~ Chapter 06: Wail of the North ~

Roland gazed through the glowing crimson of his wine glass onto the city below, deflating. The relief of being finally, mercifully alone washed over him like warm bathwater, and he felt his hide twitch with the joy of it. Leaning over the balcony ledge, the wind tugging at his ears and coat, he felt almost as if the easiest thing would simply be to keep drinking until he toppled right over. No more frustration, no more desperation. He needed saving, by anyone and from everyone, so much that soon he imagined he'd take any paw that was thrust beneath the icy water of his life to try and lift him up out of it, anything that came before he drowned.

But who would save the world then?

What little time and patience Roland did have was being spent running back and forth across the Equitánt day in, day out, bickering with forge masters and petty officers alike. It seemed he was making impossible demands of them, chasing a fanciful notion of soldiers that were at least armed before being marched to their deaths.

If they could get away with it, I'm sure the Assembly would just pounce on the idea of sending our boys in scant more than their fur. After all, swords and armour are expensive, and we've got a war to run.

Young Salem D'Lange had, of course, been trying helping where he could, but the young fox lacked both Roland's pedigree and his experience. On top of everything the two had scarcely had time to talk, in private or otherwise. That was without mentioning Roland's wife, the good Lady Estoc, who was growing increasingly frustrated by her husband's neglect. The Lady seemed to struggle with the idea of a war needing his attention, no matter how many times Roland had cautiously explained it to her.

Not that the Inquisition cared a whit either, of course.

Marsh and Morgan, the second and third biggest bastards in the Union. Roland figured they might not be worse than Magister Baine, even together, but it was a close race. Either way, Triumvirate knows I'm not allowed even a moment of peace.

“Still game for a bit of shadow-court?" Roland jumped at the sudden voice, nearly spilling his wine over the lip of the sandstone parapet. He turned to find none other than Third Inquisitor Claude Morgan, dressed in his usual pitch-black garb. The snow leopard leered in the balcony doorway, a mischievous grin plastered across his face, one paw raised in a vain attempt to shield his eyes from the warm, pre-dusk sun. It had been a considerable number of days since Roland's encounter with Second Inquisitor Marsh, but the meeting – and the supposed plan to invade Pahran - had not left his mind, despite more immediate matters demanding his increasingly divided attention.

“I hear you've been causing trouble, Inquisitor." Roland said, looking lazily out to the city below, the high winds tugging at his fur. It rained earlier, and the on the edges of the city Roland saw steam rising from the streets and roofs. Another unfortunate omen, the sign of winter looming a month or half in the distance now, like a predator waiting to strike. Arch Brigadier Audric's ill-fated companies had marched out for Niverron that morning, destined to eventually press further on toward the coast. They were decent men, and decently armed; Roland and Salem had seen to that much. Fat lot of good it would do. Stuck out near the sea on the threshold of winter for no good reason, Astmoor all stirred up, apparent plans to take Pahran in the works...

And that fucking Lyskirk blockade still in swing. Although it was losing support, Roland thought it could stand to happen a mite faster.

It's all unravelling, eh? Roland scoffed as he tipped the last of his wine off the ledge, the gale splashing it against the wall long before it hit the ground. Try as he might he'd gleaned nothing to back up Marsh's claims of a Pahran invasion, and was starting to hope the whole thing had been a ruse. But secrets are Marsh's business, and if anyone was to seriously suggest pissing off Alavakia like that… well, they'd have to pick their bleeding moment.

“Am I ever not?" Claude mused. “But we have more pressing matters, my Lord. Emperor Kinborough and his many bastards won't wait forever, especially what with Audric sending out companies of soldiers for no good reason other than to make himself look busy." He leaned forward. “We want a chance at stopping this bloody thing, now's the moment."

Ah yes, the Auspicious Emperor, can't forget him. You'd think the rulers would get weaker after a century of war, ours certainly have. Kinborough the Unshakeable, that's what they call him, apparently the greatest Emperor Astmoor's ever had. Roland had met him once, or been in the same room anyway, during a failed attempt at an armistice only a year back. We failed to breach peace, but it wasn't all for nothing.

So many layers, so many balls to juggle, it exhausted him.

“Let's go then." Roland sighed, turning to follow Morgan. The snow leopard nodded, leading him deep into the Keep. They passed scurrying servants and cowering maids, worming their way into a subset of the Keep's smaller wings, rarely used for much anymore beyond nobleman's card games and discreet rooms to fuck in.

