Horizon of War Series - Chapter 173: Beneath the Throne

Beneath the Throne

Lansius

Beneath the shade of the umbrella, Lansius pondered an answer while Ingrid and Francisca waited. Above them, Hans took a slow, tight turn to maintain altitude and keep the wire from snapping.

“We better end this,” Lansius said to the two, who looked at him sharply. “Call me paranoid, but we might be contacting an unknown, powerful party, and we might get discovered.”

Ingrid and Francisca exchanged glances. “I think it’s a good approach, My Lord. I don’t even know who could possess something like this,” Ingrid agreed.

Lansius turned to Francisca. “Do you have a color to say goodbye?”

“Wood color,” said Francisca. “It’s for night, to sleep well.”

“Why not black?” Ingrid asked.

“Because you can’t imagine black in your head. The color of the void is black, or so the scripture says,” Francisca explained.

Lansius nodded. “Do it, send the color, and then let’s end this now before we make a mistake and reveal ourselves.”

Ingrid nodded and closed her eyes. It took a moment before her shoulders relaxed; turning to the other two, she said, “The other party also sent wood brown.”

Lansius breathed a sigh of relief, saying, “Let’s move away from the wire. Francisca, can you get the crew to mark the wire and then have them bring Hans down?”

Francisca moved rapidly, leaving the umbrella with Ingrid. Together with Lansius, the educator walked toward the crew quarters where Audrey was waiting. “My Lord, are we going to abandon this experiment?” Ingrid asked.

“No, this is too valuable,” Lansius revealed. “We need to learn who they are, and for that, we need to find a way to communicate with them.”

Ingrid’s eyes wandered as she muttered, “It is unfortunate that it is only limited to colors and images.”

“Can it send an image of letters?” Lansius asked.

“I think it’s not possible, My Lord,” she said in an apologetic tone. “It’s hazy and dream-like as if seen through a thick veil.”

“I’ll think of something,” Lansius replied, already considering a way forward.

Ahead, the crew used flags to signal Hans to bring the majestic airship down, while Audrey stood by, eager to hear what they had achieved.

…

The recorded length of the wire was around 12 ceremonial spears’ lengths or about 24 meters. Lansius felt he could get by with less, so he built a shorter wooden tower with a long pole in case more height was needed. He constructed it in the Eastern Mansion as the experiment involved magic and he wanted it to be concealed.

Externally, it appeared to be just a very tall watchtower, which also served a purpose as it enabled them to see much of the city, even beyond the city walls.

While construction was underway by his select men, who by this time had grown akin to an engineers’ corps, Lansius was trying to come up with a solution to communicate. He had discussed with Francisca, but she could only confirm what Ingrid had already told her: The earrings were simply limited, perhaps because they were only an imitation of the original.

The range and also the function was likely limited. However, at least now he knew that there were six colors that he could use: Red, Green, Blue, Yellow, Wood Brown, and Silver White.

With that combination, he had an idea to write a basic code. It was essentially Morse code but with a combination of colors. He designed it so most letters corresponded with two colors to make it efficient as the earring couldn’t use sound and, from what he had gathered, the visual signal was significantly slower.

After one day, he came up with:

A = Red, Green

B = Red, Blue

C = Red, Yellow

D = Red, Silver

E = Red, Wood

F = Green, Blue

G = Green, Yellow

H = Green, Silver

I = Green, Wood

And so on with Blue, Yellow, Silver, and Wood.

Now, in his private hall, Lansius presented his idea to Audrey, Ingrid, and Francisca. “Can you understand it?” he asked, laying the parchment on the table for them to see.

“Using colors to make letters,” Audrey commented. “But wouldn’t it be complicated to communicate even a simple greeting?”

“Yes, it’ll take time even to ask a simple question, but it’s better than groping in the dark,” Lansius replied.

“This might work in concept,” Ingrid said thoughtfully after studying the list. “But how do we send this alphabet list to them?”

“We’ll have to use large, clear lettering,” Lansius suggested, placing a blank sheet of parchment on the table. “How many letters do you think we can fit on one sheet while still making them legible enough to be sent?”

Ingrid pondered momentarily before responding, “I think we can manage three large letters with their corresponding colors listed underneath.”

“Well, if there’s no other way…” Lansius pushed the ink and quill pen he had prepared beforehand across to Ingrid. Seated across from the Lord, Ingrid began to write the first parchment with A, B, and C. Beneath each letter, she noted Red, Green; Red, Blue; and Red, Yellow.

“Do you think the other side will understand this?” Audrey asked.

