sustained magical attacks from a great distance.

The battle would likely become a protracted exchange of fire—or, to put it more dismally, a long bombardment of Boulder Fortress by the Cecilians alone, with the garrison hard-pressed to sally out.

Sir Maqi did not fear prolonged, bitter fighting. What truly worried him was Boulder Fortress's present isolation, with no relief in sight—and the steadily worsening state of the realm.

So long as that worsening state did not improve, then no matter how long Boulder Fortress held out, in the end it could not hold.

He clapped Viscount Carroll on the shoulder. "Let's go back. We need to relax—have a couple of drinks to settle our nerves."

They left the wall and came to the great hall of the fortress keep.

The moment Sir Maqi pushed open the hall doors, he saw Viscount Mari Oran in a loose dressing gown, standing in the middle of the hall with a goblet of wine, declaiming drunkenly to the maidservants. Not far off, Viscount Consco paced to and fro, his face full of anxiety—and judging by his complexion, he had drunk a great deal too.

"Ah! Sir! And my friend Viscount Carroll!" Mari Oran caught sight of those entering and at once raised his goblet high. "My respects to you both—you really must try this."

"Oran, you've had too much," Carroll said with a slight frown, his tone helpless as he regarded the man whose conduct had grown ever more unseemly these past days. "And why are you wearing a dressing gown in the great hall?"

"This is inside the castle. Inside the castle, one may wear a dressing gown anywhere..." Mari Oran laughed. "Don't worry, I'm perfectly sober..."

Viscount Consco came over, skirting round the now rather muddled Mari Oran. His eyes were full of gloom, and bloodshot from days of heavy drinking. "Sir, there's word from the south—"

Sir Maqi waved a hand before the other could finish. "No good news."

Viscount Carroll looked at his two friends with disappointment—one unrestrained and dissolute, the other sunk in dejection. The composure and dignity of noblemen had all but vanished from them.

And not only these two friends: nearly every other noble who had fled from the south to the fortress was in no better state.

These viscounts and barons gathered in the banquet hall, or burrowed into the town's taverns and brothels, squandering what little money remained to them, burning up their worthless energies in feasting and revelry—scarcely a trace of hope to be seen in any of them.

At that thought, he could not help raising his head and searching the hall for a certain person. Soon the somewhat gaunt figure of Lady Ropeni Glan came into his view.

The viscountess sat quietly in a corner, speaking in low tones with one of her knights. Though a faint anxiety showed on her face as well, that composed bearing of hers was utterly unlike the others.

Over these many days, Sir Maqi had observed this too. Looking at the other nobles in the hall, the high knight could not help shaking his head and muttering low: "No better than a widow..."

Beside him, Viscount Carroll heard the knight's muttering but could not make it out. He was about to ask when he saw the hall doors pushed open once again.

A knight in armor came rushing hurriedly into the hall, the clatter of steel boots on the floor echoing through the chamber at once. Those nearby fell silent and turned uneasy, suspicious eyes upon the knight who had burst in.

"General! General!" the knight cried as he ran up to Sir Maqi. "A small band of refugees has arrived outside the walls—they claim to come from the Glan region!"

The Glan region?

At once the southern nobles in the hall turned instinctively toward Lady Ropeni Glan in her corner—and under their gaze, the viscountess's head snapped up, and she stared in astonishment at the knight standing before Sir Maqi.

Sir Maqi took in the scene, then turned to the messenger. "Where are they?"