Roland watched Morgan as they ducked beneath a crumbling lintel, distracted by Marsh's claims that he could be a turncoat.

Perhaps he knows I have suspicions? Could I be walking into a room filled with Artificers, with dark hoods and darker goals? Am I to sign my own confession and be shipped off to Bastion, his trick at silencing me? It seemed unlikely. Abhorrent, to think we were once so close.

The halls were devoid of life, and while Roland's boots clicked on the smooth stone as they walked, the Inquisitor's made nothing but soft padding sounds. Eventually Morgan stopped at a dusty nook that looked just like all the others, using a worn key on the creaky door and ushering Roland inside.

Out of all the things Roland expected to find, a half-naked wolf being doted on by the Court weirmother was not high on his list.

The wolf in question was a rustic greyish-blue, the fur along the ends of his neck and shoulders edging closer to black, giving way to lighter ashen swatches covering his chest and belly. His chest, arms, and face were a mess of scars and patchy fur, like some drunken lunatic had taken a go at trimming him. One of his shoulders was strapped tight with gauze, a stinking poultice oozing from beneath it. His pelt carried the broom-head kind of bristle quality to it that came from a lifetime spent in the wilderness. He looked caged in the bed, upper lip pulled briefly into a pained snarl, wincing as the weirmother pulled a tiny metal plug free from his forearm, a thin strand of red goo trailing from the hole it left behind.

The wolf seemed to have little more to him than scars and muscle, and in fact looked almost feral.

Roland decided he must be the northerner.

Trailing behind Mother san Nostrum was a young vixen, fumbling about in the mossy green robes of a chithe. Fourthly, a hooded woman in a flowing but plain maroon gown sat quietly in the corner, clutching a small parcel wrapped in fabric. Claude locked the door behind them, and Roland saw that indeed he had an Artificer in tow, an almost-pudgy otter dressed in ill-fitting Inquisition black, his hood left down behind his head, blue eyes shining.

Such dainty little things you've got working for you now Claude, where's that vicious reptile you keep leashed downstairs? Waiting for me under the bed? In the closet perhaps? Could he be behind me right now? He resisted the urge to look. It wasn't a crime to be suspicious, he'd done nothing wrong, and so Claude had nothing to use against him. But when has that stopped him before?

Inquisitors were not in the business of truth.

The leopard gestured to the bed, switching to the Common Tongue. “Lord Roland san Estoc, allow me to introduce my latest friend, Master Breeze Czeslaw. Or, as he is known in the north; the Witchborn." Claude held out his paws in a ta-da motion.

Before Roland could react - though the name meant nothing to him - Mother san Nostrum went bolt upright on her stool, neck feathers flaring. The brutish wolf caught her eyes, and for a brief moment Roland saw guilt cross them.

“You are the Witchborn?" The aging raven hissed, standing up and pulling her gown indignantly, as if a rat had scurried across the bedsheets. She looked to Claude and Roland, fixing on them with her beady eyes. “You didn't tell me who I was attending!?"

“Apologies Mother... is there a problem?" Claude asked casually, leaning back against a desk. His Artificer – much less stoic than usual – had suddenly found his feet mighty intriguing. The woman in the corner had her ears up, but the rest of her remained still, head bowed.

“I still have friends in the northwest, family too. Do you know who this man is?" Nostrum pointed a single accusatory finger at the wolf, who remained a statue, a vacant look plastered across his crude features.

Looks a whit slow to me. Roland scoffed, brushing at his neck fur.

“He killed Paling Smith in a duel, after Paling forfeited!" She snapped. “Killed Black-Tongue Thomas in one too, eh?"

“It was close." The wolf replied, his voice low and simple.

“This butcher gave Morningbreaker anything he asked fer!" The weirmother exclaimed, ripping her chithe away from the bed. “He's killed more men than the cold, and carved his thrice-damned name into the countryside! He lifts a sword, and the whole north wails in anguish!"

“What?" Roland asked, looking around, thoroughly confused. Claude shrugged.

“Master Witchborn is quite famous in the Madlands."