“Hopefully… but if they don’t, then I don’t feel that much threat from them,” Lansius explained with a smile.

“Indeed,” Ingrid muttered in agreement. “If they can’t understand this, then they’re probably not much of an issue.” Turning to Francisca, she asked, “How about you? Why are you keeping quiet?”

Francisca crossed her arms and tilted her head a little. “Mm, I understand the idea, but it’s such a hassle. If they don’t try, then they might just be another half-breed tribe,” she said dismissively.

“Does your tribe know any mage in Umberland?” Ingrid asked, looking doubtful.

“Mm…” Francisca pondered. “Good point,” she admitted, then giggled innocently.

Lansius and Audrey smiled at her carefree attitude. Lansius turned to the window, observing the wooden palisade that had been used for last year’s defense now being repurposed for the tower’s construction. As the city walls started to take shape, the need to repurpose every piece of hardwood and timber became vital, especially since Korelia had only a limited amount of precious land.

While the trade route to Umberland and Three Hills had been opened, with plenty of firewood and timber expected to arrive in summer, the price for good quality timber was likely to still fetch a premium until the building boom ended in several years.

Turning back to the trio, Lansius said, “Then we’ll reconvene when the tower is completed.”

“It should be quick. Then, My Lord and Lady, I’ll take my leave,” Francisca said, nodding her head slightly before heading out.

“Where are you going?”

“To help them, obviously,” she replied, gazing outside to the base of the tower where men were working with a smirk.

Indeed, as Lansius had witnessed before, half-breeds like her could climb building easily. They also seemed able to survive jumping down from two to three stories high without even flinching.

After Francisca had left, Audrey asked Ingrid, “Who do you think we are dealing with? Could it be the mage guild?”

“Possible but quite unlikely,” Ingrid responded with a tone of doubt. “I know about such earrings from the books, but not even the mage guild had one to be studied.”

Audrey turned to Lansius, who gave a reassuring nod. “There’s always a risk, but at least they know nothing about us except for an image of a farmland. I hope we can keep it that way until we learn more about them.”

Ingrid added, “I think it’s prudent to direct our suspicion toward the Hunter Guild, one of the two lords here, or one of the guilds operating right under our nose.”

“Not likely,” Lansius stated. “The fact that they knew about the color red and wood brown means they are familiar with Umberland’s legends.”

“Lord Robert?” Audrey raised her brow.

“No, I already asked Francisca about it,” Ingrid reassured her.

“Then not the two lords,” Lansius muttered. He gazed again at the window, now seeing Francisca leaping up with building materials on her left shoulder and landing nimbly on the unfinished platform.

“Let’s just stop worrying about this,” Lansius said to the two. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

Despite saying that, Lansius harbored an uncomfortable feeling. If he was contacting potential enemies, then he would be giving away something akin to Morse code to hostile hands. He felt a chill down his spine but realized that the path of progress is never without risk.

***

Château D’Aguilar

The smell of sulfur was thick in the air, and the greenish water of the natural hot spring bubbled nearby. Bengrieve sat in a separate bath of brick and stone, fed by a mixture of water from the hot spring and a stream that poured down from the ruined chateau above them.

The long peace in Midlandia had made the knightly House that owned the chateau neglect its upkeep, preferring the comfort of a more hospitable manor nestled next to a bustling village.

For Bengrieve, the steaming waters of the bath were as addicting as they were rejuvenating, a rare luxury after his campaign in Elandia.

This book’s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

Sir Stan approached, his figure stark against the misty backdrop. He was naked except for a necklace, rings, and a sheathed sword. He made his way toward Bengrieve, who lounged chest-deep in the green waters.

“Ah, you’ve come. Care to join?” Bengrieve asked, dressed merely in his undergarments. The gemstones on his necklaces glistened while his rings were completely submerged.

With just a sigh and a grunt, Sir Stan joined Bengrieve in the pool.

Sir Stan moaned from the hot bath. “I must admit, this is extraordinary,” he said afterward.

Bengrieve smirked but did not comment.

Several minutes passed in peace, until Sir Stan asked, “Cousin, how can you enjoy this while Cascasonne is besieged?”

“Don’t ruin the mood,” Bengrieve warned.

Sir Stan sighed and changed the topic. “When are we leaving?”

“Soon, I’m just waiting for the messengers.”

The baronet glanced. “I doubt the local nobles will entertain us. At best, they’ll just feign illness.”

“We’ll see about that,” Bengrieve answered, keeping his secrets close to his chest.

