~ Chapter 26: Love and War ~

Nurjan is upon us. That’s what the missives said, when Niverron first fell to Astmoor. A devastating blow for the war effort, one of the Emperor’s greatest victories in the hundred.

What do they think now? Roland wondered, his horse trotting slowly through the outskirts of the city camp. Ahead of him the tall city walls loomed, dishevelled and crumbling, an embarrassment even by Union standards. He found himself struggling to find the energy to care. Much of the city inside was burnt or otherwise uninhabitable, and so for the moment nearly half of the ‘rescued’ citizens were being kept outside the walls, spread out over several acres filled with tents. Even from atop his horse on the road, Roland could tell it was bad. Men with missing limbs wailed in agony, women and children were sick and mad from the plague so much fighting was bound to bring. The King’s Trust was due any day now, and they would evaluate the survivors en masse, taking and burning any who seemed too infected to continue living.

Truly, a great liberation. Roland thought, eyeing the body of a Ferrin fox lying a few feet from the path, his feet stripped of boots and his body of valuables, decomposition already eating away at his eyes and face.

He reached the city gates and the guardsmen waved him on through. The city was secure now. The majority of the Astmoor forces had fled, making for their ships docked at the edge of the bay. The Ferrin army had given chase, but several battalions of pikemen  and cavalry awaited the wolves at the coast – the remainder of Nurjan’s forces would be crushed like steel between a hammer and an anvil.

It was a good plan, Roland knew that, distantly. They’d succeeded – Nurjan’s army had been one of the Emperor’s greatest, and with it broken so thoroughly the Astmoor morale would plummet. Kinborough the Unshakeable had built his Cleric-General up to be a figurehead, a kind of military demigod, and with him gone the spirits of the others would soon follow suit. The Union would not take Pahran, they’d sail right by and make for Istren.

Claude was right. Roland thought, turning down one of the slightly less-annihilated streets. His horse’s hooves clicked loudly on the cobblestone, circular footsteps left behind him in the ash. We won. We got what we wanted, the hundred will end and Alavakia will stay out of the war. He looked to his side, and saw a row of twenty Astmoor commanders hanging from ropes along the inside of the city wall.

“Ha.” He said aloud, blinking away sleep.

Somewhere deeper in the city, Roland heard the distant cries of the northmen celebrating with ale and meat. The larger bulk of their number had pressed on with Prince Halder and Arch Brigadier Audric, but a few had been left to help purge the city of any wolves still hiding inside it. Roland wondered how Slaugh was able to rouse such fierce loyalty from his men. They seemed willing to die for him, and they fought with a fury and tenacity that the Union simply couldn’t muster of its own soldiers.

But we’ve been at war for a hundred years. He thought, sniffing. These boys have been waiting all that time for a cause worth dying for, and now we opened their cage and set them loose. Still. The few thralls Roland had spoken to all claimed to regard Slaugh highly, said he’d united their wasteland and freed their families of the Union slave camps. He led them for a cause they believed was just.

What even started the hundred? Roland ran a paw through the fur atop his head, his white fluff stained grey, thick with ash and mud. Was it simply Astmoor aggression being resisted? Was it our assassination of their heir? Does anyone really know now?

He pulled on the reins, stopping the horse at a crossroad and looking around.

What must it be like, to fight for a cause you still believe in?

“Sir!” Called a deer in Union colours, marching over with the jingling sound of mail. He tugged his helmet off, extricating it around his antlers, and held it beneath one arm, saluting Roland.

“I’m not a military man, soldier.” Roland said, patting his horse and sliding one leg up to dismount. He dropped to the ground with an ‘oof’. “No sir required.”

“My lord.” The deer said, nodding. Roland sighed. The soldier frowned, glancing back toward the gate. “As I understood, the noble camp is some distance from the city. What brings you here today, my lord?”

“The stockade.” Roland said flatly. “I’d like to see what all the fuss was about.”

“You... plan to conduct interviews?” The soldier swallowed audibly. Claude and several of his most senior artificers had been working over many of the Astmoor prisoners last night, trying to divulge secrets and tactics. No doubt this soldier had heard the pleas of tortured men, or if he was truly unlucky, seen the aftermath.

“No, nothing of the sort.” Roland said quickly. “I just want to talk.”

The deer seemed uncertain, but he wasn’t a high enough rank to risk denying a Lord Earl, even though Roland had no damn right being here. Roland was thankful he’d gotten a captain instead of a major. “Right this way, my lord.” The soldier said, nodding tersely and spinning on his heel.