“Famous?" The raven uttered something close to a choking laugh. “My grand-nephews tell stories about the Witchborn to scare each other before bed." Nostrum was visibly shaking now, though from anger or fear Roland didn't know. The wolf simply looked away. “He killed Empty-Heart, made a slave of Yisa the Betrayer, killed Nail; those were folk with bones, it doesn't mean much to you soft southerners, but they were to be feared!"

“That was some time ago." The wolf said quietly, pale green eyes were hard and shadowed, flicking from person to person.

“My daughter's husband was in Jovenry, when you and your pack of thieves burned it to the ground." Nostrum growled, and Roland found himself surprised that a raven could growl like that. She stormed up to the Inquisitor; claws still tight around her chithe's arm, the young girl dragged along like a piece of luggage. “My Weirmagics are closed to you Morgan, don't you ever ask a favour of me again!"

“Well, come now..." He began, but the decrepit raven hushed him.

She went to the door, turned back once more, glared at the northerner. “Enjoy your damned sanity, orphan-maker." And then her and the young girl were gone.

An awkward blanket of silence draped the room, disturbed only when the wolf clambered slowly out of the bed, pulling on a tunic left draped over a nearby chair. Watching his clumsy, oaf-like movements, Roland found it hard to believe he'd killed anyone at all, let alone so many. The myriad scars covering his body told a different story however; a mural in flesh, a tale rich with violence and bloodshed - he'd been wounded, and some might fret at that, but here he stood before them.

Scars meant a man had lived; the dead carried none.

People don't get names like Empty-Heart or Nail because they make pleasant company. He thought, shivering slightly.

“How is your shoulder, Master Breeze?" The soft Artificer asked, his voice effeminate and nervous. He seemed like a true city dweller, a greater opposite to someone like the Witchborn than Roland could have picked – why Claude would send him to fetch the wolf, he had no idea.

But it worked, eh? One step ahead, as always. Try as Roland might, the idea that Claude was a traitor never fully left his mind. So sure of yourself, so arrogant and carefree at the messes you leave others. I wouldn't put it past you, I suppose.

“The Mother did good work, even if she wishes otherwise. I'm alive and sane, for now 'least." Breeze said, nodding to himself.

“Are you... really what she says?" The woman in the corner asked suddenly, the words jerking free from the orange muzzle hidden beneath the hood. Breeze shrugged.

“Maybe, once." He grunted, without looking over.

As he heard the gentle feminine voice Roland suddenly realised who the woman was. It all clicked into place, and he felt the fool. He hadn't expected this so soon, he'd been so wrapped up in everything else it had slipped his mind like butter and oil.

“This is your plan?!" He whispered in the Union's Noble Tongue, whirling on Claude and seizing him by the lapels. The Inquisitor's features seemed gaunt and hollow in the warm torchlight. “Him? If Nostrum's telling truth, I wouldn't be surprised if he eats babies! How could we ever trust him?!"

Claude licked his lips. “I'll admit; that was a setback. I knew he was reputable but..." The snow leopard waved his paw, trailing off.

Roland bared his teeth, grip tightening. “Listen. There's talk to take Pahran, we do that and Alavakia enters the war - I don't have to spell it out for you. We don't have time to be pissing around Claude, this fool's errand has wasted enough!" He snapped the words, grinding his teeth, the tiny daggers of a migraine pressing behind his eyes. If Claude was shocked by the news of a plan to invade Pahran, he hid it well. The wolf was rubbing slowly at his bandages, oblivious, the weirmagic's welts on his arms left weeping.

Roland forced himself to let go of Claude, stepping away and breathing. In. Out. In. Out. He looked to the vixen in the maroon gown, sitting so politely, rocking gently. “My Lady... we... apologise..."

“I don't know if I can go through with it." She muttered, bowing her head, whiskers twitching. “It's just that, the reality is so much nastier, now we're here. No offence, Master Witchborn."

“Czeslaw is fine." The wolf corrected, his words short and clipped, northern-speak.

“With a zed." The otter piped, waving his eyebrows.

“Quiet, Raz." Claude spat, his venomous tone vanishing as quickly as it came. The Inquisitor approached the fox, standing over her and ignoring the northerner. “My Lady, if I may... we must remain open minded, for you know as I do it can't be someone we might normally trust, we knew they'd be rough round the hide! And he said once! I heard it, once, as in no-longer! Witchborn!" He pivoted, and the wolf looked up. “Did I mishear? Are you still the violent savage our weirmother so artfully painted you as? Are you prone to snap any minute and slaughter us all?"

