Chapter 431 — An Inspiring Moment

At the first words from the steward of Glane—"They've come"—the southern nobles in the hall drew a collective sharp breath. And when he went on to say that the Glane, Consco, and Carroll districts had one after another fallen under the control of the Cecil army, the southern nobles shook their heads and sighed, their faces turning sorrowful. Viscount Consco, already sunk into the deepest despondency, lost all composure, covered his face with his hands, and began cursing under his breath without pause.

Before Sir Marchi could speak, Viscountess Ropeni Glane broke the silence. Her fists clenched, she fixed the steward with a hard stare. "And my daughter? What of the others in the castle?"

"They leveled the whole castle with a weapon they call the 'Great Cannon'... and burned near half the town to the ground..." the steward said, grief-stricken. "Almost no one got out... they're dead... all dead..."

Ropeni Glane swayed on her feet, then toppled backward as though every ounce of strength had drained from her body. One of her guards moved fast and caught his mistress before she could faint, and whispered at her side, "Cover your eyes."

"I know," Ropeni Glane whispered back, and then, as though overcome by grief, she buried her face in her hands.

Sir Marchi, for his part, betrayed only the faintest flicker of emotion at this appalling news; then his gaze turned appraising as he studied the steward who had somehow fled all the way from Glane to Boulder Fortress. "A pitiable tale—but how did you get out? From Glane to here... it's no short road."

The steward's face twisted with shame and sorrow. "I'm truly ashamed to say it... the Cecil let me go on purpose..."

"The Cecil let you go?" Sir Marchi asked, astonished. "Why?"

"They're delivering a challenge," said Viscountess Ropeni Glane, who seemed to have forced herself back from grief. Her eyes were red as she stared straight into Sir Marchi's. "They're declaring war! Flaunting their power! They mean for us to know what has happened in the south—to know that the holdings our families built over centuries have been utterly destroyed by them! They mean to break us completely!"

Sir Marchi looked at this woman—a woman who could only be called formidable, who had led the last surviving southern nobles clear of the battlefield all the way to Boulder Fortress. In her eyes he saw hatred burning fierce and bright, and little enough of grief; it was the look of one who, having lost everything, thought only of vengeance. He was moved in spite of himself. "My lady, your plight fills me with righteous anger. Rest assured, we shall fight the Cecil—and this fortress is where we shall meet them!"

His words were firm and forceful, yet scarcely a one of the southern nobles answered. Most had not yet shaken off the shock of the steward's tidings; the rest were already lost in dread of the Cecil's coming. Suddenly Viscount Mari Oran rose to his feet, waving his arms wildly. "We can't just sit here waiting to die! Darkgate City can't hold against fire from heaven!"

The other southern nobles grew restless, and many began to echo him. Seizing the moment, Mari Oran hurriedly addressed Sir Marchi. "My lord, press the point—have Count Pompey open the North Gate! We must flee to the Holy Spirit Plains!"

Sir Marchi's face was uglier than ever, and he could barely keep the contempt from his eyes. These men, frightened out of their wits, no longer deserved the name of noble; they were as wretched as the pauper folk in country hamlets who fall to their knees at the mere sight of a soldier's blade. Even now—even at such an hour—they were still thinking of flight?

Did they think the few coins left in their purses would buy them many days of white bread on the Holy Spirit Plains?

But before Sir Marchi could speak, Ropeni Glane stepped forward. She glared at every soul in the hall, near savage, and her voice carried an unstoppable momentum. "Where is your backbone? Has it all been dissolved in drink?!"

Apart from her, every southern noble who had fled here was a man, yet not one of them now dared lift his head to meet Ropeni's eyes. Watching those guilty glances slide away one by one, Ropeni Glane raised her voice. "What are you afraid of? Is there truly no courage left in you at all? Remember where you stand—this is Boulder Fortress, a fortress guarded by a magic barrier! Were you not all holding forth in the fortress banquet hall this very morning, declaring it impregnable, vowing to watch from the battlements as the Cecil were thrown into utter rout? How is it you have all forgotten now?"

"Lady Glane... Viscountess, what are we supposed to fight the Cecil with?" one southern noble finally could not hold his tongue. "If we go to the battlefield we'll only be a hindrance. Leaving here is also to keep from making trouble for the people of Boulder Fortress..."

"Nonsense!" Ropeni fixed the cowardly noble with a glare. "Is that what the rest of you think too? Have you forgotten? When you fled here, there were still a thousand men or more at your side—and to this day those loyal knights and soldiers wait in the city for your orders! They have not run. What are you running from?

"Boulder Fortress is short of hands right now—all the more reason to gather every force we have. We have stout walls and a magic barrier. Surely you can haul stones for the catapults behind that barrier? Surely you can help guard the mage towers and the arrow towers?"

Sir Marchi watched the impassioned viscountess, and beyond his astonishment a sudden light kindled in his mind. These southern nobles cast up here by misfortune... craven and feeble as most of them were, they were still a measure of strength.

Truth be told, until recently he had still harbored some hope that the Cecil would not come to attack this place—Boulder Fortress, after all, lay in theory beyond the borders of the Southland, and Duke Gaoyang Cecil had no cause to strike at it. But ever since he had learned of the deed in which "the Ancestor flouted the ancestral law," he had grown ever more regretful about taking in these useless southern nobles. Had he not seen that their purses still held a measure of gold and silver, and had they not promised him a great heap of things besides, he would likely have found a way long ago to drive most of them out.

And now...

Now the Cecil were truly coming, and these useless southern nobles ought to pay some price for the protection they had accepted.

He looked at Viscountess Ropeni, striving to rouse the southern nobles to take up arms and defend the fortress—the one southern noble, Viscount Carroll aside, for whom he had any real regard. And now this lady had just had everything torn from her by the Cecil; her will to vengeance was unshakable, which would make her a most useful ally.

So he rose to his feet and spoke. "My lady—will you help me defend this fortress?"

Ropeni turned, a feverish glint in her eyes. "Yes, my lord, of course I will—so long as it means defeating the Cecil, I will spare no effort!"

At this point Viscount Carroll, who had stood silent all the while, rose in timely fashion. He looked around at the southern nobles, each of them wavering, and lifted both hands. "Gentlemen, you ought to be ashamed. Your courage combined does not equal that of the Viscountess Glane. Do not forget that we are under the protection of Boulder Fortress—and when the fortress is in peril, it is our duty to stand forward. I will answer the viscountess's call. Though I have only two knights and a few dozen soldiers left, I too will mount the walls and defend this fortress to the last!"