Roland followed close behind, letting himself be led deeper into the city warren. The stockade was placed out in the open, large wrought iron cages holding up to ten men each, a nearby and somewhat unharmed brick building playing host to the Inquisition’s machinations. Roland narrowed his eyes. The small building was exactly the sort of thing Claude would love – far enough away to muffle questions and specifics, but close enough that the other prisoners would hear the screams.

The prisoner cages, as they were, were lined up by rows. Most of the wolves had been slaughtered in the siege, or killed afterward by Slaugh’s northmen as they tried to surrender. In the end the Ferrin Union had come away with some six hundred men to feed and house. The commanders would likely be ransomed back to Astmoor sometime soon, if they wanted them, and the infantry would be interrogated and sent to the northwest mines.

After all, there’s a void in the workforce to fill, what with all the captured northwestern slaves set free. He wondered briefly what result letting free several angry slaves might create. Did they just give Slaugh Morningbreaker the means to double his army?

Roland found he didn’t much care.

“Here you are, my lord.” The deer said, waving a paw at the endless rows of cages. Soldiers patrolled through, banging on the bars of the larger, more communal prisons.

The conditions were atrocious. No protection from the wind and rain but the tattered uniforms on their backs, nothing to keep wounds clean, a small overflowing bucket shoved in each corner for relieving themselves. Roland resisted the urge to retch, fighting his gag reflex as the pointed scents of infection, fear, and excrement assaulted his nostrils.

“Thank you.” He said, breathing through his mouth. “That will be all, soldier.”

The deer saluted. “As you say, my lord.” And he quick-turned away, marching off.

Roland made for the centre of the stockade. The wolves he passed were a depressing lot. Some sneered or spat or cursed at him, but most simply sat, unmoving on the cold iron of their cage, eyes downcast as they awaited whatever nightmare came next. Several were insane, and they screamed bloody murder, hurling themselves against the side of the cage so fiercely that lines in their fur had been rubbed raw.

In the dead middle, a large space had been cleared, the cage at the centre housing only one person. They sat with their back to the cage wall and their knees up, wrists wresting upon kneecaps, apparently successfully ignoring the stench of their own tattered white uniform.

As Roland approached, Nurjan looked up with his piercing yellow eyes. Immediately Roland felt himself falter, a depression setting in. Maybe this was a bad idea? It was all hopeless anyway, what did he plan to accomplish?

“Another guest.” The giant black wolf said, his voice rhythmic and baritone. He spoke the language of the Ferrin nobility exceptionally well, with only a slight hint of accent under his words. He did not look uncomfortable in the cage, simply as if he were waiting for an appointment. “I wonder, cat, why your army hasn’t yet executed me?”

Roland regarded him. “I imagine the Inquisition has some suitably horrific fate in store for you.”

Nurjan smiled. “You’re all fools if you think Astmoor will ever surrender.” He paused, licking his lips. “Kinborough is called the Unshakeable because he’s the most stubborn bastard alive. He’ll fight you until every man, woman, and pup in Istren is dead. He’d throw the sick and invalid at you if he thought it’d win. If you want to win the war, you’ll have to be prepared for genocide.”

“Nobody wants that.” Roland whispered quickly. Triumvirate, he felt so very tired, had he been like this all day? “Our men are exhausted, as are yours. A truce can still be met, the king has no interest in holding Astmoor.”

“The king?” The wolf cocked his head, chuckling. “You mean, the Union’s war council?”

“Something like that.”

“If your men are so exhausted, go set your soothers on them.” Nurjan waved a paw absently into the distance.

“We don’t have enough to go around, but you know that.” Roland said, folding his paws behind his back. “Is that why you had every one of the soothers in Niverron executed? A scorched earth tactic, to slow us down when we retook the city?”

“No.” Nurjan said. He spread his paws, showing Roland his scarred palms. “I did it because soothers are dangerous, an abomination. This war would never have continued as long as it has without them, men don’t have the stomach for such a bloody conflict.” He paused, and Roland thought he felt himself feel even more despondent. Hopeless, empty. “Don’t you think I’m dangerous?”

“Ah.” Roland said, trying to resist the depression closing around him. Nurjan was an emotional mage of some description, and apparently an extremely powerful one. The Union soothers were good for little more than easing pain and misery, but they couldn’t weaponise their ability like this. Suddenly, the Astmoor wolves’ tenacity made much more sense.

“The Inquisition has already spoken with me.” Nurjan said lazily. “I’ve given them what they forced of me, what’s expected,” Nurjan wiggled one fingerless paw. “But I think they’ve decided I’m a dried up source. Am I to be hanged, or held hostage for an attempt at parlay?”