The northerner frowned, and it was like watching a muscle clench. “I try not to be. Ain't with Slaugh no more, that's for damn sure."

The woman swallowed a gasp, but Claude went on. “There's simply no time for delay, my Lady. This is the best option we have, he's clearly capable."

The woman wiped at her cheeks, sniffling. Finally, she looked up at Roland, her cool yellow eyes meeting his own. They were like rockpools of amber, glistening, truly beautiful. Her fur was a fierce and vibrant orange, and seemed only brighter within the dimness of her hood.

“Lord Roland, I beg your thoughts. Do you have faith in this plan? I'm fearful, but I trust in both you and your judgement. If you say we must, then… I suppose we must." She asked. The cat froze, stammering, suddenly drowning in the pressure. He looked at the northern wolf, thought about him tearing apart some poor fool with only his paws. Thought about Mother san Nostrum's outburst – the most feared man in the north, a butcher, an orphan-maker.

Then he thought about their goal.

Thought about the hundred years. Thought about Pahran. Thought about what would happen if they ran out of time, and the warmongers of court had their way; the fighting would never end, and the Union would be crushed.

An apocalypse of our own making. Kick down our doors, mount our wives, hang us by our spineless necks. Perhaps that would be best, Triumvirate knows we deserve it.

“I don't think we have any other choice, my Lady." He replied.

“Besides," Claude added cheerfully. “Erasmus will be accompanying, he's of admittedly unusual disposition for an Artificer, but he managed to bring this one back without dying!"

He always sounds so fucking pleased with himself. Roland licked at his teeth. How nice it must be, to know for a fact that the sun shines out from under your tail.

“I'll keep close watch, my Lady." Erasmus added respectfully, dipping his head forward. “You can be sure."

“Very well then." The vixen exclaimed resolutely, standing with a flourish, pulling her elbows in and shaking free of her hood. “Master Witchborn, the truth must be out!"

“Huh?" The wolf asked, jaw hanging wide like some yokel who'd just seen the sea for the first time.

The Lady inhaled deeply. “I am in fact, Lady Orianna Niven. First Daughter to His Majesty Mordecai Niven - the King of the Ferrin Union. This here," she proffered her small bundle of blankets, as a tiny black paw poked free of it. “Is Abigail, my daughter." It was theatrical, but it got the point across, Roland had to admit.

“Your father is the King of the Union?" The wolf asked after a moment, still using that strange, choppy dialect.

Is everything so bloody harsh in the north? Isn't a bit tiresome? Roland brushed at his neck again, begging his migraine away.

Lady Orianna nodded, sniffing again. “She's a secret pup, nobody but the men in this room and my own handmaidens know of her existence, for her own protection. That's why we sought you and your services. For you see Master Witchborn, Abigail's father... is the High Prince Rutger Kinborough."

Roland looked away, exhaling heavily. It always shook him to the core, hearing it aloud, that blistering reality was like ice to the balls. A pup! A pup linking two nations that had been at war for a hundred years! It seemed impossible, and even the wolf seemed stunned into silence by the news.

Well he's got some sense at least.

Then Witchborn cocked his head, tall dark ears flopping comically.

“Sorry, who's that?"

~ X ~

The one the Inquisitor had called Roland blanched, throwing his prissy white paws up and turning away. Breeze looked to each of them in turn. Nervous Erasmus, then smug Claude, then exasperated Roland, then the quivering Lady Orianna, and finally the innocent little pup cradled in her arms. It was sleeping, for the moment, one tiny dark paw popped free of the brown linen it was swaddled in.

“Master Breeze..." Erasmus began hesitantly, glancing quickly to his own master, who nodded. “High Prince Kinborough, he is... well, he's the High Prince of Astmoor! The Emperor's first son."

“Heir to the fucking throne!" Roland snapped. Breeze rolled his shoulders, feeling the muted singing of his near-recovered wounds.

“If you say so." He said slowly. The weirmother had done mighty good work, better than he'd ever seen. Save a few tinges in his arm, he felt good as new, and the plague's tendrils had even been pushed right back to the abyss. He cast about for his boots, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling them over his feet. Tall things of clean brown leather, with tight laces running almost all the way up the front.

