HPDBC Chapter 202: Auriga’s Whisper
Chapter 202: Auriga’s Whisper
chapter 202: auriga’s whisper
auriga’s whisper
new midlandia army camp
the three saint candidates sat together inside their large, lavish tent, murmuring nighttime prayers dedicated to the living saint. in their prayers, they honored her who had come to show another path to the ancient's paradise. the scent of incense lingered, strong despite having burned out moments ago.
earlier, they had sent their troops and the brothers in black to war, hoping for success or even news of a decisive victory. instead, troubling sounds seeped through the tent walls: clashing steel and distant cries.
"sister, i hear a clash of swords," the youngest saint candidate whispered once their prayers ended.
"yes, i heard it too," the wiry and oldest saint candidate replied, her tone cool and dismissive. "it must be the clamor of men hauling the wounded to safety. the noises we heard must be from the clatter of weapons and armor being hurriedly removed."
her answer briefly reassured the two, but now the sounds of horse neighing, cries, and screams drew closer.
"could we be under attack?" the middle sister ventured.
"impossible. not even bengrieve himself could triumph against 6,000," the oldest sister snapped, though her expression betrayed her growing anxiety.
the clamor of battle grew louder as shouts, grunts, clashing steel, heavy thuds, and agonized screams filled the night. the three exchanged worried glances. without a word, they retreated deeper into the tent, searching for hiding places behind their traveling chests and furniture.
"get the lantern out," the oldest sister commanded.
the middle sister, skilled in magic, snuffed out the expensive oil lamp with a flick of her fingers from afar. not a moment too soon, a guardsman crashed into the tent, his boots sinking into the ornate rugs. despite his efforts to steady himself, he lost his footing and stumbled back, stopping just short of toppling the mahogany table the sisters used for rituals.
another guard was wrestled to the ground near the entrance. he groaned, still struggling, until the blunt side of an axe struck his helmet with a sharp, metallic ring. his body slumped to the side, motionless.
then, a tall knight in full plate armor entered. his visor was up, revealing sharp eyes, a firm jaw, and a calm, almost gentle face.
the first guardsman struggled to get up, but the knight spoke firmly. "don't. your hip is broken."
"i yield," the man muttered, before raising his voice, "i yield."
the knight lowered his axe and stepped further into the tent, his gaze scanning the interior. a lantern near the entrance cast flickering light on the sisters' ritual tools and scattered belongings. finding nothing, he said, "drop your weapons, and i, sir harold, will take you as hostages."
meanwhile, the three sisters crawled frantically. their earlier hiding spot had proven inadequate, and now they scrambled to conceal themselves behind stacks of blankets and clothing taken from cascasonne city.
but sir harold unexpectedly climbed atop the ritual table, his armored greaves thudding on the polished mahogany. he easily spotted the sisters crawling on all fours from his elevated position, even in the dim light. "well, well," he said, his tone cold and cutting, "what do we have here?"
instead of attempting to talk, the oldest sister pulled a bottle of poison from her inner pocket and hurled it at the knight. it wasn’t meant for throwing, but she hoped it would harm him. at the same time, she barked at the middle sister, “go at him!”
sir harold caught the small ceramic bottle mid-air with ease, tossing it out of the tent without so much as a glance. then he descended from the table, axe at the ready.
but the middle sister was undeterred. she tapped into her soul, her eyes glowing gold as magic surged through her. gripping a golden ceremonial scepter, she charged at him with a defiant cry.
the knight raised his axe to block the strike, his arm jolting from the unusual force behind her attack. his smirk widened.
from outside, two men rushed into the tent, swords drawn. "sir harold," one called, their faces illuminated by the dim light of a single lantern.
"search the other tents. this isn’t the commander’s," the knight ordered, his voice calm. "but i think i’ve found the saint candidates." without hesitation, the two men retreated, leaving him to handle the sisters alone.
the middle sister swung her scepter with relentless energy, her strikes fierce but unrefined. sir harold blocked every strike with practiced ease, his movements calm and deliberate, until she faltered, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
his gaze softened briefly as he took in her appearance—flushed cheeks, loose, tumbling hair, and golden eyes filled with determination. she was not unattractive, and even in exhaustion, her calm composure commanded respect. unlike her older sister’s frenzied, fanatical gaze, her eyes held a quiet intelligence that was impossible to ignore.
she lunged at him again, aiming for his head. he deflected the blow and blocked her follow-up strike with his armored wrist. his gaze flicked to the other two sisters, who had armed themselves with a sword and spear scavenged from the tent. but they failed to notice the massive shadow looming outside.