“I don’t know.” Roland said truthfully. “I wanted to ask you something else, while I had the chance. Something that has nothing to do with the war.”

“Oh? And why would I tell you a thing?” Nurjan suddenly seemed angry, his hackles rising. “You butchered my men, now you imprison them like cattle for slaughter. I called the surrender, you know, blew the trumpet myself. I didn’t want to see lives I commanded thrown aside for nothing. Yet those savages you’ve allied yourself with kept killing anyway, gutting my men until the Union soldiers practically threw them off.” He paused, sighing. “And now you want me to just give up information because you asked?”

“I was hoping, yes.”

“I see.”

“The spy.” Roland paused, holding back tears. It surprised him – he thought himself incapable of crying anymore, he certainly felt drained of any strong emotion, with or without Nurjan’s strange magic. “I want to know who your spy was.”

Nurjan waited a moment before answering. “And here I thought you caught them already.”

“And how would you know that, without a good source?”

“Perhaps the missives stopped coming?” Nurjan suggested.

“But they didn’t.”

The wolf showed him his teeth, lips peeling into a wicked smile. “No, they didn’t.”

When Roland regained control of himself, he realised he was squatting on the ground. He had one paw up on the bars, squeezing so hard that pain ached through his knuckles. His vision was blurred and unfocused. His throat felt raw. His heart thundered in his chest, and he put one free paw over his chest to try and steady himself.

Nurjan only watched.

Salem was innocent. It was true.

“I knew it.” Roland hissed, his own hackles up, tail coiling behind himself. “I knew it.”

“This isn’t a military matter, is it?” Nurjan asked softly. When Roland said nothing, not trusting himself, the wolf continued. “Will you tell me if Miverwak is still alive?”

“I...” Roland paused. He remembered a man, barely more than a boy, naked in Claude’s prison and beaten to a bloody pulp. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.” Probably not.

Nurjan seemed to consider this. “He was a good lad. Loyal, even if he let the promotion I gave him go to his head.” Roland waited, and the wolf met his eyes again. “The name he gave you, Salem D’Lange... it was fed to us. That’s all I’ll say. If you need to know he was innocent to go on, then know that. I am... sorry. Sad as it is, all’s fair in love and war, no?”

“Who?” Roland roared, slamming himself into the cage. “Who’s the real traitor? Who gave you that name?!” He hissed and spat the words, baring his fangs. Rage burned through him like a fire, batting aside Nurjan’s bizarre soothing like a drunk father might an errant child. “Tell me who the fuck it was! I’ll kill you!”

The wolf looked down, shaking his head. “I didn’t tell you this to help your strategy, cat. Only to ease some of your pain.” When he looked back, his eyes were glistening with tears. “That’s all I ever wanted to do, really.”

“Fucking coward.” Roland snarled, sticking his arm through the bars and trying to grab the wolf. Nurjan was too far away, but Roland swiped at him anyway. He’d wring his neck, he’d beat it out of him, damn fucking cunt wolf.

“You’ll tell me.” Roland growled, his voice like fire, fingers wiggling in empty space. “You’ll fucking tell me or I’ll see that your pain never ends!”

“My lord!” A new voice cried, and Roland felt gloved paws seize him by the shoulders and drag him from the cage. Roland slashed upward with a claw, missed whoever had him, and tumbled over backwards, mud staining his coat as he rolled.

“Get off me you bastards, I’ll have you court martialled, I’ll butcher-”

“LORD ESTOC!” Another voice bellowed. Roland froze, and looked up to see a tall broad fox with colonel’s stripes on his coat.

Shit. Roland thought, his internal fire momentarily doused.

“Get back men, give us some room.” The colonel barked, waving. Roland picked himself up from his knees, flushing with shame. He glanced at Nurjan, who simply stared back.

“I... apologise, Colonel.” Roland said, brushing himself off, failing to get even half the dirt and muck off.

“I think you’d best be on your way, Lord Estoc.” The colonel growled, saying his name like a curse. Roland nodded.

“Of... of course.” He straightened his coat, gave Nurjan one final look, then marched off without looking back.

He made it several city blocks before realising he’d left his horse at the stockade. The thought of returning was too shameful to bear however, and so Roland took himself to the nearest stable he could find. He demanded a horse, got it, and road hard out of the city. The wind whipped at him as he headed for the noble camp, tears streaming unabated down his face.