“How do you even plan to win Cascasonne and secure Midlandia now?” Sir Stan muttered, his shoulder muscle tensed. “I thought you were going to lead the entire army home.”

“What can I say, I’m a greedy bastard,” Bengrieve said with a wry smile. “I want Elandia as well as Midlandia. And I can’t secure Elandia without the army.”

Sir Stan gazed at Bengrieve sharply, his voice turning vicious, “And how do you suppose we’ll win without an army? Groveling and begging for help?”

Bengrieve opened his mouth but merely yawned.

The baronet’s veins in his forehead bulged. “Do you know just how few are protecting Cascasonne? I’m sure you do with your outstanding memory, so tell me, how do you think those one hundred guards will fare against ten thousand?”

“They can also rely on one hundred trained staff and another fifty of—”

“Gardeners, stable boys, and cook’s assistants?” Sir Stan snapped. “That’s insane!”

Bengrieve turned and gave him a disapproving look.

“I… I apologize for my outburst,” Sir Stan said, exhaling deeply.

Bengrieve’s face looked smug momentarily before saying, “Since you’re such a worrywart, let me tell you something.” He looked directly into Stan’s eyes. “Cascasonne will not fall. Not that easily.”

Sir Stan could only nod under Bengrieve’s intense gaze. “Even against assault towers?”

“Yes, it’s within my calculations.”

“But how…?” Sir Stan’s eyes wandered, searching for an answer or hint.

“You weren’t with me all the time, cousin,” Bengrieve chuckled. “But even when you were with me, the preparation was always ongoing.”

…

The next morning, a column of Bengrieve’s small cavalry rode toward a noble’s manor near the border. Scouts in light armor rapidly came and went, a reminder that Midlandia was no longer friendly territory for them.

“I’ve been here twice,” Sir Stan commented atop his horse, wearing plate armor painted bright red.

“I’ve known them since I was little. They’re friendly and helpful people,” Bengrieve answered, his gaze fixed on the surrounding landscape, covered in beautiful rolling grass and colorful wildflowers.

“I’m surprised they agreed to meet you, given the situation,” Sir Stan commented, more to kill time than expecting a truthful answer.

“Because the message is fit for purpose,” Bengrieve explained.

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them that even if I’ve lost Midlandia, I’m still the de facto Lord of South Elandia. And that I still have an army and support to take half of Midlandia,” Bengrieve explained, ever so indifferently.

“That is quite a powerful message,” Sir Stan praised.

Unconcerned, the deposed Seneschal continued, “I also told them that even if I fail, I can still funnel those marauding Nicopolans from Elandia into their land. So they can either open their doors to me, or to thousands of armed looters and cannibals.”

“What a frightening choice,” Sir Stan chuckled nervously, drawing the attention of nearby riders momentarily.

“Indeed. But what I said just outlines all the things they already knew. They knew it was true, but it was buried under piles of unnecessary information.”

Stan nodded seriously in understanding.

Gazing at him, Bengrieve said, “I don’t need to persuade anyone. I only need to remind them just how much of a bigger threat I am, despite everything that has happened.”

“Still, they won’t support you fully,” Sir Stan warned.

“That’s unnecessary. I’m not actively seeking their support. I only want their tolerance and cooperation,” Bengrieve said ominously.

Sir Stan smirked and whispered, “How about the Lord of Korelia’s support?”

Bengrieve squinted his eyes and jumped to a conclusion. “What did the Champion of the Lowlandians do? A victory against poverty?” he mocked.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Sir Stan teased. “Actually, I just learned that he responded harshly to Reginald’s offer.”

“And what kind of offer that was?”

“Half of your realm, or so I heard,” Sir Stan said with a wide grin.

“And he said no to that?” Bengrieve chuckled and then burst into laughter, prompting his men to look at him. The sound of his laughter reassured them that things were going well.

“Wonderful…” Bengrieve muttered, pleased. “So, the impudent and ungrateful bastard who took my prize actually has a working brain. Perhaps I underestimated his intellect.”

“Oh, you did, several times already,” Sir Stan quipped.

Bengrieve snorted dismissively but still maintained a happy demeanor. “If he proves to be loyal, then perhaps he can join me in the grand plan.” He was soon distracted by a pair of birds flying carefreely across the meadows. But it only amused him further, “Yes, perhaps they could be redeemed?”

Sir Stan was piqued. “Redeemed?”

However, Bengrieve refused to clarify, merely stating, “This whole mess has fortunately borne some unexpected ripe fruit.”