She was right about you; Nostrum was the only one with a lick of sense in this damned place. He thought, her damning words burning in his memory. Orphan-maker, the most feared man in the north, a bastard through-and-through. He wrinkled his nose, sick of the constant stink of lavender and citrus. It followed him everywhere in the Keep, like a phantom, haunting him much as Hellan's memory had tried. Witchborn.

“How's a thing like that get to happen?" He asked conversationally, pulling the second boot on, clumsy fingers slowly working at the laces. Roland sighed, turning away and pouring himself a generous goblet of wine.

“Fifteen months ago, there was an armistice meet." Orianna said slowly. It had been a long time since Breeze heard the voice of a woman. He preferred a cock for fucking, but it was still a welcome break from hard men with hard dispositions. “The leaders of Ferrin and Astmoor met in Alavakia, a neutral country to the northeast, and attempted to find some peace."

“Alas, it achieved precious nothing." Roland added, tilting his goblet up and slurping noisily at the wine. Breeze decided he hated the cat; a typical conceited nobleman, thinking his shit stank less than the rest. “Our countries are both run by prats, and neither could bear to part with even an inch of their damned pride."

“Roland." Claude warned, motioning at the Lady. Roland rolled his neck, and breathed deeply.

“An unfortunate outcome, of course." He said, his voice coming out appropriately sycophantic.

Breeze stood, grabbing the leather coat that had been left him and pulling it over the tunic. It was a fine thing indeed, as the Inquisitor had promised it would be. It was made mostly of dark leather, thin sheets of chainmail covering the sides of his belly, as well as the outer surface of his biceps. Straps reinforced the arms and chest, to keep it tight on his body. Finally, the shoulders and collar came with extra leather padding, shining steel studs embedded in the material. The whole thing was light, wool-lined, and still left him fully able to move about. It must have been custom made, and surely cost a mint. He left it hanging open for the moment, but did not fail to notice that even the front buttons had little flaps to protect them from being sliced off in battle.

Last thing you need is to lose your clothes in a fight. Smart. Breeze might think the Inquisitor was a right cunt, but the leopard wasn't half as stupid as he acted.

“I found myself tiring of politics." The Lady Orianna went on, smiling wanly at her pup. “The Alavakian Citadel was a true beauty, their nation is the most untouched by the hundred, and they have the time for pretty things, I suppose."

Claude cleared his throat. “It would seem the High Prince Kinborough feels the same."

Orianna nodded. “Rutger and I found one another in the halls, he was admiring the art." She glanced away shyly.

Breeze paid the story little mind, instead admiring his trousers. Perfectly fit things of a strong weave, with a tiny plate of removable steel protecting each kneecap, and his balls. He sat down again, yanking on the brown spats, buckling them over his boots.

He stopped as the second clicked into place, placing his paws on his thighs and looking up the daughter of the King. “So you did what comes naturally, eh? You fucked."

“Why--" She stammered, instantly blushing. Roland swore, and Erasmus looked away. Claude chuckled briefly, but quickly hid it with a cough.

“Master Witchborn," The snow leopard began.

“Czeslaw. Breeze."

“We don't talk that way." Roland said firmly, speaking right over the Inquisitor. “Have some decorum, for the Lady's sake, at least." Breeze raised an eyebrow.

He didn't know what decorum meant.

“Rutger and I talked." Orianna said, voice wavering. “Talked so very much, every instance we could, of course all in secret. He hated the war as much as I. Then, one day, things went on and we... fucked." She shrugged, and Roland gasped, right as Claude burst out laughing. Breeze nodded.

“You're alright, Lady." He said. It seemed the sort of thing a knight might say.

“Well, I'm glad our royalty lives up to your impeccable standards." Roland gaffed, shaking his head.

“She does, anyway." Breeze replied, standing. He knew Roland meant it on the backpaw, but it was usually better to be thought an idiot. “Well, I thank you for the story, the clothes, and the... hospitality."

“We... not done." Roland said, jaw hanging open.

“I was just leaving." Breeze explained.

“Hear him out!" Erasmus interjected, suddenly coming forward. “Master Breeze, you promised you'd hear him out."

Breeze sighed. Shit.

“What do yous want then?" He growled, sitting back down reluctantly.