Innocent. He thought, picturing Salem, unable to see him without the blood. You died to cover the tracks of lesser men. And now Roland could never atone for the terrible things he’d done. He’d thought that knowing for certain would ease the pain, that being sure Salem hadn’t betrayed him would fix it. Somehow, it seemed worse now.

Of course, Nurjan could be lying, but for some reason Roland believed him.

Staying clear of the noble pavilion and milling servants, Roland guided his horse to a small ridge a few hundred metres from camp, the same one he’d watched the siege from. He dismounted, threw the reins over a tree branch, and strode to the lip. Wind pulled at his fur, the plains stretching out beneath him. Niverron remained a smouldering ruin, black streaks of smoke reaching toward the sky like dark fingers.

“Come to think?” A voice asked. Roland jumped, looking back to see Claude approaching. He frowned, but the inquisitor held up his gloved paws, as if in surrender. “I just came to see if you’re alright, someone should look out for us.”

“I’m fine.” Roland said, turning back to Niverron. Claude took a spot beside him, pausing awkwardly.

“We’re the only friends either one of us has.”

“I suppose.” Roland replied. It was a miserable fucking thought, but maybe they deserved one another.

“So. You spoke to Nurjan?” Claude asked, tentatively. Roland glanced at him.

“How’d you know?”

The snow leopard scoffed. “I am a spymaster, Roland. In fact, now I’m a rather powerful one. Seems the second inquisitor, one Gallus san Marsh, succumbed to an unfortunate illness a few weeks back, not sure if you heard. I have, quite naturally, stepped in to fill his place.” He paused. “I have access to a lot more resources now.”

“I see.” Roland smiled wanly. “An illness, you say?”

“Oh yes,” Claude shook his head. “Terrible thing, came down with a sudden case of poisoned wine. Very rare, but very deadly. His wife and children were truly remiss.”

“How tragic.” Roland said absently. He barely remembered meeting with Gallus san Marsh, months and months before. Seemed like a lifetime ago, back when he had Salem, back when he gave a damn about politics and the war. What had they even spoken about? He knew the conversation had been troubling, but the specifics escaped him.

“Did you get what you were looking for?” Claude asked, clearing his throat. “From the Saviour of Shadow, or whatever stupid name the wolves’ have for him?”

“I don’t know.” Roland replied honestly. He shook his head, a regiment of Slaugh’s forces on the plain catching his eye. They were savages, Nurjan wasn’t wrong about that. But they refused soothing, and instead put their trust in weirmagic. The thralls claimed it made a soldier stronger to feel his own pain, to shoulder and own it, tempering his will like a good knife.

Again, Roland felt a deep pang in his chest, wondering what it would be like to swear loyalty to a leader he could actually believe in. Or someone who was at least conscious most of the time.

With a start, he realised that he hated the Union. Despised it, and everything it stood for. Too late now, you damn fool. You’ve gone and won the war for them.

“What did you do with Miverwak?” He asked, looking again at Claude. The inquisitor shuffled uncomfortably. “The Astmoor prisoner?” Roland prompted.

“I remember him.” Claude said softly. “He was... drawn and quartered in the Equitánt. A few weeks after you saw him.”

Roland felt himself pale. Those weeks wouldn’t have been spent with idle waiting, the Inquisition killed it’s prisoners after they were done, they had no use for holding onto them.

“Violent men meet violent ends.” Roland said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “So why are you and I are still here, and that boy is dead? Your report said he was a clerk. Nurjan’s clerk, but not a soldier... I doubt he ever killed a single man.” He let Salem’s name hang in the air, unsaid. Salem hadn’t been violent either.

“I know.” Claude replied icily. “Don’t be naïve, Roland. Sayings like that, it’s the kind of thing people with the luxury of turning a blind eye tell themselves. We never had that chance.”

Roland closed his eyes, again saw the knife sawing open Salem’s throat. The blood. The panic in the young wolf’s eyes. He saw his own paw closing around Salem’s throat months before that, felt his own anger at the man, the wine and politics fuelling it.

My fault. He thought. This was all my fault. Not the wine, not Claude, nothing but me. I was angry and took it out on him, and then I was too cruel to let him get away from me.

“Did you have to kill him so terribly?” Roland asked, tears in his eyes. “The clerk, I mean... there was no need. Or... or... Salem. Did you? Why? Why are you like this?”

“Simply how it has to be, I’m afraid.” The snow leopard said, not looking at Roland. “I know another saying, one slightly more true - all is fair, in love and war.”

Roland paused. Nurjan had said the same thing, less than an hour earlier.