To him, another layer of this crisis was just a test to see who was loyal to his House. For he had no fear of losing Cascasonne; winning or losing didn’t matter to him. In his calculative mind, he was already working to secure the last step of his victory.

With an expectant gleam in his eyes, he asked, “Tell me, what response did the Lord of Korelia give to Reginald’s messenger?”

***

Tiberia, Imperial Capital

The hall was immense and ornately decorated, soaring so high that two three-story buildings could be comfortably stacked beneath its intricately painted ceiling. Frescoes and gilded motifs adorned every surface, casting the legends of old in vibrant hues. The air, kept fresh by a lattice of Grand Gemstones hidden from view, carried a subtle, invigorating scent. Ingeniously placed light gemstones bathed the hall in celestial lights, creating the illusion that the ceiling itself had parted to reveal the skies.

Beneath this celestial canopy, rays of light danced upon the central gardens, which lay at the very heart of the hall, directly below the throne’s imposing dais. Here, a magnificent golden tree stood as the garden’s crowning jewel, its branches heavy with the largest gemstones, each encased in shimmering silver that caught and refracted the light. Surrounding the tree, a serene stream meandered, its bed a mosaic of lapis lazuli and aquamarine, sparkling like stars scattered across a clear night sky.

The First Emperor had envisioned the hall as a lesson in humility: the lavish gemstones that adorned every corner were meant to demonstrate that the wealth of the world was mere vanity, just ornamental stones without true value. Yet, centuries after the Third Emperor vanished, this once hallowed hall had descended into a den of corruption.

The garden, once a beacon of moral and philosophical ideals, was now tarnished by greed. Nearly all the original gemstones had been clandestinely replaced with counterfeits of tinted glass. This betrayal was not lost on the ministers who convened their weekly council amidst these corrupted splendors. To them, the dilapidated state of the garden served as a powerful reminder of the unchecked power they wielded; in the absence of effective oversight, the Imperium was effectively theirs to command.

“O Great Sages,” a minister called out from the floor, addressing the seniors who reclined behind lavish curtains that afforded them the luxury to lounge, dine, or rest at their leisure. Though they bore the esteemed title of Sages, they were formally recognized as ministers in this grand assembly.

There was no immediate response, only thick smoke wafting from behind the curtains. The air was heavy with incense, designed to mask the scent of the substances they smoked from ivory and other exotic pipes. These substances soothed their nerves and delivered immediate pleasure, warding off boredom at the cost of yellowing teeth and the risk of gum rot if indulged carelessly.

“Proceed,” a weary voice eventually called out from behind one of the curtains, its tone tired and disinterested. They had been there since the first light, a tradition established by the First Emperor. Their discussions had ranged from food shortages and famine to the persistently grim situations in the western and eastern regions, none of which had improved since the last winter.

“O Great Sages, the northern rebel has sent a letter,” the standing minister, assuming the role of the speaker, declared.

A hundred pairs of eyes shifted toward him. Though their gazes were laden with questions, the minister could only offer silent glances left and right.

“What does he want?” inquired a senior minister, his voice emerging from beyond his rich, red draperies.

“A proposal,” the speaker began, his voice steadying as he prepared to delve deeper.

“A proposal from Gottfried?” interjected another minister, his tone filled with mockery.

“Why hasn’t this bald rebel leader died yet?” a new voice from the right row suddenly asked.

“One would’ve thought that his bald head makes a good target for our assassins,” one added, followed by a chorus of laughter from his row.

“How many have we sent?” another asked, his voice seemingly old and frail.

“O Great Sages, we have dispatched six,” the speaker answered.

“The Hunter Guild isn’t as competent as they claimed to be,” one from the right row commented firmly.

The old and frail voice coughed before suggesting to his peers, “The weather is clear and the roads are open. We should urge the Hunter’s Guild to send another, under threat of utter destruction should they continue to fail us.”

A high-pitched chuckle from the right corner drew everyone’s attention. It emanated from the prime spot nearest to the platform where the Emperor’s throne resided—a spot reserved exclusively for the highest minister, the Emperor’s Hand, formally known as the Minister of the Right.

Silence ensued until the Minister of the Right continued, “Maybe we should send our assassins?”

“If the elder suggested it, we have no say,” a minister from his row replied.

“A word,” said the Minister of the Left, one of his only equals in this hall, capturing everyone’s attention.

“Yes?” responded the Minister of the Right.

“The reason we use the Hunter’s Guild is merely to dissuade him. We don’t want him to die,” the leader of the left ministry argued.