sir harold smirked and caught the middle sister’s wrist mid-swing. she gasped in surprise as he lifted her effortlessly into his arms, cradling her as one might carry a bride. turning to the shadow beyond the canvas wall, he shouted, "francisca, now!"
a deafening tear ripped through the air as two enormous clawed hands shredded the tent wall, canvas flapping like torn parchment. the other two sisters froze, their eyes wide and mouths agape, before screams erupted from their throats.
francisca stormed inside, her hulking form casting a menacing silhouette. with a swift, brutal motion, she slammed her massive hands onto the other two sisters, pinning them to the carpeted floor as if they weighed nothing.
the wolf-like creature opened her maw, revealing sharp, glistening fangs.
"oi, be gentle. don't break them," the knight warned.
"can't help it. i smelled magic." francisca guffawed as she withdrew her hands from the trembling sisters, rising to her full height with an air of dominance. the two gasped for air, clutching their limbs in pain.
her sharp gaze lingered on them, and she commented with a smirk, "but only the girl in your embrace seems adept at it. this young one is still growing, and this old one has only faint traces..." her voice turned ominous. "now, what should i do with you?"
the sudden sound of gushing water made francisca giggle as the scent of urine filled the air. "scared, are you?" she mocked, eyeing the two who had wet themselves. "as you should be. why challenge the lord of korelia? not even mountain folk like us would risk it."
"you're giving them too much information," sir harold remarked, striding toward the tent’s entrance while still clutching the middle sister. she remained limp in his grasp, too exhausted from the fight and too aware of their insurmountable gap in strength to resist.
"what should i do with them? i'm still needed elsewhere," francisca asked, her tone casual, though her claws and fangs made the sisters on the ground tremble.
"take them to the nearest vanguard lieutenant. tell them to bind them and treat them as mages," the knight instructed. "but keep them away from the mages from cascasonne."
"understood," francisca replied cheerfully. she knelt, scooping the two frightened saint candidates against her broad chest, and sprinted outside with ease.
on his way out, the knight passed the man with the broken hip. "i'll send a squire for you later. do you have a waterskin?"
"i do, sir."
"good. i still have business to attend to," sir harold said, leaving the tent, cradling the middle sister with one arm supporting her back while the other gripped his axe."
outside, the sight of the battlefield struck her speechless. it was far worse than she had imagined. tents burned in the distance, while men surrendered en masse under the watch of crossbowmen. cavalry charges swept through scattered pockets of resistance, breaking what little cohesion remained. a column of soldiers moved systematically from tent to tent, leaving no room for anyone to hide.
"so, do you still want to fight after witnessing all this?" sir harold asked lightly, his tone casual, as though the chaos around them were nothing more than a fleeting distraction on a quiet evening stroll.
“this business of reginald, cascasonne, lubina—to me, it’s all just a lot of horseshit," lansius remarked, easing his tone. he noticed several of the captured men flash a faint smile.
then he hit them with the cold reality. "gentlemen, their horseshit caused two thousand people to die in just two hours. and many more are dying. another two thousand are unlikely to see the morning sun. don’t you feel any regret for being involved in this?"
his words hung heavy in the air, broken only by the soft sound of muffled cries here and there.
“if your leaders had backed down, none of you would have had to die. instead, your commanders didn’t even have the courtesy to send me an envoy to negotiate. they sent you to attack at the first chance, and now you’re paying for their pride and arrogance. by dawn, you’ll be burying thousands of your comrades. let this be a lesson: blind faith leads nowhere!”
“but she promised us salvation!” someone shouted from the crowd, followed by a wave of nods and murmured chants.
“can you heal our suffering family members?” another voice asked boldly.
“i have a healer in my ranks,” lansius replied with unflinching honesty. “it’s no secret. i’m going to task my healer to care for my men first. with so many wounded, it will likely take several hundred days if i try to tend to them all. so, even if i wanted to heal everyone here or your families, how long it would take? three thousand days? how many years is that?”
the crowd fell silent, dumbstruck by the simple truth.
lansius pressed on. “healing is not an act of faith. it is a skill practiced by mages and saint candidates. the problem isn’t faith—the problem is scarcity. too few healers, too many patients. thus, it is reserved for emergencies. if one can wait for treatment, then it’s unlikely to be an emergency.”
"but salvation?" another repeated desperately.
“salvation does not come from the outside,” lansius countered emphatically. “salvation is on the inside. search it in your soul. be at peace with yourself. to do that, if you have a grievance with someone, apologize to them and take the fair penalty willingly.”