How odd. Roland thought. It was a popular saying, anyone could say such things, it meant nothing. And yet, something felt wrong. Very wrong. He frowned, turning to face Claude, thoughts occurring to him one after the other, like strikes of lightning. You never knew the plans for Slaugh’s army, the ones that let us get the drop on Nurjan. But then again, lots of people hadn’t known, that was a piss-poor attempt at proof. Roland was grasping at straws, and he tried to fight off the suspicion eating away at him.

Then it hit Roland like a punch to the mouth. His meeting with Gallus san Marsh, all those months ago.

Gallus had suspected Claude of being the traitor. He wanted Roland to spy for him, to report back on Claude’s movements. He said Claude had no land, no family, nothing to tie him to Ferrin. Roland had never taken the offer, the idea of Claude betraying the country, after so much, seemed so preposterous.

But now Gallus was dead, and Claude had just admitted to assassinating him.

Roland went to Salem’s death. He could barely breathe, but he forced himself to relive the moment. The young man had admitted to betraying the Union. Right to Roland’s face, said it was him. Then Claude made to kill him, and Salem panicked.

“But, you-” That final scream was burned into Roland’s memory. The fear of it. The confusion, the betrayal. Had Claude cut his throat to stop him from being able to speak? To admit that Claude told him he’d be allowed to live, so long as he confessed to being the traitor?

“You.” Roland said hoarsely, turning to face Claude.

The inquisitor frowned back. “I’m sorry, what?”

Before he could think, Roland lunged. He seized Claude by the lapels, snatching the blade from his belt and drawing it. Claude’s fist clipped the side of his head and Roland saw red streak across his vision, but he was too angry to care.

“YOU!” He snarled, pulling his arm back and stabbing forward. The knife plunged into Claude’s gut, driven in hard enough it lifted the leopard just slightly off his feet.

“Rol--” Claude started, the breath failing him. Roland pushed forward, tipping Claude over and crushing him into the soil, falling on him from above. He kept one paw pressed on the inquisitor’s chest, his other digging the blade in deeper, twisting it inside Claude’s belly.

“No... Roland...” The leopard whispered, blood on his lips. One paw came up and grabbed Roland’s shoulder, but there was no strength to it.

“Why?” Roland begged, easing pressure on the blade, tears falling from his eyes.

Claude’s mouth worked slowly, and a few moments later the words came too, his sentences haltered and forced. “I wanted... to... win. Either way. You don’t... understand, Rol. I fed him... I fed Nurjan the wrong information. To win. All so... so we could win. And if we didn’t it... wouldn’t matter anyway.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Roland asked. A twitch ran through Claude, a full-body shudder from his crown to his fingertips. “Why Salem? Why him? He was all I had, and I loved him and now I can’t make it right, because of you.”

“I just...” Claude smiled weakly. “Wanted you back. I... thought...” He made a motion that might have been a shrug. “Had to try.”

All’s fair in love and war. Roland thought. The words made him sick.

“Damn you.” He said, voice burned out, the words barely intelligible. “Triumvirate fucking damn you Claude.” And he pushed the knife deeper.

Claude’s paw closed around his wrist, and the two locked eyes.

“Violent ends, huh?” Claude coughed through his grin.

His grip slowly lost strength, and he stopped speaking, only blinking, hot blood bubbling up onto Roland’s paw. Finally, any spark left in Claude vanished, his eyes rolled back and he went limp, the odd tremor at the end of his limbs the only hint of life left.

Roland climbed up, tugging the knife free and throwing it from the ridge, disgusted.

I always said we’d kill each other one day.

A choking laugh fought up from his belly, and Roland didn’t bother stopping it. Through his tears and pain, he spluttered and giggled in place, hunched over his knees, Claude dead at his feet.

When the laughter subsided, he stood up straight, running a bloody paw through the fur atop his head, smearing red through his white fur. He was relatively sure he could avoid the gallows. Claim Claude attacked him when he realised that Roland knew he’d killed Gallus, probably.

It doesn’t matter anyway. Roland thought, staring out toward the east, toward Astmoor.

He was done with the Union. They’d taken enough from him, and he’d either let them kill him, or he’d walk away.

He looked down at Claude’s body, for some reason sad to see the man dead, despite everything. They had loved each other, once, if either of them could be said to be capable of love. It was a sick, twisted thing they’d had, and it had to end, but Roland felt no pleasure at seeing yet someone else he knew die horribly.

His eyes went back to the plains, back to Slaugh’s regiment camped outside the Niverron walls.

Again, he wondered what it would be like to serve a man he actually believed in.