“And why is that? It’s been so long I don’t remember,” from the tone it was clear that the Minister of the Right was jesting.

Nevertheless, the leader of the left replied lightly, “If he dies, it’ll be hard to control the northerners.”

“Ah, I remember,” the Minister of the Right feigned enthusiasm. “We wanted to bribe him to pacify the north.”

“Yes, many in the capital, even among us, still count House Gottfried as allies,” the leader of the left declared, playing the game.

“Then should a persecution be scheduled, given that this great pacifier of the north is now ramming at our doorstep?”

There was a lull, and none dared to interrupt the two until it became clear that nothing more was to be said. Then, someone from the right row suggested dramatically, “We shouldn’t show leniency to the rebel or his associates. He raised his sword against the Imperium, even nearly breached the Capital’s outer defenses. Moreover, he has declared himself the king of the north. This is treason!”

Another was quick to add, “Only capital punishment awaits. Let him be brought to justice to be drawn, hanged, and quartered.”

“Treason, rebel… Those are such charged words,” his left row counterpart replied. “He’s still useful to govern the north. Let the unruly govern themselves. We don’t need the north. It’s only there because of the High Noble’s hunger for conquest and blind prestige.”

“Nobody can eat prestige,” the leader of the left added, garnering chuckles from both rows. In truth, they cared little about the nobles’ domains since they derived no direct profit from them. Long gone was the era when ministers viewed the Imperium as a unified entity; now it was merely a question of who controlled whom.

“Perhaps we should hear what the letter says first?” suggested one. There was no objection, so he addressed the speaker, “What does he want?”

“He wants peace,” the speaker replied, his smile betraying amusement.

Mocking laughter slowly filled the hall. They understood the stark contrast between a truce and peace — that Gottfried asking for peace meant he was admitting his mistakes.

One from the left row suggested, “Then we should demand his sons along with heavy concessions, including Arvena and Inglesia.”

“And what is our plan with Inglesia and Arvena?” someone from the opposite row asked, his voice filled with excitement.

The chamber erupted in chuckles. No answer was necessary—they wouldn’t return the territories; they would be divided into small parcels for hundreds to own.

“So, what has he offered?” another from the right row inquired.

The speaker walked toward a curtained area and reported, “It’s a fifty-one-page deal.”

Many were a mix of emotions—surprised and confused. “Why so long?” one asked curiously.

“He’s trying to confuse and trap us with details,” the old and frail minister warned.

The high-pitched chuckle echoed again from the top right row. “It’s likely because he’s frightened now. His last assault was a gambit that failed to yield any gains.”

“Debacle turned into victory,” the Minister of the Left commented.

“Indeed. Our own failed attack by the nobles actually baited Gottfried into attacking deeply and exhausting his resources. What a fortunate series of events,” the Minister of the Right praised themselves.

“Winter, in one sweeping blow, dashed all his efforts to nothing,” the speaker declared, pleased with the poetic justice of his words. “The capital’s walls remain untouched, and the garrison has yet to bleed. No wonder he now seeks peace.”

Murmurs of agreement came from the dozens of ministers standing on the floor.

The Minister of the Right spoke up, “Let’s assign our brightest ministers to scrutinize every detail. I expect a thorough discussion the next time we convene. Let’s safeguard the independence from the High Nobles that we have fought so hard to achieve.”

The hall echoed with agreement, and with that, the council meeting was adjourned. Like the last hundred, they had failed to reach any effective decision. No policy changes were made concerning the imminent food shortage, there were no firm stances on uncontrolled migrations, no decisions regarding the military’s request for emergency funds to address the crises in their borders, and certainly no responses to the public outcry against crimes, corruption, and injustice.

What they had done was merely initiate a series of studies and fact-finding missions, which continued until the results affirmed their belief that no changes were necessary—and that the fault lay in the populace’s weak-mindedness, pettiness, and rampant laziness.

The ministers were driven by nothing more than a desire to maintain their grip on power, appointing the numerous sons they had sired to positions of influence while indulging in opiates and reveling in the wealth they had accumulated.

Among them, one group sweated profusely. For a long time, they had been gathering the courage to speak up, but past censure had nearly cost them everything—their fathers, mothers, uncles, and wives had berated them for daring to voice harsh truths. Thus, even as a crisis loomed, they found themselves paralyzed, unable to warn of the report they had received: a large contingent of disgruntled citizens, weary of the Imperium’s heavy taxation and emboldened by rumors of the Ageless One’s death, along with the absence of the high nobles, was marching toward the capital.

***