Claude smiled, clasping his paws together. “In Astmoor, blood is everything. It is here too, but without the right blood over there you won't go anywhere in life t'all. The Empire has a very strict hierarchy in accordance to both parentage and birth order. As such, they respect blood... as much as they obey it." He strolled closer still, tail swishing back and forth. “We are to have you and Erasmus take young Abigail and journey to Istren, Astmoor's capital. You'll present the High Prince and his Mother with this child, our two nations will be locked by family, and we can force them to bring an end to this war!" He was visibly excited now, fur standing up, eyes wide and hungry. “Do you understand me?!"

“I do." Breeze nodded. “And luck to you with that."

Claude fell flat, as Erasmus looked away. Roland started. “You surely want the hundred over? It could bring an end to the plague, an end to all this bloodshed!" The snow-white cat exclaimed, waving his goblet around. “You think the Empire will stop with Ferrin? They'll take us, and Lyskirk, and the northwest, eventually."

“And I'll be long dead by then." Breeze replied, checking to see if he left anything behind. He could feel the welts on his arms throbbing, but it would pass. He just needed a sword, and that week-pay of silver he was promised. He nudged his chin at the pup. “This won't stop no war, mark me."

“Please." Roland got in front of him then, and Breeze could smell him. Rosemary? No, peanuts maybe, that was it. “Master Witch... Master Czeslaw. It has to be you and Erasmus. He can't go safely alone, you need a soother to calm the pup, and we can't trust anyone else for it. We've some honourable men left in the city, but sending them away would surely draw suspicion. And were the parties invested in this foolish idea of destroying the Empire to learn of it... I'm sure Abigail's life would be in grave danger. No one knows of her, and if they were to--"

“You're a fucking soother?" Breeze hissed, ignoring the cat and glaring at Erasmus. “You didn't say?"

The otter squirmed. “Sorry. But... why did you think the plague was easing for you?" Breeze saw it now; no wonder Erasmus had been so tired; he was drinking from Breeze's madness like Roland drank from his wine. It kept him sane, but had exhausted the young otter.

soothing was a kind of emotional magic, or at least some long watered-down version of it. As Breeze understood, it was mostly involuntary, for the grand majority of those gifted. Experienced soothers could direct their ability some, but they were never fully closed off.

The crux of it was stealing negative emotions, soaking them up like a sponge. Armies carried men skilled in it to keep morale up, to keep their men from falling into pits of despair and rage. It was the only way a war could last for a hundred years, without the men in the mud losing their minds. And look at all the good that had done.

“Get one of your fucking merry men to carry her." Breeze snapped, pushing past Roland and going for the door. Claude put himself before it then, arms crossed, an attempt at a fierce look on his face.

“At least consider." Claude said firmly. “This war ends, and I will give you whatever you want. A Lordship? A position in the army? Just five wagons piled with gold? Name your price!"

“Move." Breeze growled. The snow leopard made an attempt at standing strong, but he wilted under the intensity of Breeze's glare, finally shuffling aside.

“I'm sorry." The Inquisitor whispered to Roland.

“You fucking should be." The cat hissed.

“I'll be waiting in your stables; you owe me a week-pay of silver. Going rate is four marks a day." Breeze said, unlatching the door and pulling it open.

As he went to pass through however, the vixen's voice stopped him.

“Master Breeze?" She asked, her words cool and gentle, like water on a nasty burn. “If you truly don't wish to be the monster that Mother san Nostrum said you were... well, I dare say ending this war could go a long way to healing the wounds life has given you. I don't blame you for not wanting a part in our folly, but this world is a terrible place, filled with terrible people. I... you're frightening, but you don't seem such a terrible man to me. We could use someone like that. We really could."

Breeze paused a moment, closing his eyes. He felt himself in the mud again, crawling through the Eltric Chasm, killing that young boy. A life of violence, a life of death and destruction, and all it got was his boys killed. He didn't feel guilty, he didn't regret, it was the way of things.

But he didn't like it.

You're a savage, Czeslaw. Good for nothing more than crushing skulls. Orphan-maker, Witchborn, killed more men than the cold. You raise your sword, and the whole fucking north wails. Healing? How could a man so vicious be healed? He wasn't so naïve to think one good deed could undo so much pain, no matter how good the deed may be. And where would it likely end? Certainly not with a parade, there was no merry finish to a war of a hundred years. More likely, this ended with his head spiked on the Emperor's walls.

The Lady, it had to be said, was a poor fucking judge of character.

And then he left.