“what if they’re already dead?” a voice asked hesitantly.
“then make peace with the dead,” lansius replied without hesitation. the men looked at him expectantly, their hope rekindled under the wrong belief that the lord knew a way.
lansius sighed. he didn’t want to deceive them, but he needed to prevent rebellion. if a small trick could achieve that, he would bear the burden of the lie. “you see that white light?”
they all nodded, captivated but also afraid.
“i’ll ask my saint to use the dwarven gem, made by the ancients, to shine light to the heavens above.”
a murmur of awe rippled through the crowd.
“prepare your prayers,” lansius instructed, “the names of those you’ve wronged or those you cherish. do not expect an answer; it’s just a one-way message to the ancient’s everlasting garden. but believe that, whatever your message, your loved one will smile back upon you.”
as lansius turned to leave, he spoke to sir michael. “can you brief ingrid on this?”
“certainly. but who will be the saint?” the knight asked, stifling a grin as he helped lansius mount his horse.
lansius let out a grin as he sat on the saddle. “certainly not my wife,” he said, though he couldn’t deny that with her skill with the bow, she could easily pass for a goddess if he wanted to claim it. but bringing hellenism and their pantheon was not on his plan.
...
the day after the battle, lansius awoke sluggish and fatigued. forcing himself to rise, he splashed water on his face and dressed quickly. audrey and margo were absent, as he had expected. he donned his brigandine and stepped outside, where his guardsmen promptly assembled to escort him.
"the lady has already reviewed the morning report," one of them said.
"good. can’t have urgent matters waiting on a sleepyhead like me," lansius replied lightly.
his men let out a faint grin and followed him as he walked the short distance to another tent. inside, he found audrey playing a medieval tabletop game with one of the half-breeds, a scholar within her tribe. she was smaller than francisca but equally skilled as a fighter.
“you’re awake,” audrey greeted him cheerfully, rising from her chair and approaching him, while the half-breed bowed respectfully before quietly returning to her post.
“sorry i wasn’t there to help you dress,” she said with a soft smile.
“no, don’t worry about that.” lansius took her hands gently in his. “how are arryn and tanya?”
“tanya’s still sleeping—she had trouble resting last night. as for mother, she’s at the field kitchen helping out. i hope that’s alright—”
“of course,” lansius reassured her. “arryn is a hard worker. if she wants to do it, then i don’t see a problem.”
audrey nodded happily. “i’ve sent margo and a few of our guards to watch over her.”
“my gratitude, then.” he gently caressed her belly, clad in soft linen. “and how’s the baby?”
“i can feel him moving sometimes,” audrey said with a satisfied smile. “care to join me for breakfast?”
“that’d be great,” lansius replied, sitting down with her for a meal.
as they ate, audrey briefed him on the morning report. the beauty of having a corps of scribes was their ability to deliver reports in writing. despite the ongoing chaos and lack of accurate numbers, even estimates were better than nothing. he needed casualty reports and the number of captives to better understand the extent of his victory.
there were also reports of stragglers and scouting parties. the war didn’t simply end on the eve of victory; remnants of the enemy still posed a potential threat.
after breakfast, lansius returned to the command tent and summoned his staff for a meeting. most arrived with reddened eyes, still bearing the fatigue from last night’s battle. only francisca seemed unaffected, thanks to her unique sleep pattern. half breed like her could fall into a deep sleep instantly, rest in short bursts, and stay awake through the night without issue.
"where’s dietrich?" lansius asked as he opened the meeting.
"he’s still recovering from minor injuries," sir omin reported readily.
lansius nodded, making a mental note to visit him in the infirmary. "gentlemen, let it be known that i’m planning to withdraw from cascasonne and possibly end this campaign without besieging lubina," he revealed. his statement drew surprised looks from his staff, who exchanged uncertain glances.
"but, my lord, the opportunity is clear and present. we’re victorious, our casualties are minimal and our supplies are enough. the road to lubina is practically open," sir michael said. meanwhile, sir harold, the acting marshal, remained silent.
"yes, i’ve reviewed the reports," lansius reassured his staff. "but this isn’t about our strength. from this point on, we’re dealing with a much more delicate issue. believe it or not, taking lubina now could very well mark the beginning of our undoing."
his staff’s gazes sharpened as they tried to decipher what lansius was thinking. they understood that his decision didn’t arise from timidness but from considering things from far greater heights—at the level of grand strategy.
***